Hermione had been warned that the man she was about to meet had alzheimer's disease, but it was worth a try. If he didn’t understand her, she would turn and leave and never come back.
He was a small man, crooked and grey, paper-thin and bird-like as some people do when they are very, very old. But his blue eyes were sharp as knives as he looked at her.
“I don’t do walk-ins” he muttered angrily, turning his head away dismissively. “Call Breda about an appointment.”
“I did” Hermione lied smoothly, “she said it was alright.”
“I ain’t got me tools” the old man lamented, but Hermione smiled at him.
“Actually” she said, “I’m here to ask about a piece you made once.”
The old man’s withered face softened.
Hermione simply slid a piece of paper in front of him.
“I wonder about this” she said, “I’ve learnt you designed it.”
The bird-man looked at the picture with obvious reluctance, then with more interest.
“Oh, him.” he finally said. “Always wondered what became of him. If he got help.”
“Help?” Hermione asked, careful.
“‘S a cover-up, that one. Did several of those in the forties. Mostly gents, few ladies. Wanting to forget, move on with their lives. I wonder if any of them managed to do it.” the old man picked up the picture, admiring the lines of the serpent sliding out of the skull’s parted jaws.
“Never did a cover like that one, though. Most people wanted sweet things - hearts, flowers, stars of David. This one, he had a story for it, though. Didn’t even know what he wanted when he showed up. Just what he wanted it to mean.”
He ran a bony finger over the paper, tracing the lines.
“I always liked symbols. Have something boring mean something else. Like this one. He asked for something about life and death, new life springing from death and destruction.” He went on, sounding a little sad.
“I remember him. He was a good-looking chap; the sort our Ruthie might have taken a shine to if she saw him. Those eyes, though. Eyes that had seen hell. I think part of him was still there. In the pit.“
He nodded slowly, as if he had just made a revelation.
“Symbols” he went on, trance-like, as if he no longer remembered that she was there. “I chose the skull, because it’s death. The futility of it all, the unending indifference of time. The worst murderer of all, it takes everyone. No mercy, no understanding. Only unending patience . Death waits for everyone. But he always shows up eventually.” The old man caught, and Hermione poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the table.
“Thank you, lass. You’re a good one, like our Sarah. You’ll make a good wife for someone.”
“Thank you” Hermione said noncommittally. “And the snake?”
“Aye, the snake. The poisoner. The sinner. The tempter of Eve, cursed to crawl on its belly in the sand for all eternity. These days they’re rather seen as evil, aren’t they? Christianity will do that.” The old man nods thoughtfully.
“But back in the old days, the snake was a good thing. It stood for power, fertility, healing. That symbol them healers got? Originally two snakes facing each other. The killer, yes, but also the birther. Life-giver. Granter of wealth and fertility. Put snake-poison on your skin to make it glow. Venom in your eyes to make them sparkle.” He made a noise that was somewhere between a wheeze and a laugh.
“From the cruelty of death and destruction crawls life, ready to begin anew. To sink its fangs into anyone trying to stop it. Life on the edge of death. That’s what he wanted, that fella.”
The old man drank some water.
“Lean in close, lass, and look at where the snake emerges. Do you see the numbers?”
Hermione shook her head. All she saw were impossibly fine lines, coming together to form an image that still made her sick to her stomach with horror and dread.
“No” she finally whispered, when it became clear that the old man was waiting for a reply.
The tattoo artist laughed his wheezing laugh again.
“Best work I ever did, that. Can’t see ‘em even if you know they’re there. But they’re there. One-point-three-six-nine-… was it three-three or eight-eight? I don't remember. Maybe it was three-eight or eight-three. Doesn’t matter. Everyone knew what those numbers meant. Meant he’d survived hell. Meant he was stronger than the rest of them. Or maybe just more ruthless. We heard stories, you know? About them camps. About what was done to them there. What they did to survive.”
He nods slowly, seemingly tired.
“He never told me his name” he murmurs, “I never asked. Paid cash. Figured he was illegal. Lots of them back then. The forties. Hell of a decade, young miss. Bet your daddy can tell you more.”
Hermione didn’t point out that her father had been born in the early sixties, just merely nodded. From what she understood, she was to make as small an affair of time as possible when speaking to the old man.
There was no way to see the numbers as they most likely had not been present on the dead man they’d used to create it. There was only one arm that carried those numbers. Prisoner 1.369...something or other.
“You don’t happen to know his name, lass?” The old tattoo artist asked and Hermione startled in shock.
“Riddle” she finally managed. “Tom Riddle.”
The old man nodded.
“Tom Riddle” he repeated, thoughtful. “I wonder how much of his soul he brought home with him after the war. I expect we’ll never know.”
“No” Hermione said quietly as she pocketed the picture of the dark mark, “we won’t.”
The two of them sat in silence for several moments, Hermione not knowing what to say and the old man seemingly asleep or at least lost in reverie.
Then he looked up at her, frowning.
“I don’t do walk-ins” he complained, “Call Breda about an appointment.”