With a dismissive wave of his hand, he turns off all the lights in the room – and also those in the entire area, as a glance out of the windows behind us reveals. The very next moment, he causes the candles on the table to flare up. Almost like those Eternal ones in my seventh circle of hell – then he smothers the flames and lets all their smoke float into the skull in his hand. He takes a deep drag from the snake-like hose of what seems to be the most unusual water pipe in all of Europe, then he blows the smoke away. With focused intention – right into our midst, where the clouds condense into a white, dim mist that's only illuminated by the candles now.

"Just look, sun child," Grindelwald whispers to Harper, "see where his decisions lead, now that his soul is already turning into ashes …"

Gellert Grindelwald is a Seer, the whole world knows that. He's predicted the Second World War years ago, and no one in this room has any reason to doubt his gift or any degree of precision.
However, he's clearly basing his information on false assumptions …

And yet the white smoke that's condensing into a blurry image of me before our eyes makes us all glance up in anticipation.

We see me wandering in the dark, with a book – unmistakably Harper's diary – in my hand. As if in a trance, aiming for a pentacle until I wake up and only the bleeding red of my eyes is shining through all the fog. What was initially white soon turns into an increasingly poisonous, bright green, until countless snakes wind around me and I rise from black smoke like a plague to mankind.

We see what Harper's boggart has already shown us – red irides, cold wrath. Under the hood of my robe, my face is half-hidden, as well as those black veins under the waxy skin of my face.

Harper gulps, as does Edwin, as do the others, right when shadows fall from the sky to land before, behind and next to my foggy image. They all wear black flowing robes as well, and their silver masks hide their identities. As though they were all fallen, cast out angels, gathering in secret around the personification of evil.
Around me. And I no longer hide my face.

They all hold their forearms up – and the dark symbol glowing under their skin soon is mirrored high above us, hovering in shimmering green like a bad omen. A snake following the path of infinity, out of the dropped jaw of a skull …

As though Grindelwald and I had asked for yet another allegorical similarity …

"They're calling me a Dark Lord," Grindelwald whispers, lost in thought, and almost shaking his head in fascinated amusement. "But you, Tom Riddle …" He glares at me with the golden glow of the skull reflected on his face, giving me a crooked smile. "You'll teach the world what cruelty truly is …"

He takes another drag from the hookah to let more mist of fate float into our midst.

The clouds show a ruthless version of me and those who follow, all dressed in black, dissolving into smoke – and murdering. Whoever we want, whoever's standing in our way. Whoever is in my way.

We see snakes biting to kill, and the green flashes of the most Unforgivable of the three curses are the only light in the darkness that I create. Even if the world seems to bow before me, it's in fear. Because it knows that there's no way but mine, for my relentless use of dark magic makes me the undisputed master of our society.

And as much as this may grotesquely fascinate me – who would I share it with? Scared minions? Lost souls clinging to me for power and position?

It would be a life in which Harper could never find a place.

A wasted life.

In this vision of an alternative future, my soul seems to be torn into more than just one Horcrux, but despite the immortality that should bring forth, decay is clearly written all over my presence. My pale skin looks thinner than paper, about to burst at any moment, just like my sanity. My eyes don't speak of never-ending life – only of death.

Until red hair gleams in the darkness, and a mother's green eyes testify to unconditional determination. She somewhat reminds me of Merope. And, like Grindelwald, I seem to fail due to a mother's love meant to protect an innocent child from almost certain death.

The ricochet of my Avada should, but it cannot, kill me.
In this version of the story, nothing could.

But wouldn't death be more legendary than the disembodied existence of a mere ghost that follows? Wouldn't death be more meaningful than only floating over dark lakes and rivers of Eastern Europe, like a shadow stealing the world's light while it's finally breathing a sigh of relief – only to be cursed by me again?

What follows is the sight of a boiling cauldron in Little Hangleton's cemetery, directly above my father's remains. It's a sight not boding well, even before my spirit's floating out of the liquid to finally rise through the darkest magic imaginable.
But a demon like that could never become human again – and so here, it seems only a hybrid between a reptile and a dementor is being created. Poisonous smoke turns darker until it forms a deep black robe flowing around me.

The shapes are similar to a body, undeniably humanoid – but there's nothing human about the creature I was reborn as in the night.

And where I was quick to judge Morfin and his father – I now see a face that has absolutely nothing in common with my current one anymore. I don't see Thomas Riddle's handsome features, nor Merope's dark, green eyes that testified to her ancestors of centuries – I see nothing but occult fanaticism and the negation of all life.

And for the first moment in all the compressed time that Grindelwald is showing us, I'm truly shocked.

