0410 Approaching

Bryan felt as if he had returned to the old days, the days when he would run all over Europe to complete commissions.

Although the trip to Albania had been fruitless, it didn't mean this journey was meaningless. On the contrary, he had gained a lot. The large tree hollow in the primeval forest was clearly where Voldemort, who had once terrorized the British wizarding world, had been hiding after losing his powers.

For over a decade, Voldemort had been lurking in that forest, but now he had left, and his whereabouts were unknown.

Truth be told, Bryan cared little for Voldemort's current location. He understood all too well the futility of hunting down the weakened dark wizard before they had successfully identified and destroyed all of his Horcruxes.

But Bryan still used the aura on that snake scale to track him down.

He could ignore whatever tricks Voldemort was up to, but....

In his previous conversation with Dumbledore, Dumbledore's intentions had been clear: he was prepared to allow Voldemort to regain his powers. In their earlier discussions, they had almost confirmed that Voldemort would use Harry. This meant that, at this stage, Voldemort was likely plotting how to get his hands on Harry.

What Bryan cared more about was why Cliodna, that woman, had gotten involved with Voldemort.

Although he had suffered at her hands, Bryan knew well that this Druid priestess wasn't an evil person. On the contrary, because of her faith, she should be seen as a kind person welcomed by others. Voldemort, on the other hand, was called the most evil wizard in history. The two were completely different.

Yet, somehow, against all logic and reason, their paths had converged. This unexpected union filled Bryan with a sense of foreboding. He couldn't shake the feeling that events were spiraling rapidly out of control, leaving him powerless to intervene.

At the same time, an unsettling notion took root in his mind - the idea that perhaps all of this was predestined, that the wheel of fate was turning along a predetermined track, and his presence here was merely another gear in the grand machinery of destiny.

Dumbledore certainly wouldn't want him to confront Voldemort now, but Bryan couldn't pretend not to see this. He had to investigate and find out what circumstances had led Voldemort and Cliodna, two people from completely different worlds, to join forces.

They hadn't chosen Apparition, the most convenient way to leave the Albanian forest, but instead took remote paths far from the mundane world.

After careful consideration, Bryan guessed that Voldemort's current physical condition must still be incredibly fragile, leaving him unable to withstand the intense pressure and magical strain that Apparition would place on his weakened form. This realization brought a glimmer of hope to Bryan's troubled mind. If Voldemort was indeed this vulnerable, it would make the task of tracking him considerably easier.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of trekking through the unforgiving wilderness - sleeping under the stars, foraging for food- Bryan emerged from the dense forest into the land of human habitation. For the first time since beginning his pursuit, the faint magical aura emanating from the snake scale led him to a settlement populated by people.

The village sprawled across a series of gently rolling hills, surrounded by vast stretches of farmland. A narrow, winding road snaked its way through the countryside, eventually leading to a town that lay dozens of miles in the distance, barely visible as a smudge on the landscape.

As Bryan crested the final hill, the setting sun painted the sky in a breathtaking array of vibrant oranges, deep crimsons, and soft purples. The fiery orb slowly sank towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the tranquil landscape and bathing everything in a warm, golden glow.

Standing on this elevated vantage point, his keen eyes scanning the terrain before him, Bryan's gaze was drawn to a once-grand building that stood proudly atop the highest hill in the vicinity. Though time and neglect had clearly taken their toll on the structure, there was no denying its former splendor. Even in its dilapidated state, it exuded an air of faded nobility and long-forgotten importance.

Little Hangleton.

A rusty sign at the village entrance told him where he was.

As Bryan stood motionless at the village entrance, his eyes fixed on the ancient sign, the relative silence of the countryside was suddenly shattered by the approaching rumble of machinery. A battered farm vehicle, its engine clanking and sputtering in protest, lumbered up the road behind him. The driver, clearly impatient to reach his destination, leaned on the horn, producing a harsh blast that echoed across the hills.

Startled from his trance by the unexpected noise, Bryan turned to face the oncoming vehicle. He offered an apologetic smile to the weather-worn farmer who sat hunched behind the wheel, then quickly stepped to the side of the road, allowing the cumbersome machine to pass.

As the last rays of sunlight began to fade from the sky, Bryan realized that the hour had grown late. The time for the evening meal was fast approaching, and his stomach growled in anticipation, reminding him that it had been far too long since his last proper meal.

All around him, the villagers who had worked in the nearby fields throughout the long day were now hurrying back home for dinner. The air was filled with the sound of cheerful chatter as friends and neighbors exchanged pleasantries and discussed the events of the day. Occasionally, a burst of loud laughter would erupt from one group or another.

It wasn't long after Bryan had entered the outskirts of the village that he began to notice something distinctly unusual about the behavior of its inhabitants. As a stranger in these parts, he had expected his arrival to garner some degree of attention from the locals. What he had not anticipated, however, was the intensity and nature of their scrutiny.

Almost without exception, every villager who caught sight of Bryan would immediately stop whatever they had been doing, and stare at him intently Their eyes were mostly filled with vigilance and wariness, with a hint of curiosity. After he passed by, these villagers would gather and whisper among themselves, pointing at his back.

After enduring this bizarre treatment for some time, Bryan decided that a more direct approach might be necessary if he hoped to unravel the mystery of the villagers' strange behavior. Pausing in the middle of the dusty road, he turned his attention to a young girl who was busily collecting laundry from a clothesline in a nearby yard.

