Chapter 242: Hangton Old Story
The next morning.
Damp and cold London already carried a hint of autumn; the weather wasn’t too cold, but there was morning fog, and the leaves of the plane trees along the street were deep green. If one circled around the Leaky Cauldron, they would find a bustling Muggle street outside the shop door, with cars and horses streaming by, while behind the courtyard was a wizarding pedestrian street that seemed stuck in the last century.
Harry carried a breakfast tray and sat alone at the long table on the second floor.
He had agonized over writing the letter until late last night, but after sending it, he felt completely liberated—no longer worrying about matters at Dursley’s Home, nor about the fugitive Black. He slept soundly until dawn and got up feeling refreshed.
The Leaky Cauldron’s breakfast wasn’t particularly abundant, and the taste was just passable; some of it was even leftover ingredients from the kitchen the day before, refried and served again.
The other guests didn’t seem to have the habit of eating breakfast. The witch who came from the countryside for procurement had gone out early, and the dwarf was still sound asleep in its room—passing by the doorway, one could faintly hear snoring.
Professor Levent, on the other hand—did he also have the habit of sleeping in?
Or perhaps he was still adjusting to the time difference after traveling?
Harry gazed aimlessly at the opposite side of the long table, his eyes unfocused, his mind blank, mechanically tearing bread into strips and putting them in his mouth to chew, completely indifferent to the taste.
A faint noise came from Room 11, the same as usual—it was probably the house-elf cleaning. Nothing to pay attention to.
The sound of flapping wings rang out, adding some life to those eyes. Harry looked up and saw Hedwig flying through the skylight into the tavern, landing on the long table in front of him.
The owl had brought a reply from Dursley’s Home.
Harry tore open the envelope. There was no letter inside—Uncle Vernon and Aunt Penelope seemed unwilling to speak to him, or perhaps they had nothing to say. There was only a crumpled consent form, with Vernon Dursley’s name scrawled in the bottom right corner.
Harry stared at the creases and signature on the paper, unable to hold back a laugh.
He could imagine Uncle Vernon’s furious expression upon receiving the letter, cursing as he crumpled the whole sheet into a ball and tossed it into the trash bin beside the table. But then remembering he was a wizard, worried he might return to Privet Drive to harass them, so he reluctantly signed the consent form and handed it to the monstrous owl postman.
Professor Levent was right—the situation wasn’t as dreadful as he’d thought.
Next term, he could go to Hogsmeade with Ron and the others on weekends.
Harry happily took a sip of milk, about to continue admiring the signature, when he suddenly heard a commotion in the corridor.
“Oh my goodness!”
“Clack clack clack…”
It sounded like the house-elf chasing something, darting frantically through the room, sometimes letting out low growls like a rabid dog, ready to pounce and bite at any moment.
“Probably some guest left a dangerous magical item in their room.”
Harry, unconcerned, swallowed his bread. Hedwig hooted twice in reminder, and his eyes suddenly widened. “The Monster Book of Monsters!”
“Didn’t I tie it up with a belt and stuff it in the box?”
Harry exclaimed, dropping his breakfast and rushing over. Sure enough, it was the gift from Hagrid.
A thick tome with a green cover, printed with a gold-embossed title, scuttling rapidly on its corner legs along the floor like some bizarre crab, snapping open to reveal sharp teeth.
“Thank goodness…”
The house-elf was nearly fainting from fright. Seeing the guest arrive, it shrieked and snapped its fingers, vanishing on the spot.
Watching the monster book darting rapidly into the corner crevices, Harry was about to worry when he suddenly heard a soft spell from the doorway.
“Monster Book, come.”
The restless monster book fell into Melvin’s hands, still trembling angrily. Melvin gently stroked the spine, calming the monster book, and handed it back to Harry.
“Professor Levent…”
That irritable monster book had been soothed just like that?
Harry took the monster book, blinking, still not quite processing it.
“Good morning, Harry.” Melvin turned toward the dining table. “I saw Hedwig return. Did your uncle and aunt reply?”
Harry still wasn’t at ease and tied the book with a belt, tossing it casually onto the bed. He grinned and followed the professor. “No, they seem unwilling to talk to me, but Uncle Vernon signed the consent form. I can go to Hogsmeade on weekends!”
