Chapter 10 - On the lookout

The kettle whistled and Dumbledore, humming, poured the boiling water into the cups. "For you too?"

Berija and Tom nodded and the professor also brewed a cup of tea for the others.

"What can't you wait to tell me?" Beriya quickly returned to the subject.

Tom had to admit, he had been excited. Why hadn't he come up with Antonin's master plan? He knew the young, crazy man much better than the old codger! Antonin was cunning and unpredictable, the very fact that he didn't think much ahead and was willing to take insane risks made him dangerous. Therefore, there was no time to lose. Merlin alone knew where he was at the moment and who he was targeting. There was no doubt that Antonin had already chosen his next victim.

As excited as Tom was, Dumbledore remained calm. Again and again he put his hand on Tom's shoulder in a reassuring gesture. As always Tom shook it off and refrained from complaining about it.

"We believe Antonin will not hide. It's typical for him to go out," Tom explained. "He will attack again and probably you will be his next target."

Berija sat there completely unimpressed.

"Doesn't that alarm you?" Tom hissed. What madness!

Dumbledore sipped his tea beside him.

"You seem to know another Antonin Dolohov," Berija replied slowly, and from his voice the Russian accent was suddenly more clearly audible. "Dolohov is a coward, he would never dare."

"The Dolohov I know murdered Stalin," Tom countered. "You cannot say that this is the work of a coward."

Beriya reached for his tea. "Well, Stalin was a Muggle, a powerful one admittedly, but he didn't have an ounce of magic. Unlike you, unlike me."

"He almost got me too..." It pained Tom to admit this to himself: Only narrowly had he escaped the death penalty. Even if it had not meant death for him, it sent a shiver down his spine.

"And look at the detours he took to get there." The dishes clattered as Berija put down his cup. "I stand by my opinion. He will not dare a duel against me."

Tom gritted his teeth.

"But even you must admit that our assumption is the only viable working hypothesis?" Dumbledore stroked his long, fringed beard.

"Well, if I knew what hole he had retreated to, I wouldn't have brought you here."

"Why did you bring us here?" Tom had known immediately that the case against him was just a show trial. No one...really anyone could believe that he was behind Stalin's murder, which had been so badly covered up.

Beriya gave him a dark look. "Because of your friendship with Dolohov, of course."

What was that supposed to mean?

"You let the bastard stay with you. And don't lie to me, just a few months ago you were traveling through the Soviet Union. For a few years even, if I look at your travel documents."

"I…" for a brief moment he was perplexed, "never saw him. We haven't run into each other, you can't think that?"

"I can't. I suspect that you made contact with each other and met willingly."

"The last time I had contact with Antonin was when we had both been at Hogwarts. After that, I only saw him again a few weeks ago, at a time when I had already returned to London."

"Antonin... - Why do you call him by his first name?" Berija's question sounded like an attack. As if this would prove anything...

"What are you getting at?" scolded Tom. "Why don't you admit: you're probing like this and you think I'm hiding something from you because you're hiding something from us. What is it that you haven't told us?"

Beriya stared at him. His fingers curled around the cup, the white knuckles gleaming through the taut skin. "I ask the questions."

"I am also getting the impression that you are hiding something from us," Dumbledore agreed with him. At last - that didn't happen often. "In view of the fact that our interests lie united, I ask you to be frank. We cannot help you adequately if we do not know all the details."

This forcefulness - he and Dumbledore almost invoked it - should have made Berija furious. Tom had firmly expected him to start shouting down their arguments right away, but instead his voice volume lowered even more.

"I am not concealing anything from you with malicious intent," Beriya describes with cold composure. "Only the secrets that come with the office. It is nothing that would be of use to you for the capture of Dolohov."

"It has to do with your job as head of the secret service?" asked Dumbledore.

Berija nodded.

"Then this is intelligence data that Dolohov captured when he killed your two associates, isn't it?", Dumbledore huffed again.

