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Chapter Text

In the quiet hamlet of Hanglenton, nestled near the edge of a sprawling, dilapidated estate, an old man stirred in his modest cabin. Frank, weathered by time and burdened by the persistent ache in his leg, rose from his creaking bed with a scowl. The pain had gnawed at him through the night, growing sharper with each restless hour. Limping to his small kitchen, he filled a battered kettle at the sink and set it on the stove, hoping the warmth of hot water might dull the throbbing in his bones. He'd endured this before—knew the routine. In a few moments, the familiar relief would come.

But as he waited for the water to heat, something caught his eye through the grimy window. Across the overgrown expanse of the estate, the grand Riddle Manor loomed, its silhouette stark against the predawn sky. For the first time in years, faint lights flickered within its walls, casting eerie glows that danced across the darkened windows. Shadows moved inside, pacing restlessly from one side to another.

"Damned kids," Frank muttered under his breath, his voice rough with irritation.

He hobbled to the chair by the door, where a pair of worn boots and a threadbare woolen coat lay draped. Bundling himself against the morning chill, he grabbed his gnarled, timeworn cane from its hook on the wall. With a grunt, he stepped out into the cold, his uneven gait carrying him across the vast, unkempt garden that separated his cabin from the looming manor. The Riddle estate, once a symbol of grandeur, had long been abandoned, its opulence swallowed by creeping vines and neglect. Frank moved as quickly as his limp allowed, his cane sinking into the soft earth with each step.

As he approached the manor's entrance, he noticed the massive ebony doors, their surface nearly overtaken by tangled ivy. Above them, the name "Riddle" was scrawled in faded green ink, a ghostly reminder of the family that once ruled this place. Frank checked the heavy padlock securing the doors—it remained intact, undisturbed. Frowning, he circled the mansion, his eyes scanning for signs of intrusion. At the rear, he found a small servants' door, slightly ajar, its hinges creaking faintly in the breeze.

"They'll regret this," Frank growled to himself, his grip tightening on his cane as he eased the door open with care.

Inside, the manor was a frozen relic of its former glory. Dust hung thick in the air, and the faint scent of mildew clung to the walls. Frank had been here just a week ago, as he did every Sunday, sweeping through the rooms and tending to the overgrown grounds. The mysterious payments for the manor's upkeep still arrived at his cabin, as they had for decades, though the owners never showed. As long as the money came, Frank didn't question it—he'd maintain the place until his last breath.

He crossed the cavernous kitchen, moving slowly to avoid detection. His ears caught the sound of footsteps echoing from the upper floors, deliberate and uneven. Gripping his cane, he ascended the grand staircase, pausing each time a step groaned under his weight or his cane tapped too loudly. At the top, he crept toward the master bedroom, where the Riddle family had once slept. Before he could push the door open to confront the intruders, voices drifted through the heavy wood, stopping him cold.

"Bring me closer to the fire, Wormtail," a cold, commanding voice demanded. The sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor followed, then footsteps nearing the crackling hearth.

"Where's Nagini?" the same voice asked, laced with disdain.

"I—I don't know, my lord," stammered another, his voice trembling and hoarse, as if rarely used. "I think she's somewhere in the manor, my lord."

"The journey has left me drained," the first voice snapped, its tone sharp with impatience. "We'll need food, and soon."

"I'll go to the village at first light, my lord," the one called Wormtail replied, his words faltering. "If I may ask, my lord… how long will we stay here?"

"This manor is mine by right," the first voice hissed, brimming with fury. "I'll stay as long as I please. The plan is in motion, Wormtail. It begins when the Quidditch World Cup ends. Barty sent an owl from his estate—the Ministry of Magic has tightened security to absurd levels, for Muggles and wizards alike. Breaking through will be nearly impossible unless they can verify their tickets to the Cup."

Frank, pressed against the door, strained to make sense of the cryptic words. "Ministry of Magic"? "Quidditch World Cup"? "Muggles"? "Wizards"? The terms swirled in his mind, alien and nonsensical. His grip on the cane tightened, his heart pounding as he realized these were no ordinary trespassers. Something far stranger—and far more dangerous—was unfolding within the walls of the forgotten Riddle Manor.

