#rp:omnis

[ssnakewhissperer]

~ Non omnis moriar ~

Tom Riddle had never been anything less than the model student. Having obtained the highest marks on record in his final year N.E.W.T.s, he was certainly not short on career options. Not since Albus Dumbledore had Hogwarts produced such an exemplary graduate. Posts at the Ministry were offered to the teenager before the end of the academic year. The International Confederation of Wizards sent a gold-edged letter by eagle owl, the day before his graduation ceremony, encouraging the young wizard to accept an internship at their headquarters in France. 

All such invitations were politely declined. Instead, the greatest academic genius for a generation simply... disappeared from public view, shortly after leaving Hogwarts in the late summer of 1945.

It was clear young Mr Riddle was destined for great things.  What those things might be, however, remained uncertain.

~ // ~

Glancing over at the wall, he observed the clock ticking down the interminable seconds. Less than 30 minutes to closing time. At such a late hour, it was highly unlikely that he would be entertaining any more customers for Mr Burke today. 

No, it wouldn’t hurt business to shut up shop early.

Looking over the antiques on display, the young sorcerer waved a hand, magically locking all the cabinets and cases containing their dark artifacts. As usual, a few of the shamanic masks groaned at their imprisonment, beads rattling against their shrunken leather skins. The enchanted dice rolled against the confines of their skeleton box, hurling their sides against bone in a frenzied cascade. Even the Hand of Glory tapped a gnarled finger against its transparent cage, as if questioning the actions of the shop assistant.

Checking the daily takings and closing the till, Tom paid them no mind. The glass eye on top of the counter spun accusingly, as he turned to pick up his coat hanging on a peg on the back wall. The young adult tutted.

“Who do you think you are, my overseer?”

As the magical eye turned bloodshot with rage, spinning once more angrily towards the clock, Riddle merely raised an eyebrow.

“Please. You’d do better lecturing me out of the skull of a one-eyed Auror.”

Smirking, he proceeded to wrap a scarf around his neck, before dimming the lights and heading out the back door into the streets.

It was raining, and it was cold. Raising his wand above his head, he fashioned an umbrella of silver, transparent magic, before stepping into a brisk walk up Knockturn Alley. Water from puddles splashed upon smart leather shoes. As expected, the streets were nearly empty. Many of the shops were shut up already. Only the Leaky Cauldron attracted any sort of custom at this hour.

The sound of customers was loud and raucous even before Riddle pushed opened the heavy door of the pub. It was a Friday night, and altogether to be expected. Glancing around, he kept an eye out for anyone familiar to him in the noisy, dimly-lit interior. 

Young witches in the arms of older wizards giggled in merriment as second rounds of firewhisky were ordered at the bar. Upon packed wooden tables, the locals banged their tankards of butterbeer while from a far corner, a small band of visiting musicians played on fiddles and accordions. Smoke from the pipes of a group of elderly wizards gathered near the fireplace wafted like a fog in the air, thick and dense. 

Satisfied that none of his followers (or otherwise) were present, Tom retreated into the shadows and took the creaking staircase, not stopping to speak with the landlord. Reaching his room, he opened and closed the door, setting his back against it with sigh.

It was a plain lodging. Not too dissimilar from what he had once known at Wool’s Orphanage. A single bed stood next to a wall with green, peeling wallpaper. Opposite this was a desk and chair, with a pot of ink and a selection of quills leaning out of an empty glass jar.

Upon the centre of the desk sat his old, worn diary.

He paid little attention to the book initially, busying himself firstly with making a pot of tea. Tapping the side of a kettle with his wand, the crockery filled with water that set to boil almost immediately. Herbs were cast into strainer, cuttings of valerian root and elderflower bought directly from the Apothecary. Tom found the mixture helped calm his mind, especially when the weight of ambition pulsed heavy against his skull. 

Not to mention, the banging and echoing laughter from downstairs could do with being drowned out.    

As the infusion finished preparing, he picked up a china cup and filled it, walking over to stand next to his desk. The tea was hot and sweet against his lips as he looked down at the little piece of his childhood resting innocently on the wooden surface. Sliding a hand over the black cover, Tom thumbed the worn edges of its leather binding, thoughtfully.

Since gifting the diary with a piece of his soul, the otherwise inanimate object had changed, becoming even more special to him. It was a sentient being now; a close and reliable source of comfort. It knew what its owner liked to hear; what his ego craved to receive in his rarer moments of self-doubt. It also delighted in offering a second opinion to whatever issues he chose to record in his hand-written entries. Sitting down in the chair, Tom contemplated his peculiar relationship with the book, taking another sip of his tea.

Funny, that in a job surrounded by dark magical objects, the most intriguing item of all continued to be the one created by his own hand. Perhaps this was why he continued to write in its pages, feeding the soul within with all his latest thoughts, frustrations, and desires.

In his current life, post-Hogwarts, the Slytherin graduate had become quite lonely.

Narrowing his eyes, he set the cup down, reaching over to draw a quill from its stand. Wetting the nib in the well, he opened the diary and found a blank page in which to write.

26th October, 1945

I am surrounded by mediocrity. The job at Borgin & Burkes is tolerable, at best. There are perhaps a handful of items truly worth my attention. The majority of the artifacts supposedly steeped in the Dark Arts are nothing more than fakes. Mere toys for children looking for the next grim party trick.

There is nothing there as splendid as you.

At times, I struggle to find the willpower to continue in the role of glorified shop assistant. I find I must daily remind myself the real reason why I am here.  

Almost two months since being hired, I am no closer to discovering the location of the Locket. It is curious, that Mr Burke has no recollection of the buyer. I have already scoured the lists of archived transactions in the back office, as well as the memories of the proprietor himself. Neither yielded so much as a name to me, to aid in my search.

It feels as though I’m missing something... something important.

As of today, I have begun to circulate among customers to the shop an interest in purchasing ancient jewelry of serpentine design. I am hopeful a lead or two will emerge over the coming weeks.

Sitting back in his chair, he watched as the lines of ink sunk into paper. The black liquid flowed like fresh blood straight into the veins of his 16 year old self.

Perhaps the youngest of the three of them would have some novel thoughts on the situation at hand.

#t0mriddle-jr #rp:omnis #~there we are~ #~went a bit overboard with setting the scene but anyway~ #~forgive me xD~