Heir Unapparent: Chapter One-The Riddles Revisited
The Riddle House lay bleak and barren on this late August evening. Autumn was setting in, the air crisp and bracing, the full moon throwing its soft light across the wide unkept lawns of the estate. There was no gardener to tend them now. Once lovely flowerbeds tangled around the house, choking entry to the windows for any boys of Little Hangleton who dared each other to peek in the windows. No such little boys came around anymore.
For fifty years this manor house had held the collective fear and curiosity of the wee village, following the untimely and inexplicable deaths of its three inhabitants. Frank Bryce, the popular choice for the murders amongst the crowd at the Hanged Man pub, had himself been found last year in the forested area at the back of the house, dumped like a sack of yesterday's refuse, dead as the Riddles who had preceded him half a century ago.
At this time last year, a pack of boys, restless due to their rapidly disappearing summer holiday, had planned an expedition to the house, to break windows and scare each other as badly as possible. They had cut through the woods, poor chaps, and stumbled upon the horrifying form of Mr. Bryce. He was stone cold, his face frozen in a terrible expression, though whether it was one of outrage or terror the local constable could not say. The coroner of Great Hangleton (for Little Hangleton was far too tiny a town to employ such a person) found this type of death as mystifying as had his predecessor many years earlier. Upon checking the dusty archives on the case, he declared Frank's death to be identical in nature to those of the doomed Riddles.
This declaration set Little Hangleton (and even Great Hangleton, which was not above sensationalistic gossip) ablaze. Once again, the villagers packed into the modest Hanged Man, as perplexed as their relatives had been years ago. The speculation was as outlandish as yesteryear when consensus awarded poor Mr. Bryce the blame.
"Well, he was a queer old bugger," commented Art Sandyman, the local dart champion who, therefore, was given due consideration. "Wouldn't surprise me if he done it himself, you know."
"What? Managed to die by no natural cause? Didn't you read the coroner's report in the Hangleton Herald, Art?" chided Rose, a rather waspish looking woman who had been spurned last month by the previous speaker. This may have explained the rancor in her tone.
"Give it a rest, luv!" exclaimed the landlord, who pulled her another hard cider. Sloshing it across the bar, he continued. "Constable Parsley thinks poor old Frank wandered out beyond his paddock, so to speak. Most likely overexposure, if you ask me."
Rose, mopping up her cider with the bar towel, snorted derisively. "Oh right. In the middle of August? And without his cane? You know he never went anywhere without that cane, Fred. No, it's murder, it is. I'm surprised you can all sit here so complacently while a killer may be in our midst." She threw her disapproving glance around the room, to take in the twenty or so patrons who were leaning in to catch the conversation. Despite her protest, she made no effort to leave the crowded pub.
"C'mon, Rosie. Murder? Who would've cared?" mused Roger, who was somewhat interested in the lady after her jilting at Art's hands. He put his arm around her, which she allowed. "'Course, the yard's been lookin' a bit grown-over, but he didn't tend to that too much. The flowerbeds were the real clue. No matter how he limped about, you could spot him tugging at weeds or staking up roses. No, we should've known by the flowers that something was amiss."
"Bad lot, all in all. The Riddles and now himself. No, better it's all over, that's what I say." declared Art, meaning to have the final word. But this was not to be, yet.
"What about the daughter?" a rusty voice creaked from the back of the bar. The speaker, an equally rusty old veteran, looked at them darkly with his one functional eye. The other eye, clouded with age and cataracts, seemed icy and foreboding, as did his question.
"How's that, Nigel?" asked Fred, turning to the speaker.
"Me throat's a bit dry, yet…" ventured Nigel, pushing his empty glass towards the bartender, who promptly filled it with a generous splash of whiskey. "Ah, thanks, Fred. Hmmm? Oh, yes, the daughter. What about her? She comin' to bury her poor father after all these years?"
Dot, the Riddle's former cook who, like Nigel, had participated in the original mystery fifty years ago, gave a mirthless chuckle. "Who, that one, with her fine airs and attitude? C'mon, you old codger, she abandoned the old coot years ago, just like her mother did. Fine pair, those two!"
