Chapter 572: The Mysterious Servant
Business was as brisk as ever at The Hangman's Inn.
The regular patrons habitually ignored the group huddled in the corner. Strange robes and hooded figures weren't exactly a rarity in Little Hangleton; the village had always been a bit peculiar.
In the innermost booth, two grave faces were visible beneath heavy traveling hoods. Despite the dust of the road, their features remained sharp and handsome. The landlady, twisting through the room with a silver tray, had intended to offer them another round, but she was quickly repelled by the icy, "don't-touch-me" stares they gave her.
However, when their eyes fell upon a third figure—shorter than the others but draped in similarly fine robes—the hostility vanished, replaced by an look of intense, quiet reverence.
"Afternoon, Mr. Green," one of them whispered.
The landlady caught the name and caught a glimpse of the boy's unnaturally pale skin beneath his hood. She muttered something about "not being right in the head" and scurried back to the safety of the bar.
"Afternoon," Sean replied with a slight nod, his eyes scanning the pub.
"We should—" Sirius began, exchanging a look with Remus.
Sean raised a hand, cutting him off. He gave a subtle shake of his head and gestured toward the neighboring table, where several men were drinking heavily. He signaled for the two men to listen.
"...I'm tellin' ya, Dave, Little Hangleton's gone wrong," a middle-aged man with a thick beard whispered, leaning in toward his companions. "First it was the business at the old Riddle House, and now this."
"Give it a rest, Dave, you've had too much ale," the balding man to his left said, waving him off. "There's nuthin' going on."
"I haven't had enough!" Dave slammed his hand on the bar. "My nephew works the farm on the east side. Says they've lost half a dozen sheep lately... found 'em with their necks ripped open. And the lambs! Just vanished. The farmer's about had a heart attack from the loss."
The barkeep, Old Tom, wiped a glass with a dirty rag and chimed in lazily. "Foxes. Plenty of foxes 'round here."
"Foxes?" Dave let out a harsh laugh. "You ever seen a fox that can swallow a lamb whole, Tom? They found tracks in the mud... like a snake. God, they said the trail was wider than a man's thigh."
In the corner, the hands of Sirius and Remus tightened around their mugs. They didn't look up, but their ears were tuned to every word.
"A snake?" the bald man laughed. "What kind of snake we got 'round here that eats sheep?"
"I don't know," Dave whispered, his voice dropping lower. "But it's more than that. Old Withers' youngest girl was playing near the Riddle House the other evening. Came back talking nonsense about a 'slug bigger than a tree trunk' poking its head out of the broken windows..."
"Kids talk rubbish."
"That place has always been cursed," Dave insisted.
The bar went quiet for a moment.
"The Riddle House," the bald man muttered, his voice dropping. "That's where they found 'em fifty years ago, right?"
"The whole family. Three of 'em. Dead in a night," Dave nodded. "The gardener, Frank Bryce, was the prime suspect. They let him go eventually, but the village never forgot. Old Frank's still kicking, you know. Lives in a cottage on the edge of the property."
Frank Bryce...
Sean listened, his gaze drifting to a figure sitting alone at a table to his right.
He was an exceptionally old man, a gnarled walking stick resting against his chair. His face was set in a permanent scowl, and his gardening clothes were caked in dried mud and grass stains. He seemed hard of hearing; he only looked up when the name "Frank" was mentioned, his eyes flashing with a resentful light.
"It's an evil place," Dave continued. "My nephew says he's seen lights in the windows lately. But the house is abandoned. Frank wouldn't go in there to light a fire; he stays in his own little room."
"Hush, Dave. You're giving me the creeps," the bald man said, shrugging his shoulders against a phantom chill.
"Maybe Frank's just doing a bit of autumn cleaning?" the barkeep offered, trying to lighten the mood.
A sharp clink echoed from the corner. Frank Bryce set his empty glass on the table and slowly hauled himself to his feet. He moved with agonizing slowness, as if he were carrying the weight of the house itself on his back. He hobbled to the bar and dropped a few coins on the counter.
"Another," he rasped.
Old Tom poured the drink, peering at the old man. "Hear all that, Frank? You live closest... what do you reckon?"
Frank picked up the glass and didn't answer. He took a heavy swallow and stared out the window toward the silhouette of the overgrown manor on the hill.
To Frank, gossip was like weeds. He had spent his life pulling them from his flowerbeds, but they always crawled back, silent and suffocating. And Frank had more than just weeds to deal with. The village boys loved throwing stones at the Riddle House windows. He'd spend all day leveling the lawn only for them to ride their bicycles across it. Once or twice, they'd even broken in on a dare.
Frank Bryce knew they only tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, believed he was a murderer. He let out a cold snort, unaware that three wizards in high-quality cloaks were currently measuring his soul.
"The Riddle House..." Sirius whispered. It was a lead.
"She's not there," Sean said, overriding the thought.
"She has to eat," Remus noted.
"You mean the farm?" Sirius asked.
"Let's have a look." Remus looked at Sean for approval.
Sean nodded. Finding a snake was usually difficult—they could be anywhere. But a giant snake, lingering in a small village? That was a different matter. A creature of that size had a limited number of food sources.
