The young salesman diary, part II
— CHAPTER TWELVE —
The young salesman diary, part II
"…and I had to pull some strings to get this vial of bile from dragon stomachs," Mr. Borgin said, his tone self-congratulatory. "Not to mention the firedrake tails. I had to send a special request to our contact in Romania."
Harry had become familiar enough with Borgin to know that this kind of boasting served one purpose: to extract as many galleons as possible from the customer's pouch. Harry felt a sting of pity; the wizard who stood on the other side of the counter didn't look very wealthy. In fact, he didn't look like someone who dabbled in black magic either – an ordinary man in his forties, with a plainly tailored robe and a face that inspired a sense of trust. Nor did he exude an ominous, oppressive aura like some of the other customers who frequented the shop. If Harry had passed him on the street, he would not have even noticed him.
However, the ingredients he had ordered for the potion did not suggest good intentions. Even Harry, with his limited knowledge in this field, could see that.
The wizard nodded, "I appreciate your dedication, Mr. Borgin."
Meanwhile, Harry was completing the order. He carefully placed the last item, an ounce of glowing wolfberries, into the bag. He folded the top and handed it to the customer with a polite smile. "Here you go, sir."
Although Harry suspected that the few ingredients would cost quite a lot, the amount Borgin demanded after summarising the order still left him bewildered. To his even greater surprise the wizard took a clanking pouch from his pocket without any unnecessary comment or attempt at negotiation.
This wasn't very common behaviour from what Harry had managed to observe.
"It is a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Borgin," the customer said, handing it to the other wizard.
Borgin, of course, counted the Galleons.
"I recommend myself for the future, Mr. Birkbeck" he replied, obviously satisfied, and put the money in a drawer under the counter.
As the door closed behind the customer and the accompanying sound of a bell rang through the air, Borgin's eyes widened in sudden realisation.
"Bloody hippogriff! The bag with Phyllium's left mid-legs!" he exclaimed, scolding Harry with his glare. "How could you forget that, stupid lad?"
Then the man reached out to grab a paper bag from the shelf and shoved it unceremoniously into Harry's hands. "Run after him, now!"
Harry hesitated. And it wasn't because it was raining cats and dogs outside. Riddle had been very clear about what would happen if Harry left the shop in unauthorized manner. Harry had no intention of being hit by Crucio because of Borgin's forgetfulness. At the same time, he was tempted to find out if Riddle had indeed surrounded the front door with glyphs that would immediately alert him if Harry walked out without his knowledge or permission.
And there was no chance of getting his permission, as Riddle was helping Mr. Burke to finalise a deal with a wizard who wanted to get rid of the more dubious part of his inheritance from a distant, foreign relative.
A second, equally innocent opportunity might not have presented itself.
"Didn't you hear me? Run after him!" Borgin sent a stinging hex in Harry's direction to emphasise his words, which Harry dodged at the last moment, only thanks to his Seeker's reflex honed by years of training. Giving his employer an indignant look, he tucked the packet of forgotten ingredients behind the fold of his robe and rushed outside.
The rain momentarily drenched Harry as he ran across the slippery cobbles of Knocturn Alley. He was lucky: out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a dark cloak flashing through one of the gates used for Apparition. He thanked mentally the wizards for their strange habits, which he had been unaware of until now. Riddle had recently pointed out to Harry that it was considered impolite to Apparate and Disapparate in a shop or in the middle of the street and although more and more wizards were practising the latter, well-mannered wizards and witches generally used gates and alleyways for this purpose. One day, on their morning walk to the shop, Riddle even showed to Harry all the designated gates they passed every day. Including the one Mr. Birkbeck was heading for.
"Sir! Sir, please wait!" Harry shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of the rain.
The customer stopped and turned, a wary expression on his face. Of course, he wasn't the least bit wet, the umbrella he held in his hand certainly playing a large part in that. "Yes?"
Harry jogged up to him, wet and slightly out of breath. At least the gate shielded him now from the rain. "We forgot about this," he said, holding out the bag of forgotten ingredients.
Mr. Birkbeck's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, thank you, young man. Quite important, these are." He took the bag from Harry, a small smile of gratitude on his lips. "You've been very helpful."
"No trouble at all, sir."
The main thing was to keep up appearances, even if it was an outright lie. There was, after all, a future in which Riddle did not find out that he had left the shop.
(That he never worked alongside Riddle in that future was a minor detail.)
The wizard nodded to Harry then with loud crack Apparated himself. Harry was left alone. Outside.
Before any conscious thought of escape had time to settle in his mind, there was another crack.
"I hope you have a good, really good explanation," an icy voice came from behind him, freezing the blood in his veins.
Harry, his stomach clenching, turned slowly with his hands in the air.
"Believe me or not, but I have," he said, swallowing as he came face to face with Riddle, who was clearly radiating with anger.
The future Dark Lord took a step forward; Harry reflexively stepped back. Another step from Riddle and Harry's back made contact with the rough surface of the wall.
The yew wand found its way under Harry's chin, forcing him to lift his head. The tip stabbed painfully into the soft skin.
