Harry Potter : Bloodraven

Chapter 328 - 328: The Calm Before the Storm (I) (CH - 347)

The weather around June was mild and clear, with a cool breeze and long daylight for the majority of England, however, it was also quite the opposite in some corners.One such location was the small, quiet countryside village of Little Hangleton, where the sky remained as cloudy as any winter day that had long since passed, only without the snow.

Perhaps it was due to its geographical location, but the small population here did not seem particularly bothered by it. At least, from the looks of things, during daylight they could be seen going about their daily routines.

Then again, it was a very tight knit, low population community, numbering from a few dozen to at most a hundred, and most of the people in sight appeared to be old and elderly. So maybe they simply did not bother to complain.

The Riddle Mansion was perhaps the only place of note here, but it had also long since been forgotten by the villagers, treated like a faded backdrop, quietly left behind by time ever since the owners there met a… say, mysterious fate.

The entire family, it was said, had died in a single night, found lifeless with not a trace of injury on them, with no weapon, no struggle, no sign of anything at all.

Since then, the villagers had deemed the place cursed, while all sorts of eerie and unsettling stories were passed from one to another in hushed voices. No one goes near the place anymore, no one even dares to climb the hill, not for curiosity, heck, not even for robbery.

It could be said it was their fortune that they had held to that decision until now, because the mansion they believed to be abandoned was, in fact, no longer abandoned at all. A certain dutiful son had returned to his late, lovely father's home not long ago, and had been settling in there with his buddies ever since. And Tommy Jr., well, let's just say he doesn't take kindly to visitors, especially when people go nosing around during his rest time.

Anyways, the only other place worth noting here was perhaps the graveyard then, set on a slight rise at the edge of the village, just beyond the last row of houses and not too far from the hill where the mansion stood watching over it all.

Like any other graveyard, it looked and felt absolutely creepy, and like the Riddle Mansion, it was the second place the villagers avoided as much as possible.

---

Rumble…

Flash-Thunder!

A sudden flash of lightning, followed by a low, growling thunder, lit up the area for the briefest moment, casting the graveyard in stark clarity and revealing rows of silent gravestones. Among them stood Tom Riddle Sr.'s grave, far more lavish than the rest which looked plain and ordinary by comparison.

Moreover, it appears that someone had come to pay old Riddle a visit.

Just a couple of steps from the grave was a figure in a dark robe, his head covered, his face hidden in shadow, and at a glance, he appeared to be a man. He did not, however, seem to be there to pay a visit of respect. Normally, people would carry flowers or something when visiting the dead, and he certainly did not. Plus, who visits a creepy graveyard in the middle of the night dressed like a serial killer?

Instead, he held a wand in his hand, marking him clearly as a wizard, and judging by his actions, it was evident he was there for a very clear purpose.

He did not just stand there, like someone pouring their heart out to the deceased. Instead, like a ceremony, or rather a ritual, he walked slowly around the grand marble headstone, a tall, polished monument bearing the Riddle name.

At times he waved the wand in slow, measured arcs, at times he whipped it sharply through the air as if casting a hook, and at others he tapped the cold stone itself, the sound dull and hollow against the silence of the graveyard.

There weren't any colorful flashes, though, which usually accompanied when most magic was cast, so to the villagers in the distance, nothing seemed amiss.

The mysterious man made several circles like that around the grave without any disturbance, and only after he lowered his wand did a rustle come from the distance, the sound of footsteps, and… something being dragged along the soil.

He turned slowly, facing the sound, and saw two men, one who looked like he belonged in a mental hospital, the other a fat man with an even fatter face, whose front tooth made him look like a rat, dragging a rope, the other end tied to an old man's body, which he was dragging roughly along the soil, gagged and bloodied.

His focus, though, was not on any of them, but on the tiny, and boy was it hideous, little creature that looked neither human nor ghost, resting in some strange cradle-like contraption and floating beside the two men.

Thank Merlin the ugly fuck wasn't pink, or someone might mistake him for Lord Freeza.

"You are certain, Boris… this will suffice?"

The creepy creature in the cradle, who spoke in an even creepier hoarse voice, was obviously old Voldy, the only son of the owner of the grave.

And the two beside him, who kept glancing at him with a look that bordered on worship, were Barty Jr. and Peter Pettigrew, who, unfortunately for Riddle, after Maverick had fucked up his schemes who knows how many times now, were the best Riddle had left as lieutenants to run his errands.

At his question, the mysterious figure, now identified as Boris, only huffed in response. There was not even a hint of fear in his tone, so clearly, even though they seemed to be in some kind of cooperative arrangement, they were not of the same party.

"You question my capabilities?"

Lord Voldemort, of course, trusted absolutely nobody. "Then... you will not object if I verify your claim for myself?" he asked instead, though it sounded more like a statement.

Boris didn't answer, only stepped aside, which spoke for itself.

Voldemort then expressionlessly turned to address his capable right hand, "Wormtail!" he practically shouted.

Poor Peter, he never really understood the discrimination when it came to him.

"My master... your servant understands." However, he was also too much of a pussy to protest. He gave an exaggerated bow instead, then yanked the rope, dragging the tied-up old man forward. Whatever was happening, it seems everyone understood beforehand what they had to do.

Boris watched from the side as the miserable old man was then levitated off the ground by Wormtail, before being mercilessly tied tightly to the grave statue. The process was crude, perhaps the rat was venting his dissatisfaction on the old man instead.