“I see…” Melvin took a breakfast tray.
Harry, perceptive, handed over cutlery at the right moment: “Professor, what’s Hogsmeade like?”
“Similar to Diagon Alley, but not as bustling. Hogsmeade’s main customers are students…”
The two ate and chatted idly, the topics mainly around Hogsmeade, the Quidditch Emporium, Honeydukes, and the Three Broomsticks that Harry was eagerly anticipating.
Even though Melvin said that street couldn’t compare to Diagon Alley, Harry was still full of anticipation for the new term. He was about to enter third year, his long-standing worry resolved, with only the distant Black remaining.
Thinking of the fugitive Black, Harry looked at the wise professor with a hint of aspiration: “Professor Levent, with three weeks until term starts, do you have any more advice for me?”
Melvin looked into his green eyes, pondered briefly, and said earnestly: “I suggest you learn the Patronus Charm on your own.”
Harry’s face was instantly full of confusion.
……
Little Hangleton was a Muggle village in a valley. Decades ago, there were still a few wealthy families in the valley, but in recent years, as young people migrated to the cities, the village had become even more sparsely populated. The church on the hillside lay abandoned, turned into an old folks’ cemetery.
Six miles away was Great Hangton, a typical English town with newly opened malls, bustling noisy arcades, and a dim gloomy police station that was just a shell—its officers were beer-bellied middle-aged men who drank and loafed, waiting for retirement.
The unsolved case at Riddle Manor decades ago remained unresolved, an enduring topic at the Hangman’s Pub.
In the patrons’ mouths, every version of the story began the same way:
“That was fifty years ago. The Riddles hadn’t fallen yet. The snobbish, irascible Riddle couple were very wealthy, with business in London hundreds of miles away. Their mansion was grand. But one sunny summer dawn during summer vacation, their maid walked into the living room and found the three Riddles’ bodies lying on the floor.”
“The police questioned every resident in the village but found no clues. Everyone had an alibi.”
The bartender stood behind the counter, drawing out his tone, skillfully stirring the patrons’ emotions. “Do you know who the killer was?”
“Bang!”
The door to the Hangman’s Pub was pushed open, and an unfamiliar young face walked in, brushing dew from his clothes and trousers. “Can anyone get me a cup of honey mead?”
The bar was full of villagers, who immediately saw this was a stranger. Strangely, though he’d come via the woodland path, his shoes weren’t muddy, and there were no grass fragments on him.
For a moment, no one spoke. The bartender’s story had just begun, leaving the suspense hanging uncomfortably, and the few villagers in the know felt the same frustration.
The bartender handed over the honey mead: “Mister, you don’t look like a local. Why come here?”
“I’m a student doing fieldwork, looking to survey some old and simple folk dwellings.”
“I see…”
The bartender and patrons’ wariness eased slightly. As long as he wasn’t Riddle family kin, anyone else was fine—they couldn’t let anyone interrupt their discussion of the Riddle case.
“The Riddle mansion fits your needs perfectly.”
The bartender helpfully recommended it, recounting the case’s background again, reigniting the patrons’ enthusiasm.
“No, I’m looking for simple old dwellings. A rich mansion doesn’t fit.” Melvin shook his head with a smile. “But I’m very curious—who was the killer in that case?”
“The case remains unsolved, with the file still locked in the Hangton police station’s archives.” The bartender shifted tone. “But the maid and cook who worked at the Riddle house back then both suspected Frank, the Riddles’ gardener.”
Frank Bryce had a strange, gloomy personality. He’d fought in the war, been lamed by a bullet, and suffered from PTSD, extremely averse to crowds and noise. Many suspected the madman might snap.
The bartender had told this story dozens or hundreds of times, his tone low and somber in narration, high and passionate in questions, with precise pauses to stoke the patrons’ curiosity.
They eagerly pulled out money for more drinks, wanting more details.
But after they paid, the story’s excitement plummeted.
The police autopsy found the Riddles hadn’t been murdered—no surgical wounds, ruling out blades and guns; vital signs normal, ruling out poison and suffocation. Apart from identical terrified expressions, it was as if they’d all suffered simultaneous heart attacks or strokes.
Thus, Frank was cleared and released.
