An Ardent Assistant

"You're my downfall; you're my muse; my worst distraction." – John Roger Stephens

July 20, 1944

Well, it certainly wasn't the flat in Paris. But it wasn't the dreadful orphanage he had spent his youth imprisoned in, either. He had told himself months ago that he would be damned if he ever returned to it and swore that the only reason he ever would was to burn it to the ground.

Thankfully, his winnings from the tournament would support him at least until the end of the summer. Anything in Diagon Alley had far exceeded his price range, though, so he had extended his search to Knockturn Alley.

"Well, what do you say, Mr. Riddle?" the leasing agent asked.

Both the man's demeanor and overly greasy, slicked back hair made Tom think that he was probably getting a terrible deal on the place, but it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered anymore.

"I'll take it," said Tom.

The agent clapped him on the back. "Excellent! You're a good lad, Tom Riddle. I don't often deal with clients with such prestige..." He winked and Tom knew that he was referring to the tournament. "I daresay that I like you so much I'll give you ten percent off the first three month's rent if you extend your lease for a full year…"

"I'm going back to Hogwarts at the end of this summer," he said flatly.

"Ah, my mistake. You seem older, but I suppose the papers did say you were only seventeen-"

"Could I just sign the lease?" Tom asked impatiently, eager to be left alone once more.

The agent nodded and handed it to him. The flat was furnished with a couple of armchairs and a bed, but lacked a kitchen table, so he used the wall as a flat surface to sign the papers against instead.

Minutes later, the agent was gone. Tom didn't bother to lock the door behind him, even though the flat was in a notoriously crime-ridden area. He sunk into one of the chairs with a bottle of scotch and pack of cigarettes, fully equipped for his second full day of brooding. His mind felt lackluster and dulled and he knew it was because of the lack of sleep the last couple of nights, but it couldn't be helped. Nor had he eaten much at all.

He looked around the sitting room, truly surveying the flat for the first time. The floors were filthy and he doubted that the place had been cleaned after the prior tenant. There were lace-like cobwebs at the corner of each dusty window and the wallpaper was beginning to peel. He thought of Rosemary being there with him. It was such a destitute, blatantly unsuitable place for her that he let out a faint laugh despite himself.

Rosemary.

He grew somber once more, almost wincing at the pain of just thinking her name. At least he didn't have to worry about her seeing his new place of residence. There was little hope that he would see her at all until the end of the summer. His stomach dropped as he realized that he might not even see her then – what if Basil was cruel enough to keep her from Hogwarts entirely? What if– Merlin forbid– he never saw her again?

In a way, he thought it might have felt better if he knew for certain that they were through. But he didn't. All he knew was the situation that she had described in her letter; she had mentioned nothing of its implications or what she wished to do about the matter. So, for now, he was stuck in an unforeseeable state of affairs and both the uncertainty and his inability to come up with a sensible plan were making things excruciating. He wanted – needed, really – to know: was there still even the slightest chance that Rosemary could still be his?

Perhaps what was most deeply unsettling was the fact that, not only days before, things had seemed so hopeful and bright. Secure. For the first time in his life he was beginning to become comfortable with the fact that he relied on her to some degree. It was terrifying that something with such certainty (or at least the illusion of it), could crumble apart so violently and in such a short amount of time.

In one of his recent, darkest moments, he wondered if he shouldn't just give up on her altogether. Even if they somehow made it through until the end of their terms at Hogwarts, her parents would continue to be an issue. Rosemary would always have to choose; things would never be easy for her. Maybe it had been selfish of him all along to make her face that choice again and again.

But he wouldn't give her up, of course. In truth, he didn't really care if it made him selfish: thinking of being without her simply felt dreadful and the possibility of their relationship coming to an end was driving him mad. Even if Basil cruelly married her off before his power over her fate was relinquished, Tom would wait for her. He had to; there was an ominous feeling inside of him that told him life without her would lack a certain meaning.

