Chapter 7. North

Saturday, December 21st, 1929

Steam travelled upwards as the train picked up speed and left the bustling capital. Its pace grew steadily as it moved further North, to Ipswich, where Pansy's client had asked to meet her. He had generously offered to pay for her fare, her meal, and a night's stay at the Salthouse Harbour Hotel.

Pansy expected to be roughed up and threatened. She had, after all, delayed her mission by close to a week—and Bellatrix's clients did not pay her hundreds of pounds to hire incompetent hitwomen, who killed their mark's wives without a moment's notice, with no consideration whatsoever for the repercussions, all the while lusting after their mark.

She watched as the hills expanded and shrunk successively, her cigarette holder floppily following the train's movement, the ash at its very tip close to falling on her knees.

Before she knew it, the train came to a halt and she was in Ipswich.

She walked out and followed the directions she was given. The restaurant where they were to meet was nearby.

She was welcomed by a cloud of smoke as she walked in. The hostess led her to a table where an elongated, pasty man was waiting for her. He stiffly extended his hand out to her:

"Pansy Parkinson, I assume. Pleased to meet you." His eyes told her he did not mean a word of it.

She shook his hand vigorously. "And you are?"

He twisted his mouth in disgust, his response coming out as barely more than a whisper. "Tom Riddle."

They sat down. He ordered the fish for them both, indifferent to her obvious revulsion at the idea. "Bellatrix told me you're the best agent she has." He paused, looking up at her. "If this is the best she has to offer, I doubt her business will last much longer."

Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but the vile stare he looked at her with convinced her otherwise. "You have until December 25th, Miss Parkinson. Or it'll be your throat I'll have someone slash."