Chapter Text
October 31st, 1981
Every person sometimes finds themselves at a crossroads. If one goes left, things turn out one way. If one goes right, they turn out another way. Even when one opts to do nothing, the consequences are inevitable. Some believe that there are fixed points in history—moments that require an explosive climax only to separate one era from another. Even if everyone simultaneously decides to sit on their butts and do nothing so that fate isn’t tempted, something is going to happen anyway. Those who believe that are usually the ones who claim those milestones can be somehow predicted. There are whole theses written on the subject. Countless instances of flawed reasoning, wasted resources, and dead aspirations.
Tom personally abhors this way of thinking. He has encountered many crossroads throughout his not insignificant lifetime, and every time he was the one choosing his future—and sometimes the future of others of his kind—even without knowing at that point what that future entails. If he’s not holding his fate in his own hands, then he doesn’t want it at all. Today is going to be a turning point in history, but that’s because he’s decided it.
Ever since he woke up, he’s been pretending not to be tormented by doubts. It is pointless; the plan has already been set in motion, and there’s no turning back now. That’s what he tells himself when he eats his breakfast with the rest of the staff in the Great Hall. He spends a delightful half an hour discussing classical string music with Filius, but as usual, they end up disagreeing about Dvořák. He subtly backs out of the conversation once Ronalda rudely interrupts them to talk about quidditch instead. He won’t be missing that woman, that’s for sure.
The bell rings, and as they all get ready to head out, Albus smiles at him before disappearing down the corridor. Tom doesn’t feel like smiling back, but he does anyway. Occasionally he still wonders why the old fool risked exposing his precious school to what he believed to be a corrupting presence all those years ago, though these days he has his suspicions. He was just as surprised when he first applied and wasn’t turned down immediately. He came to the interview already expecting a refusal and just wanted to hear Dumbledore making his case against him. He still remembers how startled he felt when he was accepted, and he’s not the type of person who startles easily. He thinks perhaps it was a reward for good behaviour and for not attempting to take over the world after all. And Tom didn’t, at least not officially, and at least not back then.
Now he’s had six years of shaping young minds under his belt. A part of him will miss it, he thinks. One way or another, his teaching career will come to an end soon. Even if he’s not let go instantly, he will have way more important matters to attend to when they all wake up to the new world tomorrow.
On his way to his first class, he passes the new potions assistant. The boy resembles a dark cloud, scowling like he usually does and heading towards the dungeons. Tom remembers him vaguely from when he was still a student and strongly suspects that the boy is going to move on to the greener pastures of his mastery as soon as he finishes his apprenticeship with Horace. It’s a good thing, because from what Tom has observed so far, he would make a horrible teacher. A few years of putting up with children will probably cure him of any remaining doubts. The only hope is that someone equally talented replaces Horace when the time comes.
He makes a mental note to keep an eye on the boy to see if he holds as much potential as he seems and if he’s good for anything other than defence and potions. Ever since Tom became a teacher, he’s been avoiding recruiting children for his nefarious plans, but it’s already been two or maybe even three years since the boy graduated. If he’s old enough to begin a mastery, vote and get married, he’s also old enough to join an insurgent movement.
The day drags on, and Tom acts like nothing is amiss. If the air around him vibrates slightly with anticipation, it can be easily blamed on the upcoming evening festivities. After all, it’s common knowledge that he’s always loved Halloween. The assumption wouldn’t even be incorrect; the festivities this year are promising to be unforgettable.
He drops the mask once he gets back to his quarters after the afternoon classes. He takes off his teaching robe without putting a nicer one on yet, because there’s still some time before the feast begins. He lets out a quiet sigh before entering the bathroom. The truth is, he’s been tired of Hogwarts lately. Or perhaps he’s fooling himself; perhaps he’s been tired of it the entire time he’s been here. He let nostalgia steer him towards the only home he’d ever known, as if coming back here would fill some emptiness within him. In the end, it’s turned out to be just a castle. His time spent here has been undoubtedly valuable, but pretending it is where he is supposed to be is wasting precious time. Perhaps he had to prove to himself that he doesn’t need a safe haven anymore. Perhaps it’s time to make himself into a safe haven for others.
