If Tom Riddle had ever had the desire to classify his worst miscalculations into some sort of hierarchy of failure, choosing to work at Borgin and Burke's would probably have been at the top of that list - even higher than that time he shot himself in the foot by killing a Muggle-born and almost accidentally causing the closure of the school he so desperately did not want to leave.
Not that he would ever actually have admitted to failure, of course.
But he might have conceded, in this hypothetical exercise in choice analysis, that the decision to forgo all the generous offers of employment he'd received upon graduation, and to wave away the promise of a stable income and upward mobility in order to work in - of all things - retail, may have been a bit hasty.
But Tom had had a goal, and he was certain he knew the best way to achieve that goal.
At the time.
He was certain at the time.
And the brilliant strategy he'd come up with required working in a dingy shop in Knockturn Alley for two barely functioning idiots who knew less about magical history than he did and who couldn't even get his name right half the time.
"Mornin', Roodle," said Caractacus Burke, lumbering into the shop visibly hung over and staying faithful to his schedule of drinking six out of seven nights a week.
"It's four o'clock in the afternoon, sir."
"Yes, two sugars, please. Thanks." Burke stumbled into the back room, barely noticing the massive, tentacled, fanged book that Tom was trying to stuff into a box, and certainly not offering to help.
Tom wondered whether, someday in the future, Borgin and Burke would look back on his time there and realize that they'd been using the Most Powerful Dark Wizard of All Time to balance their ledger.
Borgin was somehow even more difficult to deal with than Burke. It seemed that no matter how many priceless, rare artifacts Tom brought in or how much money he made them from sales, any time he was not visiting clients, Borgin had him performing menial tasks like inventory and restocking, and would criticize him the entire time.
So, when four o'clock moved to five, and he had moved from deadly book beasts to hanged men's hands, he was not at all surprised when Borgin suddenly appeared and started asking questions.
"What are you doing with those?" he asked when he saw Tom at the back counter, piles of shriveled human hands all around him.
"Sorting," Tom said without looking up.
"What do you mean, 'sorting?'" He sounded as if he were trying to seem only vaguely interested, but Tom could tell without looking that he had begun to count the hands as soon as he'd seen them.
"For inventory purposes, sir."
"Inventory? They're all Hands of Glory! Surely you need only count them."
That was an interesting statement coming from the man who had once spent an entire afternoon lecturing Tom on the detailed differences between medieval, Renaissance, and Victorian wand holders, all of which did one thing: held wands. And rather poorly, at that.
"And why do they need counting, anyway?" Borgin demanded. "It's only the category three and higher artifacts we need to account for in the ledger."
"I thought perhaps we could sell the bulk and reinvest in some more popular, slightly rarer items."
"Sell…?" Borgin's eyes widened. "No, no. We can't sell those. I need them." He scooped up the hands like a paranoid squirrel protecting a particularly tasty pile of nuts and threw them back into the box.
"Very well, sir," said Tom flatly, watching the man with narrowed eyes.
"It's not that I don't appreciate your initiative, Tom, but these are- well… we need them." He closed the box and sealed it shut with his wand, then picked it up and carried it back to the storeroom without another word.
Tom decided it was best not to ponder the reasons his boss might hoard Hands of Glory so obsessively. What a man did in his private time was his own business. But how nice it would be, he thought, if he were to just quit then and there and move on to bigger and better things, leaving Borgin and Burke to fend for themselves.
They'd probably be dead within a week.
At six o'clock he made to leave, but just as he opened the back door, a small owl flew in, landed on a shelf, and held out its leg rather arrogantly.
He removed a tiny scroll from the owl, which hooted rudely before it flew off, clearly offended by having to visit such an unsightly part of town. Well, that was poor customer service, he thought. Though, admittedly, the bird showed more personality than anyone he worked with.
Burke came out of nowhere and snatched the scroll from Tom's hand. "Been waitin' for that," he slurred, opening it roughly with fat fingers and squinting to read the small print. "Ah, Smith."
"I can go, sir," Tom offered, eager to avoid another day of Borgin's obsessive hoarding. "We've developed a good rapport-"
"Nah." Burke waved his hand. "No need to trouble yourself. I'll get this one. She'll have a few random heirlooms she wants to show off, I'm sure."
But it was written all over Burke's face: he and Smith had other business to attend to.
Feeling slightly nauseous, Tom retreated toward the door, but naturally, as if the universe were singling him out for torture, his path was blocked by Borgin.
"Before you go," he drawled, "we've just recieved another shipment in of carnivorous codices. Would you mind stocking before you leave? Otherwise they'll destroy the back room and, well... We'll probably end up with twice as many of them by the morning." He flashed a disgusting grin. "Like rabbits," he added.
