The Riddle House.
A kettle whistled, sharp and shrill, in the cottage of Frank Bryce. The old Muggle grumbled, glancing out the window.
The manor on the hill, long abandoned, had a light burning in the upper window.
Frank cursed under his breath. Bloody kids again.
Taking his flashlight, he set out toward the Riddle House, the weeds crunching under his boots as he made his way up the familiar path.
Inside the house, the air was thick with shadows. Firelight flickered over rotting walls, illuminating three figures—one in a chair, cloaked in darkness, his very presence thick with menace.
Lord Voldemort.
Peter Pettigrew, pale and hunched, hovered nervously beside him, wringing his hands. Opposite him stood a younger man, sharp-eyed and eager.
Barty Crouch Jr.
Voldemort's voice curled through the room, quiet and dangerous.
"How fastidious you've become, Wormtail," he murmured. "As I recall, you once called the nearest gutter pipe home. Could it be that the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you?"
Wormtail flinched. "Oh, no, my Lord! I only meant—perhaps if we were to do it without the boy—"
Voldemort's eyes gleamed, their fevered intensity turning to steel.
"No," he said coldly. "The boy is everything. It cannot be done without him. And it will be done exactly as I have said."
Barty Crouch Jr. stepped forward, his lips curling into a smirk. "I will not disappoint you, my Lord."
Voldemort's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he gave a slow nod.
"Good." His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it sent a shiver through Wormtail. "First, gather our old comrades. Send them a sign."
Nagini slithered across the room, her scales glinting in the firelight.
But Voldemort did not look at her. His thoughts had turned elsewhere.
"The necklace," he murmured.
Barty's smirk faltered. "Cor Verum, my Lord?"
"Yes," Voldemort said, eyes narrowing. "The girl still wears it."
Wormtail hesitated. "The Sweet girl?" His lip curled slightly in disgust.
Voldemort's fingers clenched on the armrest of his chair.
"Do not speak her name," he hissed. "She is nothing. A descendant of thieves. That necklace—my necklace—has been wasted on her."
Barty tilted his head, intrigued.
"Is it true, then?" he asked. "That it amplifies magic? That it makes the wearer... more of themselves?"
Voldemort's lip curled. "In the hands of a true wizard, it is limitless. Power beyond measure."
Wormtail swallowed. "Then why not take it now?" he asked hesitantly. "Surely, she is no threat—"
"No threat?" Voldemort's voice rose, sharp with contempt. "Do you think Dumbledore does not watch her? That Potter and his little friends will not cling to her? No. We must wait."
Wormtail licked his lips, shifting nervously.
"My Lord..." He hesitated, but when Voldemort's red eyes flicked to him, he rushed on. "Even if Dumbledore was not in the way... I have known this girl for years. Even as a child, she—she was impossible to control. Always watching. Always suspecting."
Voldemort stared at him, unimpressed.
"She hated me before she even knew who I was," Wormtail muttered bitterly. "Scabbers, they called me, and yet she despised me. The way she looked at me—like she knew something was wrong." He shuddered. "And when she found out the truth, she—"
"She what?" Voldemort drawled.
"She nearly killed me, she was ready to give me away to be slaughtered." Wormtail swallowed thickly. "She's fierce, my Lord. Reckless. She fights for them without hesitation."
Barty let out a sharp laugh. "So do most of the fools in that castle," he sneered. "That does not make her special."
"She will not give it up easily," Wormtail insisted, voice trembling. "The necklace—it's likely that it is bonded to her. She must surrender it willingly."
Silence fell over the room.
Then Voldemort smiled.
A slow, cruel smile.
"She will," he murmured. "In time."
Barty's smirk returned, knowing.
"The Triwizard Tournament," he said.
Voldemort's thin lips curled. "Yes."
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise.
A hiss sounded at the doorway.
Nagini.
Voldemort turned toward her, listening as she flicked her tongue. Then his gaze snapped to the door.
"Nagini tells me the old Muggle caretaker is standing just outside the door."
Wormtail froze.
A shadow flickered in the hallway beyond.
Voldemort smiled.
"Step aside, Wormtail," he murmured, "so I can give our guest a proper greeting."
Wormtail slunk backward, eyes gleaming in the firelight. The door creaked open.
Frank Bryce's hand tightened on his flashlight, his face pale with shock as he stared at the twisted figure in the chair.
A whisper like silk.
"Avada Kedavra."
A flash of green light—
And Frank Bryce was dead before he hit the floor.
The kettle whistled in his cottage, shrieking into the night.