Chapter 1 - Azkaban

Tom Riddle had always known of his extraordinary powers of attraction. Like a magnet, he could draw ordinary people to him and weave them in like a spider. They smiled as he did so. Only at the very last moment, if at all, did they realise what had actually happened. There was only one exception, Albus Dumbledore.

Ariana Malfoy, born into the alliteration-loving Avery family, on the other hand, he had played her like an instrument, a very delicate one, maybe a harp. From their first meeting, he knew which strings to pull and how. She had succumbed to his irresistible charm even faster than average and he almost felt sorry for Abraxas – after all, he had become engaged to a woman who lusted after another man. Tom knew she had dreamed of running her hand through his dark hair and gazing long into his equally dark eyes. She had marvelled at his fair skin and fine features that looked so symmetrical, as if a mirror had been placed along the bridge of his nose. Her adoring gaze had been so clear that he hadn't really needed to peak into her mind. He could have been Lucius's father had he wanted to. Such liaison would have been a solution to his financial problems.

Even now that he had shed his old countenance like a snake, the aphrodisiac effect of his presence was still there. Though it did not work immediately, it was still reliable. He merely had to try harder to dissolve the suspicion aroused by his appearance. The invitation to Azkaban proved it once again.

The letter had fluttered into his small flat in Knockturn Alley that morning and he had quickly accepted the request. They wished to question him about an inmate. Whether Ariana still dreamed of him, he could not say. It had been a long time since they had seen each other – and the last time they had met she had been arrested for murder. It was possible that she didn't like him anymore – after all, he was the reason she was in Azkaban. He has proven her guilt. Tom suspected that she wanted his help to be released soon.

Lost in thought, he crumpled up the invitation he had to present at the reception desk, and buried his hands deep in the pockets of his heavy coat. Although it was slowly becoming spring – it was early March – the cold winds tugged at the small boat. Gale-force gusts whipped the waves up and over the rail. Tom's shoes and one trouser leg were already soaked and he shivered. He had to hand in his wand, according to protocol. What he wouldn't do to help an influential woman in need. After all, he promised himself a valuable return, which he desperately needed. Abraxas had turned his back on him after the arrest. He did not forgive Tom for the part he had played in the conviction of his wife.

Otherwise, Tom had no one willing to listen to his plans to seize power. With sorrow and infinite anger, Tom could tell that there was only one person interested at the moment, Albus Dumbledore. It was the kind of attention he would have gladly done without.

The boat rocked over the roaring waves and more than once Tom thought they were about to capsize. The wind howled like a war horn. The hissing air masses crashed into him and tried to throw him overboard. Their smell brought the images of an algae-covered, wet grave. He clawed at the plank he was sitting on, ignoring the rising pain of frostbite. Raindrops pelted his head and ran down his face, guided by the strands of his hair. They were getting closer and closer to Azkaban. The intimidating walls of the prison – rising so high into the air that one could not see to the highest floor from below – were only ten minutes away. The view upwards captivated Tom. Slab on slab of stone – the black storm clouds seemed closer than the roof. Azkaban was a truly surreal place.

He glanced at the two guards accompanying him. One was steering through the waves, highly concentrated, while the other held a copy of the Daily Prophet as an umbrella over their heads. There was no conceivable way Tom could still fit under it and they studiously ignored him. He did the same and did not dignify them with a glance – the newspaper, however, was of his interest.

"Stalin is dead," he read out the headlines. A mighty jolt went through the boat and they reached the shore. The men nodded to him, tied it up and got out. Politics seemed to be nothing to either of them, or they terribly underestimated the implications of the news.

"What happened?" asked Tom. "He wasn't that old after all. Was it an accident? A natural death – or a violent one?"

One of the guards raised his eyebrows and wordlessly handed him the Daily Prophet.

The leader of the Soviet Union succumbed to a stroke in the evening hours of yesterday, 06.03.1953.

