Chapter 2: Intellectual Property

Tom connected to Hogwarts and materialized in the master bedroom of Riddle Manor. His spawn point was a cheap mattress laid out on the floor—simple and easy to access. Crossing the room, Tom opened the wardrobe pre-built into the far wall and called up the avatar screen. In the virtual world, appearances were everything. Tom had carefully cultivated the items in his wardrobe to provide the widest range of appealing outfits.

After some deliberation, Tom chose his usual outfit from his favourites list. Hopefully it would give the bot an idea of how he would like his gardens to look. Upon selecting the option, Tom's entire virtual form shimmered and shifted. His previous outfit—mostly composed of flashy, expensive items that matched a silver, black and royal blue palette—melted away, replaced by articles of clothing that suited his taste better.

Straight-legged charcoal grey trousers tucked into snakeskin black boots that were held snug around the lower calf and ankle by a chain of elegant silver ouroboroses. A matte black waistcoat with pine-green embroidered accents, also held together by silver chains, was layered over a billow-sleeved white silk shirt that fastened at the wrists with emerald cuff links.

Draped over his left shoulder was a green-trimmed black velvet cape crowned with hand-sewn raven's feathers and thin strands of ivy that melted into the heavy fabric. Lastly, he wore a silver wristwatch that gleamed no matter what angle you looked at it from, a black stone ring that trailed wisps of inky darkness whenever he moved his hand, and a glowing silver circlet that nestled neatly into his wavy hair.

As Tom gazed at his reflection, he resisted the natural urge to adjust his clothing—there was no need for that here. All items were fixed, their designs set in stone. He could not alter the way the cape fell on his shoulders, or the way his trousers automatically layered underneath his boots. If he wanted some other combination, he would have to purchase an entirely separate but similar item.

Tom checked the time. It was quarter to noon, which meant he ought to generate an invite code for the bot to use. Tom summoned a new holo-screen and navigated to the security menu, where he generated a unique, single-access invite code that would automatically expire in thirty minutes. He forwarded it to the Grunnings service line, then went downstairs to wait.

At noon exactly, Tom received a ping notifying him that his invitation had been accepted. Not one second after that, his doorbell rang.

Tom opened the door. Standing on his doorstep was a very peculiar-looking groundsbot, indeed. It was shorter than Tom by a few inches, waifish in appearance, and had eyes that burned as green as the ivy etched into the lines of Tom's shoulder cape. The bot was wearing plain brown trousers and a short-sleeved cotton shirt that hung loosely over its thin frame.

"Mr. Riddle?"

The voice was flat, monotone. Dead. Tom became suddenly aware of the stiffness in his posture and tried to relax. "Yes, that would be me."

"I'm here to work on your gardens on behalf of Grunnings Gardenworks?" Again, there was hardly any inflection save for the brief lift at the end to signify that a question was being asked.

"Let me show you the grounds," Tom said, stifling his unease. He had interacted with bots before: the ones that supervised free market exchanges and ran the NPC shops, the ones that lived in the manors and mansions of his acquaintances, the cleaning bots that worked in his apartment building. This bot was no different from any of them; he had no reason to be wary.

They stepped through the house in silence. The bot's feet made no noise upon the floor. Tom had to glance over his shoulder periodically to check it was following him. The bot displayed no expression, no curiosity at the poor state of the derelict manor. Its tan skin shone like glazed porcelain, flickering with static and a glittering green-purple that signaled its inhuman status.

"Do you have a name?" Tom asked. Some bots did.

The bot blinked its large green eyes at him. "I'm not allowed to disclose information about myself."

"Why not?"

"All information is considered to be the intellectual property of Grunnings."

They reached the backdoor. Operating on instinct, Tom pushed it open and held it for the bot to pass through. The bot hesitated for a fraction of a second—thrown by his irrational behaviour, likely—then passed through the doorway. Tom cursed in his head and reminded himself to be more careful. It wouldn't do to seem unused to such luxuries in this world, even in front of a bot.