"Explain yourself" Riddle demanded, his voice low, dangerous.
"I... I was… It was Mr. Borgin's orders," Harry stammered. He mentally chastised himself for stuttering. He shouldn't show any signs of fear. He had done nothing wrong. Taking the deep breath, he proceeded: "He forgot one of the items in the order, of course he blamed me and made me run after the customer to give it to him. I had no choice."
Riddle's eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. Harry could see the icy calculation in his grey iris, searching for any hint of deception. "And you think I'm going to believe that? That you weren't planning to use this as an opportunity for another escape?" His voice was deathly calm, which did not bode well. Barely audible over the murmur of the rain. "Tell me, Potter, have I not shown you clearly enough lately what will happen if you try again? Shall I repeat it?"
Harry's voice caught in his throat, so he denied it with a shake of his head. He could still feel the sharp pressure of the wand under his chin, the tip cold and relentless. He tried to steady his breath, his mind racing to find words that would placate the dark wizard before him.
"Potter, my patience is waning."
"He tried to curse me! I had no choice!"
"You always have a choice."
Harry's anger boiled over his fear. It's just the pain. He would endure it. After all, he wasn't going to grovel to Riddle about something he had no control over.
"Punish me if you want, feel free. But you're the one who told me to get a job in this shop!" he spatted, then continue: "Pray tell me, what was I supposed to do? Tell Borgin that no, I wouldn't run after a customer because his other paranoid employee, who claims to be my brother, told me not to leave without his permission? I'm not an idiot, I know what you'll do to me if you catch me running away again. And believe me, I have no intention of repeating it."
Not yet.
Riddle's aura became more oppressive, darker. The future Dark Lord looked at Harry intently for a moment, still pinning him to the wall with his wand. Harry's breathing had become erratic, ragged, as the boy tried to gauge Riddle’s mood and mentally prepare himself for another encounter with the Cruciatus Curse. He squirmed slightly, feeling a gentle pulsation in his scar.
"Watch your tone," came the cold warning.
And then suddenly, to Harry's astonishment, Riddle lowered his wand and took a step back.
The teen let out his breath loudly. He hated himself for how much his legs were shaking.
"You're lucky that today’s I have other things on my mind than dealing with you and Borgin's deeds. Go back to the shop. And remember for the future: my orders are your priority. Always."
Harry didn't make Riddle say it twice.
With a short "I will", he pulled his back away from the wall and, feeling Riddle's piercing gaze on him, let himself run towards the shop. It didn't even occur to him to look sideways.
o.O.o
Riddle had anticipated more resistance and defiance from Potter, so he was pleasantly surprised when the teenager adapted to his new role, assuming the guise of a polite, somewhat shy and quiet younger brother. Potter was mostly obedient and unobtrusive, showing that he could indeed behave when he wanted to. He was also quite good at serving customers, provided of course that this was limited to packing their orders and giving them change. In his spare time, when Borgin and Burke were busy with something else or had been elsewhere, Potter would sit over books or practise spells as Tom had ordered him. If their employers were lurking nearby or watching closely, he would feign busyness with mundane tasks, typically cleaning, which kept Borgin's complaints at bay. Tom found Borgin's complaints about Potter being unproductive were quite amusing, considering the boy was not being paid for his work. But apparently Borgin seemed to expect endless gratitude merely for allowing a teenager to linger in his shop. Tom didn’t mind, as long as he wasn't the one tidying the display cases. Although he did cringe slightly at the memory of a situation where Borgin had instructed Potter to clean the glass in the showcases and the teenager had asked where they kept the rags and buckets. That day, to ensure that Potter would never cause him such embarrassment again, Tom had spent the entire evening teaching the teen the proper cleaning spells.
Overall, Tom was pleased with the way Potter had behaved over the past two weeks. If the boy was going to be useful, Tom would have to loosen his leash a little. But first, he needed to ensure that Potter was sufficiently trained to prevent himself from seizing the first chance to flee — because it was almost certain that he would try to do this again.
Just as it was clear that Potter would attempt to access the wardrobe despite Tom’s explicit prohibition — and his secretly eager anticipation. Of course, Riddle could have asked Potter directly about the cloak and the parchment, but he couldn't deny himself this bit of drama. Potter had fallen into the trap Tom had set for him in almost textbook fashion. And while the authenticity of the cloak intrigued Tom, and he intended to take a closer look at the magic that created it in the future, the discovery of the map of Hogwarts was a much more welcome surprise. It fitted perfectly into Tom's plans.
When Potter had departed from the shop on his own a few days earlier had also worked to Tom’s advantage. This had helped to cement two very important beliefs in Potter: that Tom was always aware of his actions and whereabouts, and that no matter what Riddle was doing or where he was, he was prepared to drop everything to catch the runaway. What he didn't need to know was that the second was only possible thanks to Tom's foresight in making sure that Potter knew all the places in Knockturn Alley that wizards used to Apparition.
Of course at first Tom had felt angry at the thought that the cheeky brat had so quickly (and so foolishly) decided to try and escape again, but fortunately for the teen it turned out that he wasn't lying when he said that it was Borgin who had sent him after his client. Tom, although tempted, had kept his word and refrained from using Legilimency. In Potter's case, playing the wizard-of-his-word card might have done more good in the future than a single check on his truthfulness.
