Mammonism: the greedy pursuit of riches
February 16, 1997
An oily-haired man sat hunched over a cluttered table in a dim back room. Artifacts, all of a grim sort of nature, were piled along the somewhat grimy walls. Lamps hung from rusted chains around the room, but their light did little for the gloom. Silver and gold and other treasures glinted on shelves and in glass cases, but there was a sinister air about them.
On the table before the man, several strange-looking tools lay discarded. He ran his long, bony fingers along a polished piece of dark wood, murmuring to himself, now and again stopping to jot something on an ink-splattered scrap of parchment. The more he wrote, the grimmer his expression became.
At last he flung down the quill and the wood and exclaimed aloud to the empty room, "It can't be done!" He got laboriously to his feet, leaning heavily on the table to support his withered, stooping frame. "Not by a child at any rate. Not so quickly. Too many intertwining enchantments, too much complexity… he's wasting his time…."
He trailed off, swallowing hard. What was he doing? Breathing hard, the oily man moved across his cluttered work room to a sallow painting on the opposite wall. The man had famous at some time or another, the painting worth something. But that value had long-since faded. He pried the frame away from the wall and the portrait swung forward to reveal an alcove and the small pile of gold and silver coins it held.
The man reached in, running his fingers along the cool, smooth metal. He closed his eyes. When this wretched task was over, he would have more than this small piece of pocket change. He'd go south, get out of this blasted place where demons and beasts were sent to stalk him by a mere child. That was why he kept trying.
For a moment, the man thought of what would happen should the boy be successful. He would be releasing his worst nightmares into that castle with all those children… what carnage might they leave there? He turned to sweep his eyes over the room crammed with precious artifacts and for just a moment saw the blood that filled their pasts, that would fill their futures – all for the gold to fill this alcove. And for the first time he wondered if it was worth it.
The bell tinkled above the door to the shop. Mr. Borgin jumped and scurried out of his back store room, thoughts already back to his own life and fortune. If he ended up alive and rich on top of that, how could it not be worth it?
A/N: All rewritten for you! I think this second draft turned out better than the first, to be honest. Please review! :)