"Still her duty, ain't it?" put forth Nigel, swiveling to face off with Dot, who easily filled a full bench in a booth directly behind him. "She would mind her duty, she would. And you're wrong about her, as usual. She wasn't uppity, she was gentle and shy, she was."
"Hmph. A lot you know, Nigel deary!" retorted Dot, looking a bit red in the face. "First the mother leaves poor Frank with that little girl, who he took such care of, and then herself runs off. Just like her mother did, I tell you! Neither of them worth tuppence. Not like that kind Mr. Bryce, I tell you!"
"Weren't it you who said 'sfar as you were concerned, Frank done in the lot of Riddles? Never knew you to forget so quickly, Dottie deary. Must be gettin' on, you must!" and Nigel laughed a wheezy laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
"Hmph! A lot you know, Nigel." she reiterated, but plunged herself deeply into her cup to avoid responding to this.
The talk dragged on into the night, but at its conclusion, as on nights to follow, nobody could really figure how Frank had come to be dead in the woods, and if or when his forgotten daughter would come to pay her final respects.
A full year later, the Riddle House still lay bleak and lonely as autumn set in. The flowerbeds were no longer discernable as such and the ivy had spread to cover all the windows. Since the death of the gardener and the current owner's obvious apathy, no one ventured near the house. Most, in fact, skirted it entirely if their business took them in its general direction. Whereas the house used to be simply deserted and gloomy, post-Frank, it was desolate and hostile. Folks started to talk of eerie lights being spotted on lonely moonless nights. Talk in the Hanged Man was now hushed if it involved the house, for fear something might overhear. What that something was frightened even dour old Dottie from naming it.
Of course, this tiny Muggle community did not, could not, know of the horror that had been reborn within its little precinct. Only three months prior to this tale, the worst nightmare of the wizarding world, the foulest wizard to wield a wand in recorded history, had regained form and power not even a full mile from the Hanged Man. In the gloomy cemetery of Little Hangleton, the evil Lord Voldemort, with begrudging assistance from his servant Wormtail, had been restored to a new body. This body, though hideous as the first, was even more formidable, having drawn its sustenance from the bones of his own father and the blood of his enemy, the famous Harry Potter.
The residents of Little Hangleton were spared this horrible knowledge, and their own fear served them well in keeping well away from the Riddle House, where Lord Voldemort now held court for his followers, the fearsome Death Eaters. In a morbid way, the old house was more active than it had ever been in its heyday, when Voldemort's snobbish family resided there in icy remoteness from their Little Hangleton neighbors. No, these days the Riddle House witnessed the bustle of a kingdom being restored, of dark plans being plotted and the comings and goings of magical people, through green fireplace flames or the pop of dark wizards apparating and disapparating. And always, like the evil overseer she was, the huge snake Nagini gliding silently about, listening in on conversations, vigilant and watchful for the beloved master she had nursed back to life as best as she was able.
Tonight, she was curled beside his chair before the fireplace in the gloomy upstairs room, which, last year, had witnessed Frank Bryce's last breath. His gnarled walking stick lay against the mantel like a pitiful trophy. Occasionally, the pale man in the large chair took it into his hands and caressed its length, as if to savor his victory. This pale man now turned to those waited to receive his bidding.
The seated man, if the term "man" could even apply to the skeletal being whose black robes engulfed its bony frame, spoke in icy, high-pitched voice which commanded obvious respect from the three masked wizards before him, for they immediately dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in obeisance.
"Very well, Malfoy. You know what you must do, for the present. I trust, as we have discussed, that you will NOT disappoint me again?"
The foremost wizard bowed even deeper and kissed the black hem of Voldemort's robe. "Of course, my Lord, your wish is my life's work."
Lord Voldemort replied with a brief snort and a smirk of his slash-like mouth. His narrowed red eyes were formidable, and, had Lucius Malfoy looked into them, he would have shuddered to his marrow. As it was, Voldemort waved his spidery fingers in dismissal. "Begone, then. Now."
In a flash of green light, Malfoy disapparated. Voldemort turned his red glare on the remaining two Death Eaters. "So, Severus, you have decided to return to me despite the defection of your comrade?"