Fortunately, the boy was all but radiant with sincerity (which was quite rare in his case), so Tom didn't even need a surface scan of his thoughts to confirm the version presented. It suited him too — honestly, he didn't feel like throwing another Cruciatus at Potter when it was clear that the first one had made the right impression on him. Discipline, too, had to be dosed, and showing Potter that he could count on occasional forgiveness might have benefited him more in the future. Tom's goal wasn't to break Potter with pain. While it was satisfying to see the boy flinch and struggle with fear whenever Tom reminded him of the consequences of defiance, he knew that a different approach would work better with Potter. Establishing a hierarchy and setting clear boundaries were crucial and Tom had no intention of showing leniency in cases of blatant disobedience, but his experience with orphans had taught him that it wasn't fear of punishment that emotionally bound them to their guardians.
So there was pain, there was mercy — and there were lessons. Speaking of which...
Riddle stopped his musings and gestured to Potter, who had just emerged from behind a shelf, apparently having finished sweeping the floor.
''Come here,'' Tom instructed him.
The boy slipped his wand into the pocket of his robes and approached the counter without a word of compliant. Meanwhile, with a snap of his fingers, Riddle summoned two small oriental figures from the back room, looking a little like small Muggle Buddha statues.
"How is your progress with curse-detecting spells?" he asked in a neutral tone, not revealing that he knew the answer to that question perfectly well.
Riddle was almost never surprised by anything, but the fact that Burke had literally forced Potter to learn Dark Magic on the second day of his work had been truly a pleasant surprise. Although the old wizard had a vast knowledge and had probably cast more than one dubious spell in his life, he was reluctant to share it with anyone. If Tom had started this work with the intention of increasing his knowledge in the dark arts, he would have felt frustrated. Fortunately, his goal was quite different. And since he was waiting for news from Dolohov to set his schemes in motion anyway, he could take advantage of the situation and begin to introduce Potter to the arcana of dark magic.
After all, he wasn't the one who initiated it.
"Somehow," Potter replied a little uncertainly, looking away. 'But I'll manage if it's required."
"Let me see for myself," Tom replied calmly, pointing to the two statues that stood on the counter between them. "One is cursed, the other isn't. Determine which one is safe to touch."
"Now?"
Tom looked around meaningfully. Burke had gone to Prince to pick up an order for one of their customers, and Borgin had disappeared somewhere, as usual, without saying when he would return.
"We're alone here."
Potter did not look thrilled at the prospect of demonstrating his new-found knowledge, but he had no choice. His brow furrowed as he leaned over the figures and Tom could almost see the gears in his head turning.
"Do you know that there is such a thing as magic? You have your wand for something. Looking alone won't help," Tom prompted in a perfectly neutral tone of voice.
The more time he spent in Potter's company, the more he was amused by the murderous desire he saw in the green eyes every time his jest hit its mark.
Potter straightened and took his wand from his pocket. After a short moment of hesitation, he pointed it at the figure to his right and muttered an incantation that Tom had heard for the first time in his life. It was clear that he was improvising. Tom's lips curled into a faint, amused smile. If it wasn't to his advantage, he would punish the boy for this attempt to deceive him.
The spell, predictably, did nothing. But Potter, trying to hide his lack of knowledge, turned to Tom with a look of feigned confidence.
"I think it's this one," he said, pointing to the statue he'd cast the unsuccessful spell on.
"Are you certain?" Tom asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.
In Potter's case, who seemed to be the fate's favourite and sometimes had more luck than sense, it was better not to leave important things to chance. So, Tom had decided to curse both figures, just to make sure. Nothing fatal, a simple headache-inducing spell. Weak at first, barely noticeable, but over time it strengthened to the point where the pain would knock the boy to his feet.
And then Potter would have no choice but to come to him, begging for healing and teaching, as his Slytherins used to do when he would have punished them with that curse.
After all, he had promised Potter not to push him too hard to learn black magic. But if the teen had come to him of his own free will and asked for lessons... Then the situation would have been very different.
Potter hesitated for a split second before nodding. "Yes, I'm sure."
It was good to know that, pushed to the wall, Potter was capable of a deception that even someone from Slytherin House wouldn't be ashamed of.
"If you say so," Tom said, not revealing his true thoughts. "Then take it in your hand."
"You want me to touch it?"
Riddle limited his reply to a disdainful look. After all, he had made himself clear.
Potter reached out and took the statue, his hand steady but his eyes betraying a shadow of doubt. Tom watched him closely. When the boy's fingers tightened around the statue and he didn't fall to the ground struck by a sudden impulse of pain, a flash of suspicion and a hint of satisfaction appeared in the green eyes.
Riddle hid his smirk.
"I've chosen correctly?" This time Potter didn't control himself as well as before and Tom could clearly hear the disbelief in his voice.
Riddle shrugged.
"It was your task to find out which one wasn't cursed. Time would tell. But if anything strange should happen to you, you know you can count on me."