He looks in the mirror and grimaces. He’s always disliked facial hair, but he’s discovered that it makes his oddly youthful appearance a little less obvious. Not that it’s incredibly jarring otherwise; he will be fifty-five by the end of the year, but he doesn’t look a day over forty. Which also isn’t right; he was forty-one when he started to take the longevity potion. Which is hardly a secret, but he doesn’t want to advertise it and invite uncomfortable questions, nor does he want it to be his defining feature like it is for Nicolas. To him, it’s just a means to an end. Just like what is going to happen later tonight is little more than a means to an end. Tom feels that despite already having done so much, he’s still waiting to properly begin the transformation he’s planning on bringing.
He gets under the spray and sighs again, this time with relief. He’s never understood how some wizards thought any spell could replace a real shower. He closes his eyes, going through the plan again in his head. If he’s lucky, he will manage to discredit Dumbledore on top of getting rid of his wayward ex-lover. It’s not his main goal, more of an additional benefit, but he likes to imagine Albus showing his true colours at a crucial moment so that Tom can be done with him for good.
Despite his appointment, he’s still one of Tom’s least favourite people in the world, and he’s met and despised plenty of them during his travels. Or perhaps it’s actually because of his appointment, because of the way Dumbledore twisted it into taking pity on him in all his magnanimity, even though he knew that he hated pity, after already rejecting him once. He will never forget the old fool’s words when he not only refused to mentor him—as if he would have been Tom’s first choice if he hadn’t been the only alchemist in Great Britain accepting apprentices at the time—but actually had the audacity to suggest that he didn’t have what it took to study alchemy and would only sully the alchemical process with dark arts. Why, of course he would, and that’s exactly what he did once he started to experiment on his own. Obscure magics are supposed to be combined and put to good use, not fussed over and secluded. What an absurd critique from a man who’s always played it safe and never had the guts to step outside of the most rudimentary, boring phase of the arts he’s deeply familiar with. Where Albus draws the line, Nicolas is barely starting to have fun. And where Nicolas draws the line, Tom continues to shine.
He didn’t argue, nor did he try to sell himself as a perfect candidate; that would be beneath his dignity. He gritted his teeth and went on to work in retail until he was able to begin on the next part of his journey. He spent many years travelling before he settled down in France, where a chance meeting with Nicolas led him to learning the basics of the arts he had craved to possess. That was where things started to come into focus. Strasbourg was an excellent place to monitor the world stage from, with its proximity both to the International Confederation of Wizards and to Eastern Germany, which once more served as a border of Grindelwald’s influence. It became obvious to Tom very quickly that the best shortcut to impose his will onto magical European nations and have them thank him for it is to rid them of their biggest problem while gradually introducing the idea that it is the wizard that is at fault and not the tool he’s using.
He had an excellent position and the ears of many important people, but he still gave it all up in order to come back here. And it’s not that he regrets it per se—it’s helped him maintain his British network, as people tend to forget their commitments easily, and get the feel for the current generation—but it did delay his plans considerably, which has been making his skin itch for a while now. The only encouraging part is that he has no guarantee that the chance to confront Grindelwald would fall into his lap the way it has at Hogwarts had he spent all this time on the continent.
He gets out of the shower and dries himself before approaching the mirror again. He shaves slowly and deliberately, using a razor instead of the spell. He’s never let himself depend fully on magic; he believes it makes wizards lazy. His frozen-in-time face gets gradually revealed, and he finally waves his hand to vanish the remains. He needs to look his best tonight.
He dresses quickly in a classic midnight blue robe with silver trimming before pointing his wand at the centre of the mirror. A quick slash in the air makes a crack that splits it into six irregular pieces. “Knights,” he mutters out loud needlessly, just because he likes the sound of it, while slowly listing names in his head. With every finished one, a face appears on one of the pieces until all of them are occupied.
“Master,” Evan greets him immediately.
Tom waves him off dismissively. “Is there any news?” he asks everyone at large, assuming they will figure out the order in which he’d like to learn things.
“Beograd has held its breath in anticipation of your victory, sir,” Miloš tells him with a reverent nod before continuing. “There are no signs of the usurper’s activities around the city. Every key figure should be now in Berlin, awaiting his return.”
