Embryo

XII

It is warm and dark in Harry’s dreams, and so Tom slips through the castle at night down to the Chamber of Secrets.

It is warmer and darker when Tom climbs into the Basilisk’s den and carefully crawls the beast’s scales to rest in the centre of her coiled body. She watches him with one eye, an eye that flickers behind its clear cap, glows like a yellow full moon. The walls of her hide breathe all around him, and though he knows she could constrict her great body and slice him to ribbons, the warmth of her towering embrace puts him at ease.

He can’t say exactly why he has come here.

Tom has always regarded Dualism with contempt, associating it with a sort of mysticism of the mind. It is a highly superstitious—worse, religious—way of thinking, that man exists as two separate forces, matter (inert, passive) and spirit (active, diffusive.) The material of man is finite, a passing state, animated by his God-gifted spirit. Finite body and infinite bodily life, the soul that rises with us, our life’s star.

To live and think infinitely is solely the property of the Divine, and thus pertains only to God.

Expanding one’s senses and breaking finite consciousness leads to the Presence man calls God, and that is the difference between the earthly man and the God-visionsed man: a life no longer in bondage to Time.

And such an ascension is an affront to Nature, or so the Dualist believes.

There is either the degradation of God or the deification of man.

But Tom, like William Wordsworth, like Pascal, knows otherwise.

Such arbitrary division of man’s existence! Man is by no means a mere mind temporarily resting itself in inert matter. The mind is as any other organ within the body. Or would philosophers say man is the body and its heart? Or hand?

Man was born for infinity.

Tom lives singularly, in command of all of his flesh, soul included. He is one system, one existence…

So why is it that only now does he experience the duality in man?

Why do his thoughts circle differently from how his body reacts? Why are instinct and impulse no longer aligned with what he thinks?

He has everything he needs now, so why does he hesitate?

Tom’s quill nib snaps.

He looks down at his knees where his journal rests, the pages covered in messy sketchings. A circular insignia of different designs, all incorporating a serpent and skull, the crest for the Knights of Walpurgis. He was rather inspired by the phrase Harry had spoken, “death eater.”

Tom snaps the journal closed and tosses the broken quill.

Inexplicable as it may be, he cannot delay any longer.

He has made his decision.

—

The decrees of the Secret Order of the Knights of Walpurgis are as follows:

Firstly:

To maintain the secret nature of the Societa.

To seek approval from the presiding Lord Tom Riddle for any invitations or initiations.

To discuss the details of Societa meetings only in the company of present, fully-oathed members.

To never record or write down Societa plans, lessons, or secrets.

Secondly:

To conduct oneself in a manner befitting the Societa at all times

Nobilis Factum. Mors ante dedecoro.

Thirdly:

To pursue and actualize the noble aspirations of Salazar Slytherin as told by Tom Riddle, the one true heir:

To seek out and explore all magic, regardless of legal category, as is a wizard’s birthright.

To resist the growing dominance of Muggle influence over Wizarding culture in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

To restore lost practices and traditions by way of education and example.

If all of these are found to be just and true, pledge thyself, before Salazar Slytherin, before the venerated members of the Societa, to the one true heir, and wear thy pledge upon thy flesh forever more.

—

To the Kabbalist, the secrets of creation lie in the letter.

Elohim created the universe through sayings, and these sayings were consisted of words, which are in turn formed with letters. And thus, it was letters that created the universe—and indeed letters that perpetuate it. If they are withdrawn, then the universe ceases to exist. Thus, if one knows how to manipulate these letters, one may also manipulate the universe; to make and unmake it. To be God.

This is what one finds in the Sefer Yetzirah.

It is without doubt the oldest and most mysterious of all Kabbalistic texts. Written before the first century, quoted as early as the sixth, the book, while brief, contains the lost practices of an ancient magic, channelled through the manipulation, the mastering of the Hebrew alphabet. Much like Futhark runes, each letter has its assigned meaning, pathway and power, and mastering them in turn masters the lost rituals of Creation.

Kabbalah is divided into three categories: the theoretical, the meditative, the magical. The first two categories aid the third, and deal with the use of divine names and letter permutations to achieve the highest state of consciousness. Most of the main texts have never been published, but remain scattered in manuscripts—cast across the great libraries, private collections, and museums. The incantations, the recitations, have all been sequestered into secrecy and false insignificance.

Tom cannot blame the Kabbalists who would hoard the secrets of formation and godhood, particularly when Kabbalah has been met so with suspicion, scorn, and fear wherever it lives, but he resents their secrecy all the same.

Rabbi Yehoshua, the leading sage of the first century, said I can take squashes and pumpkins, and with the Sefer Yetzirah, make them into beautiful trees.

These early proofs of what is now called conjuration and transfiguration are significant, but are not the feats of gods. Any common wizard can turn a pumpkin into a forest of trees. Given enough time, a Muggle can too. No, the promise of creation the Sefer Yetzirah offers is one much greater than that.

“What is our burden?” Tom asks in the dark and silence.

“Is it to recognize the disease which plagues all around us? We, the few with sober eyes, forced to witness our own degradation? Every year we drift further from that which makes us so Chosen; so special. Every year we hide and cower in smaller and smaller portions of the earth when the earth is ours to inherit. When confronted, we face the arrogant and ignorant Muggleborn and half-beast with grace and infinite accommodation, and in return, languages lost. Practices, rites, powers, and our very understanding of them. Lost.”

