24 December 1956

Tom Riddle was a strategist. He pursued his goals over a long period of time, even if no one else recognised the connection between his current actions and his visions, they were still there. Contrary to what fine society – what his Death Eaters – thought, he had not lost sight of them. The ten-year stay at Borgin & Burke's was merely a means to an end.

He didn't know why Borgin & Burke's had to be open on Christmas Eve. The likelihood that a customer would snow in was low, even lower than the likelihood that it would actually snow. He would have terribly little to do all day, because he had already done the work that needed to be done in the shop over the last few days. The receipts had been sorted, the bookkeeping completed, the displays cleared of dust and the greeting cards sent to regular customers. Now he stood behind the counter and twiddled his thumbs. He was almost pleased that the magic cuckoo clock announced a visitor with a wild screech.

With a steaming mug of coffee, he strode into the sales room and made a mental note to wring the cuckoo's neck. He would exchange it for a sparrow, which would have to be in everyone's interest. When he saw Mr Burke coming towards him, long into the obligatory salvo of greetings mixed with a review of the past year and the weather forecast, he groaned inwardly. He was bored, yes, but he wasn't that desperate. Before making small talk with Burke, he preferred to stare holes in the air.

Mr Burke wiped his bulbous nose. "Tom, my friend, you have done an excellent job. If you keep this up, you'll get a raise with a kiss on your hand."

"I am happy about the appreciation." For two years he had been spouting the same tones, but never had they been followed by corresponding action. Tom cared little for it at times. If it was about money or a storybook career, he would never have started in this lousy outfit. Emphatically slowly and casually, so that it did not attract old Burke's attention, he slid an antique tome back under the drawer of the counter.

"Next year will be excellent," predicted Burke, who seemed to be able to see into the future. A rare quality even among witches and wizards. "We've already got the next big Grindylow on the hook. Do you want to guess who I'm talking about?"

Tom had no such need.

"Hepzibah Smith," Burke blurted out like a balloon. "The heiress of Helga Hufflepuff."

Of the possible four founders, she was the most boring, but since it was not every day that one met an heir, this information had some news value. Even for Tom, who, to meet an heir of the founders, only needed to look in the mirror. In the meantime, he had revealed his origins to some Death Eaters from his inner circle, which led to a wave of adoration and awe.

"What does she want from us? Shall we look for something for her?" asked Tom.

"On the contrary, you will be able to make sales calls."

A speciality of his. He could buy precious artefacts at ridiculous prices and still make his business partners feel good about it. However, the galleons won never went into his pocket; despite all his negotiating skills, the lowest offer still exceeded Tom's annual salary. There was no way for him to work himself rich.

"Have you made an appointment yet?", Tom probed further.

Burke shook his head. "Not yet, but you can write to her right away. She is an old lady, her grandchildren rarely visit her. She will be pleased to receive a nice letter from you. In fact, she specifically asked for you when she made contact with me, because of your good references." Burke winked at him mischievously. "I don't know what you did to a friend of hers to put her under such a spell, but it worked. Do it again."

Tom would be careful not to tell old, conservative Burke the truth. It would get him into too much unnecessary trouble. The old shopkeeper would chafe at it, but in the end he wouldn't care as long as the coin jumped.

The cuckoo screeched again with the euphony of an entire orchestra in the pool, but at the same volume. Burke and Tom were snapped out of their conversation and were immediately on the spot. For, if anything, the antique shop had only one rule: the customer is king.

Between the shop window with a dancing doll, mediaeval swords and porcelain wares and the dusty shelves of potion ingredients – all to keep up the appearance of legality – stood an unassuming, black-haired man. A young one, admittedly, with dark, watchful eyes.

It had been eleven years since their last conversation -. the one that had ended in a medium disaster – but Tom didn't need a second to match the silhouette, not even knowing he had been in the country yet.

Antonin Dolohov had a box as big as a shoe carton tucked under his arm. With elated steps dripping with self-assurance, he walked up to the counter and greeted them with a curt nod of his head.

