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The Riddles were an extraordinary family when one took into account their background. Met at an orphanage, Mr and Mrs Riddle. From day one, the odds stacked against them. Yet they persevered.
Mrs Riddle was a tailor, and Mr Riddle the mechanic – oh, apologies, that'd been turned around. Mrs Riddle was the one who fancied herself the mechanic (she was one, rather, but that was harder to stomach than a lady fancying herself being something obscene), and Mr Riddle was the tailor.
Now those two professions didn't go hand in hand, but Mr Riddle, seeing sense, finally decided to put that rather queer business behind him and be the face (err, the man of the operation) to Riddle Automotive Repair Shop.
With such a handsome devil at the scene of the crime, err, front desk, people had begun queuing up. There was an unnatural charm to Mr Riddle that Mrs Riddle wasn't above utilising. After all, the more autos she and her team fixed, the better dresses and suits both she and her husband could buy. And a tailor really ought to be dressed well. Otherwise they'd never believe he was a tailor in the first place.
Mr Riddle would often treat Mrs Riddle to the pictures. It was a language they both still spoke fluently, having snuck into cinemas as children to catch a film or two before their orphanage matron demanded their presence back.
They did not speak of the orphanage. It wasn't a kind time for either of them. Mr and Mrs Riddle never went to the coast either. Nor any destination with lakes or seas or oceans. Those weren't kind places for either of them.
And Mr Riddle certainly never spoke to snakes. He no longer had anyone to speak the language with, so to speak it to snakes would prove an insult to his memory of a different, much kinder time.
For a time it was difficult for both Mr and Mrs Riddle. Grief made monsters of us all, yet it unveiled something deeply shattered underneath their success. It forced them to look at the orphanage again. When they'd lost parents. When they'd never remembered them. This was a worse type of grief.
They had never thought there could be a worse existence than to be an orphan. Yet they'd found it. It'd been waiting for them this whole time.
Mrs Riddle barely spoke two words to Mr Riddle. She did not blame him. He did enough of that on his own. To avoid coming home, Mr Riddle worked longer and longer at their shop. In the years since they'd opened it, they'd even expanded it to not only repair but sell motorised vehicles. It was becoming quite a fashion among a crowd that was newly emerged.
''So you say it goes over fifty kilometres?''
Mr Riddle nodded his head minutely. ''Up to a hundred, even.''
The customer peered at the Volkswagen in dismay. He crossed his arms, a wand in hand resting gently on his sleeve. Apparently, half a century ago, this would've been cause for scandal. But, since World War II had finished, and that Gellert Grindelwald fellow, alongside that Albus Dumbledore fellow had, in their terrible duel, undone the Statute of Secrecy, magical folk could be open about their existence in a way they'd not been able to in centuries.
''Would you care to look at the upholstery, sir?''
A wave of a hand, as if to silence Mr Riddle. Ah, he lifted his brows, so it was one of those.
There weren't many wizards that liked non magical folks. It was all rather fascist of them. Though, Mr Riddle figured that if he could do magic how these folk could, he would think everyone else ants as well.
''Do you think I would be able to test drive it?'' the customer turned to Mr Riddle and smiled, with bright teeth. He wore his hair long like the youth did, taking more and more trends from their magical cohabitants. The wizards took non magical music, and films, and other such art forms that their small community wasn't creative enough to foster, and in return – well, Mr Riddle honestly didn't know if he cared about anything from this world.
His world had dimmed considerably. What little magic he had ever believed in had died. What little magic, he, himself, had ever been able to do had shrivelled up inside him and promised to rot him whole from the inside.
Mr Riddle had yet to tell Mrs Riddle he'd been diagnosed with a terminal illness. So he simply pinched his lips in a forced smile and said: ''Of course, would you like a driver?''
Before he could motion for one of the boys working in their shop, the customer did that thing of his again, waved that hand almost imperiously, as if the Queen of England herself should deign to bow to him. ''You will do, won't you?''