Tom looks at them, the Knights who gather under his hand.

“Is that our yoke? Our destiny?”

They peer at him, eyes glittering in the orange light of the torches that light the Hidden Room—no, the Room of Requirement.

“No,” Tom says. “No, there are only two ways one may confront a festering disease when it shows its face so shamelessly before you. Cure it or cut it out.”

“Here, here!” Lestrange starts and the others echo.

“Then today, swear with me to chase out such pestilence,” Tom calls upon them, drawing his wand and conjuring an iron ring, one which bears the insignia of the Walpurgis Knights. He slips it on his finger and holds his hand aloft.

Lestrange is the first to step forward. He sheds his robes to a cotton vest, arms bare in the chill and dark. He grabs Tom’s hand delicately and places a kiss upon the iron ring.

“I, Raylandus Lestrange, pledge myself before Salazar Slytherin and before the venerated members of the Societa, to the one true heir,” he swears.

Lestrange drops to his knees and presents his inner wrists to Tom.

“Inuro ferrum,” Tom incants, and the black iron of the ring goes red hot. Without hesitation, he presses it to Lestrnage’s left wrist, his flesh hissing like a serpent under the heat of it, but Lestrange does not so much as flinch. When it is done, Tom presses his wand in the centre of the small, raw wound and it heals over in silvery white.

It is a small, perfect circle no larger than a knut. The sight of it—different from the Samhain masks, the robes, the rituals, the cards—a physical, skin-deep mark of his possession, sets a fire in his heart, a tightness, a hunger.

“With this mark, you are Knighted. You may rise.”

Lestrange does so, gaze rapt on his wrist, cupping his arm with his other hand and stroking his thumb over the brand.

Tom marks them one by one, Cordillia, Walburga, Thadeus, even Ignatius with his just heart, even Abraxas with all of his arrogance. They all bear his mark now.

“It will call you when you are needed, all you must do is follow its pull,” Tom instructs and taps the tip of his wand to his iron ring.

Rosier gasps, clutching her wrist and stumbling forward.

“I felt it!” she exclaims.

“This is how we will gather in the future. Our mission is a grand and dangerous one and many interlopers would hope to impede us if they were to discover it. We must protect the Order and its secrets, so that we may succeed in forging a new path for our people, one that respects our history and culture, one that revolutionises their understanding of magic. Now, we may truly begin.”

“How?” Lestrange asks.

Tom smiles.

There are seven planets in the velvety black blanket of the universe according to the Sefer Yetzirah, and they correspond to the seven body parts of the soul.

There is Saturn, the Left Nostril. Destruction, injury, blight.

“Raynaldus—”

“My Heir!” Lestrange surges forward. The other Knights laugh at him, but Tom has never discouraged his fervour.

“Raynaldus the Blue,” Tom continues with a cool smile. “The first to follow. There will be many tasks for you. For all of you. This will be your first. By next week, you will bring to me your father’s Ministry letterhead. Specifically the embosser for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“My father’s…?”

“Can you do this?” Tom asks.

Lestrange shakes himself.

“I can, my Heir,” he says confidently.

There is the Sun, the Right Nostril. Light, dark; welcome and exile.

“Walburga the Black,” Tom says. Black sun, with deep shadows and deeper light. “You will commission two identical sets of winter dress robes. They must be identical, and they must be ready by December.”

“Your size?” Walburga asks coyly, eyeing Tom as though she might discern his measurements—and she might. “It will be done.”

There is Jupiter, the Mouth. Prosperity, wealth, political flourish. Abraxas Malfoy, the Gold. How brightly he shines, how sweetly he settles on the tongue. But gold is a soft metal, malleable, crumbling. The tongue can be plucked out. Tom smiles.

“Abraxas, I hear tell of the great Malfoy collection. Vaults of forbidden and cursed objects. May they help you in your task, for you will acquire for me eight teleportation talismans.”

“Eight,” Abraxas gapes. He takes a moment to gather himself. “Where should they be programmed to go?”

“Nott’s foyer,” Tom says, turning to Nott. “You'll be Lord by then, and so you can authorise the programming. These talismans must be ready by the end of December. Do you understand your task, Abraxas, Knight of Gold?”

Abraxas looks rather unhappy—compared to a single embosser and a couple of dress robes, his assignment is by far the most arduous. Talismans are not like Portkeys or the Floo Network. They can cut through any Anti-Apparition barrier and are highly restricted.

“I do, my Heir.”

There is Venus, the Left Eye. Grace, love, lust. The uncomplicated appreciation of a life lived. Ignatius Prewett. His loyalty true, but Tom often wonders if Prewett would pledge better fealty to Nott rather than to he, himself. It is a thin thread that binds them.

“Ignatius the Green, you will secure eight broomsticks, kept where they can be retrieved at a moment’s notice. I will need these by the end of next week.”

“Are we starting a Quidditch team?” Prewett laughs. “If my Heir wishes it, it will be done.”

There is Mercury, the Left Ear. Wisdom and language.

“Thadeus the Grey,” Tom calls upon next. “Perhaps the Knight who will soon owe me the most. Will you advance your debt and do as I command on the promise I will deliver the infinite?”

Nott bows his head.

“I will, my Heir.”

“You are scheduled to leave the school on the week’s end, are you not?”