Who was this unlucky old fellow, anyway? Actually, he didn't really care. It was nothing more than an afterthought, and he simply waited, already having a general guess of what they were up to..

"Barty," Voldemort spoke again, and the crazed-looking man moved next, with a muffled hum, his figure vanished from the spot.

Then, silence fell over the cemetery, as if the darkness itself had settled in to listen, broken only by the muffled groans of the old man tied above, his terrified eyes fixed on the people below.

His name was Frank Bryce, and in the entire village of Little Hangleton, he was perhaps the only one foolish enough, or stubborn enough, to still go near the mansion on the hill from time to time.

Years ago, he had been its caretaker, working under the Riddles, and maybe that old habit never quite left him, because every now and then, not often, maybe two or three times a year, he would wander up to clear the weeds from the outer windows, at least keeping to the outside, never daring to step inside the place everyone called haunted.

Bad luck, though, had a way of picking its moments, and today just happened to be one of those days, because while he thought he was going up for a bit of quiet cleaning, the mansion, as it turned out, wasn't abandoned anymore, and before he could even make sense of the strange, creepy scene he stumbled into, there was a sudden flash right in his face, bright enough to wipe the world clean for a second, and the next thing he knew, he woke up inexplicably tied, dragged across the ground like a sack, and now, of all places, strapped to a grave statue, which really wasn't how he imagined his evening going.

He was dead certain his end was just around the corner. It's just… this wasn't how he had ever imagined his life would end, with a demon baby coming for his old bones, or with him tied to a grave as part of some creepy witchcraft ritual.

After a while, he just gave up struggling and closed his eyes. Maybe praying to the Lord might help… but then his eyes snapped open again when he heard the familiar thump.

It was that crazy person whose tongue kept flicking out every few seconds, as if he were imitating a snake. In his mind, he labeled the man a blasphemer too, because no normal person could just disappear and appear out of thin air like that. Abilities like that should belong only to the Lord Almighty.

"My Lord... it failed, all of it... even the enchantments you personally applied to the rope..."

"Of course they did." Boris cut in impatiently. "Any and all spatial magic, tracking magic, even scent will not pass the wards I have set. Whoever or whatever you intend to imprison here, nothing will be traced back to this location."

Voldemort, however, still looked as though he was harboring doubt and did not immediately speak, which only made Boris grow even more impatient. If anything, he really was not lying, and had done his best to carry out what he had promised.

Fortunately, the silence did not last long, and he did not have to press again. Voldemort finally gave a nod of his ugly, baby-like head.

"Remember this well, Boris... Lord Voldemort does not look kindly upon betrayal." the Dark Lord said coldly, then turned to his minion again. "Complete the contract."

Boris rolled his eyes under the hood. He, of course, knew exactly what this moronic thing was, a fool who thought the world owed him everything. He was not from this country, but he was well aware of the crazy things this idiot had done when he was fully alive.

Before, he might have lowered his head when speaking to him, out of courtesy to an archmage, but now he was nothing more than a half-baked thing he did not even know what it was. A baby? An imp? In other words, not enough to threaten him.

And this... all of this was merely a transaction, his services in return for something he wanted. Besides, he was not some loose wizard without backing either, and Voldemort was also well aware of it.

"As you wish, my Lord," Barty bowed respectfully to his master, then walked up to Boris and raised his hand. A parchment materialized, which Boris grabbed roughly out of thin air, completely disregarding the idiot's hateful gaze, and opened it on the spot.

"The deeds... and a token of my appreciation," Voldemort said in his hoarse voice, watching him read. "Should you ever find yourself in need of a more worthy master..." he left the rest unsaid, but it went without saying.

Boris, meanwhile, did not respond, expressionlessly reading the contents from top to bottom first, then only looked up, a faint smirk forming on his lips.

"Do not flatter yourself. My allegiance lies only with Lord Volkov."

Saying that, he pointed his wand and, under the hateful glare of baby Voldemort, struck out several parts of it, the so-called token of his appreciation, right in front of him.

Barty nearby was also barely holding himself back from snapping. It was only his lord's repeated reminders before coming here not to meddle in the talks, no matter what, that kept him in check.

"I am no thug you can simply buy out, Dark Lord," Boris said flatly. "The contract will remain as per the original agreement." He added, then rolled it up and vanished it into his storage ring. "A displeasure doing business. Goodbye."

And with that, he disappeared from the spot.

The next second— "Master, let me hunt him... please, my Lord! He cannot be allowed to live after that, I will kill him, again and again if I must!"

"Quiet!" Voldemort hissed coldly, silencing the frantic idiot.

Though he said nothing more, from that tone alone it was clear he was very, very angry at that moment. Just now, he had made no move to strike or retaliate when Boris had practically spat in his face, not because he did not want to, but because he simply could not afford to.

Too much was at stake to afford another enemy at this point, and he would swallow the humiliation... for now.

His eyes narrowed to thin slits, drifting absentmindedly toward the bound old man at his worthless father's grave marker.

"It matters little..." he spoke coldly to no one in particular. "Once I am whole again, all who have disrespected me will suffer for it. Every slight, every insult will be repaid in blood... I have waited... and tomorrow, my return will be inevitable."

"Wormtail, dispose of the Mudblood... Barty, you will bring me Lucius," he ordered, cutting himself off then turned away, slowly floating toward the mansion ahead.

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Author's Note:

???? Drop those Power Stones! ????

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