The real question was how long it would take Potter to swallow his pride and turn to Tom for help.
o.O.o
He should have known better. Fate hated him.
Since he had appeared in the past, nothing, absolutely nothing, had gone his way. Why should it be different this time? Why should he had succeed?
At first, Harry genuinely believed he had chosen the uncursed one. After all, he had picked up the statue and nothing had happened. When Angelina had touched the cursed necklace, the reaction had been immediate. True, he couldn't remember the exact incantation or wand movement and was almost certain he'd made mistakes in both, but he felt nothing suspicious as he had turned the statue in his hands.
It had begun quite innocently, a few hours after Riddle had decided to test his skills. Harry hadn't connected the dots at first, he just had thought his head had started to hurt from exhaustion. How much can you hunch over books?
The pain had increased during the evening game of chess. Harry had quickly lost two games in a row and when he had asked Riddle if they could finish earlier, Riddle had looked at him strangely but had nodded in agreement. Harry had gone to bed almost immediately and, as he always did before going to sleep, had had a glass of water with a few drops of sleeping draught in it. And perhaps that was why he had slept peacefully through the night. But in the morning... In the morning he'd felt like he'd woken up after a week of partying.
Now it was even worse.
Harry's head throbbed with a relentless, gnawing pain. In the morning, he had still hoped it would fade, but as the day wore on the pain had intensified, becoming sharp and insistent, boring into his skull. Any rustle caused it to escalate, and Riddle, as if to spite him, was being unusually loud today. He was having an animated conversation with a customer, and when the dodgy wizard left (for Merlin' sake, who had the idea to put that bloody bell over the door?), Riddle started drumming his fingers on the counter, rocking on that disgustingly creaking stool, and then, as if that weren't enough, he had to drop that clanking bag of galleons on the floor, which nearly blew Harry's head off.
Harry, for his part, was just trying to survive today. Borgin and Burke were doing something in the back room, so he had to pretend to be busy. He sat down on the floor behind a display case, in a place that couldn't be seen from the passage between the shop and the back room. He didn't even try to open the transmutation book he was slowly finishing reading. With his wand in hand, ready to cast a cleaning spell if need be, he sat leaning against the display case with his eyes closed, mentally praying that this damned headache wasn't caused by what he suspected it was.
He knew he was childishly delaying the inevitable.
As the world blurred before his eyes despite the glasses he still wore on his nose, and the dark spots grew to the size of fat flies, Harry felt he had to swallow his pride and admit he was wrong. As much as he hated the thought, he needed Riddle's help. Another moment and he would vomit from the pain, or worse, lose consciousness.
Taking a deep breath, Harry rose to his feet, swaying slightly as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him. Clutching his wand tightly, as if drawing strength from it, and leaning on passing shelves, he moved shakily towards the counter where Riddle stood, still idly drumming his fingers and watching Harry with that annoyingly knowing look.
"Something wrong, Harry?" Riddle's voice was disgustingly caring.
If it weren't for the fact that Harry could barely stay on his feet, this was the moment when he could have really lost his temper and did something very, very bad.
But instead of committing the unforgivable, Harry leaned his palms against the counter. He closed his eyes, unable to collect his thoughts.
"I... I think... cast the spell wro.... Today. Yesterday." He even had trouble speaking, his words were broken, each syllable a struggle.
He looked at Riddle briefly.
"Make your mind: yesterday or today?"
"Yesterday."
"And which spell went wrong?"
It seemed this son of a bitch had no intention of making things easy for him.
"The one to… detect the curse," Harry muttered, as at the same moment a sharp pain hit him, and Harry covered his mouth with his hand to prevent himself from vomiting.
"And what went wrong with it, my dear little brother?" Riddle leaned casually with his forearms against the counter and looked at Harry intently with his cold grey eyes. A chilling smile of satisfaction played across the future Dark Lord's lips.
Harry inhaled deeply.
Someday he'd murder that bastard.
"I must have thrown it wrong. My head's… cracking."
"Oh, did you choose the wrong figure?"
The false concern was infuriating and…
"It looks like it," Harry groaned through clenched teeth.
"And what do you expect me to do about it?"
…it reminded him of Umbridge.
"Help me."
Riddle's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He tilted his head slightly, his posture still casual but his gaze predatory.
"Ask properly."
Harry's hands clenched into fists, his hatred for Riddle burning hotter than the curse-induced pain.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Lift the curse."
"And?"
"And teach me how to cast that spell correctly."
Riddle's grin widened.
"Since you ask so nicely..."
o.O.o
"Let's start with a quick review. Tell me what you know about enchantments that allow you to check whether an object is cursed or not," Riddle said, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood casually leaning against the massive desk in his library, still in the fine robes he wore for work, the flickering candlelight illuminating his face and adding an extra touch of elegance to his classic features. It was at moments like this that Harry could hardly believe that someone like this would become a noseless, snake-faced monster in fifty years' time.
All he had to do was remember what that bastard had put him through today, and all traces of wonder and sympathy vanished.
