Ten minutes later, Bryan was already sitting at a table with the local villagers in the tavern, and several more empty glasses had appeared on the table in front of them.
"So that's how it is—" Bryan wiped the sweet wine from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and said with interest, "You were wary of me because old Frank died under mysterious circumstances, and the police told you to watch out for strangers around the village recently."
Among the group of villagers, sat Dott, the oldest one with completely white hair, He let out a weary sigh and said.
"Who could have guessed?" His voice trembled with emotion, "It was just yesterday afternoon, that I caught sight of old Frank. There he was, hunched over his beloved garden, tending to the vibrant blooms he so cherished. Little did I know that fleeting glimpse would be the last time I'd lay eyes on the old codger." Dott paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Truth be told, Frank's life wasn't exactly blessed with good fortune, was it?"
"Aye, poor old fellow," the bartender said. Perhaps because Bryan had been generous, buying them many drinks, he no longer saw Bryan's young face as that of a murderer.
"When Frank was just a lad, no older than you are now," he gestured towards Bryan with the glass, "he answered the call of duty and marched off to war. He even lent a hand around here when times were tough, never asking for anything in return."
Bryan maintained an attentive posture as the villagers reminisced about Frank who was usually ignored but now pitied after death. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Bryan seized the moment to interject,
"Is it possible," he began, his brow furrowed in thoughtful consideration, "that Mr. Frank's passing was simply the result of natural causes? I mean, from what you're all saying, this Mr. Frank was quite old, wasn't he?"
Bryan's question plunged the tavern into silence. The drunks stared at him, clearly indicating they had juicier gossip to share, but only if he paid the price.
"Excuse me, boss—" The bartender behind the counter was already ready to act. The moment Bryan waved his hand, he brought over several glasses of sherry to the table.
Old Dott, his rheumy eyes now twinkling with anticipation, didn't hesitate for a moment. With a dexterity that contradicted his old age, he grasped the fragile stem of his glass and, in one fluid motion, tilted it back. The sherry disappeared down his throat with a resounding slurp, leaving not a drop behind. After smacking his lips with undisguised satisfaction, savoring the lingering sweetness on his palate, Dott leaned in close to Bryan.
"It's not as simple as you might think, young man," Dott began, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying easily in the hushed tavern. "The police, they're at their wits' end, you see. They've examined Frank's body from top to bottom, inside and out, and couldn't find a blessed thing amiss. Not a mark, not a scratch, nothing to suggest foul play." He paused dramatically, his eyes darting around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers before continuing. "But when they carried him out of the Riddle House—"
"Sorry," Bryan interjected abruptly, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the rough wooden table, and fixed Dott with an intense gaze. "Whose house did you say?"
"The Riddle House," Dott repeated, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. "You must have laid eyes on it, surely? That grand old mansion perched atop the hill, looking down on our humble village like some brooding giant."
Dott's wrinkled hands waved wildly as he spoke, nearly upsetting his empty sherry glass. "That house, it's changed hands more times than I can count over the years, but originally? Oh, originally it belonged to the Riddle family. Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, they were, and their son, Tom Riddle - a right ne'er-do-well if ever there was one. They all met their end in that very house, fifty years ago come next month. Just like old Frank, they were frightened to death, the lot of them, without so much as a scratch or bruise to show for it."
The bartender, who had been hovering nearby, eager to contribute to the conversation, chimed in. "The police, they've got long memories 'round these parts. That case from all those years back? It's still fresh in their minds, like it happened yesterday. That's why they're dead certain Frank's passing wasn't no accident or act of nature. It's got to be murder, plain and simple."
Bryan nodded imperceptibly, taking a measured sip of his drink. The amber liquid swirled in his glass, catching the dim light of the tavern as he contemplated the information. "That's understandable,"
Suddenly, one of the other drinkers at the table - a man whose cheeks were flushed with the warmth of alcohol and whose eyes sparkled with the need to contribute - burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. "You've left out something crucial!" he exclaimed, his words tumbling out in an urgent rush. It was clear that he felt upset, as the majority of the tale had been recounted by old Dott and the bartender, leaving him with precious little to add.
"When the Riddle family died back then," the man continued, his voice rising with excitement, "old Frank was the only soul still drawing breath in that godforsaken house. Naturally, the police thought he must be the one behind it all. But Frank, he swore up and down he was innocent as a newborn babe." The man paused, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The only thing - the only thing, mind you - that Frank told the police was that on the very day of the incident, he caught sight of a small boy lurking near the house. A lad no one in the village had ever clapped eyes on before. Can you believe it? The police, they thought he was spinning yarns, making it all up!"
With this revelation, the group erupted into a cacophony of heated debate. Each villager seemed to have their own firmly held opinion on the matter, and they were not shy about expressing it. Some argued passionately for the existence of this mysterious boy, their voices rising as they speculated on whether he could have been the perpetrator behind the Riddle family's demise. Others scoffed at the notion, dismissing it as the ramblings of a frightened old man.
The debate took a darker turn as some speculated a chilling theory - could this same boy, now a man grown, have returned after all these years to silence old Frank once and for all? The tavern buzzed with the electric current of speculation and fear.
Throughout the energetic discussion, Bryan maintained a polite smile, nodding at appropriate intervals and appearing to listen intently. Yet, to a keen observer, there was a disconnect between his outward demeanor and the look in his eyes. Those eyes, usually sharp and attentive, now held a hint of cold indifference.
Inwardly, Bryan's mind was racing, processing the information. He hadn't expected that Voldemort, after all his extensive travels and nefarious deeds, would have retreated to the scene of his earliest crimes. There was no doubt in Bryan's mind that the former owners of the hilltop mansion had met their end at Voldemort's hands.
Tom Riddle.
