Karma

Running a shop is never easy. There are always three hundred things happening at once that you have to keep in mind, and give your undivided attention to. And when you are working with magical artifacts of a certain level of danger and at the same time of suspicious origin, well, let’s say that you have to follow the three-C rule. You have to be careful, charming and clever. The careful-rule was not a problem for Mr. Aesop Borgin, who was the man to measure twelve times and never cut unless absolutely needed. The clever-rule was not a problem for his partner, Mr. Burk, who preferred to stay away from any human contact whatsoever while working with the artifacts, accessing them and making deals via mail. The charming-rule… well, they were lacking in the charming department until Mr. Burk decided to hire a young and prominent Hogwarts graduate. Mr. Aesop Borgin thought that this young man was prominent mostly in his cheekbones, crotch department and sensual lips, but, again, he measured Tom Riddle twelve times, instead of the seven that most would have done, and decided against cutting. So, the charming position was taken, and the shop started gaining more and more popularity. Unfortunately. It was the day before Christmas, and Mr. Aesop Borgin was expecting a lazy and quiet day. The speciality of the shop they were running didn’t make it a very popular place to shop for your average Xmas present. Unless you wanted to buy a gift for your soon-to-be-deceased special someone. That was a joke he liked to tell young Tom Riddle, and he did, and Tom smiled politely every time, and Mr. Borgin was very curious to find out when the new hire would stop doing that. Tom wouldn’t stop smiling and nodding politely after the sixteenth time, and that was impressive. “Miss Hepzibah Smith asked for you, Tom,” Borgin mentioned matter-of-factly, and was glad to see life quickly leaving Tom’s eyes. “Did she really,” Tom replied politely and proceeded filling in the invoice book. “Oh, yes, she did. She mentioned that she would like to see you today, and she demanded you for the whole day,” Mr. Borgin smiled, mimicking the pleasant smile Tom was always ready to offer. “I say you should be on your way now… and don’t you worry, I’ll finish with the papers.” “But, Mr. Borgin, sir… Are you sure you want me to go today?” tried to wriggle his way out of Hepzibah poor fellow. “Off you go! Our most loyal customer should not be kept waiting.” “Yes, Mr. Borgin. Of course,” Tom Riddle said and left at once, looking handsome as always and sad as seldom. Mr. Borgin smirked. Looks will get you anywhere, for sure, but the anywhere you might find yourself in… well, let’s just say, he, personally, would prefer to stay in the shop. Aesop was expecting a lazy and quiet day to spend on his own. How wrong he was! The first to enter the shop was Abraxas Malfoy. Or, as Borgin called him behind his back, the victim of inbreeding tradition. “Aha! Borgin!” he proclaimed with his sonorous voice. “You are the one I need!” Abraxas Malfoy spoke in proclamations only, but he was rich and mattered for this very reason. “My parcel is ready, I assume?” “Your… parcel, sir?” “Indeed!” Mr. Borgin had no idea about the parcel but he nodded and went to have a look at the register journal Tom was keeping neatly on the counter. “Mr. A.Malfoy, section C, cabinet 15, top-shelf, pre-paid” Borgin read and grimaced. Section C was the one where summoning charms never worked, and, in fact, no charms to fetch anything worked due to the delicacy and fragility of the artifacts. He went behind the counter, through the small door, down the stairs and to the cellar where the section C was. Cabinet 15 was three times as tall as Mr. Aesop Borgin himself, and, of course, he had to use the ladder with 13 steps to get to the top shelf. “Here you are, Mr. Malfoy, enjoy your parcel,” said Borgin and smiled when he was back with Malfoy ten minutes later. The parcel was small and heavy as hell. “Oh, I surely will,” Abraxas smiled back and left not only the shop, but also Borgin wondering about the content of the parcel. He wanted to check the register, but the door opened again. “It smells like shit,” growled Fenrir Greyback and marched to the counter. “Good day to you, sir,” Borgin sweetly replied to the bag of fleas talking. “How may I help you today, Mr. Greyback?” “I have a box to pick up. Your boy said it’d be ready today.” “Let me check the register.” He did, and, of course, there was a box for “Mr. F.Greyback, section C, cabinet 15, bottom-shelf, pre-paid.” “I’ll be right back with you, sir.” Borgin went behind the counter, through the small door and down the stairs to the cellar, to the section C. “At least, I don’t have to climb the goddamn ladder again,” said Borgin to himself, but when he saw the size of the box on the bottom shelf… he cursed and went for the small trolley they kept in the opposite corner of the cellar. It took him fifteen minutes to get back to Fenrir, and when he finally arrived back at the shop, panting from the heavy box he was carrying up the stairs, Borgin made two discoveries. The first was that Fenrir, or the bag of fleas, make your choice at that, had finished all the candies from the counter that were reserved for the customers but never touched as they looked nasty and were almost unchewable. The second was that there was another customer waiting for him. “Finally,” the werewolf picked the box as if it was as light as a feather, and left without adding anything. “May I help you?” Mr. Borgin tried to smile at the man with a boar by his side. The boar had shitten on the floor while Borgin was busy with Greyback’s box, but the man wasn’t about to pick the stuff up as it seemed. “The book for Mr. Filch, that is me,” the man said and patted the boar on the back with the gentleness of a person accustomed to the sins of flesh. “Pre-paid.” “Who did you order with?” “Riddle.” “Wonderful.” Borgin checked the register once again fearing to see the damned section C cabinet 15 but it was not. It was just section A, cabinet 1, shelf 3 at the back of the shop. And the book was called “Three little piglets”. “I will be with you in a minute.” Borgin went behind the counter and through the small door, waved his wand and merrily said “Accio “Three little piglets”!” The book flew to him, and it was the size of a small coffee-table and beautifully ironbound. “Thanks a lot! Merry Christmas!” Mr. Filch said, took the book that had left a bruise on Borgin’s stomach, and left with his boar. Aesop had ten minutes of peace and quiet which he used to clean the boar’s shit from the floor, and then the bell above the door chimed again. And it kept on chiming the whole day, making poor Mr. Borgin run behind the counter, through the small door and down the stairs to the cellar… again, and again, and again. Mr. Aesop Borgin put the “Closed” sign on the door and collapsed in his armchair. Twenty seven customers had visited him today for the parcels, boxes, books, trunks and chests they had ordered with Tom Riddle. Mr. Borgin was so tired that he didn’t even feel a little bit of joy for all the gold he had gathered from the customers today. Instead, he felt as if he was hit by a carriage pulled by a hoard of hippogriffs. His legs hurt, his back hurt, his arms hurt. He hurt in the places he didn’t know he had on his body. “I hate this Tom Riddle!” said Mr. Borgin quietly but with passion no one could even expect from this man. The bell above the door chimed. “We are closed!” he said and opened his eyes. “It’s me, Mr. Borgin, sir.” There was Tom Riddle in the shop, and he looked… paler than usual. “Ah. It’s you.” was all Borgin could manage. “Was it a tough day at the shop, sir?” Tom asked politely. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Borgin replied wearily. He looked at Tom Riddle, and then asked. “How is Miss Hepzibah?” “Good.” “Was it a nice day with her?” “I would rather not talk about that, sir.” “I see… It’s late. You may as well go now, Tom.” “Thank you, sir.” Riddle left without another word. Borgin smiled to himself. He had had a hell of a day on Christmas Eve, alright. But Tom Riddle seemed to have had it much worse… Borgin remarked with satisfaction that karma was very much real. As real as the hickey on Tom Riddle’s neck.