The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it "the Riddle House", even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there.
Harry flinched at the name 'Riddle'.
Ron and Hermione patted him on the back.
Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied.
"Why?" Hermione asked.
The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house was "creepy".
"It sounds creepy." Neville admitted and shuddered.
Half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had been picked over so many times, and had been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore.
Every version of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning, when the Riddle House had still been well kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three Riddles dead.
"That's horrible!" Hermione exclaimed.
"This isn't about Tom. This is his Muggle family." Harry realized.
"Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!"
Harry paled. That sounded like the Killing Curse.
The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse.
"His father." Harry realized.
for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.
"The Killing Curse." Harry grumbled.
Riddles' cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested.
"I remember reading about that as a child. It was in a book called Most Bizarre Mysteries of the 20th Century. It mentioned that he was accused of killing the Riddle family, but was freed after evidence didn't support this." Hermione said.
Harry and Ron nodded.
Frank Bryce was the Riddles' gardener. He lived alone in a rundown cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since.
"Wow! He must be in his 70s now." some Muggle-born Ravenclaw said.
"Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't."
"Doesn't mean he's a murderer." Hermione shaked her head. The things people concluded without much evidence.
The villagers exchanged dark looks.
Ernie and the Hufflepuffs looked at Harry apologetically. This was very similar to when they accused Harry of being the Heir of Slytherin and petrifying Justin without much evidence, all because he spoke Parseltongue. Harry nodded appreciately.
"War turned him funny, if you ask me", said the landlord.
"War does that to everybody!" Sirius exclaimed.
By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles.
Everybody shaked their heads. How many people would have to suffer from Voldemort's actions. This man, Hagrid, Aragog, Sirius, even Harry. This man destroyed peoples' lives and innocence.
Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles' deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale.
"Tom did it." Harry said.
The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all.
"Effects of the Killing Curse." Remus muttered under his breath.
The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone's surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House.
"Is that the graveyard where you faced him, mate?" Ron asked.
"Yeah." Harry admitted.
But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and then the next — for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into
disrepair.
Hermione immediately jotted down the question: Why did Voldemort kill the Riddle family, his paternal family?
Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them.
"He was seventy-seven, and still working?" many people asked.
Boys from the village made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House.
"That's worse than Dudley!" Harry exclaimed.
Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, thought him a murderer.
"Poor guy." Cho said.
Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once what was going on. The boys had broken into the house again, and judging by the flickering quality of the light, they had started a fire.
"I don't think so." Hermione said.
On the landing, Frank turned right, and saw at once where the intruders were: At the very end of the passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, grasping his walking stick firmly. Several feet from the entrance, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond.
"Voldemort and Wormtail." Harry growled.
"There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry."
Everybody but Fudge and Umbridge glared at the book. Sirius got a compelling feeling to burn the book, but did not act on his instincts.
Fudge and Umbridge looked at each other fearfully as this meant that Voldemort was possibly back. Maybe Harry was telling the truth. Fudge thought.
"Later", said a second voice. This too belonged to a man —
"Not really, a man is he?" Ron snorted.
Harry nodded.
but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up. "Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."
Everybody glared at the book at the mention of the rat.
"Traitor!"
"Coward!"
"Murderer!"
"Scumbag!"
"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail," said the second voice. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."
Hermione jotted down two questions: Where and when did Wormtail find Voldemort? and Why were Voldemort and Wormtail staying at the Riddle House, the former home of Voldemort's family, who he hated for being Muggles?.
"My Lord, may I ask how long are we going to stay here?"
"For the rest of the year, you worm," Harry said to Ron and Hermione, making his best Voldemort impersonation.
"A week," said the cold voice. "Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over."
Hermione jotted down the question: Why did Voldemort want to wait to get Harry until after the Quidditch World Cup?.
"Because, fool, at this very moment, wizards are pouring into the country 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."
"That… actually makes sense." Ginny said.
Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had distinctly heard the words "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.
Everybody but the Slytherins chuckled fondly at the Muggle being innocent and oblivious to the wizarding world and trying to do everything to make it make sense for them.
"It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord."
Everyone raised an eyebrow at this.
"My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!" said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. "The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard — any wizard — the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while — you know that I can disguise myself most effectively — I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person —"
"He just wants to abandon him." Harry said.
"I could use another wizard," said the cold voice softly, "that is true. . . ."
"Of course you can! Can't do anything yourself, can you?" Harry asked.
"My Lord! I — I have no wish to leave you, none at all —"
"Yeah, right, you liar." Remus muttered under his breath.
"Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?"
"I don't understand why he still works for him when Voldemort has his own body now." Harry said.
"Maybe he thinks that nothing can stop Voldemort." Hermione noted.
"Liar," breathed the second voice. "I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!"
"How is he still alive?" many people asked.
Hermione jotted down the question: How did Voldemort survive the attack at Godric's Hollow?.
"I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. 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 —"
"That's not courage, that's fear!" many people exclaimed.
Although Sirius didn't want to admit it, he felt sympathy for his former friend. That was exactly what his father, Orion, and mother, Walburga, would say before punishing him for talking back, being silent, or standing up for Muggle-borns or Muggles.
"All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head — My Lord, Bertha Jorkins' disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder —"
"So Voldemort is responsible for killing Bertha Jorkins?" Madam Bones muttered to herself. She then jotted that down in her notes.
"If?" whispered the second 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 . . . Come, Wormtail, one more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us —"
"Barty Crouch Jr." Hermione realized.
Harry nodded.
"I am a faithful servant," said Wormtail, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice.
"Yeah, right." Sirius scoffed.
"A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail — though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?"
Remus looked guiltily. This was very similar to how they made fun of Wormtail after he missed a question on the werewolf O.W.L. during their fifth year.
Sirius noticed this and realized what Remus was thinking.
but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins."
Everybody flinched at that. Truthfully, they didn't really want Wormtail to die. No matter what somebody did, they didn't deserve to die. Except Voldemort, of course.
"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. . . ."
"We should have made an effort to find Wormtail." Harry muttered.
And the second 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.
"What are they saying?" Hermione asked Sirius and Harry.
"Nagini is saying 'The Muggle caretaker is outside the door'." Sirius explained.
This man could talk to snakes.
"Must look very strange to a Muggle, doesn't it?" Ron asked.
"According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say."
"Oh, no!" everybody exclaimed.
"You heard everything, Muggle?" said the cold voice.
Everybody flinched.
"What's that you're calling me?" said Frank defiantly, for now
that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always been so in the war.
He's a Gryffindor for sure. Harry signed.
"Is that right?" said Frank roughly. "Lord, is it? Well, I don't
think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn 'round and face me like a man, why don't you?"
Everybody smiled at that. Frank obviously didn't care for titles. The Muggle-raised knew that he fought in World War II, so he fought against Hitler, and to him, Voldemort and Hitler were very similar.
"But I am not a man, Muggle," said the cold voice, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However . . . why not? I will face you. . . . Wormtail, come turn my chair around."
Everybody whimpered.
And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His 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.
"Ironic, isn't it?" Harry asked.
"What?" Ron asked.
"That he died of the same crime he was accused of?" Harry said.
Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.
"What, that was a dream?" several people asked.
"See, You-Know-Who isn't back!" Umbridge exclaimed.
Fudge wasn't so sure, though. He knew Harry's dreams were often memories, as he remembered the attack when he was a baby. So, why wouldn't he know this? From what Dumbledore said, Harry and Voldemort had a link to each other's minds that they didn't know about.