CHAPTER 53: LITTLE HANGLETON
The weather was overcast above the small village of Little Hangleton, and the low, water-laden clouds seemed ready to unleash their burden upon the moor, almost reaching the tops of the tallest surrounding trees. Winter, long settled in, showed no signs of being any milder than previous years. Few local farmers thought to tend their lands or let their animals graze on the scarcely recovered grass, which, in some places, was completely absent after the harshness of the recent weeks' climate.
The village itself, plunged into a continuous and heavy silence, seemed almost lifeless. Not a soul in the streets, not a cart crossing the muddy paths of Little Hangleton, not even the slightest storefront open or the shouts of idle men still living in this remote and forgotten part of England that could disturb the silence of their small community. Nothing but emptiness, the absence of life and human warmth.
The village lay nestled in a secluded valley, between two hills towering over it, surrounded by a thick forest with many dark legends attached to it. Little Hangleton was always like this, amidst tales of a once glorious past now lost forever, and stories still told by the elders to either frighten or entertain the younger ones, often around the same fire to tame the little monsters boredom pushed them to become. Eventually, it became difficult to distinguish between reality and the fiction of the stories that spread—rumors about this or that person, barely whispered hearsay leaving behind a lingering suspicion towards one another, and reputations becoming increasingly tarnished over time.
Yet, Little Hangleton hadn't always been this way. The manor, situated atop one of the hills, bore witness to the once brilliant past of the village, a past remembered only by the elderly with nostalgia. The manor had once belonged to a wealthy noble family in the region, the Riddles. Like most families entrenched in this part of England for centuries, they had amassed a fortune in the textile trade and the intensive production of wool for the continent. An entire warehouse in Brighton, the nearest major city to Little Hangleton, was solely dedicated to exporting their production, and numerous ships and vessels once stopped in the port to depart days later, laden with cargo. The Riddles wielded significant influence in the region, both economically and politically, and legend had it that Little Hangleton had been founded by their ancestors during the time when William the Conqueror, arriving from Normandy, had landed on the shores to claim the English crown with a retinue of followers, including, according to legend, a member of the Dusort family.
However, the Riddles' history now belonged to the past. Several decades had passed since the family mysteriously perished, the last three members found dead in the drawing-room without a single mark of violence upon them. With no heir, the commercial activity collapsed. The sheep were soon sold to other wool producers or simply eaten, and what had once been Little Hangleton's fortune, providing its inhabitants with myriad jobs, had vanished. The manor, mirroring the fate of the village, deteriorated rapidly, turning what was once a lively and verdant land into a desolate, uncultivable, and abandoned area.
Yet, the prevailing silence was about to be shattered for the first time in days by the appearance of an individual hitherto unknown to the villagers. With a resounding "Pop," the wizard landed right in the middle of the path leading to the old manor, paying no mind to any curious onlookers who might have been passing by and witnessing his sudden arrival. The man, with rough features, grizzled and tousled hair, an old frock coat, and a creaking wooden leg with each step, stood there, his left eye alert and fixed on the distant former residence while his right eye swirled in all directions as if seized by convulsions.
"No one," he grumbled in a gruff tone. "What a shame..."
Lowering his hood, the wizard trudged toward the old manor with a heavy step, his false leg scratching the earth with its steel claws while he idly played with his magic wand in the pocket of his coat. Nevertheless, far from being nervous, the newcomer seemed almost eager to run to his destination. And, truth be told, the reasons urging him justified this effort enough that no one could blame him. However, the wind seemed to have a different idea, and his walk became much more difficult due to the sudden gusts that arose to slow his pace. With a swift gesture of his arm, he promptly put an end to it, and simultaneously with his action, the old gates separating the manor from the road loudly swung open to let him pass.
"Oh yes, my dear, the Dark Lord's protections have recognized you," he said tenderly, caressing the tattooed mark on his arm, which moved like the serpent it represented. "Filthy Muggles and Mudbloods will never go as far as we will from now on…"
The visitor almost regretted that it was the case; what else could amuse his master if not even a Muggle, however small and insignificant, could come here? His master would be delighted to torture one, make them beg for mercy… or grant them the honor of taking their life. He himself wouldn't mind bringing one or two from the neighboring village and practicing on them for a few hours; under this appearance, he feared becoming as rusty as the real Mad-Eye Moody, currently languishing in his own trunk.