After he had asked nicely, Riddle had indeed lifted the curse — the headache had disappeared instantly. The worst part was that Mr. Burke must have been listening to their conversation from the start (something Harry hadn't noticed before, given his condition), because when he forced himself to thank Riddle for healing him, the old wizard looked at Harry meaningfully, as if reprimanding. Riddle then smiled from the corners of his mouth and, with a satisfaction that Harry would have liked to wipe from his handsome face, told Mr. Burke not to worry any more about Harry's education, for it seemed that his stubborn little brother had finally realised that he needed the help of his elders.
Harry wanted to get back at Riddle. But he knew it was still out of his reach. That he had to play obedient and willing to cooperate.
That's why he sighed in resignation and leaned against his desk, which had recently been added to the room's furnishings. Unlike Riddle, Harry had got rid of his outer robes as soon as he got home, so he was only wearing trousers and a shirt, which were also too old-fashioned for his liking, but Harry was getting used to them. If his casual look bothered Riddle, he didn't show it. Apparently, it was enough for him that Harry dressed decently for work.
"There is no one reliable method of determining if an object has been cursed," he began, pleased to find that he still remembered quite a lot of the lecture Riddle had given him last week. "So, if one method doesn't work and we have a strong suspicion that an object has been cursed, it's wise to use another method."
Riddle nodded briefly, a sign for Harry to continue.
"Speaking of methods, we have at our disposal spells, runic circles and there are also special artifacts that detect curses," Harry continued. He would be lying if he said that the subject did not interest him. As long as it was about detecting curses and not casting them, of course. Just a pity that the book Mr. Burke had borrowed him was written in such archaic and inaccessible language. But perhaps books from his time are more beginner-friendly. "Spells are the most common and accessible method. They can reveal the presence of dark magic, but their accuracy depends on the skill and knowledge of the caster. Runic circles are more complex and require a deep understanding of ancient runes. They can provide detailed information on the nature of the curse but are time consuming to prepare. Finally, there are artefacts, which are rare and often expensive. They can detect curses with great accuracy but are not infallible. And they are generally prepared for specific types of curses."
"And which of these methods do you find most effective?" Riddle asked, his tone perfectly measured, revealing nothing.
Harry paused, thinking. "Spells can be effective, but they require power and precision, not to mention that there are many of them. Runic circles are more reliable but needed detailed knowledge. Artefacts are convenient but not always available. Besides, it depends on the situation. Most cursed items emanate black magic with such force that even basic spells can detect it. Things get worse if someone tries to hide the fact that a curse has been cast. Then it is best to use several different methods, and there is still a risk that nothing suspicious will be detected. So, to sum up: there is no best method."
Had he seen the gleam of approval in Riddle's eyes? No, he must have been projecting it.
"It's good to know that you're at least listening to what I'm telling you", the future Dark Lord said crisply. "For now, that much theory is enough. We won't even touch on the basics of runic circles for the next few months anyway."
Harry wanted to ask about the months after that but held himself back. He didn't like what Riddle's statement implied.
Riddle, with a snap of his fingers, of course, summoned the Buddha-like statue from yesterday. Holding it in his left hand, he nonverbally cast some sort of spell on it, then levitated the statue onto a small table in the middle of the room positioned between their desks.
"Show me the curse-detecting spell you tried to use yesterday."
Harry nodded with resignation, then approached the table. He scratched his head. How did it go...
"The statue should glow with a soft light for a moment when you cast the spell correctly" added Riddle, which wasn't very reassuring.
Harry took a deep breath and concentrated, raising his wand.
"Galeasian farbongen," he intoned, making a rather complicated double-eight-like motion with his wand.
He was almost certain he had got it wrong again.
Like yesterday, there was no glow. Harry glanced uncertainly at Riddle and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the older boy's expression. He was sparse with his praise, but when it came to his displeasure, Riddle made no attempt to hide it.
"That was pathetic, Potter. Do not attempt to deceive me a second time. If you have no idea how to cast that spell, admit it rather than fabricating your own version."
Harry's eyes widened. He didn't make up his version.
"Why don't you consider that I simply don't remember the incantation correctly, instead of assuming that I'm trying to deceive you?" Harry retorted angrily. He was fed up with Riddle's mood today.
Riddle's eyes narrowed.
"What did I tell you about talking back to me?"
"You started it."
Unlike Borgin's stinging spell a few days ago, Riddle's hit its target. Harry rubbed his hurting forearm and looked reproachfully in the older boy's direction.
"Next time just say you don't remember," said Riddle, with casual elegance stepping closer to Harry. The glare the teenager threw his way didn't make the slightest impression on him. "Watch carefully." And after a short pause, Riddle pronounced clearly,exuding a sweeping motion with his wand: "Maledictum revelare."
Harry's jaw dropped. It didn't sound at all like a spell he was trying to use.
"I didn't make up that spell," he said quickly, suddenly frightened at the thought that Riddle might actually think he was trying to lie to him. As for the lessons, he'd had time to unlearn it. "I really came across something similar in this book that Burke lent me."
Riddle looked at him sceptically for a moment, as if considering the truthfulness of his words.
"Seriously. I'm not lying."
