A Present To Die For
A tall, dark figure slipped between the murky shadows of Knockturn Alley. His form melted effortlessly between the various rusted carts selling fresh human fingernails and newly acquired shrunken heads. His cloak danced in elegant swirls behind him, as it whispered to the rutted cobble stones he passed along. One gloved hand gracefully cupped a silver snake’s head, which posed with fangs laid bare, ready to strike.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Metronomic in its pace, the end of an ebony cane paced alongside, marking time. The sharper clang of metal on stone bestowed a bitter harmony to the night air, as it paced in time to the gentle Click. Click. Click of heeled boots. A dog howled in the distance while, radiant in an otherwise unfurnished sky, the full moon smirked back.
A bellow of laughter pierced the gloom and a red-haired man tumbled out of a near-by doorway, tripping and sprawling into the street. The smell of stale whisky emanated from him, and his brash, coarse voice began to serenade the night sky, conferring vivid details about his past mistresses.
The cloak was wrapped further around a regal outline, as a disdainful sniff sounded and booted heels swept by.
Vulgar, crude billboards swayed overhead depicting young girls and their associated wares, all for sale at the right price. Not one glance was spared them as the figure turned a corner, heading unerringly towards a single destination.
One store in particular loomed out of the darkness. It was unremarkable in most ways. The same tainted windows and shady exterior which furnished every other shop in Knockturn Alley was present. However, across the top of this store, in flaky silver lettering, the words, ‘Borgin and Burkes’, was spelled out.
The door was thrust open in concord to the discordant tinkling of a bell. The sound echoed chillingly, jarringly, through the utter silence of the store. The interior was gloomy, lit only by a single candelabrum overhead. The feeble light radiating from the ceiling gave life to shadows dancing through the store. Grinning macabre skulls now had a life of their own, with flame and darkness fighting for dominance in the eye-sockets. A ghastly hand had captured a fist full of shadow and was slowly squeezing the life out of it. Firelight flickered in the glass reflection of a jewelry cabinet, setting the stones alive with a menacing air of their very own.
“We’re closed.” A short, oily man, who had appeared behind the counter, sneered. “Can’t you read? You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
He turned to leave, heading towards the back room.
A throat was cleared pointedly, and the figure walked slowly up to the counter, cane tapping every few steps.
Mr. Borgin threw a quick glance over his shoulder and then stopped in his tracks. Turning around he scurried back to the counter, giving a stumbling half bow on the way, which nearly caused him to trip over his own feet.
“S-sir. I humbly apologize. I did not recognize you,” he stuttered, awkwardly. “W-What can I help you with today, s-sir?”
A moment’s silence followed. An assessing gaze rested upon the sweating proprietor. “It seems my wife’s eye has been… ah, wandering, of late,” the stranger replied, coldly. “I feel the need to teach her a lesson… a permanent one.”
“Ah. Of course, but of course, Sir.” Borgin scurried over to a range of gleaming silver instruments. Swords, whips, skewers, flails, thumbscrews and many other devices were lined up in gleaming rows. “We have a very fine range of torture imple-”
“I think not, Borgin,” he snapped. “Far too messy for my tastes... as you well know. Do not propose to try my patience any further than is necessary. I assure you, you would live to regret it.”
“Y-Yes, yes, of course, Sir. I w-wasn’t thinking.” Borgin started to tremble. “Um… perhaps, if you’ll come over here,” he muttered, gesturing to an ornate case holding many differently decorated bottles, of various sizes and shapes. “Here, we have on display a vast variety of particularly painful poisons. They are all guaranteed to make the mistress squirm for a long, long time.” He smirked in anticipation, clasping his hands together and looking up at the other man.
“Borgin!” A sharp, cracking tone whipped across the silence of the store. “Use some infinitesimal amount of common sense, would you? I am under heavy suspicion from the Ministry, however underserved their watch may be. This is a very… delicate matter. It needs to be handled with particular care.”
Borgin squirmed under the weighty glare and stinging tone being directed his way. He glanced around the shop frantically, shifting his weight relentlessly from side to side, as a sweat trail worked its way down one cheek.
“Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly, eyes lighting up with relief. “I b-believe I have just the object you require, Sir.” Scampering across to a dusty, remote corner of the store, he hurriedly extracted a plain leather ring box and placed it gently on the grimy counter. “The ‘Ring of Murdoch’, Sir. It was named thus after the wizard who originally owned it.”
The ring sat harmlessly inside its case. A simple band of gold; it’s only decoration was a small, perfectly rounded diamond sitting in the centre, with a smaller pure black diamond to either side. Light danced within its core, sparkling innocently in the gloom of the shop. There was a strange feeling to the air around it; an old power, long since dormant, suddenly awakening. The stranger reached out a hand, staring enraptured at the surface of the gems, and made to touch the centre diamond.
An oily hand shot out and gripped his firmly. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, Sir. This is not an item which should be, ah… tested in advance. You have my word that it will, discreetly, dispose of your little problem.” He smiled malevolently up at the other man.
The hooded stranger shook his head, irritated, as if to clear it of a sudden fog. “I trust you are telling the truth, Borgin? Mark my words; I will be most seriously displeased if I find you have lied to me.”
“Oh, yes, yes, Sir.” Borgin stuttered. “This will c-certainly give the desired effects, and in a manner most effective for all concerned. You will not be disappointed, I guarantee that.”
“Good. What is your price then, Borgin?”
The small man smiled widely. “Two hundred and fifty galleons, Sir.”
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“One hundred and seventy nine galleons, Sir.”
“Excellent, Mr. Burke. A pleasure, as always, doing business with you.”
“And you, Mr. Everett, and you. Do drop in and tell me how everything turns out. I’m sure there will be no problems whatsoever, but I do like to know my customer’s are satisfied with the result.”
“I’ll be sure to, Caractacus.” The two men clasped hands briefly, before Mr. Everett ducked out of the store.
Entering the busy alleyway, he ducked peddlers and street callers advertising their wares. The street was practically bursting with activity. Street entertainers were gathering hordes of children as they practiced simple magic tricks, while mothers were rushing around trying to keep their assorted children under control and complete their shopping at the same time. An ill-timed accident at the Pet Menagerie had caused a colossal escape of rats, cats, lizards, Puffskeins and an avalanche of toads, which culminated in havoc in the alley. Wizards and witches everywhere were trying to jump out of the way of the stampede, while still maintain a hold on their shopping.
Quentin Everett ducked down a side street, leaving the animal instigated upheaval behind him. He was a handsome man of thirty two, and a successful magical lawyer. Friends commented that he had everything he would ever need in life; good looks, a beautiful manor house, thriving business and a loving wife. He, himself, thought differently and his renowned loving wife; May Everett, had been the reason for his impromptu visit to the slightly shady, ‘Borgin and Burkes’. The elderly shopkeeper, Caractacus Burke, was an old family friend whom Quentin knew he could always count on to help him out in a crisis.
Said crisis being Lillian Tumbridge; the woman he was now passionately in love with. They had been continuing a fiery affair for several months now, but Quentin was desperate to have her all to himself, to be able to mark her as his territory. Dearest May, his wife of fifteen years, just couldn’t hold his interest anymore. She was sweet, gentle, honest, unassuming and frankly, in Quentin’s opinion, thoroughly boring. He needed a woman to keep him alive, during the day and night, a woman who could so completely enrapture him that there was no chance of the relationship ever going stale again. Really, Quentin thought, it would be unreasonable to expect a man such as himself to become completely tied down with one woman for the rest of his life. He just wasn’t the husbandly sort…
Apparating into the courtyard of his stately home, he stole quietly up the stairs and into the bedroom he shared with his wife. Approaching her from behind, he gently wrapped his arms around her and placed a soft kiss on her neck. She smiled and sighed lightly, arching into his kiss. Turning her around in his arms, he stroked a hand gently down her cheek. When he had her complete attention, he withdrew slightly and pulled a small, black, ring box from the inside pocket of his robes.
In response to her questioning look he smiled, and flipped the box open. Within lay a sparkling diamond ring, nestled securely between a black diamond on either side.
May gasped and her hands flew up to cover her mouth in surprise. “Quentin. You didn’t?”