"What do I call you, then?" Tom demanded, trailing behind as the bot wandered out into the overgrown grounds.

"Most call me 'boy'." The bot turned slowly on the spot to look at him. The mop of curly black hair atop the bot's head shifted with the motion. Tom frowned. The bot looked too young to have such a labour-intensive job. Early twenties, if Tom had to put a number to it; definitely younger than him by at least a few years.

"Boy," Tom repeated, the word sour in his mouth. The bot was still staring at him.

"If it makes you uncomfortable," said the bot, "you can call me something else, sir."

Somehow, the idea of naming this bot himself felt worse. "What do you think of the grounds?" Tom asked instead.

The bot pivoted to look at the garden, at the scraggly hedges and the debris-littered pond. "It will take some work, but I've seen worse."

The statement sat funny in the air. "Worse?" Tom slid his hands into his pockets and began walking in the direction of the pond. The bot fell into step beside him without prompting.

"The size is spacious, but not too large. The pond is distanced from the main house in such a way that there is room for a west-facing structure to balance the overall area. The greenery is overgrown, but well-placed. Most of the work will be surface-level landscaping and architectural in nature."

"You're very knowledgeable," Tom mused.

"It's my job to be, sir."

Tom eyed the bot, whose skinny stature was apparently capable of overhauling the estate grounds in the span of a week. Bots did not sleep, did not tire, but to design such a fragile-looking bot for difficult yard work seemed absurd. "Will you require anything from myself once the work begins?"

"The contract you signed lets me make small purchases without your authorization. Larger purchases will need your approval, but those don't require you to be here."

"Will there be any consultation necessary?" Tom found it hard to believe a bot could get a read on his personality and desires so easily.

There was a brief pause. "It depends on the level of involvement you want. If you want to limit our interactions, I'll send you periodic updates. Should you decide the direction is unfavourable—"

"—we will make further adjustments," Tom finished. These were Petunia's words he was hearing. He stopped a pace away from the edge of the pond and folded his arms over his chest. "It won't come to that, I've been repeatedly assured."

"Yes." The bot glanced down at the murky surface of the pond. It must have been that movement, then, that tricked Tom's eyes, for he could have sworn the corner of the bot's mouth had twitched with amusement.

"Will you begin right away?"

The bot straightened. "Of course." He gave Tom's outfit a cursory once over. "I'm guessing you'll prefer a theme that matches your wardrobe?"

"Something like that, yes." The plain state of the house meant that there wasn't much else to go by.

"Then that's all I need for now." The bot nodded at him. "I can get to work right away."

"I'll leave you to that," Tom decided. "But I will return to check in." Leaving the bot unattended seemed like a bad idea. If it knew he was due to return at any moment, it was less likely to perform any malicious tasks assigned by its owner.

"Do you want updates in the meantime?"

Tom nearly said no, then thought better of it. He didn't have to look right away, and he was curious about the bot's process. "Hourly, if there's significant progress made. And if you have any more questions, please send them along."

"Yes, sir."

They stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, looking at each other.

"Am I dismissed?" the bot asked—asked—

The question had inflection, but the inflection was off.

"Yes," Tom said distractedly, then watched in bewilderment as the bot walked off towards the far corner of the grounds to begin its work.

That was all, it seemed. Tom stood there a moment longer while the bot tore weeds out from around the base of the boxwood bushes that made up the east side of the gardens. The bot's actions were methodical and efficient, but there was the same notion that something was not quite right.

Perhaps it was the way it squatted, balanced stiffly on its haunches. Perhaps it was the owlish way it blinked whenever it was faced with a particularly stubborn weed that refused to part from the dirt ground.

Tom forced himself to look away. He was wasting his time here, doing nothing. Inhaling deeply, Tom raised a hand to where his VR implant was located and disconnected from Hogwarts.