"Yes, my Lord." was his response, although he stiffened very slightly. "I am willing to serve as your post at Hogwarts, since Moody…er… Crouch has been disposed of."
Voldemort smiled, if it could be called that. "Ah, yes. Poor Barty. Well, he will remain fondly in my memory. As for Karkaroff, I have no doubt that Macnair will track him down shortly. After all, hunting dangerous creatures is his forte. Not that Igor will be terribly troublesome…" The dark lord looked back at Snape. "And remember, Severus, I reward loyalty but loathe anyone who wavers."
Snape shuddered slightly and bowed, as Lucius had before him, to kiss the hem of his master's robes.
"I shall be ready when you call, my lord."
"Good. Do what I have asked. Now go."
As Snape disapparated, Voldemort turned with an almost human sigh to the remaining wizard, whose black robes could not conceal his dumpy. "And so. Once again, I must depend on your services, dear Wormtail."
Immediately this wizard fell on his knees and prostrated himself before Voldemort. "Oh yes, master! I am your most willing servant."
Voldemort smirked again. "Well, you are my neediest one, certainly, as apart from me you would be a useless, balding rat. I needn't remind you that your time as a pet was quite a failure." Voldemort's chortle sounded like an icy breeze blowing across a chimney flue. "But, since you have been part of my reunited kingdom from the earliest days, I must trust you with this task."
"Of course, my master. What is it I may do?"
Voldemort noticed the man before him rubbed his right arm slightly and shook his head. "No, Peter, I won't require any more of your limbs. As yet. What I need you to do is procure for me a new vessel. Perhaps in realizing the difficulty of this task, you would prefer to give me your left arm!" At this, Voldemort laughed with such force that the hissing sound roused Nagini.
Despite the pale mask covering his face, Wormtail's confusion was evident. Cocking his head to one side, he dared to inquire. "V-v-vessel, my lord?"
Voldemort collected himself and sat upright in his chair, fixing the frightened man with hard regard. "Yes. Now listen, fool, and listen carefully for it is essential that you understand what I need." He paused and Wormtail nodded repeatedly to prove his readiness. Voldemort sighed deeply, regretting that he had not yet killed the miserable wretch before him. In time, in time. "I won't strain your feeble understanding with the entirety of my plan. I will merely point out its essentials. By now, we know that Dumbledore is aware of my return, of my growing power. I must guard against his interference, take pains to prevent another occurrence of the late… unpleasantness… that spelled my earlier defeat."
"But surely, my lord, he is no match for you now!"
"Silence, Worm!" Voldemort leaned forward in his chair as if to emphasize his impatience. "Before I cursed that bastard Potter I could have leveled Hogwarts and all of Dumbledore's minions, however many. But, since my rebirth, I am all too aware of a certain…lack. I have given the matter much thought, and referred, with the help of Snape's excellent library, to obscure dark arts tomes and it comes to this. In order to regain, nay, to surpass my previous strengths and victories, I need to take the final step in my incarnation. In short, I need an heir."
Caught off guard, Wormtail started. "An…an heir, my lord?"
"Yes, you fool, an heir. Blood of my blood. Don't you see, you simpleton, that this is the final piece of the spell that you so begrudgingly performed to bring me back to form? Blood of my father, blood of my servant, blood of my enemy. But to fulfill the circle I need to add the blood of my heir! With that, I will be supreme master of my fate and that of any other I so choose to claim! I will be unvanquished!" In his excitement, the evil lord stood, towering above the slight, shivering figure of Wormtail. Nagini rose, swaying, to meet him and he lovingly stroked her head.
"But, to obtain an heir, sir, you need…"
"Yes, idiot. I need a woman. Not just any woman, mind. No Muggle will do; she must be magical."
"Perhaps one of our circle will permit…er, I mean, will be honored to…"
More icy laughter issued from Voldemort, who regained his seat and gathered Nagini into his bony lap. "Oh, yes, it would be a great pleasure to make use of that dried up shrew of Malfoy's. But regard her attitude toward her whelp of a son. No, Narcissa has too much maternal instinct for me. I need a woman who will relinquish her spawn for my greater glory. For make no mistake, Peter. The child will give its life to me no sooner than it takes its first breath outside the womb."
More to come…