“I did. You deserve it. It was a little pricy, but I just knew it’d be something you would die for.”
“Oh, my love, you shouldn’t have, really.” She looked up at him. “It’s so beautiful, though. Are you sure we can afford something this fine?”
“Let me worry about things like that. Just promise me you’ll wear it to the party tonight; it would look stunning with the new dress robes I bought you last week.”
“Of course, Quentin! You’re too good to me, truly you are.”
“Nonsense, my pet. If I don’t spoil you, then who else would? Just look beautiful for me tonight and that will be all the reward I need.”
When his wife, continued to just gaze at the ring, Quentin became impatient. “Well?” he demanded, “Are you going to try it on?”
She nodded, remaining quiet, and held out a trembling hand.
The moment Quentin’s fingers picked the ring from its box, he felt a chill race directly up his spine. It was bone-tingling and unnerving as a feeling of dread and disquiet settled like a dense cloud in his mind. He shivered slightly, desperate to get the thing out of his hands, whatever it was. Shoving it rapidly onto his wife’s middle finger, he dropped her hand and took two steps backwards to put some distance between that ring and himself. The moment his fingers released it, the awful feeling vanished, the uncertainty and anxiety swallowed up by a rush of anticipation for his wife’s reaction.
She gave no outwards signs of unease, though, except for an increase in the trembling of her hands and the appearance of a small frown on her bland features. Feeling slightly disappointed at the lack of response his gift had garnered, Quentin merely reminded his wife that she had better start getting ready for the party, and headed out of the door.
A few hours later, May sat at her dressing table, gazing blankly at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t what many people would call pretty. Soft brown hair, which today she had styled upwards in a cascade of ringlets, adorned a petite face with muddy brown eyes and average features. She wasn’t unattractive exactly; she just wasn’t someone you would ever pick out of a crowd. The unassuming wallflower; that was always May’s position, and she was happy with that… she really was.
But Quentin isn’t.
What? Where had that thought come from? As far as she knew Quentin was perfectly happy with the way she looked.
But he doesn’t look, does he? He looks at the other women; the pretty women. He doesn’t look at you.
May shook her head, confused. What was wrong with her tonight? Maybe the salmon they’d eaten for lunch had been slightly off? She’d have to inform the kitchens to buy the fish somewhere else in the future. It wouldn’t do to be having funny turns all over the place; especially not when Quentin’s business was doing so well and they were entertaining so frequently.
It’s not because of his business. That’s not the reason you’re always entertaining. It’s because he wants to spend time away from you, with other people, with other pretty people.
This was getting ridiculous! She’d never had such awful thoughts about her husband before. He loved her dearly, she’d always known that. Why else would he buy her such a lovely present spontaneously? She looked down at her new ring, nestled comfortably on her middle finger, with a small smile. The diamonds twinkled innocuously back at her. It really was beautiful; striking, yet simple and pure at the same time.
Why would he buy you-
Because he loves me! May thought, furiously, back at herself. She didn’t know where this new part of her had come from, but she wasn’t going to argue with herself about the merits of her husband any more. They loved each other; it was as simple as that. She was definitely going to have a word with Head Chef Rogario about that fish…
Their gathering later that evening was a huge success. May smiled kindly at everyone as she posed on Quentin’s arm, following him as he traveled around the party and greeted his various guests. She was the perfect hostess; making sure all the women had plenty of refreshments, while offering little sentiments to the gentlemen when conversation was growing stale. She looked pretty, she knew that. She was wearing sapphire blue robes which were pinched in at the back, giving a ruffled edge to the layers which trailed out behind her as she walked. The material hugged the few curves she possessed, making her frail form appear more womanly than usual. A variety of sapphire’s and opal’s adorned her hair, hiding secretively between the curls, while a matching necklace and bracelet set furnished her throat and wrist.
Pretty, not beautiful.
Maybe not, thought May in retaliation, but Quentin doesn’t mind.
Really?
Really! Stop doubting him! It’s not fair.
She stopped by the kitchens to have a quick word with the staff; the baskets of cheese and melon sticks were running low and needed a refill. Returning to the party afterwards she saw Quentin joking with Lady Amelia.