It was becoming apparent - well, more like painfully, agonizingly obvious - that it was time for Tom to make a change. And so, as he opened the first box of eldritch book monsters that really had no reason for existing at all except to make his life utter hell, he decided that he would.
Dear Mister Borgin and Mister Burke,
Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from Borgin & Burke Alternative Magical Supply and Trade Company, LLP.
It has been an honor working with you both these past five years,
Well, that was a lie. He'd had to stop himself from murdering both of them on at least seven separate occasions and was still undecided about murdering them once he quit.
and I thank you for the opportunity to develop my career in the trade and study of rare items and artifacts.
Trade. Steal. Whatever.
Please keep in touch,
But really, don't.
and I wish you and your company continued success in the future.
He would not have cared if the whole place burned down right that second.
Sincerely,
Tom M. Riddle
He folded the parchment and set it aside. If all went well, he would give the letter to Borgin and bid good riddance to the shop. If not, he'd have to rethink his approach.
He pulled out another piece of parchment, dipped his quill in ink, then paused for a moment, thinking. He'd been up all night and only in the early hours of that morning had he made a decision. It was another brilliant strategy - one that would hopefully work better than his previous brilliant strategy. Yes, this made sense.
Dear Headmaster Dippet, he wrote.
Tom waited all day for a reply from Hogwarts, only half paying attention to what he was doing and largely ignoring Borgin's complaints about absolutely everything.
It was likely that the school had already found its lineup of teachers for that year, as it was now the middle of August. But he still thought it was worth a try, especially given the fact that the previous professor had just retired. Also, the shop had become so intolerable that the entire Alley burning to the ground in a mysterious explosion and Tom conveniently disappearing afterwards was becoming an increasingly likely scenario.
Burke returned from his (for lack of a better term) "client visit" that afternoon, donning a ridiculous smile and throwing a small box onto the counter.
"Successful acquisition, sir?" Tom asked.
"You could say that," he chuckled.
Tom gestured toward the box. "I meant in terms of artifacts, sir."
"Eh? Oh, nah. This was just a little something from Heppy. Some cup or other. I told her I'd get it appraised. Probably won't."
Tom wished more than anything that he could go back in time and kill himself before he'd ever started that conversation, and prayed he would never hear the word "Heppy" again.
There was a loud tapping at the front window. Burke was closest. He hobbled over to the door and let in a large barn owl that was clutching a small roll of parchment with the unmistakable Hogwarts seal upon it.
"That's for me," Tom said, grabbing the scroll before Burke had a chance to see it. He ripped it open hurriedly, and the first thing he noticed was a familiar curly script.
Mr Riddle,
We would be delighted to have you interview for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Unfortunately, Headmaster Dippet has taken ill, so I will be handling all administrative matters in his stead. I trust this will not be an issue. Please join me at ten o'clock on Tuesday morning for your interview here at the school.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Deputy Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dumbledore.
Tom seethed with rage. His plan had involved the careful manipulation of an old, nearly senile wizard that had no regrets, one foot in the grave, and had always thought the best of him. It did not include a contingency for dealing with the only person at the school - or anywhere - that he could not manipulate.
He grabbed a quill, turned the parchment over, and wrote his reply.
Dear Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore,
Thank you for your kind response. There is no need to trouble yourself, as I am sure you must be overwhelmed with responsibilities. I am more than happy to wait for Headmaster Dippet's return. Would next week be acceptable?
Regards,
Tom M. Riddle
He rolled up the paper, considered putting a curse on it, decided against it, then gave it back to the owl.
Sometime later, the owl returned with Dumbledore's reply:
Dear Mr Riddle,
No.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Acting Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
The truth about the Dark Arts was that the entire concept was a farce.
The Dark Arts did not exist. The term was a black label to be affixed to any and every type of magic that did not adhere to the moral and legal standards of whatever government or society was casting judgment upon it. In other words, it was used to describe anything people feared, or didn't understand, or thought unsightly, or simply felt shouldn't be spoken of in polite company.
This, above all, was the message Tom wanted to teach to the children of Hogwarts. He wanted to engender a newfound respect for magical power and to encourage students to discard the idea of "Dark" and "evil" magic. And, if he happened to pull from each class the best, brightest, and boldest students to become followers – his own small army of hearts and minds – then all the better.
Also, his strategic plan required access to the castle. Two birds, as they say.
He kept these things in mind as he prepared for his interview, which could go any number of ways, he knew, given the fact that it was to be conducted by a man who was capable of turning intense dislike into a radiant smile and who flitted between philosophical rambling and complex magical theory with ease, often within the same sentence.
