I'm sorry if this chapter wasn't glamorous or exciting enough for you…it's main purpose is to show the horror of how easily Voldemort can resume his normal life immediately after brutally murdering someone.
Chapter Five: The Aftermath
Tom Riddle started his day, rolling out of bed on the right side. He headed towards the lavatory, concealed behind the closet. Just like any other day he went through his routine, which started with a hot shower.
Riddle stepped out, after turning the taps off with his wand. He wrapped a white linen towel around his waist smartly. The dark curly hairs on his chest held tiny waterdrops like sparkling jewels.
He sighed, feeling rejeuvenation. It wasn't from the tingling warmth he had just been immersed in, but rather the usual feeling after successfully murdering and placing yet another corpse inside his cave. It always brought him an endearing sense of renewal.
Briskly, Riddle crossed the bedchamber, over to the fireplace towards the armchairs where he and Ophelia Sinistra had had a drink together. The atmosphere held the same perpetual gloom, the only light a few guttering candles. What had been a roaring fire last evening, was now dissipating into dieing embers.
There was the squib's skirt, tube top, and next to the iron bedstead her shoes. Riddle simply focused on the vanishing spell, aiming his thirteen-and-a-half inch yew wand to get rid of the last chunks of evidence. He then put the wine glasses back into the medicine cabinet, along with the empty bottle.
Meanwhile, the flashy black suit he had worn last night, lifted into the air and was directed through the accio spell back onto a hanger. Riddle then used a scourgify on the garment as the magical way of washing clothes.
Next, he decisively grabbed another one of the fancy tuxedos he'd bought. He took the towlels off, standing naked, while he first pulled the pants on. His exposed body was thin, but enough that he was certainly not overly thin. Twenty-year-old Voldemort had a pronounced muscle tone. He was thin, but fit as well.
After the pants and underwear, he rapidly put on a square silverly belt. Then a crisp shirt was buttoned up with his deft fingertips, cufflinks set by the wrists, and finally a metallic gray waistcoast over a cobalt-blue blazer, matching the pants. With a final addition of socks and shoes.
He went over to the rectangular, vertical mirror, on the wall over the dresser. Somewhat critically, Tom scrutinized his appearance, and picked up a shaver on the surface of the dresser and started shaving his sideburns. His creamy skin was virtually absent of any blemishes as he had seemed remarkably immune to them all his life. He had found out sometime early on at Hogwarts, that some of his kind had odd quirks, like hair that grows back faster than normal and just won't be combed flat. Yet with Tom Riddle, it was the skin he was in that was an oddity. As a boy when he had returned from the annual day trip provided by the orphanage, all the other children had gotten a bit of a tan, but Tom's complexion remained seemingly untouched by the sun.
But lately, he had become paler than what he had even been before. His finely carved features had only been accentuated further by his cheeks recently chiseling into hollowness. It made him more handsome than ever. Peering into the mirror another moment with a saccharine smile, he cocked his head slightly, getting the last of the facial hair off. It was pleasing to know he was handsome, at least for the present it was an advantage.
Opening the topmost drawer, Riddle took out a silver bow-tie, tieing it around his neck, with an awful smile at the thought that his horcrux experiments must have really rendered him immortal. The changes to his appearance were considered by the very few who knew about horcruxes as a marker of proof, as he had read in Secrets of the Darkest Art. The young man's dark eyes misted gloomily, his imagination passing into seeing a monstrous visage looking back at him. He hoped for it to happen in the future. It was what he wanted afterall, to be what others may call "ugly" and what Lord Voldemort would call "unique."
He checked his magical pocketwatch on the shelf nearby. He had received a pocketwatch on the day he had come of age. His most intimate followers had bought it for his seventeenth birthday, explaining to him that it is a pure-blood tradition to give a watch to a wizard the day he becomes old enough to legally do magic without the trace.
And just above was the skull erected as a reminder to his deeds of last night. The spikes where the prostitute had endured the last bit of exquisite agony before Voldemort finally killed her. It would only be a matter of time before he got tired of the décor and removed it.
The rotating moons and stars of the watch showed that his boss, Mr. Borgin and his other boss,(the partner of Borgin's), Mr. Burke would be arriving at the store at an estimation of a quarter of an hour. Riddle glimpsed himself once more in the mirror, full of vanity. Patting his chest, he attached the pocket-watch on his silver-grey waistcoat, under the cobalt blazer.
Darting unexpectedly out of his private quarters and with only a meager movement towards his wand, the door locked. He ascended the claustrophobic staircase, and went to the pawnshop's entrance, to get the newspaper outside. He snatched the paper from the ledge, and strolled back over to the front desk. The Daily Prophet's front pages smoothed out on the tabletop, next to a little bell that would ring whenever it detected customers' newfound presence through the homenum revelio spell placed over it.
Riddle conjured from what was left over from yesterday, an increased quantity of buttered toast on kippers with a mug of English tea. He sipped from it patiently, as he munched on his breakfast, scanning the Daily Prophet for it's most important headlines. There was nothing about Ophelia Sinistra missing yet, of course. It was unlikely she'd ever get in the paper at all as a disowned squib prostitute. It all depended on whether her pimp bothered to report her disappearance, as was improbable.
Chewing on the last morsel of toast, the door burst open with a draft of icy November wind. A pair of middle-aged men trooped into the shop together, just as they did every morning, which even included working on the weekends.
