Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The weather wept like a mourning mother; flecks of water spattering the smooth surfaces of metal railings, and droplets winding their way into the crevices between slabs of concrete that made up the waterlogged pavement.
Howling like a banshee in distress, the wind sorrowfully called out for a sliver of sunlight - but the clouds would not provide this gift; instead thundering threateningly to the earth.
And then a single wink of light.
It penetrated the darkness, though of a small, flickering quantity, as well as concealed by the small old brown-mottled window that held the flame captive.
This fire was hostage to the great house that loomed ominously over the village of Little Hangleton from its perch on the hill over the way - ‘The Riddle House’, the villagers called it. Nobody had inhabited the house for years - the villagers deemed it haunted due to the mysterious murders from half a century ago - the only souls who entered now were the teenagers who broke in as a dare.
And yet, tonight, there was something different.
Tonight, a light shone for the first time in years.
The house’s interior had gathered dust over the years, and the darkened corners of each room were embroidered with cobwebs that gleamed malevolently in the dark, maliciously egging visitors to go on further.
And it seemed that a man had become an unsuspecting fly in the house’s dark web of schemes.
He was an aged fellow, who went by the name Frank Bryce; with a hunched back, and papery skin, he leaned on his walking stick heavily and winced with each step. He leaned forwards on his walking stick further than seemed comfortable: it was clear that he was trying to seek something out before him.
What he was poking his ears out for became apparent as the murmur of a voice sounded through the echoey expanse of the house.
His head snapped sharply upwards, towards the floorboards above his head, and, sure enough, thin streams of light were escaping through the gaps in the floor.
With a determined shake of his head, the man began ambling slowly up the crooked staircase; avoiding the creaks from the wood beneath his feet as much as he could, oh no, he thought, the mysterious guests would surely find him now…
But all was silent apart from that murmur from above - he was almost there…
His old frame welcomed the level floor again, and the old man hovered by the door, peering through the slits at the hinges.
Four men were in the room: one voice was coming from the mouldy-looking chintz-armchair by the fireplace, which was ablaze, and it seemed that the other three were situated around the man on the chair. A squeaky, scared voice was muttering.
The old man, both curious and scared, pressed his ear against the gap he was previously peering through.
“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to keep refuge here?”
The next voice that spoke sent an icy chill rattling down the old man’s spine - it - somehow - didn’t sound human… and yet how could that be?
“A week,” said the cold voice, “Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and we daren't move before the Quidditch World Cup is over.”
“The — the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” said Wormtail, “Forgive me, but — I do not understand — why should we wait until the World Cup is over?”
“Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait.”
“B-but My Lord…”
“What?” the man said sharply.
Frank stood very still as they spoke. He had distinctly heard the words "Quidditch", “Ministry of Magic,” “wizards,” and “Muggles.” Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals.
Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more closely still.
“Your Lordship is still determined, then?” another man said quietly.
“Certainly I am determined, Shadowman.”
"Then, it will be done, my lord. Myself and Crouch have devised the plan well..."
The cold voice spoke again, "Very good... and you, Crouch? Are you ready for your task?"
"Indeed, my lord," a much younger, much raspier voice proclaimed quickly, "I will not fail you. And I will keep an eye on The Shadowman's...plan..."
The Shadowman let out a evil laugh, "But of course."
A slight pause followed — and then Wormtail spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself to say this before he lost his nerve.
“It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.”
Another pause, more protracted, and then —
“Without Harry Potter?” breathed the cold voice softly. “I see . . .”
"You are fool, Wormtail," snapped the Shadowman, "He is the only way to bring back the dark lord."
"Perhaps," the cold voice said silkily, "Wormtail intends for this plan to fail."
“No! My devotion to Your Lordship —”
“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. Silence!”
Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell silent at once.
For a few seconds, Frank could hear nothing but the fire crackling. Then the man spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss.
“I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. His blood is valuable to me, and therefore it is his that must be spilt. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail — courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort’s wrath —”
“My Lord, I must speak!” said Wormtail, panic in his voice now. “All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins’s disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I —”
“If?” whispered the voice. “If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that I could do it myself, but in my present condition . . ."
"...Yes, my lord," Wormtail said reluctantly.
"You will have your reward, coward. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform. . . .”
“R-really, My Lord? What — ?” Wormtail sounded terrified again.
“Ah, Wormtail, you don’t want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very start and the very end . . . but I promise you, you will have the honour of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins.”
“You . . . you . . .” Wormtail’s voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. “You . . . are going . . . to kill me too?”
“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns. . . .”
Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh — an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.
“We could have modified her memory?" the raspy boy named Crouch cackled, "But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as my lord proved when he questioned her."
"Quite," the cold voice said, "It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail.”
Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse — with amusement.
He was dangerous — a madman.
And he was planning more murders — this boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was — was in danger — Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the village . . . but the cold voice was speaking again, and Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might.
“- you, my faithful servant, Crouch, will be at Hogwarts . . . The Shadowman will have his puppet soon . . . Harry Potter’s blood is as good as mine.”
"Yes, my lord," said the shadowman.
“But… but how will he kill the boy?” Wormtail said quietly.
The voice from the chair laughed coldly,
“My, my, Wormtail, you must think me stupid… I of course do not need to kill the boy to get his blood - my faithful servants will see to it that I receive Harry Potter’s blood, don’t you worry…”
“The boy is not to be killed?” Wormtail asked curiously.
“No, Wormtail. Harry Potter will die, as he should have as an infant. However, it is his blood I require firstly. . . it will be easier to kill him face-to-face, once I have regained my power. . . If the Shadwman's plan goes undetected, I may rise to power without the ministry's interference, and I may gain my followers quietly.”
“...I - I do not understand, my lord.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to, Wormtail.”
“But -”
“Quiet . . . I think I hear Nagini. . . .”
And the cold man’s voice changed.
He started making noises such as Frank had never heard before; he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure. And then Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passageway.
He turned to look, and found himself paralyzed with fright.
Something was slithering toward him along the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realised with a thrill of terror that it was a gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long.
Horrified, transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer — What was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where four men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him — But before he had made his decision, the snake was level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap.
There was sweat on Frank’s forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea. . . . This man could talk to snakes.
Frank didn’t understand what was going on.
He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle… the problem was that his legs didn’t seem to want to move.
As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again.
“Nagini has interesting news,” it said.
“Indeed, My Lord?” said Crouch.
“Indeed, yes,” said the voice. “According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say.”
Frank didn’t have a chance to hide himself.
There were footsteps, and then the door of the room was flung wide open. A short, balding man with greying hair, a pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a mixture of fear and alarm in his face.
“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners? Let us give him a proper greeting…”
The old man’s walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled.
He was dead before he hit the floor.