Harry blinked at Nott pried apart one of his white-knuckled fists, and stuck a sunshine-colored tulip in between his fingers.

"It was getting dark in here!" Nott protested when Harry gave him a questionable glance. "So, I decided to pluck a little something from your little bouquet of flowers over there." The brown-haired man jabbed a thumb behind him, an unsettling smile resting upon his lips.

Harry's brows furrowed, and he toyed with a yellow petal. "I didn't purchase any tulips."

Nott's grin widened—showcasing a row of gleaming teeth. His head slowly turned upwards, and he handed an appreciative look at the ceiling. "Ah. Must've been the weather."

Harry followed his gaze.

Daffodils swung from the ceiling from their stems, roses' petals fluttered gently to the ground—serving as a makeshift carpet—and lilies shone almost as bright as the stars outside. The mouth of the daisies spat pollen into Nott's eyes, prompting the man to swipe the back of his hand across his eyebrow. Meanwhile, Harry refused to tear his eyes away from the sight. A gentle hand touched his shoulder, and his eyelids fluttered.

Riddle's lips tilted in amusement. "My name is Tom Riddle," he spoke, outstretching a pale hand.

Harry eyed the invitation with suspicion, looping a finger around the lapel of his overcoat. After a brief pause, he stuck out his own hand, fighting the shiver that threatened to spread down his spine when his fingers entwined with Riddle's. "Pleasure," said Harry, letting his arm swing limply to his side.

"You can call me Riddle." The man flashed him a coy smile.

"Riddle," Harry muttered to himself, testing the surname on the tip of his tongue. "Your name is Riddle. Like . . . like a riddle."

"Yes," Riddle said slowly, occupying himself by flimsily twisting the golden band around his middle finger. He drew closer to Harry, observing the boy's every expression.

In the fair distance, Nott held a hand over his mouth to conceal his delight. Harry had brought up a point to ponder. Part of Nott wished that Riddle wasn't able to solve a riddle—for the irony would've been one to match. But, Riddle's past school grades and excellences begged to differ, much to his disappointment.

Riddle suddenly blinked, a subtle frown curling at the corners of his mouth.

Nott drew Riddle away from Harry, seating him back down into his desk chair. Nott shot Harry a wink. "Forgive Riddle for the constipated look on his face. He gets like that when God gives him deep thoughts."

Harry gave him a wary look, before shrugging, brushing the sentence off like a stray bumblebee that had wandered too far off in a rose garden. "I'm used to it. My cousin wears a similar expression every time I visit my Aunt and Uncle's house for the holidays." He smiled bitterly. "But, I must say that not every thought comes from God. Now, why did you bring me here? I suppose that neither of us will get what we want if I walk out of the door right now."

Although the statement was directed towards both men, only Riddle responded. "You are correct," Riddle agreed quietly. "Nott has the habit of getting distracted easily."

Harry's attention flickered over to where Nott was rolling his eyes, twisting a chocolate-colored curl around his index finger. "You should be scolding Potter, not me. For my beauty will never match up to His Highness's level of attraction." Nott ran his tongue over his lips, eyes glittering maliciously. "Isn't that right, Potter?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, I didn't have feelings for you, Nott."

Nott only scoffed. "And when did I ever say that I had feelings for you, Potter?"

"Literally five seconds ago."

Nott waved him off lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. "Eh, that's just the charming aroma that radiates off of my sparkling personality. Did you not notice?" He frowned. "Actually, that makes me quite upset. I spend hours on my hair every morning just to gain Harry Potter's approval."

Harry nodded his head in sincere understanding. "I see. But, autographs aren't until September—and it's June. So I'm afraid that we'll have to reschedule."

The facade that Nott had managed to hold up instantly evaporated. "Autographs? Autographs? As if! I wasn't as obsessed with you as Draco was!"

Harry's face split into a thousand pieces, confusion flooding his brain. "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly. Malfoy was obsessed with me?"