Once Tom was back in the real world, a detour for breakfast revealed that his pantry—if a creaky wooden shelf full of non-perishables could even be called a pantry—was running low. He would have to leave the house to replenish his supplies; the only question was whether to do so now or later.

Given what had happened with Borgin earlier, leaving his flat unattended would be a bad idea. He had the option of asking his neighbour, Myrtle, to keep an eye on his flat while he was away, but the downside of that was he would be expected to spend time with her afterward.

Tom also preferred to be home while the garden work was going on, so he could be available if something went wrong. In that case, it made sense for him to leave now, quickly, before Borgin decided to come snooping around again.

With great reluctance, Tom sent Myrtle Warren a call request.

She answered right away. "Tom! You're calling me! Hello!"

Tom could imagine her waving her hand back and forth at her holo-screen display like an uncoordinated cheerleader.

"Hello, Myrtle." Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need you to watch my flat for about an hour, if you're not busy." She would not be busy, he knew, but she often liked to pretend that she was.

"I'll have to think about it," she said ostentatiously. "When do you need to leave?"

"As soon as possible would be preferable. I'd like to return before Borgin comes back from wherever he's run off to."

"Oooh! You know what, I saw him leave a few minutes ago. You have very good timing, Tom! I'm sure he won't be back for at least a few hours."

"You'll watch my flat for me," Tom said. By saying it rather than asking, it ought to be harder for her to refuse.

"Well, I don't know..."

"You can come visit after," Tom said after a pause. "I'm having my garden done on Hogwarts. I'll show you photographs."

"That sounds fun! Can I bring my cats?" Tom could hear the purring in the background, purring that was only getting louder the longer the call went on.

"No cats."

"But Tom, they'll get lonely without me!"

"If you bring them over," Tom said flatly, "I will kill them."

Myrtle huffed. "Fine. But you better not be gone for long."

"Two hours at most," Tom agreed, grabbing his coat from its lonesome wall hook. "I'll call you again once I'm back."

"Okay, I'll be eagerly waiting for your call," Myrtle said sweetly. "Be safe, Tom!"

Tom hung up. Now he had to move the dresser away from the door so he could get out. Damn inconvenience. It wasn't even that the dresser was heavy. Tom spent most of his time in front of a screen, but he did try to keep fit. He took regular breaks of getting up and walking around, and set aside time during the week to exercise. The problem was, in the cramped space of his flat, it was nearly impossible to move the dresser around to begin with.

After several minutes of struggle, Tom managed to wedge open a gap wide enough to get himself out the door. Borgin was far too wide to squeeze in through such a small opening.

Tom locked the door with his key and his keycard, then bent his head to examine the physical lock. While the metal plate was polished and unharmed, the wood around it was not. Someone had been prying at it with tools. Judging from the pattern of indents, the process was slow going, intended to carefully work the metal plate out from the wood without disturbing the digital alarm system.

Nicer buildings than his had proper metal doors that could not be tampered with in such a way, but Tom was not so lucky.

"Fuck's sake," Tom muttered under his breath. He did not want to move flats—such an undertaking would be costly and difficult—but he was now considering it if only for his own safety. Whatever it was Borgin wanted from him, it was nothing good.

Tom made his grocery run to the store and paid for two bags of cat treats. If he coaxed Myrtle into a good mood, she might decide to leave early.

"I'm nearly home," Tom said over call once he was five minutes out. "Is Borgin back yet?"

"Not yet!" Myrtle chirped. "Did you have a nice trip?"

Tom ended the call and picked up his pace. He did not want to run into the man on his way into the building.

Forgoing the lifts in favour of the stairs, Tom took the steps two at a time until he hit the fifth floor. As he stepped into the hall, Myrtle's door creaked open. Tom sighed and adjusted his grip on his bags. "Hello, Myrtle."