“Yes, to Diagon Alley. I’m to meet with Mother at the Solicitor’s office to handle my title now that Father is… disenfranchised.”

“Write to your solicitor, find out if your father had any business with Borgin and Burkes.”

“The antiques shoppe in Knockturn Alley?”

“Indeed. It’s no secret they trade in dark artefacts there. It’s likely your father was involved in the trade as an agent of Grindelwald. Once you’ve discovered the extent of their transactions, I need you to visit while you’re nearby. Use what you’ve learned to get a hold of Burke’s purchasing registers. Do whatever it takes,” Tom says, considers. “Prewett may accompany you.”

Nott glances sideways at Prewett with a smile.

“It will be done.”

There is Mars, the Right Ear. Blood, wickedness, war.

“Rosier the Red,” Tom invokes, red like the dead planet she is. “You will contact your mother. She is still in Romania, yes?”

In the corner of his eyes, Tom sees Harry’s head who[ up, feels his eyes boring into him. He has been quiet, uninterested through all of the proceedings so far, only vaguely dreading learning what Tom plans for them.

“Romania?” he asks, urgent.

“Moldova,” Rosier answers, ignoring Harry. “Though she's likely to be back in Romania soon. Moldova is a mess.”

“Write to her. Have her contact the dragon sanctuary there. Tell her it’s for an assignment and haste is of the essence. I require the names of the operation’s chief directors as well as information on the facilities themselves. You will give this to me by the end of the week.”

“Tom!” Harry whispers with barely contained hope and urgency.

“Quiet,” Tom snaps. “Do you understand your task, Knight Rosier?”

Rosier gives a bow, “I do, my Heir.”

“Tom,” Harry repeats. “Are you really—”

“I am,” Tom grits. “So you will not disagree with what is next.”

“But Tom…” Rosier hesitates. “What is all this stuff for?”

Tom steps back, surveying his Order with deep pleasure. Their tasks have been delivered.

He paces, slow, thinking.

“Grindelwald has damaged us,” he starts. “He has worsened perception of dark magic, he has colluded with Muggles. He has disseminated falsehoods. Promised what he cannot deliver. His crimes go so far as to personally injuring one of our own.”

Tom gestures to Thadeus.

“He poisoned your father, ignited his greed. One might even say the pressures of his treasonous actions deteriorated his mind, pushed him to a state of rage, and resulted in his killing of his own daughter.”

Nott’s mouth trembles.

“But Tycho Nott is responsible for his own doings. He risks the security and protection of the gentry. He aligns himself with Grindelwald, and the Ministry has failed to punish him accordingly. For that, he must be called to account.”

Tom takes a breath.

“It is for these reasons that on December 23rd, we will break into the Ministry, we will find Tycho Nott in detainment, and we will execute him.”

His Knights are pale, silent. Do they feel suddenly out of their depth? Tom had told them he aimed higher, that he would be the one to lead them. If they did not believe it before, they do now.

“You can’t!” Harry shouts.

Tom turns to him.

The Moon. The Right Eye, the one Tom bit. The surrogate of Good and Evil, the holder of the keys to Heaven and Earth. Harry the forgotten, Harry the Light in the Dark.

“He should have gotten the Kiss!” Nott screams at Harry. It is the loudest, angriest Tom has ever seen him. “He would have gotten the Kiss if I hadn’t—”

He shudders.

“He killed my sister. And he got five years in Azkaban. That’s not even half her life! Do you understand? He deserves it. He deserves worse. Who asked you to even be here? Who are you to get in my way?! You’re no one!”

There is a quiet after this eruption, but for Thadeus’s gasping breaths.

Ignatius puts a solemn hand on Thadeus’s shoulder. He looks conflicted, but he does not waver at his friend’s side.

“It is not with a light heart that I take on this duty,” Tom says softly, smothering the sparks of wrath. “It is not an easy feat, and it was not easy for Thadeus to ask me for it, was it?”

Tom stares Harry in the eye.

“Just as the favour you ask of me is not easy, and yet I will grant it all the same.”

He turns to the rest of them, hand on Harry’s back, pushing him to them.

Not an outsider like Thadeus wants to believe, not anymore. Harry is one of us now. Tom has made it so.

“You see, it will be very difficult to arrange our Ministry visit, so it is important for everyone to be at ease, for all grievances to be settled. Just as we did to prepare for the Samhain Festival. There has been a matter that has weighed on Harry’s heart, and as the Heir, I am obliged to assuage it. Don’t you agree?”

Rosier snickers.

“Before we can help Thadeus, let us help not just Harry, but all of Hogwarts, and most importantly Salazar Slytherin. I have been to the Chamber of Secrets. I have seen Slytherin’s Monster—”

His Knights burst with questions, with sounds of awe and shock.

“No! The rumoured monster? It’s true?!”

“The myth is real?”

“Is it a dragon?” Walburga asks, hand over her mouth. “The sanctuary in Romania…”

“It’s in the school?”

Lestrange actually scoots forward on his knees and takes hold of Tom’s hands, staring up at him, eyes wide.

“Tom, if this is true and you have mastered the monster, you are an even greater wizard than I could ever hope for. I am begging you, please let me meet Slytherin’s monster!”

“I want to see it too!” Prewett immediately seconds, Rosier his echo.

“First, we must get her free and out of Hogwarts,” Tom placates him, extricating his hands. “She has slept in the Chamber long enough. She deserves a kingdom of her own.”