Nott shuddered. "I went over to the Malfoy Manor for a ball in our third year," he stated grimly. "At the end of the house tour was Draco's room. I bet you could imagine my surprise when I stepped into a world of Harry Potter articles, newsletters, signed pictures, posters, and a collection of insults that he had rehearsed to tell you in the fourth year."

Harry grimaced. "I don't know whether to be concerned or amused."

"Preferably neither." Riddle's cool voice broke the rising tension, as he crossed one leg over the other. "Now, Mr. Potter," he stated, with a tone that indicated that he was switching the subject. "The Death Eaters didn't form until a few years ago. Is it possible that a different group could've been capable of murder?"

"I'm not talking about the past," Harry snapped, smacking away a daffodil as it fell in his hair. "The past, present, and future are three different concepts of time that many cannot grasp. Why did you assume that I was talking about the past? Which is, in all needs, incorrect. The Death Eaters' purpose is to solely manipulate those around them, and establish a set of twisted rules."

Nott blinked, jumping back into the conversation. "Apologies, but would you mind repeating that? I didn't understand a word you just said. A few minutes ago, you told Riddle that they were capable of murder twenty-two years ago, but now you mean twenty-two years in the future? I speak English here, not Trelawney."

Harry tipped his head back in laughter at the mention of the professor. In his school years back at Langdale—Professor Trelawney taught the subject of reading and writing—and only seemed to splutter out sentences of nonsense.

Harry's cheeriness faded. "Well, I suppose that you're right. What I'm trying to say, is that time is my friend, not my enemy. Murder will always exist, no matter how hard we try to vanquish it from the world. Perhaps the Death Eaters weren't formed yet—but a few members were certainly alive."

"I thought celebrities were supposed to be stupid," Nott interjected poshly, relentlessly picking at his nails. He locked gazes with Harry, mouth quirking up at the side. "But, I wouldn't mind fancying myself Harry Potter."

Riddle leaned closer, adding to Nott's words. "Such a shame," he clicked his tongue, "a man with so much potential, turning down an exquisite offer all for the sake of a so-called murder."

My parents' deaths were no accident, Harry tried to spit, but a different phrase poured out instead. "You didn't give me an offer."

Riddle gave him a sloppy smirk. "Precisely. That's why I'd recommend you listen." Harry dropped himself in the chair that Riddle had sat in earlier, falling in the most ungraceful way possible. Riddle didn't seem to notice, clapping his hands together. "I think it's time we hold a history class for you, Mr. Potter. Consider this . . . a job offer. A proposition that comes with many benefits if you accept it, and numerous consequences if you decline."

Harry's tongue ran over his teeth. "Interviews are required. Besides, I don't even know what you are asking me to apply for. You don't even know anything about me."

Riddle smiled widely. "Oh, I know plenty about you."

"Name something," Harry blurted, waiting for Riddle to be rendered speechless.

As if Riddle couldn't define whether Harry was prey or predator, he shifted from one foot to another, a cold gleam in his eyes. "I know that you take your tea with sugar every morning. Your friends tease you about it constantly—that the famous Harry Potter melts at the tiny specks of sweetness in his life. I know that you attended school at the boarding school, Langdale, in West London. You wanted to be known for something other than the fame you acquired in your primary years, so you became an illusionist's apprentice. I know that you just visited a flower shop. More importantly, a flower shop that will help you tend to the community garden at your flat."

The words thrown towards Harry's way caused him to freeze in his tracks before his eyes clouded over in a storm of shadows. "Nott could've told you all of that. And without Nott, you know nothing. Tell me something that only I would know. Not Nott, not anyone else, just me."

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Is that to be considered a challenge?"

Harry smirked. "I'd prefer it to be referred to as a proposition."

Nott whistled, and Harry jumped. At the raven-haired man's sudden reaction, Nott feigned a hurt expression. "Already forgot that I'm here? Am I just that forgettable?"

