Ten
Little Hangleton was tiny. As someone used to the bustle of London, Hermione gaped at the seemingly isolated village. From her perch on a small hill adjacent to the main road, she could see a small graveyard and church. A cluster of small, ramshackle shacks was scattered a few feet from the town square (more of a field, really). Nothing stirred. The windows were tightly shuttered, and not even a bird chirped.
Hermione swallowed, unease stirring in her stomach.
Well, she wasn't going to let some unwelcoming town stop her. She shouldered her bag, marching purposefully onto the road. When she'd researched the town before, she'd found a small inn to the right of the town square. She'd planned to stay there for the night and leave early the next morning for London (Harry and Ginny had told her firmly that if she didn't return in two days they were sending the Holyhead Harpies - the football team Ginny played for - and the whole Auror division after her).
There! She caught a glimpse of a faded sign, the cracked lettering reading, "The Hanged Man." Hermione suppressed another shiver; well, that was a delightfully morbid name for an inn. She approached it carefully, glancing around the deserted square, before opening the peeling wooden door.
The four or five customers quieted when she entered, fixing her with blankly curious gazes. The inside was draped in dusty shadows, and she edged her way around the grimy tables before settling herself at the bar. The lone barkeeper, a stooped, balding man with beady eyes, eyed her.
"One butterbeer, please," she ordered, glancing over her shoulder at the other customers. They still hadn't resumed speaking. It was a bit unnerving to see such undisguised interest. At her pointed glare, the inhabitants crowded once more, speaking in hushed whispers.
A solid clink behind her brought her attention back to the barkeeper. He'd returned to rubbing at a thick glass with a greasy towel, and she eyed her foggy butterbeer tentatively. He stared at her, a silent dare in his pale eyes. She smiled weakly and lifted the glass, swallowing the drink hurriedly.
When she'd finished half of the glass, he gave her a grudging smile.
"What brings a city girl like you to our little village?" he asked.
Behind Hermione the hushed chatter had vanished once more, and she knew that they were all listening intently for her answer.
"Um, I was actually hoping to find out about a bloke named Riddle. He said he'd found inspiration for one of his p-"
The barkeeper spat, and the crowd behind her rose in eager discussion. She refused to turn around, but it sounded as if the number of customers had doubled.
"Yes?" she asked finally.
The barkeeper scowled. "Nasty business, that. Sure, Riddle was a right snob, but even he didn't deserve it."
She frowned, pulling a notebook and pen from her beaded bag (although it was small, it held quite a lot). Deserve what? His death? The barkeeper glanced at the paper.
"You a reporter?" he asked gruffly. Hermione hesitated, taking in the sudden, eager look in his eyes. She looked back carefully from behind her bushy hair; the townspeople weren't even trying to pretend that they weren't eavesdropping. They eyed her contemplatively, and Hermione felt another surge of unease.
"Y-yes," she said slowly. "My name is Rita Skeeter."
Then she shook out her hair, trying to emulate the irritating, abrasive reporter (if one could even call her that).
The barkeeper nodded, satisfied with her answer. His voice rose, and Hermione got the sense that he enjoyed having an avid audience.
"Well, Ms. Skeeter, Tom Riddle is dead," he said with relish. Hermione resisted the urge to snort impatiently.
Yes, Riddle was dead. His studio had, according to Harry's file, contained more than enough of his life blood to convince the authorities of his death.
"He used to ride up that road in his finery, showing off to the rest of the town. He thought he was superior because he was rich," he continued, a hint of envy colouring his words. Hermione frowned again, trying to reconcile this image of a pompous, wealthy man with the passionate artist who had grown up in a London orphanage.
"He got into some nasty business, of course. Got involved with the wrong sort of girl," his voice trailed off. Hermione leaned forward eagerly.
"A girl?" she repeated. The barkeeper waved his gnarled hand dismissively, and Hermione bit down a wave of indignation. She hated being brushed aside.
"Can't remember her name. Anyway, that's not the important part. Riddle was killed in his living room right up that hill," he said, pointing through the grimy window. She followed his gaze, her eyes landing on a large house on top of a sizeable hill.
