"I know you love the pastries I make, Tom."
Mrs. Hepzibah held up a cream cake toward Voldemort, her voice was brimming with affection as the gold bracelets on her wrist chimed softly with the movement.
"But your complexion seems a bit pale today. Surely the shop isn't working you too hard?"
When Voldemort shook his head, she continued as if she deserved credit for her concern. "I've told Mr. Borgin a hundred times that he can't exploit young people like this... But never mind such dreary matters. What brings you to visit me today? You're not just here to bring me flowers, are you?"
"It's about the armor made by the goblins, madam," Tom replied, settling into the chair across from her with a posture of respectful attentiveness, his gaze appeared earnest and intent. "Mr. Borgin wishes to offer a higher price—five hundred Galleons. He believes this is a fair price and hopes to persuade you to let him sell the armor in his shop."
"Oh my, oh my, there's no need to rush!" Hepzibah pouted with exaggerated displeasure, waving her hand dismissively as the fat flesh on her chest jiggled slightly with the motion.
"Otherwise, I'll think you've only come for my precious treasures, not to see this old woman at all."
"You jest, madam," Tom replied, lowering his eyes. Long lashes cast a shadow across his eyelids, cleverly concealing a flicker of impatience that crossed his gaze.
His tone remained smooth. "I'm merely a humble shop assistant, bound to follow Mr. Borgin's instructions. He specifically instructed me to discuss this matter carefully with you—"
"Oh, Mr. Borgin—ptui!" Hepzibah suddenly cut him off sharply, her face full of disdain, as if speaking his name had soiled her mouth.
"Don't mention that mercenary scoundrel to me! I want to show you something—a treasure that your Mr. Borgin has never even laid eyes on!"
She suddenly lowered her voice, leaning forward slightly, her eyes were gleaming with naked pride. "Can you keep a secret, Tom? Can you promise not to tell Mr. Borgin that I showed you this? If he knew, he'd pester me every single day and never let me have peace. I won't sell this—not to Borgin, not to anyone!
But you're different, Tom. You understand history; you can appreciate its true value, not just think about how many Galleons you could make from it."
Sherlock's eyes brightened at Hepzibah's words. He already knew what this noblewoman was about to reveal—it was precisely what Dumbledore had sought him out for today.
The memory held in Hokey's mind of the young Voldemort was identical.
Upon hearing Hepzibah's words, the young man's body leaned slightly further forward, his posture was now radiating palpable anticipation.
"It would be my honor to appreciate your collection, madam. And keeping your secret is a responsibility I cannot shirk."
His tone struck the perfect balance of curious about the treasures yet respectful toward their keeper. Combined with his handsome face, it appeared utterly genuine.
"I already told Hokey to bring the items out... Hokey, where are you?"
Voldemort's performance was flawless, his emotional appeal was perfectly adjusted. This caused Hepzibah to raise her voice and call out. "Come here quickly. I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure... On second thought, bring both items. Let him see everything at once!"
"Both items!"
Harry couldn't help but let out a soft gasp of surprise at these words. He quickly covered his mouth with his hand, afraid that even his involuntary sound might somehow disturb this precious memory though he knew intellectually that his noise could have no effect.
"I'm here, madam," came Hokey's voice from the corner. The house-elf emerged carrying two nested mahogany leather boxes stacked together, hurrying forward in quick, shuffling steps. Her short stature and the tall plants obscuring her had kept her unnoticed until now.
The boxes' leather surfaces bore intricate dark patterns, their edges trimmed with polished brass fittings that gleamed expensively.
Hepzibah received the boxes with evident delight, placing them carefully upon her lap. She patted the lid gently, then looked toward Voldemort.
"Tom, I think you'll absolutely love this... Oh, if my greedy relatives knew I had these treasures, they'd come rushing over to snatch them from me!"
As she spoke, her pudgy fingers carefully pried open the lid of the upper box. Inside, soft navy velvet padding lined the interior. At its center lay a small golden cup. Crafted from pure gold, it gleamed with a warm, refined luster. On either side sat delicate handles, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that flowed gracefully and seemed almost alive.
"Do you know what this is, Tom?" Hepzibah's voice brimmed with pride, like a student awaiting praise. She raised her chin slightly. "Pick it up and examine it carefully. Feel its weight and craftsmanship. This is a genuine antique."
Voldemort obliged readily, extending his pale, slender fingers. He gently grasped one handle and lifted the golden cup from its velvet cushion. In that precise moment, Sherlock caught something crucial—a faint crimson light flickered across Voldemort's eyes.
Sherlock knew this look familiarly. He had seen it countless times in the eyes of greedy criminals. It was a gaze that blended extreme avarice, intense desire, and possessive obsession into a single expression. Like a viper regarding its prey, it fused ice-cold calculation with burning covetousness.
Unfortunately for Hepzibah, she remained utterly absorbed in the joy of having a young, handsome man admire her collection. Her beady eyes fixed intently on Voldemort's face; her gaze was immersed with infatuation. She noticed nothing amiss in his expression, entirely unaware of the darkness lurking beneath his pleasant facade.
"A badger," Voldemort said carefully, studying the carved patterns on the cup's surface. His voice emerged slowly, carrying just the faintest tremor—evidence of emotion barely held in check. "This is... Helga Hufflepuff's golden cup?"
"That's right! My clever boy!" Hepzibah beamed, apparently blind to his peculiarity. She clapped her hands in excitement, producing a dull sound with her fleshy palms.
