A/N: :D Hey everyone! Well, here's chapter three. Hope you all enjoy it, and please remember to REVIEW! I'll give you candy if you do ;D
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter... or Draco Malfoy or the Weasley twins... (dammit ;-; ) J.K. Rowling owns it all, the lucky woman :P
Needless to say, when Tom arrived back at the shop, he was outraged. He stormed up to Borgin in a calm fury. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were flashing and burning. Borgin looked up at him, his brow creasing. He didn't fancy the look on Tom's face. Judging by his lack of goblin-made goods, the bargain had not gone as planned.
Tom scowled, "You said that the girl was given the locket as a coming-of-age present."
The shifty-eyed man replied, "That is what I was told by Miss Hepzibah Smith, Lady Rowan's sister--"
"The girl hasn't even come of age yet," Tom informed him.
"Then Miss Smith must have said she was going to give it to her. Why is that a problem, Tom? And where are my crow--"
"Don't change the subject," Tom snapped. "You knew she didn't have it yet. You just sent me there so you and Burke could have a laugh, wondering which daughter would throw herself at my feet first."
Borgin took a moment to compose himself. His forehead had begun to sweat. Tom did not lift his penetrating gaze.
"Alright, so we thought that would be amusing, but what does it matter? I told you what I knew. And you have a useful piece of information: the location of the locket. Besides, since it would be pointless to ask whether the family liked you, you will undoubtedly be invited back to their home--"
"The locket," Riddle interrupted the babbling, "is in the possession of Miss Smith." It was a statement, not a question, but Borgin nodded anyway. "You never said you sold it to Miss Smith."
Borgin looked uncomfortable. "Well... that is... I didn't remember... Not until I got the letter saying she was passing it on..." Tom's glare did not make his tongue any looser, so Borgin chose to stop talking altogether.
Tom had served Smith many times before and was infuriated that he never suspected her of having the locket. Surely such an obsessive collector would want the locket. Surely he should have noticed before... Tom started to head for the door when Borgin called, "If you're planning to go to her house to find it, you might as well quit while you're ahead."
Tom shot a glare at him, but stopped to listen.
Borgin continued, "Miss Smith is on holiday. She's told no one where or for how long. And she never leaves her house unprotected. On the off-chance that she left it there, it's too heavily guarded for anyone to get in. Most likely, it's in her Gringotts vault, and you've got even less of a chance getting past the goblins."
Unfortunately, Borgin was telling the truth. Without her around, chances of attaining the locket were slim to none. Not even Tom was going to risk forcing past the goblins and many enchantments placed upon the Gringotts vaults. Even if he did successfully Imperius one of them, the rest would definitely find it suspicious that Tom was taking objects from the greedy woman's vault. And she could be vacationing anywhere. He had no chances of finding her, or getting to the locket until she came back. Suppressing an angry snarl, he turned back towards Borgin and sat in the chair behind the counter.
Borgin looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, Borgin walked stiffly away to the books he had purchased the previous day. As he scanned through the pages of one of them absently, he spoke softly to Tom.
"You'll get it soon enough."
Tom did not spare him a glance. Instead, he plucked a femur, which most likely belonged to a very small child at one point, off the shelf beside his head and began twirling it in his hands. He watched the off-white bone spin between his fingers. Borgin did not need to elaborate, but did so anyway.
"The Rowans like you, yes?" Borgin said, and without waiting for an answer, continued, "They're purebloods, and they're proud. When the girl gets the locket, it won't be quite as easy to take it from her without the sharp-witted mother noticing. Play your cards right. I know you'll figure out some cunning plan..."
The pep-talk of sorts was unnecessary. Indeed, by the time Borgin had finished speaking, a plan had already unfolded in Tom's head. A cold smirk lifted his lips. What was that idiotic Muggle saying -- taking candy from a baby? This was essentially the same thing, only it would be much easier; the baby would cry for help, but Tom wouldn't leave the girl alive long enough to utter a sound.
Dinner was an unusually loud affair at the Rowan household. In fact, the last two days had been nothing less than the wildest days the manor had seen since the girls were toddlers. The presence of Mr. Riddle seemed to have completely altered the atmosphere in the old house.
The reason why the girls were in their family house rather than their husband's houses (and why Abigail was at home rather than school) was because of their great aunt's funeral. They had barely known their great aunt, but Lady Rowan was exceptionally close to her and the loss had shaken her badly. She insisted that she needed her daughters at home to help her cope. Now, however, Lady Rowan did not even seem to remember that she had an aunt.
