Of course, this was not Dumbledore's fault, nor did it excuse Riddle's choices.
Elijah's mood darkened slightly. It felt like watching a gray silent film—absurd on the surface like a Chaplin comedy, yet quietly tragic underneath.
He knew the mist was partly responsible. The soul-eating monsters hidden within it were like greedy parasites, siphoning away human happiness. Even he felt the faint influence.
Elijah immediately closed his mind, cutting off Riddle's memories before they could erode his mood.
His amber eyes reflected the ugly silhouette of a Dementor.
These creatures were purely self-serving. The vast world beyond Azkaban was nothing more than an open buffet to them. For now, at least, they remained restrained, merely spreading gloom rather than directly attacking Muggles.
Aurors patrolled both the Muggle and wizarding worlds.
Of course, compared to Elijah, they were far more concerned about Sirius. In their eyes, that supposed Death Eater who had killed dozens in one stroke was the greater threat.
Still, if Aurors spotted Elijah, they would not hesitate to arrest him.
Elijah briefly considered capturing another Dementor for study.
The last specimen he obtained had been destroyed by his mutated Patronus before he could conduct proper research. Now that he knew how to kill them, that part of the experiment was complete. What he needed was a new sample.
Unfortunately, now was not the right time.
If Aurors saw an eagle attacking a Dementor in public, even a fool would know something was wrong.
Elijah circled the skies briefly, then found a secluded corner and reverted to human form.
With a flick of his wrist, the wand slid from his sleeve.
Normally, Animagi could transform their clothes into fur or feathers, but wands could not become part of the body. Most either hid their wand beforehand or carried it in their mouth.
Elijah had broken that rule.
When he transformed, the wand had become one of his feathers.
He landed lightly—but the movement still drew attention.
A Dementor patrolling a nearby alley sensed the disturbance and immediately drifted toward him.
Elijah calmly raised his wand and brushed it lightly across his face. His facial muscles shifted like someone under Polyjuice. When he looked up again, he wore a completely different appearance.
Even his clothes transformed, shifting from loose robes into a crisp suit.
He adjusted his tie, chin slightly raised, and ignored the approaching Dementor. As he passed it, he merely gave a subtle flinch like an ordinary frightened Muggle, then continued walking calmly out of the narrow alley.
Several Aurors were patrolling nearby in Muggle disguise. Well-trained professionals—they made no obvious mistakes.
But Elijah still spotted the wands at their waists.
He walked past them without pause.
He could clearly feel one Auror's gaze linger on him for several seconds. But Elijah showed no sign of panic. Like any other Londoner, he smoothly entered the Underground station and passed through the turnstiles.
That simple, ordinary behavior erased the last trace of suspicion.
In truth, there had never been any to begin with.
...
Riddle House sat on the hillside above Little Hangleton, with the whole "town" laid out beneath it. People called it a town, but it was really just countryside with a name.
Modern life hadn't quite reached this place. It still looked much the same as it must have decades ago, except for the occasional battered truck rattling along the dirt road.
Aside from Riddle House itself, the oldest things around were the Hanged Man's Tavern and the graveyard not far away.
Four or five miles farther lay Great Hangleton, Elijah's real destination this time: the old Gaunt shack. But before he went anywhere near that place, he needed somewhere to stay.
"Hello, sir."
As Elijah stepped out of a run-down car, an old man appeared as if he'd been waiting there for ages. Grey-haired, stooped, lame in one leg. Even his voice shook when he spoke.
Not far away, the men and women who'd been about to start their farm work stopped and stared at him, as though he'd crawled out of the graveyard himself.
"Frank Bryce?" Elijah rested one hand lightly on the man's crutch, his suit jacket draped over his arm, and tipped his hat with the other as he studied the face in front of him.
"It's me, sir…" Frank answered, trembling.
He seemed about to reach out and help, but the moment he noticed Elijah's expensive-looking suit, he pulled his hand back as if it might burn him.
"I assume you've heard I bought Riddle House. The government should've informed you." Elijah didn't spare his polished shoes as he stepped into the dirt.
"Yes, sir, yes." Frank nodded quickly, confusion creeping right back in.
He'd been the gardener here for fifty years. The owners had been dead for fifty years, too—mysteriously dead—and he still lived in his shabby shed at the edge of the grounds like nothing had ever moved on.
Now there was a new owner, and Frank had no idea what sort of future he was meant to have. He'd never truly shaken the suspicion hanging over him from the night the Riddles died.
Would this gentleman keep him on? Even if he did… Frank was old. Very old.
If he was turned out, where would he go?
Under the townspeople's watchful eyes, Elijah followed Frank up toward the mansion on the hill.