In the next moment, she even leaned forward and pinched Voldemort's hollow cheek with her pudgy fingers in a gesture of unwelcome familiarity. The young Voldemort appeared oblivious to this, his gaze remaining mesmerized by the cup in his hands.
Meanwhile, Hepzibah's voice brimmed with unconcealed admiration as she launched into a long explanation.
"Haven't I told you? I'm a distant descendant of Helga Hufflepuff! This piece has been passed down through my family for generations—a true antique. It's beautiful, isn't it?
They say it possesses all sorts of magical properties, though I've never dared to experiment much with it. I simply keep it carefully in its box and only bring it out occasionally to admire, afraid of damaging it. My own descendants have never even seen it..."
She trailed off, reaching out to reclaim the golden cup from Voldemort's hands. Yet she remained completely oblivious to the icy shadow that crossed his face as she withdrew it. It was the displeasure and restrained rage of thwarted possession—the oppressive calm before a gathering storm.
Hepzibah carefully nestled the cup back into the velvet indentation, her movements gentle and cautious.
Then, lowering her voice once more with dramatic mystery, she continued.
"Tom, I think you'll like this next one even better. Come closer, dear boy. Look carefully—don't blink. Of course, Borgin knows I have this one because I bought it from him. I'd wager that after I'm gone, he'll want to reclaim it and sell it to someone else for a tidy profit."
As she spoke, her fingers carefully undid the delicate gold clasps on the second box, slowly lifting its lid.
The interior was similarly lined with velvet—this time in deep crimson which made the object within appear even more precious. Upon the cushion rested a heavy golden pendant box, its surface engraved with complex scrollwork, its center set with a dark gem that glowed with subtle radiance in the light, radiating an air of ancient mystery.
This time, Voldemort did not wait for Hepzibah's invitation. He reached forward eagerly and seized the pendant box, holding it up to the light and scrutinizing it carefully. His fingers traced the engravings gently, his eyes virtually overflowing with fascination.
When he saw the elaborate serpentine "S" marking on its surface, his breathing visibly stilled. His throat worked as he whispered. "This is the mark of Slytherin."
"That's right! You're truly clever!" Beaming at Voldemort's rapt attention, Hepzibah's face was wreathed in smiles, her eye wrinkles gathered at the corners in delight.
Her tone dripped with self-satisfaction. "I paid a considerable price for this! But such a precious item—I couldn't possibly pass it up. It simply had to be part of my collection. Borgin said he obtained it from a shabby woman. She probably stole it and had no idea of its true worth, so Borgin didn't pay her much at all—"
Confronted with a Slytherin relic, Voldemort's emotion proved even more intense than when viewing Hufflepuff's cup. His eyes began to glow with an eerie red light that grew progressively brighter, nearly overwhelming his rationality.
His fingers, gripping the pendant box's chain, clenched until his knuckles turned white, the skin stretching taut and pale, his fingertips blanching with effort as though he might crush the box to powder.
"—I dare say Borgin didn't pay that woman much of anything," Hepzibah continued rambling, utterly oblivious to Voldemort's deterioration, still basking in the validation of her collection.
"But look at this little golden box—isn't it lovely? It's supposed to have various magical properties too, though I've only kept it safely stored without experimenting... "
She extended her hand, intending to retrieve the pendant box and secure it once more.
Sherlock released a long, weary sigh upon seeing this gesture, his eyes full of resignation. This woman had never contemplated the principle of discretion with wealth.
Not only that, but she had now interrupted Voldemort's obsessive fixation twice. For someone consumed by greed to such an extreme degree, this stupid and arrogant woman had plainly engineered her own doom.
"Well then, Tom, dear, I hope you enjoyed it!" Hepzibah said, unceremoniously withdrawing the Slytherin pendant box from Voldemort's hands.
This time, even Harry noticed something wrong.
For a moment, he genuinely believed Voldemort would refuse to let go, that he might lose control entirely. His fingers clenched around the box's chain, his knuckles even more deathly pale from the pressure.
Yet ultimately, he exercised restraint. Reason triumphed over impulse.
The pendant box slipped from his grasp with a soft click, falling onto the crimson velvet cushion.
But Hepzibah's foolish smile suddenly froze.
Because in his struggle over the Slytherin pendant box, Voldemort had failed to completely master his emotions. That momentary flash of red light had been caught by her observant eye.
"Are you quite all right, dear?" Hepzibah asked carefully, her voice trembling with barely concealed alarm. The excitement that had vibrant her minutes before had largely vanished.
"I'm fine," Voldemort's voice remained composed, though somewhat hoarse.
He lifted his head, reattaching the gentle smile to his face as though his moment of intensity had been mere illusion. "I'm fine. I've never been better..."
"I thought—well, perhaps it was just the lighting..." Hepzibah seemed flustered, her gaze flickering away, no longer daring to meet Voldemort's eyes.
The stark contrast between the obedient, charming young man and this sudden intensity had jarred her perceptiveness back to life.
So, she immediately turned toward the corner and called out. "Come, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again... with the old magic, make sure they're secure!"
"Sherlock, Harry, I think we should depart now," Dumbledore said as the house-elf tottered away toward the storage room bearing the boxes. He extended both hands to grasp their arms.
Clearly, the memory had reached its conclusion.
The next instant, the three of them passed through the void and gently ascended back into the headmaster's office, the memory scene receding like the tide.
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