Lucy and Jezebel's husbands would certainly not be pleased if they heard the way the sisters carried on about Mr. Riddle. They exclaimed excitedly about his simple clothes, sighed dreamily over his dark eyes, squealed over his smooth, pale skin. They declared him too good to be true, but not for any of the right reasons. Rather than admit that they were several years older and married, they believed that his good-looks and undoubtedly large, hidden fortune of gold made him unattainable.
Even Lady Rowan was hung up on young Mr. Riddle, though not in the same way as her oldest daughters. Since his appearance, she had become quite strange. She ordered both of their house-elves, Tulo and Lola, to clean every nook and cranny, and exploded when she found as much as a dust bunny in the corner of the closet. She rearranged the furniture every few hours, eventually leaving it in the same position that it had been in originally. She bought the girls all new clothes and forced them into the new, fancy dresses and robes. She demanded that the wine cellar be stocked with a variety of the rarest and most desirable liquor she could get her hands on. Usually very conscious of their budget and the appropriate length of her daughters' skirts, she was indeed acting like a different person entirely.
The only person who was not outwardly affected by Mr. Riddle was Abigail. Abigail was like her late father rather than her sisters, even in appearances. Tyler Rowan was the physical opposite of his wife. He was of average height and slender build, while Lady Rowan was tall and athletic-looking for a woman in her forties. He had porcelain skin and golden hair. He was rather delicate looking in comparison to her, almost like a china doll. Lucy and Jezebel had been fortunate enough to inherit mostly maternal characteristics. Lucy resembled her the most, with the same olive-skin and night-black eyes. She, too, had thick raven hair, but she was not tall or strong like Lady Rowan. Jezebel, on the other hand, was. Though she had green eyes and wavy golden hair, she had her mother's sturdy build. Even despite her boyishness, Jezebel was as lovely as Lucy. Abigail, on the other hand, did not look like her mother at all. She the curly golden hair and green eyes of her father, and both were paler than those of Jezebel's. She was short and frail-looking, especially when compared to her sisters.
Abigail's attitude had hardly changed upon meeting Mr. Riddle. She was still just as quiet and reserved as she had been prior to meeting him. However, if anyone had bothered to use Legilimancy on her, they would see clearly that Mr. Riddle was affecting her more than anyone else.
He was all she could think about. His scent polluted her thoughts; his eyes haunted her dreams; his voice echoed in her mind. He was intoxicating, and he was all she could think about. She knew immediately that there was something different about him, something that separated him from every other person in the world. That difference could be heard in his low voice, seen in his pale face. That difference intrigued Abigail. It also scared her. But more than anything, it had drawn her in deep, so deep that she could not escape.
She nudged a few pieces of potato around her plate without interest. For the umpteenth time, she sighed and laid down her fork. The gentle clatter attracted the attention of the three other women. Of course, Lucy and Jezebel were once again making up fantastic stories about what they believed Mr. Riddle's past was like. They'd been trying to drag Abigail into their conversation, but she'd simply ignored them and tried not to blush whenever his name was mentioned to her. Lady Rowan said, "Finish up, Abby. This is the last homemade meal you'll be eating until the holidays."
Jezebel smirked. "Abs, you know that starving yourself won't make you prettier for Mr. Riddle, don't you?"
Lucy shrieked with laughter. Lady Rowan paused as she was about to lift her glass to her lips to drink, but then slowly lowered it without drinking from it. She looked over at Abigail, whose pale face had flushed.
"Shut up," she murmured.
"Look at her blush!" Lucy grinned. "Oh, you know she's wishing Mr. Riddle was doing something else with his mouth--"
"Lucy!" Abigail now looked as if she'd been hanging upside down for several hours.
"I get it, you fancy him!" Lucy prodded. "Oh, you definitely fancy him, Abigail, admit it!"
Abigail was in no position to deny it. She fumbled with her fork again, not quite knowing where to look. Lucy and Jezebel kept teasing her, and Abigail was trying her best to block them out. As if in answer to her prayers, a sudden noise distracted them all. The ominous doorbell chime had never sounded more welcoming as far as Abigail was concerned. She jumped to her feet, and called, "I'll answer it!"
Sprinting to the front door, she paused a moment, and quickly smoothed down her hair and skirt. As she exhaled, she pulled the door open. Quite suddenly, she wished she hadn't heard the doorbell at all. Standing on the porch, rain soaking his jet black hair, was the reason why her face was so flushed. She stumbled back a step and stared with wide eyes as Mr. Riddle stepped over the threshold. He bowed to her politely, and murmured, "Miss Rowan, it's a pleasure to see you again."
When she did not speak, he straightened and cocked his head to the side slightly. "Have I come at a bad time?"
"N-No!" she insisted quickly. "We-We were just in the middle of d-dinner -- but it's alright, we were f-finished anyway! Come in, p-please!"
