A Chance Meeting
The day Susan met Tom Riddle was a stormy day. It was 1951, two years after the train station accident and Susan was on break from the administrational work of the Labour representative of Finchley. For the past month, she had been clearing out the Professor's house from the many, frankly useless relics. She had kept the wardrobe of course, and the many other sentimental objects that Susan either wanted or knew that the house needed to keep, but the abundance of tapestries, pots and strange looking objects needed to go.
She had put up many notices in the paper about these several objects and had even gone as far as hiring an expert to overlook the items and give Susan rough amounts of their values.
Yesterday, the enigmatic Borgin and Burkes company had expressed interest in a strangely ornate mirror in the Professor's basement, sending a message that a representative would come to collect it and negotiate terms. Susan had seen it in a cursory inspection of the whole house, and thought that it was far too decorative to gather dust in an old house, so had gladly agreed.
It was precisely 10 am, as the letter from Borgin and Burkes had stated, that the representative had arrived. Susan had gone to answer the door and invited him inside. He was pale, just like Susan, but where Susan looked healthily pale, like cream, his skin looked delicate paper and distinctly unhealthy. His eyes were brown and his sleek combed hair was jet-black, the same shade as Susan's.
"My name is Tom Riddle," he had said, in oddly soft voice. Susan had noticed oddities about him, such as the fact; despite the lack of an umbrella or any form of visible transport, Tom Riddle was perfectly dry on a stormy day. It wasn't normal, but what about Susan's life could have been considered normal?
"Susan Pevensie," she had said brusquely, extending a hand.
He took it and made the motion to kiss it, as was the courtesy with unmarried women in Europe. Susan had smirked at that, someone who knew proper manners was always refreshing. "A delight to make your acquaintance, Miss Pevensie." He'd said.
"And I yours." she'd answered, feeling oddly like it was a speech that had been repeated before. "Now, would you like a cup of anything? Tea, Coffee?" she'd asked him as was the courtesy.
He'd been watching her with attentive eyes and nodded slowly. 'Tea, if I may." He'd said, a quirk at his lips that wasn't entirely friendly.
Susan had finally recognized the look when he leant on the kitchen counter as she'd heated the kettle; it had been the same look that Rabadash had given her, back when she had been Queen Susan the Gentle, Miss Susan Pevensie. That whole affair had ended badly, but Susan then had known that Rabadash was no good. She had ignored it there. She knew that she mustn't now.
She poured the milk in and asked him whether he'd wanted sugar with his. He politely declined, his gaze resting on her face still. Susan knew that if she had actually been the age that her body was, she would have been seduced by his handsome looks. Even now, she felt a twinge as she looked at his face, a twinge that wanted to change him, bring him back to the course of Aslan and of light, but then she'd met his gaze again and all illusion of being able to change him disappeared from her head.
"Now that the niceties have been upheld," Susan had said, feeling a sense of anxiety, "I'll show you the mirror."
She'd led him down the stairs, and he'd politely commented on how beautiful the house looked. She told him that it had belonged to a friend of hers who had recently departed from this world. His face had made the expression of sorrow at her loss, but his eyes held nothing but contempt. Susan was now convinced that he was Tash's servant, and there was no redemption for one like him.
They'd entered the basement which was now sparkling from the work that Susan and the maids had put in for the last few days. He'd gone to it straight away and gazed into it, an expression of utter delight on his face as he'd looked into it. But it was a cold, harsh, hungry delight that was etched into the cold paper of his skin and Susan could have sworn that his eyes had flashed red as he'd looked at it.
"The mirror was created in 1773, for King Louis XVI of France's wife, Marie Antoinette. A courtly gift from the Marquis de Condorcet, to add to Marie's toilette to ensure that he would gain the position of Controller-General of Finance to the King. It cost around 200,000 écu at the time and is still worth around that equivalent." Susan had recited, remembering the research notes that the Professor had left in the house's inventory guide for the tour-guides after Mrs. Macready.
Tom Riddle seemed to lose the trance-like state he had portrayed in front of the mirror, and his face was impassive. "Borgin and Burkes will offer no more than £70 for this clearly crass piece of work." He said, adding a truly aristocratic sneer at the end of the word.
"Nonsense," argued Susan, "It's worth at least 400!" This was lying through her teeth; the professional auctioneer had placed its worth at around 150 pounds.
He twitched a little, but his face didn't change. "That's absolute tosh. 100, and I'll go no further."
Susan placed a fake expression of sadness upon her face. "I simply can't sell it for that little an amount. I shall have to sell it to another dealer, who can cut me a better deal."
Riddle had allowed an expression of horror onto his face which was quickly replaced by a smooth, flattering tone. "My masters simply won't buy it for anymore than 200. I cannot offer you more than that, Miss Pevensie." He'd purred those last two words and Susan had felt a shudder go up her spine. If she hadn't seen the red in his eyes and the hate hidden inside him, she would have easily played that manipulative game of equals with him and she would have lost.
Susan only let a frown upon her face, as she registered his actual words, but underneath rejoiced with all the hope of a schoolgirl. That was 50 over the estimated price. "I can reluctantly accept that, Mr. Riddle. Coming from you…" She mustn't fall into the trap of believing that she cared for her or that she cared for him. It was a ploy, and always would be.
He'd smirked then and placed a cold hand upon her shoulder. "I thank you, Miss Pevensie." He'd whispered in Susan's ear and it had taken all the self-restraint that she had possessed to prevent herself running away from him, screaming in fear. Aslan, give me strength.
He'd pulled out the necessary money and Susan had accepted with a smooth smile on her face. She didn't miss the hungry look he threw towards the mirror, nor the fact that the money seemed to come from his chequebook and not from the company chequebook. She wondered whether the mirror would ever see the store at all, but pushed it into the back of her mind, as she'd accompanied him to the front door. He'd thanked her once more and hoped that they'd meet again. Susan outwardly expressed the same but inwardly balked at even the thought of it.
She'd hurried to a window, after bidding him a good day, wondering how he would make his way home without transport or an umbrella, but for the life of her couldn't see where he had got to. He either walked tremendously fast, or mysterious forces were at work here. Susan didn't believe in consequences. Not when the next day, three women with long black hair and blue eyes were found murdered in their homes, a look of fear on their faces.
Susan thanked Aslan that it hadn't been four.
