Checkmate

V.

05 January 1957

"Come to the next meeting."

Antonin just shrugged and gave him a reserved look before turning to the other side of the bed. Tom's interpersonal intuition, which was infallible, told him to leave it at the umpteenth request. As soon as Antonin was ready, he would take that step and with each passing day he became more confident.

oOo

At the next meeting in the "Mooncalf Inn" - all the invited guests were already sitting in their predetermined places - the door opened just as Tom was about to speak for the first time. He did not allow himself to be interrupted and thanked them hypocritically for coming. No one had a choice, they all felt obliged and feared the consequences enough to appear reliably - only Antonin, who joined the group at that moment, had come willingly. Appearances had to be kept up. No one admitted the necessity that the Death Eaters had long since become. The magical tattoo on their forearms resembled the branding of a calf, but the similarity of the two things was conscientiously suppressed by most. Tom did not mind.

Antonin approached with his head bowed. Tom nodded at him sympathetically, but he didn't seem to register it. His gaze was fixed on the tips of his shoes and in this posture he slid into the last free seat. Cautiously, he avoided the piercing glances of the others. Certainly he was not at a loss for an explanation of his appearance, but pretended that he was already inventory in order to enrage the others. Quickly Tom took the floor and none of the Death Eaters dared to question Antonin's presence. They eyed him when they thought Tom was looking elsewhere and didn't notice. But he was more cunning and observant than they were. He caught every little squinting blink and registered who was hostile to Antonin: the vast majority of his followers, unfortunately. But that didn't matter either, not for nothing was he their ruler and they his subjects.

Throughout his lecture, he made them believe he was not registering their tense glances. Well hidden between the lines and between the facts - yet quite clearly - he sprinkled in a portion of ideology, as he did every time. A little doomsday rhetoric never hurt anyone. Malfoy and Lestrange were glued to his lips - as usual - and so called every breeze. In between, however, their eyes went to Antonin, who was sitting at the foot of the bed. They eyed him as if his very existence was an insult to their natural superiority.

Tom ended the meeting. As after every meeting, everyone stayed in their seats and ordered a second round. Now they came to the regulars' table part of the meeting, the importance of which Tom could not overestimate. It was only through a social network that they became a group, the stronger it was, the more powerful they were. Tom could choose his words as carefully as he wanted and appear as charismatic as Jesus, but he could never achieve the stirring momentum that the regulars' table brought. The swing went higher and higher.

Lestrange leaned over to him: "My Lord, I have news to report from the Ministry. By true, it is good news: An advisor post to the Minister has become vacant and my father is in talks to succeed her."

"And why doesn't anyone talk about you?" Tom asked. By now they were really old enough to step out of their fathers' shadows.

"With respect, I don't think I have much expertise compared to my father."

"You have to sell yourself."

Hesitantly, Lestrange nodded. "True enough. It would be good for the cause."

"Then a little more effort. Ask your father to help, say you want to prove yourself. How could he refuse with such zeal?"

Lestrange stroked his sweaty forehead. "I guess it's worth a try."

And how this one was worth it. What use were followers to him if they were not in a position of influence? Anger welled up in him. These mummy's boys, all of them! Never in their lives had they had to worry about making a living. Since the day they were born, it was certain that they would die in wealth, fame and influence. What did they know of the real world? Of hard work or struggle?

Tom was the only person at that table who had ever struggled for anything in his life.

Well... that wasn't quite true.

Surely Antonin had had his battles to fight too.

Automatically, his gaze wandered to him. To the Russian. To the intruder. The others certainly saw him that way. He sat alone, talking to no one, while the air hummed next to him. Selwyn, his neighbour, studiously ignored him, but Antonin made no attempt at conversation. He sat there staring into his firewhiskey.

"What is he doing here?" asked Lestrange what everyone was wondering. Of course he had noticed that Tom had looked at the new guy, after all he had not been discreet about it.

Malfoy slid closer to them and gave Tom a questioning look. The others also raised their heads and the conversations fell silent. Within seconds, everything stood still. Statuesque and stoic - only a still life artist could have captured the frost that spread.

"I invited him," Tom said after what seemed like an eternity to his followers. "Are you telling me that I shouldn't have invited him?"

"No," Lestrange answered quickly and submissively like a puppy.

"Are you in charge of the guest list?"

"No, my lord. Sorry for asking."

Tom nodded slowly. All eyes were on him as he stood up and walked the length of the table. He motioned Selwyn to slide over and settled down next to Antonin. Shocked looks followed him. No one dared comment on the extraordinariness of his movements, but in their horrified faces their thoughts were plain to read. It took him no effort. Antonin, on the other hand, suppressed a saucy quip that Tom knew was on his lips.

Antonin was too clever to provoke the Death Eaters or to put Tom in a situation that needed explaining. Tom knew it. That was why he had been so insistent on the invitation.

