The Journal of a Young Clerk
31/07/1945
Today is the day. I started working at Borgin & Burkes, the shabbies shop you could find on Knockturn Alley. Sometimes it still feels unreal - finishing school, like the end of a pleasent dream, brough me back to reality, where I'm no more than a no-name Hogwarts' alumni. Looking back at my school years - Merlin, I sound like some old nutcrack - I can surely tell I was the most brilliant student the school has seen in some time. Not that I'm bragging, fake modesty is something I hate the most, right next to Leaky Cauldron's kitchen... I guess I overvalued my own abbilities; thinking I could get a good job without any connections... Not that I wanted it, not really. Staying at Hogwarts would be nice, the castle was my only home, but as I have no better options, I'll have to be content with what I have... for now.
Mr Burkes is gruff, a man you'd better not upset. But he's a businessman too - I got told two times already that I should smile more to lure the customers, especially older ladies who seek for beauty potions, not the legal ones, but some that have acromantula's venom in them. Professor Slughorn would probably pass out seeing what I'm doing here...
My old friends write to me at times, asking about my whereabouts, but mostly complaining about their owns - Abraxas' father is still against him and Alphard, something I foresaw the first day we've all met, though it's so unreasonable; they could do nothing about being soulmates, could they?
Sometimes it strikes me with wonder that I haven't found my soulmate yet; not that I'm especially worried. Being eighteen forever wouldn't be such an awful thing, especially with my looks. But sometimes... Sometimes it burdens me that everyone seems set up already, thining about future and family and I can't say anything, being the last one that's left without a pair. Since I've finished school and I'm alone most of the time, with my thoughts as only companions, it seems only right to think that there's something wrong with me. Maybe there's no soulmate for me? Slughorn told me it's nearly impossible, but doesn't the nearly part imply it could actually happen? I think I stopped aging, judging by the look of my own face... Besides, if I've met my soulmate already, shouldn't I know? Shouldn't I recognize him? It feels like I'll be the last soldier standing on a battlefield of a long forgotten war...
Merlin, it sounds so melodramatic... Hopefully no one will ever read it. I'd die of shame.
...
Harry smiled, reading the last sentence and sneezing suddenly, the dust finally getting into his nose. The attic was so cluttered he was in awe he found anything in here, let alone the small diary that lifted his spirit so much. He wondered if T. M. Riddle, the original owner of the black notebook really died of shame right now. Harry hoped not.
It felt both thrilling and a little wrong to read someone's journal - well, not just someone's, but a Hogwarts student's from years ago! Harry was hoping he could learn more about the school or maybe the after-graduation life. His final year at Hogwarts was about to begin and he still wasn't sure what he'd like to do about it. Well, he had options, probably more interesting then that T .M. Riddle had; Harry had parents that were pretty well known in the Ministry, because his mother was one of Newt Scamander's last students and then there was his father, James Potter, England National Quidditch Team's seeker, the most beloved in the last century, as he was always talking about himself. There were also uncle Sirius and uncle Remus and aunt Minerva and so many many more people who could help him...
One thing about that Riddle was even more interesting than the adventures a youg clerk could get in a shop on Knockturn Alley, something that caught Harry's attention to begin with - soulmate's issues. If there was something he doubted or was scared about, it was his own soulmate's long absence. Nearly everyone in his class was already paired - Hermione and Ron found each other during their first ride on Hogwarts' Express for Merlin's sake! Harry was still alone though and it was starting to worry him. Reading about T. M. Riddle's doubts was like listening to his own thoughts: was there something wrong with him? Was he really incompatibile with anoyne?
"Harry!" He's heard his name coming from downstairs. His mother was probably in desperate need of his help preparing dinner, though she could manage to do everything with magic. Lily Potter valued doing things the Muggle way so much...
Harry stood up and after a moment of consideration he hid the diary in his pocket. It could be a nice read later.
...
