Chapter Text
The day he was set to graduate, Tom Riddle marched into Headmaster Dippet’s office and asked for a job. He didn’t see why the man wouldn’t give Tom a job, as he had gotten an Oustanding on all of his OWLs and NEWTs. Truly, there was no better candidate than him.
Dippet did not give him a job. In fact, he had looked downright uncomfortable at the very thought.
“Tom,” Dippet said apologetically and Tom knew that tone. It was the same tone he had used when he told all the muggleborns they couldn’t stay at Hogwarts during the summer despite bombs dropped on them and several of them having not even returned that year. “You are young, far too young to be a teacher. Go, explore the world, and come back in a few years. You were the brightest student here and I’ll happily give you the position then.”
Tom did not stab Dippet and overthrow him as headmaster like he had really wanted to at that moment. Instead, he had given his best normal boy smile and thanked Dippet for the advice, and then stormed out of the room to sulk in his dorm for the last time.
Antonin Dolohov, a first-year who had become attached to Tom, had kept him company and listened to Tom complain with wide and eager eyes. He was quickly becoming Tom’s favorite, as all his friends (ew) had grown tired of hearing him whine all the time and tuned him out most of the time, Antonin always listened intently.
He was still pouting when Antonin had to leave to board the train, all the way to when it was the seventh year's turn.
His pout turned to an outright scowl when he climbed onto the boat that would take him to the train, symbolic of how they all had arrived at Hogwarts on them and it was fitting for them to send them off. Or something like that, Tom didn’t get all of that sentimental crap. Julian was eating it up, sobbing so loudly into a handkerchief that it was unanimously decided he would be taking a different boat. Corvus wasn’t any better, a little misty-eyed, and Dorian was wiping his eyes but at least they weren’t being dramatic about it.
“Babies.” Ripley had leaned in to mutter to Tom and Tom agreed, even if his mood was getting worse the further the boat drifted from the castle.
While sitting in his usual seat on the train, Antonin sitting on the compartment floor and snuggling his leg, Tom decided that the best way to solve this gloomy mood was to murder his father and his family. Murder always improved his mood.
☆ * ˚ · • . ° . * ☆
Tom was not poor. Or, at least not anymore.
It seemed that, as heir of Slytherin, the rest of the house felt the compulsion to give him both Christmas and birthday gifts. For the past two years, he had been receiving a ridiculous amount of presents every Christmas, usually in the form of dark magic books or something trivial Tom had mentioned being interested in; his birthday was a bit different, as it was customary to give money for that and he again found himself practically buried in an avalanche of Galleon stuffed letters. Given that Tom made his f r i e n d s pay for everything when they went out to Hogsmeade, he had saved up quite an impressive amount.
Still, it was only really enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life if he planned on dying at thirty. Which he did not. Could not, not with the diary horcrux still around.
Given that he had turned eighteen at the beginning of the year, the orphanage would not be taking him back, which he was fine with. He had already packed the meager things that were his (and some of the nicer things other orphans had) in his trunk when he left the previous year, so all that was left was to find a place. Oliver was the one hosting him this time, as everyone else was going out of the country in celebration, and while the Nott family was very accommodating, Tom could not live with them forever. They would probably want Tom gone when Oliver went back for his final year.
He spent the first week moping, as murdering his father’s family did not in fact improve his mood, then got to work on finding himself a job. The only thing he had been interested in was teaching and with that thrown out, he was a bit at a loss. Oliver had suggested Ministry work, given how many Os he had gotten, but Tom dismissed that thought; if he wanted a career that would eventually suck out his soul, he would apply at Azkaban.
He found one he might be able to tolerate, even if it was retail: Borgin and Burkes. From what Tom had gathered, the shop dealt in the selling and buying of magical artifacts, mainly on the darker side of things, and was frequented by many purebloods. The perfect place for him to make connections and learn about such items. The issue he was running into was that the shop didn’t seem to employ anyone other than the two owners and didn’t seem interested in doing so.
A bit of digging showed that they had employed at least one person at some point and Tom set about finding them to inquire how they had gotten the job in the first place. The man was easy enough to find, hanging out at a bar in muggle London of all places. He had perked up when Tom had set down beside him, giving that weird grin people sometimes gave Tom before they got overly handsy.
“It’s so easy, so easy, pretty boy.” The man had slurred when Tom had asked about the job, his arm coming around Tom’s shoulder to drag him close enough to whisper. It took everything in Tom not to murder him right then and there. “Listen. Listen, you’re really pretty so it will be even easier for you. All you gotta do is…”
☆ * ˚ · • . ° . * ☆
Tom walked into Borgin and Burkes on a lovely Sunday morning, right after they had opened for the day. He wasted no time looking around and walked right around the counter, grabbing an abandoned apron from a rack and putting it on, then taking a position behind the counter.
