The Banshee's Hand

It is more than likely that you have never heard of the 'Banshee's Hand' in Knockturn Alley. It was once a reasonably popular inn for the type of people that frequented Knockturn Alley. Sadly, it burned down several decades ago. One might say that the cause of the fire was unknown, but that depends on how much one knows. Nobody ever undertook the rebuilding of the inn. No one ever dared. In fact, you can still see the ash-encrusted remains of the building in that dark and wicked street. The burnt, rotting wood, the broken glass, the stench of death.

It had been a long and uneventful shift at Borgin and Burkes. Riddle had hoped that Mr. Burke would have another little 'errand' for him today, but no such luck. Riddle knew as well as anyone that his talent was wasted in that foul little shop, working for the aptly named 'Burke', but Riddle had his reasons. He was, however, beginning to run short of patience. He had not yet found anything even remotely close to what he wanted. As was his custom on these disappointing days, he decided to have a drink at the Banshee's Hand. After leaving through the front door of Borgin and Burkes, he drew his cloak tighter around him against the cold and set off at a stride down the street.

All in all, the Banshee's Hand was an unimpressive building. Dark and dingy, like most of the buildings in Knockturn Alley, it didn't exactly scream warmth and comfort. The building simply served as a quiet place for people to come and have a quiet drink. At least, that's what the landlord told the Ministry whenever their officials dared to venture into Knockturn Alley. The inn's regulars, on the other hand, knew better. Riddle pushed against the heavy wooden door and strode inside, hanging his cloak on the nearby rack. The inside was no different to the outside. Everything was black and besmirched. The only sources of light were the fireplace and the odd candle on one or two of the tables. Gratus, the tall, gangly and rather sickly barman, stood behind the bar refilling his own glass. It was always very grudgingly that he actually served others drinks. Over in the corner, Riddle spotted his usual drinking mates and, having no reason to do otherwise, went over to join them.

There was Evan Rosier, who was perhaps the closest thing Riddle had to an actual friend nowadays. Antonin Dolohov was not so much an acquaintance as an annoyance. Hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but the fact that he wanted to hang around Riddle made him useful. Sitting across from them was Tiberius Rookwood, who was slightly older than Riddle but certainly not his better. He had an unpredictable temperament and could more than make himself noticed when enraged. Seated next to him was his younger brother, Augustus. He was generally more composed than his brother, though it was clear that he was still intimidated by him. The last of Riddle's little group of drinking friends was possibly the quietest of them all. Riddle simply knew him as Titus, though he doubted that was his real name. He had dark, tidy hair that just seemed to perch flawlessly on his head. His face could only really be described as noble, the sort of face one might expect to find on a 19^th century aristocrat. Tiberius, on the other hand, had a wholly common face. His face was pockmarked and downright ugly. Augustus had always secretly told himself that if he ever ended up looking like his brother, he would perform the Killing Curse on himself without a moment's hesitation.

"Gentlemen," stated Riddle curtly as he casually swept into his seat by Rosier.

"Where have you been then, Riddle?" asked Tiberius gruffly. Augustus passed Riddle a glass of Firewhiskey.

"Working, Rookwood," replied Riddle as he took the drink. "You might like to try it some day."

"I work ten times as hard as you do, Riddle." Tiberius took a large swig from his own glass. "When are you going to start calling me 'Tiberius'? It gets damn confusing, when you refer to both me and Augustus as 'Rookwood'."

"I shall call you by your preferred name, Rookwood, when you call me by mine."

"Yeah ...yeah, sure," muttered Tiberius, taking another large swig.

"Long day, my Lord?" ventured Dolohov. Before Riddle could answer, Tiberius gave a loud scoff.

"I don't know how you can expect anyone to take you seriously, Riddle, when you go around expecting people to call you by that ridiculous name ..." Riddle fingered his glass dangerously.

"Oh, I expect people to take me very seriously ...very seriously indeed."

"Yeah, I bet you do," sniggered Tiberius. Riddle felt a surge of anger rush up from the very depths of his being. He would love nothing more than to kill Tiberius now, leaving that arrogant smirk frozen on his corpse forever, but not yet. To do so would mean having to move on from Knockturn Alley, to leave Borgin and Burkes before he had found what he was looking for. So, for the time being, he just gave Tiberius his best attempt at a friendly smile.

The conversation turned to the day's events, or rather lack thereof. Augustus worked as an intern at the Ministry. Great things were expected of him all around. Tiberius, Dolohov and Rosier all worked part time for a local illegal creatures dealer, importing restricted eggs, breeding dangerous beasts. Nobody knew exactly what it was Titus did. Suffice to say that Riddle and Augustus were the only ones who were in any way 'respectable'. Dolohov was just in the middle of telling the group about an incident earlier that day when a dragon egg had unexpectedly hatched when the inn door swung open. Two large men, hooded and cloaked, stood in the doorway. They seemed to be carrying something between them, but Riddle could see nothing. They moved inside, closely followed by another man, also hooded and cloaked. Once the door was closed behind them, the first two men pulled an Invisibility Cloak off of their charge. The limp, almost lifeless body of some unsuspecting Muggle was suddenly revealed. The man looked up slowly and let out a quiet, agonised groan. The two men dragged him across the room to a door at the far end. The third man nodded curtly to Gratus, who simply twitched his head nervously. Once all three men and their victim had gone through the door, Gratus took out his worn, haggard wand and placed the usual Imperturbable Charm on the door. Riddle and the others had never been into that room. They never heard so much as a peep from the room, but that didn't mean they didn't have a pretty good idea as to what went on inside.

To kick-start the conversation once again, Tiberius piped up.

"You lot will never guess who's supposed to be entering the county any day now."

"I detest guessing games," growled Rosier. Tiberius sniggered at his annoyance. He leant forwards, smiling obnoxiously.

"Vergeltung," he breathed.

"Bless you," joked Dolohov. While Dolohov laughed at his own pathetic quip, Riddle merely eyed Tiberius sceptically.

"If you're name-dropping, Rookwood, you'll have to try much better than that."

"Surely the great 'Lord Voldemort' has heard of Vergeltung," said Titus. He spoke so little that he surprised the others with his sudden eloquence.

"Let us say for argument's sake that I haven't," said Riddle listlessly. "Should I have?" Titus let out an audible sigh of boredom. He leant forward slightly, and stared straight at Riddle.

"Vergeltung is the only son of Grindlewald. I suppose you've heard of him?"

"Of course," stated Riddle. He deeply resented his chosen name being used so casually, but he resented being patronised even more.

"Well, what his given name is, no one knows. Not that it matters. Vergeltung was kept out of the public eye by his father for a long time. No doubt Grindlewald had his reasons for doing so, but it's only recently that his name has gained some renown in Germany. His father taught him more about Dark magic than you will probably ever know, Riddle. Word of Vergeltung's plans have reached this country. Strictly within the underground, of course." Riddle was intrigued by very little these days, but Titus' words had his undivided attention.

"And just what exactly are his plans?" he asked. Titus' face glazed over with disappointment. He sat back in his chair languidly, refusing to elucidate any further. Tiberius gave another of his irritating sniggers.

"Isn't it obvious, Riddle?" he said, leering grotesquely. "He plans to kill Albus Dumbledore."