He returned to the bank two days later, still surprised he had not been tracked down by a member of the Hogwarts staff. His time had been spent reading back issues of the Daily Prophet and attempting to read between the lines, as well as history books purchased from Flourish & Blotts. This place had a decidedly different history than his own beyond a certain point.
He had also gotten his hands on a set of the tournament rules, by the simple expedient of requesting them from the Ministry. Unfortunately, he saw nothing that would allow him to back out, despite the circumstances. The rules did state what constituted "participation" in each of the three events, so that was something.
Irongut had located two properties he might be interested in. One was a flat down Tangent Alley, an offshoot of Diagon Alley. "If nothing else," Irongut said, "it could be used as a place to apparate to or from, or to meet people in a more private setting without giving away the location of your main home."
The second was a house up for sale in Yorkshire, a place called Cloke Mansion. It was along the lines of the usual pure-blood monstrosities, but reasonably priced. The Potter wealth could easily cover both properties and barely make a dent. "Your suggestions regarding the flat are wise. I ask you to obtain both. I would also like a ward assessment for each property. As soon as you have notice please do send an owl."
Irongut assured him he would, and Morgan exited the goblin's office so he could be escorted to the main vault for funds. He could poke around in the artifact vault later, perhaps the next trip.
It would be interesting to see how their assessment compared to his own once he had taken possession of both. He could rename the mansion. It did not matter if the muggles were aware of it and knew it by a different name. It might be better if they did. At least he had access to a fortune. His emergency stash was by no means small, but it would not last forever. Certain Potters had been excellent Potions Masters, and that meant money. The local Potter family had clearly not pissed it all away on fripperies.
He had also learned, during his research, that Dumbledore was the headmaster of Hogwarts. The current core teaching class consisted of Minerva McGonagall for Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor, Filius Flitwick for Charms and Head of Ravenclaw, Severus Snape for Potions and Head of Slytherin, Pomona Sprout for Herbology and Head of Hufflepuff, and Aurora Sinistra for Astronomy.
Cuthbert Binns, for History, was one of the only names he recognized, and he was annoyed to learn that Binns was a ghost. Rubeus Hagrid was the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, unable to wield a wand due to some dust-up back during Riddle's time at Hogwarts. Morgan only remembered him due to his half-giant status.
No other names were familiar to him, but that was rather beside the point. Dumbledore had been a condescending fool during his schooling, so chances were he would be one here.
Morgan could do as he liked until the twenty-forth of November, when the first task would be held. He had told the old man he would contact him after he had spoken with Gringotts, but that was as easy to do as showing up on the day in question. If the old man needed to contact him, well, he could just send a letter in care of Gringotts, assuming he had the wit to think of it.
Back in his heavily-warded room at the Leaky Cauldron he sat upon the bed and sighed. He had had a decent life, and been ripped away from it. He just hoped his Sponsored would be all right. Morgan had done everything he could to make sure Tom could stand on his own, that he could thrive. He also hoped his Sponsored stayed the hell away from magical Britain. The man was brilliant; he should be fine.
Morgan, though, was feeling a bit lost. He had spent years protecting his Sponsored, was very fond of him, and now? Alone, in a world strange to him. He sent up thanks to Uncle Fleamont for teaching him as well as he had.
What of his Sponsored in this world?
Apparently he would be making a trip to the Ministry, to check the archives, in the hopes of finding something out. There was a Tom Riddle. Prefect, Head Boy even! What he did after that was unknown.
Instead he did some more digging and learned of the most recent war, the war which Harry Potter allegedly ended. The books he had purchased and the Daily Prophet archives painted a certain picture, of a man most evil, and a "Light" side possibly too incompetent to truly prosecute a war. They were losing. They were nearly lost when whatever it was that happened that night happened. Harry Potter allegedly survived a killing curse after the deaths of James and Lily Potter.
And that was with the aurors authorized to use Unforgivables against the Death Eaters.
Much as he hated the system from the world he grew up in, he had to admit there were far fewer issues with dark lords rising—at least in magical Britain.
Still, he had always been able to find Tom in his world. Could he find him in this one?
Ω
'I honestly do wonder at times about how places were named in this country,' he thought as he walked through Little Hangleton.
