Riddle House
written by Louisa S R W
My knowledge of what is, in fact one of my ancestral homes
Last Updated
05/31/21
Chapters
3
Reads
516
At First Sight
Chapter 1
The first time I remember going to the Riddle House was in the summer of 1993. We went there as part of a holiday trip which was always my uncle’s deepest regret. Along with a forest in Albania, which was a really nice part we went to Little Hangleton, which is between London and Birmingham. My friends on the other hand got to go to nicer places. Charlie, Fred and George got to go to Egypt to see Bill, Pyramids and all sorts of fantastic things. My friend Hermione went to Paris to see museums and galleries. Even Harry got to see a bit of the outside world.
As far as I understood it, this particular house was still known by the locals as the Riddle House. When we had stayed there and I had asked directions to an old lady, she told me that we were the “first people in many a year to be at the Riddle House”. I knew that she was right. It looked as though it was an uncared-for type of place. Riddle is my muggle side. No magic anywhere. This is what my pureblood Slytherin grandmother fell in love with and it was what I was visiting.
As a house it is large and stands high and proud over the small village. Some of the windows were boarded up showing even more neglect and damage. Tiles were missing from the roof and ivy spread over the front. This was not the house of a wizard, that was clear. Inside it was damp, derelict and unoccupied. It had shown some sort of life recently simply because there was a lack of cobwebs but my uncle could have cleared that up. It was easily the grandest building for miles around and I admit I was quite taken with the idea of having been related to its occupants and bearing their name.
The Little Hangletons all seemed to agree in some manner that the house was “creepy”. In what way they were unwilling to be specific, until we were looking in the window of a teashop and a group of children wanted to know if we were staying there as part of a dare. Our faces said it all. Apparently, half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there. I started to ask what had happened but was called back. Truth, reality. I don’t quite know how they clash anymore.
As far as I understood it, this particular house was still known by the locals as the Riddle House. When we had stayed there and I had asked directions to an old lady, she told me that we were the “first people in many a year to be at the Riddle House”. I knew that she was right. It looked as though it was an uncared-for type of place. Riddle is my muggle side. No magic anywhere. This is what my pureblood Slytherin grandmother fell in love with and it was what I was visiting.
As a house it is large and stands high and proud over the small village. Some of the windows were boarded up showing even more neglect and damage. Tiles were missing from the roof and ivy spread over the front. This was not the house of a wizard, that was clear. Inside it was damp, derelict and unoccupied. It had shown some sort of life recently simply because there was a lack of cobwebs but my uncle could have cleared that up. It was easily the grandest building for miles around and I admit I was quite taken with the idea of having been related to its occupants and bearing their name.
The Little Hangletons all seemed to agree in some manner that the house was “creepy”. In what way they were unwilling to be specific, until we were looking in the window of a teashop and a group of children wanted to know if we were staying there as part of a dare. Our faces said it all. Apparently, half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there. I started to ask what had happened but was called back. Truth, reality. I don’t quite know how they clash anymore.
