In an underground bunker in the woods, which entrance is only accessible by flicking the correct branch of a fake tree 'growing' nearby, with enough tinned food to last for years, a lamp connected to a solar panel on the surface, a desk, a laptop with no wifi and no distractions, and a bed, an author clicks her fingers and flexes her arms as she sat at the desk to start writing the fourth part of her cross-over story.
Jack Frost and the Goblet of Fire
Saying to herself she won't come out of here or welcome anyone in until it was finished.
Looking over the story plan notes and referencing the book, she believed starting at Chapter 1 it a good place to start.
So without further ado...
Chapter 1, The Riddle House.
There is a village somewhere in England, called Little Hangleton.
In that village, there is an old house on a hill that is covered in vines, that most still call 'The Riddle House' despite the fact that it had been years since anyone with the name Riddle had lived there.
It scared some people, and was a key point for ghost stories and background for séances to try and ask them who killed them, because no one was very sure themselves, but that never worked.
However the story always began the same, 50 years ago, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning, when the house was still well cared for, the maid had entered the drawing room to find all Riddle's dead.
Terrified, the maid rushed down into the village to raise the alarm telling as many people as she could:
"Lying there, eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!"
The police came to the house to intestate while the whole population of the village waited to find out what had happened, uncaring who did it really because no one really liked the Riddles, or their grown son Tom.
But they did want to know who did it just in case there was a murderer in the village as surely 3 reasonably healthy people didn't just drop dead out of nowhere, right?
The night the alarm was sounded, in the village pub The Hanged Man, almost all the grown-ups had gathered to wait for news on this story.
They were rewarded for being out of their nice warm beds around midnight, when the Riddle's cook came in and told the silent pub a man called Frank Bruce had been arrested.
"Frank?" almost the whole pub asked surprised. "Never!"
Frank Bruce was the Riddle's gardener, living in a rundown cottage at the end of the grounds. He had come back from the war with a stiff leg, and a hated for noise and large crowds, and had been working for the Riddle's ever since.
There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and get the rest of the story.
And she was off saying how he was odd and unsociable.
When someone tried to defend Frank, reminding the crowd he had a hard war, they were cut off by the cook saying:
"Who else had a key to the back door? There has been a spare one on a hook in the gardeners cottage as far back as I remember!" she said defending herself. "Nobody forced the door open last night. Or broken any of the window's. All Frank had to do, was creep up the garden path while we were all sleeping..."
And from there all the gossip turned everyone against Frank saying he was odd, having a dark look to him, how the war had turned him funny.
By the time the sun came up, no one doubted that he didn't do it.
On the other side of town however, Frank was saying again and again that he didn't do it to the police men questioning him.
Just as things were looking bad for him, the Riddle's reports came back with the strangest report the police had ever seen.
It said that they weren't harmed in anyway they could tell – stabbed, poisoned, strangled, whacked around the head with candlesticks, or shot anywhere - but they could tell that they were dead.
'In fact' the report continued as if it could help 'All that seemed similar between them, was the look of terror on each of their faces.'
With this and no actual evidence, the police were forced to let Frank go, and to everyone's surprise he returned to his cottage in the grounds of the Riddle House.
Over the next few years, new owners came to the house, but they didn't stay long. Something about Frank still being there seemed to drive them off.
During that time, Frank tended to the garden the best he could, but age and weeds were catching up on him, and the grandchildren of those who accused Frank was a murder back then didn't help, as they rode their biked through the grass and flowers beds he tried to keep so nice and neat.
Anyway, we now come up to here and now, on a warmish night in mid-summer, when Frank was woken up owing to the pain in his leg, and thought of going to refill his hot-water-bottle to help ease it.
As he was at the sink in the kitchen he could see the silhouette of the old house on the hill.
Its roofs were starting to crumble, the window sills were rotting, and there was starting to get to be too many vines and brambles for poor old Frank to handle.
The current owner didn't live there, but he still paid Frank to tend to the garden.
He was about to put the metal kettle onto the stove when he paused and looked harder at the house.
There was an orangey light flickering out of one of the upstairs windows.
"Bloody kids..." Frank said slamming the kettle down and going to get dressed.
Those bratty teenagers had finally broken into the house and by the looks of it had started a fire.
Coming back down, in his boots, coat, and carrying his walking stick, and removing the key from the hook by the door, Frank made his way up the dark path up to the house, made his way around the back and quietly inserted the key into the lock.
It had been a long time since this lock was used, but it worked and Frank let himself into the dark kitchen.