His innate sensing ability when it came to his Sponsored had led him to this pissant little village. Why he could do it he had no idea, but it came in handy. It was, after all, part of the reason he had chosen Tom Riddle to be his Sponsored. Up on the hill overlooking the village was a manor house, where his sense was pointing him.
There was a cemetery in the village, with graves of various people with the name of Riddle, Thomas, Mary, and Tom among them. The dates for Tom were 1905-1943, so it was not his Tom. That and he knew his Sponsored's parents' names were Tom Riddle and Merope Gaunt.
He looked up at the manor house again and began to walk. Along the way he encountered a snake that looked quite intent on heading toward him.
«Halt,» he hissed. «How well do you know this area?»
The snake reared up in surprise. «You speak.»
«Yes, I do. I am following something rather nebulous, attempting to find Tom Riddle. I know he lives. He won't know me, though, unfortunately. But that sense leads to that manor up there, on the hill.»
«My master? Why do you seek him?»
«Because I'm not from this world. Somehow, I was pulled here. In my world Tom Riddle and I were good friends. I wished to know where he was here, to know if we could also be friends.»
«I should ask him,» the snake hissed. «It would not do for you to arrive unannounced. Or unwanted. My master would not be pleased.»
«If I were to give you a parchment, a letter, would you be willing to deliver it to your master? I sincerely doubt my name could be spoken properly in Parseltongue. It would allow him to owl me if he chose, to let me know if I may visit.»
«I am willing, so long as I can watch you write it.»
Morgan chuckled. «Of course. That way you can be sure it is mere parchment and ink.» He conjured up a chair and desk so he could sit on something other than bare earth, and retrieved parchment, quill, and ink from his supplies.
«May I know your name?» he asked.
«Nagini, speaker.»
«Well met, Nagini.»
Mr Riddle,
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Morgan Chiswell, and I have recently been
dragged to this world due to the Triwizard Tournament. In my world it was 1947
and I was in Japan with my Sponsored, Tom Marvolo Riddle. I can only pray he
is well after I was so abruptly stolen from our life.
In this world it appears I should be seventy-three years old, as I was born in 1922,
though I have lived but twenty-five years. I have always been able to sense where
Tom is, ever since we spent time in the same orphanage in London. It was part of
why I chose him as my Sponsored; I did not wish for him what I saw as the fate of
most muggle-borns and lesser half-bloods.
I know this is not the same world due to the differences I have already encountered,
such as the fact that it is not the case here that all incoming first year students are
sent to Gringotts to be given heritage tests, and it never has been. That and I do not
appear to exist in this world as myself as my parents had no such son.
I find it all to be rather confusing. It was my wish to connect with the only person I
felt any real fondness for, in the hope that you would be at least somewhat like my
Sponsored. And then, once this damnable tournament was over, perhaps go to Japan.
I have little interest in the affairs of the British wizarding world, for they appear to
be as corrupt here as they were there.
I have asked your snake—familiar?—Nagini if she would deliver this letter for me,
and she has agreed.
Please send an owl if it would be acceptable for me to meet with you.
Warm regards,
Morgan Chiswell
He waited for the ink to dry rather than using a spell, simply so that Nagini would not become upset, then slipped it into a message tube. He did not wish the parchment to become damaged while held in Nagini's mouth.
«Here is the letter, Nagini. Hopefully I will see you again. Thank you for your assistance.»
«You are welcome, speaker.» Nagini accepted the tube into her mouth and slithered off.
He took one more look at the area he stood at, then disapparated. There was a lot more reading he could do while waiting for a response, assuming he got one at all.
Ω
Right. The Ministry was rife with ineptitude, corruption, and apathy. Wonderful. At least, that's what his survey of the building had revealed to him. Why was there a man in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office who barely knew anything about muggles? Why were there so many people in the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee who did not have the first clue about what constituted an actual muggle-worthy excuse for a magical accident? Because of course all accidents were due to exploding gas lines?
Why was there a pink toad parading around as a pure-blood when she was a lesser half-blood, and just exactly who had she sucked up to or bribed to become Senior Undersecretary to the Minister? That was one woman he would have liked to see auctioned off. Though, he admitted, her Sponsor would probably have used human transfiguration to make it all more palatable. He shuddered just thinking about it; the woman was just that vile.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tapping at the window of his flat. An owl was there, seeking entrance, a message tube attached to its leg. He apologized to the owl before checking to ensure there were no spells on the tube, then removed it from the bird. The owl flew off, so he closed the window and took a seat. Just to be extra cautious he slipped on a pair of silk gloves before opening the tube, and did a second round of testing.