Tom did the same, while Burke switched into another salvo of greetings. His smile seemed completely fake, so contrived that even a blind man could have recognised it, but unfortunately the waste of skin, hair and whiskey still signed Tom's pay slip. He complied with an apologetic smile, and since Dolohov's gaze was steadily on him, he also knew it was met with appreciation.

"I would like to sell this chess set," Dolohov opened. "It's a Russian one, hand-painted, several hundred years old."

Galleon signs appeared in Burke's eyes and he examined the wooden figures with the meticulousness of a surgeon. "It's not magical, so I'm afraid I can't give you four figures. But a higher three-figure figure is in."

Antonin nodded and looked with difficulty. His gaze flitted over Tom's stature and his mouth opened and closed. What was there to say? Was he trying to pretend that they knew each other somehow?

Tom would deny any acquaintance. They had exchanged a few sentences some years ago, nothing more. The fact that he still remembered the evening as if it had been yesterday – without ever having used a Pensieve or any other precious toy – he firmly repressed. But in order not to spend the next few minutes jumping from one embarrassment to the next, he had to take charge of the conversation.

"Why are you selling this rarity?" asked Tom. Surely he had enough money now that he had access to his parents' inheritance and owned a large house to store all the clutter.

Antonin shrugged, which made Tom wonder. "I don't want to see it any more."

"Bad memories?"

"I don't want to talk about it either." His Russian accent had always been heavy. One sentence and you knew who you were looking at, even if you hadn't had a picture of Antonin before, back at Hogwarts. He still rolled the R and the pronunciation of the A had become even darker.

Tom immediately caught a scowl from Mr. Burke, who found Tom's harsh demand hostile to customers.

"You'd be better off in a Muggle antique shop with a Muggle chess set," Tom pressed out anyway, long aware that Antonin had not come with sales intentions. His presentation was flimsy, to put it nicely. Burke's elbow immediately landed between his ribs.

"Not as long as there is the Statute of Secrecy," Antonin said.

"You'd do well to come here," Burke slurred, pulling Tom into the back room. "Tom, I must ask you. Where are your manners? You can't turn a customer away."

"I'm just checking his history around his motivation to sell."

"Better check the chess set. Is it a replica?"

"I don't think so." Antonin was swimming in money, so he could afford an expensive lure. Tom, however, would not let himself be reduced to a hungry fish.

"I agree. We'll make a nice profit on it."

"Who do you intend to sell it to? The clientele interested in a Muggle chess set won't come to this shop." Muggle-borns and half-breeds gave the Knockturn Alley a wide berth unless they were involved in crooked dealings themselves, and crooks had no eye for art. He saw another shelf warmer, but Burke only saw Antonin's willingness to give up the piece for a ridiculous price.

"You're muggle-affin, you'll find a buyer."

A grunt broke from Tom's throat. Muggelaffin, that was an impertinence in front of the master! But he let it pass, for Burke only the Galleons counted. He was an easily calculated man, but an impertinent one to boot. "All right, leave it to me. Don't you have another family party to attend to?"

Burke growled. "You wouldn't believe how much I'd like to trade places with you." He grabbed his bag and was already halfway down the chimney. "Thanks, Tom, the next raise is coming, I promise."

Tom strode back into the salesroom, relieved. One problem had been banished. Now he could turn his attention to Antonin Dolohov.

When he entered, Dolohov was juggling magical eyes that should have been in a tightly sealed jar on the highest shelf and in the far corner. Caught off guard, he looked around and laughed sheepishly. "Hehe, Tom."

One eye fell to the floor and was crushed by gravity like a raw egg. "Oh!" Antonin bent down for it.

"Leave it alone, please, it's fine," Tom said, leaning against the counter. "It's not for sale with a dent like that."

"I can pay for the damage."

