It was not long before the peculiar behavior of the wizard's new bride began to excite talk amongst his servants. The house-elves seemed merely afraid of her. Their ears trembled when she came near, and when she walked down the halls they slunk before her like whipped dogs. But the human servants hated her. At first the wizard put it down to jealousy, at least on the part of the female staff, but when his most favored manservant announced his intention to leave the wizard's service, the wizard lost his temper. 'And what's the matter with you?' he raged at the unfortunate man. 'Has my entire staff run mad?'
The servant gathered his courage. 'It is your wife, sir,' he said, in a quavering voice.
'I don't understand.' The wizard clenched his hands in fury. 'Is she a harsh mistress? Does she beat or upbraid you?'
'No, Lord, it is not that.'
'What, then?'
'She isn't human, sir.'
An unpleasant silence followed. The wizard stood and glared at his servant. His servant looked stolidly at his shoes.
'What do you mean,' the wizard ground out finally, 'she isn't human?'
'She is nosferatu, sir,' said the servant. 'A demon. An evil thing.'
'She is the daughter of a noble family,' the wizard protested.
'I have made inquiries, my Lord,' said the servant. 'That family has no daughters. She is not who she says she is.'
'You lie,' the wizard raged, and he ordered the servant out of his sight, and later, sent word to his guards and had the man whipped. But the servant's words stayed with him, as the truth often does. For days he could not get the man's words out of his head. She is a demon. An evil thing.
And he thought about his new wife. He thought about her allergy to sunlight, and the way she never ate in his presence. He thought about her hatred of gold, that metal most unloved by demons, for it resembled in its color the sun which they hated and feared. He thought about her black hair and her white skin and he began, finally, to wonder.
From such tiny beginnings do doubts grow like seedlings in the heart, putting forth their branches, unfurling their leaves, until even the memory of love is suffocated.
Dear Mum and Dad, You can't imagine how pleased I was by your warm response to my news.
Unfortunately I realized that this meant I must be completely honest with you. In fact, the truth is that when I ran out of pocket money last semester I was forced to supplement my income by appearing in numerous pornographic films. I now feel so ashamed of my activities that I cannot possibly face you.
I am sure this will be very hard for you. However, if you miss me, you can always rent Wizards Gone Wild, Take It Like A Giant, or Quidditch Through The Arse — although I was just an extra in that. I'm the guy in the back of the kitchen orgy scene wearing only a chef's hat.
I am sure you will never want to see me again after this news and I completely understand.
Your son, Seamus
Tom folded the letter in half and handed it to the receptionist behind the Midnight Club's front desk with a charming smile. 'Could you find an owl to post that for me, my good…' Tom squinted, and hazarded a guess.
'Goblin?'
The receptionist's answering smile showed a flashing row of metal teeth.
'We'll be happy to take care of that for you, sir. Now, as to the room rates, we have only upstairs rooms available, nothing in the dungeon. Did you want a room for half a night, or the full night?'
'The full night,' said Tom. He glanced around with a feeling of pleasure: the club had hardly changed at all in the past fifty years. The same gaudy crystal chandeliers, the same intricately lascivious oil paintings. Scented candles burned in front of a nearby triptych in which a number of naked, painted nymphs were frolicking in a pool and splashing each other with water. Tom cocked an eyebrow. The nymphs were very pretty, but interested him not at all. He had somewhat specialized tastes. 'Lovely decor,' he said.
'The Midnight Club prides itself on having the best of everything,' said the goblin receptionist with a wink. 'I'm afraid, sir, that I'll have to ask for your wand now. We don't allow guests any use of magic inside the club.'
'Oh, of course.' Tom could hardly contain his smirk as he drew Seamus' wand from an inside pocket and handed it across the desk. Most likely they would have a catalogue of photos of registered Magids somewhere behind the desk. Seamus Finnegan, of course, would not be on it. He watched the wand disappear into a locked copper box with no regrets.
'Now, sir, as to companionship,' the goblin began delicately.
'Companionship?' Tom blinked, then allowed himself the smirk he'd been yearning for previously. 'Oh. You want to know if I want a whore?'
The goblin looked pained. 'We prefer not to use that term. It's…old-fashioned.'
'So am I,' said Tom. 'I'm an old-fashioned sort of chap. Now, what can you do for me?'
'We have many girls you can choose from immediately, of course.' The goblin spoke smoothly, back in his element. 'Beautiful girls and, of course…beautiful boys?'
Tom shook his head. 'I want someone specific. A specific girl.'
'A famous witch or wizard will cost you extra, depending, of course, on how hard it is to get hold of the ingredients. You'd be surprised what some Quidditch players will sell on the black market for a little extra gold, no questions asked. But if you want someone like, say, Harry Potter, well then, we have to rely on some rather specialized thievery for that, so…'
'I said I want a girl,' Tom snapped. 'And I am not interested in your celebrities.' He reached down and unwound the thin strand of copper hair from his ring finger, and held it out across the desk. 'I want this girl.'
Carefully, the goblin reached out and took the fragile hair from between his fingers. 'Pretty red hair… is she an equally pretty girl?'
'Quite,' said Tom, dispassionately. 'I have a few other requirements, as well.'
As he detailed them, the goblin's greenish-yellow eyes widened and he paused, arrested in the middle of retrieving a room key labeled Twenty-Eight from beneath the desk. 'That may take some time, sir. A few hours at least.'
'I don't mind waiting,' said Tom, and held out his hand for the key, lips curling up into a smile. 'I plan to catch up on my reading.'
As Tom Riddle used an enchanted key to let himself into Room Twenty-Eight, Harry lay in his own room farther down the hall, face-down in front of the fireplace, trying to get warm. The heat seemed to come and go, leaving him sweating and shivering at regular and monotonous intervals.
If he had not already been so ill, he might have recognized at this point that he had a fever. Very few people can spend a significant amount of time in freezing rain after several nights of little rest and an exhausting journey and not catch a fever, and Harry was no exception.
He was, however, not aware of this. He was only aware of the fact that he could not seem to get warm enough, despite lying as close as he could to the fire, and that sleep had turned into a distant possibility. He also seemed to be both having trouble organizing his thoughts and to be aware of things with a sudden piercing clarity that was both a relief and a disturbance.
He kept seeing the boy who he had thought was Draco, standing opposite him in the rain-soaked alley. It had been rather surprising to be kissed, that was true, and he wondered if it should have bothered him. It hadn't bothered him. But what had bothered him, and what had stayed with him, was the look on the boy's face as he'd spoken — the look on Draco's face -
the way he'd looked at Harry as if Harry didn't matter.
Harry wasn't used to Draco looking at him like that. He was used to Draco looking at him as if he were all that mattered in the world.
