information: Prostitutes (particularly those engaging in street
prostitution) are sometimes the targets of serial killers, who may
consider them easy. This story is totally fictional though, of
course! When I first came up with this idea, I knew it was gold.
Please read on and review too! Chapter One: The
Chapter One: The
A man in a black cloak over a plain suit walked through the busy street of Knockturn Alley, his footsteps echoing down the path. He was by himself and at this fact, perfectly happy to be alone. It was just before midnight on November 28, 1947. The dead leaves stirred through the autumn air with a foul scent. It seemed the smell of death itself was pervading through the icy breezes. The moon was full and bright above him. He sneered imperiously at the clusters of lowly witches and wizards going about whatever nasty business was theirs.
The man knew what he was looking for on the claustrophobic streets of Knockturn Alley. He'd fantasized doing a particular something to a particular someone for awhile and had watched this someone carefully. Holding a job as the shopkeeper's assistant for Borgin and Burke's had immersed him in the center of the black market of the Wizard World in Great Britain. Knockturn Alley was advantageous for many reasons to him.
A figure of a witch was slouching in plain black robes at the corner, situated in front of the Magical Menagerie. As he came closer, the witch turned to face his direction, probably wondering if she was about to get a client. Her pale face peered up at the tall man, face shining in the moonlight, expression impassive, but shrewd.
Straightening herself, she revealed to the debonair man, the outfit under the robes. It was a cue, a kind of signal prostitutes like her use to say he could have her.
His dark eyes dilated, slightly aroused. A cloud of cologne engulfed her. It smelled heavily of rich musk and made her feel even more attracted to him than before, as it was enchanted.
"I'll give you ten galleons. That's more than fair for a night with me, witch….What's your name?"
"Ophelia…Ophelia Sinistra," she said vaguely. She was used to the wizards who used her body, not giving a damn who she was. Ophelia certainly wasn't expecting this man to care, either.
He continued to appraise Ophelia, who wore under the robes a black tube-top and miniskirt, black knee socks and slippered flats. But it was the choker that caught the shopkeeper's assistant's eyes. The choker had a serpent etched in the middle. The man's brown eyes burned red for a second, but Ophelia could not see it in the dark. He surmised this was the best prostitute to select for his desires.
"Nice to meet you Ophelia. My name's Tom Riddle," was said in a friendly manner. He wanted to be sure this prostitute would willingly go with him.
Mr. Riddle looked curiously into her hazel eyes, through the curly raven hair framing her slightly wrinkled face. Ophelia was in her early forties.
"You don't need to be afraid, Ophelia. No. It's because you are with me. That pimp of yours isn't going to find out about you stealing the money tonight."
Ophelia's eyes widened. Nobody had ever read her thoughts so succinctly. She did not know what Legilimency was. It was a branch of magic Mr. Riddle is highly accomplished at.
"Well…Where to Mr. Riddle?," she said casually. He had succeeded at putting her at ease.
He laughed lightly, "I insist upon you calling me, Tom…. "
He slipped his hand in her hers and they started back up the alleyway.
Ophelia looked up at him over his broad shoulders. Tom's presence had something downright impressive about it. She figured he must be a particularly powerful Warlock (as she referred to Wizards on Knockturn Alley as 'Warlocks').
When they got to the Dark Arts pawnshop, he took his wand out so fast it was an unseen whirl. The door unlocked magically and they entered. He accompanied her past a long shelf of skulls to the back where there was a staircase.
They proceeded down it to what was obviously Riddle's lodgings located in the basement. It was a simple room with only light touches. A double iron bedstead, a closet with flashy suits, robes and cloaks. To the left was a desk with dozens of books and parchment strewn all around with strange magical inscriptions.
As Ophelia's gaze lingered over the desk, Tom said lacking expression, "That's for my experiments….We'll sit by the fireplace."
With his wand, he transferred the leather armchair over to the fireplace across the flagged stone floor. Then with another transient wave, conjured another chair.
Ophelia went to sit in the conjured chair, as Tom turned to retrieve something out of a medicine chest. He returned with a bottle of wine and two goblets. Handing a goblet to Ophelia, he poured some of the blood-red wine. Then poured himself a goblet-full, reclining back in his armchair.
Ophelia was pleased by this, Tom Riddle. She had not enjoyed such a treat for a long time.
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