"Damn leg!" he cursed, struggling to extricate it from the knots formed by the weeds entwined over time.
The manor reflected its garden: dirty, with broken windows blocked by old rotten wooden planks, walls crumbling, the roof already collapsed in places, and the facade penetrated by long leafy tendrils that pierced through the walls. The interior was no better. Beyond the thick layer of dust covering all surfaces and the pervasive darkness in the rooms he traversed, it was the bone-chilling cold that seeped into his very core, penetrating every pore of his skin, giving him the sensation of being submerged in icy water that epitomized this abode.
Strangely enough, the furniture was all still there, long out of fashion and decaying like the rest of the house. A harpsichord, still in place in the middle of the living room, gave the impression of being usable. Although he had never really had a musical inclination, the visitor momentarily recalled those days, now passed, when his mother desperately tried to teach him the basics of music on a similar instrument.
His steps led him to the foot of the manor's ancient staircase, and soon the wood of the decaying steps creaked beneath his feet as he clung futilely to the railing, threatening to collapse at any moment. The first floor, like the rest of the house, was shrouded in near-total darkness, pierced only by faint streaks of light filtering through the wooden planks that sealed the windows. However, his wand provided enough light for him to easily navigate this hostile environment without needing to seek any source of illumination.
On the wall adjacent to the staircase, the wizard observed portraits of the former family inhabiting the place—Muggles exuding wealth in their fine attire, who, it had to be admitted, were far from unattractive.
At times, the man wondered why his master had settled here amidst the vermin that were these filthy Muggles: Any one of his servants would have been delighted to welcome him into their homes! Was this dwelling familiar to him? Had he lived here before? Did it hold any significance for him? These were questions he knew he had no right to ask the man he served, and if the latter had never bothered to mention a word about it to his servants, it was either because he had no intention to do so or simply saw no point in it.
Ascending the stairs, he reached the landing a few moments later. Familiar with the place for some time now, he headed towards the end of the corridor, where the master bedroom used to be. Like elsewhere, dust covered absolutely everything, yet the visitor could see strange grooves traced in the thick layer spread across the floor—traces as if something had been repeatedly dragged across the floor… Or simply the tracks of an especially long and large animal slithering quietly amidst the dust and dirt.
"Nagini," he whispered, shaking his grizzled mane.
Footprints belonging to someone with relatively small feet were also visible, but the presence of his master's snake was unquestionable. Advancing, the visitor quickly reached his destination and lightly knocked on the half-open door, not waiting for an order from the occupant to enter.
The room, unlike the rest of the house, exuded a semblance of life through the roaring fire in the fireplace. Facing it, with his back turned, a chair had been placed to warm its owner. However, if there was an owner, they must have been quite small not to even reach over the backrest! Nonetheless, the visitor bowed behind this chair, head lowered toward the ground as he patiently waited, never lifting his eyes or making a single gesture.
"You kept me waiting, my servant," hissed a broken, high-pitched voice from the chair. "I didn't expect you to arrive so late to give me your report… Have you taken your time before coming to see me, Barty?"
"No, master," murmured the other, head still lowered. "Dumbledore is particularly attentive to what happens at the school, and not a day passes without him asking me to keep an eye on the traitors. I could only escape his grasp by promising to intensify my observations concerning Snape and Karkaroff. Potter's safety is essential to him, and anything that might harm his little protege is not welcome at Hogwarts, including repentant former Death Eaters."
"Oh, that's interesting," commented his master. "Those who are now unwelcome to us might also be unwelcome to the other side… I doubt those miserable rats will stay long at Hogwarts once my return is known to all. Oh, speaking of a rat, Wormtail should soon return; I've tasked him with a mission befitting his skills: Feeding Nagini, and in this case, the remains of the gardener who lived on the property until recently are a rather savory meal for him."
Barty suppressed the urge to grimace in disgust at the thought of the putrefying remains Pettigrew was responsible for cutting up to offer to his master's serpent and chose instead to focus entirely on Voldemort.
"But we're not here to discuss the culinary tastes of my pet, are we?" continued Voldemort in a sweet tone. "You had a report to deliver to me, and you have my full attention now. So, I'm listening, Barty. How are things shaping up at Hogwarts?"