27/11/1947
I had to visit Madam Smith today and it was a rather successful call indeed. Her house is way too old fashioned and cluttered... I'd decorate it nicer if I was her... but of course I'm not, I'm just a poor boy from a poor family, there's no place for me in houses like this. Madam Smith claims she's a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff - I can't prove whether it's true, but she possesses something that belonged to Hufflepuff, a nicely made cup, ornamented and gold. She showed it to me, trying to use her spinster charm on me; the weird things people who lost their soulmates can do... I've heard from Burkes that her soulmate died years ago, but as they've met already, she started aging. She got to know love, so now she's in endless search of the unreachable, trying to seduce fine young men - well, men like me. Merlin, it sounds too hilarious thinking about her looks in mind. I should probably keep the memory of her face somehow so it wouldn't get forgotten... There was something else she showed me, something much more interesting - Salazar Slytherin's locket, original without a doubt, it looked exactly as he described it in Majorus Seprentina. Madam Smith claimed she got it from Burkes years ago and he confirmed it, showing me the old recipt (is he really storing them all for such occasions?). He paid some woman ten galleons, something only a bastard like him could do, probably seeing his customer had no idea about the locket's true value... Seeing the receipt and the date on it - December 1926 - I couldn't help wondering whether that woman was my mother.
Sometimes I simply have to wonder if it's my parents fault, my troubles with finding a soulmate. Am I alone because she drank him with Amortentia from what I understood? There are no books that could answer me, but at times it seems the only possibility...
Professor Slughorn came by last week asking if I'd like to come back to school. He's still petitioning to Dumbledore about it, trying to make him change his mind, but I'm no longer sure if I want to go back... Being there, seeing all these students falling in love and even more - finding themselves, seeing the truth about themselves in someone else... It's hard to think about, let alone going back and looking at it. The world seems endlessly grey, just like my heart these past few years, a constant mixture of waiting, hoping and being disappointed time after time. There are days I want it all to end, though I don't know how. Thinking about an eternity that has me forever eighteen, a boy in everyone's eyes, but an old man inside, makes me sick.
...
The sound of raindrops against the infimary windows brought Harry back to life. Sometimes when he was reading T. M. Riddle's diary he was simply forgetting about life as a whole.
It was already dark outside, all the beds beside his own empty. His hand was still hurting after the unfortunate collision with Draco Malfoy during the first quidditch match this season, but Harry didn't mind that much. Ron was always complaining when he was trying to read the diary in the common room... Mr Weasley was very thorough about teaching his children that no one should trust things that seemed to have an invisible brain.
Harry didn't know what was the fuss all about about - the diary was... well, a diary. Memories of someone who lived a long time ago and had problems Harry could call his own... It was like having a close friend, a rather fortunate twist when all his real-life friends were occupied with their soulmates. Harry was sure T. M. Riddle's found his own partner sooner or later, finally finding peace and the family and home he longed for so much. Trying to understand this feeling was hard at times, because Harry had a home, a perfect home with loving parents and a whole army of uncles and aunts that cared for him, but reading about Riddle's loneliness he remembered an awful dream he had years ago, when he was still a child. He woke up in the middle of a night crying, sure his parents were dead and he was living with aunt Petunia, his mother's older sister he disliked so much... The dream happened only once, but it was still able to make him shiver even now.
T. M. Riddle was a friend Harry could identify with, because he too was - as he called it - The Boy Who Waited. His family laughed at the term, but as years passed it became something more than a joke and turned into a sad reminder that he was still alone, sticking out like a sore thumb, a rather burdensome feeling these days, when everyone from his class was talking about flats and churches and marriages and children. Harry thought there was still a lot of time to think about such things, but it didn't change the fact that Neville Longbottom asked him at least four times if Percival was a proper name for his future first born...
...
24/12/1949
It was a long day. Even though it's Christmas tomorrow, we were still open today and I got scolded at least four times. The reasons were absurd of course, as usually with Burkes – I didn't close the door correctly, I didn't propose Mrs. Black another silver ring (she already bought five! soon enough she won't have enough fingers to wear them all), I didn't prepare Borgin's tea properly and I didn't show Moody the collection of poison-soaked knives from last century... Well, Burkes decided to forgave me for the last one when I explained that Moody is now an auror and not some stupid passerby.
Moody brought me news about our common friends. Honestly, I was shocked to see him at the counter, we were never close – I guess he wanted to talk because he's still soulmateless too. We're the last ones from our year it seems, because the most important infromation he wanted to share was about Abraxas and Alphard: Malfoy's father died at last (a rather indelicate way to say it, but anyone who met him knows what a man he was) and it seems Blacks and Malfoys will tie the knot (for the first time in fifty years, as Moody told me).
Now that even Abraxas and Alphard are finally together it seems only proper for me to stay alone. They were like a milestone for everyone in our class, the one pair that could change history, that could mark the end of our search. Moody seemed as sulky about it as me, though I tried to hide my feelings; he was never as good at it as me.