"I don't doubt it, but it's not necessary." In the ten years he had been working in this shop, no one had ever asked about the eyes. He wasn't even sure any more whether the inventory list still recorded them.

"Very kind of you. Tell me, how are you?"

Tom hated liars. Antonin reeked of intrigue.

"Good. You ?"

Antonin's posture tensed. He leaned forward. "No... no, it doesn't work like that. Say, how are you really doing? I'd like an honest answer, and if that's not possible, at least a more detailed lie."

Tom would not let himself be pushed into a corner. He mastered the game of intimidation in his sleep. "I don't see that it's any of your business, Dolohov." To sound threatening, he didn't even have to raise his voice.

He could see goose bumps spreading over Antonin's upper arms. Grumbling, he pushed himself off the counter and took his coffee cup in his hands.

"Do we really have to be on second-name terms? I know we're not friends and I'm not part of your select circle, in fact: we haven't spoken in over ten years, but I regret that. Our last conversation gave me a sense of familiarity, at least enough that we wouldn't have to act like strangers now."

"Best let's forget our last conversation," Tom said. He really didn't want to waste another thought on that strange night on the Astronomy Tower. "I am now speaking to you as a potential business partner."

"Wouldn't it be polite to behave like friends? At least for show? Don't I get a friendship discount?"

"You want to sell something. I would know nothing of my trade if I were to offer you a discount."

"And what about small talk? Isn't that good for business?" Antonin's face was honestly confused.

"There is no time for that."

"Do you have somewhere to be?"

"No. Neither do you, apparently."

"Then I don't understand why you want to get rid of me."

With a clang, Tom put the cup down again. Antonin winced, which made him grin for the first time all day. His counterpart looked even more confused. "You can tell me a lot of things, but for sure you are not a customer here."

"Then what is this?" Antonin pointed to the chess sets.

Tom knew that Antonin wanted something from him – from him personally. He was in distress and had thought back to the kiss and now he somehow imagined that he was entitled to Tom's attention because of it. But Tom didn't want that. Somehow he would sweep it under the rug and if he had to dig a grave to do it – even if it was a pity about the sublime Russian. "You haven't been here once in ten years, you can't tell me that you are now going to this establishment to hawk these rarities far below their value. And of all the items, you pick a chessboard! Obviously you are concerned about my person. What do you want from me?"

Antonin folded his arms in front of his chest. "I wanted to know how you were."

"So you admit that you came here under a pretext?"

"For you."

Tom shrieked because he had choked on his coffee out of fright. He had not expected such honesty.

"Can I have a cup too?" asked Antonin. "Then we can continue the conversation under more pleasant circumstances."

"You are not a customer and I have no intention of continuing this conversation."

Angrily, Antonin gathered up the pieces. His hands shook as he folded up the old chessboard. "I understand," he pressed out, but his jaws ground on each other so much that he swallowed syllables. Knuckles protruded as he clenched his hands. Before Tom knew what was happening, Antonin lashed out and hit the counter with force. The wood vibrated, the pieces danced and a pawn fell over the edge.

"Careful!" growled Tom. Violent outbursts could not scare him.

Antonin stared at him defiantly. Then he grabbed the queen and broke her thin neck. Splinters had to prick his fingertips, but he grabbed the king and did it again.

"You don't impress me," Tom hissed. "Get out."

For a second they both stood still and watched the opponent. Then Antonin jumped around and stomped towards the exit. He left the chess set lying unnoticed, it had also dropped drastically in value.

"Where did you get the idea to come here after ten years of silence anyway?" snorted Tom, glaring after him.

Antonin turned around on the doorstep. "You didn't get in touch either! What are you blaming me for?"

"Whatever you wanted now: I will not be taken advantage of!"

"I have to disagree." Antonin let out a spiteful laugh. "And Burke and the Malfoys and the Blacks and all the other fucking purebloods too, I'm sure."

Tom stared for a while longer at the empty spot where Antonin had stamped his foot on the ground and then disappeared. What the hell!