Mr Chiswell,
I understand you are a parselmouth from my dear Nagini. This is very interesting news.
I had not thought there was another in this country. But then, you say you are from
another world. I also find this term you use, Sponsored, to be … odd. It strikes me as a
term to be wary of.
The tournament, you say? How peculiar. From what the Daily Prophet has reported, it
was one Harry Potter who was summoned, as the fourth, unexpected champion. Are you
a relative, then, of the Potter family? To the best of my knowledge there are none left,
unless perhaps there might be a handful in the Americas.
Yes, I would open to meeting with you. Nagini can guide you in, as I do have wards up.
Nagini will ensure you arrive without issue. I find myself quite curious as to the Tom
Riddle you knew. It has not been an easy life here in Britain.
If you are able, I would be amenable to meeting with you tomorrow morning at 10
o'clock. Simply come to the last location you were at and Nagini shall meet you.
Regards,
Tom Riddle
Morgan's brow went up. Rather a chilly signature, but he had to admit the whole situation was peculiar. There was no reason whatsoever for Riddle to accept him with open arms, no reason for the man to simply take his word. He was a complete stranger.
He would also, because he was not stupid, be cautious on entering the house. He had a number of enchanted items that would warn him of various dangers, without having to openly cast spells and upset the snake. He would also have his wand in his incredibly well-enchanted holster, which would make it impossible to be removed by anyone but himself. And his back-up wand. And his untraceable portkey.
He might not have been a Slytherin, but that wasn't to say he had not learned from their example. Years of watching their twisty minds at work had been an education all its own.
The next morning he had a late breakfast, read the paper (more of the usual silliness) and set out for his meeting. Nagini was waiting for him.
«Good morning, Nagini.»
«Hello, speaker. I shall guide you to my master.»
«I thank you.»
Nagini led him on a winding path up the hill and in through a side door. None of his items were warning him off, so he continued to follow her. What he did not expect to see, on entering a rather run-down sitting room, was a man who looked so very much like the same one he had been torn away from.
That, of course, made his suspicion rise. The Tom Riddle he knew had not been so vain as to shave fifty years off his appearance.
"Mr Chiswell, please have a seat."
Still somewhat suspicious, he did so, taking the chair across from Riddle. "Morgan Chiswell. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Riddle."
"You don't look like what I expected for a Potter."
His brow went up. "That might be explained by saying my father was the bastard son of a true-born Potter, via an illicit affair. However, my parents were married, so I did not suffer the full weight of that shame, and Uncle Fleamont was not disinclined to take me in when the results of my heritage test were known. He was not so pleased to find a lost son as to grant me the Potter name, however."
"It is in poor taste to inquire, however…"
Morgan chuckled. "I don't mind. Henry Potter had an affair with a pure-blood witch by the name of Megara Hartwell. The son, Edward, took his mother's name. He then married Sophia, daughter of Caspar Crouch and Charis Black, producing me, though I do not know what they named me. I do not have a name common to either the Potter or Black families, so I can only assume they died very early and I somehow ended up in that muggle orphanage by mistake. When Uncle Fleamont took me in he gave me Linfred as a middle name, after the founding patriarch of the Potter family.
"I find it amusing and disconcerting that I am somehow both a pure-blood and a half-blood, for a visit to Gringotts to clear certain matters up revealed that in this world I am somehow Harry James Potter, fourteen years old, and the son of a pure-blood and muggle-born. It's just a shame that Lily Evans never had a heritage test done, as then we might have a better idea what family she might have descended from."
It was Riddle's brow that went up that time. "I admit to being unfamiliar with this heritage test you mention. How could it possibly show that Miss Evans was of magical blood?"
"I suppose the pure-bloods of this world keep it quiet?" he murmured. "It depends on how far back that blood was. For instance, say that ten generations ago the hypothetical pure-blood family of Melton had a squib child. They chose to cast the child off to the muggle world rather than quietly killing it, and announced a still birth or some such.