Tom Riddle, Champion of Beast Wellfare. He’s constantly surprising himself with his own multitudes.

“It’s likely to kill you before you even have a chance to admire it,” Harry mutters.

Lestrange rounds on him like a hound on a bloodtrail.

“You’ve seen it?” he snarls. “You haven’t even sworn an oath!”

He cannot stop running his fingers over the raised, white skin on his newly-marked wrist, obsessively following the grooves of the insignia. His new scar.

Harry bears many scars.

Tom has seen them.

The one on his hand. In his mind, he hears a drip, a cold echo akin to a leaking faucet. It fills the room and grows louder. It is the dripping of blood and the twill scratch of a nib on parchment. It is red ink and a single desk in an empty classroom.

I must not tell lies.

The one on his arm, a puckered gauge. A Beast’s fang, and the balm of salted tears dripping into its valley.

There are more of course, small tales of the life Harry has lived somewhere else, far away from him. But there is one scar that stands above the rest of course. The cursed scar on his forehead, the Sowilo.

The soul.

Who gave you that scar, Tom asked.

You did, Harry answered.

“Harry already bears my mark,” Tom tells them. “And his task is with me.”

—

In the corridors, Tom makes his way to the second floor lavatories, Harry trotting behind. It is between classes, so Tom as usual is stopped occasionally, to be asked about the duelling club or an assignment or simply on one of his many accomplishments. Advice on studying for OWLs or on ingratiating themselves to professors. Advice on revenge for perceived slights or rivalries.

None of them care to notice the boy standing beside him, and Tom watches with ever brightening amusement the annoyed tic in Harry’s cheek pulse more prominently each time they’re stopped.

Eventually, they do make it to the girl’s lavatory.

“Why does everyone do that?” Harry snaps.

“Admire me?” Tom asks with a smirk, anticipating the outrage. Harry does not disappoint.

“What’s there to admire? You’re an arrogant, twisted—”

“Genius?” Tom finishes simply and unashamed. Then, “A pretty face to match doesn’t hurt either.”

Harry sputters, his ears and neck going red.

Tom resents his father for many slights: his name, his lack of recognition of Tom’s power and excellence, his contempt and disgust for magic. Tom has to concede, however, that his father’s face of fine features has done him some favours. Coming face to face with the man for that first and final time had been a galling confrontation in that regard. Galling for other reasons too.

“When you said task, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Harry mutters, all but digging his heels in as Tom opens the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. “Everyone else got letter-writing and shopping. Why am I the only one stuck to you?”

Tom pauses, one foot hovering over the first step down to the Chamber and turns to look at Harry. He examines him. Avoidant eyes, dark colour around his ears. Arms crossed tightly.

Tom steps toward Harry, meaning to ask, but the boy gasps and stumbles back.

What has him in such a heightened state of irritati—? Ah.

A visceral memory.

Tom’s fist in his wet hair, tight, pulling, his mouth on his, hot breath and hotter skin pressing, pressing—

Tom laughs. Sly.

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?” And my pretty face?

Harry scowls, furious and unyielding—for now—and Tom is starving for it. They come to this moment of stalemate over and over. Harry unafraid to meet violence, and Tom unafraid to commit it.

“Stay away from me. And don’t ever do—” he’s blushing in earnest now, “that to me again.”

Tom raises his hands, palm open in surrender.

“I won’t,” he lies.

Who’s to say what impulses may arise when they are together?

They descend, tracing their steps back through the dark tunnels to the ethereal Chamber of Secrets.

Tom is always at a loss for words when the vault door swings open, but today he is short for time.

“Come,” he says and marches to the pipes that line the Chamber hall.

Harry scoffs behind him.

“I’m not a dog. Don’t call me like that.”

But his footsteps trail after Tom all the same.

Tom pulls out a large piece of parchment and never-ending ink fountain pen.

“In order for us to get the Basilisk out of the school without anyone noticing, we must plot a way through the pipes to get her out. We can’t very well walk her out of the Great Hall.” He holds the parchment and pen to Harry. “I suggest you take very thorough notes as you explore. I’ve heard Hogwarts plumbing is a nightmare.”

“Wait. This is my ‘task?’ I get sewers? These pipes are…!”

Harry gestures to one such pipe, a branch off the current one they stand in, a small hole that would require one to crawl on hands and knees in the grime. Tom is happy he is not the one who will have to explore it. These parts of the system are connected only to the in-flow of water rather than the out-flow, but who knows what substances students have flushed down the sinks and in the lake over the centuries?

These small pipes are the problem. They may be wide enough for Harry to squeeze into, but they are entirely too narrow for the Basilisk to go through, and she cannot be shrunk. If they can’t map a path through tunnels big enough, they’ll have to consider other ways. Tom could simply blast their way out, but he’d rather not cause such a commotion, and he’s sure Harry would agree.

“You are the smallest,” Tom says plainly, unapologetic. “And this is your expedition. You will be leading the Basilisk through the pipes while I arrange her extraction off-campus. Be grateful I’m going along with your plot in the first place.”

“First of all, I’m not the smallest!” Harry complains loudly, his voice echoing down the narrow pipes. “And second, this will take hours. Days!”

“Isn’t it fortunate you literally have nothing else to do? No class, no homework; I’ll even spare you the Slughorn dinners. I’m sure you can figure it out by the end of this week. I believe in you.”