The Riddle mansion was inherited by a mysterious wealthy man who neither lived there nor rented it out for business. Rumor was he kept it for tax reasons. In any case, Frank continued working at Riddle Manor, mowing the grassland and tending the courtyard.
The patrons despised this ending:
“And then what? That’s it?”
“Bullshit, you’re definitely scamming us for drink money!”
“Oh, greedy Hangman, you should go to hell!”
The bartender calmly cleared the wine glasses, washing and wiping them on the bar, letting them complain and curse. This had happened many times. In such a remote, impoverished countryside, the pub relied on one suspenseful story after another to drum up business.
Drawn from true events, not every story has an ending.
The young student finished his honey mead, pressing a few pounds under the glass base. Only then did the bartender recall his purpose and casually ask:
“Mister, which family’s old house are you looking for?”
“The Gaunt family’s. Have you heard of them?”
“The Gaunts…” The bartender scratched his head, taking a while to recall such odd folk. “The ones in the woods across the valley, right? Don’t go—it’s just a dilapidated shack, long abandoned and in ruins.”
“Got it.”
The young student waved without looking back and walked out of the old pub.
……
The village lay between two steep hillsides. Following the steep slope down from the main village road’s road sign, turn right through the gap in the hedge, into an even steeper, narrower dirt path.
The bushes on both sides were denser, littered with rocks. Untrodden for decades, the grass and plants grew wildly, the path pitted and barely recognizable.
The emerald snake nest trembled slightly. Yurm seemed to sense the outside environment and eagerly emerged from the gemstone, climbing onto a branch hanging from a roadside green tree, vanishing into the lush bushes.
Melvin strolled slowly behind, dawdling deeper into the woods, scanning around, occasionally summoning a whirlwind to shake branches and startle snakes hidden in the shadows.
Sometimes he’d encounter vipers disguised as fallen leaves, coiled motionless on the ground, unresponsive to sounds.
When Melvin approached and stepped on them, they’d suddenly spring up, trying to bite him.
Then Yurm would dart out from nowhere, always timely, whipping the viper’s face with its tail like a resounding slap, then hissing reprimands.
Melvin didn’t understand snake language, but from the viper’s aggrieved look as it slithered away, Yurm had probably cursed vulgarly.
No idea where it learned such dirty slang.
After half an hour of walking and stopping, they delved deeper into the woods. Lush trees blocked the sky, the air exceptionally fresh but laced with a fishy dampness. Snake figures grew denser. Melvin wasn’t afraid of snakes—vipers couldn’t pierce the iron armor bubble enveloping him.
He glanced at the young snake, which showed no discomfort, instead loving the environment, excitedly crawling about and occasionally slapping local snakes.
“Yurm, help me find Gaunt Old House.” Melvin knew Yurm understood his meaning.
“Hiss…” The young snake indeed quickened its pace.
Melvin followed unhurriedly. Soon, passing through gaps in ancient century-old trees, he finally saw a peculiar old house.
Walls of stone bricks manipulated by Transfiguration were overgrown with moss and vines, blending into the forest. The pale gray old house was invaded by verdant green, its doorway choked with dense nettles, the door knocker hung with decayed snake bones.
Melvin summoned a whirlwind to open the door for him, also sweeping away persistent snakes and insects, and entered the old house. Half the roof tiles were torn off; decades of rain had turned half the interior to mud. Wooden furniture was hollowed by insects, covered in colorful fungi.
Walls half-collapsed; through partitions, he could vaguely make out several rooms: three bedrooms, one living room, one kitchen.
The blackened red brick fireplace was in ruins. Ash from burned plants, rich in nutrients, nurtured dense nettles. A filthy armchair held corroded snake bones; maggots and ants ignored the intruder Melvin, crawling indifferently.
There was a rusty iron pot and a pile of dirty pots and pans.
Yurm roamed about, nearly falling into a foul sticky sludge. The young snake no longer wanted to explore recklessly and coiled at Melvin’s feet, its highly anthropomorphic eyes seeming deeply disdainful of Gaunt Old House.
“…”
Melvin scanned around, his keen magic power perception coming into play.
At the bedside in the narrowest bedroom, a wisp of evil dark magic power glowed like a light bulb at night, impossible to ignore.