"So Riddle lived here?" she asked, a dozen questions filling her head. Why go to Little Hangleton of all places? He'd grown up in London. Had a studio in London. Why purchase a large house here?
The man nodded, tossing the towel over his narrow shoulder. "Yeah. His death was the strangest thing, too. Almost bloodless."
Hermione froze. Almost bloodless. Well, that certainly supported her admittedly farfetched hypothesis that some crazed murderer had somehow drained Riddle of his blood before transporting him...here. Perhaps the murderer was a fanatic? Perhaps he, too, had read Riddle's interview with Skeeter and tracked him down to Little Hangleton.
Or, perhaps, the murderer was a jealous inhabitant of Little Hangleton. Hermione's blood ran cold, and she quickly masked the sudden paranoia from her face. What if the murderer was in this pub with her? She swallowed thickly, then stood clumsily, bumping into the adjacent stool as she fumbled for change.
The barkeeper laughed. "Can't handle the alcohol, eh?" he asked. Hermione nodded. Better to excuse her sudden clumsiness as the result of alcohol (of course, butterbeer hardly contained any alcohol - you'd need to drink pints of it before even experiencing any symptoms of being drunk) than risk revealing the real source of her unease.
She tossed money onto the counter and hurried out of the pub, clutching her bag to her chest. When she'd traveled a decent distance away from the pub, she let out a long, shaky breath. Alright, so she was possibly in the same vicinity as an insane, blood-draining murderer. Fine. She'd gone through some dangerous trials during her days at Hogwarts. She could handle this.
She set her shoulders back and eyed the intimidating hill before her. Maybe she would find some clues in Riddle's house. Glancing back for any observers, she hiked her bag up her shoulder and began climbing the rough, crumbling surface.
When she'd finally reached the top, she impatiently brushed a sweaty strand of hair from her face. She craned her neck up, peering at the Riddle House. It, like the rest of the village, was in rather poor condition. Several of the grand windows were boarded up, and thick ivy smothered the mossy brick. She approached it carefully, reaching up on her toes to peer into one of the lower windows. She cleared away some of the thick dust, cupping her hands around her eyes to block out the surrounding light. The inside was dark, and she could vaguely make out the blurred outlines of ornate furniture. From what little she could tell, the décor was elegant but clearly neglected.
"Oi!" came a harsh voice from behind her. Her heart dropped, her knuckles whitening as she clenched her hands. Was this the murderer?
She forced herself to take a deep breath and, pasting an innocent smile on her face, turned slowly, raising her hands casually to show she was unarmed.
A short, elderly man scowled at her. "What do you think yer doing?" he demanded.
"Um, sorry, sir, I - er, learned about Tom Riddle in school and wanted to see his house for myself!" she said, her voice rising in octave as it always did when she was flustered. He eyed her suspiciously, leaning on his wooden cane.
"Right," he said slowly. He looked a bit like her own grandfather, and she wondered what he was doing alone when the rest of the town seemed to be gathered (rather like a hive mind, she thought) at The Hanged Man. He did look a bit weary and sad, stooped over his cane.
She stuck out her hand. "I'm Hermione," she said.
The man narrowed his eyes before scowling, reaching out to shake her hand.
"Frank Bryce," he said gruffly. "Sorry for the less than welcome greet, but I'm used to the neighborhood kids coming up here to throw rocks in the windows."
"So you worked for Riddle?" she asked eagerly.
He frowned, looking away. "Yeah. I was their gardener. Course, that meant I was suspect number one when they found him dead in that living room you were looking at."
Hermione furrowed her brow. "The living room? That's odd. You see, I have a file that I - er, borrowed from my friend, and it doesn't mention anything about Little Hangleton. Don't you think that's a bit odd? If Riddle lived here, then why is there no record of it?"
He looked at her sharply. "File?"
She nodded. "It's a police file," she said.
"May I look at it?"
She hesitated, then acquiesced, extracting the file carefully from her bag. He held it gingerly, shielding it from the slight breeze.
The first page detailed his career as an artist, and she watched as a deep frown furrowed Bryce's wrinkled face.
"An artist? Riddle wouldn't have known what to do with a paintbrush if it smacked him in the face. Heaven knows Mrs. Riddle tried to teach him to draw a bit when he was younger - to build sensitivity, you see - but he was absolutely rubbish. He was more interested in horses," he said.