"Yes," Harry agreed flatly.

A million emotions swirled beneath Nott's gaze, yet he somehow managed to keep his composure.

"Clearly, I'm not—seeing the fact that you remembered me at first glance when we bumped into each other yesterday, Potter. What do you have to say to that?"

Harry pretended he was thinking over what Nott had said, massaging his chiseled chin. "Actually, I didn't recognize you at first glance. If I need to refresh your memory, I'll remind you that it took a couple of racks of my brain for me to remember who you were."

Nott mumbled profanities underneath his breath, nudging his head in Riddle's direction. When he spoke, his tone sounded sour. "Continue."

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose in what Harry decided was from annoyance. "As I was saying, interviews are not needed. You have everything I want. The Death Eaters are focused on a few select targets," his stare flickered towards Harry, "and that is certainly not murder, I can assure you. I'm offering you to join my ranks. It would be an honor to have Harry Potter work for me."

Harry's heart sank into his stomach.

Oh.

Riddle only wanted him for fame, just like everyone else.

And yet, why was Riddle so desperate to have him become a Death Eater? From the daily rumors that spread throughout London, it seemed as though trying to earn a spot in their ranks was like running for the Minister. Highly possible to run for election, but highly impossible that you'd be elected. Besides, Harry already had a job that he was perfectly content with. Although disappointment rained down upon him constantly, he was happy working for Dumbledore.

He enjoyed the feeling of impossibility in his hands—and he wasn't sure that Riddle could give that to him.

He swiped his glasses off of his face, using the hem of his shirt to rub off foggy smears. "My deepest apologies, but I am not interested."

Riddle's eyes darkened, and he scanned Harry hungrily. Eagerly. "What do you mean you're not interested?"

"I already have a job," Harry explained, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I'm busy. I'm twenty-two, and I don't have a family. I need to settle down a bit before I can think about what I want to do with my life. Becoming a Death Eater would be too much for me right now."

Nott inhaled sharply. "Potter," he warned softly, "you need to think about the consequences of what you are saying. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer."

"Exactly!" Harry cried, throwing his hands up into the air. "It's big. And I don't want to do big right now. I don't even know how I'd contribute. I had terrible grades in school, I have no social connections whatsoever, my speaking skills are awful—and I'd only cause more hurt than help."

"Oh, please," Nott scoffed, swiping a curl out of his eye. "You have plenty of social connections. What about your little goblins in America?"

Harry exploded, knocking Nott against the wall with his shoulder. "For the last time, Ron and Hermione are not goblins! And if I have so many social connections, then name another friend I have!" When Nott was stunned speechless, rage sprinkled itself across Harry's line of sight. "you see? I'm not fit for this—and I already refused—so, good day." He tightened the knot of his tie into a stranglehold around his neck, before swinging out of the backroom, and stomping towards his bouquet of violas.

Nott was at his side in an instant. "Potter," he pleaded, tugging on Harry's suit sleeve. "Potter! Think about this!"

"I didn't come here to argue," Harry said icily. "I came here to buy flowers. If you are interested in flowers, there are many floral shops scattered across St. Matthew's. I'd suggest you don't trouble mine."

"What do you mean don't trouble yours? Mother Nature doesn't belong to you!"

"I bought them. They're mine. And I'm sure that you can easily find another recruit just as fast as you found me. Now, I would say, 'I hope I see you again soon,' but that would be a lie because I never want to see your face again. And I'm not a liar." He stiffly nodded his head in a brief goodbye, before flying out the door.

"Damn," Nott cursed, dread pooling in his stomach as he watched Harry Potter stomp angrily down Knockturn Alley.

"What did you do?" A demanding presence swept to his side.

Nott squeezed his eyes shut in a poor attempt at making the shadow disappear. "I'm sorry, My Lord."

Riddle looked surprisingly calm—too calm—gaze fixated on Nott. He glanced around, no doubt looking for Mr. Burke, before Nott caught a glimpse of the flash of silver in Riddle's hand.

