The Brazen Hours

PART II

Part II

August 13, 1945

Tom sighed once more as the Muggle subway rumbled past the Leaky Cauldron, causing the walls to shed dried paint residue. He detested being in such close proximity to the dreary world that Muggle London embodied. With each passing day, his situation became increasingly unbearable.

He struggled more and more to accept the stifling presence of Borgin and Burke - the latter being particularly repugnant. Yet, Tom knew that Burke possessed far more knowledge about the dark arts than Borgin, and it was Burke who had hired him at the shop. Ever since Hepzibah Smith's extravagant purchases, Borgin had incessantly hovered over him to ensure he didn't attract wealthier clientele than their own. It must be admitted, Tom seemed tailor-made for the role of a relic hunter; he had satisfied numerous customers at the shop.

He hesitated to embark on his search for Horcruxes. Two potential objects lingered in his mind, safeguarded at Hepzibah Smith's. He awaited the opportunity to be nearer to them, to pilfer the two magical artifacts. He deemed this too meagre... Though he had already created a Horcrux during his Hogwarts days and possessed the Gaunt ring, he found it insufficient. Time seemed to rush by too swiftly, urging him to act urgently. Nonetheless, other matters demanded his attention before delving into Horcrux research. He knew where to start before seizing control of his destiny. Soon, he would sever ties with Burke and commence his travels, gathering his former Slytherin comrades. Tom mechanically glanced at the stack of letters they had sent him; there were many, and the orphan harboured confidence. He would undoubtedly succeed in rallying them when the time came. But before all else, he must bury his past and ensure no one could jeopardise his future. Dumbledore remained his foremost concern at present.

Tom sighed again, rising from his bed. He grew weary of incessantly pondering the same questions. His fascination with his former teacher had never been stronger; he inwardly yearned to strip away Dumbledore's incredible powers. He thirsted to acquire as many abilities as Albus, yet he recognized his current weakness. He was not yet capable of surpassing Dumbledore. Nevertheless, the wizard had been in a deplorable state for some time, which brought Tom little joy. He realised he did not truly relish seeing Dumbledore weakened. Tom struggled to comprehend his own reasoning; he should have rejoiced at Dumbledore's diminished power. Instead, he dwelled on the teacher's abilities, their last encounter, and the peculiar sensations he had experienced. He imagined Dumbledore's state of mind, wondering if the esteemed wizard felt as lost as he did. It was unbearable for the orphan; he refused to stagnate in his shabby room, consumed by thoughts of his teacher. He yearned to act, to dispel the suffocating torpor that drained his courage.

Soft, discreet knocks sounded at the bedroom door.

"It's about time," grumbled Tom, crossing the room to the door.

The bartender, bearing the unfortunate coincidence of sharing Tom's first name, stood there, looking somewhat disconcerted.

"Here is your package, Mr. Riddell," the man said with uncertainty.

"It's Rid..." Tom began, but he stopped himself. He tired of correcting people's mispronunciations of his name, vowing that they would remember it correctly in due time. For now, it was best to forsake his cursed surname forever.

"The package arrived in the early afternoon, escorted by five owls. They seemed tired..." the bartender whispered, "and... I noticed that the package moves from time to time, thought I'd mention it."

"Thank you," replied Tom dryly. "Where is it?"

"At the bottom, placed on one of the tables. It's impossible to bring it up for you from here."