Hermione gaped at him. It sounded as if he were talking about a completely different person. Perhaps - perhaps this was a different Riddle? How common of a name was Tom Riddle, anyway?
"You - you are talking about Tom Riddle, no?" Hermione confirmed. He nodded.
"Yeah, o'course. Tall, handsome bloke, around forty when he died," he said impatiently.
Forty? Tom Riddle had been twenty when he'd died.
"Forty? Are - are you sure?"
"Positive. Tom Riddle and his parents were killed in that living room," he said briskly. His parents?
Hermione frowned, the new information crowding with the existing facts. Tom Riddle grew up in an orphanage. Tom Riddle had two wealthy parents. Tom Riddle died at twenty. Tom Riddle died at forty.
Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle.
"Is it possible that Tom Riddle - your Tom Riddle, that is - had a son named, erm, Tom Riddle?" Hermione winced. It sounded ludicrous, really. There were far too many Riddles (she smiled grimly at that; it never failed to amuse her) present and not enough answers.
Bryce looked thoughtful.
"I don't expect so. He never even had a steady girl - not unless you count that poor girl."
This must be the girl the barkeeper had mentioned.
"Do you remember the girl's name?"
He frowned, looking at the sky as he thought. "Millie? Mildred?" he muttered, tapping his cane against the overgrown grass. Then he sighed. "Sorry, Harriet," he said. Hermione opened her mouth to correct him but decided against it. It wasn't of any importance, anyway.
She made a mental note to look for women named something akin to Millie.
The gardener was still flipping through the file. He flipped past the photographs of his art before pausing at a small doodle that Hermione had written off as a preliminary sketch for a piece.
His face grew pale, and he clutched at his heart. Hermione jolted forward, supporting the elder man.
"Are you alright?" she asked, wracking her brain for any first aid tips.
He ignored her question, pointing a shaking finger at the design. It was a simple, geometric black and white design. A triangle. A line. A circle. It was surrounded by dozens of similarly geometric designs all piled up among preliminary sketches for one of Riddle's paintings.
"The Hallows," he whispered hoarsely.
"The Hallows?" Hermione repeated.
He paled, glancing around furtively, and practically shoved the file at her.
"If I'd known - never should have spoken, dangerous, dangerous-" he mumbled below his breath, casting occasional, terrified looks at her.
Hermione bit her lip. The poor man was obviously frightened.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know what you're ta-"
"Leave!" he barked. She faltered, stepping back automatically at the harshness of his tone.
"Pardon?"
"GO!" he bellowed. "I have nothing more to say to your kind." Then he turned resolutely, hobbling away at a speed surprising for his age.
Hermione remained rooted at the spot, at loss for words. What had just happened? A lone raven cried above her, and she looked up just in time to see a flash of black feathers flit behind the rotting roof.
She shivered. Perhaps she ought to catch an evening train back. Frank Bryce had been the only one willing to answer her questions (she highly doubted the barkeeper was going to be of any more help), and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't unnerved by the eerie surroundings.
Still, she had one more stop to make.
Hermione traced her way back to the graveyard she had seen when she had first entered the village. A dense fog had fallen on the sunken site, shrouding the mossy, crumbling stones.
"Nice touch, that," she muttered dryly, fumbling her way past the gnarled trees.
She paused at a large, morbid statue of the Angel of Death. Its skeletal face seemed to stare down at her, and the statue's hands gripped a lethal-looking scythe. She eyed it warily before stooping to examine the large marble headstone it guarded.
"Thomas, Mary, and Tom Riddle Sr.," she read aloud, running her hands gingerly over the cool surface.
"Well, the name 'Tom' certainly runs in the family. Tom Riddle Sr., did you have a secret child?" she wondered aloud. She extracted her camera from her bag and took a quick photo of the headstone. Then, hugging her thin jacket around her body, she stood, bracing herself for the inevitable trek back to the Hanging Man to ask to use the phone.
Now she just had to convince a driver to pick her up in time for the evening train.
Author Note: As always, thank you all so much for reading! All reviewers will get a teaser of the next chapter. For writing updates, check out my tumblr (same url as my penname)
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