Tom can’t help but smirk. “It could be argued that I’m the usurper in this scenario,” he remarks casually. “I don’t mind the title. The strong survive, don’t they?” The way he says it, it’s clear it’s a rhetorical question.
“You do, sir,” Miloš still assures him quickly, but Edith picks up before he can keep rambling.
“I can confirm this,” she says plainly, keeping her tone just respectful enough to be acceptable. “The atmosphere here is tense. No one would admit it out loud, but I know for a fact that many hope that he won’t come back. To be fair, most assume that if anyone, Dumbledore will be the one to do the deed. You are not a solid presence in common people’s minds yet.” She at least attempts to sound apologetic, even though it’s completely unnecessary. Tom waves his hand again to dismiss the courtesy. He’s perfectly aware of his own public perception. Aside from his closest circle, no one considers him significant enough to pay attention. To most of the world, he’s little more than a scholar and a school teacher. But no matter; they will know soon enough.
Edith is currently one of his most valuable assets. She has defected from Grindelwald’s side after years of service, tired of his madness and his many uninspired attempts to achieve the same thing by the same means, even though it had already proven fruitless multiple times before. All Tom has had to give her was a more sensible alternative to her previous master’s radical views. All conservative wizards fall into two groups: those who choose blood over magic, and those who choose magic over blood. Tom concluded a long time ago that he has no interest in the former, and he knows exactly how to lure in the latter—by advocating for the full independence of magical governance, selective integration with muggles when it’s beneficial for magical advancement but without endangering the single most important law their kind has ever enacted, and preventing magical stagnation by preserving obscure branches and reducing governmental interventionism.
Edith was one of those he didn’t even have to pursue; she’s come to him. She’s the reason this whole plan has even been concocted. When she told him that Grindelwald in his growing desperation was going to return to Britain to reclaim his old wand, he felt as if Christmas had come early. An idiotic decision made by a man way past his prime. That’s why Tom has never had any intention of thwarting him; instead, he used Edith once more to feed some fake intel around and set up to wait. Before Grindelwald knows what’s happening, Tom will have his head on a silver platter. All of their lives have been dictated by that madman’s whims for far too long.
In the end, the only thing he says is, “I can’t imagine why they would believe that. The old fool has already failed once. What makes people think he’s going to succeed this time? Or even try?” he emphasises with distaste. Back in 1945, Dumbledore did a very poor job of defeating his former fling, duelling him like a schoolboy. Pathetic. Tom would have done better himself back then, and he was a schoolboy. So he’s got the wand—so what? Clearly it wasn’t all that powerful, or Dumbledore would have managed to capture the man with it. Unless he didn’t want to.
“Short memory,” Evan deadpans, and the corner of Tom’s mouth twitches. “About the wand?”
Tom rolls his eyes, not caring that it probably makes him look like a sullen child. He’s the most accomplished dark wizard in this forsaken country; he can do whatever he pleases. “I don’t care about the wand. The wand is not the goal here. If one needs an acquired object in order to obtain power, then one does not deserve it in the first place,” he informs them coolly. “Of course, if the blasted thing ends up in my hand, I’m not going to throw it away. It’s a historically significant artefact. But the only value of the wand is both Grindelwald’s and Dumbledore’s obsession with it. Which will make it their downfall.”
He’s answered by a chorus of “Yes, sir” and relaxes a bit. “Sébastien?” he urges on.
Sébastien, who’s clearly been waiting for his turn, straightens. “We’ve been keeping things quiet in the ICW, milord. No one suspects what is about to happen, but I will make sure that a delegation is sent immediately once the... deed is done,” he finishes clumsily.
Tom feels himself smile faintly. There’s something about Sébastien’s accent, though jarring, that always sends a painful pang through his chest. A man is such a foolish, sentimental creature, and Tom is no exception. While in France, he missed the castle he’d grown up in, but once he finally returned, he started to long for the mountains of Alsace. Tom enjoys those reminders in general. He knows that he’s a ruthless man; no one could possibly claim otherwise. But even the most ruthless of men are still men. Suppressing one’s vulnerabilities only results in them coming to the surface in a more volatile way than ever. He won’t be exposing his soft underbelly to anyone anytime soon; he’s not an idiot, but he still believes that it’s healthy to allow himself little weaknesses, despite all associated risks. Cherished memories. Nostalgic spots. Treasured little trinkets. Lately, he’s been seriously considering getting a pet snake, and that’s the level of commitment he hardly ever displays.