"No," Nott gasped, stumbling back. "No, no, no."

"'No' what, Nott?" Riddle asked quietly. "You did this to yourself." He raised the blade to Nott's frantically beating heart.

And Theodore Nott knew no more.


Harry's knees were smothered in streaks of dark soil, the hint of blood welling on the pad of his thumb.

He drew out a quiet curse, desperately fumbling to find a part of his body that wasn't covered in dirt, and wouldn't infect the aftermath of the rose that had pricked him.

Arabella had stepped out of her house and offered him another silver platter of brownies, this time, yet Harry had politely declined. Over the course of the past hour, his mind had become too preoccupied with the thoughts of his discussion with Riddle and Nott in Borgin and Burkes

"Potter, you need to think about the consequences of what you are saying. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.

Harry had stuck his invisible middle finger in Nott's face and still hadn't come to the course of regretting it. And yes, a wave of guilt had washed over him at the pleading look on Nott's face, but the other half of his heart was filled to the brim with satisfaction. He assumed from the dark look on Riddle's face that not many turned away from a proposition like that. But like how he had informed the two men of the matter, Harry felt content about what place he was currently in—and wasn't planning on taking the left fork in the road.

Harry's fingers threaded through the garden, rocks wedging themselves underneath his nails, and slacks stained an unpleasant color. He wiped his hands on his pants, grabbing ahold of the violas that were sprawled on the grass beside him. Harry quickly set back to work, unwrapping the midnight flowers from the newspaper, and sticking them into pinkie-sized holes.

A brilliant sunset exploded across the sky—pursuing the galaxies to spiral down an endless tunnel of envy, and turn to the stars for vengeance.

Harry swiped his forefinger across his sweaty brow, shins digging into the rough bricks below him, and neck brushing against the coiled spikes of the garden fence every time he leaned over to plant another viola. When he had leaned back for the final time, he was a mess of crimson, petals, and dirt, but he felt the most relieved that he had for a while.

With a clump of newspapers in his right hand, and his crooked glasses in his left, he strode through the main entrance of Forest Flats.

Lanterns lazily swung from the stone wall, prompting Harry to keep his eyes peeled for any jagged shadows of the short, although the dawning sun still shone brightly outside. The cool metal of the staircase railing was harsh and frigid to Harry's skin—making him shove his hands in his pocket. His legs burst into short sparks of flames by the time he had made it up to the fifth floor, yet he forced himself to stick his apartment key into the golden lock's mouth.

Harry dumped the newspaper in the nearest trash bin the second he entered his flat, sliding his overcoat off of his shoulders. He bent down to unlace his shoes—sending them flying into the fragile closet wall with a swift kick of his foot. He walked into the bathroom, twisting on the handle, and scrubbed his hands so furiously that they were a painful shade of red when he dried them off with a soft towel.

His stomach had remained as quiet as a mouse throughout the night, so Harry set himself on considering a light meal. He recalled spotting a small cafe from yesterday's adventure. For a split second—Harry hesitated, wondering if Junia would accept an invitation to dine with him—before chewing on his lower lip. He was the furthest thing away from being romantically interested in Junia, but he couldn't deny the way his heart had swelled in happiness when his brain had automatically declared them friends.

He slipped on a wrinkled suit, setting himself to rubbing the dust off of his polished shoes. He stuffed his key into his overcoat pocket the moment he stepped out of his apartment, fingers fiddling with the spare pence he had found gleaming atop the kitchen countertop. A rosy pink flushed up his neck when he tossed the coin up into the air—and it clattered to the ground with a tinkling sound

The grand fountain he passed sprayed a fog of mist his way, prompting him to brush droplets of water off of his suit. Harry ran a hand through his hair, trying his best to tame the tangled strands. He wished he could blame London's weather for his disheveled appearance, but he secretly knew that it was because he didn't put any effort into styling his hair.

