Voldemort x reader Lacuna Memoria ~tsula

The Riddle House

All good deals have their strings and you just knew that there had to be something terribly wrong with the place the moment you heard the price. The owner was practically giving the enormous old house away.

After exhausting land issues, foundation problems, infestations, and every other dangerous or expensive housing issue you could think of, all that was left seemed to be its past. Nothing was physically wrong with the property, as far as you could find at least. The house was enormous, the price was actually cheaper than the four bedroom you had looked at in the next town over—which is where you learned about this house—and the location alone was worth a fortune.

Yet the dwelling had remained vacant for years. The owner wanted nothing to do with the place and was letting it fall into disrepair. In fact, the only person that seemed to have anything to do with it was a very old groundskeeper who lived on the property. The house hadn't even technically been on the market when you found it. After deciding against the four bedroom in the other town, you had asked around to see if anyone knew a place that was for sale, but not so heavy with neighbors.

You liked your privacy and preferred a decent amount of space between your home and someone else's. So when you heard about the mysteriously empty old mansion on the hill adjacent a local village, it felt like fate. Seeing it just made that all the more true. Even beneath the ivy and neglect, you could see its true beauty, the awe that it had struck into viewers at its prime, and it made you feel like you were home. It looked like a place your father would have liked and most certainly would have approved of.

But you just had to know: what was wrong with the house?

The prim, uptight realtor had been quick to dispel any worries and misconceptions about physical issues with the property. Other than, of course, the few broken windows and a small number of tiles that needed replacing on the roof. All of which were really nothing to worry about in comparison to the usual problems that homeowners had to deal with—dry rot, termite damage, shoddy repairs, or foundation issues. He even assured that this would be guaranteed in the bill of sales.

All of this only made the curiosity gnaw at you with greater intensity. It just seemed too good to be true. Why was this mansion, this beautiful home that had survived decades—possibly centuries—being sold for so little?

You had politely listened to the realtor ramble on about the history behind the house, but he never said why it had gone so long without an occupant. So as you stood there in the foyer, running your hand along the handcrafted railing, you asked the million dollar question.

"What happened in this house?"

The realtor remained silent so long that you thought he might have left. You turned to find him staring at you with a great deal more suspicion than you thought that question deserved. It was a little odd really.

Had no one ever drawn this conclusion before?

"It's the only other excuse for the price and the lack of occupancy." You explained, turning fully to face him expectantly.

He looked a little abashed and, perhaps, even annoyed at the accusation against the house. His job was to make the place look as welcoming and desirable as possible, after all. No one really wants to delve into accounts of shady history about a place they are trying to sell. It's bad for business.

However, you were making it apparent that this was an issue that would have to be rectified and explained if he was to have any hope of making a sale.

Rationally speaking, it really didn't matter what had happened in the house. It was too good of a deal to just pass up, especially when you were running out of options. However, something about his reluctance and the distance everyone seemed to keep from the house gave you cause for alarm. It was starting to feel a little creepy and like the precursor to something right out of a horror movie.

Before you could venture too far down that mental road, the realtor—Mr. Podmoore you had to remind yourself—cleared his throat. He regained his height, standing tall and important once again.

"According to police record, the original owners died one night of natural causes approximately fifty years ago." He stated pretentiously, as if this weren't the least bit ambiguous or odd. The man sounded like he was discussing politics over tea and crumpets.

Your brows were raised in disbelief, both at the story and the manner in which he told it. "More than one person died on the same night of natural causes?"

Obviously not appreciating the skepticism, he explained further. "This was the conclusion of the local police department." His tone was borderline snippish. "From what I have heard, there was nothing wrong with any of them aside from the fact that they were dead."

A creak from somewhere upstairs punctuated this statement, making it sound rather ominous. "Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, along with their son, showed no signs of foul play. The house has been lived on only a few occasions since then, no doubt owing to the gossip of the locals."

He said the word 'gossip' with no small amount of disdain. The man was snooty to a fault, but you were well acquainted with his type. Most of the members of 'elite' society acted just like him—too good for the commoners, because they could afford anything their selfish little hearts desired.

You had far too much experience dealing with snobs like him. Not that he would guess that from your appearance. No doubt you looked less like an heiress and more like the 'commoner' that was supposed to be shunned, dressed as you were in such a decidedly plain outfit. The type of person who was supposed to enter this sort of house through the back door and not the front.

The notion was both amusing and a little insulting. At some point you had probably been poor, but whatever life you'd had before your father found you was long forgotten. The doctors had thought it was a simple case of amnesia, that the loss of your memories was temporary. Yet after fourteen years, it was still just one big blank.

Even the best specialists in the world were at a loss. You never had flashes of things you'd forgotten, never had that feeling of knowledge tickling your brain that you weren't supposed to chase, and never found your memories haunting your dreams. It wasn't like forgetting or having a mental block—it was like everything before that one moment was gone. And there didn't seem to be any apparent cause.

You walked through a nearby archway that led into one of the four enormous living rooms. This one had the best view though. Its big bay windows looked out upon what must have been a magnificent front garden and further still onto the town below the hill. You could see the lights starting to come on as the sun began to sink behind the house. The whole room had turned this deep orange tint that made it look as though the walls were on fire.

Fifty years ago the Riddle family had died mysteriously within these walls, and either the gossip or something else had kept people from living in the house since their demise. A part of you was unsure about taking the risk, as it was hard to believe hearsay alone had scared off people from a property this magnificent. However, the more rational side simply couldn't walk away from a deal like this. Perhaps the story had just gotten so out of hand that it really could scare people off. After all, it was a tiny little town: gossip and embellishment were always their forte.

"Small towns do love their gossip." You spoke more to your own thoughts than in response to what the realtor had said. The older man predictably scoffed at this remark, obviously not thinking the size of the town gave it any excuse. He did strike you as the big city type—he probably had never lived in a town that was dull and entirely unremarkable.

The thought of all the gossip you planned to incite amused you deeply. "Lets give them something else to talk about."

It was the realtor's turn for the raised brows. Subconsciously, you reminded yourself once again that his name was Mr. Podmoore—names weren't really your strong suit.

"I beg your pardon?" Was his confused retort.

You grinned and looked around the room, taking in everything from the sculptures built into the mantle of the fireplace, to the cobwebbed chandelier. "I'll take it."