He hurriedly folded it and stowed it in his coat pocket. Then he was met by a third person, who turned out to be the watch commander.

"I am pleased that you were able to comply with our request for an interview so quickly," he was greeted by the latter. "My name is Tom Philips."

They shook hands. "Tom Riddle," he introduced himself out of courtesy.

The other Tom grinned meaningfully and purred, "Oh, how nice," as Tom could only roll his eyes at that. It was about time he was called by his new name, which he had given himself in an act of charity. He was special, he deserved an imposing name, not such a vulgar one – either he moved away from 'Tom' or all his namesakes did.

"Can you prepare me for the meeting?" he asked. "Is there anything I need to know?"

"You haven't been here much, have you? Then I recommend a cup of hot milk with honey in the evening," Philips spoke. "When you enter Azkaban, the atmosphere haunts you for a few days, and into your sleep. I don't wish it on you, but I've been working here for ten years, I haven't met anyone yet who hasn't felt that way."

Tom was different. The atmosphere at the orphanage where he had learned to walk, talk and write had been just as frosty. He remembered the unheated showers too well. For a moment they became real again with the rain on the prison island and the eternal winter of his childhood lingered on his skin again. He wanted to change the subject: "Tell me about Mrs Malfoy's state of health, please."

Philip's eyes widened. "Mrs Malfoy?"

Tom eyed his counterpart closely as he walked. But his first assumption that he was in a joking mood did not prove true. The man was seriously surprised. "Is it not Mrs. Malfoy? The inmate I have been summoned here for?"

"No, Mr. Riddle, though I'm sure we'd all prefer her," Phillips replied, directing him to a small office. There he pulled a thick visitors' book from a long, dusty shelf. "The inmate in question has attracted unpleasant attention. I sometimes doubt whether he is actually lucid enough to be here. A man like him really belongs in an institution. Do you agree with me there?" He flipped open the visitors' book and placed it on the table in front of Tom. "A signature here, please."

He took a quill waiting in an inkwell and began to draw his hated name in dainty letters. T-o-m R-i-d-d-l-e ... – His fucking name. And his fucking father's name, a man who had never cared for his son. His mother must have wanted to punish him with that name. He pushed the thought aside. "Mr. Philips, excuse my boldness, but should I know who you're talking about?"

"I didn't think you had such a bad memory. After all, you only visited him a fortnight ago. You talked to my colleague from the late shift, back then, and you were in the cell for a long time. A really long time, I was told, and since then he's been so strange and always wants to see you. At night he shouts your name through the corridors: Tom Riddle. So you're already known here, so at least by name."

The longer Philips spoke, the more confused Tom became. "That can't be. I've never been to Azkaban. I've never spoken to anyone from here, certainly not a fortnight ago."

Philips felt himself being taken for a ride. He looked at him urgently and flipped back the pages in the visitors' book by two weeks. "Then this isn't your handwriting?"

Tom bent closer and examined the letters. T-o-m R-i-d-d-l-e ... – As if by an invisible hand, his head was drawn lower and lower to the paper, but he could see no difference even at the closest distance. The shape of the individual letters and the sweep of the pen matched the variant that had not yet dried to a hair's breadth.

Excitement seized him. The hoarfrost that had just been on his skin and hair melted in seconds. Heat welled up inside him. "Who is the inmate?" he thundered.

"A certain Morfin Gaunt," Philips finally blurted out. "Tell me, do you know him?"

Tom almost choked on his own spit. He coughed in agony as thoughts criss-crossed his mind. "No, never heard of him," he finally lied. "Should I know him?"

Philips crossed his arms. "I looked at his record, soon after the screams started. 'Riddle! - Riddle - Riddle!' He's in for the murder of three Muggles – the Riddles."

He had done his homework. Quick-witted, Tom mimed horror, so sheer terror settled into his features.

