IMMORTAL ( TOM RIDDLE )

CHAPTER IV

  

     The light of the candle flickers over the parchment in her hand and she has the sudden feeling of deja vu. Suddenly, she's back in Tom's room, when his voice was familiar and his touch so welcome. The memory of it all is still so vivid.

     The feel of his fingertips brushing down her spine, his lips soft against her skin. As delicate as the paper she holds. She clutches it a bit tighter, and watches it wrinkle in her hands.

     . . .

"What is this?" she asks him. There's a sketch, worn and weathered with years, but it's still visible. It looks like a tiara, one grande enough to sit upon the head of an empress. A large jewel is encased at the center, encased by a frame just as lovely. For some reason, it's important to Tom.

"It's what I came here for," he tells her. He watches her expectantly, as though she's supposed to recognize it. It's lovely but it doesn't stand out to her, doesn't jog any memory. Marjorie tells him so.

"I've never seen anything like that." She shoves it back towards him, pressing it into the hands she's become so familiar with. She's tries to avoid making contact, and quickly releases her hold on the parchment. "Sorry, I can't help you."

Tom doesn't believe her.

"You're a curse breaker," he says. "How can you be so clueless when it comes to this?"

She recoils, crossing her arms as if to protect herself from his frustration and insults. "You're so bloody smart, I'm sure you can find it on your own."

"I know it's whereabouts, silly girl," he snaps. Closing his eyes, he takes a steadying breath before calmly continuing, "What I need is some assistance in attaining it."

     Marjorie is prepared to tell him to, that she has a better use of her time here with her valued work. Tom will beg her, tell her that he needs her. Of course he does, that's why he sought her out after all. They will find his treasure together.

     Tom dusts lint off of his jacket and says, "I believe your father would be interested in the opportunity to help me."

     The is sucked from her lungs and she looks at him in stunned silence. Her father? That's who Tom is after? All this time and he's been patiently waiting for the man who he believed could help him on his quest. Marjorie is just a step in the plan.

She doesn't want him to see her pain but he watches her so closely. Looking away, she focuses her attention back on the flickering candle.

"What makes you think he'll help you?" she asks as nonchalantly as she can, squashing the hurt as it begins to grow. For a brief second, she quickly glances at Tom. He looks amused, lips pulling back in a small grin. His confidence is amazing; it was something she used to find so appealing about him. Now, it only adds to her frustration. He's too presumptuous; her father would never help such a narcissistic fool.

His eyes narrow, as if she had spoken her thoughts out loud.

"He was a Ravenclaw during his time at Hogwarts, no?" he asks with a tilt of his head. "Supposedly this particular diadem belonged to Rowena." His sly grin returns when her head snaps back towards him. "I see I have your attention."

"If you're just making that up-"

"I'm not making it up," he snaps. He closes his eyes and takes a seething breath before continuing more calmly, "And I would appreciate your discretion."

     Marjorie sees the fire in his eyes, can feel the weight of his request, and wonders why she's letting herself even consider it.  It sounds innocent, what he's asking for, but she doesn't trust Tom anymore. Something deep, deep down tells her to run.

"What will you do with it?" she asks.

"I work for burgen and burks," he replies. "This is what I do."

     He works in Diagon Alley. Of course he does.

     . . .

Tom knew she was a wizard since the day they met. At last, she understands what he wants from her and it was nothing tender.

     . . .

"Why didn't you just tell me?" She asks. She hesitates for a moment and her face flush in embarrassment. "Why did you pretend to like me?"

His brow quirks up and he gently says, "I wasn't pretending, Marjorie."

Looking back down at the parchment in her hand, her fingers ghost over the tracing of the diadem.

Theirs would be a long journey, and Tom preferred to have her trust. It wasn't necessary of course, but looking over his shoulder for her would be so tedious. An imperiused mind never worked nearly as well as a willing one.

     . . .

"I just need some time to think about this."

"Of course. You know where to find me."