Harry stares at Tom, incredulous and belligerent when he should be on his knees thanking Tom for even considering this absurd undertaking.

Harry seems to sense the direction of his thoughts and takes a calming breath.

“You’re right. This is going to work. This is a good thing. You’re doing a good thing.”

Tom huffs. A good boy, is he? Who’s the dog now?

“The Basilisk is no good to me at the moment. She’ll need her strength and freedom when I’m ready to start my revolution in earnest,” he says, just to rile him.

Harry makes a noise of disgust

“Can’t you just get a hobby…”

He shoves the parchment and pen back at Tom.

“We should start from the outside of the castle first. To see where the pipes exit. I think there’s a big one that drains over the lake.”

Tom thinks he recalls this drain, and the iron grate that covers it. He’d once tied a student to it in his Fourth Year for calling him a Mudblood.

“It’s quite high…” he remarks. “Possibly accessible from the third or fourth floors. I leave you to it.”

Tom turns to go back to main hall.

“Wait! You’re leaving?” Harry demands.

“Of course. Unlike you, I have class.” Tom smiles. “Missing me already?”

Harry’s face sours. He has many faces.

“Just piss off.”

—

There are twenty-two letters in the Hebrew AlefBet. One must intimately know them, not just in memory and mind, but physically too, to align oneself, as the texts instruct, with the six days of creation by aligning the six branches of the body: two arms, two legs, torso, and sexual organ. And to also align with the twenty-two letters: ten toes, ten fingers, the tongue, the sexual organ. The wizard's body itself thus becomes an alphabet, with which one can “write” in the spiritual realm. Then walk the Thirty-Two Paths to wisdom, an meditative exercise derived from the thirty-two times Elohim’s name appears in Genesis. Elohim said. Elohim saw.

Elohim made.

Once man has walked the Thirty-Two Paths, then he may begin to transmute letters by beginning the journey through the 231 Gates. Twenty-two letters, 231 pairs. His walk is far from over. The confluence of these pairs creates an arduous array of points, very similar in appearance to runic arrays. But while the mage stands stationary within a runic circle, that is not so for the 231 Gates. The mage walks along each point, sometimes taking days, sometimes weeks to complete.

The Wise mind, the one that has persevered and accomplished this journey, is pure and undifferentiated. The laws of nature cease to exist, and can therefore be altered. Above all, gone is division; everything is simple unity, and it is only in the weak mind that individuals, good, evil, knowable and unknowable exist. The Wise mind does not experience the separation of past, present or future, and all is laid out before him under his power. Finite duality because infinite singularity.

Many have attempted this. Abraham and his son Ben Sirah of the Sefer Yetzirah walked the path to wisdom and attempted to harness this power of creation.

The Golem.

But neither father nor son could master it in earnest. They made the Golem but could not preserve it. Their disciples would try later, but the Golem would not speak. The men who made him were imperfect, and so, too was the Golem. He was incomplete, less than human.

Perhaps it is due to the nature of hand-written history from oral tradition and what it does to a book—annotations are added, imperfect copies are made, variations arise, the order of stanzas changes, error abounds.

It is no easy task—32 Paths, 231 Gates, 10 Sefirot, 22 letters.

A lesser mage shivers and flinches from its complexity.

They suffer the unwise mind.

First, draw the Gates:

Second, kneel between the end and beginning of the Alefbet, between Alef(ﬡ) and Tav(ת), head tucked between the knees and portions of the body aligned.

Third, walk the Thirty-Two Paths.

Forth, walk the path through the 231 Gates, beginning with Alef to the other letters: AlefBet, AlefGimel, AlefDalet, all the way to AlephTav, then begin again with Bet, BetAlef, BetGimel, Bet Dalet, to BetTav, and again with Gimel and on and on, all the way through the other eighteen letters. In between one gate and the next, one should also permute each letter with the Tetragrammaton (Yod, He, Wah, He), as well as all five vowels.

Permute them, weigh them, and transform them,

Alef with them all and all of them with Alef,

Bet with them all and all of them with Bet.

Repeat in a cycle,

and exist in 231 Gates.

This creates permutations of the AlefBet that count over ninety-thousand combinations. Between each of these combinations, there is specific breathing as well as head motions, making the ritual easily over thirty-five hours.

Only then, may he be the blade that cuts ego and ignorance, all the way to the throne of God.

For a moment in a dark, humid night of summer, Tom was that blade, the blade of God, knowing neither past, present, nor future, good nor evil, only the pure singularity that was his vibration humming in unison with the universe.

When he made not Golem but Horcrux.

Albus Dumbledore wishes for them to effectuate the act of creation? Tom will oblige; he has done it before.

He concentrates on his egg, a simple chicken’s egg, its shell a soft, speckled brown. When held up to the light, he can see the presence of the membrane within, its gentle weight in his palm. The creation of a Golem requires certain materials, some of which are found in eggs naturally. Virgin soil, virgin egg. Calcium carbonate, iron, hydrogen sulphide. No insects or organic detritus in an egg of course, but there’s plenty of protein and fatty acids to make up for it.

Tom taps his wand on the parchment on his desk, an array of the 231 Gates, and carefully lifts his wand, lifting away a delicate and perfect transcription of the array with it. It flutters in the air, fragile as a memory. He guides the floating ink with a steady hand to the wider base of the egg and settles it letter by letter in the shell.