After listening to the local chatter for another hour, they had narrowed down the trail. The creature was heading east—further and further into the rural outskirts. If they had arrived even a few days later, she might have wandered off entirely.
Little Hangleton sat in a valley between two steep hills, the church and graveyard visible from almost anywhere. On the opposite slope stood the grand, decaying manor.
Three figures in heavy robes, their hands resting on their "sticks," exited the inn and began the trek toward the eastern farms.
"How often do snakes feed?" Sirius asked, his boots crunching over the uneven, rocky path.
"Between six and ten in the evening," Remus answered instantly.
Sirius paused. They were far too early.
"Perhaps we'll stumble upon... her," Remus added.
Mentioning the name Nagini caused a shadow to cross Remus's gentle features. To those who knew the history, she wasn't just a beast. She was a witch—a woman with a name and a story, perhaps braver than most of the people currently sleeping in the castle behind them.
After Sean had given them the mission, Lupin had spent his time piecing together her identity from the whispers of the older members of the Order of the Phoenix. She had been a beautiful woman of East Asian descent, with hair as dark as midnight.
As a Maledictus—a carrier of a blood curse—she had been treated as a circus freak by the Arcanus troupe for far too long. She had sought escape, finding a friend in a young man who shared her sense of abandonment. They had shared a brief, bittersweet peace.
But that man had eventually chosen to follow the "Greater Good" of the first Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald. Nagini, possessing a moral compass he lacked, had seen Grindelwald for what he was. She had begged her friend not to join, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
"If we find her, Sirius..." Remus began, his eyes fixed on Sean, who was currently inspecting a trail marker. His voice was heavy.
Sirius looked at his friend. He knew Remus well. After learning Nagini's history, he knew the werewolf was feeling a dangerous amount of pity for the beast.
"We have to kill it, Remus. Horcrux or not," Sirius said firmly.
"The blood curse cannot be reversed," Remus sighed, shaking his head. "Death might be the only mercy left for her."
Sirius gave a sharp nod and patted Remus on the shoulder.
Unfortunately, despite searching the eastern farms until their feet ached—even conducting a few discreet interviews with the farmers—they found no sign of the great serpent.
By late afternoon, the trio had returned to the Hangman's Inn.
"She'll come back to hunt eventually," Remus noted, thinking of the recurring tracks they'd found on the dirt roads.
"But not for a while," Sirius grinned, his attention already shifting to a group of patrons playing dice.
The two of them sat—one sipping his drink, the other watching the gamblers—but both kept a constant eye on the young wizard who was currently wrapped up like a plush ball.
Sean was staring at Frank Bryce. He watched the old gardener drink his solitary ale in silence, eventually slamming the glass onto the table with a scowl.
"Mr. Black, Mr. Lupin," Sean said. The two wizards sat bolt upright as if they'd been hit with a Stinging Hex.
"Little Hangleton is about to become very dangerous," Sean stated.
The gravity in his voice made their expressions go rigid. They remembered his previous warning: Stay away from the village.
"I suspect more than just a snake is hunting here..." Sean paused.
Voldemort was here. And his two servants. If a being intended to live in a place, he inevitably made contact with the outside world. Food wasn't just for snakes.
"You mean...?" Remus frowned, theories spinning through his mind.
"I need someone to remain here. You may refuse, of course," Sean said after a silence.
Voldemort's "other" servant was the greatest variable. If he was living here, he would eventually leave a trail. Sean knew this man likely held the secrets to Voldemort's current progress.
Has he made the seventh Horcrux yet? What is it? Where is it hidden?
They needed to know how many pieces Voldemort's soul was currently in. Sean didn't believe the Dark Lord would just pick a random rock or a grain of sand—soul-anchors required objects of significance.
"Do not underestimate my resolve, Mr. Green," Sirius said, his voice solemn. "Though, perhaps Remus would prefer to go back to his marking..." He added with a smirk.
Remus's face stiffened. "I don't have a godson to worry about, Sirius," he said flatly.
"Oi!"
Sean watched the bickering for a second before continuing. "If we find Nagini and she is not a Horcrux, it means the servant is still hunting for a murder victim—or they have already found one. Was there a death in Albania?"
"The forest is too large, sir," Remus said piteously.
Sean nodded. He knew it was an impossible ask. If Voldemort had killed in Albania, the Horcrux was there. They would never find it unless they extracted the memory from the second servant.
"Investigate the people along this route..." Sean produced a map. A red line marked the path Peter Pettigrew had taken while carrying Voldemort. "If there was a death along this line, we'll find our anchor."
"And the second task?" Sirius asked.
"Take Frank Bryce into custody. Safely," Sean said, looking toward the bar.
Sirius and Remus looked surprised but nodded.
"Most importantly... Little Hangleton is hiding a servant of the Dark Lord. I need you to find him." Sean ignored the way their bodies tensed. "I want you to work together. It will be dangerous. Extremely dangerous."
It was the third time Sean had emphasized the danger.
"Do not alert him. Above all, preserve yourselves. Investigate from the shadows."
Sean finished his instructions. The sky outside had turned a bruised purple. He looked toward the silhouette of the Riddle House. In the twilight, the manor looked like a crouching beast—silent, ancient, and cold.
In that darkness, something was stirring. Something was waiting.
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