Silently, he made his way into the hall and started to go up the creaky stairs that had a blanket of 50 year old dust on each step.
Listening the best he could – because he left his hearing aid by his bed – Frank found the room with the intruders and the fire.
The strange thing was the fire had been lit in the grate.
Just as Frank was about to open the door and try to scare them away one of the men started to speak.
"There is some left in the bottle, my Lord, if you want more," he said in an almost scared voice.
"Later," said a second man, in a voice as cold as the wind. Frank turned a little to look through the gap of the door into the room to hear this voice come from a chair who's back was facing the door.
Something about that voice made the hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up.
"Move closer to the fire, Wormtail." they said.
There was a clink of a bottle being set down, and then a scraping of a chair as it was moved closer to the grate.
Frank saw a small pudgy man moving the chair, his back to the door now as well. He was wearing a long black cloak, and had a bald patch on his head and Frank believed a finger missing on one if his hands, but it was so quick he was unsure.
Once the chair was in the right place, this man moved back to where he was before.
"Where are Nixon and Nagini?" the second man asked.
"I - I don't know my Lord," the first man said nervously. "Nagini set out to explore the house I think… And - and I think Nixon went to the village."
"You will milk, Nagini before we retire, Wormtail," said the second man. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me, greatly.
"My Lord, may I ask, just how long are we going to be staying here?"
"A week," came the reply "Perhaps longer. The place is reasonably comfortable, and the plan can't proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over."
Outside the door Frank blinked in confusion, and tried to clean out his ears as he was sure he didn't hear that right.
'Quidditch?' What were these men talking about? There was no such thing as Quidditch.
"The Quidditch World Cup?" Wormtail asked confused, "I'm sorry sir but I don't quite understand."
"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 watch searching for suspicious behaviour, checking and double checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait."
Frank stopped trying to clean out his ears as he just heard a collection of worlds he had never heard before: Ministry of Magic? Wizards? Muggles? Obviously these words meant something secret to both of them.
And there were only two sorts of people who would talk in code - spies and criminals.
Tightening his grip on his walking stick, Frank listened a little more, after all you need to know as much as possible about people like this before going to the authorities.
"Your Lordship is still determined then?" Wormtail said quietly.
"Of course I am determined, Wormtail," the cold voice said with a hint of annoyance now.
There was a pause and then Wormtail said rather quickly:
"It could be done without Harry Potter, my Lord."
Another pause, and then -
"Without Harry Potter?" said the second voice softly. I see.."
"My Lord, I don't say this because I care for the boy," Wormtail said hurriedly "I am saying it because he is just so well protected. And if we use another witch or wizard - any wizard - the project will get over with so much quicker. If you allow me to leave you for a while, you know how well i can disguise myself, I can go and be back with a suitable person in as little as two days -"
"But is this not what we have Nixon for, Wormtail?" the second voice said in a 'raising-an-eyebrow' voice. "After all, you are not meant to be alive. Until a few weeks ago, you were classed as dead. What if we have another incident of someone recognizing you like we had with Bertha Jorkins?"
"I did not mean to be spotted my lord," Wormtail said in a cowering voice, like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar.
"And besides," the second voice said, ignoring this point. "How am I meant to survive without at least one of you being here, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?"
"But you seem so much stronger, my Lord -"
"Liar," breathed out the second voice. "I am no stronger than i was when you found me. And a few days alone will only make it worse. Silence."
Wormtail had obviously been trying to defend himself as he was stuttering quite a bit, but he quickly went quiet.
"I have my own reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, I will use no other." the second voice said. "I have waited thirteen years to go through with his, an extra month or so won't make a difference. As for his protection, I believe my plan will work. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail - courage you will find least you want to face Lord Voldemort's wrath."
"But, my Lord, surely Bertha Jorkins' disappearance will not go unnoticed." Wormtail said sounding worried. "And if we continue -"
"If?" the second voice whispered in warning. "If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone has disappeared. You will go about quietly and without a fuss; I only wish I could do it myself, but in my current condition… come, Wormtail one more obstacle to be removed, and then our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you or Nixon to do this alone, because by that point, my faithful servant will be returned to me."
"I am a faithful servant, and so is Nixon." Wormtail said in a pouting sort of voice.
"Wormtail, I need someone with brains," the second voice said. "Somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you… unfortunately, do not match those requirements. Nixon on the other hand, is a little better i suppose, however he got himself found out meaning he can't be as useful as who we will try to get."
"I helped find you," Wormtail said in a mopy voice. "I brought you Bertha Jorkins."