Mr. Riddle nodded his thanks, and hung his cloak on the rack beside the door. He wore inconspicuous Muggle clothes. His shirt, tie, and slacks were shades of gray. It gave Abigail the impression that they were both in a black-and-white Muggle film. The new black dress her mother had forced her into, coupled with Abigail's own porcelain skin added to the effect.
For what seemed to be a very long time, Mr. Riddle stared at Abigail. She opened her mouth once or twice to ask if there was something wrong. But then, he reached over to her and twirled a curl that had escaped the girl's barrette. He twisted it absently between his long forefinger and thumb, murmuring, "I apologize. It's just hard to believe someone so young also seems so mature."
He tucked the curl behind her ear gently, his pale fingers lingering on her cheek. Abigail tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.
"For heaven's sake, Abs, what on earth are you-- OH!"
Jezebel, who had just turned the corner, stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she saw the two by the door. Lucy ran into Jezebel from behind. She gasped, and then started giggling hysterically. "Oh -- I'm sorry, didn't mean to intrude--" Tripping over each other and gasping with laughter, the sisters disappeared from sight.
Lady Rowan took their place. She also stared at the too-intimate sight of Mr. Riddle still touching her youngest daughter's cheek. The action seemed almost deliberate, as if Mr. Riddle had been waiting for Lady Rowan to catch him in the act. He pulled his hand away and clasped both of them behind his back. He focused on her, his face apologetic. He quickly swept into a short bow, and said, "I'm terribly sorry, Lady Rowan... As promised, I'm here to discuss the arrangements for the crown and tiara set in place of Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke."
Lady Rowan seemed to recover as he spoke, and she slowly nodded. "Yes, of course. I'd forgotten that we'd planned tonight..." She clapped her hands twice, and the house-elves appeared before her. "Clean up the dining room immediately. Mr. Riddle and I have important business to discuss."
With a "Yes, madam," and a resounding crack, they disappeared. Lady Rowan's eyes which had been flickering between the two finally settled upon Abigail. The girl did not notice much of what was transpiring because her attention was almost entirely devoted to Mr. Riddle.
"Abby, dear, bring the crowns into the dining room for me," she said.
Abigail nodded fleetingly, and with a last gaze at Mr. Riddle, ran from the front hall. She stopped in the living room, her heart pounding wildly. Leaning back into the wall, she closed her eyes and touched her face, which seemed to be on fire. Despite the coldness of Mr. Riddle's fingertips, they seemed to have burned holes through her flesh, like hot coals through parchment. It took a while to calm herself down, to ignore the dark tunnels that were his eyes, that were inviting her in, to lose herself forever and ever...
Finally, she jolted to full alertness. Now was not the time to get her head stuck in the clouds. She ran off to the vault where the most prized family treasures were kept. She ran to the second floor and stopped before the large Rowan family portrait. She stood on the tips of her toes, and tapped the gold watch on her father's wrist three times. His painted face smiled at her, and the painting swung on its hinges to reveal a tiny niche in the wall. Inside it laid a silver box with a key. She extracted it walked to the end of the hall to an inconspicuous stretch of wall.
She reached out with her forefinger and traced an invisible pattern, murmuring under her breath. The area she touched began to glow in response, and the wall disappeared. A long, narrow stone passage led her to the treasury. The room was made of black marble, and was incredibly drafty. She shivered as she stepped inside the claustrophobic room, and glanced around.
Unlike most wizarding families, the Rowans kept a considerable amount of their wealth in their own home. For generations, the family had believed the house to be as well protected as Gringotts itself. The main reason for this was because no one could open the treasury unless they were a blood relative of the Rowans. The entrance to the vault had been sealed with Claudius Rowan's blood -- one of Abigail's ancestors -- and no one other than his family and descendants could get inside. There were flaws in his plan, however. Had one of Claudius's descendants turned traitor and tried to rob the family, there would be no defenses against that person.
She made her way to the corner and picked up the set sitting upon a satin cushion. The cushion slipped in her numb fingers, so she held it tighter. She glanced around. The room was filled with enough gold, silver, jewels, and precious artifacts to have quite a few families live comfortable lives with it. And yet, despite the overwhelming wealth in the room, Abigail was more overwhelmed by the room itself. The cold seemed to suck the heat from her body the deeper in she got. The black ceiling was so high that she could not see it, and the floor was so smooth and reflective, she could have been standing on a black lake. It felt as if she were being swallowed up by the darkness, as if the walls were going to close in and never let her escape, as if the dim lights from the red orbs of magical light and smooth, icy marble were going to become her coffin.
Short of breath, she stumbled as she ran to the narrow passageway once again. She was white-faced when she emerged. The passage sealed silently behind her. Tripping over her high-heeled shoes, she returned the key and ran to the dining room.