"I'm not going to say anything more than that about it."

"What if Antonin is trying to peddle this secret information?" interjected Tom. "He could now be on his way to the UK to hawk it to the highest bidder. Depending on what it is, it could be quite profitable for him."

Berija shook his head. "I don't think so. I know the rough contents, you can't find a buyer for that ..." He was about to reach for his cup again, but paused in his movement. At the same time he fell silent and seemed to be thinking.

"But?"

"My party comrades might find the information interesting."

"Malenkov?" inquired Dumbledore, and Beriah nodded.

"And Khrushchev, the muggles."

"Then Antonin may be on his way to one of these," Tom said, "We need to tail them, there's a good chance we'll get out hands on him there. Either because Antonin trusts them with secrets or because he wants to kill them."

"We must act quickly. Who knows how much of a head start Dolohov has."

Dumbledore reiterated his demand. "We have no other possible approach ready anyway."

Grimly, Berija drank from his tea. After a few moments he nodded: "This proposal seems relatively good, on condition that everything said and planned remains between us. No one, I repeat, no one, must know of your deployment. You are a wizard, so I assume you can change your appearance."

"That won't be a problem." Dumbledore smiled mildly. "I held a professorship in transformation for many years."

"Even in front of my people," Beriya spoke forcefully. "I suspect that Dolohov still has a connection to the NKVD and it is unclear to date how far it goes."

A little more hesitantly than before, Dumbledore nodded. "We will move with the utmost caution. How do we divide the objects of surveillance? Tom and I will watch one, you the other?"

Beriya's eyebrows drew together sceptically. "Let you both unaccompanied near Khrushchev? I don't think so. Riddle is still a suspect."

"But not in your eyes, is it?" retorted Dumbledore. "Unfortunately, I do not speak your language, whereas Tom has mastered it sufficiently. A division - which we will undoubtedly have to make if you do not wish to involve any other people - must therefore be between you and Tom. The only thing up for debate is whether I accompany you or Tom."

Beria stroked his chin several times, then took a breath: "Very well, then, so be it. Don't exchange a word with Khrushchev, I swear I'll catch on."

"Understood."

Tom watched the handshake with a queasy feeling, then they were already on their way.

The walls were covered in a fine layer of ice crystals. Breath hung in the air. Tom's hands were wrapped in thick gloves, part of the typical uniform of Soviet guards. He rubbed his hands - in the mirror he and Dumbledore had looked like Laurel and Hardy, although Dumbledore wasn't particularly fat and Tom...well, never mind.

Snowflakes tangled in the professor's ruffled beard. They had changed their features, otherwise Antonin would have recognised them from afar. Though the Professor insisted on his long beard, which he now wore tightly braided for disguise, unfortunately reminding Tom of a pirate.

"This is the only way in and out. From here you can easily intercept Dolohov if he approaches the building." Beriya led them to the door, where two other guards were already standing.

They looked at the newcomers in confusion, but humbly greeted the head of the NKVD. With a wave of his wand, he made them both collapse unconsciously and turned back to his co-conspirators: "I warn you, do not go in. There is no need, for I have placed a spell over the interior. If Dolohov wants to see Khrushchev, he'll have to get past you. So don't wander anywhere else. I will notice if you do not obey my orders."

"Well understood," Dumbledore said.

"Берегитесь старика, иначе ваша голова покатится."

Tom nodded. He had to rely on Beriya's goodwill and Dumbledore's prudence - neither of which he was sure existed.

Beriya gave them one last half-threatening, half-warning gesture and disappeared, taking the unconscious, probably non-magical guards with him.

Tom had his hood pulled wide over his face. The wind tugged at Tom's shoulder-length hair, which peeked out from under it. Suddenly Tom was seized with the fear of freezing to death, and so he trudged along, up and down the wall. The freshly fallen snow crunched under his feet.