It took a few minutes before one of the men who ran the shop came out of the office and he stared at Tom. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m working, obviously,” Tom said, tilting his head. “I just started today, the name is Tom Riddle. It’s nice to meet your, Mr…”
“Borgin.” The man grunted, glaring at Tom. “I didn’t hire you and neither did Burke.”
“No, you didn’t. But I work here now.” Tom said. “And I make twenty galleons a week.”
“Twenty a week?!” Borgin gawked at him. “You’ve lost your mind!”
“You’re right, with all of the O’s I got on my OWLs and NEWTs and prices I see on these items, I should be making at least forty.” Tom grinned, a cocky and self-assured thing. “I also deserve at least two months paid vacation and a bonus every Christmas.”
Borgin turned an odd shade of red. “Forty a week—two months PAID—who do you think you are?!”
“I just told you, my name is Tom Riddle.”
“Tom Riddle, he says. Tom Riddle! Like that means something to me!”
“It should because I’m your employee,” Tom said more firmly. “Your employee who will graciously work every day, from eight to four, save for Monday and Friday when I will be off, and seven to seven on the weekends.”
Borgin made a few more frustrated sounds and stomped back to his office, returning with a parchment and muggle pen. He slammed both down on the counter, revealing the parchment to be an employment contract, and began to write in the blank spots. Once done, he turned the parchment to Tom and gestured to the blank spots.
“Sign your full name here, here, and here. Initial here and here. Put your address there and the name of your owl here.”
After carefully reading it to ensure that Tom’s demands had been met, he did as directed. Borgin picked it back up when Tom was done and nodded. “Welcome to the business, Mr. Riddle. Just man the counter today and call me if anyone comes in. Tomorrow we’ll work on getting you properly trained on bartering. You’ll get your Galleons every Saturday after we close.”
☆ * ˚ · • . ° . * ☆
After several months, all of Tom’s friends (so gross) had returned to England, prompting Tom to invite them out to dinner to catch up on a Friday. Of course, Tom wasn’t going to be paying but the thought still counted. Oliver was back at Hogwarts, so he would have to miss out on this. All of them had gotten Tom gifts: Ripley gifted him a highly illegal and equally as interesting Dark Arts book that bled when opened, Corvus had procured some quetzalcóatl eggs that might be fertile, Dorian had opted for a simple but expensive unicorn fur-lined coat, and Julian offered up a lot of snacks only found in India.
“Food is such a cop-out,” Corvus complained and Julian gave him a look.
“Aren’t quetzalcóatl eggs considered a delicacy?”
“Yeah, but these might have quetzalcóatl in them! I didn’t give them as a food option.”
Dorian started to chuckle. “No, you’re giving him the second type of cop-out gift: a pet.”
“Would anyone consider a quetzalcóatl a pet?” Ripley mused. “I heard they’re difficult and dangerous.”
Corvus scowled. “Tom can talk to snakes, he’ll be fine.”
Tom took a sip of his wine, enjoying the argument going on around him, and was only slightly disgusted to realize he had missed them.
☆ * ˚ · • . ° . * ☆
It was a few years of meaningless but well-paying work (Tom always took his birthday months off, no matter how much Borgin and Burke complained) when Tom finally met Hapiziba Smith.
She terrified him. Honestly, most women terrified him. Despite being much shorter than him and dressed very much not appropriate for polite company, she was the scariest thing to ever walk into Borgin and Burkes.
It was how…touchy she was. Far more than anyone in Slytherin or their parents had ever gotten with Tom. Hell, not even Cygnus with his overly friendly manners and family insanity had ever dared to touch him this much. Every time she put her hand on his shoulder, he felt the growing urge to chop the appendage off. And also throw up.
He did the best he could to avoid her whenever she came in. That was until he saw his mother’s locket dangling from her neck one day, which she proudly showed him when she noticed Tom staring and offered to show him her other treasures at home.
Tom didn’t hesitate to say yes.
☆ * ˚ · • . ° . * ☆
Tom did feel a tiny baby bit bad about having to frame the house-elf for the crime of murdering its mistress, but it was all for the greater good, as Dumbledore would say. Also, she had tried to kiss him, and no. Just no. He would have to wash three times when he got home to make sure none of her cooties got on him.
While he wiped down a kitchen knife of his prints and placed it into the house elf’s hand, he assessed his new treasure. Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup, shiny trinkets made of real gold and jewels. They were lovely to look at (Ripley had once called him a magpie, attracted to shiny glittering things, and he was starting to agree).