"The one victim's name was exactly like theirs – Tom Riddle. He's who you must know, isn't he? After all, he was your father."

"No." Petrified, he stood in the small, dark office.

His counterpart eyed him meticulously. "What, no?"

"I didn't know him," Tom said in a dangerously low voice. "I grew up in an orphanage, but thank you for summoning me here to meet his killer."

Philip's hardened expression cracked like a porcelain cup. "I'm terribly sorry, I couldn't have known." He scratched his head. "But then who was in the cell a fortnight ago? You say it wasn't you – and I believe you – but then who was it? Someone who used a polyjuice potion? But why should anyone bother?" Sighing, Philips asked him to step out of the office. "You see, I have many questions, but no answers."

They walked out into the hallway. Tom asked himself far fewer questions than his counterpart. The stranger's motive was obvious to him: the false confession he had forced on his uncle had to be doubted by someone. Someone was on his tail, perhaps without knowing who exactly he was pursuing. The circle of suspects was small – the Riddles were a blank sheet iin the magical world and the Gaunts more than unpopular. Their down-and-dirty way of life served as a reminder to the other high society families that if they were not strict enough, things could go downhill. There was only one person who stuck his nose into other people's business like that: Albus Dumbledore.

Tom was driven by hot anger at the very thought of the old fool. His breathing and pace increased. How dare the professor spy on him? His suspicion had finally degenerated into paranoia, even if Tom had to admit: Dumbledore was the only one who had seen through him to some extent and ... – he growled – understood him. "Mr. Philips, we're heading for the exit," he stated with a snarl.

His counterpart winced. "I apologise for asking you here for nothing. I wouldn't want to cause you to meet your father's murderer. That would be unnecessarily stressful for you."

"I want to see him."

"Oh… all right. Are you sure?"

"Yes!" he hoisted. He hated it when people questioned his decisions.

Phillips swallowed and nodded. "Then come with me."

oOo

The door swung open with a dull clap of thunder. The sound went through marrow and bone, boomed through the prison alleys, and broke on the stone walls. The glow of lumos illuminated the first few feet of the floor. Several trays of rotten food lay outside the cell door. Gaunt, however, crouched in the dark like a light-sensitive animal and did not move. Tom listened into the darkness and could hear heavy breathing.

"I'd like to talk to him alone," Tom stopped Mr. Philips as he made a move to step into the cell.

"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?"

"Excuse me, but you don't have to protect me at all." They were curt words and his counterpart ducked his head.

"All right, knock on the door if you're done or need help." He stepped aside and let him enter the dark cell. The hoarse gasps from the darkness grew. Tom stared into obscurity; he still couldn't make anything out. "Take these." Philips handed him a torch and lit it with a spell. The flickering fire illuminated both their faces, making them appear eerie, as if they had a life of their own. Tom turned away. Behind him the cell door closed with a dull bang.

"Morfin?" He used the first name. His uncle had earned no respect whatsoever.

He heard a small echo, yet the cell was not large.

"Morfin?"

"Morfin?"

He turned in the direction from which the voice came. It had been a human echo.

Three steps to the right and two straight ahead and a puny figure was caught in the firelight. He was sitting on the ground, his legs bent and his brawny body tucked into a shaggy brown bib – whose fabric already looked roughened and worn. His dark brown hair was wrapped around his chest like a blanket. It was impossible to tell where his hair and beard ended and his clothes began. They were so dishevelled that Morfin resembled a grizzly bear. Protruding eyes peered up at him. To aim at Tom, Morfin had to turn his head away from him. He squinted horribly, one eye looking upwards, the other towards his ear.

"There you are again," he hissed. "What a surprise!"

"We have to talk."

Either Morfin didn't understand the words or he was teasing him. Either way – he turned away and stared at a spot behind Tom. He hadn't expected much from his dumbed-down uncle; even at their first meeting, he hadn't shone with intelligence. His squinty eyes had instilled a fear of his genes in Tom. That he had managed to utter a meaningful sentence at all after ten years in solitary confinement amazed Tom. He whirled around as a hiss sounded behind him.

