It was a strange sort of game they played, of cat and mouse when neither were quite sure who was predator and who was prey. Polite, for of course he was; they were of similar lineage, or so she assumed, for only Borgin and Burke would employ only those of the highest breeding that would consider work as a shopkeeper in Knockturn Alley. Anything less would sully their so-called good reputation and turn up the noses of every bitch and bastard that called upon them for services of the sort that only the Purebloods could need. Alice knew the game well, knew that stiff politeness well, because despite her own lowly breeding, she was as good as one of them. Fortescue in name, Fawley in execution– at least when she was between the walls of the dank and dim little shop she knew better than she had any right or reason to.
Politeness and stiffness and formality alike were what they both used with one another as if this little room were their chessboard and both were waiting for the other to crack. She would have laughed in that dry, humourless way of hers at the very thought that Riddle knew not the woman he dealt with. Borgin kept records that would put Skeeter to shame. Alice’s history, her alliances, her social standing would all be at Tom’s perusal should the man only ask, to say nothing of her career. She was hardly the first woman to wear the ridiculous leather coat over her shoulders and would certainly not be the last, but had made waves of her own right. Alastor Moody’s partner; Kester Moody’s protegée; rumoured to have brought a smile or two to even the surly, stoic face of crotchety Barty Crouch. She was small but utterly devastating in a duel, fast as lightning and unpredictable as a tornado. Her reputation had leaked outside of the Ministry’s Level 2 many years before her path had crossed Tom’s.
They were both pretending. Alice merely wasn’t quite sure what lay behind Tom’s mask.
That he noticed whatever aggravating pull he had over her was a different matter entirely. It was easy to fall into the part of a naïve woman seeking an illicit thrill; she’d watched both of her step-sisters flick the switch on and off at will enough times to mimic it near-flawlessly. Straight to business, Riddle went, while Alice’s phone burned a hole against her side within her pocket, reminding her that she’d paused to check the state of her appearance before presenting herself to him, as if it actually mattered. Playing the role of a simpering half-fool who should have known better and didn’t was much, much different than baring her underbelly to the beast she didn’t know. That his too-pale eyes left her stomach kicking up against the cage of her ribs was a matter she refused to examine in any great depth.
He spoke to her like a child; she bit the inside of her cheek and endured it. A fool, she reminded herself; not so stupid as to lose his interest, but certainly not half as sharp as would alarm him. To tout knowledge of dark magics was acceptable, but anything beyond that was certainly not. She had no interest in giving him more ammunition than was absolutely necessary. He had proven himself time and time again the most useful a contact this side of the moral grey line– providing, of course, she met him blow for blow. “Hedgewitchery,” Alice dismissed, tone as prim as the ankles that crossed when she found her seat across from him, disinterested eyes dropping from his face to the locket he held in his hands as if it were worth half as much as he’d like her to believe. Scratched, and even he’d said as much– scratched, not etched, not engraved, not moulded into the metal that was untarnished but likely polished for her benefit alone. “A bloodline dried up because they can’t manage more than a paltry blood rune is nothing to write home about, Mr. Riddle. I’m assuming it still has bite because it feeds on those it harms, takes a bit of them back with them– what, a drop of blood? A piece of flesh, a fingernail? And what is that– it wants to be gold but it’s on a chain of something far less valuable. Plated, is it? Shame. I’ve no use for another locket that spits at wandering fingers.” Her own gentle smile didn’t waver, and her voice never shied from half-dismissive but as painfully polite as his own. “I’ll be needing a better story than that.”
The charming smile never once wavered throughout her thorough dismissal of the first item he’d set aside for her -- in fact, it widened, lips curling up in barely-concealed amusement. No, Alice Fortescue was not one to be wooed by a pretty little trinket, not when she was likely used to dealing with magic far more dangerous than this on a daily basis, not when her entire act screamed of the money she had free to lavish upon artefacts. Their meetings were a game to both of them -- each one tiptoeing carefully around, hiding their true intentions behind smiles and polite words and casual discussion, searching for that one thing that made the other tick. Alice Fortescue was good -- she never slipped up, never betrayed anything of her true thoughts or intentions besides, perhaps, the occasional lingering glance, or the few extra seconds she wasted on her appearance each time before entering the room (Borgin found that quite amusing indeed, and never failed to recount almost the exact same tale about it every single time; to which Tom smiled, laughed politely when it was expected of him, made the man feel like he was important and valued and special, special enough that Tom Riddle would continue to work here as such a stellar employee, would continue to work for him because he was so invested in this paltry little shop and its conceited managers and its stuck up, spoiled customers with their misplaced holier than thou attitudes).
Tom, who was nothing but smiles and politeness and charm; Tom who was so appealing, so open, so nice. Tom who had so many wrapped around his finger, willing to do anything for him. He didn’t have Alice under his thumb -- he doubted he ever would; she was too stubborn, too devout in her views, too devoted to good; or at least, her perception of good -- but that didn’t matter. She visited him fairly regularly, and that was all that really mattered in the long term. He’d figure her out completely soon enough, he was confident of that, and he was more than confident that Alice wouldn’t be able to figure him out in the meantime.
“No such messy enchantment, I’m afraid, although you aren’t too far off. It absorbs the energy and vitality from whomever is foolish enough to touch it -- it quite literally drains the life from your very body.” His own smile matched hers perfectly; mirror images of each other, each playing their part, buyer and seller, the roles so familiar and well-rehearsed, this comfortable back and forth almost second nature by now. “But of course; I hardly expected something so meagre to grab your attention so easily.”
He replaced the locket on the table between them with a practised care, removed the protective gloves and picked up the next item he had set aside: a small, stylised golden ring. “This next one is perfectly safe, so long as you don’t wear it.” The wry quirk of his lips assured her that he was sure that she was far from likely to ever do such a foolish thing, and it was merely a standard precaution, a disclaimer he was required to tell her just in case something did go wrong, to ensure that the shop wouldn’t be liable for any harm that might be brought about by an unfortunate accident.
“It’s imbued with some very powerful dark magic -- but harmless, unless you actually do put it on your finger. This particular curse causes the wearer to slowly rot away, and the ring cannot be removed until the wearer is dead.”
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