Smoke swirled around Riddle's form as he slouched against the stone parapets of Azkaban Prison, his head lolling to the side as he tracked the entrance of Stan Shunpike and Mundungus Fletcher. Bandages wrapped their hands and forearms, gauze obscuring their faces; they walked with a heavy limp, and he noted the other inmates' predatory looks. He doubted they would last the day without further injury. Nodding at the heavyset man next to him, Riddle watched as he approached the pair before gesturing towards him. They paled but fell dutifully behind, approaching him with the air of a man going to the gallows.

"Goyle," Riddle nodded to the burly man as he settled beside him once again.

Riddle watched them silently, assessing and dissecting. Taking a drag of his cigarette, he relished the burning of his lungs, the taste of tobacco and ash sitting heavy on his tongue. The silence continued to unsettle the men before him, and he watched with bright eyes as their fidgeting increased.

"Sit," he intoned, gesturing to the concrete benches before him.

They sank down gratefully. Squatting in front of them, Riddle caught their eyes and smiled, a soft, pitying thing with a hint of teeth. They flinched. Riddle took another puff, rolling the smoke in his mouth before exhaling slowly. Stubbing it out on the sodden ground beneath him, he flicked it away before raising his left hand in waiting. A newly burning cig was placed, and he caught it in his mouth before he began speaking, each word dusted with smoke like the exhalations of a dragon.

"The Wet Bandits," Riddle mocked, "I'm honoured."

Fletcher and Shunpike twisted nervously, and Riddle's smile sharpened.

"So, who came up with that brilliant name then?" Riddle asked.

"Me, S-sir," Shunpike stuttered.

Riddle nodded, "I heard you were the scrouge of Surry, stealing away trinkets and precious goods. But you were caught," he jeered, "at Christmas. And all banged up." Riddle inhaled deeply before removing the cigarette from his mouth, suspending it between his fingers. "How? I read your list of injuries, and the people whose house you were caught in were on holiday. Besides," his tone betraying his excitement, "it's not every day you come across robbers who have been flayed."

Embarrassment and rage stole across their features. Interesting.

"It was tha' fuckin' kid," Mundungus seethed.

"It was a child who did that to you?" Riddle's voice filled with mirth.

"He wasn't just any kid," Shunpike insisted, "it was like he was possessed. He'd rigged his house with all these booby traps."

Riddle quirked an eyebrow in interest, "and how did you get your hand flayed?"

Shunpike shuddered in remembrance, "little bastard set a trap. Baited us with some expensive jewellery. When we reached in to get it, our hands got stuck, and he used peelers."

"Peelers? Like potato peelers?" Riddle asked incredulously.

"Yes, he rigged the blades to be on rotation. Some battery-powered thing. It fucking sang too!"

"Sang?"

"Yeah, fucking Santa Clause is Coming to Town on repeat!"

Riddle's lips twitched before focusing away from Shunpike's heavily bandaged hand to Fletcher's strapped-up face. "And you?" Riddle inquired, "heard you were quite singed when the police found you."

Fletcher snarled, "tha' little shit. He fuckin' blowtorched me!"

Riddle blinked, "excuse me?"

"You heard me. Fucker se' up a blowtorch jus' behin' the back door. When I open'd it, I got roasted!"

Riddle raised his eyebrows in silent surprise; this child was vicious. "How old was the boy?"

Shunpike and Fletcher shared a look, silently communicating. Shunpike turned back, shrugging absently, "maybe 6 or 7? He was really small, however old he was, thin too."

"Where were the boy's parents?" Riddle queried, leaning forward on arched feet.

Fletcher tilted his head, "weren' home, we didn' even know the boy lived there when we wen' to scope the place."

"Yeah," Shunpike agreed, "when I asked them what they were doing for the holidays, they said they were off to Cornwall. But I only saw three people: this whale of a kid, this fat bastard, and his stick of a bird. Funny thing is, though, the one left behind didn't look too much like any of them."

"We thought he might be a squatter or somethin'," Fletcher continued. "Bu' he knew the house too well."

Riddle hummed thoughtfully, "You were caught in Little Whinging, correct?"