The name echoed in Bryan's thoughts. Voldemort, like Bryan himself, had been an orphan. But when Voldemort had finally uncovered the truth about his father's family, instead of seeking reconciliation, he had chosen a path of cold-blooded murder.
Bryan found himself unable to muster much interest in pondering the complex web of love, hate, and vengeance that must have driven Voldemort to such extreme actions. While their backgrounds shared some similarities, Bryan's circumstances were unique, setting him apart in ways the others could never understand. Voldemort, on the other hand, had chosen the most radical and violent course of action available to him.
Abruptly, Bryan steered the conversation in a new direction, asking a question that seemed, on the surface, unrelated to the current discussion. "Has old Frank been laid to rest yet?"
The question caught the villagers off guard, momentarily silencing their heated debate. They exchanged puzzled glances before the bartender cleared his throat and responded.
"The police, they took Frank's body away for further examination," he explained, his brow furrowed in concentration as he recalled the details. "They haven't returned him to us yet. I reckon they're still trying to get to the bottom of what caused Frank's death, but if you ask me, they're on a fool's errand. It was the same back then, with the Riddles. No answers, just more questions."
Bryan nodded silently, absorbing this information without further comment.
As the night wore on and the villagers' tales became increasingly embellished and far-fetched, Bryan found his thoughts drifting to the Riddle House itself. To be fair, he had to admit, it was indeed a respectable and luxurious mansion. Its location, set apart from the village and perched atop a hill, offered both solitude and a impressive view of the surrounding wilderness.
Under different circumstances, Bryan might have been tempted to approach the current owner with an offer to purchase the property. Its grandeur and isolation held a certain appeal. However, two factors gave him pause: first, he already had secure accommodations elsewhere, and second - perhaps more significantly - this was Voldemort's ancestral home.
Later that night, long after the villagers had stumbled home to their beds and the tavern had fallen silent, Bryan made his way to the Riddle House. The moon hung low and full in the sky, casting an eerie silvery light over the landscape and throwing the mansion's imposing silhouette into sharp relief against the star-studded sky.
As Bryan approached the house, a glowing orb materialized in the air before him, casting a soft, ethereal light that illuminated the grand staircase leading to the second floor. The steps, once polished and gleaming, were now covered in a thick layer of dust, broken only by a chaotic array of footprints. These, Bryan guessed, must have been left by the police in their frantic rush upstairs upon receiving news of Frank's death.
Not wishing to complicate matters by leaving his own tracks, Bryan had been levitating since the moment he entered the house. Now, as he approached the police cordon strung across the staircase, he simply increased his floating height, easily clearing the barrier.
With a sudden burst of speed, Bryan accelerated upwards, crossing the distance to the second floor in the blink of an eye. The whoosh of displaced air was the only sign of his passing.
Bryan didn't waste time surveying his surroundings. The villagers and police had already thoroughly examined the house, which meant any wizards involved in recent events had long since departed. Instead, he floated directly towards the room where, according to the villagers, the body of Frank Bryce had been discovered.
Identifying the correct room was simple- the Muggle police had erected another separate cordon across its threshold.
Bryan's mind flashed back to the explanation he had heard in the tavern. On the night of Frank's death, all had seemed normal in the sleepy village. A handful of the usual drunkards had drunk away the hours at the pub, drinking until the bartender, mindful of the late hour, had finally shooed them out shortly after midnight. These drunkards were making their way home when something extraordinary caught their attention.
A brilliant green light had suddenly erupted from a second-floor window of the Riddle House sending a shiver down the spines of all who witnessed it.
Accompanying the green light was a thunderous boom, as if something had exploded.
Spurred on by liquid courage and an irresistible curiosity, these drunkards had cast aside their fear and charged up the hill, intent on investigating the source of the mysterious light and sound. It was then that they had stumbled upon the lifeless body of old Frank.
The police were deeply skeptical of these drunkards's testimony because after carefully examining the scene, they found no signs that anything had been disturbed, nor any old objects damaged in an explosion. No, the police suspected there had been no explosion or green light at all, and these idle troublemakers had probably just seen a flash of lightning.
'It had been cleaned up hastily—'
Traces of magic are not easy to conceal. The room's arrangement was unchanged from half a century ago—the old fireplace, the dusty armchairs, the creaky wooden floor, the ancestral oil paintings on the walls riddled with wormholes—everything, from a Muggle's perspective, seemed perfectly normal.
But to Bryan's eyes, there were clear signs that magic had been used to repair things.
It was obvious to Bryan that someone had attempted to repair and conceal evidence of magical activity, but they had done so hastily, leaving traces that his eyes could easily discern.
Outside the window, the overgrown lawn was bathed in moonlight. The uninvited breeze that had invaded the mansion sang a bloody ballad.
Bryan took out his wand and traced complex, spell patterns in front of him.
Gradually, the shimmering grains of light arranged themselves into ordered patterns, forming ghostly images that hung suspended in the air. These ethereal pictures flickered and shifted, replaying scenes from the recent past like some sort of magical, three-dimensional film.
Bryan retreated to the far wall, his back pressed against the peeling wallpaper as he observed the unfolding spectacle with keen interest. The play of light and shadow cast by the magical reconstruction threw his sharp-edged profile into stark relief, highlighting the cold, stern set of his features. His eyes, reflecting the dancing lights, seemed to glow with an inner fire as he absorbed every detail of the scenes playing out before him.
As abruptly as it had begun, the magical replay came to an end. The glowing motes of light scattered and faded, leaving the room once again shrouded in moonlit gloom. Everything returned to its previous state of dusty abandonment, as if the extraordinary display had never occurred.
In the wake of the fading magic, a single voice broke the oppressive silence of the abandoned mansion.
"Bertha Jorkins."
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