The street lamps littering St. Matthew's glowed just as brightly as they did the night before, and Harry could make out the distant figures of women parading down the cobblestone street with men in their arms. He craned his neck around to see what all of the excitement was about before his cheeriness deflated into a pitiful balloon at the bottom of his stomach.

A long line trailed down to the road to the cafe that Harry was planning on dining at, and his head shook in disbelief. He didn't find it surprising that the one night he had decided to go to the cafe, the whole world decided to show up at its front door.

He massaged his temple, switching directions with a sharp turn, and headed towards Junia's flower shop instead. Perhaps once he returned the business would have cleared, and there would be a few spare tables.

You're famous, Harry, his mind hissed. Celebrities come first. I'm sure the chef would be deliciously divined to find out that his idol chose to come to his cafe.

Harry quickly stuffed his thoughts into a locked chest. He couldn't help the whirlwind of guilt that swept over him every time his brain blurted a phrase like that. Harry wasn't even sure that he deserved his fame. The only title he had earned was the mysterious Boy-Who-Lived, whose parents were murdered in an awful house fire, yet baby Harry managed to remain alive.

He paused in front of the flower shop, cupping his hands around the glass of the windows and peering inside. When something slammed against the exterior of the store, he jolted in shock—nearly toppling over.

Junia had her hands placed on her hips, gazing down at him in amusement. "You know, there's a sign right there that says the shop's open until eight." She jabbed a finger in the direction of the door, where indeed, there was a sign.

Harry reddened upon the sight.

Junia's face held her facade of disappointment for a few more seconds before recognition flickered across her expression. "Oh, Harry! How's that kit working for you? Have you tended to your garden yet? I'd love to take a look at it sometime. I told my mother all about it, and she was positively impressed.

Harry winced, still in the stage of recovering from the surprise of Junia's abrupt entrance. "Er, yeah. It's alright, I think. I mean . . . Brilliant. Thanks. Um, I was curious? About something, you know? Cause we can all be curious about something." He ceased his rambling for a split second. "Sorry. Would you want to attend dinner with me tonight? I totally understand if you're busy, but since we're friends, I thought that it'd be nice too . . . You know . . . Have dinner?

Junia's head tilted slightly to the left. There was a brief moment where Harry thought his legs were going to fold underneath him and shatter into a million pieces before the girl rolled her eyes, and hooked her elbow around his. "I'd love to.

He blinked slowly. "What?

Harry couldn't help but wonder what had happened to Junia over the course of his disappearance. All of her childish glee had seemed to fade, and all that was left was a sparkling delight. As he led her down the sidewalk, Junia took in every hazy shadow the street lamps cast across the street, stopped in front of a crowd to lean down and sniff a daisy, and asked Harry how his day had been.

Harry meanwhile, was choked. It felt as if a ghost hand had slithered its way down his throat, squeezing until no more words were selected. He awkwardly muttered a one-word answer, waving her on with a loopy smile. He was nearly on the verge of racing back to Borgin and Burkes to buy a stone mask to wear permanently. He didn't mind when they watched the dancing darkness, he didn't mind when they inhaled the scent of a cluster of daisies, but he certainly did mind when she asked how he was.

He dug for a quill, unashamedly pulling Junia towards the front of the cafe line. The waiter's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he held the writing utensil out in front of him.

"Harry Potter. Pleasure to meet you. We were hoping for a table of two," he stated flatly.

Junia snorted, glancing down at the quill. "What's that for?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Harry gave her an uncertain grin as the waiter giddily brought them inside the restaurant. "In case I need more leverage.

He basked in the hearty laugh that Junia let out a hearty laugh, smugness curling at the corners of her lips when she slid into a white booth. "Ah, an autograph. I never expected you to be one to take everything for granted, Harry.

He raised a feathered brow. "Trust me, I usually don't. But when negative situations arise, things have to be done.