From time to time, people would enter the building and Dumbledore would ask them to show their ID cards, which he would then secretly check for authenticity. Tom, meanwhile, scanned them up and down, looking for the slightest sign of the Polyjuice Potion. Hardly possible, he knew - only if you knew the magical aura of the person you were looking for did you stand a chance. The matrices of magic could not be disguised, and he imagined he knew the composition of Antonin's magic.

"What spell do you use to check the IDs for authenticity?" Tom bit his tongue. He hadn't really wanted to ask, just as he hadn't really wanted to read all those of Dumbledore's essays. But curiosity won out.

"One developed by Elphias Doge."

Tom growled. He remembered the guy well. He had confirmed the authenticity of a document before the Wizarding Gamot, which both Tom and Dumbledore knew could not be genuine. "Erm...your friend?"

"Friend?" repeated Dumbledore, as if he did not understand the meaning of the word.

"Yes, or do you also charge loose acquaintances - or even strangers - with perjury?"

Dumbledore laughed. "Oh, I see. You think I forged that certificate of citizenship. But… Why would I do that? So I can just hand you over to Beriya?"

"Don't deny it!" Tom shook his head wildly. How could anyone deny such an obvious truth? It was hopeless.

"That would be a criminal offence..." murmured Dumbledore, smiling a saccharine sweetness. "I would never do such a thing."

"Of course you wouldn't," Tom hissed.

"But please don't be so cynical!"

"Cynical?" Tom snorted. "I have every reason to be cynical, Dumbledore!" He choked out the long name as if it were stuck in his throat. "Do you have any idea what you've just put me through? I couldn't say anything in front of Beriya, but I'd like to wring your neck."

"A trial before the Wizarding Gamot would almost certainly have resulted in a guilty verdict," Dumbledore explained. "The evidence was strong, really. Dolohov knew what he was doing, and he did an excellent job. I didn't want to have to see you kissing Dementors."

Tom shuddered at the thought of the dark, sinister creatures, but it did nothing to ease his anger. "And so you thought it best to make a deal with Beriya? With Beriya of all people?"

Dumbledore turned to him and put both hands on his shoulders. "Tom, my good lad..."

"Don't call me that."

"I've done this for you and I know it's risky. Beriya is not a man to be trusted lightly."

"He should never be trusted."

The professor nodded. "It was the only way to get you out of the noose - it is the only way. Should we fail… Listen: Unlike the Wizengamot, Beriya is interested in your theory with Dolohov."

"It's not a theory," Tom protested.

A group of people approached them. They interrupted the conversation, made the same procedere and noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

"It's a theory until you can get Dolohov and a confession," Dumbledore put in immediately. "But Beriya's giving you that chance and making things easier for you."

"He's only doing it because he has a score to settle with Antonin," Tom hissed. "Beriya is the Soviet Heinrich Himmler...He is a mass murderer."

"I'm aware of that."

"Then why - damn it - did you think it was a good idea to work with him - of all people?"

"Tom, there was no other way. The chances of a conviction in front of the Gamot were too high, but Beriya, on the other hand...he had an open ear. Probably because he couldn't simply brush aside our suspicions, which resembled conspiracy theories, without it reflecting negatively on him. And then there is his personal vendetta against Dolohov."

Tom rubbed his chin so hard it chafed. The pain stung, partly because ice crystals from the air were settling in the torn skin. Slowly, his toes began to go numb as well, adding to the pain in his upper body.

"Tom..."

"You realise this will be Dolohov's death sentence?"

"Trust me."

He growled. How many times had he heard that sentence?

Dumbledore smiled at him, and it seemed highly inappropriate. "Have you found a spark of mercy after all?"

His jaw spasmed and stiffened, he forced out between his teeth, "Never." Not with traitors. Not after what Antonin had done to him. He huffed, but the angry growl caught in his throat as he realised Dumbledore's hand was on the door handle.

"Stop that!" demanded Tom, but there was no response.

Curious, the professor peered in and then strode over the threshold.

