The Gift of the Magus

Tom began the next morning feeling rather nervous about the stomach and, due to the memory of all the jokes about Sirius's cooking, drowsily bewildered by the smell of bacon that had somehow permeated the house. The map presented him with the route to the kitchen, which contained a dot labeled "Harry Potter," who proved to be responsible for the bacon. Harry was, in fact, peering at the bacon with what Tom felt was an undue amount of suspicion.

"Morning." Tom yawned. "Is it likely to jump out of the pan?"

"What? Oh, no -- it hasn't tried to, anyway. I just don't want to burn it."

"You'll want to turn the stove off right before it goes black, then, I expect."

Harry snorted. "Thank you, that's helpful. I have cooked bacon before."

"That's good to know. At least you and Sirius won't starve." Tom smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. Did you?"

Tom shrugged. "It's a comfortable bed." He paused, then added "Professor Dumbledore's picking me up around ten to run an errand, I might be gone most of the day."

"I heard him say something about that to Sirius. Sirius asked if he'd given in and promised Snape he'd rescue you from the den of lions, or something like that."

"No, it's... Christmas shopping." Well, they were going to give Voldemort's followers a sort of Christmas present, if not one they wanted. "He said to get a good breakfast beforehand."

"I'll see what I can do. If you want rolls, there are lots in the breadbox. More than it looks like there's room for," Harry added helpfully. "Sirius said he measured the boa and multiplied the number of inches by eleven."

Tom laughed. "Probably a good idea. I wonder how he's managing the passages."

"You know, I haven't asked, but he turned up under the rug in my room this morning and I can't find one there, so I don't think he's having any trouble."

"Conrad Seale must have been a very strange man." Tom shook his head. "Anything I can do to help with breakfast?"

Harry blinked, then hastily returned his attention to the bacon and rescued it onto a plate. "Would you mind making toast? We'll be having eggs, too, but two people at the stove might be asking for trouble."

"I can manage toast." Tom consulted his map just to be sure, and was relieved to note that the flap labeled "bread box" did indeed lead to the bread box. He located the toaster in similarly short order. "Hard to believe the year's only half over," he said once he'd started the first two slices.

"I know. It's been very... er... eventful." Harry paused, then grinned, looking much less wary of the bacon's intentions. "It's probably because you got Voldemort out of the way at the start of the year, and then it turned out Sirius wasn't Dark after all."

"I'll try not to upset the schedule next year. When are we supposed to defeat Dark Wizards?" Tom grinned. "And I'm glad Sirius turned out to be all right. You should've seen Malfoy's face when Professor Dumbledore announced it. He'd had his heart set on getting rid of both of us."

"So am I. And your timing," Harry replied fervently, "is perfect."

"Well, I can hardly take credit for it, but thanks anyway." The first slices of toast popped, and Tom snatched them neatly from the air. "Butter these, or just keep them warm?"

"Butter, if you can catch it." Harry spared an irritated glance upward. "It's been flying around the ceiling since I got it out."

"And you call yourself a Seeker?" Still, there wasn't nearly enough room to fly a broomstick in the kitchen. Tom looked aroun the room speculatively, then spotted a small butter-yellow cowbell on one counter that, when he rang it, brought the butter to a sedate landing on its dish. "Aha. Logic wins out."

"Ringing a bell to attract butter is logic?"

"It's a cowbell. Butter is made from milk. Also, it's butter-colored."

"Oh. So it is." Harry hit one piece of toast accurately with a slightly crumpled piece of bacon he probably shouldn't have been throwing, eyed the plate where he'd put the rest, and shifted to cooking eggs.

The state of breakfast seemed to surprise everyone who came in about as much as it had Tom. He diligently ate as good a breakfast as he could manage, hampered only slightly by nerves and about as much by his orange's attempt to imitate a Snitch.

Harry must have scared the bacon. It never did try to fly away.

The bells began jingling again at precisely five minutes to ten, whereupon Tom nearly fell out of his chair. He hastily swallowed the last bite of his toast without chewing it properly and followed Sirius to the door.

"Good morning." Dumbledore beamed at them both, though his eyes were more serious when he turned them on Tom and added, "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Professor." Tom gulped.

Sirius blinked down at him. "What on earth's going on? -- Or do I not want to know?"

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "You always want to know, Sirius."

"Well, yes, but--" He frowned, looking back and forth between Tom and Dumbledore. "Oh, all right, then, I won't ask. Just be careful."

"I assure you, I have no intention of letting Mr. Riddle come to harm." The assurance seemed somehow to be directed more at Tom himself.

Tom mustered a smile. "I'll be all right. And we should probably get going, right, Professor?"

"We should indeed. The goblins have graciously made arrangements for us to arrive by Portkey. If you will take hold, please." Dumbledore proffered a wrapped chocolate bar.