Smiling.
Laughing.
Touching.
Well why wouldn’t he? She’s beautiful. You’re not.
Quentin doesn’t care about things like that.
Quentin doesn’t care about you.
He loves me!
He tolerates you.
Stop it! Stop thinking like this! What is wrong with you?
Everything. Did you really think you could make him happy? Did you really think you could hold his interest? Retain the attention of someone like Quentin, who is so handsome and powerful, loving and successful? What would a man such as him see in a woman like you?
I… I don’t… that’s not the point… he loves-
Loves you? If he loved you so much he wouldn’t have to try so hard to escape you; to seek solace in the company of other women. Women who are fiery, beautiful, passionate and intelligent. Women the opposite to you.
Stop it! Stop thinking this way! It’s not true. It’s not… It’s not.
Of course it is. Why have you tried so hard to ignore what you’ve known for so long? It’s your fault. All yours.
You’re lying.
I’m the only one of us who isn’t. You’re the one making him miserable. If only you were better; a more loving wife, a more successful partner, then he might still care for you. You’ve ruined everything. Can you really blame him for looking elsewhere?
Look at him.
Despite herself, May looked. He was happy; smiling and laughing with Lillian Tumbridge. Now that she knew what she was looking for though, May could see all the other signs that she should have noticed from the beginning. An intimate glance. A fleeting touch; his fingertips to her cheek. A soft smile which traveled directly to his eyes and illuminated the hidden message within them. A message she had not seen directed her way for several months now.
You’re trapping him, keeping him from ever being truly happy. It’s your fault, all yours.
May whirled around and stumbled from the room. It wasn’t until she gained the safety of the hallway outside that she allowed her stiff hostess composure to fracture. Once the mask was broken, it revealed the grieving features of a woman who had just realized they’ve lost the only person who ever meant the world to them. Unable to find the strength of will to replace her mask and return to the party, May quietly ascended the stairs and locked herself within the confines of her bedroom.
You see what you are? How evil your true self really is? Even now your selfish tendencies dominate. Your husband is downstairs hosting one of the most important gatherings of his career and you hide away upstairs. You embarrass him. How will it look if his own wife abandons him? You’re pathetic. Self-centered. Weak. You don’t deserve him.
May choked on a sob which was tearing wildly at the inside of her throat. Standing utterly still in the centre of her room, she fought valiantly to keep her eyes dry, as she wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. Forcing her hands into fists to still the shaking emanating from them, she clenched her eyes tightly shut and concentrated on simply breathing in and out. Several moments later, as she slowly opened her eyes again, she caught sight of her reflection in the dressing table mirror. Calm, reserved and gentle; her demeanor the perfect hostess once again, May left the quiet solitude of her sanctuary to return to the party. If anyone noticed the unnerving blankness behind her normally warm, brown eyes, they didn’t comment on it.
Over the next few weeks Quentin did notice some changes in his wife. She became even more reserved and restrained than she had been previously. She sought solitude more often than company and he often found himself having to search the house to find her. Dark smudges began appearing under her eyes, and a constant tremble developed in her hands. Her whole bearing seemed bent under some invisible weight and there was a palpable feeling of sorrow and guilt surrounding her at all times.
She started reacting peculiarly when small things went wrong. Apologizing for hours on end about little mishaps, which a couple of weeks ago she would have laughed away in the same amount of minutes.
The Head Chef resigned just before an important assembly Quentin was holding for the leading officials in Magical Law. He said May had accused him of poisoning her.
Quentin’s best set of cream robes were irrevocably dyed orange, his worst colour, after May had been distracted while conducting a simple cleaning charm.
While hurrying to offer Rupert Ginnins, one of Quentin’s most respected clients, another cup of tea, May accidentally knocked over the boiling pot, spilling burning hot liquid across his right hand. She healed it quickly afterwards, of course, but there was still the fact that it had occurred…
Silly things that could happen to anyone. Circumstance.
Your fault.
Yours.
It’s all your fault.