''Suppose I will, yes.'' Mr Riddle said, overcome with a ferocious desire to get into a car crash with both himself and this horrific man. That would avoid a lot of difficult conversations Mr Riddle was not looking forward to.
The customer accidentally opened the driver's door and sat inside. Mr Riddle corrected him with a cough that rather turned phlegmy and bloody. He quickly hid this with a handkerchief and allowed the customer to play with it like one would with children's toys. Mr Riddle coughed even harder, at that comparison.
''I haven't got all day, here!'' the customer leaned on the horn.
Mr Riddle's eyes darkened. He dabbed the remnant blood away from his mouth with his handkerchief, monogrammed in beautiful lettering T.M.R. Wordlessly he stuffed the bloodied napkin into his coat's pocket and approached the customer with a smile worthy of a medal. ''Apologies, sir. If you'll allow me access to the driver's seat, I'd be more than happy to show you what this car can do.''
''Ah, but I thought I'd be able to drive it myself.'' Petulantly the customer said, peering at him with the strangest eyes Mr Riddle had ever seen: pure silver. And he'd thought the ones with eyes like the abyss were bad enough. This one, it appeared, would send him to his grave before the illness would.
''I am sorry, sir, but our policy doesn't allow people without a licence to drive vehicles –''
A roll of those eyes, followed by a wave of a wand instead of a hand. ''Confundo.''
Mr Riddle did not know why he was standing here with this man. He did not know what he had come to do just now. Worrisome, really. Mrs Riddle would tell him he wasn't eating properly. Perhaps he really should eat more fruits… ''Excuse me, sir?''
A slip of parchment – parchment? A driver's permit, really! What a preposterous notion, ha, made of parchment. Mr Riddle felt a smile tug at his own lips. The doors to the passenger seat opened. Yes, right, he was supposed to go on a test drive with this gentleman. Wordlessly he entered the vehicle and put his seatbelt on.
''Sir, I apologise for any inconvenience on our part.'' Mr Riddle often wondered if he could go a single day without apologising.
But when those eyes met his, Mr Riddle felt like prey. ''It's all right. Just tell me how to start this thing.''
''Of course, sir.'' Mr Riddle did not wonder once why it was that a man with a driver's permit didn't know how to start a vehicle. Patiently, Mr Riddle explained every part of this due process as calmly as he could.
It was a bumpy ride, but they made it out of the garage.
''What's your name, muggle?'' The customer asked. He offered a hand to Mr Riddle, to shake, and Mr Riddle did shake it. His skin was so soft, as if he were made of silk.
Mr Riddle had not held silk in his hands in a long while. He so missed his fabrics. A small joy in a joyless life. It'd been the first thing he'd ever been good at. Mrs Cole had said so, she'd said, That's all you'll ever be good for, ''Tom Riddle.'' He cleared his throat. ''My name is Tom Riddle.''
A noise of recognition. ''Like the Little Hangleton Riddles?''
''No, sir. Not like them.'' Tom Riddle shook his head. He thought of his father and the petty ten pounds he'd given him to get him out of his life when he'd found him.
''Pity. My father buys horses from them.'' A yawn. The customer shrugged his shoulders next and wiggled his fingers at Tom. ''My name's Abraxas Malfoy.''
Recognition dawned in Tom's eyes. He had one of the Twenty with him.
My. Wasn't that interesting? The Twenty families of magical Britain who'd refused to sign the new Transparency Statute between the magical and non-magical governments.
''What brings you here?''
Another shrug. As Abraxas practically leaned on the gas pedal through traffic. ''Oh the sights,'' another wave, this time of one hand, then the other. For a moment the driver had no hands on the steering wheel. ''Perhaps just some novelty.'' Then he turned to Tom and said, with a smile. ''Now, do you want to see this car go two hundred kilometres?''
''That's a physical impossibility-''
Abraxas waved his wand at the engine and leaned his full weight on the gas pedal.
Tom hit the upholstery of the seats hard.