He was drunk by noon and had moved on to cursing her for evoking such emotions within him. Before Rosemary, he had never experienced such painful longing for anything. Anything else he ever wanted had always been easily within grasp, thanks to the combination of his charisma and brilliant mind. He felt nostalgic for the days when sentiments failed to penetrate his cool, guarded persona. Nothing even so much as fazed him, back then. Tom wondered if things could even return to the way they had been if Rose was no longer his, or if she had permanently altered him somehow. He dreaded it might be the latter, but was strangely comforted by the fact that everything he had ever thought would be permanent seemed instead to be built upon shifting sands.

By the early evening, he had sobered himself to a respectable degree in fear that he was on track to becoming a Beaumont-level alcoholic. He had also realized that mulling over the situation with Rosemary would only make him more miserable by compelling him to confront depths of himself of which he was rather uncomfortable with.

After Tom finally forced himself out of the flat into a nearby pub for dinner, he found himself wandering the streets, going in to nearly every shop and having a look around to keep his mind preoccupied. This became significantly easier when he reached Borgin and Burkes, his favorite store in Knockturn Alley.

Caractacus Burke appeared at the doorway with a key in his hand just as Tom reached it. It took the old man a few moments to recognize him, but finally: "Ah, Tom Riddle! I haven't seen you in ages."

"Evening, Mr. Burke," Tom smiled with his usual charm. "Were you just about to close for the day?"

"Yes, but do come in. I'll give you a private tour of some of the rarer artifacts we're about to put on display."

Tom nodded and stepped inside while Caractacus locked the door behind them. Burke would inevitably try and sell him something– he was a notoriously persistent salesman– but his respect for Tom's knowledge of the store's goods at least prevented him from bothering to try and cheat him.

"I followed you in the papers last month," Burke told him as he led Tom upstairs to the shops' storeroom. "You've always come off as bright, but that was truly impressive. Congratulations."

Tom's pleased smirk was glued to his face as his chest filled with pride, despite the lasting bitterness of knowing that he could have made it even further in the tournament if it hadn't been for the bloody reporter that distracted him.

Burke showed him several dark artifacts while they chatted: cursed robes; an antique cauldron that was hundreds of years old; a schoolbook that had belonged to Gellert Grindelwald before he was expelled from Durmstrang…

"You've heard of Grindelwald, I trust?" asked Mr. Burke. "The papers say he's becoming more powerful by the day…the Ministry is terrified, I'm sure."

Tom nodded. Rosemary had translated a French newspaper for him, which had been the first time he'd heard of the dark wizard. But both word and panic had spread quickly since then, likely due to the same international competition he had just attended. Grindelwald had become public knowledge in Britain nearly overnight, which meant The Daily Prophet and Ministry could no longer ignore his presence.

"I'm not really sure what to make of it all," Burke continued grimly. "Every muggle in the world under wizarding control…Where do you fall on all this, Riddle?"

Tom had certainly been thinking through it in the past few weeks (except for lately, of course, given his preoccupation with Rosemary). "I think he's a loon," he responded flatly. "I'd much rather see the wizarding world move further from the muggle one than closer. It will only encourage more disgraceful marriages which will then depreciate what's left of the wizarding world." He couldn't help but think that, if he had the amount of power that Grindelwald had obtained, he wouldn't waste it on something as ridiculous as attempting to abolish the Statute of Secrecy.

Burke nodded. "You make a fine point. I'm with you, on that."

Talking with someone like Burke, who wore his blood prejudice on his sleeve, was really rather nice. As there was no fear of offending him, it allowed Tom to speak candidly. Nor was there any worry of being called a hypocrite: Burke had assumed from the moment they met that Tom was a normal, arrogant pure-blood.

"Anyway…Did anything catch your eye? I'll give you a discount, you know, as a regular customer and former Tournament competitor."

"Not today. Thank you, though," Tom told him politely, although he probably would have bought the entire store if he had enough money.