The weather here was nothing like London's. The air was clear, and from a distance the overgrown house looked almost green and peaceful.
Up close, it was anything but.
Weeds pushed through every crack. Ivy crawled over the walls and forced its way into broken windows. The woodwork sagged. Doors and beams were stained with mould, and some sections had been chewed into ruin by insects.
Elijah wondered how much longer it could stand before it simply folded in on itself.
"Sir, I…" Frank began.
Elijah lifted a hand, stopping him without a word.
Frank swallowed the rest, his face slack and stiff, uncertainty plain beneath the years. Perhaps he was thinking it might be easier if the place simply collapsed and buried everything.
He'd spent decades here. Time had stopped for him. If he left, he'd be nothing but a relic thrown out by the world.
He let out a long breath, as if he'd finally decided to say what was in his chest.. and then he saw it.
Elijah had taken out a small, delicate wooden stick.
With a few casual movements, the weeds vanished. The ivy withdrew as if it had suddenly remembered manners. Broken glass knit itself back together, wood straightened, rot retreated. In front of Frank's eyes, the house repaired itself as if time had snapped backward.
Even the toppled stone sculpture in the yard seemed to spring to life, righting itself and striking an elegant pose.
In a blink, the manor looked like it had fifty years ago: bright, clean, whole.
The courtyard opened up, neat and bare where it had been choked with growth. The long-dead fountain sputtered, then flowed, sunlight catching in the clear water.
Frank stared as if his mind had simply refused to accept what it was seeing. He scrubbed at his eyes with fingers rough as twigs.
"Sir… this…"
Before he could form the question properly, Elijah lifted the wand.
"Obliviate."
Something in Frank's head seemed to blink out, then stitch itself back together with the wrong thread.
When the world steadied again, the memory of Elijah waving the wand was gone—replaced by vague images of anonymous maintenance men bustling about, repairing the place before the gentleman arrived.
"Frank Bryce."
The voice cut through the false recollection like a knife.
Frank jolted and found himself sitting in a fine chair, no longer outside at all. Elijjah sat opposite him.
Frank's face went pale. He tried to stand at once, terrified of being rude.
"Please sit down, Bryce. There's no need to be formal." Elijah pushed him gently back into the chair.
Frank looked around in a panic.
He'd worked here for more than fifty years, but he rarely entered the house. Apart from fixing windows after local boys smashed them, he'd hardly dared step inside.
Even so, he remembered the rooms.
Now everything had changed.
The manor looked refined, brighter, alive. Sunlight poured through tall windows, warm enough to make the place feel newly born.
"Bryce," Elijah said, calm and matter-of-fact, "I heard you've stayed here all these years. You can continue to live here."
"Sir… are you telling the truth?" Frank's voice cracked. Tears gathered in his eyes.
If Elijah hadn't insisted he stay seated, Frank might have dropped to his knees.
"Sir, you're a good man, taking in a useless old burden like me. But… you might not have heard the rumours…"
"You mean that you were once suspected of murdering the Riddle family?"
Frank's breath caught. "Sir, if you know that, why keep me?"
"Because people should be able to tell the difference between evidence and gossip." Elijah's tone didn't waver. "The police found nothing to arrest you for. You've worked here for decades. I don't believe you're a murderer."
Frank looked as if he'd never been trusted so firmly in his life. He wanted, desperately, to repay it—but he was an old man with shaking hands and a ruined leg.
Elijah wasn't asking for much. He was simply letting him stay.
"I won't be here often," Elijah continued. "Someone still needs to look after the place. And…"
He rose and walked toward the doorway.
That was when Frank saw it: a huge python, appearing as if it had always been there.
Frank nearly stopped breathing. A warning rose in his throat, but the snake slid up to Elijah's feet and nuzzled against his trousers like a dog.
Elijah bent and stroked its head, almost fondly, as if greeting an old friend.
"Also, Bryce," he said, still petting the python, "if other 'guests' come here at any time, you should leave. There's an old house in town you can stay in. Don't disturb them."
Then, without waiting for questions or objections, Elijah turned and walked out with the python.
"Sir?"
"Sir!"
"Gentleman!" Frank called after him, voice cracking with panic. "What should I call you?"
Elijah didn't even slow.
"You can call me Elijah. Or, if you prefer, you can keep calling me Riddle."
Frank stood there under the bright sunlight, and for reasons he couldn't explain, he felt cold all the way through.
People said he guarded Riddle House like a ghost, guarding a terrible murder story.
But today… he felt as though he'd actually seen the ghost of Riddle House.
And now that he thought about it, that gentleman's face did seem… familiar.
He remembered seeing a young man just as handsome, one night long ago.