They say vanity is the devil's favorite sin. Lucifer, blessed with the beauty of the morning star, was consumed by zealous, vain desire for recognition – but no one under the sun can claim to be free of it, vanity and foolish striving for recognition …

And certainly not me.

Only Nagini doesn't seem to mind that my face resembles that of a spawn of hell – but what's too much is too much.

"I'd still have a nose – as if magic couldn't fix that," I complain, even though I can't quite shake off the odd discomfort the sight of the images presented to us brings.

"Tom, the way I see it," Grindelwald begins as though it was a secret, leaning a little over the table toward me, "you'll one day enjoy looking like a nightmare." I'm taken aback, but he continues without hesitation. "A pretty face is not forever. But power … power doesn't fade. Unless a child stands in your way. Apparently that's a common pattern …"

"A child?" I impatiently repeat. "Does this version of myself really look like someone who'd be stopped by a child?"

"Fate loves irony, you know? Pride comes before the fall, I've had to accept that fact myself time and time again." He smirks. "When a prophecy is confirmed, there's no escaping it, Tom. Depending on what decisions you make, you may also be subject to such a prophecy. Just like me. In any case, I see a boy in one possible future who could be your curse. He has green eyes, just like you … Just as everything depends on you for me, perhaps one day everything will depend on him for you. Fascinating, isn't it?"

"If you put it that way, maybe," I say, seemingly unimpressed. "But perhaps you're just interpreting it as you please. Perhaps you are, in fact, just sketching out such an incompetent picture of me to make yourself feel better about me holding you back."

"You really don't know yourself …" he muses. "Will you be happy with just one Horcrux? No! You wish to do what no one else has done before you. You want to see how far black magic can take you, and so in the end, you will not fail because of a child – you will because of yourself. I see a lot of me in you. And I hate you as much as I appreciate you, Tom. It's a bit like with Edwin." He winks at him briefly, then tilts his head at me again. "And that's the only reason I'm telling you what you urgently need to pay attention to now. Just because of our shared passion and competence in the Dark Arts, I am the voice of reason for you one more time: Remember that in this alternative future I've just shown you, you are not only dividing your soul repeatedly. You are also dividing your visions. You are tearing your intellect in halves, again and again. Your magic. Believing that you're becoming more powerful, you weaken yourself until you are but a shadow of whom you used to be, and your magical abilities, your vision, that talent – all of a mere memory, a fraction of what you can still accomplish with your whole soul. What we can do with whole souls …"

Silence.
He raises a brow at me as though he'd never actually believed in a successful Horcrux.
I have no idea what he's truly thinking. Does he suspect that I'm not immortal, or is he just getting lost in words again?

"There's only one true difference between you and me," he says, already grinning. "I'd never let myself go like that, face-wise, you see …"

I can't help but laugh along with him. "You can't seriously think you're more vain than me?"

"How can either of you joke about any of this?" Queenie practically bursts, glaring at me as if I was a stranger. "The dead just paved your way in Gellert's vision, Tom! Corpses of No-Majs, of our kind, of –"

"Queenie, dear," Edwin tries to calm her down, "that was but a prophecy – it doesn't have to come true. It won't come true!"

"Why wouldn't it?" Grindelwald enjoys it all a bit too much, and suddenly I think I really do recognize further doubts about a Horcrux in him. "He's immortal, isn't he?" he slyly asks, his tone almost one of mocking reproach. "He has nothing left to lose …"

I just can't see through him, what he believes – and what he doesn't. It's all just psychological warfare and deliberate confusion.

"The world war that Gellert predicted has also happened," Queenie protests. Her bitter look is still on me. "You see all the death and lethargy and what you care about is your looks?"

"Queenie, please," Vivian sighs, "don't let it get into your heart!"

"Death and lethargy raised me," I simply tell her, not even trying to avoid her frowning gaze. "Just like they raised you."

"Because I'm also an orphan?" She quickly shakes her head. "I was never as lost as you, Tom."

"A mistake, you see," Grindelwald whispers to me, though intentionally for everyone to hear. "Justifications, explanations … Comparing apples with pears, Tom. At the time, Queenie still had her dutiful sister Tina, whom she loved dearly, she was never alone. It basically makes her protest moralistic and obsolete, yet she now accuses you of evil just because you were completely alone. If you go your own way, you won't get very far with defense. Do yourself a favor and abandon any intentions of justification, my son."

I feel it in his lingering presence – he in no way has a hard time to guess what I think. He's a step ahead, I can't help but acknowledge it.