"Can't say I blame you," Burke sighed as he led Tom back downstairs. "There's not a lot of selection at the moment, I know. Borgin is supposed to be traveling the world and sending back new items relatively frequently, but I have the feeling he's doing more sight-seeing than actual work. Since he's barely sending anything back anyway, I'd rather him come back to the store and help out…it's rather difficult to manage on my own."

Burke's words made him feel somewhat optimistic for the first time in two days. He knew he needed to get a job until he went back to Hogwarts, after all. And what better place than this, where he would be surrounded by objects that garnered his infinite curiosity? He could think of no better distraction from young Miss Horton.

"I could help out," Tom offered. "At least until the end of the summer."

Burke looked surprised, but quite pleased. "That would be excellent, Mr. Riddle."

July 31, 1944

"I don't know…I'm not quite sure I'm ready to part with them. They did belong to my great-grandfather Cyrus."

"You wouldn't have brought them in if you weren't sure," Tom told the young woman softly, looking at her directly in the eye. "Besides, if you change your mind before someone purchases them, you're welcome to buy them back."

"Well, that's true, I suppose." She smiled at him, handing over the large stack of very old books.

He paid her from the register and wrote her a receipt, meaning the deal was official, even though the purchase had really happened the moment she had stepped through the door to see Tom Riddle, the handsome, youngest-ever competitor of the Continental Wizarding Dueling Tournament standing at the front counter. Even in the cases that someone failed to recognize him, his effortless charm, maturity, and confidence would win them.

"I know I've said this before, but you're quite brilliant at this job," Burke told him after the woman left. "Are you sure you need to return to Hogwarts this autumn?"

"I'm sure," Tom smirked at his boss' half-joking tone as he copied the titles and authors of the books onto the store's inventory sheet.

"Why don't you head home early this evening? I can close up the shop…you've certainly been working enough."

It was true: every day after Burke hired him, eleven days prior, Tom had worked in the store from eight in the morning to seven in the evening. It was admittedly tiring, but a much-needed distraction from his chaotic, despairing (and considerably more tiring) thoughts of Rosemary. Even though they had written back and forth a few times after her initial letter, essentially none of his questions regarding how they might proceed had been answered.

Besides, he rather enjoyed it – at least as much as he could enjoy anything given the circumstances.

"I don't mind staying. It's only three or four more hours," he told the co-owner, rather apprehensive to return to his flat where his mind would be free to its own devices.

Burke sighed. "I'll be honest with you, Riddle…It's great that you want to help out and I certainly mean what I say when you're exceptionally good at the job, but we simply don't generate the sort of revenue that will support someone working nearly eighty hours a week."

Tom nodded in understanding. "You don't have to pay me for all of it," he said finally.

"My, you're an odd lad." Burke looked at Tom in curiosity, as if he were appraising an artifact. "I'm quite serious though…go home, Riddle. Get some damned rest."

Tom panicked slightly; he thought he had been quite close to convincing Burke of letting him stay, but apparently not. He eyed the nearby stack of books that the store had just acquired and another idea entered his mind. "I'll leave," he said, "But can I take these with me to look over?" He gestured to the books. "It will be easier to sell them if I can describe their exact contents."

"Fine," Burke said begrudgingly after giving him a long, incredulous stare.

Satisfied that he now had material to keep him occupied until he could finally doze off to sleep that night, Tom triumphantly slid the books off the counter and set off for his flat.

There was no letter from Rosemary to greet him when he let himself in, which admittedly came as a bit of a relief. He had begun to dread her replies with the knowledge that someday soon there would be one to inform him she was engaged.

After a quick dinner that consisted of a slice of bread with a bit of jam, he started on the pile of books. Tom handled them carefully; each of them was a first edition and quite valuable as a result. They were certainly worth more than what he had obtained them for.

The first book he reached for was, perhaps unsurprisingly, Secrets of the Darkest Art. There were other titles in the mix he was certainly looking forward to (Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration, Dark Arts: A Legal Compendium, and The Nature of Oracles), but they didn't intrigue him in quite the same way.

Inside the front cover, someone had written:

"Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires."