"Morning, Tom. Unload this stuff, will you?"
"Yes, of course Mr. Borgin."
Riddle strode to the display window, after wiping his hands on a napkin to where Mr. Burke had rested the goods. As was the usual, Tom arranged the new merchandise in the store window like he did whenever new items were to be unloaded. The box held an assortment of glass figurines of ghouls that had syrupy, bright liquid visible inside. The sun streamed in, gleaming onto the new items, as Tom started marking the prices on little cards to be put in front of them.
"No need to jack up the cost this time, son. Keep them at the usual retail price," Burke said sounding out of character for the usual obstinate man he was. It was very rare indeed for the partners not to be evincing at best shrewd and uncompromising words, and at their worst downright dishonest values to uphold as businessmen.
Riddle raised an eye-brow, inquiring curiously, "Is there any reason for this sudden decision to be, might I say phlianthropists, sir?"
Mr. Borgin laughed almost good-naturedly at Tom's polite insight. While Mr. Burke, whose chipped teeth were revealed in a smile answered, "It's actually all thanks to you, Mr. Riddle for the unprecedented profits since you've been on board. We think cheapening some of the magical items in Borgin and Burkes, might bring in a new group of customers. And with your charm, they'll keep coming for more, and we'll gradually hike the prices back to the usual."
Tom nodded coolly and went back to the counter, this time to work on advertising strategies. Almost an hour had past, until they had their first customer. The actual crowds of consumers did not arrive on the scene from Knockturn Alley until late afternoon, and it did not worry them if they had an absence of customers in the morning.
Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke had departed briefly to attend to some of their own private affairs. They confidently entrusted Tom Riddle to tend to their store alone. He was immersed in the Daily Prophet once again, when the bell alerting the presence of a customer chimed three times.
Riddle looked up his attention rapt. In an instant his face contorted into a mechanical smile, "Ah…Miss Hepzibah. Delighted to see you again, madam."
The old woman sauntered down past the moribund ancient artifacts, over to where the handsome salesman stood in a flashy cobalt-blue suit. She had the gall to look at him with elevator eyes, blushing as if she were a youthful maiden. Riddle could see that the elderly witch had the nerve to undress him with her tiny eyes.
"I've brought you some of my cherry cream cakes, Tom," Hepzibah Smith indicated a wicker basket in the crook of her arm.
"Thank-you…Seeing you have not brought anything else with you, I'll assume there's something you're looking to purchase today, madam?"
"Oh don't be so formal, love," she said dismissively with a wave of her hand, and she set the basket down.
Riddle's finely carved face was expressionless, as he surveyed more closley the wealthy, elderly lady who had come by as she always did in the early hours. He could see, that she had, as was her habit put on quite a lot of powder and perfume to impress him. Her dress was a green silk, that made her like a curved vegetable, in her tight, creaking corsets.
She scooped a cake out of the wicker basket, and tried to stuff it in Riddle's mouth, but he was to quick for her. He caught her wrist gently, and took a large bite of the cake to satisfy her.
"Delicious, an absolutely sumptuous delicacy," Riddle commented after swallowing, feigning gratitude.
Hepzibah issued a girlish giggle and she flounced around, her tiny eyes gazing at the shelves looking over everything most greedily.
Young Voldemort did not intervene but watched quietly from the sidelines. He knew old Hepzibah's ways by now, and how she was an indecisive type of buyer. How she liked to test her patience through loitering around the store for awhile.
Riddle peered down, over her shoulder and suddenly said in a cold, but smooth tone, "I suggest the Goblin made coat of arms madam. It's strength is prodigous as it never tarnishes with age. It would look very nice in your conservatory."
"Yes, it would. I'll take the one that was part of the Peverells. I daresay their lineage runs through the pure-blood line of Smith, even though the Peverells are now extinct in the male line."
Riddle removed the goblin-made Peverell Coat of Arms shield from it's protective enchantments that were placed to prevent theft. He then wrapped it up for the old lady, along with all the other, less expensive objects she was buying.
"Why don't you roll up your sleeves while your wrapping it all up for me dear?…You must be sweating under that woolly blazer of yours!"
Unperturbed by the woman's obvious crush on him he answered, "I don't perspire as much as most, madam." And in actuality this was true.
Riddle finished and handed the pile of brown-papered packages to Hepzibah Smith who took them gingerly. He helped steer her out of the shop, and she addressed the shopkeeper's assistant once again, "Next time you visit, Mr. Riddle I'll be showing you something very special. Very special indeed, I can't wait till you see it, dear boy!"
A ripple of red appeared in Voldemort's eyes, that Hepzibah Smith could not see, as she tottered outside the store, laden down with packages.
"I'll come by at four on Monday, December first, madam," Riddle responded warmly. He could smell a founder's object about to finally be presented to him for sure. He knew, he would have to place this wealthy, old witch's death once he got what he's been seeking for the last couple of years.
And with that, the lady turned out into the street and with a noise like a zipper, she disapparated. And Voldemort, the young shopkeeper's assistant went back to work.
So this is the end of the story. Ending at the point, where Tom Riddle would be making his final visit to Hepzibah and Hokey the house-elf. After his next interaction with her he would poison the wealthy, besotted old woman. Voldemort would run off with locket and cup without anyone having a clue. Please review!