Borgin And Burkes - Tumblr Posts

He knelt down to inspect a staring glass eye, then a desiccated finger, curling his toes against the coins concealed in his shoes.

“Can I help you?” called a gruff voice.

Tom straightened up, turning to face the shopkeeper, and adopting the mask of innocence that he used on every adult he wished to placate.

“No, sir. Just looking around. You must be Mr. Burke? Or Mr. Borgin?”

He added a charming smile for good measure.

The shopkeeper looked at Tom strangely.

“You don’t happen to know a Tom Riddle, do you?”

Internally, Tom panicked, his hand tightening on the wand concealed inside his sleeve. How could he know my name? Why did I come here? How could I have been so careless? Everyone must know that Lord Voldemort used to be Tom Riddle, and he’s certainly old enough to know.

“Sorry?” he managed to stammer. Perhaps, he could lie his way out of this.

“Worked here for near enough fifteen years, as soon as he left Hogwarts. Always came to work on time, gifted at handling customers, never missed a day — damn good employee. Then just up and left one day. No trace of him. Apartment empty, no notice. And you,” the shopkeeper shook a finger at Tom, “you look exactly like him. It’s remarkable. He must be nearly in his seventies, by now… You could be his nephew, perhaps? But he never did mention any siblings… son, maybe?”

“Sorry?” Tom repeated, shocked out of his wits. So, he had graduated from Hogwarts, then not only taken a job as an assistant at Borgin and Burkes, but he’d stayed there for nearly fifteen years! Had the Horcrux creation damaged his brain as well as his soul?

Good God, no wonder the entire world domination plan had gone tits-up!

“No relation, then?” the shopkeeper continued, looking disappointed. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Term’s just finished,” said Tom, still uneasy and suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was wearing school robes cut in the style of fifty years ago. The shopkeeper, however, seemed satisfied with their discussion and began to putter around the shop.

“What’s your name?” asked the shopkeeper, looking greedy.

“Tom,” he said without thinking, then instantly cursed himself for doing so.

It was probably the first time in his life that Tom had ever been thankful for having such a common name. The shopkeeper barely batted an eyelid at the coincidence.

“Year?” the shopkeeper barked, clearly trying to recruit him.

Well, leading him on couldn’t hurt. Especially if the man had known him for fifteen years — Tom might be able to get some information out of him.

“Just finished fifth year, sir. Look, Mister?“ He smiled charmingly up at the shopkeeper, stroking the rough fibers of a hangman’s rope.

“Borgin.”

“Ah. Mr. Borgin, you haven’t happened to have any unusual sales, say, last August? Perhaps, a small book — a diary?”

Tom shuddered as he remembered his prison. (He was awake in the diary like the dead in their coffins.) He could still feel the layers of loneliness clinging to his skin, seeping through his ribcage and filling his chest with emptiness.

Tom was going to be sick; he felt his throat and stomach squeezing involuntarily, but he couldn’t. Show no weakness.

Look, color. Long ago, the griminess of the shop might have disgusted him, but all Tom could do was delight in the muddy browns and inky blacks of his surroundings.

He could smell the greasiness of Borgin’s hair. He could feel the weight of his clothes against his skin. He could hear Borgin clearing his throat. He was alive. He was free. It was going to be okay.

“I take customer privacy very seriously, Mister?”

Tom only barely managed to stop himself from saying “Riddle.”

“Gaunt,” he offered, still smiling at Borgin (loathsome git). Tom bent down, retrieving a few coins from his shoe.

“What price is your processing fee?” asked Tom.

Borgin’s beady eyes sparkled with greed. “Six Galleons,” he said.

Six Galleons! Tom did the conversion quickly in his head. That had to be the equivalent of at least fifty pounds — but, ah, inflation. Tom hadn’t though of that. Six Galleons was probably about five pounds or so, but even that was exorbitant in his opinion.

“All right,” he said finally, bending down again to retrieve six fat, golden coins.

“So, who,” asked Tom, as Borgin counted the money, “bought the diary, sir?”

Borgin shook his head. “No one, Mr. Gaunt. I attempted to purchase it from a certain Lucius Malfoy.”