"Stop! Stay here!" shouted Tom. "You can't just disobey orders!"

The old fool had been his own boss for too long! Undeterred, as if nothing had happened, he just walked on. With a growl, Tom remembered that Beriya had specifically given him the task of keeping Dumbledore in check. He could already see his head rolling...

"Beriya…", unlikely, but ... "One of Beriya's men could be watching us right now!"

Dumbledore turned, his one eye twitching madly. Tom noticed it for the first time, always watching the professor very closely. "Then you'd better stand guard. It would be a shame if Dolohov got away."

Tom swallowed at the dilemma. "I won't leave you alone!" In seconds he had decided that Dumbledore could do a lot more damage than a runaway Antonin.

"But you should," Dumbledore suddenly countered. "Stay at the guard post, I'll just have a quick look around."

"No, it's either we both or no one," Tom hissed. "It's your choice."

"Don't pretend, you've decided."

"I have not!"

"Yes, you have."

His hands clenched into fists. He forced himself to relax as an oncoming passerby looked at them quizzically.

"Dumbledore - come to your senses!" His jaw hurt by now, he clenched it so hard. "Please."

The professor paused and leaned towards him, agitated. "Listen, don't call me that."

"What?"

"Dumbledore."

What a double standard! He called him by his first name all the time. Ever since Tom could remember he'd indulged in that bad habit, but he wasn't allowed to call him by his perfectly normal last name?

"Call me Albus."

This was worse than a double standard. Never in his life would Tom do this. He would rather tie a rope and hang himself than tie his tongue in such a horrible way. Smoke could probably be seen coming out of his ears. The Muggles were definitely looking at them in that funny way. Swallowing all his anger, Tom lowered his head and voice. "I hope, if you're willing to take these risks, you at least have a plan."

"A vague one, yes."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Are you mad?" Actually, he had already answered that question. "Did you win your Order of Merlin in the lottery?"

"Just listen for a moment, Tom." Dumbledore looked around, then reached into his inner coat pocket and dug around for a few heartbeats. "And hold this."

Slowly, Tom wondered if he hadn't accidentally stumbled into a circus ring. And into the clown's act, of all things. Confused, he looked at the bunch of roses Dumbledore had placed in his hand. Three roses in his right hand and one in his left. He eyed them critically, looking for anything unusual, but they looked like ordinary, stinking roses.

"What am I going to do with this?"

"Shh!" Dumbledore brushed past his nagging. "This has to be done quickly and I need a free hand."

Before Tom could probe any further, Dumbledore pushed open the door to the office with a sharp jerk and immediately waved his wand. Tom sucked in a hissing breath, ready for a curse that would make the professor's ears fall off, but...

"What-" At that moment, the man behind the desk - Nikita Khrushchev, the new Party Chairman - shot up.

Dumbledore finished the intricate pattern he had drawn in the air and Khrushchev... froze. In a movement between sitting and standing, behind his desk carved from dark brown wood, he had paused, his gaze fixed on them…but frozen. Seconds passed, nothing happened. It was only when Dumbledore dashed across the threshold and the mint-green carpet with yellow fringes that Tom realised that all the sound had disappeared. It was so quiet that Tom could hear his own breathing as a tortured rattle. Striving for absolute silence, even though he knew it was unnecessary, he followed Dumbledore's lead. A series of thunderclaps rang out. Tom gritted his teeth and continued on tiptoe. Time stood still. Flies were standing in the air.

Dumbledore glanced around hastily - such a powerful spell would not last long, even if cast by a talented wizard - and looked at the desk. "Put the three roses in the vase," he instructed Tom without looking at him.

Tap, tap - he ran to the sideboard and swallowed his anger. For a few seconds he had been unable to do anything but stand there whimsically. He couldn't let a mistake like that happen again. Determined, he fiddled with the vase and added the three roses to the bouquet.