May sat huddled against the wall of their bedroom balcony, rocking herself gently backwards and forwards. Her chest was wrenching with suppressed sobs, but glistening tear tracks were chasing each other furiously down her cheeks. Her fingernails were blue with cold, but she didn’t seem to care, as she huddled as far into the wall as she could go. That voice was talking to her again. The voice which always seemed to speak the truth, and tell her the things about herself she was too afraid to really see.
It’s you; you causing all these problems. All you do is make trouble for everyone around you. You’re worthless. Pathetic. You don’t deserve Quentin. Quentin who loves you, who takes care of you and who has offered you the world. He’s deserves someone better; someone worthy of his love.
May tightened her grip around her knees, feeling utterly sick. Her breathing was coming in short little gasps and she couldn’t seem to focus properly.
You’re just a burden to him. You’re the reason he’s not happy. You’re the reason he’s not with someone he really loves. He’s too honorable to say anything and he would suffer your presence for the rest of his days if he had to, but he wouldn’t be happy. Don’t you want Quentin to be happy?
Yes, she did. She desperately did. Why did things just make sense when she listened to this other part of herself? She was making life confusing when it was really quite simple. If she’d just listen to this voice, which must be her conscience, then all her problems would go away. It knew what the right thing to do was. If she just listened to what she knew was right, then maybe she’d be able to make up for all the ruin she’d caused.
You could make him happy. You could free him. Free him from this prison you’ve caged him in and he’ll have the chance to live the life he’s always wanted to. Without you. It’s so easy. You just have to do the brave thing for once, the right thing. It wouldn’t hurt. Not really. He’s so much more than you could ever be. You’re tying him down, stifling him. All his problems would just disappear if you weren’t here anymore.
Where was this going? It didn’t matter. It was right, it was always right. Quentin would be happier without her. He wasn’t happy at the moment. How could he be if he was married to her? She had the power to make him happy though, and if she had that power how selfish would it be to deliberately not use it?
Yes! Yes, it’s so easy. You just have to disappear, disappear forever, and Quentin will be happy. Forever. It’s so simple.
Yes, it was. She could see that now.
You’re already up here. It would be so easy just to walk to the edge and… not stop. So easy. One simple act and Quentin will be happy forever.
Suicide? God had forbidden suicide though. How could her conscience think that this was the best option?
But it is! How can you not see that? If you just leave him, he’ll look for you. He won’t stop before he finds you. It won’t be because he loves you either; it’ll be because he has a sense of duty, of decorum, of honor. He’ll find you, but he’ll be disgraced as well. His own wife leaving him would be the scandal of the town… He’ll lose his job, his friends, his name, and everything that he’s ever cared about. That’s all because of you. You would do that to him. You.
No, no, nonono, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do that to Quentin. It would ruin him, and I’ve ruined enough as it is. There’s only one option, really. Only one thing I can do to make him happy. Only one thing I can do to make amends.
Looking down, May felt her stomach drop at how high up she was. It didn’t matter though. All that mattered was finally freeing Quentin from her presence. Maybe this final act of goodwill would absolve some of her guilt. Closing her eyes, May took a deep breath, and let herself fall.
They found a simple letter saying goodbye in the morning. The writing was so obscured by tear drops that the words themselves were hard to make out.
May was disgraced from the church and buried outside its walls, where no one would ever have to look at her name again.
Quentin married Lillian Tumbridge two months later.
May was not the first. Other gruesome trophies line up along the path of history. Conquests the ring has taken over and destroyed.
Rose Turner - Died 1944
Emily Style - Died 1907
Ruth Copeland “ Died 1821
Margaret Evans “ Died 1759
Jane Sanders “ Died 1639
There are many more. Countless women seduced by a power greater than themselves, and condemned by history for the crime of taking their own lives. Their records are old now, forgotten and decaying someplace. No one cares enough to find out where. The ring, however, lives on.
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A tall, dark figure stepped into the front foyer of his manor house. He carried a bouquet of red roses in one hand and a small black ring box in the other. Sweeping off his long, black cloak to hang on the stand next to the door, he set a cascade of iridescent blond hair shimmering down his back.
“Narcissa, darling,” the striking figure called up the sweeping staircase. “I have a present for you.”