“Same with the ministry,” Cillian volunteers. “Bagnold has already packed up for the weekend. If anything changes regarding the aurors—”
“We won’t need the aurors,” Tom interrupts him firmly. “The trap is already set. The civilians will be kept occupied. The children will all be in beds. I will handle the rest, along with the old fool, if he deems his presence necessary.” He waves the topic away like an annoying fly, already tired of repeating himself.
Gus speaks up for the first time. “If the aurors do show up, though, is there an acceptable number of casualties or—” he starts, sounding bored as always.
Tom narrows his eyes. “If you know what’s good for you, make sure they don’t. It shouldn’t be difficult, as they’re rarely anywhere on time,” he drawls, his voice lowering dangerously. “They are not to become aware of the situation until everything is over. Keep monitoring the village the entire time so that nobody gets too close to the shack. We don’t want any casualties.”
His knights all nod their assent, and Tom breaks the connection, not bothering to say anything else. He waves his wand briefly, and the mirror becomes whole again.
All through the evening feast, he yearns to sneak out to Hogsmeade to check one more time if the ward is working correctly. But it must; he doesn’t make rookie mistakes. With his knights patrolling, no one should disturb the setup too early, and even if the worst comes to the worst and some poor bystander walks straight into the trap, their magical frequency won’t be high enough to launch the domino.
He excuses himself from the feast early, inventing a headache. Back in his quarters, he takes his violin out of its case and slowly draws the bow across the strings. He keeps playing when the students, stuffed and loud, return to their bedrooms among laughter. He keeps playing when the castle sinks into silence, only interrupted by Peeves knocking down a suit of armour. He keeps playing when Filch reprimands him. His tempo quickens the darker it gets outside, and his eyes are glued to the mirror while he plays, waiting for the signal.
A knock on the door interrupts the transition from dark D minor to peaceful D major. The melody cuts off abruptly when Tom freezes.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Filius squeaks avidly when Tom opens the door, still holding the violin in one hand. “It’s Shubert, isn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Tom confirms lightly. “Death and the Maiden.”
“I thought so. Marvellous.” The little professor nods with satisfaction. “Would you fancy going down the village to grab a pint, Tom?”
Tom makes a rapid mental calculation. Filius is both competent and clever enough to not get accidentally killed. It won’t be suspicious if they go to the pub together—they’ve formed an unofficial alliance at the beginning of Tom’s tenure, and now it’s not unusual to find one near the other. And it gives Tom an excellent reason to already be in Hogsmeade. Brilliant in its simplicity.
“Certainly,” he says pleasantly before looking over his shoulder. “If you could give me five minutes...?”
“Of course!” Filius exclaims happily.
Tom closes the door and scans the room. The truth is, he has nothing to do that would take five minutes; he just needed a moment to get his bearings. He checks his appearance in the mirror one last time before snapping off a single piece this time and hiding it in his pocket. There is nothing in here to wish him good luck—not that he needs luck—so he gets back out to the corridor where Filius is waiting for him.
He spends the entire way chattering, which suits Tom just fine. Fate is on his side tonight, because right before they enter the Three Broomsticks, the mirror shard in his pocket warms up, and a sound of apparition echoes through the quiet village.
Tom and Filius exchange a serious look before deciding in unison without uttering a single word to head over to investigate. A part of Tom hates how heroic it will make him look, but another, more disconcerting part, finds it thrilling. He’s never aspired to be heroic, but to be fair, he’s never aspired not to be heroic either, as long as he’s smart about it, and he has no intention of offering Grindelwald an honest duel. They’re almost at the Shrinking Shack when the screaming starts. Ah. Someone has successfully completed the circuit and got caught in his perpetuating ward. Excellent.