"Excuse me, miss—"

The young girl was completely caught off guard by Bryan's sudden address. She was so startled that she almost dropped the clothes in her hands and darted into her house. But when her eyes caught the handsome face of the gray-haired young man, she suppressed her fear and, blushing, spoke tremblingly.

"Oh, what?" she stammered, her fingers clutching tightly at the fabric in her arms.

"I was wondering if there's a place to eat nearby?"

Noticing the girl's lingering nervousness, Bryan decided to offer a bit more context, hoping to put her at ease. He bowed slightly, maintaining his polite demeanor, and pointed down at his mud-caked shoes. "I've walked a long way today, perhaps it's time to stop and reward my stomach with a hot meal—"

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, her initial fear giving way to a mixture of understanding and shy interest. She took a deep breath, one hand moving to rest over her rapidly beating heart, and then pointed Bryan in a specific direction. "There... there's a pub called The Hanged Man that provides food and drinks for travelers,"

Armed with this information, Bryan set off in search of the establishment. It took him roughly ten minutes of wandering through the winding streets of Little Hangleton before he found himself standing before the village's sole pub.

The Hanged Man was a short, weathered building that had clearly seen better days. Its front was marred by peeling paint and crumbling masonry, while a creaking sign bearing the pub's grim name swung lazily in the evening breeze.

As Bryan pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, he was immediately struck by the pub's gloomy interior. A thick layer of dust seemed to coat every surface, from the scarred bar top to the mismatched collection of tables and chairs that were haphazardly scattered throughout the room. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of stale tobacco smoke and spilled ale.

Given the hour, Bryan had expected to find the pub bustling with activity as villagers gathered to relax after a long day's work. Instead, the place was eerily quiet, with only a handful of patrons occupying the barstools near the far end of the room. These men, clearly deep in their cups, were muttering incoherently to themselves or to no one in particular.

Bryan could be sure that something had happened in this village because when he pushed open the door and entered the pub, still surveying the decor of the hall, those drunken men suddenly sobered up quite a bit and eyed him warily.

"Welcome—"

Although business was poor, the nearly bald pub owner's greeting was stiff and not at all welcoming,

"Esteemed guest," he continued, the honorific sounding more like an accusation than a courtesy, "what do you need?"

"Phew—"

Choosing to ignore the less-than-welcoming reception, Bryan made a show of brushing the dust from his travel-worn clothing. He inhaled deeply, then released a long, weary sigh.

"Honestly, right now I'd rather get something to eat to appease my growling stomach. Of course, if you happen to have any Ogden's Old Firewhisky, I wouldn't mind a few sips—"

"Ogden's Old Firewhisky?"

The pub owner and his few familiar customers looked at each other in confusion, not understanding what this young stranger was talking about.

Realizing his slipup, Bryan quickly retreated. "Oh, please don't mind what I said—" he interjected, flashing an apologetic smile as he set his battered suitcase down on the nearest table. "I simply need something to eat. Anything you have available will do just fine."

After a moment's hesitation, the pub owner went to the kitchen, leaving Bryan alone with the suspicious gazes of the other customers boring into the back of his skull. He pretended not to notice their scrutiny, instead focusing his attention on the worn tabletop before him.

Three minutes later, the pub owner brought two ham sandwiches to Bryan on a chipped plate, said "Enjoy your meal," and quickly ran back to the bar.

Bryan pretended not to notice the drunken customers staring at the back of his head non-stop. He buried his head in the sandwiches on the plate. Perhaps because he was wolfing them down too quickly, Bryan choked after just one bite of the second sandwich. He coughed violently several times, his face turning red.

"Cough, cough, sorry—" Bryan managed to sputter between gasps, waving frantically towards the bar. "Could I get something to drink?"

A glass of sweet liquor was hastily provided, and Bryan gratefully gulped it down. As the burning liquid coursed down his throat, he felt his breathing ease and his complexion gradually return to normal. He patted his chest, taking a few deep breaths to fully recover from his near-choking experience. As he did so, Bryan couldn't help but notice that the other patrons in the pub had abandoned all pretense of discretion and were now openly staring at him, their postures tense and guarded.

A wry chuckle escaped Bryan's lips as he surveyed the room. The absurdity of the situation – a stranger choking on a sandwich while being watched like a dangerous criminal – was not lost on him. Deciding that a direct approach might be the best way to address the palpable tension in the air, Bryan cleared his throat and said to the pub owner.

"Can I ask you something, sir?"

"What?"

The owner's fist on the bar suddenly tightened, and he responded vigilantly.

"Just a simple question—" Bryan shrugged, nodding towards the wary customers, "I was wondering, I mean, I've been to many places in my travels, but I've never encountered a village quite as... cautious... towards outsiders as Little Hangleton. Is this some sort of local custom or tradition I'm unaware of?"

"No—"

Before the pub owner could speak, one of the outspoken customers among those sitting together said,

"It's because of old Frank!"

Then this villager was immediately warned with a glare from the pub owner.

"Old Frank?"

Bryan's smile became even more friendly,

"Why not tell me more about this Mr. Frank? Ah, sorry, I've been in the wild for too long and have forgotten my manners. Barkeeper, please give each of these kind gentlemen a glass of sherry, on my tab!"

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