"Very well, master," assured his servant, with barely concealed joy. "The second task has just concluded, and I have excellent news to bring to you…"
"What is it?" Voldemort hissed impatiently. "Has Potter once again demonstrated talents previously unsuspected to win this task?"
"Not exactly, master," confessed the Death Eater, noting the irony in his superior's words. "Potter is, of course, still in the running to win the cup!"
"But?" Voldemort interrupted.
"But… He came in third in the task," declared Barty.
"That's troublesome," conceded Voldemort calmly. "How could this boy have reached that position when I thought he was the most likely to win due to the effects of the Gillyweed?"
Barty shifted nervously from one foot to the other, taking a moment to choose his words carefully to minimize the failure that was his in this new phase of the plan. Maybe he should have, by some means, followed Potter's journey to the hostages and subtly indicated to him the best way to get there more quickly?
"The Gillyweed had nothing to do with it, Master," he began. "Potter used it right from the start, and I only had to push him to fall into the water before his gills had fully appeared. According to the merfolk present in the lake, he would have arrived second at the location of the hostages, a few minutes behind Diggory. However, for some reason of his own, he decided to wait for the Beauxbatons champion to arrive to free her sister before resurfacing himself, leaving Krum the second place that was practically within his reach… except, not seeing her arrive, he decided to leave with the hostage assigned to him and the little Veela."
"A very Gryffindor-like trait of his, or perhaps it's just stupidity," Voldemort commented with a hint of mockery. "But tell me, Barty, who was the hostage assigned to Potter?"
At this, a mischievous smile stretched across the Death Eater's face, twisted by the multiple scars and marks that marred Mad-Eye Moody's bruised skin.
"This is probably the most ridiculous part of this story, Master," he began. "Potter is so full of himself, so vain and so pompous that he has no true friends, no one significant enough to be considered close. Dumbledore tried to reason with some of his classmates, but none of them wanted to be his hostage. Upon probing the boy's mind, it appeared that the only people he has any attachment to are his father, his godfather… and his mother."
"Dumbledore must have been quite displeased to see that his weapon had no affection for him," Voldemort said with amusement. "So, who was chosen then?"
"As you know, his mother disappeared a few years ago, taking her daughter with her, and since then, Potter hasn't heard a thing from her," Barty reminded him. "Dumbledore tried to contact her again a few days ago by sending her an enchanted letter to return to Hogwarts as soon as she touched it, but the owl returned to the school with the envelope unopened. With Potter's father and Black busy at the Ministry, the choice fell on the Weasley girl who is quite enamored with the boy. However, this choice didn't seem to please him, as he didn't immediately understand who the person he was supposed to save was when he arrived in front of them!"
"Go on," his master ordered, his amusement unshared.
"So, Potter ended up in third place with the Beauxbatons champion's withdrawal. But to save face, Dumbledore awarded Potter about twenty extra points for his courageous and heroic act."
"That old fool is making things easier for us without even realizing it," Voldemort commented. "I assume Potter is still in contention to win the tournament?"
"He'll only have a few seconds of penalty compared to the other Hogwarts champion," conceded Barty. "But having been in charge of the smooth running of the last task and the security of the champions during it, I won't have any trouble blocking Diggory's path and facilitating Potter's way to the cup."
His master remained silent for a few moments, and for a second, Barty felt like he had been silently dismissed by Voldemort. But just as he began to make a move to withdraw, Voldemort spoke again.
"Rise, Barty," he commanded, as the Death Eater struggled to stand, his wooden leg not making it any easier. "You have earned it, and Lord Voldemort recognizes his most loyal servants by the zeal they put into the tasks he entrusts them with."
"Master, I am your humble servant. Serving you is the most invaluable privilege that can be offered to me…" Barty stammered, his voice choked with sudden emotion.
"Everything is proceeding as planned, and if things reach the goal I have set, I should soon regain my body and all my powers… If my designs come to fruition, you will be rewarded beyond your expectations for your dedication and boundless loyalty. Come closer, Barty."