Tom blinks, and by the time his eyes open, he knows that something is not right. The screaming doesn’t sound like it belongs to the dark wizard he’s detested for so long. It’s youthful and so piercing, it makes even him twitch uneasily. The trap is gaining momentum, and there’s not much that can be done to stop it now until it burns itself out. He’s vaguely aware of Filius’ presence next to him. He’s yelling something too, but it sounds slightly less despairing than the screams of whoever is currently being incinerated.
Tom blinks again, and this time when his eyes open, the noise has died down. Whoever’s fallen victim to the trap first, now Grindelwald is the only one still trying to fight against it. He doesn’t scream, but his teeth are visibly gritted and his back arched in pain. Tom takes a step forward and raises his wand but doesn’t cast any spells yet. He’s never thought he’d enjoy something as crude as torture, but he has to admit that this is extremely satisfying. He puts most of his focus into controlling his facial muscles—he’s pretty sure smiling at torture is frowned upon in general but especially when you’re a school teacher—so he’s caught very much by surprise when the world explodes.
The next time Tom opens his eyes, he’s lying down, and the battlefield is completely silent. Even the wind has dropped. He gets back on his feet as quickly and dignifiedly as he can, brushing the dust off his robe, and then nearly trips over a corpse smouldering at his feet. A brief inspection confirms that it belongs to Gellert Grindelwald, and Tom lets out a disappointed huff. Well, that was anticlimactic. Only when the rest of his surroundings register does he realise that he’s standing in a crater of considerable size and that he’s not the only one who got knocked over. He notices with some relief that Filius is already beginning to stir, and two figures who must have gotten too close to the blast radius may not be showing any signs of waking up but are both thankfully breathing. Not much is left of who Tom assumes must have been one of Grindelwald’s followers that he’s brought along—even though the man was supposed to be alone according to Tom’s intel, as befits an old, paranoid, and insane bastard—but Tom still rolls up his sleeves and slowly walks over to investigate. The body is in better shape than its master’s, most likely because this person’s death was much quicker—less potential to eat through; it’s a wonder that the poor sod even managed to activate the ward by himself—and Tom startles at how alarmingly young he looks. The boy is round-faced and bespectacled and is lying near the shack on a faintly shimmering piece of fabric. Tom feels himself breaking into a cold sweat, dreading what he already knows deep down. He’s seen this boy before, not as one of Grindelwald’s followers, but in the classroom. He wasn’t brought here; he was here because... because...
Because he’s an idiot, apparently. Tom exhales loudly through his nose, irritated. If he killed a student, he’s never going to live it down. He tries to bring himself to feel bad for the boy, but he can’t.
He’s already started to plan how to talk himself out of this mess, because he absolutely refuses to let one dead kid cast a shadow over his otherwise smashing success when someone shouts, “Dumbledore!”
Tom turns around, ready to rub into the old fool’s face that he’s late to the party, but is instead met with the headmaster trying to get off the dirty floor with some difficulty. At the same time, multiple pops of apparition echo around. Aurors, most likely. Probably the ICW. Maybe reporters, if his knights have done a good enough job.
Oh, crap.
The aftermath is a blur. The aurors secure the scene and chase away the onlookers, while those affected by the blast are getting medical attention from the emergency team of mediwizards. Albus is a quivering, shell-shocked mess with eyes averted so he doesn’t have to look at the corpse in the middle of the crater. He stubbornly ignores everyone and doesn’t utter a word until one of the aurors bends over the second body and proclaims, “This is James Potter.”
The first thing Tom feels is a profound relief, because he knows for a fact that James Potter has already graduated. He’s still an idiot, but at least he’s not an idiot Tom has been personally responsible for.
Albus’s head snaps up. “James?” he repeats faintly. Tom barely holds back a sneer. Of course he would get unreasonably attached to every Gryffindor troublemaker that passes through Hogwarts.
Before he has a chance to react, he’s accosted by Bartemius Crouch. He should probably consider it an honour to be interrogated by the head of the DMLE himself. He doesn’t. He answers his questions calmly and fully, confirming that yes, he was aware of Grindelwald’s plan, and yes, he did set a trap. How did he know about it? He spent many years on the continent and knows plenty of people who tell him things. Why didn’t he inform anyone? Because Grindelwald had his sources too, and bringing it to the authorities would undoubtedly get back to him.
This part makes Crouch frown. “Do you believe Grindelwald had his people in our ministry?” he asks sharply.