A small grass snake slithered out of the corner.

Morfin bent forward. Groaning, he reached out for it and it wriggled fingertips, down his arm.

"Do you know who I am?", Tom gruffly interrupted the peaceful gathering.

"You came a while ago, wanting to know things," Morfin said, one eye on the little snake as if Tom wasn't worthy of a glance.

"Do you know my name?"

The head twitched. The other eye fixed on him, widening so he could see the unsteady glint of the torch in it. "Tommy Riddle."

Tom growled, but left the disfigurement of his name uncommented. "Do you know why I'm here?" he asked, hoping Morfin knew more than he was initially willing to admit.

His counterpart straightened up and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You come and ask questions, that's all."

"About what?" he interrupted his rant.

"It's so boring here, I'm always all alone, only Nagini talks to me. Then you come and ask stupid questions."

Nagini – a beautiful name. "I'll leave when you answer them."

"I don't care."

"What did we talk about a fortnight ago?"

"I'm not telling you."

Tom puffed in annoyance. "Why don't you tell me?" he wrestled and stood menacingly in front of the pile of misery.

Morfin didn't seem the least bit intimidated. "All you do is ask stupid questions about the Riddles – yowling at your family, I suppose. I don't want to talk about the fuckers. It's a good thing they're dead. I did the world a favour when I killed them." With one finger he stroked the snake's little head.

She hissed, "Torture him, he deservessssss it."

A malicious smile spread across Morfin's lips. "Wait ... – I'll describe to you how I did it!"

Relief seized Tom. His uncle's memory was still exactly as he had left it. Morfin had no clue who he was dealing with. Thus the doppelgänger could not have gained any too precious insights. "Gladly," he played Morfin's game. The latter thought he was tormenting him, but Tom was much more cunning than this brood. He would only have a problem if ... – the doppelgänger had also changed his memory after the conversation. But he would have to be able to do that without a wand – impossible, Tom couldn't. Sure of himself, he listened to Morfin's narration.

"The Riddles were worthless Muggles, without an ounce of magic – and conceited to boot, who thought they were something better. They didn't know their place. Young Riddle, I never could stand him – my sister, on the other hand – oh, she adored him because he was so handsome." He made a choking noise. "She's a silly wench. She married him, but he dumped her. I wonder what happened to her."

Tensely, Tom clenched his jaws.

"The first time I met you, I thought you were him. You look like him, you know." Morfin laughed. "But you can't – I killed him, after all. You're his son, aren't you?"

He swallowed. "Yes." The confession was a landmark; he didn't know when he had last revealed it so clearly. Like a tombstone, it stood admonishingly before his inner eye.

"Can you do magic?"

"Hm," was all Tom made, but Morfin took it as a yes.

Morfin writhed and fidgeted uncontrollably. After a few attempts, he managed to lift himself to his feet and staggered towards Tom. He had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling over. "You mudblood, miserable thief!" he hissed. "Eat him!"

The snake lunged forward and attacked him. It was a pathetic attempt to intimidate him. Stoically, he remained standing, only at the last moment dodging aside with an elegant step. He kept his facial expressions and gestures rigid and unreadable. To show no reaction would seem more horrifying to the simple-minded Morfin than the most catastrophic outburst of rage. The snake would snap at him once more and he would raise his leg to crush it in a single movement. Its little skull would crack under his feet like a walnut.

"No!" roared Morfin.

Tom paused, his sole already touching her head. With a hiss it slid from the spot and sank its teeth into his leg. Angry, he shook her off. "There I give you life and you thank me sssso," he hoisted at her. "Shabby beast!" He wasn't worried about the bite. A grass snake was not a poisonous snake.

"You speak it!" cried Morfin, stunned. "That's impossible – only the Heirs of Slytherin – only my ancestors are able to speak it."