Tom blinked, shrugged, and took the end of the chocolate bar between his fingers.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then something jerked quite hard right at his center of gravity, and they were... somewhere else, in a small room of brilliantly white marble with a circle marked neatly on the floor around them and a goblin standing very stiffly outside it. Dumbledore took Tom by the shoulder to steady him, then bowed to the goblin. "Here we are. We greatly appreciate the convenience."

Tom blinked away the sudden disorientation and made a hasty bow as well, then glanced up at Professor Dumbledore, wondering what came next.

"I can see you," the goblin returned. "We appreciate your punctuality." He pointed a long finger at the circle, which rolled itself up and hopped into his hand. "I gather this boy is the one you've been representing?"

"He is."

"I must reiterate. This is most irregular."

"The circumstances are most irregular," Dumbledore pointed out.

"So they are." The goblin directed a severe glare in Tom's direction. "I have been instructed to convey you both to Long-Term Accounts Director Gnashtalon. This way, please."

Dumbledore stepped briskly after the goblin; Tom tried to soothe his own nerves by keeping in step and reminded himself that while he certainly wanted to be polite to the goblins, it wasn't as if he had deliberately done anything for the purpose of inconveniencing them.

Long-Term Accounts Director Gnashtalon proved to be a slightly fleshy goblin with an impeccably neat, pointed beard, in a slightly dank-smelling, very tidy office on the third floor of the bank. He came around his desk and nodded respectfully to Dumbledore as they entered.

"I have reviewed the papers you sent me, Professor. I presume this is Mr. Tom Riddle?"

"Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle, yes. Currently on holiday from his second-year coursework at Hogwarts."

Gnashtalon returned to his desk and flipped open a very thick file folder. "And it is your contention, as I understand the matter, that young Mr. Riddle should have proprietary access to the vaults and accounts assigned to the Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle whose birth certificate, I see here, puts his date of birth as November the fourteenth, nineteen hundred and thirty-two? And, of course, the vaults and accounts assigned to the latterly-mentioned Mr. Riddle under various pseudonyms both within and without your wizarding laws, do excuse me for forgetting." Gnashtalon raised his eyebrows. "An unusual request. Most unusual."

"Yes." Dumbledore smiled faintly. "As I have lately heard remarked, the situation is most irregular. If you will kindly refer to the several documents pertaining to descriptions of events on the evening of September first of this year, however, you will see that while there have been some interesting discontinuities -- including, it seems, approximately twelve years in a disembodied yet self-aware state -- there have been none in existence, and the Mr. Riddle we have here does in fact share an identity with the one in your records."

"My own investigations, however, indicate that there was a period of... we may call it 'overlap,' between the existences of this Mr. Riddle and the, ah, 'disembodied yet self-aware' entity who was the originator of the accounts; in the wake of his dissolution, policy dictated that access devolve on the owner's named representatives, and this we have done. The overlap, as I am sure you must realize, considerably clouds your assertion."

"It would, had it not been clearly established as well that during this period of 'overlap' the two were in fact sharing the same life-force, and the entity -- whom it may be simpler to call Voldemort, as he styled himself at the time -- expressly stated that our present Mr. Riddle was himself."

"Your sworn affidavit, and those of Mr. Severus Snape and Mr. Harry Potter, as well as the supporting documents on curse-scar theory presented by representatives of St. Mungo's Hospital do indeed present a very strong case." The goblin stroked his beard with neatly-trimmed talons and turned to Tom. "And yet I believe some further measure is required. Mr. Riddle, what do you know of the powers of goblins such as myself?"

Tom swallowed and took a deep breath. "Not very much, sir. I was raised in the Muggle world and if I did learn a great deal about the abilities of goblins, I'm afraid those memories were lost in the, ah, incident on September first."

Gnashtalon nodded. "As most wizards know, we goblins have a great affinity for hexes and curses." He smiled thinly. "What some do not know, to their misfortune, is that a goblin always knows when he is being cheated, or lied to, or played false. Break your word to a goblin, Mr. Riddle, and the goblin will seek recompense by any means within his power. This is a skill that has served us well many times over the centuries in our dealings with wizards."

He folded his arms across his chest and regarded Tom seriously. "I ask you to keep this ability in the forefront of your mind when you answer me. Regarding the events of September the first of this year, and touching on the matter of access to the vaults under my supervision, is it your assertion, to the best of your knowledge, that you and Tom Marvolo Riddle, called Lord Voldemort and various less-important aliases, are in fact one and the same person?"

Tom swallowed and sincerely hoped that he wasn't going to disappoint Professor Dumbledore and ruin everything with his answer. He could not -- honestly -- say that he was Voldemort, not when his whole second chance at life (not that he remembered the first one) was based on not being, nor did he want to. But there was no doubt in his mind -- he couldn't let there be, because else he was no one, or not real -- that he was Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he had no intention of giving that up no matter what he thought of the man whose name he'd inherited or the man he'd once become.