The egg shell immediately splits and runny whites flood over his hands and onto his desk and the papers below.

“Tough luck,” Rosier commiserates, her own broken shells scattered around her on the floor. Nott, too, has a collection of shells.

Tom sighs and banishes it, summons a fresh egg from the basket on Dumbledore’s desk. It is the fourth egg he has tried.

The array is too potent for so fragile a vessel. When drawn out, it would normally be hand–painted in a large chamber, stretching at least twenty metres in diameter. To force such magnitude into a mere three centimetres…

Can a shorthand be invented? Tom wonders.

If he can condense the letter permutations from the base 231 into a few syllables, representing the 231 Gates symbolically, rather than walking them completely—the ten Sefirot? Ten syllables; easy enough to manage. Or perhaps seven, as the seven planets noted in the Sefer Yetzirah. Tom idly flips through the pages to read and consider.

Are there any other heretic texts on simplifying the Gates?

Tom rather doubts it. The arduousness of this particular Kabbalah is by design.

“I don’t recognize those runes,” Rosier comments on Tom’s eggy notes.

“It’s Hebrew,” Tom says absently.

How does one condense simple maths?

The 231 Gates are not an arbitrary number, it is merely the total possible pairs of a 22-letter alphabet. Mathematically it’s expressed like so, where n = number of letters:

Therefore:

It is a physical truth! Tom rubs his temples, thinking.

“Mr. Lestrange, is that the beginnings of a manticore I see?” Dumbledore calls with delight.

He is walking around the worktables, observing and providing counsel to his students as they struggle with their eggs.

Lestrange preens, prodding at his imobile, miniature manticore to stand. It twitches and folds on itself as though it hasn’t any bones.

“A work in progress, Professor,” he admits with a lopsided smile.

“Aren’t we all!” he chuckles. “And Miss Rosier, I see you are as usual a practical learner, forging ahead into the chaos. Bringing a fair bit of chaos yourself.”

He lifts his dragon-hide boot where it has landed in Rosier’s egg puddle, a string of slime coming up with it.

Rosier grins. “I’m experimenting.”

“And Tom, you are…”

Professor Dumbledore trails off, his eyes studying the papers on Tom’s desk and the unchanged egg in his hand.

“I admit, I did expect you of all people to be further along, but now I see why you have made little progress. You are certainly always seeking a challenge. Have you decided what you will be turning your egg into?”

Tom raises his chin, meets his gaze head on bristling.

“I have.”

Dumbledore dips his head, nodding it—sadly? Disappointedly?

“I see,” he sighs, and moves on to the next table.

“Casse-couille,” Lestrange curses under his breath. “What’s his problem?”

Tom ruins four more eggs, but he does eventually graft 231 Gates into the eggshell without a single crack—it merely required enlarging the egg ten times its size. Naturally, it shatters when Tom attempts to shrink it back down.

At the end of the class period, they tidy their things, banishing egg slime, and corral themselves toward the door.

“A moment, Tom, if you will,” Professor Dumbledore calls.

“What now?” Nott whispers, and they eye one another.

“Go,” Tom tells them. “I won’t be long.”

“Please,” Dumbledore beckons, opening the door to his private study at the front of the classroom. Tom follows him inside, wary but not showing it. “I wish to discuss your project. Have a seat.”

“Is something the matter?” Tom asks innocently, sitting on one of the chairs opposite to Dumbledore.

“I noticed that you are using sources outside of the scope of the lectures for your project.”

“It’s not forbidden,” Tom says instantly. “Only esoteric.”

Dumbledore smiles a little, and oddly Toms sees a bit of Harry’s Dumbledore.

“No, it is not forbidden. I would never stop a student from learning more than what I alone can teach. However, this magic in particular…”

“Don’t tell me you’re against this kind of transmutation because of its Jewish origins,” Tom says, blinking earnestly. “I didn’t think you were the sort.”

“Not at all. The Kabbalists are in no small part responsible for the invention of entire branches of magic, Transfiguration among them. But if I understand your intentions correctly, you mean to create a Golem. Is that right?”

Tom regards him silently, and crosses his arms.

Dumbledore sighs.

“I understand and appreciate that you are—a singular kind of wizard, Tom. You have a skill and instinct far beyond your peers. You have an aptitude for magic theory I have scarcely seen in a student so young. It is apparent that lessons alone here cannot satisfy your appetite, as your… creative experimentation in all your classes frequently comes up among us professors...”

Tom feels himself smile, incapable of stopping it. He knew it, he knew it. Much as Dumbledore may pretend otherwise, Tom is special, powerful. Better. Even he cannot deny it.

“You are extremely talented,” Dumbledore continues. “And there is nothing wrong with stretching yourself to become even more capable than you already are. I encourage it. However, I must urge you to choose a different subject for this project. Only danger lies ahead of this particular experiment, which I’ve no doubt you well know.”

Tom leans back in his chair.

“Enterprise does not come without risk.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agrees gravely. “Calculated risk comes with great reward. But reckless risk? Belligerent risk? Arrogance? Hubris? Only with great cost, Tom. Even the most knowledgeable and experienced of Rabbis warn: Golem-making is a closed practice and a taboo for a reason. It is dangerous enough for those who practise Kabbalah, let alone for passing tourists. Are you so intellectually bored that you would wish a cursed life upon yourself?”