Without hesitation, the Death Eater approached the chair and circled it to face its occupant. Small, emaciated, with a noseless face and crude features from which two reddish orbs served as eyes, it was quite difficult to see the great and powerful Voldemort under the guise of an especially hideous baby. Yet, Barty would never dare to comment on it even if his master's current situation troubled him. His discomfort might have been more visible than he thought and wished, for when Voldemort spoke again, the conversation immediately turned to his appearance:
"See how weak I have become because of that child," he hissed lowly, staring fixedly. "Condemned to inhabit the body of an infant to hope for survival in a flesh-and-bone vessel, I, the most powerful sorcerer of all time! But we will have our revenge… I have waited for more than thirteen years now, endured unspeakable tortures that nobody would imagine to survive, suffered the incompetence of some, the cowardice of others, delaying the hour of my coming. I could wait a few more months before regaining my former appearance and trampling on the corpse of the one who nearly caused my downfall! And you, Barty, will be by my side to witness that boy's downfall and with it, all the hopes of a magical community plagued by the filth and dirt of those who have invaded it."
Barty prepared to respond, but knocks on the door made him turn towards the entrance, noticing the unexpected arrival of Wormtail. At this sight, Barty couldn't suppress a disgusted grunt at the sight of this insignificant and ugly little being whose main task today was to keep their master alive through his snake. The Death Eater wasn't sure if it was the mere presence of this insignificant little man or the fact that he performed a task of such great importance that angered him.
"Master…" Pettigrew squeaked from the doorway. "Your meal is ready…"
"Ah, good," Voldemort hissed, making what seemed to be a smile but to Barty's eyes looked more like a grimace. "I was just starting to feel a little weak…"
Something seemed to slide behind Pettigrew, and he, jerking slightly, swung the door wide open to reveal, moments later, the gigantic form of his master's serpent. Nagini, whose head easily matched the size of Pettigrew's, slithered into the room emitting sharp hisses, to which her master replied in Parseltongue. The serpent glided across the dusty floor toward her owner's armchair, leisurely coiling around him, almost maternally, and gaping wide as if to bite. Voldemort continued addressing it for a few moments, then, realizing Barty was still there observing, he spoke to him again:
"I would have invited you to share my meal, but I'm not certain you'd appreciate it as much as I do," he said, a perceptible amusement in his voice. "And it's not quite advisable to watch someone eat. I bid you farewell, my servant."
"At once, Master," the Death Eater promptly replied, bowing once more in salutation.
"Oh, and don't forget to take some more Polyjuice Potion," Voldemort reminded him. "It would be quite unfortunate if you were to revert to your true form just as you crossed the school gates again."
His servant nodded, then, grasping the flask attached to his belt, he opened it and quickly took a sip, slightly wrinkling his brow as the nauseating taste filled his mouth. After one final customary salute, Barty eventually headed towards the exit, but not without relishing the pleasure of violently shouldering Pettigrew as he stepped aside to let him pass. The rat's crash against an old suit of armor made him smirk, though he didn't have the leisure to admire the results as he was already descending the stairs. He didn't have the privilege of hearing his master feed through his snake either, but deep down, he preferred never to witness it firsthand: Pettigrew was the only one who had ever seen that spectacle, and his master, deeply immersed in the darkest magic for so long, guaranteed a stomach-turning sight for the faintest of hearts.
No, rather than dwell on that, Barty glimpsed the future prospects on the horizon, especially the final turn the Triwizard Tournament had to take, of which he was the primary custodian. His master had unwavering trust in him, and he was determined not to falter in his task, however arduous. Potter had to be the instrument of his success, but above all, he was the invaluable gift he would present to his master on a silver platter; perhaps he could even send Dumbledore the head of his protege once the deed was done? Oh, how delightful that idea was! Yet, it still required the Dark Lord's approval...
However, there remained one point not to be overlooked in the equation of his future: the disappearance of his father. The old fool had managed to fight and break free from the Imperius Curse that had controlled him for months, and he, even if too feeble, could somehow resurface at Hogwarts and alert Dumbledore about the matters of which he was the sole witness. He needed to stop him, even eliminate him if no other solution presented itself, and Barty could do so without a hint of remorse as long as his master's plans were in jeopardy.
"You'll reappear soon, old man," he thought, sporting a malevolent smile. "One word, one gesture, one action from you, and I'll be there to cut out your tongue, chop off your hands, and silence you forever."
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