He might as well complete the set and look for Ravenclaw’s diadem (Gryfindor's sword would undoubtedly be shiny but he doubted he would find it anywhere but hidden in Hogwarts). The Gray Lady had said something about Albania whenever she would bemoan her fate to him.
He really should have gotten more friends that weren’t ghosts or crazy inbred purebloods.
☆ * ˚ · • . ° . * ☆
“Gentlemen, I am now a married man,” Tom announced just as all of his friends took a sip of their wines. As expected, they all spat it out in shock, coating the table of Ripley’s dining room with spit-mixed fermented grapes.
“I thought I was going to be your wife? I even picked out a dress,” Antonin whined and Tom tried to recall when he agreed to marry him. He could not so it was likely that he never did and Antonin was trying to be funny. It was humorous since everyone knew Tom would marry Ripley before anyone else here.
“Well, you took too long to plan the wedding. I found someone better in the meantime.” Tom reached into his robes and dragged out Nagini, who looked very annoyed at having been woken up from her sleep and held up like some kind of prize. “Meet my wife. Her name is Nagini.”
“Oh my mightiest and darkest of Lordships, that is a snake,” Dorian said and Tom glared, holding Nagini close.
“ She is a Maledictus and also my wife so show some respect for your new and exalted Dark Lady,” Tom said haughtily, glaring at all of them.
“How did you two meet?” Oliver asked, seemingly genuinely interested.
Dorian snorted. “Probably the zoo. Where else would you get a python in London?”
Tom ignored him. “We met in a forest in Albania, on a dark and moonlit night. She was hanging out in a tree and I was looking in that tree for something. It was love a first sight.”
Well, more accurately, when Nagini realized he could understand him, she wrapped herself around him and refused to let go until he agreed to take her with him.
“Should we have gotten a wedding gift?” Oliver asked, looking concerned. “Is it too late to get one? When was the wedding? There is a time limit to when it becomes insulting to give one!”
“What were you doing in Albania?” Ripley asked.
Tom ignored both questions. “Now, I think it’s time to move on to phase eight of our plan.”
“We’re already on eight?” Corvus asked while Julian just looked confused.
“I thought we were on phase thirty-three?”
“The plan doesn’t even go up that high.” Oliver paused. “I think. How many phases are there again?”
“Anyway,” Tom said loudly and pointedly, setting Nagini gently on the table so that she could slither about. “Phase eight. This is where I would definitely start spreading my influence and power if I was serious. I would slowly start to ensnare the minds of your children, indoctrinating them into my Cult of Pureblood Supremacy and Dark Magic, all while making you bow down to my evil ways and none of you would question it nor bring up my blood status because I’m just that powerful.”
“The last part isn’t fake at least,” Ripley said, taking a large gulp of his wine. “Seriously, what have you been doing while in Albania? You’re choking us all out with the dark magic rolling off of you.”
“ It really is pungent. ” Nagini agreed, having slithered off the table and to the roaring fireplace, curling up on the rug in front of it. Tom always did wonder about Pureblood obsession with putting a fireplace in every room; even the bathroom had one. Maybe it was just to show how unnecessarily wealthy they all were. He should really invest in a bathroom fireplace.
“I don’t stink.” Tom snapped at her in English before looking at his friends. “I don’t, right?”
“You smell like sunshine and rainbows,” Oliver said so earnestly Tom couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. He probably was.
“Right, I supposed I’ve gone scent blind to it. I’ll fix it, I can’t walk around reeking of the dark arts all the time.” Tom muttered the last part before shaking his head. “Right, back on track. Do any of you have kids yet?”
Silence. Incredulous silence.
Tom blinked at them. “What?”
“Rodolphus and Rabastan are right there,” Ripley said, pointing to the other end of the room where two children sat on the floor, quietly playing with a set of blocks.
Tom stared at them. “How long have they been here?”
“The whole time?” Ripley said, giving Tom an odd look.
Tom squinted at the children. “Why do they look alike?”
“Tom, they’re twins .”
Tom considered them both, watching as one smacked the other in the head with a block and ended up getting slapped for it. “Are they yours?”
“They’re certainly not the house elves.”
“Huh. I thought all French people were gay.” Tom ignored the snorts of laughter that got and Ripley groaned.
“Tom, you’ve held them. Several times. How did you forget?”
Tom shrugged. “I likely repressed that memory. I hate kids.”
“And yet you want to indoctrinate them into your cult,” Dorian said, shaking his head in amusement.
“Maybe not them. Twins are freaky.”