The air in the Riddle Manor grew thick with tension as Wormtail's trembling voice broke the silence. "M-My lord… d-do you think we could… proceed without Harry Potter?" His words squeaked out, shrill and rat-like, betraying the terror that gripped him.

A heavy silence followed, stretching for agonizing minutes. Outside the door, old Frank pressed himself against the cold wall, his pulse pounding in his ears. His teeth clenched, and his sweaty hands tightened around his worn cane, the wood slick under his grip. Inside, Wormtail seemed to cower, likely trembling under the weight of the first speaker's presence—a man whose voice carried a chilling authority.

"Without Harry Potter?" The words exploded from the room, laced with fury. A loud crash followed—something heavy hurled across the floor—accompanied by a piercing squeal, like a rat caught in a trap. Frank flinched, his heart racing faster.

"F-Forgive me, my lord… please… I beg you…" Wormtail's voice was a pitiful whimper, each word punctuated by gasps of pain, as if he could barely endure the torment inflicted upon him.

"Be silent, Wormtail!" the cold voice commanded, its anger replaced by an icy venom that sent a shiver through Frank's bones. "I could use any witch or wizard—any would suffice. But I have my reasons for choosing Potter." The name was spoken with a slow, almost playful malice, as if savoring it. "It will be him. Thirteen years I've waited, lurking in shadows, clinging to the edges of life. One more month, and my plans will begin. A year, perhaps, before he stands before me. Join FandomForge and share your thoughts!patreon.com/FandomForge .Time means nothing—when he comes, it will be his end. For nearly eleven years, I existed as a mere parasite, sustained only by Nagini's loyalty. Without her, I'd have no form at all. You, Wormtail, have served me these months out of nothing but fear." A faint shuffle suggested Wormtail had struggled to his feet, his movements unsteady. "So, my dear servant, find your courage and patience. Fail me, and you'll face the full wrath of Lord Voldemort."

A stifled squeak escaped Wormtail, followed by the steady crackle of the fire. The room fell silent again until Wormtail's shaky voice ventured, "A-And what of Bertha Jorkins, my lord? Should I… cast the curse?"

"Stick to the plan," the voice replied, now tinged with a sinister satisfaction. "Do it quietly—the Ministry must suspect nothing. Soon, Barty will be free and join us here. Bertha's information was… useful, Wormtail. Your fortunate blunder will serve us well, and in time, you'll have your reward, my loyal servant." The words slithered out, venomous and deliberate.

Frank's breath caught in his throat, his hands trembling so violently that his cane nearly slipped from his grasp. These men weren't mere trespassers—they were killers, plotting their next crimes. A woman named Bertha Jorkins and a boy called Harry Potter were their targets. He had to get out, to reach the police, though he harbored little faith in them. It was his only chance.

Before he could move, a massive serpent glided into view, its yellow eyes glowing like embers in the dim corridor. A lifeless rabbit dangled from its jaws, blood staining its scales. The creature passed so close that Frank froze, certain it would strike. Instead, it hissed with a strange, contented energy and slithered through the open door.

"My dear Nagini," the cold voice purred, warm with unsettling affection. "Thank you for the meal—and the news. We have a visitor, Wormtail. Show our guest the hospitality of my home."

Footsteps approached the door. Frank's heart lurched. He turned, hobbling as fast as his bad leg allowed, but before he could reach the staircase, an unseen force yanked him backward. A clammy, hairy hand—more claw than human—clamped onto his arm, its long, jagged nails digging into his skin. Frank's gaze met his captor's, and his stomach churned. The man was squat, with bulging eyes, a pointed nose, and teeth protruding like a rat's. Wormtail wasn't just named for his voice—he was a living embodiment of the creature.

Wormtail dragged Frank into the room, where the fire's glow cast flickering shadows across the walls. A figure sat in an armchair by the hearth, his presence dominating the space. Nagini, the serpent, coiled atop the headrest, her eyes locked on Frank as she swallowed the last of her prey, a bulge sliding down her sinuous body.

"Well, well, my dear Muggle," the figure said, his voice smooth and menacing. "Nagini tells me you've overheard our conversation. Or have you?" He paused, letting the words linger as the snake's coils tightened. "That's rather unfortunate for your well-being."