When she arrived at the doors, panting and trying to regain her composure, she heard her mother's voice and Mr. Riddle's unmistakable, sultry tone. She wanted to open the door, but she paused with her hand on the knob as she heard her name.
"Abigail is a bright girl, very book smart, but not quite so interested in the world beyond her books," Lady Rowan sighed.
"Is that so," Mr. Riddle mused.
"Yes, I'm afraid so. She's got her head in the clouds when it's not buried in a book, but she's never expressed any interest in getting out and seeing things for herself," she explained.
There was a slight tinkle of china, as if a tea cup had been placed upon a saucer. Then, "Lady Rowan, if I may... Has Abigail ever had the chance to see the world?"
She sounded surprised. "Why... I... Her father and I... while he was alive... we always talked about... touring the world... the girls and us... But Abby..."
"I've seen some of the world myself. You see, I was never interested in seeing much either until I left to find my uncle a few years ago. It wasn't the most exciting stay, but the world itself fascinated me and I wanted to see more of it. If Abigail got a taste of it herself, I'm sure she would want more, too."
There was a pause. Abigail took advantage of it, and made as much clamor as possible as she threw the door open and clacked into the room. She set the pieces on the table and turned to quickly walk away when Mr. Riddle's voice stopped her dead in her tracks.
"So, Miss Rowan," he said smoothly, as if she had been in the conversation the whole time (as if he knew she'd been listening at the door), "would you like to take a tour of the world after you finish school?"
She forced herself to speak, but resolved to stay facing the door rather than meet Mr. Riddle's eyes. "I... I think it would be a great experience, but... I, er... h-hasn't that custom sort of... died out?"
"Just because it is not popular anymore does not make it any better or worse," he said.
The question burst from her lips before she could stop it. "Did you tour the world after you finished Hogwarts, Mr. Riddle?"
She turned to him as she asked. His finger was spinning around the rim of the tea cup in front of him. It was hard to tell where his hand ended and the cup began; both were pale as snow. "Not the whole world. But did travel. I was left with quite... memorable experiences."
Abigail was sure that Mr. Riddle was not saying all that needed to be said about the subject judging from the way his tone was far from cheerful. She gulped, wondering what he could have done that would give his voice the peculiar edge of malice, but was too nervous to ask. He looked up at her again, not seeming to have noticed at all that he had shaken her up a mere moment ago. "You would not regret it if you went."
She simply nodded, not knowing what else to do, and muttered, "I-I'll keep that in mind..."
Then, he turned to Lady Rowan, and said, "So, shall we get back to business?"
Lady Rowan nodded, and turned her eyes back on the pieces. She heaved a sigh, and finally said, "I will part with them for the seven hundred and thirty five, though I must say, I quite loathe to let them go for Borgin's miserly price."
"Well, Mr. Burke said he would go as high as eight hundred, if that would please you more," Mr. Riddle insisted, his brow furrowed and eyes slightly worried. Lady Rowan looked up at him, staring long and hard. Then she heaved a sigh. "Oh, alright. Burke's is hardly any better, but I suppose it'll do."
Mr. Riddle nodded, looking satisfied. "Thank you very much, Lady Rowan."
"Not at all, Mr. Riddle," she said, gesturing in an off-hand sort of way. Then she called for the house-elf Lola to bring a case for the crowns, and the pair were stored safely inside of the magically protected chest. Mr. Riddle took the large box under his arm as Lady Rowan led him to the door. Abigail followed behind uncertainly.
As Mr. Riddle threw his cloak over his shoulders, he said, "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Lady Rowan."
"Likewise. I would appreciate it very much if you would be the permanent link between Borgin and me from now on, if that would be possible," she said, sounding almost too hopeful.
"I do most of their bargaining nowadays, so I suppose it would not be impossible for me to come back again," he explained.
Abigail had not realized it, but her heart had sunk somewhere deep into her gut when she heard that the deal had been closed. If the crowns were sold, there would be no reason for Mr. Riddle to come by. She would not see him. And that thought was devastating. But now, her foolish heart seemed to have shot up into her mouth. She couldn't breathe. Mr. Riddle did most of the bargaining. He could come back. She could see him again. Her eyes rose from the carpet to his eyes, and once again, she found his staring right back at her.
Lady Rowan seemed to have disappeared from the hall. In fact, the hall itself might have disappeared and Abigail would not have noticed. The only thing that she cared about at all was Mr. Riddle. His pale face seemed so close to hers...
"I look forward to seeing you again... Miss Rowan..." he breathed.
He was long gone, but Abigail stayed rooted to the spot, his words echoing in her head.