Tom just raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”
Crouch mutters something under his breath but drops this line of questioning. “You are,” he demonstratively checks his notes, “the Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher here at Hogwarts, with a mastery in alchemy obtained under the mentorship of Nicolas Flamel and,” he scowls at whatever he reads and spits out, “other masteries of questionable origins. You’ve also got some history of political engagement within the French Magical Assembly, where you lobbied against tightening governmental control over the restricted branches of magic.” His frown intensifies, suggesting that he finds this résumé deeply suspicious. “Do you fancy yourself a dark wizard, Mr Riddle?”
Tom lets out a single hysterical laugh. “Well, that depends on your definition. Do I plan on taking Grindelwald’s place and attempting to take over the world? No, I do not,” he answers his own question. “Am I a master of arts that are technically forbidden in this country? Why naturally,” he admits freely before adding a sunny smile for good measure.
Crouch’s nostrils flare. Tom is enjoying himself immensely. “We were informed that Grindelwald showed up here to collect a certain artefact. Do you know anything about the artefact in question?”
Tom pretends to think it over. “I might have heard something about a wand. The one Dumbledore won from him during their famous duel. I am afraid you’ll need to ask Albus for details. I believe the wand is still in his possession.”
They both look at the headmaster, who has at least started talking to people, even though he still looks pale. Crouch sighs like he’s already suffering from the upcoming headache. “And this curse-trap of yours—”
“Would only get triggered by a very significant concentration of magic that is only found in extremely dark objects and the most devoted practitioners of the arts. It was a safety measure so that any harmless stray curse wouldn’t accidentally set it off,” he explains mildly.
“So the most vile branches of dark magic activate the trap?” Crouch asks to make sure he’s understood correctly.
Tom wrinkles his nose with distaste and adjusts his collar absently. “Well, no. See, that would be too risky. That’s why one needs to be very specific when designing these things. Let’s take soul manipulation, for example. By the general assessment, one of the darkest acts in existence, right? A complete taboo. But if you create a mechanism that gets triggered by soul magic, the next thing you know is that you’ve caught Albus Dumbledore. Or any other poor sod.” Tom shrugs carelessly, then goes on, putting the words in Crouch’s mouth without waiting for his contribution, way more enthusiastic now that he can turn the interrogation into a lecture. ”How come, you ask. One of Albus Dumbledore’s favourite spells is the Fidelius Charm, and trust me, he has many secrets hidden within his soul. That is soul tempering in its purest form. Harmful? Hardly. Albus Dumbledore is also an alchemist, and everyone who’s ever had anything to do with the arts knows that the first step in alchemy is cleansing. The purification of the soul. Also soul magic, no matter how you look at it. Me, I don’t cleanse. I go straight for enlightenment. I’m a firm believer that alchemists should offer themselves as they truly are. It’s more humble.” At this point he pauses, waiting for some recognition of his brilliance, but Crouch is just watching him in horror. “So only regular usage of high-level magic would trigger the ward. Permanent disfiguration of the soul. Sacrificial magic based on blood or life force. Necromancy involving direct interaction with the dead. Starting every day with an Unforgivable Curse. That sort of thing,” he sums up nonchalantly.
Crouch clears his throat and visibly gets a grip on himself before his eyes narrow calculatingly. “Hypothetically, would you say you’d have triggered your own trap?”
This is such an obvious coercion into a confession, but it’s not even necessary; Tom’s ready to confess without any incentive. He grins widely, showing all of his teeth. He doesn’t remember when he was last so excited. “Hypothetically, that is extremely likely,” he admits easily.
Crouch’s expression becomes even more incredulous. “And you were allowed to teach here? At Hogwarts?”
Tom blinks with all innocence he can muster. “Headmaster Dumbledore has appointed me.”
Crouch looks like he wants to pinch the bridge of his nose, but in the end he doesn’t; instead, he straightens and gives Tom a very cold look. “I am going to need you to come with me back to the ministry, Mr—”
Tom keeps smiling. “I don’t think that will be possible at this time,” he interrupts politely before tilting his head towards the surrounding crowd that has been getting bigger with every minute they’ve spent talking. “Looks like I am also being requested by the ICW.” Right on cue, Ida Neumann from the International Security Council turns her back on whoever she’s talking to and waves at him.
