Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and the Avengers aren't
mine either.
(AN: Before I begin, I would just like to point out that the timelines of this fic really do line up. Tom Riddle left Hogwarts in the mid-40s, but he didn't come to power as Lord Voldemort until 1970. I think it's a bit of a stretch for somebody that power-hungry to wait that long; he should have been ready for takeover by the mid-60s at the latest. And in the mid- 60s, John Steed and Emma Peel were Muggle Britain's top spies, agents extraordinary solving extraordinary crimes.)
Chapter 1: Avada Kedavra!
Lord Voldemort turned to his one of his newest recruits, Antonin Dolohov, a smile playing about his thin lips. 'Dolohov,' he said, addressing what appeared to be a black sheet with stuffing inside it, as Dolohov was currently hidden beneath his Death Eater's hood, 'We are ready now. We shall seize power before the Ministry of Magic has time to fight back. Every year, we will get stronger, as those Hogwarts students slip right through Armando Dippet's unsuspecting fingers and into my army! Every year, we will gain more soldiers for the Dark Order! Soon we will control all of Britain, and then we can move southward through France into Spain and Portugal, and from there eastward until we control all of Europe. At that point the Soviet Union will fall to us, and from there we can invade America and Canada by way of Alaska. By 1970, we will have conquered the world, purging every village through which we march of all of its Muggle and Mudblood slime! Only then will the dreams of my great descendant, Salazar Slytherin, truly be realised!'
Dolohov nodded with sadistic, sycophantic excitement. 'My Lord,' he breathed, 'it will be ours! First London, then all of England, then the whole of Britain, then continental Europe, the Soviet Union, America and all the world!'
Lieutenant Terrence Hopper had heard enough. He had no search warrant, but these people were clearly insane. His feelings towards the old lady who had roused him from bed in the middle of the night by phoning in a 'disturbing the peace' complaint suddenly grew much warmer. This story could land him on the front page of the London Times!
Hopper burst through the door, his gun held steady. 'You're under arrest, both of you,' he said in a gruff yet businesslike manner. 'You're to be charged with planned acts of terrorism and anarchical activities, as well as treason against Her Majesty and the Crown, not to mention disturbing the peace. Don't move or I'll shoot.'
Voldemort laughed, and Dolohov quickly echoed his master's amusement. 'Did you hear that, Dolohov?' Voldemort asked, his tone of voice saturated with mockery. 'This foolish Muggle is going to shoot us!'
Hopper ignored the insult and took out his notepad. 'Your names, please?'
'Lord Voldemort,' Voldemort answered with a derisive sneer. He drew out his wand. Hopper snorted.
'A stick?' he asked incredulously. 'Is that the best you've got? What do you think you're going to do, hit me to death?'
'No, Muggle,' Voldemort whispered silkily. 'Crucio.'
Hopper dropped both his notes and weapon as he fell to the floor, screaming in pain. His bones were on fire, or so it seemed. This was pain of the worst possible kind. After only a minute, Hopper could stand no more. 'No!' he pleaded. 'Stop! I'll do anything! I'll let you go, I'll even cover up for you. . .stop the pain! I can't take it anymore!'
'Dolohov, it seems this Muggle wants us to "stop the pain," ' Voldemort mused in falsely thoughtful voice. 'Only one way to do that, I'm afraid, or at least in your case, that is.' Voldemort angled his wand downward, pointing it directly at Hopper's chest. 'Avada Kedavra!'
There was a blinding flash of green light, and Lieutenant Hopper was dead. Voldemort and his deputy Dolohov laughed insanely.
The next day, Emma Peel was driving along in her blue sportscar. When she stopped at a red traffic light, she noticed the licence plate on an antique car parked on the curb. It read, 'MRS PEEL.'
John Steed appeared just then, rapping on Emma's window. 'We're needed,' he said, smiling his impish smile as Emma tried futilely to look annoyed.
Steed hopped into Emma's car just as the traffic light turned green. 'Where to, sir?' Emma asked playfully.
'Straight through this intersection, turn right at the next. It seems a police officer's been murdered.'
'Doesn't that happen everyday? What are the special circumstances this time?'
'There are no marks on him, no autopsy evidence of any kind to explain how he was killed-'
'And no motive to indicate why, I suppose?'
'None. But before we get into that, we've got figure out what killed him. He's not the first. There've been two other deaths just like that recently, and in the same neighborhood.'
'Then it's highly unlikely that he died of fright, which was the only other possibility. So we've got no suspect and no weapon. This is unusual.' Emma paused, thinking hard. 'Were the other victims policemen?'
'No. One was a farmer and the other was unemployed.'
'So we haven't even got a thread to connect the incidents. Nothing except. . .nothing.'
'Exactly. Turn left here.'
'As you wish.'
Emma turned left, and Steed pointed out a small house on the side of the road. 'Pull over there.'
'The scene of the crime?'
'Of course.'
Emma parked the sportscar, and she and Steed climbed out. Steed led the way up the front walk and opened the door for Emma, being the Old World gentleman that he was. Steed pointed down a hallway with his brolly, and Emma followed the trail.