"It sounded a bit Old Turkmenian," Riddle said after a moment of musing, but more to himself than to Harry.
Harry had no idea what Old Turkmenian was, but it sounded oriental.
"You know, there was actually a paragraph that said it was a spell from the Far East..."
"Potter, you were supposed to start with the most basic spells."
Harry made an embarrassed face.
"I must have opened on the wrong side."
To the teenager's astonishment, the future Dark Lord rolled his eyes, not a trace of his earlier anger left. Riddle waved his hand, apparently deeming the matter unworthy of further investigation.
"Have you memorised the incantation and the wand movement?"
"I'm not sure. Could you show it to me one more time?"
To Harry's even greater astonishment, Riddle simply cast the spell again and the statue once more lit up with a soft glow, indicating that it had been cursed.
Harry tried to cast the spell correctly but failed again. It seemed that he had mispronounced the second part of the incantation, and the movement of his wand also needed correcting (Riddle had hit him on his left arm, so he couldn't even blame the pain on that). Riddle first had him repeat the incantation a few times, then practised the wand movement with him, and finally, satisfied with the results, pointed his head at the statue.
"Try again."
Harry tried. But even though he was sure he had done everything right this time, nothing happened.
Riddle looked at him thoughtfully, then wandlessy summoned a paperweight from his desk.
"Reduce it to a fifth of an inch," he instructed simply.
Harry, already used to not questioning Riddle's instructions, even the silliest ones, when they were studying together, followed the order and cast the spell, concentrating accordingly. Riddle glanced at the paperweight, visually assessing the result, then nodded back at the cursed statue.
"Now, with the same level of concentration, cast the earlier spell again."
Harry did as he was told. Sufficiently focused, he flicked his wand.
The statue flashed with a soft glow that disappeared after a moment.
Harry lifted his head to look at Riddle. A subtle smile of approval flashed across the future Dark Lord's lips. The corners of Harry's mouth also turned up slightly.
He had succeeded.
"Keep practising. Now you know how."
o.O.o
Harry sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. Putting them back on, he jumped down from the stool and began to stretch, feeling all numb from the constant sitting.
Shortly after opening the shop, Riddle, Borgin and Burke had Apparated to Mr. Oxley, a customer with whom they finally came to terms on the sale of his inheritance. Harry was left alone in the shop for the first time in almost three weeks — but Riddle had, of course, made sure that he was not bored enough to do something silly. As if Harry could do anything else here but sit and plan his escape. The wardrobe was out of his reach; besides he was more and more convinced that it wasn't the wardrobe but the magic in the Room of Requirement that had transported him to the past. Moreover, since Riddle had claimed the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map, Harry really had no reason to break his order and risk another punishment. Leaving the shop was out too — Harry knew already that Riddle wasn't kidding when he told him about the glyphs. He had no intention of touching those nasty dark magic books that lined the shelves, and contrary to popular belief, he had enough common sense not to rummage through the items stuffed here. He had to get back to the future to defeat Voldemort, not drop dead from accidentally touching some cursed artefact.
This meant that he really didn't have too many options, and maybe that was why he was hunched over the book about curses, making the notes Riddle had instructed him to make. Given his current occupation, at least preparing a detailed list of spells to detect curses on various objects made more sense than cramming the theory of transmutation as if he were preparing for the OWLs exam again. Writing down incantations, describing wand movements and listing their uses was a bit tedious, to say the least, but if it meant Harry could avoid some awful curse in the future, he was willing to put up with it.
But he was just a teenager, not a bookworm, and like any normal person he needed a break from his studies. Riddle probably didn't expect him to finish everything in his absence, did he?
Realising with grim resignation that it was actually quite likely, Harry hoped back onto the stool after a few more sideways bends. He turned the page, dipped his pen into the inkwell and returned to his notes.
As midday approached, the rain outside had stopped and the cobblestones visible through the strategically dirty windowpane were brightening, as if the sun had peeked out from behind the thick clouds. Harry felt a pang of longing — Riddle made sure he didn't have too much time to think about what he'd left behind in the future, but in moments of calm like this, the realisation of where he was, and what it might mean for the future of those close to him, fell on him like a huge stone, overwhelming him with its weight.
Lost in his dark thoughts, gripped by the fear of whether the future he would return to would still be the same future, Harry caught sight of a hooded figure out of the corner of his eye, apparently heading for Borgin and Burke's shop. He had time to push aside his book of curses and his notes before a bell rang in the shop, announcing the arrival of a customer. Harry jumped off his stool, mindful of Riddle's reminder not to serve customers sitting down, straightened up and looked at the newcomer.
The man who entered the shop was tall, almost as tall as Riddle, equally slender but broader at the shoulders. As he pulled the hood off his head, Harry was surprised at how young he looked — he could have been no more than a few years older than Riddle. His dark hair falling around his neck and a neatly trimmed, equally dark beard gave his sharp features an unsettling appearance that was deepened by his deep-set brown eyes. He was not sure why, but the stranger's appearance immediately made Harry think of Karkaroff, the headmaster of Durmstrang. There was something austere, aesthetic in the aura he exuded around him. Even in the clothes he wore it could be sensed. His robes were simple, but Harry had learned over the past few weeks to recognise when simple didn't mean cheap. And the one the unknown wizard was wearing was hardly cheap.