"Ten generations on a muggle-born appears. However, the origin is too far back for the standard test to show the Melton connection. For the same hypothetical family, say the squib child was only two generations ago. The test would show the link to the Melton family. In the case of someone like Lily Evans, it is possible, depending on how far back it was, that her originating family or families would have appeared. As it did not for me when I took the test here, I know it must have been at least three generations back starting from me, and quite possibly much older.
"In my world, the only world I've known, it clearly showed who my parents and grandparents were, thus I was both named a pure-blood and a member of the Potter family most prominently, rather than Crouch or Black or Hartwell, as it came down through the Potter line in a direct branch."
"How is it you are a parselmouth, then?" Riddle asked, looking most curious.
Morgan shrugged. "I have no idea with any certainty. I've always known it—or rather, I've known since I was quite young. My Tom was also a parselmouth, so we had something in common at the orphanage. Not well liked, either of us. I never let Uncle Fleamont know, not with him being considered on the Light side of Grey. I never let anyone aside from Tom know, and I advised Tom not to let it spread about himself. I imagine it would have invited all sorts of complications, which neither of us needed."
"Will you explain this term, Sponsored?"
He nodded, then sighed. "It is not nice. My world was a very unhappy one. I will explain, but it might be better to share some memories with you, so you can see it for yourself. I can project them, but then you wouldn't be able to be certain they weren't tampered with. Still, it'd be easier to show rather than attempt to explain. How about we start with projections, and if you prefer, we can use a pensieve for ones that require more immersion?"
Riddle slowly nodded.
Ω
Morgan found himself being taken to Diagon Alley, to the bank there. It was up ahead, a
slight tilted building of gleaming white. The man escorting him kept giving him worrying
looks, licking his lips, and he was wondering if it would have been better to have run with
Tom the second the subject of magic had come up.
"I do not like the way that man is looking at you," Riddle commented.
"Yes. It was my first clue that I might be entering a situation not to my liking or advantage."
Inside he was shocked to get his first look at the beings who ran the bank: goblins. They
appeared to be surly and even vicious. He was pushed over to a desk, then led off to an
office, where he was enjoined to provide a minimum of seven drops of blood.
Once the potion had been stirred, the quill had imbibed it, and the parchment written out,
it was clear his escort was shocked. A moment later the man shrugged and took a seat, not
saying a word. Morgan was left to be bewildered, as he had not been allowed to see the
results.
The goblin wrote out a short missive and had it sent off, and they all sat there silently until
at last a knock came at the door, and a man was let in. Morgan was curious, as the man
rather resembled himself.
The man approached the desk and carefully read through the parchment, then took a
deep breath and exhaled it slowly. "I shall take responsibility for the boy."
Morgan's escort got up and left at that point, and the new man turned to look at him
directly.
"I am Fleamont Potter, and you, child, are a lost son of a branch of the Potter family.
I am your family now. You will come with me."
Without seeing any other options he said, "Yes, sir."
"So that was my introduction to the wizarding world," he said. "Uncle Fleamont took me in as a branch member and gave me a middle name. He also purchased a proper pure-blood wardrobe for me, all the supplies I would need, and so forth. I was taken to his home and given a bedroom, as well as the services of a house-elf. It was made clear to me, however, that the elf was not mine. I was given a basic education in comportment, etiquette, and introduced to the … right sort, then sent off to Hogwarts, where I realized the true horror of my new situation."
Riddle's brow went back up.
"I was Sorted into Ravenclaw. I could tell from the tone of Uncle Fleamont's reply to my letter that he was not pleased, exactly, but neither was he terribly upset. I assume he would have preferred my being Sorted to Gryffindor. I never asked. It was after the first week that I started seeing things which turned my stomach, where I truly began to understand exactly how my new world worked."
Morgan was on his way to Transfiguration when odd noises caught his attention. Someone
was crying, and others were laughing. He carefully moved forward, toward the sound, and
peered into the crack between a slightly ajar door and the frame. There were several older
boys in there, and the looks on their faces were not ones he could interpret.
What he could interpret was the actions of one. A young boy was there, fully unclothed,
heaving sobs of pain and humiliation and crying a pool of tears onto the desk he was bent
over. The one boy was thrusting into him. The other boys were laughing and making bets
on how long it would take the first to finish.