We all let him into our heads far too much …

Harper seems to agree, and as so often, she doesn't let herself be dissuaded from emphasizing the spark of light she so wants to see in me. "He is anything but your son!" she almost spits out. "What you have shown us has the quality of a sensationalistic Witch Weekly article! Hardly a fact, a rickety narrative and plenty of polemics!"

"He might still show you what kind of person he is, my dear. And if neither of us have killed Edwin by then, you will probably have to seek comfort from him, for a beautiful face and the facade of Slytherin's model student was blinding you that much."

"You have no idea how blind you are," she hisses back despite the growling dogs, but Grindelwald is obviously amused.

"Before emotions boil over like the cauldron from which Tom emerges when he finally receives an earthly shell of occult magic again – Jacob? What's your favorite fairy tale?"

"My … favorite fairy tale?" Jacob gulps and, like all of us, seems completely surprised by this rapid change of subject. The skull is still resting on the table, glowing in bright yellow, but now we're apparently all supposed to ignore it. "Oh, well …" Jacob collects himself, then he anxiously asks, "Are we really talking about fairy tales now?"

Grindelwald just nods, and when Jacob proceeds to look at me, I only shrug my shoulders.

"Well, then … You know …" he stammers, "there's a story from Hungary that I loved to hear my mother read to me as a child. The fairy tale of …"

"Yes?" Grindelwald eventually tries to speed the answer up. "Just say it!"

"Of … oh well …" Jacob hesitates. He must've realized that the fairy tale he's about to mention is unlikely to be helpful. He clears his throat, but can't help it. "The one about the Serpent Prince …"

"What a surprise, I envisioned you mentioning it," Grindelwald admits with a wink. "A classic. Do you know it, Tom?"

"No," I groan, "but you're practically dying to enlighten us, aren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm not your father – as your little Faye pointed out earlier," he replies. "Someone else will have to read you fairy tales, you suffering orphan. But it brings me to another question that's bothering me. To delay the end of this beautiful evening a bit longer …"

"Then let's get it over with so that I, a suffering orphan, can get back to self-pity and grief again," I whisper impatiently.

He says, "My question is this: Is it true? Are you the last living heir of Slytherin who's still sane?"

Nobody says a word, just like me.

"Because if it is true," Grindelwald turns to Harper with a smile, "then your children would also be born with split tongues."

"You know what?" I frown, getting up angry for good. "You can bet on at least one thing. If your visions are to come true, I swear on everything I hold dear and sacred that I will not lose myself in endlessly tiring monologues and throw pseudo-cryptic messages around like you do!"

"But you're already doing that today," Grindelwald claims, grinning even.

In an instant, he and his dogs disapparate – faster than we can blink.

"Tom, are you alright?" Queenie asks, no longer angry all of a sudden, much more worried – at least after her justified paranoia makes her cast a spell that will protect us from other people's interested ears. "I hope you realize that earlier I only talked like that because it's what he wanted."

As I lean on the windowsill like Grindelwald himself did before, I give her a questioning look.

"He loves to confuse and manipulate," she explains. "His words cloud and vex people's minds. He had us all there at some point today, didn't he?"

I nod. "He's better at that than I'd like to admit … So what if he's right about it all?"

"He's not," Harper immediately decides, joining me at the window. "Tom, one important detail of reality he completely missed in his prophecy: You have not split your soul. You aren't immortal. You are capable of love – there's more in you than the hate he saw. If you can't recall that yourself, I'll remind you!"

"She's right," Vivian speaks up, calm as ever. "Tom, his prophecy was grounded in a false assumption. But I do think that's how your path would've turned out if you'd succeeded with your Horcrux that night …"

"You'd have done it more than once, for sure," Edwin agrees. "And you would've lost yourself in the process. But that doesn't matter in our current reality. You don't have red irides …"

"And you'll keep your nose, too," Harper whispers, unable to suppress a smirk. Then much more seriously she asks, "But I actually agree with Queenie. Why did your appearance bother you more than the path you chose in that vision?"

"As much as you hate to hear it, none of it overly surprised me," I simply admit, making room for Vivian next to me, too, now – she clearly wishes to make good use of the heater's warmth below the window.

"Do go on, Tommy, tell us," she mumbles as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"Well, there's not much more to it. All of that was and is in me. I see how I could become what he showed us, without Harp around at least. My face, however …" I shrug, still quite taken aback. "I just didn't think that in another version of reality I wouldn't value fate granting me the best disguise for the depravity of my core."

Vivian chuckles. "We all know that you're vain." And with that, she's ruffling my hair like the mother I never had, completely messing it up. When I'm about to protest, she winks as though her claim is confirmed. "See?"

