Albus Potter and The Forgotten Wand

CHAPTER TWO: Back at the Riddle House

Back at Little Hangleton, the Riddle House still stood strong on top of that damp hill, overlooking the town it once ruled. It's surprising how long that once grand and good-looking manor has remained for. The ivy had spread beyond it's face, wrapping all over it's cracks and crevices. Over the years, more tiles have gone missing from the roof and most windows were boarded properly. Despite the creepy house still being there, news spread throughout town that it was going to be demolished in a few days. Many Little Hangletons (especially those in close proximity to it) were extremely exhilarated about it. Specifically this one couple that lived three doors down to the far right of the hill. Mr. And Mrs. Andersen always hated the house's gloominess and a bunch of thugs and thieves would use it has a hiding place and try breaking into neighbouring homes often. The old muggle couple often watched the dilapidated house, to make sure no criminals or criminal activity is committed in that area. They've lived there for twelve years and have heard all sorts of stories about the old town and it's history. Both always looked thin and feeble and usually wore ragged, frayed clothing on a daily basis. One day around midnight, a light shun dimly on Mr. Andersen's wrinkly face through his misty window that's placed above his croaky bed frame from the manor. 

"Crikey! Genevieve, wake up." Mr. Andersen whispered low in her ear.

"Hmm? What is it?" She groaned half asleep.

"I can see a light from the old house. There must be someone there." He replied.

Mrs. Andersen woke up immediately. She despised the house and town the most out of the two. For the past five years, she has always tried to convince her husband to leave and find a better place for them and their children to stay. Although, she couldn't due to financial trouble. But the most she was terrified of was the stories she's been told about the mansion. One of the darkest mysteries was the tale of a man who had lost his life right there in the very same house. His death had left a bitter mark that could not be erased. Mrs. Andersen had always been wary of the place, and it was not without reason. The house always felt ominous, as if it was hiding something. "Don't go! It's dangerous at night, you know this!" She said, panic-stricken. "Hunny, I have to go. It's our job in the community to stop these gangsters from destroying the neighbourhood!" He replied with a sense of hope. "Besides, you know I will always contact you and the police if anything goes wrong." He added. He got up from his thin mattress and went to put on his coat that hung from a rusty, dirty nail. The walls were made out of crumbling concrete and the floors made of cold cement. He put on his shabby leather boots and scruffy beanie before heading to his wooden door while his wife sprinted after him. 

"I said no! What if you died over there like that Frank Bryce?" She shivered. 

"Relax my dear, I'll be alright. It's only going to be a few minutes before I'm back in your arms once again." Mr. Andersen responded soothingly.

 To reassure his wife, he took her thin, fragile hand in his and kissed it softly, warmth and affection emitting from him. Once he left, the silence was unnerving and the only sounds were the soft rustling of the ancient trees outside. He heard a faint knock from his front window; he turned, seeing his wife waving slowly with an irresolute expression. A puny smirk emerged on his face and walked away inch by inch from the house longing for this dread to be over with. Surges of uneasiness swept over his body, taking him over ten minutes to reach the house. The sky grew dark, and the full moon vanished behind thick clouds, leaving only the faintest hint of light in the night sky. The air got cooler, and the grass beneath Mr. Andersen's feet was heavy with moisture, as if the world were holding it's breath. The hill was a dark silhouette against the sky, its steep slope shrouded in shadows. He trudged up the steep incline. His torch, a feeble guide in the near-total darkness. The cold damp air clinged to his skin, as if the hill itself were alive, waiting to claim him.