[HP] I won't do this Dark Lord

, even if Yardley's statement has never been credible, everyone believes that he doesn't know - mainly because no one is willing to push Yardley to the position of the only confidant of the Lord.

Just because he can pretend to be stupid?

Josephine turned her head and glanced at Abraxas, her eyes behind the lenses seemed to roll upwards slightly, "You can't control your tongue, and you can't control your lower body, I really wonder if you can control the work in hand .”

"You—" Staring at the graceful figure who turned and left, Abraxas waved his hand angrily.

Riddle, who had already left, didn't know about the quarrel in the office, but if he knew, he would only laugh inwardly.

The people who take on important responsibilities under him have been carefully selected to ensure that they will neither have deep hatred and hatred to affect their cooperation, but also have their own rifts and contradictions with each other, and it is absolutely impossible to secretly unite.

And they are all smart people, even if they are pretending, they have to show some discord to reassure him.

Whether it's true or not, the people who watch it and those who play it know it well.

After leaving the Ministry of Magic, Riddle appeared on the streets of London, and it was snowing outside. He conjured up a pure black umbrella and put it on top of his head. After walking a few steps, he put the umbrella away under the awning of a shop. Pushing open the glass door familiarly, I walked into this dessert shop filled with sweet and greasy aroma.

Behind the counter, an old man with gray hair and two white beards on his lips raised his eyes, and a smile appeared on his slack face, "Good evening, Mr. Riddle."

Slowly, he took out a packed paper bag from below, and when he put it on the counter, he took a freshly baked croissant from the side and put it in.

"I guess you haven't eaten yet." He stretched his deep wrinkles and said.

"Thank you, Mr. Hans," Riddle took over and said politely, "You guessed very accurately."

At this time, Riddle restrained all his aura. Of course, his unhidden appearance still made him stand out, but he looked like a noble gentleman with some status among Muggles and a reserved personality.

Seeing that Riddle nodded and was about to leave, Hans suddenly stopped him, "If I remember correctly, Mr. Riddle, it has been exactly 21 years since you first came to my store."

After a moment of silence, Riddle said softly, "Yes, Mr. Hans, your memory is very good."

Hans squinted his eyes and looked at Riddle for a while, and then looked at the snowy street outside the glass window, his eyes were far away.

"That's because my wife has been away from me for 21 years." After he finished speaking, he paused and looked at Riddle again, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were tightly folded with a smile, "There is someone in my heart thinking about , the days would pass quickly, because every night before going to bed, I would think of her angry face, as if it were just yesterday. Isn't it, Mr. Riddle?"

Riddle glanced at the fragrant paper bag in his hand, and said softly: "My feelings may be different from yours, Mr. Hans. You are walking towards her every day, so you will feel that time is pouring away." The water below flows quickly. And every day of my life, I wait for her to come to me, so every night, I feel that the sun is like a fish going upstream, unable to return to the river where it was born.”

Hans was dumbfounded. When Riddle opened the door, he raised his voice and said, "I hope we can meet again next Christmas."

I saw the man with a calm expression turned his face slightly, and a smile flickered towards half of his lips.

"It will," he said softly.

Opening the umbrella, Riddle walked on the sidewalk beside the road with the paper bag in his hands, at a leisurely pace.There are crowds of people coming out to eat, shop and shop in the front and back. The neon lights in front of the eyes are bright, and the ears are filled with laughter and human words mixed with the sound of music. From time to time, people in a hurry pass by his arms, and the umbrellas collide. Leave behind a casual "sorry" and a cluster of snowflakes that slid off the umbrella.

In the past, he would feel that this group of mediocre Muggles was noisy, and he would use a spell to separate them, but after 20 years, he who often walked this way was completely able to bear it—or, he adapted to it. This hustle and bustle of fireworks.

He still doesn't like to be among Muggles, but time is the best whetstone, and it can always make people calm down bit by bit into intolerance.

Riddle walked past the church where the Christmas tree was being arranged and the event stage was being set up, and he stood by the Tower of London, seeing the snowflakes falling in a flash and melting on the dark and swift river, like countless tiny meteorites falling Into the sky.

He then raised his footsteps again. When he passed the theater, he used his umbrella to block the people who were distributing activity leaflets. He walked all the way forward and found that the place that was originally a tavern had been changed into a French restaurant. The bookstore that he thought would disappear was still standing Instead, he also went in to the flower shop he frequented this time, and came out with a bouquet of cornflowers and white lisianthus.