The waiter immediately slammed a photo of Harry on the table as soon as he had gotten himself situated, and Harry quickly scribbled down an unreadable signature. He softly thanked the waiter as two menus were placed in front of them, before watching in amusement as the man skipped off into the distance, showing off the signed picture of Harry Potter like a shiny trophy.

"So, you wanted to hear about the garden?" Harry asked, slicing a knife through the growing tension.

Junia relaxed visibly. "Enough about plants," she declared, sending a shiver of irony to cradle Harry's spine. "I'd like to hear more about you. Any family? Friends?" She drew closer and winked. "Secret lovers?"

Harry choked on his water, excusing himself as he coughed furiously. "Secret lovers?"

Junia smirked devilishly. "Oh, don't deny it. I saw how close you got with that man outside of my shop the other day. One could practically feel the love in the air."

Harry's voice rose another three octaves. "Nott?"

The girl perked up, mumbling something to herself before speaking up. "Harry Nott. I adore that name!"

"Stop, stop! I don't have a crush on Nott! The only reason he was even . . . Doing that to me, was because he was trying to convince me to let him tour me around a shop. Like any sane person, I tried to decline—but before I could, I was already stepping inside. Besides, Nott is the furthest from liking me. If it was anyone, it'd be Riddle."

Junia flew into a state of dreaminess once more. "Harry Riddle."

"Junia!" Harry protested, flipping the subject back to the original topic. "The only people who I'm really close with are a girl named Hermione, and a boy named Ron. They both attended school with me at Langdale, and not long after graduation they got married. Hermione is currently in America trying to land a job in New York, and her interview was just this morning. And Ron has quite a large family, so it's always fun to spend the holidays with him. My parents died when I was a baby, so I stayed with my aunt and uncle throughout my years. They don't like me that much." His lips twisted down into a frown. "They constantly remind me that fame is not everything in life, although I didn't really try to become famous. You know?"

Junia nodded in understanding. "Most of the time, unexpected things are forced upon us. Did you say that you went to Langdale? How were your studies there?" I've seen it mentioned in the Daily Prophet a few times, but my mother couldn't afford to send me to a far-away boarding school, so I went to a local one."

Harry graciously thanked the waiter when a mug of steaming tea was placed in front of him. "Oh, really? Were the people nice?"

Junia smiled sadly. "Very much so. Ever since I was a child, I've been passionate about taking over my mother's flower shop. A few times I got bullied for it as a kid. But the girls always adored me, I suppose that's a plus. Now, what about your garden?"

Harry fought the grimace that threatened to slip out. "The roses hated me." He scooted closer to her, displaying the dull scars that the thorns had left behind. "But, it was nice. I managed to plant all of the violas, and they look surprisingly pretty."

"Don't come back running to me when you start to dislike them," Junia warned.

"Honestly?" Harry continued. "They might be one of the best flowers I've ever seen. It's like seeing a white butterfly pass by. Everyone only wants to look at the ones that have magnificent colors. But, when you let yourself delve into the boring things on Earth, you find yourself more greatly appreciating the beauty. There is nothing on this planet that doesn't hold a single sense of wonder."

Junia rested her cheek on the palm of her hand. "I get that. Only a fool would say that a thorn doesn't look beautiful."

Harry scowled down at his scabbed thumb. "Then I must be a fool—because I will be avoiding roses from now on. Only the pretty ones seem to bite."

The redhead smothered down her patterned skirt. She patted down her hair—which was twisted into an elaborate updo—and her brown eyes sparkled with intrigue. "You are not the only fool here, Harry. Plenty of us has gotten stung by a flower before."

"Stung by a flower," Harry grumbled, taking a delicate sip of his tea.

The rest of the evening flew by in a whisk of cakes, mint tea, and chatter. After Harry had dropped Junia back off at her flower shop, she had given him a not-so-subtle wave, drawing excessive attention from the surrounding onlookers.

Harry had cheerily begun the venture back to his flat, without a clue of what was about to hit him.