"Welcome back," she declared, throwing her door open. Her long brown hair had been tugged into two thick braids that made her look like a child. "Do you need help carrying anything?" Her head tilted to the side.

"No, thank you." Tom unlocked his door, aware of her gaze on his back. "I'll have to put everything away before I can let you in," he added. Could he get away with locking her out? Probably, but it would ruin some of the goodwill he'd painstakingly built up over the years.

"That's alright. I know how yucky boys can get when they live on their own." Myrtle's door shut once more, and Tom blew out a disgusted breath as he shoved his way into his flat. To let Myrtle in, he would have to move the dresser entirely away from the door. Tom dumped his groceries onto his pantry-shelf and rolled his sleeves up. This would take longer than a few minutes.

After fifteen minutes of huffing and panting, Tom managed to turn the dresser ninety degrees and shove it a foot away from the door. Good enough. If Myrtle had to ask why his dresser was in such a weird spot, she was stupider than he thought.

Tom sent Myrtle a message letting her know she could come over, then opened up his email to check for updates. An email from Grunnings sat at the top of his inbox alongside multiple market notifications. Tom opened the Grunnings email just as Myrtle knocked on his door and let herself in.

As she caught sight of his screen, she pouted. "Did you start without me?"

"No." Truthfully, Tom had almost forgotten his promise to show her the garden. "I was setting up."

"I didn't know you had a garden on Hogwarts, Tom. I think that's very lovely of you." Myrtle turned to look at the rest of his flat. "Don't you have any chairs?" she asked skeptically. "Or a coffee table?"

"You can use my chair," he told her, irritated. "The garden is new."

"Oooh, even better!" Myrtle pulled his chair out and settled into it. Tom watched out of the corner of his eye as cat hairs fell from her navy skirt and onto the floor. "Did you have a plan in mind? What kinds of flowers are you buying? I really like those purple-bronze ones from the Chocolate Frog gift box they released last season—"

Tom had made almost a million credits total off the Chocolate Frog box release last season. "I hired a service for it. The groundsbot will handle the design on my behalf. It began work this morning. I told it to send updates."

"What service? Can I see?"

Tom had yet to open a single file attachment and Myrtle was already getting on his nerves. "Look it up yourself. The name of the company is Grunnings."

"But you said we would look together," Myrtle protested.

"Then stop asking questions," Tom said tersely. He opened the first attachment and let it flood the screen. It was a slow pan shot of the estate grounds. Most of it looked the same, but there were simulated plants and structures that had not been there before. Was this the bot's planned design?

"That looks pretty," Myrtle commented as the video played out. "I like the silver trellis and the limelight flowers. Did you know that if you water them with dragon scale powder, they glow at night?"

Tom had not known that. "It's an expensive service. The bot knows what it's doing."

"It's very you, Tom. The birch trees will look nice with the black mondo grass. Did you ask for emerald accents?"

"I did not."

"I would suggest it if I were you. Or see if it's already part of the plan—"

Tom ignored her and moved onto the next attachment, which was another video. The weeds around the boxwood bushes were gone. The video wobbled, zooming out from the ground, then spun about to face the bot. There was no dirt on its face—the bot was as clean as ever—but still, the bot rubbed at its forehead as though to wipe away sweat. 'I can shape the bushes to your taste. Do you have a preferred animal?'

In the next video, the bot asked him if he required outdoor seating, and if so, how many guests he would like to be able to host. So it went: each video posed a new question and highlighted the bot's uncanny level of human realism.

"It never occurred to me that we could use obsidian orbs to house Unforgivable Flames," Myrtle commented once all the attachments had been viewed. "But the balance makes sense, I think. The natural properties of obsidian must temper the violent tendencies of the Flames." She tapped a finger to her chin, then declared, "This bot is very creative!"

"Yes," Tom agreed absently. He closed the email and braced his weight against his desk.

"Are you going to respond to it?"