I ended my shift and came back to my room, getting ready for abother lonesome Christmas. After graduation it was never a happy time for me – I have no one to visit and my room is too small and ugly to invite anyone. Not that I have anyone I could invite...
There's something wrong with me, I'm sure of it. Constantly pushing peple away and trying to stay stable when it gets so hard on my own, always on my own. I'd want to change – change myself and this place, change my fate somehow, but it's impossible of course and thinking about it only gets me frustrated. Sometimes I simply wish to disappear, for it all to end. If only my soulmate
…
Harry looked at the unfinished sentence with a heart full of emotions, internally cheering for T. M. Riddle and feeling nearly angry at his missing soulmate. Riddle was truly his friend now, after months of reading the diary and getting to know him piece by piece, collecting shreds of memory of a time that was gone. They were so alike it seemed they were one person at times, even if Harry couldn't understand Riddle's struggles every few pages.
Now though, as the sentence hunged on the edge of the page, Harry felt a bit uneasy. What happened to Riddle that he stopped writing so abrupty?
Checking the next page, he had to feel diasppointed – it was empty, just like the reast of the black notebook. There was nothing more to read, nothing more to learn, even if Harry had so many questions – did T. M. find his soulmate? This question was the most important of course, but there were so many more: did he leave the awful shop? Did he go back to Hogwarts?
It was nearly painful not to know, as if he was reading a book that ended in the middle for no reason, leaving him uneasy about his favourite character's fate... He never liked reading, but T.M.'s story was different – it was real, it was nearly his own story. He could have been the one writing it. Maybe if he knew that Riddle found his soulmate in the end, it would make it easier to live waiting?
Searching the book once more to see if there were any other traces he ovesaw, Harry started wondering if there was a way to find what happened to his friend from the past, T. M. Riddle.
…
Rome, 23/03/1950
Dear Horace,
As I've told you many times before, I'm now abroad, searching for some peace. Italy is nice, though I'm sometimes tired of the constant eagerness of people here to entertain me. Thank you once more for recommending me to Fra Umberto. He may be a priest, but he's also a great scholar. He suggested adding some Thymus serpyllum to your potion and it made nearly all of the side effects go away.
I know you suggested staying in Switzerland to rest more, but I was never the calm kind, I'm sure you're aware of it. My search is only beginning I'm afraid and it'll probably last for too long. From what I understood my case isn't the only one and there are others that were waiting for many years, sometimes even decades – I can't imagine what they were going through without suspension potions; even with them life is a neverending hell.
Don't worry about me too much though, I'm doing fine these days.
Tom
…
14/04/1957
Alphard,
I hope you'll pass my words to Abraxas, as it gets truly annoying to write you both the same answers twice. I won't be able to get back to England on time, but be sure my kindest thoughts are with you (I'm sure Abraxas will sneer at this, so please hit his dumb head in my name). I'll write you more when I'm finally in Moscow.
With a friendly reminder I'm not dead, but still eighteen,
Tom
…
1/05/1979
Alastor,
The news of your wedding found me in the far North, but I hope you'll get this message before the ceremony.
You – as no one else I suppose – know how hard it is to live without a soulmate. It's a constant struggle, waiting for the never-happening illumination, at least as long as you're waiting for it. After what happened back in 1949 I was never able to thank you properly; you rescued me, something I'll never understand probably, as we weren't friends. You gave me a second chance and I used it, hopefully for the best. My life is nothing like it was back then, the miserable tale of a miserable boy that was caught in his own fears for way too long. In the end the world accepted me the way I was, even if it took me more time to do the same. I'm no longer waiting. The time I was given – forever apparently – can be used for more than thoughts of spite and madness and tragedy.
There are times though, when I have to ask myself – is the pain in my chest ever going to disappear? Am I truly done with waiting or am I fooling myself against my own heart? Don't answer me – sometimes it's better not to know.
I hope you've found what you were waiting for, Alastor. Now I can truly be the last man standing,
Tom Marvolo Riddle
...
13/06/1983
Dear Alphard,
I'm glad you wrote to me following Abraxas' sad passing. There are probably no words that could comfort you now, but if you're looking for something more than the inevitable mourning, consider – taking your time, of course – visiting me in Verdal. I can't offer you what you've lost already, but I can show you there are other things in this world worth living for.