"This is true," said the second voice in a thoughtful sounding way. "However that may have just been a coincidence, mightened it, as you didn't know just how useful she or her information was when you 'found' her, did you?"
"I- I thought she might be useful, my Lord - "
"Liar," the second voice said with a hint of a laugh on it. "However, her information was quite useful. Without it, I would not have been able to come up with our plan, and for that you will be rewarded, Wormtail. I will allow you to form a key part, one many of my followers would give their right hand for."
"R-really, my Lord? What-" Wormtail asked, sounding terrified again.
"Ah, Wormtail, that would spoil the surprise, and you know how I hate spoiling surprises. Lets just say your part will come at the end, and you will be as useful as Bertha Jorkins."
"You… You…" Wormtail's voice sounded small, weak, and scared. "You're going to… to kill me too?"
"Wormtail, Wormtail," said the cold voice in a silky way, "why would I do that? I killed Bertha because I had no more use for her, and knowing how talkative she he, I doubt she would have kept seeing you on her holidays to herself."
Wormtail muttered something that Frank couldn't quite hear, but it got the second voice to laugh loudly.
"We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms could be countered and beaten if one is determined enough. As I proved while questioning her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use this information she gave us."
Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that his hand gripping his walking stick was getting very sweaty. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman and talked about it like there wasn't a care in the world. With amusement nonetheless.
And this boy, this Harry Potter, he was in danger too.
Knowing what he had to do, Frank started to turn around and head back down the stairs, not noticing a large snake making her way up them and going into the room.
He had made it to the hall, and was about to head for the back door to go into town and use the telephone box to call the police - his own home didn't have a phone in it - when he was met by a man with black clothes, and black hair pointing a stick at him.
"And where do you think you're going?" he said coldly.
"I'm going to go and call the police, that's where I'm going," Frank said firmly using his bravery skills he picked up in the war. "I reckon you are that 'Nixon' them two's up there kept talking about right?"
"Hm, that's right," Nixon said, still not lowering the stick. "But I think the Lord would like a word with you before you make your way out. After-all it would be impolite for him, as host, to ignore guests. Even if they are uninvited. Back up those stairs then."
Glowering at Nixon, and his stick, Frank slowly turned around and went back up stairs and into the room the other men were residing in.
Inside there was a hearth-chair facing the fire, a small table with a bottle of something to the side, a short balding man with greying hair, pointed nose, small eyes, and a hand with a finger missing to the side, and on the hearth-rug a large snake curled up into a coil watching everything.
"Nagini tells me you were listening to everything Wormtail and I said, Muggle," the cold voice said from the chair.
"What's that you call me?" Frank asked, wondering how a snake could tell anyone anything.
"I am calling you a Muggle. It means you are not a wizard." the voice explained.
"Well I don't know what you mean, by Wizard. Frank said confidently. "But I's do know that I've heard enough to interest the police I have. You've done murder, and you're planning more. And I'll tell you this. My wife know I'm here and if I'm not back-"
"You have no wife," the cold voice said calmly cutting Frank off. "Nobody know's you came here. You told no one. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows… He always knows."
"That right?" Frank said, roughly. "Lord is it? Well, I don't think much of your manners 'my Lord'. Turn around and face me like a man, why don't ya?"
"Because I am not a man, Muggle," the cold voice said, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "I am much, much more, but why not. A host needs to greet his guests after all. Wormtail, come and turn my chair around." he said to the short man by the side table.
The servant gave a whimper.
"You heard me, Wormtail."
Slowly, with his face screwed up in disgust, the man crossed the hearth-rug where the snake lay, grabbed the chair by its arms and began to turn it to face the old man.
The snake looked up, hissing as the chair legs caught the rug it was resting on.
The chair was now facing Frank and Wormtail stepped aside.
When he did, Frank saw an ugly looking baby holding a stick towards him.
It was so ugly, Frank cried out in fear as his stick clattered to the ground as a beam of green light shot towards him from this baby's wand.
He was dead before he hit the floor.
Just over two hundred miles away, a boy called Harry Potter woke up with a start.
AN: Here we go… Chapter 1 of book 4.
I have plans on some parts of this, I am just not 100% sure how I will get there.
I also don't know how long it will take - chapters or years, so bare with me if you stick around to follow it.
One thing I am planning to do though, is have Jack take Harry's place as the fourth Champion.
If you would like to see that, please say so, so I know to go for that.
Anyway, Update plans - each new chapter will come out once I have written them, reread them, checked them, and uploaded them.
AKA - They will come out when they are ready.
Hopefully (hoping not to jinx it) it won't take years to finish this one.