"Yeah," Shunpike nodded, "Private Drive, the house opposite that brat's."

Riddle's eyes gleamed, and he stood up in a single elegant movement. "Thank you, gentleman. I hope you enjoy your time here in Azkaban."

Clapping Shunpike on the shoulder, Riddle moved back towards the looming, slate-grey structure. Balancing the still-lit cigarette between his lips, he inhaled the acrid plumes. He would need to make a call.

Following behind the cowled figure of an Azkaban Guard, Lucius repressed a shudder as the glacial drafts of the prison licked at his nape. Lip curling, Lucius couldn't conceive why anyone would wilfully imprison themselves in this cesspit, but it wasn't his place to question his Lord. When Greengrass had advised Riddle to voluntarily remand himself as a show of good faith, he'd expected shot fire to pierce the air. The jocular laugh that escaped his Lord was unexpected.

"A show of good faith," Riddle murmured blithely, "I assume this was the old man's insistence?"

"It was," Greengrass confirmed.

"Hmmm, well, I suppose Fudge does deserve a reward," Riddle pondered aloud. "He has been obeying the rules like such a good dog. Besides," Riddle continued, "there are some men that I would do well to reacquaint myself with, and the guards know better than to gossip about the happenings in Azkaban. This just reduces my paper trail."

Scrimgeour's scowl was a permanent fixture as he escorted Riddle, the clenching of his fist betraying his want for violence. But the consequence of harming Riddle was an open secret. They were still finding pieces of Dawlish. Resigned rage glimmered behind honeyed eyes; Scrimgeour knew. Riddle always walked.

Coming to the end of the stone-wrought corridor, a solitary steel door resided, corrosion splashing across it like a Pollock. The Azkaban Guard thumped it once and then opened it, revealing the lone figure. On the other side of the metal table was Riddle. He sprawled across the alloy chair as if it were a throne; the baggy blue-grey jumpsuit donned like Savile Row's finest. Pewter met argent, and Riddle gestured to the chair before him. The door clanged shut behind him, and Lucius resisted the urge to fidget.

Riddle's heavy gaze chased Lucius as he made his way over, the chair scraping across the concrete floor as he took his seat. Placing his briefcase on the table in front, Lucius unlatched the locks digging for a moment before a thin manilla folder was produced; silently, he passed it to Riddle.

"Is this all?" Riddle questioned, with a quirked brow.

Grimacing, Lucius nodded. "Yes, the majority of his documents were sealed by the courts. If it weren't for those Washed Bandits, we wouldn't even know where he lived, let alone his identity."

Steepling his hands beneath his chin, Riddle fixed Lucius with his cinereous gaze. "And what does that tell you, my friend?"

"Someone's hiding him," Lucius realised, his eyes widening.

"Indeed," agreed Riddle.

Riddle opened the binder before him, ignoring Lucius' fidgeting as he leisurely skimmed the contents. He tilted his head coming to the pictures.

"These were taken within the week?" Riddle asked, brows furrowed.

"Yes, my Lord." Lucius swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Is something wrong with the photographs?"

Riddle's lips quirked, "my no, I'm just surprised. He seems younger than what Shunpike said."

"He's actually ten, my Lord. Eleven come July."

Riddle raised an eyebrow in surprise before closing the folder with a clatter. "Don't you find it odd, Lucius?"

"My Lord?" Lucius queried, sweat beading down the back of his neck.

"Young Draco is the same age, isn't he Lucius? Is he as small?"

"No, my lord," Lucius' eyes lit up in understanding.

"Investigate the family," Riddle demanded, handing back the folder. "I want to know everything about them, their relatives, where they work, hell, even their favourite meals but especially everything concerning that child."

"Yes, my lord," Lucius said, bowing in acquiescence.

Lucius rushed out of the cell to begin his new task hoping this new line of investigation would enable him to find out something about the boy. He shuddered to think what would happen if he failed. As he turned the corner, he noted his master exiting the room they'd been in, walking back to his cell like a lord to his castle with the Azkaban guards trailing after him like servants. Dumbledore had been a fool thinking this would cow his Lord.