Tom recants. Dumbledore does not understand. He sees only that which is visible and not the full truth of it. Tom is not cursed. He’s not blighted, torn, or decayed—can’t decay. What curse could possibly touch him!

“You don’t know I will fail,” Tom counters.

“Even the very book in your hands tells nothing but the sagas of those who have failed,” Dumbledore presses.

Why must people resist! Tom wonders. Dumbledore, Harry—they are cut from the same cloth it seems. It is infuriating. Of course there are dangers! Of course it’s risky!

“It is not that I know you will fail,” the man says when Tom maintains his stoney silence. “It is the cost if you do. If I myself were a master in the Kabbalah, or if there was one at the castle who could help you, guide you, I might advise you differently. But as it is, there are very few masters left in Europe these days, and that was no accident. Those who remain, the ones I know personally, have fled to the Americas and would not risk returning for one very foolish English boy.”

Tom feels his teeth grind.

“I am not saying stop forever, Tom. I am saying stop for now. I would even put you in touch with these masters if you wanted to pursue their mentorship after you graduate. But for now, given these limitations, I must insist you go a different direction this time. If you present a Golem or anything resembling a Golem to me for your project, I will refuse to mark it and you will fail. Headmaster Dippet will be notified of this conversation.”

Tom breathes.

A better teacher, a better wizard would encourage him. They would not stand in his way.

This complacency to fear is why the wizarding world is in such decline. In the halls where students should be reaching their highest potential, breaking ground in new and old magic alike, discovering all their power has to offer, they instead are left to stagnate. So it could curse them? Kill them? Then they should be cursed! They should die for magic and be honoured by it! One day, Tom will—But. There is too much at stake for Tom to lose it all over one Transfiguration assignment. The Basilisk, the chamber, Slytherin’s tomb, the Ministry…

“I understand,” he grits out.

“If you need assistance or extra time to consider what you will submit, I will be happy to grant it.”

“You’re kind to offer, but that won’t be necessary,” Tom says.

Fine. This project was only meant to be a trial anyway. No Golem? Tom will hatch a fucking dementor. See what Dumbledore has to say about that.

Tom is accustomed to traversing these ancient practices on his own, always has. But he’s no fool; he’s aware of the danger that lies ahead. The Sefer Yetzirah is explicit on this matter: do not attempt to travel further alone. Whether this is to prevent man from falling into hubris and false illusions of godhood, or because the physical dangers are better fought with another, the book does not say. Only that while the oral traditions were an exacting practice before mystic texts were formally written, divergence from the original is to be expected, and divergence is dangerous.

Is the sequence of vowel permutations in the chant crucial to the success of the ritual? Are there other essential steps that have been lost or redacted? Error is perilous. A simple interruption, mispronunciation or misreading of the arrays can literally spell one’s undoing.

A dangerous level of experimentation is therefore required when exploring these secrets that reveal themselves only to the worthy. For only the worthy can achieve creation, says the Sefer Yetzirah.

It is the privilege of the worthy to manifest delineation and definition. Before creation, numbers and letters could not be defined until there existed some element of plurality. The Creator Himself was absolutely simple, containing no plurality whatsoever. He was the most absolute unity imaginable. Only when plurality was created could numbers then be defined, and to manipulate these numbers requires the permission of God himself.

Well, Tom asks no god for permission.

As someone who has stepped into the ether, met with the universe seul à seul, created as gods create, Tom permits himself.

—

Rosier slaps an unfolded letter over Tom’s book in triumph.

“Harvey. Ridgebit.”

Tom raises his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Our guy!” Rosier says excitedly, jabbing the letter with her finger. “There are dragon handlers! In the Vânători-Neamț Național Forest, in northeastern Romania. Harvey Ridgebit is the guy who opened the sanctuary. He’s chief warlock over the whole operation. He doesn’t do much dragon handling himself anymore; there are two other handlers who oversee the apprentices. Apparently, they’ve been trying to fundraise for the last few years, to expand more into the Carpathian mountains. Haven’t had much traction, though. No one really cares about beast welfare when there’s a war on.”

Tom leans back to consider all of this.

They’ve settled in the viaduct courtyard, enjoying a rare sunny day while the weather is still mild before it turns to harsh winter. The snow that had visited them in Hogsmeade has all but melted away. Prewett idly spins a quaffle on his fingers, Abraxas toils diligently at an intricate magical embroidery on the cuff of his robe sleeves, and Walburga and Nott busy themselves with a violent game of Wizard’s chess.

Neamț County…

“How far is that from the border? From your mother’s location?”

Rosier thinks.

“I don’t know, she's gone to Iași. A couple hundred kilometres?”

“Is that traversable by broom?”

“Broom?” Prewett asks. “Don’t tell me you want to fly that distance! It would take three hours at least.”

Tom hums. That’s certainly doable.

Tom accepts the letter. Madame Rosier’s penmanship is tight and concise. Like her daughter, she has little use for flowery language. Tom reads.

The Romanian Dragon Sanctuary is the largest preservation area set aside for the protection and study of dragons in all of Europe. Established in 1911 by leading dragonologist Harvey Ridgebit, the first wizard to successfully capture a Peruvian Vipertooth apparently, it has since been responsible for over fifty dragon rescues and rehabilitations.

The Sanctuary is safely situated within the Vânători-Neamț Național Forest, in the Eastern Carpathian Foothills, at the foot of the Stânișoara Mountains and crossed by the rivers Cracău and Ozana. The forest itself is over thirty-one thousand hectares, filled to the brim with thousands of different species, hundred year-old oaks and birch trees, bison, bears, and wolves.