"Think for a moment."

"She had a child... – with him..." He turned a little greenish around the nose. "She stole from me, the locket is missing and then... – on top of that she dishonours the family."

"I am her son... – your nephew."

"That whore! She has given birth to a half-breed," he hissed. "The pure pedigree... – our spotless bloodline is gone."

"I wouldn't call you spotless," Tom countered, equally angry. "You desolate waste of skin and bones dare to call me a flaw?"

"A flaw? – A freak!"

His fingers tightened around the handle of the torch and it was then that he realised he had not entered the cell weaponless after all. In one leap he was upon the old man and about to clean his grubby clothes with flames. Nagini hoisted desperately and gnawed at his foot again, but he managed to shake it off.

Terrified, Morfin backed away and fell over his own legs. As if paralysed, he remained lying on his back, staring up at him. Tom followed and stood wide-legged over him. As a warning, he placed the torch between them, so close to Morfin's face that he dared not move.

Morfin swallowed. "How is she?"

"Who?"

"Merope."

"She's dead."

"Good." He meant exactly what he said.

If his sister's death affected him in any way, Morfin didn't show it. Tom knew he was a horrible actor. It left him cold – it left them both cold. But in his case, she was someone he had never met – unlike him, Morfin had grown up with her.

"When did it happen?" he asked, after they had paused in position for seconds, eyeing each other.

Tom struggled with himself. What would Morfin make of this information?

"Speak and I'll tell you who spoke to me a fortnight ago," Morfin added.

He didn't need to be told twice. "On the 31st of December 1926."

"So young," he whispered. "How did she die?"

Tom had asked himself the same question. How had the witch died? "She was too weak."

"For what?" He couldn't leave him alone. He was a dimwit who had to be told everything.

"Tell me who was here," Tom refused.

"He looked like you," Morfin replied, "Do you have a twin, Tom?"

Worthless information. Tom slapped his hand to his head. "What kind of questions did he ask? Did he ask about my father, about the Riddles' murder? About anything else?"

"Oh, yes!" Morfin grinned broadly. "There was one other thing that was important to him."

"What?"

"Who!"

"Speak!"

"You first! What was the little bitch too weak for?"

Before Tom knew what he was doing, he swung the torch at Morfin. He could barely control himself and so it went just past the tip of his knobbly nose. Taking a deep breath, he tried to pull himself together. If he caused him pain, he would shut down – Tom needed the information, for Morfin the fate of his sister was just nice to know. The old scumbag would probably enjoy being saddled with a crucio. Reluctantly, he said: "She died giving birth to me."

"So she was ashamed after all."

Morfin started to laugh.

Against his better judgement, he put his foot on the man's stomach and pushed him down. The cackling died away immediately. Desperately he gasped for air and tried to free himself from the clamp. Tom pressed his foot against his ribs with more and more force. A little more and they would crack – with a bit of luck a bone would drill into his lung and finally end the tragedy. He'd find an excuse for the guards and the aurors yet.

"Ariana!" cried Morfin, "he wanted to know about an Ariana. But I don't know any! Yet he kept asking for her name."

This changed everything. The torch fell from his hand, straight he ran to the door and banged on it. Philips came and unlocked it. He left without a goodbye, without another look, and Morfin too preferred solitude over his company.

"I must speak to Mrs Malfoy," he demanded of Philips.

The latter shook his head. "She is under safe custody. You'll have to apply for that. She has to agree, and so does the prison governor. We can't do that today."

Once in his flat, he dropped onto his bed. Staring at the ceiling like a soulless man, he planned his next course of action until the alarm spell reminded him of his dinner, which was always the same. Morfin was a worthless wizard from whom he could gain nothing. It was only by chance that they shared a chromosome set or two. It didn't mean anything... – Nevertheless, his swollen face and raspy voice haunted Tom until he fell asleep.