Malfoy. Tom shut his eyes reflexively, trying to quell the unbidden spike of fury. So the bastard had a son. But how did he get hold of an object containing part of my soul?

I bet he stole it from me. I bet he’s working against me.

“You must be familiar with his son, Draco. He’s a second-year at Hogwarts.”

Tom smiled so hard that his cheeks hurt. “Of course,” he lied. “The diary?”

“Ah, yes. Mister Malfoy refused to sell it to me; he’d come in to sell off some poisons and such before the Ministry started poking around. I was interested it its magical qualities, of course — felt very powerful, had clearly been enchanted by a truly skilled witch or wizard.”

“And?” pressed Tom. He’d wasted six Galleons on this?

“That’s all,” said Borgin, shaking his head. “Were you interested in its purchase?”

No! thought Tom. Thank God it’s destroyed, because I never want to see it again. The sight of it… the thought of it makes me sick.

But he simply smiled as he prepared to sweep out of the shop, nodded at Borgin, and said: “It’s personal.”

Where am I going to live, Tom wondered, as he wandered through Knockturn Alley. Borgin mentioned apartments… but even if I managed to convince the landlord that I’m of age, I’d need a job to pay my rent, I’d need official papers…

Tom stopped short, nearly colliding with a woman selling cursed wooden fishes, and laughed.

Of course. Gaunt. That was where he had been planning to go after the school year was over, anyway. He even still had the address, written on a fifty-year old scrap of parchment, tucked into the pocket of his robes.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

more un-proofread drafts of second year that absolutely no one asked for

It looked very much like a place One Should Not Go In If One Wishes To Keep All Of One's Organs, but of course, Snape went in and she followed.

Borgin and Burkes was just just as poorly-lit and grimy on the inside as it was on the outside. The rusty bells on the door jingled as it swung shut behind her and Snape.

Ruby stepped closer to one of the displays to admire a delicate necklace set with milk-white stones that had all the colors of a fragmented rainbow shimmering within. Below it was the warning: Do not Touch! Cursed. Has claimed the lives of nineteen Muggle owners to date.

"Do not touch anything," said Professor Snape, as if she couldn't read.

"Has that necklace really killed nineteen people?"

Just then, the shopkeeper emerged from between the dark, greasy displays.

"Oh, yes," he said, rubbing his grease-stained hands together and looking her and Snape up-and-down. Then, he smiled.

"Good day, Mister Snape. Am I to assume this young lady is your charge?"

Snape did not return the pleasantry, nor introduce Ruby.

"Business appears rather slow, Borgin. I see you have not gained any artefacts since I last visited."

"Yes," said Borgin. "Haven't had good business here since right after You-Know-Who disappeared. And, then, hadn't had good business since I lost my assistant. And before then, right after Grindelwald."

"I suppose you will just have to wait until the next Dark Lord rises and falls," said Snape dryly.

"My assistant—"

"No doubt, you will have to regale me with the story?" asked Snape.

Clearly, Borgin didn't get the hint that he was supposed to shut up. He began to tell a very dull story that went on much too long about some 'very handsome,' 'charismatic', 'polite young man' (Ruby wondered if he was 'Burke,' but Borgin never said) who had started working at the shop after he graduated from Hogwarts in 1945, was very good at getting people to part with their treasures for very little money (Borgin went on to describe some of them in excruciating detail), and deserted his position without notice of resignation.

"Chasing a woman, I expect," said Borgin, nodding meaningfully. "Or else fortune. Who knows? Might have gotten himself killed in the war."

Snape looked as if he were having his eulogy read. Borgin finally got the message, and turned his attention to Ruby.

"What can I interest you in, young lady?" he asked, producing several objects from a nearby shelf with a flourish. "A diary owned by Nostradamus? A bottle of the vapours taken by the Delphic Oracle? A book of Ogham runes? Cleopatra's favourite earrings?"

Ruby was just about to say that she'd like to see some of them when Snape interrupted.

"She will not be buying anything from you."

"O-Of course not!" said Borgin. "Of course not, Mister Snape—"

"Professor Snape."

"Of course, of course."