I sigh. But I also can't help but grin.

"How many more times is that going to happen now?" Harper eventually asks. "How many times do we have to endure his presence because he feels like checking in on how far you've come with the pact while claiming you two were much alike? When he doesn't even know you …"

Edwin raises his glass at these words. "Go ahead, little raven, keep defending your snake. Since we all have to make sure he stays on the path of virtue, don't we?"

"He said something about the end of October," I mumble lost in thought already, jumping to conclusions due to Harper's question. "Dumbledore also mentioned that something was going to happen around that time. What do they mean by that?" I look around. "Ladies? You know it, don't you? Edwin?"

"I know of nothing," says the latter – and I actually believe him.

"Will you tell him?" Queenie asks Vivian.

She quickly shakes her head, quite surprised. "Queenie, but you don't really think it would –"

"I'm not sure! Tom …" I hate the worried sympathy for me on her face. "I think you know what he meant if you think about it, don't you?"

"No, I don't – tell me!"

"No – listen, I'm reluctant to agree with our Dark Lord," Vivian claims, "but he's probably right in not telling you just yet. Enough. Everything has its time. Tom, don't you worry about it just yet, yeah?"

"Seriously?" Harper groans. "Can we not make it a mystery please? Do we really have to trouble ourselves with researching back in Hogwarts when you could just as easily tell us? End of October must mean we talk about Thanksgiving, or … or Samhain, or even Reformation Day, right?"

"Oh, damn it," Edwin grumbles, a certain realization begins to cloud his face. He gives me worried glance. "Samhain …"

"What about it?" I impatiently ask, even if the keyword itself can't imply much good.

"No, stop it," Vivian is quick to scold us, turning to Queenie. "Probably nothing will happen because he didn't finish the ritual. And then he'll have it on his mind even if –"

"He got involved with deep black magic, Viv, he –"

"But he made the right decision."

Queenie's biting her lip. "Still it comes at a price."

"What price?" Harper asks, gradually paling.

My thoughts are all over the place. I just decide to voice them. "At Samhain, the veil between ours and the occult world," I murmur, "is at its thinnest. Is it not? You don't think that –"

"No," Vivian cuts me off. "It'll be fine. Queenie, stop catastrophising."

"What if won't be fine?" Harper asks, clearly anxious.

"Then Tom will probably have to stare into the abyss of the seven hells once more," Vivian admits, "but I mean, he's gradually getting used to it, and … I genuinely don't think he'll notice anything at all."

"Aha. All hail to positive thinking, huh?" I raise a brow. "But it makes me think … If he believes I'll go mad on Halloween, he must suspect that I'm not immortal, right? If he really believed I'd split my soul, then the day would surely be as unspectacular as any other."

"His true thoughts are like smoke, we'll never know," Vivian says. "But I also suspect he doesn't believe it. Especially since the dumbest among the stupid could tell by your faces."

"What?" I ask, perplexed.

She points at Harper and me. "Tom, darling, the blind could see that you love her. Your dark face lights up whenever you look at her."

Queenie giggles, as does Edwin, Harper just turns a little pink.

"Whatever," I retort. "As long as the blood pact is broken on time, it doesn't matter what he thinks." I look over to Jacob. "How long did you have to put up with him alone?"

"Oh – well …" Jacob smiles at me with wide eyes. Then he almost whispers, "Are we changing the subject yet again?"

I can see why Queenie appreciates him so much. He's an open book. There's nothing mean about him, only transparent honesty.

"If you don't mind," I confirm, whispering just as much in vain.

He nods, then seems reluctant. "What was the question? I'm still thinking about Rottweilers and hell …"

"Was he here long before us?" I repeat. "I'm sorry he scared you with his dogs because of me –"

"Did you see those heads?" He's much rather in awe than in fear. "Huge! But no worries, Tom, I wasn't here with him for long. Queenie's often told me that he can be quite the creep, but … that was an understatement."

"Oh, my dear," she sighs, pouting. "But maybe you wish to read your favorite fairy tale to us now? To distract us a bit?" With hope in her smile she shrugs her shoulders.

"Sure, yes."

And he does just that, in high spirits, while Vivian, Harper and I take a seat again. Harp inches closer to me as though she hadn't just seen all the atrocities that'd likely be attributed to me had the stars aligned differently.

But it's in her nature to always see the best in me. And maybe in the end, that's what truly makes a change …*

She doesn't let go, and the moral of the story might be that nothing comes for free in life.

* In this context, the Pygmalion effect is quite interesting. The experiment took place in 1965, so there's no mention of it in the 1944s text, but if anyone would like to look it up, I thought I'd mention it.