"Tell me, are you still travelling to the Soviet Union?" he asked.

"I'm drawn there, but admittedly: It's not good for my physical integrity. My parents' house is in ruins, but I dream of being able to restore it one day. Restore it to its former glory, so to speak."

"What do your relatives here say about it?", Tom asked further. They were under the strict observance of everyone present. The amazement and incomprehension increased by the second.

"Nothing, they know nothing of my plans." Ah, now they were no longer dreams, but plans. This suited Tom. A man who had no plans was highly suspect to him. "But then, I don't need their permission. I'm not subservient to anyone."

That was a side blow. Against anyone who heard it.

"My lord, do you want to make him one of us?", Malfoy rejoined. Tom scowled at him, making his counterpart swallow anxiously. "Pard-"

Malfoy did not get far. At that moment Antonin spoke, "Thank you, but I'll pass. Still."

"Think about it. What is your field of expertise?", Tom interviewed him. "What are you interested in? What do you know a lot about?"

With his index finger, Antonin drew circles and figured eights in the wood. "You mean, how can I be useful to you? To you and your revolution?" He rapped his knuckles against the table, then stroked his eyebrows. "You talk of persuasion and influence. You set up meetings and chat with people. What do you want to achieve?"

"We are listened to, which is more than I can say for you. Our ideas are shared by many. They just need to find the courage to openly embrace us." Malfoy pressed his lips into a thin line, as if he could keep Antonin's gloating from penetrating his head. "Our ideals don't come out of thin air. They have a tradition."

"They are not revolutionary, you mean to say." Antonin held his ground unflinchingly. "And yet you're babbling something about revolution."

A grumble went through the crowd, but Tom decided not to defuse the situation for now. He wanted to see how things escalated.

"As if you knew anything about revolutions!" snarled Malfoy back.

"You bet!"

"You're acting like children," Selwyn snorted and Tom had to agree. It was laughable, but also revealing.

"Then you help me understand," Antonin now turned to Tom. He tried to look sceptical and reserved, but inside he was really happy. Antonin made for a change. Antonin didn't beat around the bush, but got to the root of a problem. He was a doer through and through. That was exactly the kind of wizard Tom could use. The other Death Eaters were too dependent, they only did what they were told - never more or even better. Antonin, on the other hand - well tamed, he would advance their cause like no other. Nevertheless, he was able to recognise Tom as a superior. Tom had his ways.

"I thought you would be more familiar with English society after all," Tom pointed out. "There is no need to argue. The doctrine of pure blood has been around and prevalent for a long time, yet most of society ignores it. We want to change that. Revolution or no revolution."

Antonin puffed and reached for his glass. "You want to take the reigns."

"A problem with that?" asked Selwyn.

"No," Antonin grumbled. "I just don't want to be on the losing side."

"Certainly not with us."

"But do we want you too?" hooked Malfoy.

"That is and always will be my decision." Tom resolutely drew a line before anyone else forgot their manners. Those present grumbled, all of them, even Antonin. "For a high goal, one should also be prepared to overlook personal differences."

They nodded. Antonin remained stiff. Very well. That hadn't been directed at him either. "Who do you think will succeed Tuft?" Tom rarely cared what his followers thought. If they knew what was right, then they wouldn't need a leader in the first place. He had to think for them, and he gladly took on that task. Every now and then, however, input from other people couldn't hurt, so he could easily change the subject. Besides, he had to make sure that they could get along without him for a while.

The others got in. Antonin remained taciturn until the end of the evening.

Tom was so fine with it. In retrospect, he had to admit to himself that the meeting had got a little out of hand. He had actually wanted to avoid such direct confrontations among his followers and until now had known how. But the gulf between Antonin and the Lord High Worshipful was probably too wide. They did not accept him and, unlike Tom in his first year at school, Antonin made no effort to win them over to his side. True, if he made the slightest effort, he would surely be successful, but Antonin preferred to bathe in self-pity and insignificance with his me-against-the-rest-of-the-world attitude.

He brought unrest into the troop, deliberately, because he provoked them. All the talk about revolution had not been necessary. Clearly, neither Antonin nor Malfoy knew what they were talking about.

They left the inn together and while everyone else said goodbye and disappeared, Tom stopped Malfoy. "Wait a moment."

He did as he was told.

"You are my right-hand man, the second in command, so to speak."

"I'm honoured." He should be.

"You will hold the meetings when I don't have the time."

"Lord, what are you going to do?"

"That's enough of an explanation. Everything in its own time."

Malfoy nodded and said a formal goodbye.

"It was nice to meet your people or to see you again," Antonin stepped closer to him, "but I think it was the first and the last time."

Tom nodded. "It's better this way."

He looked at Antonin's hardened features one last time as he disappeared. If he couldn't make Antonin a Death Eater, what could he do with him?