"What can I do for you, sir?" asked Harry, fighting the feeling of unease that had suddenly enveloped him. He was used to it by now; some customers just had that effect on him.
The man looked at Harry curiously, as if surprised to see him behind the counter. Before he come near him, he glanced around slowly, intently. Apparently, he did not see what he was looking for, for he approached Harry calmly.
"I'm looking for Tom Riddle," he said in a smooth, measured tone. There was a hint of a foreign accent, something exotic that added an unexpected allure to his words.
Harry felt relieved. He could help him in this, though probably not in the way the man wanted.
Forcing a casual tone, Harry said: "He's out of the shop at the moment, attending to some business with Mr. Burke and Mr. Borgin. I'm not sure when they'll be back."
"It's a pity."
"If it's important, I can pass it to him," Harry offered, but mostly out of politeness.
The man dismissed this with a sparse wave of his hand, "No, this requires a personal conversation."
Harry made an apologetic face.
"In that case, it would be best if you came tomorrow, sir."
The man didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he ran his hand over the counter with a magnetic manner, his slender fingers stopping above the statue of an Egyptian cat under which Harry had slipped his notes. The man tilted his head, looking at it.
"I don’t believe I’ve met you here before," he said unexpectedly, turning his attention back to Harry.
"I’ve only been working here for three weeks, sir" Harry replied uncertainly, feeling the man's deep-set brown eyes piercing him. He lowered his gaze, unsettled.
"I see…" the man looked meaningfully at the book about curses and the notes. Harry mentally chided himself for not hiding them under the counter. "I don’t think I’ve heard your name."
Because I haven't introduced myself, Harry replied dryly in his mind, growing more and more unsettled by this strange encounter. He would rather have been hunched over his notes.
The man looked at him expectantly again with those disturbing eyes of his.
"I didn't hear your name either, sir," Harry said before thinking.
The man laughed — and although the laugh sounded natural, it lacked sincerity.
"Then forgive the lack of manners. Aleksandr Dolohov."
Dolohov — and that was enough for Harry. He already knew where his instinctive dislike came from.
But... it wasn't the same Dolohov as the one from his time, was it? That one didn't look as if he was seventy. And the name was different too.
Whatever. A Death Eater or his father — one evil.
Unfortunately, he still had to introduce himself. The man still looked at him expectantly. Mentally preparing for what was to come, Harry returned the look.
"Harry Riddle" he introduced himself as Riddle had ordered him. And for better effect: "Tom's younger brother."
It was nice to see that stoic facade crumble, if only for a split second. Dolohov regained his composure almost instantly.
"I didn't know that Tom had a brother."
Harry offered him a thin smile. Go away.
"I also had no idea I had a brother until recently."
This earned him another burst of laughter. More genuine this time.
"Sounds like an interesting story," the future Death Eater prompted the topic.
Harry shrugged, not willing to give more.
"On contrary. Totally boring."
Dolohov nodded barely perceptibly, as if acknowledging Harry's reluctance to offer further explanation. But his gaze remained piercing.
"Well... It's look like I'll have to ask your brother for his version of the story one day. Because I'm sure it can't be as boring as you say."
"As I said, sir, he'll be here tomorrow," Harry replied politely. He was proud of himself and his composure.
"Aleksandr, not sir."
"Aleksandr" Harry relented, trying to hide his reluctance.
"It's a shame that tomorrow doesn't suit me. But I have a feeling we will meet again this week, so no loss." With these cryptic words, Dolohov tilted his head slightly towards Harry and left the shop with an eerie, predatory grace.
Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
o.O.o
Harry didn’t have to wait too long to see the consequences of Aleksandr Dolohov's visit to the shop. They appeared the very next day, literally, in the form of two young wizards.
Harry was in the back room helping Riddle sort through the items that had been bought from Mr. Oxley — there were so many that even Riddle didn't seem to know where to start at first. Borgin and Burke had Apparated to Mr. Oxley's for another part and it was doubtful they would be back for more than a few hours.
Half-packed boxes occupied almost every inch of available space in the back room. Some items had already been removed from them, others were waiting their turn. Riddle had divided the items into two groups, one containing books and scrolls, the other various types of magical artefacts. Harry was to check the books first. Of course, if the spell he cast revealed nothing suspicious, he was to leave the book in question for Riddle's further inspection. Harry just handed another thick grimoire to Riddle as a bell rang in the air.
"Go and check," Riddle instructed him, nonverbally casting a spell on the book Harry had just passed to him.
Two young wizards, about Riddle's age, entered the shop. Harry glanced at them, having the impression that he must have seen them before. The first of them, the taller one, had dark blonde hair, combed sideways with the current fashion, forming a wave above his forehead. He was dressed in striking turquoise robes and his honey-coloured eyes watched Harry intently from behind stylish glasses. The other, slightly shorter and more muscular, smiled crookedly as his eyes met Harry's. He had short, dark hair and wide eyebrows that almost merged together. His robes were less extravagant, more simple but also perfectly tailored.