I'm sending you my old diary. If I didn't, you'd probably never believe I know what pain is.
Waiting for you.
Tom
...
Tom. Tom Marvolo Riddle. For some reason the name sounded strange in Harry's head, as if he knew it before he found it in the old letters. It took him months to get them, using all of his ways, going as far as asking Draco Malfoy if he knew anything about his grandfather's school friends and getting a truly surprised look from the Slytherin quidditch team's captain. Geeting Slughorn's and Moody's letters was much easier – Horace Slughorn adored his mother and Alastor Moody was one of his father's best friends.
It was uncle Sirius who told him the most. Harry's heard about Alphard Black before, he remembered it was Sirius' favourite relative right next to his cousin Tonks, but he got to know the story of Alphard's mysterious disappearance only this week – it seemed Mr Black left the country indeed, following Tom Riddle's advice and no one had heard from him ever again.
The far North... How far was it? Using something his Muggle-born friends were calling the Internet – a rather useful tool to find things, much easier to use than Hogwarts' library – he found out Verdal was an ordinary town in Norway. Nothing strange has ever happened there, nothing supernatural or unusual... Was Tom really living there?
Harry wasn't sure why, but he had to know.
…
Waiting until his graduation was hard, but only this way made it possible to hide the real reason behind his lonely journey. It was common for Hogwarts' students to travel around the world for some time to discover different areas of magic after finishing their seventh year, if they could only afford it. Travelling alone wasn't that usual, but everyone seemed to accept Harry preferred to stay away from his paired friends.
He visited Rome at first, another false track to make it look more casual. Travelling straight to some distant town in the North would look suspicious even to his parents and Rome seemed a perfect choice – both famous for its magical history and a place Tom saw too in the past. It was like following his footsteps, bringing him closer.
Now Harry was in Verdal though, at last embracing the town he's been thinking about for months. It was indeed nothing special – full of Muggles that glanced at him from time to time, seeing his visible confusion. Well, he didn't think it through. Did he really think Tom Riddle would greet him with open arms and aWelcome, Harry! sign?
"Excuse me, sir, are you lost?" There was a girl by his side, no older than he was for sure, dark haired and a few inches taller than he was, looking at him with care. "You definitely look lost," she added, her eyes sparkling mischeviously.
"I'm... I'm looking for Tom Riddle, do you know him by any chance?" The question sounded weirdly stupid in his mouth and Harry realized coming to this town was equally foolish. What was he hoping for? That Riddle was probably no longer here or dead or occupied with his soulmate at last...
"Tom Riddle?" The girl looked at him with a smile. "I know no Tom Riddle, but Marvolo Riddle owns an antique shop nearby. Maybe he'll know something about that Tom of yours?"
Harry felt his heart skipping a beat. Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was here; Harry hit the jackpot.
…
"We're closed already... Oh, it's you, Britt..."
Harry thought he had to be dreaming; the voice he's heard just now had to be from another world. There was some music playing in the background, the gentle sound of strings soothing the chilly winter air, but not his soul. His soul was on fire.
"I have to go, Alphard needs my help in the library," the girl – Britt, Harry noted somehow automatically – said lightly. "I brought you someone looking for Tom," she added, before the silver bell above the door announced her leave.
"Tom?" Harry's heard a note of surprise in the unearthly voice, going nearly mad, though he hasn't seen the owner yet. "Who would be looking for him of all people? Is that you, Alastor?"
There were steps on the dark wooden floor and then Harry saw him.
It was like nothing he's ever imagined. Harry thought he would feel enlightened and calm, but it was just the opposite – waves crushing above- no, inside him, flames claiming every inch of his being, destorying everything he knew about life, only the gray eyes - Tom's eyes - becoming the only certain thing he knew.
"You're... You're him," Tom Riddle stated much less eloquently than he did in his diary. His hand was brushing over Harry's cheek, though he had no idea when in the world did Riddle close the distance between them. He seemed scared, as if Harry was nothing more than a dream, a perfect illusion. In the end Tom touched him and Harry was almost sure what he was thinking about, because his own thoughts were the same: he's real.
It took them some time to regain a sense of being. Harry was never sure how long it lasted, the seemingly endless moment of realization, but in the end Tom broke it, smiling more to himself than to Harry, only a few words escaping his mouth:
"It seems I was fooling myself."