― William Shakespeare

He contemplated it for a moment. It wasn't a bad quote, he supposed, even though he rather abhorred Shakespeare for being a Muggle.

Tom scanned the table of contents and he was instantly even more eager to begin reading. There were chapters upon chapters covering topics that he had been exploring for months: legilimency and occlumency, curses, dark potions, and even Horcruxes. He flipped to the first chapter and was largely impressed by the depth of detail in which each subject seemed to be described. Instead of wasting his time on the comparatively conservative texts of the Restricted Section, he could have been an expert in these topics long ago if he had just been able to read this one book instead. It was then that Tom decided that when he returned to work the next morning, he would purchase the book and keep it for himself. He could certainly use it, after all; especially if he was going to keep up with his goal of becoming a greater wizard than Dumbledore.

After about an hour or so, he had flipped ahead to the chapter on Horcruxes. He would come back to the others, of course, but it was such a tabooed topic that he simply couldn't help himself.

What was strange was that he couldn't remember when he had first heard of Horcruxes. Surely he had stumbled upon them through one of his readings, but it was odd that he failed to recall exactly which one; he usually had such a keen memory for that sort of thing. He then thought back to his conversation with Slughorn on the matter, which had taken place at the beginning of last year; it had been impulsive (not to mention risky, as it had surely drawn attention to his interest in the dark arts – the one branch of magic that was exceptionally discouraged at Hogwarts), as though a whisper of his subconscious had told him to pursue it.

His puzzlement over the whole thing intensified as a feeling of familiarity washed over him upon scanning the chapter. He remembered bits and pieces here and there and he could think of no rational explanation for such a phenomenon. If he had read this book, he simply would have remembered; it was far too interesting to him to think otherwise.

Although, this feeling of déjà vu was beginning to nag at him. Perhaps he'd find an answer for the peculiar sensation in his notes of previous readings. He put on some water for tea before striding across the flat to his bedroom, where he knelt on the wood floor and dug through his trunk. If he had unpacked, it would have made the task much easier, but he doubted he would unload his trunk at all before going back to Hogwarts. There was only a month before school began once more, after all. Plus, he was still in a bit of denial that he actually lived in such a deplorable place and felt that moving in fully would sacrifice the last shreds of dignity he was still holding onto.

He located his diary and flipped it open only to be filled with alarm at the fact that it was blank as the day he had purchased it from Winstanley's Bookstore and Stationers. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, hoping that he was simply sleep deprived and his eyes had spectacularly deceived him the first time. No such luck.

How could this possibly be? How could nearly two hundred pages of notes seemingly vanish with no trace whatsoever? He had written in the thing not even three days prior and absolutely nothing had seemed out of the ordinary then.

The only explanation he could think of in his newfound panic was that someone had broken into his flat, stolen his diary, and replaced it with an identical version – all without his knowledge (and without a reasonable motive to do so). But this theory proved wrong as well; the corners were still worn exactly the same way he remembered and his initials were still embedded on the inside of the back cover.

There was something that was curious about the back cover, though. He ran his finger over the place just to the right of his initials, where the leather wrapped around the diary and created a fold about five centimeters wide, and felt the outline of something inside of it. Tom hastily reached for his wand and muttered "Diffindo".

The strings holding the fold in place were cut and he tore it back to reveal a miniscule, neatly folded piece of parchment. He opened it, staring in confusion as he read:

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT"

Mwahaha a cliff-hanger! A pretty big one, too, because next chapter will be in Rosemary's POV once more.(;

The next two chapters both take place on the same day as this last part (July 31, 1944) Although this choice in date isn't really significant in any way, it IS a big day in the story for a LOT of reasons - some that are obviously described in this chapter.

In other news, this story has reached 199 follows! Wow! Thank you all soo very much (plus all of you who have favorited, of course)! I'm hoping for over 200 before I post the next update. :D

A huge thanks as well to CharlotteBlackwood, A regrettable decision, How910, Lucy Greenhill, AvalonTheLadyKiller, and RosiePosie15 for your reviews!