"I will," Tom said. "Once you leave," he added pointedly.

"But I only just got here!" Myrtle protested. She shoved her glasses back up her face. "Why don't you show me the Grunnings website?"

"Will you leave after that?"

Myrtle narrowed her eyes at him. "You say I don't have any friends, Tom, but you're just as friendless as I am."

"I have friends," Tom retorted, then winced inwardly at himself. Why was he even bothering to argue with her? "I bought cat food for your cats. Will you promise to leave after I show you Grunnings?"

Myrtle folded her arms over her chest. "Fine. But only because you're busy! Next time I expect to stay longer. I won't forget, either."

They browsed the Grunnings site for several minutes while Myrtle blathered on about flowers and gardening items. Tom showed her the marble stones with the gold veins and the bamboo pavilion that had convinced him of the company's quality.

"That is so pretty," Myrtle gushed. "I wish I had a garden like that. Maybe I need to play more. Oooh! Then we could be neighbours on Hogwarts, too! Wouldn't that be grand, Tom?"

"I don't think you could afford to be my neighbour," Tom told her with no small amount of superiority. "I live in Salazar's Summit."

"Hmph. Why do you have such an expensive place anyway?"

"It's an investment," Tom said. He closed the screen. "Now I think it's time for you to go home, Myrtle. I have important work to do."

"Alright. Where's my cat food?" Myrtle stood up and brushed at her skirt, dislodging several more cat hairs onto Tom's floor.

Tom gave her the two bags of cat treats and ushered her out the door.

After replacing the dresser, Tom responded to the bot's email—bushes in the shape of a large snake ought to be possible, right?—and prepared a late dinner for himself. Partway through eating, he received confirmation and a new batch of updates from the manor. More of the weeds were gone, and some of the existing plants had been uprooted.

'I think a garden swing would look really great here,' the bot said. 'There'll be a nice view of the sunset once it's done. I'm going to build the frame with elder wood and hollow out the main pillars. There'll be a catch mechanism to open it up, and on windy days, it'll play music.'

The swing sounded lovely, but what caught Tom's attention was the undercurrent of excitement in the bot's words. Surely he wasn't the only one to notice such a thing? Or maybe he was—maybe all the other rich, self-absorbed pricks who paid to have their gardens done failed to notice the very human quirks of this particular groundsbot.

On impulse, Tom put in a call request and was connected almost immediately.

"Mr. Riddle? Was something not to your liking? I can make changes—"

"Everything is fine." Tom was struck by the ridiculous worry that if he told this bot that no, he did not want a garden swing that played music on windy days, it would be disappointed.

"Oh. Was there something else you needed? A new request?

"I want to watch the process. Your process. Is that possible?"

There was a beat of silence. "I would have to check with my—" Here the bot's voice hitched, the change in its tone so slight that Tom might have missed it if not for the way he hung on its every word. "—owners, sir. If I can record for you and send the video at the end of the day."

"I don't want video. I want to be there. Is it possible?"

"I suppose. I wouldn't want to impose upon your busy work schedule, Mr. Riddle."

"I can work in-game." Tom preferred to work in his flat because the bleak atmosphere was motivational. While he was in-game, it was far too easy to get distracted. In the real world, there was nothing to bother him except for his neighbour and his landlord.

"Should I expect you in the morning?" Wariness seemed to edge the words, though what a bot could be wary about, Tom had no idea.

"Five or six in the morning," Tom confirmed.

"I'll aim to have something more substantial to show you, then."

Tom wished he could see the bot's face. "I have faith in your abilities."

Another pause. "Until tomorrow, then? Sir?"

"Until tomorrow."

The line went dead. Tom sat back in his chair and rubbed at his temples. Today had been quite the day. He would want to rest before he tackled tomorrow.

A/N:

bonus points if you know which game i based some of this on.

next chapter: tom gets a call from abraxas, hangs out with myrtle some more, and visits harry again.