"I don't remember ever calling myself Lord Voldemort," he said levelly, keeping his eyes fixed on Director Gnashtalon's and vaguely aware that his peripheral vision seemed to be dwindling away to whitish-grey blurs, "and I don't plan to. I don't remember all of what happened on September first of this year very well, but the first thing I do remember from that day is confusion because I wasn't where I thought I ought to be, and looking up at Voldemort and feeling sick because I knew somehow that that was me." He took a shaky breath. "As I understand it, I started out that evening as what was meant to be an illusion representing Voldemort's younger self. But he did say that I was he, and I was alive and aware -- and still am -- instead of just an illusion. I don't think of myself as Voldemort, and I don't want to grow up the same way I -- I did the first time. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, though, and I was born on the fourteenth of November in nineteen-thirty-two. I'm myself."

He had to be, no matter what he thought of the man whose name he'd inherited or the man he'd once become. His whole chance at life, this time, was based on not being Voldemort. But he had to be Tom Marvolo Riddle, because else he was no one at all, or not real.

Gnashtalon held Tom's gaze for a long moment, face expressionless, and then nodded slowly. "A very thorough answer, Mr. Riddle; had more wizards treated goblins with such honesty, the history between our two peoples might not have been quite so bloody." The goblin frowned thoughtfully, paged through a few of the documents in the file again, and then nodded. "My decision, which as Director of Long-Term Accounts is binding upon Gringotts Bank, is that the overlap period does not constitute sufficient doubt to overturn the remainder of the evidence here presented." He looked at Tom and allowed himself a bare smile. "You have been a very profitable customer for Gringotts Bank, Mr. Riddle; if I may be allowed a personal note, it is my hope that you will be a more congenial one from now on than you have been in the past."

Tom goggled for a few seconds about which he might later be embarrassed if he thought about them; for the moment, relief was too prominent in his mind. After insisting on his identity and closing his mouth, he'd been briefly and pessimistically convinced that he had ruined everything -- not that he'd been able to give any other answer if he believed Gnashtalon. Somewhere, he hoped that he would have given the same one without the warning. It took him a moment to adjust and gather his wits to say, "I -- thank you very much, sir." He couldn't quite help smiling as he finished what he'd almost started with. "And I'll certainly try to be."

"Very good." The goblin pulled a ring of keys from a desk drawer, walked back around the desk, and solemnly proffered it to Tom. "I took the liberty of preparing these in the event that your suit proved successful; the original keys can be deactivated at your discretion should you no longer wish to retain the services of your usual representatives."

Tom took the ring and looked at it, or rather at the keys with which it bristled, with a feeling of mild alarm. There seemed to be an awful lot of them. This was not exactly either unexpected or bad, but it was a bit overwhelming. "Thank you," he replied to start out. "I really appreciate it." He swallowed and looked back up at Gnashtalon. "I don't remember designating representatives, though, and I'd rather not have ones I don't know about."

"Ah." Gnashtalon smiled a bit self-deprecatingly. "Habit, and policy; now that you have been proven to be the same person as the account originator, his actions regarding the accounts are your actions. Would you prefer to familiarize yourself with the accounts before making decisions?"

"Yes, please. I think that would help."

"Very well. I can have the account books brought up by one of my assistants, but they would take a great deal of explanation, and in any case...." He shrugged. "Like most goblins, I prefer to see the gold I'm counting. Would you care to see the vaults, sir?"

Tom blinked and stole a glance at Dumbledore, wishing -- not for the first time -- that he'd had a little more time to do research. Any, in fact. A year and a half of trying valiantly to pay attention to Professor Binns really wasn't adequate preparation for wizarding (or rather, he supposed, goblining) banking. But as far as he could tell Gnashtalon, however unnerving he could be, was also being as helpful as possible.

Tom had to admit he was curious. And Dumbledore had just given him the slightest encouraging nod and smile. He thought.

"That would be good. Thank you."

"Very good, sir. Follow me, please." Gnashtalon led the way through a narrow door at the back of his office to a small room, where something that looked like nothing less than a plushly-upholstered mine cart perched at the entrance to a dark tunnel.

The goblin smiled his self-deprecating smile again. "I started out in the transport carts when I was young, and never quite lost my taste for them. Please have a seat."

"I've always been quite fond of them myself," Dumbledore replied cheerfully as he folded himself into a seat. He added, as Tom perched beside him, "Hold on tight."

Tom was not entirely sure whether this meant to the cart or the key-ring.

The ride was long enough, and precipitous enough, that Tom finally concluded that Dumbledore had meant both; he was feeling faintly sick by the time they finally rolled to a stop at the entrance to a vault-lined hallway. Gnashtalon, his beard slightly windswept, swung open the cart's small door and led Tom to the first vault on the right. "Your artifact storage is three vaults down, in the higher-security area; deeds, stock certificates, and various other investment paperwork are kept on the left."

He indicated the first key on Tom's ring, heavy and black with complicated wards, then waved a hand toward the first vault. "This, five others in this row, and two in our Geneva branch, are your cash repositories."

Tom blinked at the goblin -- five others? And two in Switzerland? -- and then moved to unlock the vault and swing open the door.

It was full of gold.

Tom was rich.