When the snow gradually stopped, Riddle also walked to the end of his trip - No. [-] Mister Road, the residence of the Gigers.

He glanced at the light coming from the window and rang the doorbell.

But after a while, a person opened the door and trotted out, and opened the iron gate outside the yard.

"Good evening, Tom," Mr. Giger panted slightly, "did you just get off work? Come in, we're having dinner."

Riddle shook his head, "I still have something to do, so I won't go in." He opened the paper bag and took out a small bag that had been separated and wrapped in advance, "Bring me along, give it to Mrs. Giger."

After receiving the bag, Mr. Giger looked back, turned back and sighed, and said in a low voice, "Thank you, Tom, for knowing that our daughter Fiona doesn't exist, and helping my wife maintain this illusion all the time." dream."

By the light of the street lamp, Riddle looked at Mr. Giger in front of him. He was almost 60 years old, his hair was almost completely white, and the wrinkles on his forehead were deep. He hurried out to open the door, wearing only a shirt and a cashmere sweater. It looks a little thin and thin.But his figure is not stooped, and his eyes are very clear, showing kindness and perseverance at all times.

Any good person with high moral character will be found by Riddle and turned into a hypocrite. Only this couple who has cured illnesses and saved lives for a lifetime, he can't judge with critical eyes.

"Since so many people believe in the existence of God, Mrs. Giger's belief is not impossible." Riddle said with a smile, "Help me send Fiona a happy birthday, and I won't be here tomorrow."

"I will, and I thank you for Fiona, Tom," said Mr. Giger solemnly, patting his arm. "You're the only real friend she has."

Riddle left with a smile, turned and walked into No. 13 Mist Road across the road.

Opening the door and turning on the lights, the lights in the room drove away the darkness. Riddle looked around the room. Under his careful maintenance, the Muggle house built by him remained exactly as it was 21 years ago.

No matter how exquisite the magic is, it can only remove dust and dirt, and cannot fabricate fresh popularity out of thin air. Over the past 20 years, the fragments that no one has driven away have attached to every new piece of furniture like invisible ghosts, even the dazzling crystal chandeliers. The cast light cast a gloomy and cold light on their bodies, as if triumphantly announcing that no living person was allowed to invade their territory.

But this didn't affect Riddle. He walked around the house as usual, checking whether the heating and fireplace were normal, and went to the yard and garden to clear away the snow and dead branches. He wandered more silently than a ghost, more like a ghost.

The bustling streets were completely different from him, but in this quiet, empty house, he melted into the sea like a drop of water, and even breathing was unnecessary for him.

After inspecting the entire room, Riddle sat down on the sofa in the living room, leaned back on his back, closed his eyes and rested for a while.Neither the heating nor the fireplace was turned on, and he didn't bother to use the warming spell. The air that had just flowed a little bit gradually stagnated again, and the biting chill sank down again and again, wrapping around his body layer by layer like wet seaweed.

In a trance, Riddle felt like a dead body, falling continuously in the dark deep sea, getting deeper and deeper, but never reaching the bottom of the sea.

Opening his eyes, he stood up and snapped his fingers. The lights in the house were instantly extinguished, and there was another soft snapping sound in the thick darkness.

The light in front of his eyes was bright again, different from the pale and cold light of the chandelier just now, Riddle was bathed in the soft warm yellow light, the chill around his body was also driven away by the warmth coming to his face, and the air was filled with the faint aroma of food .

He went back to the living room of the cabin.

"Master." The house elf quickly appeared, lowered his head, and took the clothes that Riddle had taken off.The huge adder entrenched outside the door also raised its triangular head, and spat scarlet snake letters at him, and the blue-purple scale pattern shone brightly with cold light.

"Everything as usual?" he asked.

"Everything is as usual, master." The elf replied respectfully.

"Nagini?" he asked again in Parseltongue.

"There are no...enemies..." The Viper, who was acting as a guard, replied dutifully.

Whether it was relief or disappointment, or maybe there was no emotional fluctuation at all, Riddle opened the closed door with the bouquet and paper bag in his arms.

Fiona once said that the only constant is death.

Over the years, Riddle had wanted to add to that sentence—and maybe her room.

In the small room I visit every day, it seems that even today's every ash is in the same position as yesterday.The hair comb on the dressing table, the dress on the changing stool, the paintbrush on the easel, the book with the bookmark on the bedside