Emma stopped when she came upon the body of the ill-fated cop. She stooped down to check his pulse, wanting to be absolutely sure that he was in fact dead. Steed was right; there were no signs at all to point to his killer or even what sort of weapon had killed him. But he was dead, all right. The officer was limp and cold to the touch.
'Convinced yet?' Steed asked teasingly as he caught up with her.
'It's strange,' Emma replied, half-joking. 'I'm convinced, but I've no idea of what. What was the victim's name?'
'Lieutenant Terrence Hopper. He was sent out to investigate a disturbing the peace complaint-'
'-and he never returned,' Emma finished. 'Who filed the complaint?'
'An old widow, Mrs Brenda Hough. Lives over there, on the other side of Little Hangleton.'
'Little Hangleton?'
'Didn't you notice the sign welcoming us to this charming village?'
'I was too busy following your directions. So do we have any leads other than Mrs Hough?'
'I was thinking you might go down to the police station, glean what information you van from Hopper's colleagues-'
'-while you seek an audience with dear Brenda.'
'Mrs Peel!' Steed exclaimed, going slightly red in the face. 'What are you hinting at? Mrs Hough is 87 years old!'
Emma just laughed, and Steed joined in before he could stop himself.
Steed bid his partner adieu, then walked outside whilst Emma began searching Hopper's wallet for clues about his precinct. Steed had just left the building when a middle-aged man with a limp stepped out from the bushes.
'Who are you, and what do you think you're doing here?' the limping man asked, surprisingly bold for his condition.
'The name is Steed, John Steed. I'm selling typewriters; I was wondering if the master of this house had any use for them.'
'This house hasn't been lived in for years,' the man informed Steed. 'I'm the gardener, I would know. Not since them Riddles were murdered-'
'Riddles?'
'Why else would they call it the Riddle House? Some twenty years ago, all three of 'em just turned up dead. No marks, no motive, no nothing to show how they went. And-' the man continued, his voice rising, 'everybody here thinks I did it! I, Frank Bryce, commit a crime like that? No way!'
'Mr Bryce,' Steed interjected, 'have you any idea who was responsible for the Riddles' deaths?'
'There was a teenage boy there,' Frank answered, 'but nobody saw him but me, so the police think I made him up. But he was there, I saw him, skulking around the house that day, so he must've been the one who killed 'em, 'cause I sure didn't.'
'Thank you, Mr Bryce, you've been most helpful,' Steed replied, and then, remembering his pretence, he added, 'I couldn't possibly interest you in a typewriter, could I?'
'No thank you, Mr Steed.'
(AN: Before I begin, I would just like to point out that the timelines of this fic really do line up. Tom Riddle left Hogwarts in the mid-40s, but he didn't come to power as Lord Voldemort until 1970. I think it's a bit of a stretch for somebody that power-hungry to wait that long; he should have been ready for takeover by the mid-60s at the latest. And in the mid- 60s, John Steed and Emma Peel were Muggle Britain's top spies, agents extraordinary solving extraordinary crimes.)
Chapter 1: Avada Kedavra!
Lord Voldemort turned to his one of his newest recruits, Antonin Dolohov, a smile playing about his thin lips. 'Dolohov,' he said, addressing what appeared to be a black sheet with stuffing inside it, as Dolohov was currently hidden beneath his Death Eater's hood, 'We are ready now. We shall seize power before the Ministry of Magic has time to fight back. Every year, we will get stronger, as those Hogwarts students slip right through Armando Dippet's unsuspecting fingers and into my army! Every year, we will gain more soldiers for the Dark Order! Soon we will control all of Britain, and then we can move southward through France into Spain and Portugal, and from there eastward until we control all of Europe. At that point the Soviet Union will fall to us, and from there we can invade America and Canada by way of Alaska. By 1970, we will have conquered the world, purging every village through which we march of all of its Muggle and Mudblood slime! Only then will the dreams of my great descendant, Salazar Slytherin, truly be realised!'
Dolohov nodded with sadistic, sycophantic excitement. 'My Lord,' he breathed, 'it will be ours! First London, then all of England, then the whole of Britain, then continental Europe, the Soviet Union, America and all the world!'
Lieutenant Terrence Hopper had heard enough. He had no search warrant, but these people were clearly insane. His feelings towards the old lady who had roused him from bed in the middle of the night by phoning in a 'disturbing the peace' complaint suddenly grew much warmer. This story could land him on the front page of the London Times!
Hopper burst through the door, his gun held steady. 'You're under arrest, both of you,' he said in a gruff yet businesslike manner. 'You're to be charged with planned acts of terrorism and anarchical activities, as well as treason against Her Majesty and the Crown, not to mention disturbing the peace. Don't move or I'll shoot.'
Voldemort laughed, and Dolohov quickly echoed his master's amusement. 'Did you hear that, Dolohov?' Voldemort asked, his tone of voice saturated with mockery. 'This foolish Muggle is going to shoot us!'
Hopper ignored the insult and took out his notepad. 'Your names, please?'
'Lord Voldemort,' Voldemort answered with a derisive sneer. He drew out his wand. Hopper snorted.