"Don't take too long, Melrose," one said. "You know we only have Bebbly's Sponsored for so
long today, and we all want a turn. It's always so nice seeing the fresh ones cry. They're best
new, before they get used to our cocks inside them."
"I don't know," said another. "I rather like the older ones. They're so eager to please and
they've properly learned their place in our world. Why, they practically beg us to use them."
Another snorted. "You know I prefer the ones trained to love pain. That's why I like the
fresh ones, too. The crying is sublime. And watching them try to walk afterward is most
amusing."
A very pale Morgan carefully backed away and slipped off.
Riddle had also gone pale.
Morgan nodded. "It was a nightmare. I spent a lot of time carefully observing my surroundings. It was thus: any child who was deemed a muggle-born or lesser half-blood was essentially auctioned off to the incoming fifth year pure-bloods. OWL year, they … needed the stress relief. Any muggle-raised greater half-blood was subjected to the same. Those children, boys and girls all, were sold into the service of their new owners.
"The whole idea started innocently enough, from what I could find. The Sponsor was responsible for introducing those children to their new world. The Sponsor's family would provide housing, food, clothing, supplies, and education on culture and traditions. They would also choose that child's spouse."
"And it was corrupted," Riddle said.
"Very much so. Over time people started getting ideas about breeding. The pure-bloods realized that their control over who those children married allowed them to institute a careful breeding program, with the idea of creating new pure-blood lines, to eventually widen the breeding pool for their own children. They started introducing contracts. As they became the magical guardians of those children, they could sign those contracts on their behalf, or give 'permission' for the child to do so and instead sign as a witness."
"And the children, knowing no better, did so," Riddle said.
Morgan nodded. "And it corrupted further, to the point that those Sponsored became the sexual play-toys of anyone the Sponsor was willing to let use them, usually as a part of some deal. Even when they didn't share, the child was almost always used as a toy for sex or pain. The only thing a Sponsor couldn't do was impede the child's ability to attend their classes and advance in magic, or maim them."
Riddle gave him an opaque look. "And you were Tom Riddle's Sponsor."
Morgan nodded again. "By the time I finished by fourth year I was almost numb to it, but I never lost my horror of the practice. And I well remembered how old Tom Riddle was and that he shared my ability of being a parselmouth and having the same instances of accidental magic I'd had. For the first time ever I asked my uncle for something, and that was for Tom as my Sponsored.
"He was on the list all incoming fifth years received. I knew I couldn't let … that … happen to him. So I quite seriously asked Uncle Fleamont if I could be the boy's Sponsor. I don't know why he said yes and I didn't care. He did tell me the money was coming out of the trust he had established for me. I didn't care. I would make my own way, preferably as far from Britain as I could."
"In Japan?"
"I completed my third mastery there, yes, but that's getting ahead of things," he said. "Tom was brought to the Potter mansion and handed over to me. He was at least relieved to see me, as I was the only familiar face he had. I told him everything that could have happened to him had I not been his Sponsor.
"He was disgusted, even if he didn't entirely understand what I meant by some of it. I told him in no uncertain terms that no one could touch him without my permission, and that I would never give it. I lucked out, after all. Uncle Fleamont could easily have decided against taking me in as family and I could easily have been like all those other children, a toy for the whims of the pure-bloods, despite being a pure-blood myself.
"I explained that he would automatically go to Ravenclaw because that is where I was Sorted, and that he would reside in a room with me. I had been learning everything I possibly could about warding and planned to take it as a mastery, so I would do everything I could to keep the two of us safe, him more than me, as even without the Potter name, I was still considered a true Potter."
After the start-of-term feast, during which Tom had sat by his side at the Ravenclaw
table, Morgan escorted his Sponsored to the tower, where they boy was introduced to the
rather silly method of entry. It was almost hilariously arrogant to assume that no one but
a Ravenclaw could solve riddles, and not at all reassuring as to their safety while inside. It
was one of the reasons he had become fixated on warding.
Morgan waited through the usual speech to the first years, then escorted Tom to their
shared room, which was as heavily warded as he could make it (it required a drop of blood
from Tom to be keyed into them). It was a soothing combination (to Morgan, anyway) of
blue, silver, and copper, with two single beds.