Crouch looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “I see,” he drawls. “Still, it would be beneficial to—”
But he’s cut off by the appearance of a young red-headed witch who is scanning the crowd wildly. She has dried tears on her cheeks and a baby in her arms. Tom scowls internally; the only thing he despises more than babies are crying women. She heads straight to Albus, who nods his head gravely and points to the edge of the crater.
The redhead marches towards the new potions apprentice who is lurking among the sea of onlookers and unceremoniously drops the baby into his arms. Now that they stand next to each other, Tom realises that he recognises her too, and he used to see them together in the school corridors. He briefly concludes that he must be the baby’s father and considers the matter closed, but that’s probably not right, firstly because he’s holding that baby as if it were a bomb, and secondly because as soon as her hands are free, the girl breaks into a run, screaming James Potter’s name. Ah. Mystery solved.
Tom watches Dumbledore make his way towards the young potioneer and coo at the baby. They exchange brief words before starting to slowly walk in his direction.
“But contrary to what you’re saying, your trap was triggered by Junior Auror Potter.” Crouch tries another way, clearly set on blaming Tom for something.
Tom raises his eyebrows. An auror, huh? Good for James Potter.
Well, not anymore. “Was he on duty?” he asks apropos of nothing because he was very clear that no aurors should interfere with the confrontation.
Crouch pauses, taken aback. “He wasn’t,” he admits, and Tom’s posture relaxes. Maybe his knights didn’t muck this up completely, though they were supposed to keep the civilians away as well, which should include aurors off duty. He’d very much like to know how James Potter slipped their notice.
“Well, I have no explanation for how he triggered the ward,” he says ruefully. “Perhaps Junior Auror Potter was secretly a budding dark wizard,” he suggests jokingly.
The potions boy—Snape! Tom suddenly recalls the name that has been on the tip of his tongue since this morning—snorts inelegantly before hastily attempting to smooth out his expression. This is the most cheerful that Tom has ever seen him. He watches him with interest until Snape goes red and averts his eyes. Then he shifts his attention to the baby that is being held gingerly almost at arm’s length. It looks deeply unimpressed with its predicament. Tom can relate. He almost smiles.
“You don’t really believe that, do you, Tom?” Dumbledore admonishes him gently. He must be recovering.
“What I don’t believe is that my ward was set up incorrectly,” he argues firmly. It is one thing to be accused of involuntary manslaughter, but it’s another to have the quality of his work being contested. That’s entirely unacceptable. “Filius,” he barks at the tiny man who is still hanging around, apparently waiting for his turn to give the aurors his testimony. “Am I known for making mistakes while setting up wards?”
Filius chooses his words carefully. “I sincerely doubt that’s what happened,” he answers diplomatically, and Tom spreads his hands in a ’there you have it’ gesture.
“There was also an explosion...” Crouch trails off expectantly.
“The explosion didn’t result from the ward’s main mechanism either,” Tom supplies promptly. “What happened was that James Potter was having a particularly bad day and got high enough on dark magic to trigger the ward. The ward did what it was designed to do. Then some unknown factor destabilised it and made it collapse. What it was, I am unable to say.”
Dumbledore clears his throat softly. “Let us wait for the aurors to examine the magical traces and complete the investigation,” he suggests peacefully, but his expression remains deeply thoughtful. If he doesn’t already have a theory on what happened here, Tom is ready to eat his wand.
Crouch nods brusquely and walks away after warning them all to remain on hand. Filius has been led to the Three Broomsticks by one of the aurors, and Snape must feel out of place between two powerful wizards, so he excuses himself awkwardly and wanders off, still carrying the baby. Tom finds himself alone with Dumbledore, listening to the baby’s mother still crying in the background. There aren’t many circumstances he’d enjoy less.
“You could have captured him,” Albus sighs, his voice full of misery.
Tom spins around to pin him with an accusing glare. “You could have captured him!” he spits out, suddenly enraged. “He was your fucking responsibility, and you had decades to do that! Since you never bothered, now you have no right to criticise my methods. I don’t capture war criminals. I end them,” he brags.