The human population that lives within this expanse is a mixture of deeply religious Wizarding and Muggle communities, whose spiritual philosophies are tied closely with care of the natural world. It is a unique set of values determined largely by Orthodox Christian monastic tradition, populated with over a thousand monks and nuns, making it a monastic concentration second only to the one found in Greece.

The tradition emphasises the harmonious relationships between communities and forest habitats, and is characterised by a respect for sustainable living and conservation. In the Orthodox belief, creation and nature are sacred, and living in harmony with it is living as the humans used to live in Paradise. The separation of man and nature is the result of falling out of that Paradise.

Ridgebit follows in this tradition, as do his disciples. They maintain the ecology around them and rely on the natural land to care for their dragons. They work in concomitance with the Romsilva National Forest Administration and the regional monastic authorities to coordinate the best methods of rehabilitating Dragon populations without negatively impacting the forest itself.

Tom turns through the last few pages on the ecology of the land. Mountain rock made of clay, argillites, and sandstones covered in fine, loose silt. There is heavy precipitation in the summer, snowfall for five months out of the year, and moderate wind speed. Most often overcast with hot days and cold nights, Tom wonders if this will be fit for a Basilisk. There certainly seems to be enough ambient moisture in the air there in the mountains.

“You’ve done very well, Rosier,” Tom praises, and she glows. “Reply to your mother. Ask her about ways to return to Britain she may have access to as an ambassador abroad.”

“Oh, I know this already,” Rosier chirps happily. “Mother always has a Portkey when she’s out of the country.”

“See if she can program one ”

“I suppose if we go see dragons, we’ll need a way back,” Waburga remarks.

“What’s this about dragons?” Alphard asks, plopping onto the grass beside them with a grin. Diggory follows close after him. She snatches Prewett’s Quaffle and tosses it around.

“I wish I could play on the team,” Harry laments, watching them.

“Too bad we’re all full-up, you’ve got great speed. Unless someone quits or dies, you’ll have to wait for next year,” Alphard laughs.

Harry looks as though the very idea of next year is impossible.

“You’ll be getting plenty of broom riding soon enough,” Tom says without looking up, and he can sense that nubilous feeling that Harry is not comforted by this.

“Something going on us peasants don’t know about?” Diggory asks.

She’s clearly feeling exclusion very keenly.

“I’m sure there is plenty you don’t know about,” Lestrange laughs.

“What does that mean, though?” Diggory asks, and Rosier opens her mouth, likely to gloat, but finds her tongue tied. Tom hides a smile. It seems the oath holds tight, for Rosier cannot even hint at the Order’s existence, even to boast. Only Tom has that privilege.

“It means I have an interest in dragons,” Tom tells her plainly, innocently. “Is that in some way suspicious?”

“Whatever,” Diggory mutters. “You lot clearly have something going on, you never want to hang out with the rest of us anymore. Not since Samhain!”

“Careful, Roman,” Nott cautions quietly, eyes darting to Tom.

“You think because you’ve formed a coven, you can all lord it over everyone?” Diggory continues.

“If you’re going to be unpleasant company, we’d prefer you do it away from us,” Walburga scolds her, ruthlessly taking Nott’s pawn, the piece cracking in half from the force of the knight’s blade.

“Oi!” Nott complains, concern for Diggory momentarily forgotten.

“No prisoners in war is my philosophy,” Walburga says.

“You don’t seem to mind benefiting from this coven when it suits you,” Tom says silkily. “We have tutored you since your first year. We have fostered your talent, encouraged your audacity, shared our wealth. Was that a mistake?”

Diggory swallows, jaw clenching.

“Should we sever our ties with you now?” Tom presses. “Since we are so intolerable to you.”

“What?” she blusters, standing humiliated and chalk white. She looks to Walburga beseechingly, but their honeymoon has clearly come to an end for she receives no support. Disillusioned of the allure of affection, Walburga’s true nature revealed. She is cruel and a gillflirt besides. “No—I. Forget it!”

She grabs Alphard by the robes. “Come on!”

“I’m not unpleasant company,” Alphard complains as he’s pulled away, and Diggory marches back up to the castle. “I just want to talk about Quidditch!”

Alone with his Knights, Tom folds the papers away and sits up.

“We will need to lure Harvey Ridgebit and his two handlers to Hogsmeade,” he announces. “It will have to be an off weekend, when there aren’t any students wandering around to see us. They want attention and funding, so it should be simple enough to forge a grant offer in the name of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

And if that doesn’t work, they can always resort to a private donor, though that would invite many more questions Tom would like to avoid.

“Simple to forge a grant offer with a Ministry seal?” Abraxas guffaws.

“What do you think Lestrange’s letterhead is for?” Tom asks. “You’ll have that soon, won’t you, Raynaldus?”

“Of course,” Lestrange sniffs superiorly, his best impersonation of Abraxas.

“That’s mad! Impersonating a Ministry official?” Prewett exclaims, then grins. “When are we doing it?”

“Soon,” Tom promises.

And then? The Ministry.

“How are we going to sneak out to Hogsmeade?” Rosier asks. “It’s not like we can waltz down High Street.”

Harry clears his throat a little, and they all turn to look at him.

“Er, actually I know a way.”