"Some of the Sponsors are really cruel," he said. "I've seen Sponsored made to sleep on the
floor like a pet, or even worse. Choose either bed, it really doesn't matter. We each have a
dresser, book shelf, and desk as you can see, and there's an en suite. I've done as much as I
can in terms of warding, but as I learn more I'll do more."
Tom turned worried eyes on him. "But what about when…?"
"When I get my NEWTs?" he asked. "I plan to stay for a mastery, two if necessary. I will
not leave you here alone. I don't think they would touch you as you would still—" He rolled
his eyes. "—belong to me, but I'd rather not take that chance. If I work really hard during
the remainder of my time here I could fit in two, Warding and Defense. Spend as little of
my trust fund as I can manage, so we have money to leave with."
"To where? Is it like here everywhere?"
Morgan shook his head. "Not from what I've found. I was thinking Japan, clear on the
other side of the world. We'd have to learn the language, but once we were there I could
study for another mastery, you could obtain one… During my reading about Mahōtokoro
I've learned that the Japanese really only care about two things, not using the Dark Arts
in their country, and maintaining the International Statute of Secrecy. We should be safe
there. Or at least, safer than here."
"…Are we letting anyone know we can speak Japanese, once we've learned it?" Tom asked.
"I don't think so. I don't want anyone to have any idea we would go there. They might still
find out, but we would both be adults in the magical world. They would have no reason to
recall us. Uncle Fleamont has already told me he has no intention to secure a match for me.
I think he finds the idea distasteful, because my father was a bastard child. I'm still
surprised he agreed to take me in. We can also use post wards to make it impossible for owls
to find us, or only specific ones."
"And I already have one directing any post to me to you."
"Right. Supposedly so you cannot be subverted." Morgan rolled his eyes again. "I think
it's so the Sponsors can ensure their Sponsored never see something they don't approve
of, like the radical thought that you are people just like us and shouldn't be treated like
slaves."
Tom scowled, but then went neutral in expression. "Thank you," he said, "for watching
out for me."
"I knew you had to be magical, Tom. The second I saw your name on the list…"
"I'm surprised you didn't find a way to warn me so I could try to run away."
Morgan shook his head. "I asked Uncle Fleamont about that, in a rather roundabout way.
I was told that the moment that a magical child is noticed they are tracked. That tracking
is not removed until they have taken their NEWT exams. Had I warned you and you had
run, they would only have dragged you back. I thought it would be safer to just wait until
I had a chance to ask for that one thing. I was the absolute model of good behavior and
good breeding, all for that moment."
"And it worked."
"Thank Merlin for that."
Tom nodded and shoved his trunk over to one of the beds, then started to unpack.
"Silver and copper?" Riddle said, his expression one of mild puzzlement.
"I don't like bronze," Morgan said with a smile. "I don't like yellow gold, either. I prefer silvery metals and the pinkish-orange of copper. I saw no reason to wholeheartedly adopt the colours of my house in my room, even if I had to wear them. I like plenty of colours, but I don't like yellow or red at all, and I wasn't about to parade around in colours of another house, so green was out."
"Despite your eye colour."
"Despite my eye colour," he agreed. They were blue at the outside and yellow at the center, making for an almost green shade at a distance. Up close it was obvious they were not. "I should get back, though. I have another appointment with Gringotts about a house purchase. Would it be all right if I left some memories with you? If you do not have a pensieve I can give you the loan of one. You would also be able to verify they are not tampered with."
"That is acceptable," Riddle said.
He nodded and retrieved both a pensieve and a small crate filled with vials containing memories. "They are numbered. It was easier than pinpointing exact dates. There are a fair few, and too many are quite unpleasant. There are multiple memories of Tom and I, even one of when I was ripped away from our home. Please send an owl after you have finished and would like to restart our conversation. For now, however, I really must be going. Goblins left waiting are not happy beings."
«Nagini,» Riddle said, «please escort our guest out safely.»
«Yes, master.»
"Farewell," he said, then followed the snake out.
On arrival at Diagon Alley he decided that the meeting had gone fairly well. Nothing had been tried against him. He continued to hold some hope that the Tom Riddle of this dimension could be his friend. It was easier for him in the end to have simply provided vials of memories. He had lived those events already and had no wish to watch them again. It had been bad enough just pulling copies, as he did have to mentally mark off start and end points.
For now, though, he had some goblins to speak with about a house.