Alex, Alex, Alexius. What was he to do about Alexius Bannerly, who looked up to him like a dumb loyal crup, begging for scraps? Keep him on as a clerk for forever and a day?
He was most definitely not Death Eater material, that was for sure...
The thought is somewhat disturbing, for some reason, and Tom Riddle wonders why.
Well, no that he does have some kind of financial means of the surplus kind...maybe he could think about setting up a--what did the muggles call it now, a "branch office" of his Apothecary or something, on the better side of town? Though whether Alex could ever learn to manage such a thing properly...
Time to think about that later, though. Now, he had to work.
His "special" wares quite often did need special preparation, after all.
Six hours later, Tom Riddle rubbed gummed-together eyes and decided to call it a day. 4 batches of "special merchandise" was enough to floor anybody, and it wasn't like he was a spring chicken any more, damnit.
All right now, just write down one more time just why muggle "birth control pills" were insufficient, in and by themselves, for the conceptive control needs of witchs in general, and he'd call it quits for tonight. What the muggle docters called "hormones" in general were a bloody difficult thing to deal with when Magicals were involved at the best of times, and in things like this...
Muggle medicines are made for muggles by muggles, they are not made for Magicals nor pre-tested on Magicals or meant for Magicals, damnit, how difficult could it be to understand that, anyway!
Though muggle stuff in general was interesting and profitable to deal with, of course. If, and that was a big if, you had a basic understanding of what was going on, that is...
Alright, so pack that up now, and it's done for the night. He'd read his accumulated newspapers and go to bed. The Daily Prophet, The Hoagsmeade Journal, some of Rosemary's muggle tabloids, and his daily doses of various muggle papers that pretty much cemented his reputation of an unrepentant--well, eccentric was the polite way of saying it, he supposed. He knew Alex kept trying to decipher them when he thought other people weren't looking.
Hell. He heard that even Albus Dumbledore made a point of reading muggle newspapers, nowadays. The better to impress his little cadre of mudbloods and muggle-lovers with, he supposed.
How the mighty have fallen, Professor Dumbledore!
It was good to live in a part of town that didn't worry overmuch about such things, all things considering.
Though the muggle papers were enough to give even him nightmares, sometimes...
Contamination, contamination, shadowy grasping filth reaching though the gates... The red-tiped darkness drums deep in his mind, sometimes. Odd that he notices such things, these days.
He tells the whirling strumming to go take a spin in the old orphanage washing machine, turns into his pillow, and goes to sleep.
He has a early appointment with a customer in the morrow, after all.
The morning was bright and balmy, but not too hot. A almost perfect autumn day, in other words.
Though you couldn't have guessed in from the demeoner of his first customer of the day.
"Well come, young master Snape! And just what can I do for you today?"
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(Posted Sat, 16 Apr 2005 06:41)
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