He rose early on Tuesday, as the last thing he wanted to be was late. It was as much a part of his carefully cultivated professional persona as his rampant perfectionism that he was rarely late for anything. And he held little regard for those who did not respect the sanctity of predetermined schedules.
That being said, apparating the entire length of Britain was not a pleasant experience, and he'd failed to calculate into his schedule the ten or twenty minutes of disorientation that came with such a long trip. So, when he arrived at Hogsmeade, he was forced to take the path to the castle slowly.
There was no doubt in his mind that Dumbledore could have arranged for floo travel. As disgusting as it was, it certainly had an element of expediency compared with the alternatives. But Dumbledore would probably have preferred Tom to be a disheveled, disoriented interviewee, rather than a competent one.
The old caretaker met him at the door and ushered him inside. He was taken through the corridors and up the spiral staircase that led to Dippet's office. The caretaker was a man of few words, apparently, and Tom wondered if he might be a bit slow.
The man shut the door loudly behind him and Tom felt strangely trapped. He seemed to be alone. He meandered over to the large, ornate desk used by countless headmasters over the years and noticed that a small chair had been placed on the other side of it: his interrogation seat. He sat and waited.
And waited.
After about twenty minutes the door opened and Dumbledore strode in, casual as ever, as if he were fashionably early instead of offensively wasting his interviewee's time just to make a power play.
"Ah, Tom," he said, a pleasant and inherently mocking smile on his face. "Welcome back to Hogwarts."
Tom stood and they shook hands. It was awkward. Not "I hate you and you hate me" awkward, but more a sort of "let the games begin" awkward.
Dumbledore took a seat behind Dippet's desk and opened a folder containing several short pieces of parchment. He reviewed the contents slowly while Tom sat in unbearable silence. Finally, after reading the entirety of the folder, Dumbledore removed his glasses and peered across the desk at Tom like an underweight, judgmental Father Christmas.
"I see you've added a considerable amount of experience to your resumé since it was last submitted," he said.
"Yes, sir, I've held the same position for five years." Since you ruined my chances of coming here the first time, he thought to himself.
"And did you find your time there useful?"
"Useful?"
"Useful," Dumbledore repeated.
Tom knew what he meant but pretended he didn't. "Well, sir, I found it educational."
Silence.
After a while Dumbledore said, "And you've continued to submit frequent articles to respected research journals, as well."
"I thought it best to remain active in the academic community." Those articles, in addition to regular nefarious planning sessions with his associates, were the only things that kept him sane while he worked for a pittance seven days a week.
"And what about your other activities outside of Borgin and Burke's?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes boring into Tom's skull - trying, he knew, to see into his mind through sheer force of will.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir." I know exactly what you mean, and you better not-
"I have it on good authority that you have been associating with individuals of questionable notoriety. You must understand, Tom, that as a teacher at this school you will be working with children. I cannot hire anyone until I am sure that doing so does not compromise their safety in any way."
He knew, of course, that Dumbledore had been tracking his movements ever since he had left Hogwarts, perhaps even before that. But try as he might, he was never able to figure out how the old man managed to do it, or who was working for him.
At any rate, Dumbledore could not be charmed, manipulated, or intimidated. Logic was the appropriate weapon of choice. Thus, Tom decided to use logic to full effect.
"Sir," he said, measuring his words carefully, "my acquaintances and I have never been accused of any impropriety or criminal activity that I am aware of. If we are all to be judged solely on the basis of the reputations others assign to us - over which we have little control - then I'm afraid you will be hard-pressed to find anyone saintly enough to fill this position."
It was a bold statement. A calculated risk, especially for a job interview. Dumbledore sat back in his chair, his face unreadable.
Tom did not look away. No matter how correct Dumbledore was to suspect him, the argument he'd presented was too solid to refute.
Regardless, he began to run through contingency plans in his head, including (but not limited to) killing Dumbledore then and there, and/or cursing the entire staff on his way out.
Well, they weren't contingency plans so much as tantrums. But he was ready.
"You're right," Dumbledore said after a long, awkward silence.
"Sorry?" The word tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"You're right. And well said. I'm most unlikely to find anyone as knowledgeable on the subject as you are, anyway. Who am I to deny the students here the best education available?"
Tom was a brilliant strategist, but even he could not discern what could have motivated Dumbledore to accept his argument so willingly.
"Welcome aboard, Professor," Dumbledore said, standing and holding out his hand. There was a smile on his face - a Dumbledore smile: a duplicitous, foreboding smirk that Tom did not like at all.
They shook on it.