'A stick?' he asked incredulously. 'Is that the best you've got? What do you think you're going to do, hit me to death?'
'No, Muggle,' Voldemort whispered silkily. 'Crucio.'
Hopper dropped both his notes and weapon as he fell to the floor, screaming in pain. His bones were on fire, or so it seemed. This was pain of the worst possible kind. After only a minute, Hopper could stand no more. 'No!' he pleaded. 'Stop! I'll do anything! I'll let you go, I'll even cover up for you. . .stop the pain! I can't take it anymore!'
'Dolohov, it seems this Muggle wants us to "stop the pain," ' Voldemort mused in falsely thoughtful voice. 'Only one way to do that, I'm afraid, or at least in your case, that is.' Voldemort angled his wand downward, pointing it directly at Hopper's chest. 'Avada Kedavra!'
There was a blinding flash of green light, and Lieutenant Hopper was dead. Voldemort and his deputy Dolohov laughed insanely.
The next day, Emma Peel was driving along in her blue sportscar. When she stopped at a red traffic light, she noticed the licence plate on an antique car parked on the curb. It read, 'MRS PEEL.'
John Steed appeared just then, rapping on Emma's window. 'We're needed,' he said, smiling his impish smile as Emma tried futilely to look annoyed.
Steed hopped into Emma's car just as the traffic light turned green. 'Where to, sir?' Emma asked playfully.
'Straight through this intersection, turn right at the next. It seems a police officer's been murdered.'
'Doesn't that happen everyday? What are the special circumstances this time?'
'There are no marks on him, no autopsy evidence of any kind to explain how he was killed-'
'And no motive to indicate why, I suppose?'
'None. But before we get into that, we've got figure out what killed him. He's not the first. There've been two other deaths just like that recently, and in the same neighborhood.'
'Then it's highly unlikely that he died of fright, which was the only other possibility. So we've got no suspect and no weapon. This is unusual.' Emma paused, thinking hard. 'Were the other victims policemen?'
'No. One was a farmer and the other was unemployed.'
'So we haven't even got a thread to connect the incidents. Nothing except. . .nothing.'
'Exactly. Turn left here.'
'As you wish.'
Emma turned left, and Steed pointed out a small house on the side of the road. 'Pull over there.'
'The scene of the crime?'
'Of course.'
Emma parked the sportscar, and she and Steed climbed out. Steed led the way up the front walk and opened the door for Emma, being the Old World gentleman that he was. Steed pointed down a hallway with his brolly, and Emma followed the trail.
Emma stopped when she came upon the body of the ill-fated cop. She stooped down to check his pulse, wanting to be absolutely sure that he was in fact dead. Steed was right; there were no signs at all to point to his killer or even what sort of weapon had killed him. But he was dead, all right. The officer was limp and cold to the touch.
'Convinced yet?' Steed asked teasingly as he caught up with her.
'It's strange,' Emma replied, half-joking. 'I'm convinced, but I've no idea of what. What was the victim's name?'
'Lieutenant Terrence Hopper. He was sent out to investigate a disturbing the peace complaint-'
'-and he never returned,' Emma finished. 'Who filed the complaint?'
'An old widow, Mrs Brenda Hough. Lives over there, on the other side of Little Hangleton.'
'Little Hangleton?'
'Didn't you notice the sign welcoming us to this charming village?'
'I was too busy following your directions. So do we have any leads other than Mrs Hough?'
'I was thinking you might go down to the police station, glean what information you van from Hopper's colleagues-'
'-while you seek an audience with dear Brenda.'
'Mrs Peel!' Steed exclaimed, going slightly red in the face. 'What are you hinting at? Mrs Hough is 87 years old!'
Emma just laughed, and Steed joined in before he could stop himself.
Steed bid his partner adieu, then walked outside whilst Emma began searching Hopper's wallet for clues about his precinct. Steed had just left the building when a middle-aged man with a limp stepped out from the bushes.
'Who are you, and what do you think you're doing here?' the limping man asked, surprisingly bold for his condition.
'The name is Steed, John Steed. I'm selling typewriters; I was wondering if the master of this house had any use for them.'
'This house hasn't been lived in for years,' the man informed Steed. 'I'm the gardener, I would know. Not since them Riddles were murdered-'
'Riddles?'
'Why else would they call it the Riddle House? Some twenty years ago, all three of 'em just turned up dead. No marks, no motive, no nothing to show how they went. And-' the man continued, his voice rising, 'everybody here thinks I did it! I, Frank Bryce, commit a crime like that? No way!'
'Mr Bryce,' Steed interjected, 'have you any idea who was responsible for the Riddles' deaths?'
'There was a teenage boy there,' Frank answered, 'but nobody saw him but me, so the police think I made him up. But he was there, I saw him, skulking around the house that day, so he must've been the one who killed 'em, 'cause I sure didn't.'
'Thank you, Mr Bryce, you've been most helpful,' Steed replied, and then, remembering his pretence, he added, 'I couldn't possibly interest you in a typewriter, could I?'
'No thank you, Mr Steed.'