I hope you'll excuse the fact that i'm just calling his employer "Borgin". i do realize the original borgin was probably dead, so humor me and just consider this some relative.

i do not own anything. enjoy :]

"Mr. Borgin?" The cool voice, in that ever-present tone of perfect cordiality, said.

"What is it, Tom?" Borgin, who had already polished the wooden tabletop thoroughly, stared wiping it a bit harder. For all the time the two of them spent alone together in the shop, he had never quite gotten used to conversation with Tom Riddle. The boy never, ever spoke without purpose, and though he never showed the slightest disrespect or did anything overtly…well, creepy…it seemed as if his mind never stopped working. Behind the flat, emotionless eyes, you could see the thoughts whirring away, like silhouettes behind a darkened window.

"I quit." Borgin did an almost comical double take. "Wha—What do you mean, you—?" the graying man sputtered, but the shop door was already swinging closed. Borgin stood in shock for a moment, mentally cursing himself for all the times he had internally called Tom a damn creepy little bastard…not that he wasn't, but he was the best curse-breaker the shop had ever had. Besides that, his freakiness did have certain…charisma. In the last year, customers had the habit of buying quickly and getting out, and the lack of loiterers was a wonderful side effect.

But as unnerved as most seemed by the cold, hungry gaze of the pale young man in ratty muggle clothes, standing unnaturally still behind the counter, Borgin could see the fascination in their eyes. Men asked unnecessary questions, to which Tom answered accurately and shortly, seemingly impervious to their attempts at conversation. Women's eyes lingered on the long, lean form, the handsome face…they were drawn to him, like moths to a flame.

He looked no older than 17…and yet Borgin could feel both the emptiness and relief of his quitting, underneath the anger at the economic loss that it would bring. And the fact that he was affected the same way, however unwillingly, by Tom, as his customers, was perhaps was what made him run out into the freezing night after the young man.

Tom's figure was already disappearing around the corner, edges blurring in the cold fog. It struck Borgin that he had no idea where Tom lived…with the number of commissions he got, he could well afford to live better than the shop owner himself. And yet he always looked half-starved, and as Borgin ran after him, he realized that he had never seen Tom wear a cloak, even on nights (like this) when the mist threatened to turn into sleet, and the cold seemed to seep into one's bones. Only that dark, colorless muggle garb that may or may not have been pilfered from a dumpster.

Borgin rounded the corner. "Tom! TOM! I'm your boss, by Merlin, get back here!" Borgin was quite aware that he was no longer Tom's boss, but the dark-clad figure halted anyway. Borgin slowed down in relief, wheezing a bit. He was getting much too old for this business. "You can't just quit, Tom—By God, what's the rush? Do you want a raise? Better hours? What…" The young man turned around, his hair, slightly too long, damply clinging to his face. Borgin shivered involuntarily…the yellow, wheezing streetlight cast a skeletal look to Tom's face, and Borgin realized why women were so drawn to it. The features may once have been forgettably handsome, but hunger, anger, something dark and horrible, had carved away at that face…the translucent skin clung to the bones, the hollow eyes enhanced the burning gaze that Borgin saw occasionally, the one look that Tom always got when there was some especially Dark object that came into Borgin & Burkes.

"I didn't ask for a raise." Riddle said quietly. His tone was still polite, but his full lips, one of the few marks of childhood that Tom's face still retained, twitched in annoyance. Borgin had learned that that mouth, when it was not stretched into a handsome, false smile for some simpering old woman, told much more than the slate-like eyes.

"Then what is it? Are you in some kind of trouble?" This had happened before, with other young men the old miser had hired. He knew most of them were drop-outs, or had been expelled from their respective schools. Borgin had never quite decided if this was the case for Tom…he never made reference to Hogwarts, yet he knew more about almost all areas of magic than Borgin himself. And he knew more about the Dark Arts than any school, even Durmstrang, could have offered.

"The job has served its purpose," the man said quietly. "I…apologize...for the short notice." His mouth seemed to curl uncomfortable around the word. It was something that Borgin's crude, economic mind would never have been able to understand, the real purpose the job had served…Borgin did not give a damn about Dark Arts one way or the other, he was purely in the business for the money.

"Then what is it, Tom? I can up your pay, if it's more galleons you want…" Borgin was not the type of man to ramble, and he could feel himself talking after a cause which Riddle's emotionless face said was clearly lost.

"If you could please send me my last check, Mr. Borgin, it would be much appreciated." He turned on his heel and started off again, no faster or slower that before.

Borgin didn't know why he was pursuing this…his employees generally left much sooner that the long months Tom had stayed, and somewhere in the back of Borgin's mind he realized that Tom had no interest in money…he had never taken an extra cut of the ridiculously low commissions he was given, for all the fact that he coaxed customers to buy for much more than the listed prices. Impulsively, the older man reached out and grabbed Tom's shoulder. A strange shudder ran through him at the contact, and Borgin realized at that moment that he had never seen the Riddle boy share contact with another human being.

But the shock he felt was nothing in comparison to Tom's reaction.

The man did not just start—he recoiled, snakelike. Borgin found himself, faster than he would have thought humanly possible, with Tom's wand gleaming at his throat. But more shocking was the expression on Tom's mask-like face…wild, manic, his lips parted in an expression that was almost disgust…and his eyes blazing, a crazed, red sheen flashing deep inside them.

The two men stood, frozen, for a long moment, in the barely-illuminated darkness.

Slowly the mad expression slipped from Tom's face, and as fast as the wand had found its way pressed to his employer's throat, it disappeared back up Riddle's sleeve. The crimson sheen disappeared from his eyes, and he watched immutably as Borgin stumbled back a few steps. Adrenalin pounded in his veins as Borgin stared at Tom, and he had to fight the completely unfamiliar feeling of pure, animal fear, that told him to run for his life.

"Go back to the shop, Mr. Borgin." Riddle's face stretched into the first real smile the older man had ever seen on his face, and just a hint of madness seemed to shine deep within the black orbs. Fear surged through the remote, shriveled heart of the shop-owner, and the expression widened into a leer. "I'll take my check by owl. It's been a pleasure working for you."

Tom Riddle turned, and started off at the exact same pace as before; with a bit of…Borgin thought he might be having hallucinations…jaunt in his step. He turned his head slightly as he disappeared into the darkness, calling carelessly behind him. "Oh, and Mr. Borgin? You'll want to address that envelope to the name of 'Voldemort'."

This time, Borgin did not go after him.