Looking back at the professor, he shook his head and waved him out. They fled as if from a crime scene.

"What was that spell?" asked Tom breathlessly as they reached their sentry post in the ice and snow outside the building. The sun shone in their faces and Tom had to raise his hand to look at his interlocutor. His fingers were numb, he barely noticed the coldness of his forehead, only the headache that was becoming harder to ignore.

"My own."

"You developed it?"

The professor nodded, giving Tom a hot sting in the pit of his stomach.

"It's been with me for ten years now. It's nice to finally put it to the test."

Tom had to swallow bile, but he couldn't stop himself from asking questions. "Is this a further development of the solidification spell?" He had never thought of such a possibility before. It pained him that Dumbledore had been able to do it. "Or a paralysis curse?" Another wasted opportunity.

"No...and no again. Bear with me a little longer, you'll be able to read about it in my next essay."

Another slap in the face. Dumbledore believed Tom would read the drivel he spouted in quarterly or bi-annual magazines...his essays. What a presumption! "Why did you want me to be quiet earlier?" he quickly changed the subject, not wanting to admit that he devoured every issue with a Dumbledore contribution, no matter what the subject. One of his quirks that he would get under control.

"I just wanted my peace," Dumbledore grinned, "at least for a moment."

Tom's hands clenched again, his fingernails digging into his palms. "And the roses? Just a joke, too?"

"Tom, don't disappoint me: you must know Jabbering Flowers?"

"Jabbering F-Flowers...?" That slip of the tongue alone gave him hot flushes.

"Jabbering Flowers." He carefully pulled the rose from Tom's hand, but the thorns still left scratches on his skin. "Tell me, didn't you see that the roses had little ears?"

Frozen, as if Dumbledore's new mysterious spell had caught him, Tom stared at the man in front of him. He had one remaining rose in his hand. It was a grotesque image...almost fairytale-like.

"Look here." The professor seemed oblivious to his loss of thought.

Relieved, Tom shook his head to end the haunting. Semi-successful. His headache increased when he saw the individual petals forming into red, full lips. It spoke...the flower spoke...in Khrushchev's voice.

"A listening device," Tom breathed. "A magical listening device... Why have I never heard of it?"

"That's the advantage of working with me. I have a lot of contacts with fellow researchers."

Tom just growled. Khrushchev's voice caught his attention, no, it was his words.

"Послушай, опасность слишком велика. Мы не можем согласиться с этим. Если мы не позаботимся о Нем, Он позаботится о нас. Берия болен."

"What is he talking about?"

Tom maltreated his lip. For the first time he was struggling with the context, but the words were spoken with burning emphasis.

"У меня хорошие отношения с Жуковым. Если мы убедим его, ничто не будет препятствовать аресту Берии. Тогда у нас будет преимущество."

"I think..." He hesitated and the professor raised his eyebrows. "I think they are conspiring against…Beriya."

While he still doubted his understanding, Dumbledore nodded in confirmation. As if he had already known. "That's bad news. Without Beriya, we can't clear your name."

Tom snorted. "You don't say."

"Maybe we're already trapped anyway."

"You mean?"

"What if Beriya..." Dumbledore paused for effect. "...instead of Antonin, was responsible for Stalin's murder?"

Suddenly Tom felt sick. It took all his strength not to fall to his knees and vomit into the white snow. "Then we have made a pact with the devil."

We? Dumbledore! At his expense!

At that moment there was a bang, the typical apparating sound. Then footsteps were coming towards them.

Quickly, Dumbledore dropped the rose from his hand. Tom, still on his knees, hurried to cover it with snow. As soon as the red was covered Beriya stomped around the corner, as if he was summoned by the repetition of his name.

"Were you successful?" he asked, unperturbed.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

Beriya gave Tom a disapproving look. "Stop playing in the snow."

The frog's perspective turned the slim man into a terrifying figure. Tom jumped to his feet. "Then let's get out of here. There's nothing left to win here today."