"My wife knows I'm here," Frank blurted, desperation clawing at him. "She'll expect me back soon, and if I don't return—"

A chilling laugh cut him off, freezing the blood in his veins. Sweat trickled down his spine. "A poor liar," the voice mocked. "No wife, no children, no one waiting for you. No one knows you're here. Don't lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle. I always know." Nagini's tail twitched, the bulge from her meal still visible.

"My lord," Frank stammered, collapsing to his knees in a futile plea. "I swear I won't tell anyone. Let me serve you—please, I'll do anything!" He wasn't ready to die, not yet.

The figure laughed again, a cruel, hollow sound. "A useless old man? No, I think not. Wormtail already fills the role of incompetent servant. Besides, Nagini is… curious about you." The snake hissed, her tongue flicking. The armchair swiveled, and a blinding green light—
-

Over three hundred kilometers away, Harry Potter jolted awake in his cramped bedroom at Number 4 Privet Drive. His body was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, and his eyes stung with unshed tears. His throat was parched, but the worst was the searing pain in his forehead, where his lightning-shaped scar burned as if freshly carved. He pressed a trembling hand to it, wincing, as the vivid images of the Riddle Manor lingered in his mind—Wormtail's squeaking voice, Nagini's glowing eyes, and the cold, menacing tone of Voldemort. Was it just a dream, or something far more sinister?

Chapter Text

Harry rubbed his scar, the lingering pain a sharp reminder of the nightmare that had jolted him awake. He shuffled back to his bed, glancing at the digital clock on his bedside table. Its glowing red digits read 3:15 a.m.—far too early for the world to stir. A loud snore rumbled from the next room, undoubtedly Dudley, his cousin, lost in oblivious sleep. Harry sat on the edge of his mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling of his small bedroom, half-expecting another stab of pain or some ominous sign to shatter the quiet. Minutes dragged on, heavy and uneventful, but nothing came.

Pain didn't frighten Harry—not anymore. At fourteen, he'd endured more than most could imagine. The death of his parents, the cruelty of the Dursleys, a battle with a professor possessed by a cursed stone, the agonizing regrowth of every bone in his right arm after a mishap, and a thirty-centimeter basilisk fang piercing that same arm. Just last year, he'd plummeted fifteen meters from his broom during a Quidditch match. Strange accidents and near-fatal injuries were his norm, and he'd grown accustomed to the scars they left—both visible and unseen.

Another snore, deeper and more guttural, echoed from farther down the hall—Uncle Vernon this time. Harry found a strange comfort in their sleeping sounds. As long as the Dursleys were asleep, he was spared their grating voices and endless complaints about his existence. To the residents of Privet Drive, Harry was a delinquent, a burden grudgingly borne by his saintly aunt and uncle, who'd sent him to "St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys"—or so they claimed. In truth, Harry had been attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry since he was eleven, a famous young wizard in a world the Dursleys despised. They'd hidden something from him, something vital, something that might just give him the edge he needed against Voldemort. That secret, uncovered in the attic just weeks ago, burned in his chest, fueling a resolve that everything would change once he returned to the wizarding world.

An urge tugged at him to slip out of his room, to check if Voldemort was indeed lurking in the shadows of Little Whinging. But the thought of the Dursleys waking to find him creeping about made him pause. He could already picture Uncle Vernon's face turning purple, bellowing about "causing a racket at this hour." The idea of explaining his scar's pain or the possibility of a dark wizard prowling Privet Drive struck Harry as absurdly funny, and he stifled a laugh. Vernon would probably explode at the mere mention of magic.

Settling back onto his bed, Harry tried to clear his mind. His gaze drifted to the stack of birthday cards on his bedside table, sent by his closest friends at the end of June. Their words were a lifeline in this stifling house. Then his eyes flicked to his desk, where his greatest treasure lay hidden between the pages of a book. He touched the metal pendant at his neck, a keepsake that sparked a flood of questions. What would happen when he told his friends about the attic's secret? What awaited him at Gringotts? And what would they say about his dream and the searing pain in his scar?