Dumbledore frowns. He looks sad and old. “You can’t fight fire with fire, Tom. All it will accomplish is turning you into those you’re trying to oppose. Unless it’s already too late for that,” he adds shrewdly.
Tom scoffs. “Don’t make this into some silly good versus evil nonsense, Albus. Gellert held certain beliefs. I considered those beliefs an outdated pipe dream that posed a threat to all of our continued existence. Therefore, he must have been eliminated. Killing a monster does not make me a monster.”
Dumbledore’s lips tighten. “No, of course not. An honourable act, murdering a man in cold blood.” He pauses, visibly considering what he wants to say. “I can’t help but notice that you took your time too. He must have been useful to your platform for a while until he wasn’t anymore. A fitting moment too, with the revolutionary fervour growing in the muggle world.”
Tom musters a plastic smile. “It is high time for a change, isn’t it?” he remarks with fake cheerfulness.
Dumbledore huffs. “Don’t give me that, Tom. I’ve known you for forty-four years,” he chides gently. “You know, I always hoped you’d end up pursuing music after all,” he suddenly sighs apropos of nothing.
Tom’s eyebrows rise to the middle of his forehead. “Then despite these forty-four years, you don’t know me at all,” he drawls sceptically.
“No, I do,” Albus disagrees calmly. “It was an old fool’s wish, simply because I believed you’d make a dreadful politician, and I hoped you’d grow self-aware enough to deliberately distance yourself from the temptation.” He pauses again, and Tom has to smile at the audacity of the man. “Do you remember what I told you when I accepted your job application?”
“I remember,” Tom spits out. He’s always known that he will have a particularly hard time gaining any political traction in Britain with Dumbledore hindering him every step of the way. He even suspects that hiring him at Hogwarts could have been a part of some grand plan to dampen his political aspirations. Keep your enemies closer and all that.
“I stand by it,” Albus declares solemnly.
If Tom’s impulse control were any weaker, he’d launch at Dumbledore, grab his ancient neck, and start squeezing. As such, he just mutters, “Noted,” attempting to appear disinterested. They look at each other in a tense standoff for a moment, Dumbledore’s eyes piercing and calculating, Tom’s fuming and glowering. He reluctantly yields first and changes the subject carelessly. “So what happened here? I know you must have a theory.” Tom certainly has one of his own.
“James Potter would never—” Dumbledore starts patronisingly.
“I don’t care about James Potter,” Tom sneers, even though he does care a little bit, mostly about the blasted boy ruining his perfect record. “I mean the explosion. Only an extremely powerful impetus would interfere with the curse completing itself. Was it love? Did your love end his suffering?” he taunts.
Dumbledore’s eyes narrow in contempt. “You are still a cruel man, Tom,” he whispers brokenly.
“I’ve never claimed otherwise,” Tom retorts readily. “And was it worth it?” he asks with fake curiosity, twisting the knife even harder. “Tell me, was your love worth decades of internal battle and endangering everyone today?”
By now, Dumbledore’s entire face is pinched. “I hope one day you’ll feel what I feel,” he tells him seriously.
Tom scoffs. “I find it very unlikely that I will ever fall in love with a madman.”
Dumbledore shakes his head slowly. “You never know,” he says softly, which is probably meant to sound foreboding but comes off vague and bizarre.
Somewhere in the commotion, the baby nestled in a stranger’s arms finally gets fed up and starts to scream bloody murder.
“Is this a goodbye then, Tom?” Albus asks calmly.
Tom raises his eyebrows. “Am I fired?”
“Are you staying?” Dumbledore snaps back smartly. He seems to already know the answer and doesn’t wait for it. “Your fans are getting impatient.” He tilts his head towards the crowd gathered on the main street of the village. “You’ve got what you wanted.”
“The global magical community has got what they wanted. I was barely an executor,” Tom corrects him harshly. “It is not my fault that it went against your wishes.”
With those words Tom turns his back on Albus Dumbledore and walks away. They won’t be seeing each other for years.
As Tom recounts his deeds to a bunch of reporters, several ICW officials, and various representatives from the countries that have been most affected by Grindelwald’s regime, he thinks that despite several mishaps, it all went pretty well. He might even come to like having a moral high ground.