"Good morning," the first of them said, his voice pleasant and deep-sounding, and suddenly Harry remembered where he had seen them.
In Slughorn's memory.
"Good morning," Harry replied cautiously, not quite hiding his growing wariness.
Another pair of Riddle's Death Eaters. Great.
Before Harry had time to ask what he could serve them, Tom Riddle emerged from behind the curtain.
"Curtis, Brandon, what have I done to earn this pleasure?" he asked deceptively politely, but his smile did not reach his eyes.
"We just happened to meet on the Diagonal Alley and decided to pay you a visit," the taller of the two replied smoothly.
Riddle nodded, accepting the explanation. "Unfortunately, we're a bit busy, but I think I can spare a moment for you. Harry, go back to the back room and sort the books in the pile on the left according to subject. I've checked them, they're safe.
It wasn't a suggestion.
Harry hoped he was not the only one who felt disappointed by this unceremonious dismissal. However, the faces of the new arrivals betrayed nothing; their masks were impeccable.
He knew that even though Riddle had sent him to the back room only to disappear from the sight of his young Death Eaters, he suspected that he would still expect him to obey the order, presumably to prevent Harry from overhearing his conversation.
Harry had no intention of being dismissed so easily. He picked up the first book that came to hand — a thin, small volume with no title on the cover — and walked carefully to the curtain that separated the shop from the back room. Trying to breathe as quietly as possible, he positioned himself so that he could not only hear but also see what was going on through the gap between the fabric and the door frame.
"Little bird told me that something unexpectedly interesting pop up around here recently," a second, more brusque voice, belonging to a lower wizard, reached Harry's ears. He wondered who they exactly were; their names told Harry little.
It was also a pity that from his position Harry could only see Riddle's back. But he could easily imagine a mocking smile forming on his lips right now.
When Harry had told Riddle about Dolohov's visit yesterday, as he had suspected, Riddle had asked about everything, almost forcing Harry to repeat the whole conversation word after word, but overall, he hadn't seemed angry. If anything, he looked a little amused.
"I don't know yet, we just got a pretty big delivery yesterday. But if I come across anything interesting, I'll be sure to let you know, Brandon."
Okay, dark-haired — Brandon. So the blonde must have been Curtis.
Curtis leaned his forearms casually against the counter, his honey-coloured eyes gleaming with barely concealed curiosity.
"I think Brandon had something more alive in mind. Something that has just been sent back to the back room." He looked meaningfully at the curtain Harry was hiding behind. Riddle turned his head, following his gaze, and Harry took a step back.
"Your new colleague," Brandon said, leaning sideways against the counter. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "I hear he has quite an interesting surname..." his voice trailed off tellingly.
Riddle shrugged slightly.
"Yes? I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary about his surname," he said, still looking at the curtain. Harry's heart quickened. His grip on the book tightened. "But if you say so…" He turned his attention back to the two wizards.
"How about letting us judge for ourselves?" Brandon said and Harry gasped at his directness.
Their curiosity didn't surprise him; judging by Dolohov's reaction yesterday, he could have expected it. Besides, Riddle had warned him that some people could be inquisitive. But the way they behaved towards Riddle... They were not like the grovelling Death Eaters that Harry associated with his future. There was a clear sense of ease in their interactions with Riddle that could only have come from years spent in each other's company. But at the same time, it was also clear who had the upper hand and the last word.
"It seems to me that you will have an opportunity to do so very soon," came Riddle's reply, and there was a rare note of indulgence in the tone of his voice.
Harry, against common sense, approached the curtain again.
Brandon and Curtis exchanged knowing glances.
"Is there going to be another guest at Abraxas' party?" asked Curtis, apparently quick in making assumptions.
Harry could not see the expression on Riddle's face, but he could tell from the satisfied looks on Brandon's and Curtis's faces that the guess was clearly correct.
Abraxas' party? What the hell Riddle was planning?
"Perhaps." There was something in Riddle's voice that was rarely there. Something like barely audible excitement. "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work. I wasn't lying when I told you about the delivery we received."
Harry, mouth agape, quickly stepped away from the curtain and in two jumps found himself at the table where Riddle had arranged the books he had sorted. He opened the book in his hand to a random page, pretending to be absorbed in his reading. The sound of the doorbell informed him that Riddle's aspiring-to-be Death Eaters had left, and the future Dark Lord entered the back room a moment later.
"Potter, if I ever catch you eavesdropping again, you will be punished. And believe me, if I do it in front of my fellow Slytherins, you'll be at the bottom of the food chain, and even pretending to be my brother won't help. And you'll only have yourself to blame."
Harry turned to Riddle. His ears were ringing. He barely registered the older boy's threat.
"And don't even try to deny that you did it."
Harry nodded numbly. He closed the book in his hands, slipping a finger between the pages so as not to lose the one he had just looked at.
Fate really did hate him. When he finally came across the mention of Horcruxes, not only did it happen while he was stuck in the past, but to top it all, it was in the diary, which was written in French.