Hermione Granger's voice echoed in his mind, clear and earnest: "Harry, you have to tell Dumbledore! I'll check my books on magical ailments—there's got to be something about curse scars causing pain." He could almost see her, brow furrowed, already flipping through a tome. But Harry doubted a book—or even Dumbledore—could help. Join FandomForge and share your thoughts! patreon.com/FandomForge .The headmaster would likely offer some gentle wisdom in that grandfatherly tone: "It's quite normal, Harry. Scars, even magical ones, can ache from time to time." Harry wasn't sure if Dumbledore was at Hogwarts or off on some mysterious errand, but he knew Hedwig, his loyal owl, could find him anywhere. She'd never failed to deliver a letter, no matter how vague the address.

He imagined scribbling a note:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Sorry to bother you, but my scar burned this morning. I hope Voldemort isn't planning a surprise visit to declare his intentions. Also, I'd like to discuss something about my parents.

Yours,

Harry Potter

Even in his head, it sounded ridiculous. He smirked, picturing Ron's reaction instead: "Your scar hurts? Blimey, mate, you don't think You-Know-Who's nearby, do you? Probably just your imagination. Come on, let's grab some food—Mum sent over some cakes." Ron's easygoing humor always lightened the mood, though it rarely solved anything.

Harry's eyelids grew heavy. He'd been awake for nearly half an hour, lost in thought, and sleep was creeping back. Maybe the best thing was to rest and hope the morning brought no new alarms. If he wrote to Hermione, she'd dive into research, her brilliant mind unmatched by any witch their age. She was clever, brave, creative, with a laugh that brightened his days and honey-brown eyes that made his chest tighten in a way he couldn't quite explain. Wait, he thought, startled. That's not how you describe a friend, is it?

He shook off the thought, his mind drifting to the upcoming weeks. Soon, he'd join Hermione and the Weasleys at the Burrow, then head to the Quidditch World Cup. The prospect of seeing his friends and cheering at the match filled him with warmth. Before he knew it, sleep claimed him again.

Flashback

"Ready?" Harry whispered to Hermione, his voice barely audible over the wind. "You'd better hold on tight."

Hermione's hands gripped his waist as he urged Buckbeak forward with a gentle nudge of his heels. The hippogriff launched into the night sky, wings beating powerfully. Harry squeezed Buckbeak's sides with his knees, feeling the creature's muscles shift as they climbed. Hermione's grip tightened, her arms sliding up to wrap around his chest in a desperate embrace, her body pressed close against his back.

"Oh, Merlin, I hate this, Harry," she muttered, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and exasperation. "I really hate this."

Harry grinned, not just at her reaction but at the warmth of her closeness—her hands clutching his chest, her breath quick and warm against his neck. A flush crept up his face, and he was glad she couldn't see it. To ease her fear, he guided Buckbeak into a gentle glide, steering toward the north tower of Hogwarts. Counting the windows as they passed, he pulled the left rein, and the hippogriff banked smoothly.

"Easy now!" Harry called, tugging the reins to slow Buckbeak. They hovered, wings flapping steadily, outside the right window.

"There he is," Harry said, spotting Sirius's silhouette. "Lean back, Hermione!"

She drew her wand, one hand still clutching his robes. "Alohomora!" she whispered, and the window swung open. A sudden chill washed over Harry, as if the warmth had been sucked from his body. For a moment, he wondered if a Dementor was near, but the castle grounds had been cleared after his Patronus. Hermione turned, her face catching the moonlight, and flashed him a triumphant smile. His heart skipped, racing faster than Buckbeak's wings.

End Flashback

Harry's eyes fluttered open, a broad smile spreading across his face. The memory of Hermione and Sirius, two people he trusted completely, calmed his nerves. They'd listen to his fears about the dream without adding to his worries or spreading the news. Guilt pricked at him for sidelining Ron, but he'd sort that out later. For now, he needed to write to Sirius and Hermione.

Glancing at the clock—7:02 a.m.—he felt surprisingly alert despite barely four hours of sleep. He rose, crossed to his trunk, and pulled out two clean sheets of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. As he wrote, the first rays of dawn spilled into the room, casting a soft glow over his desk. When he finished, he reread the letters carefully.

Dear Sirius,

Thanks for your last letter—that owl was massive, nearly got stuck in the window!

Things here are the same. The Dursleys are still terrified you'll show up and hex them into oblivion, though I think they'd be thrilled to be rid of me. They're as charming as ever—typical Muggle nonsense.

I'm okay, but something odd happened this morning. My scar hurt again, like it did when Voldemort was at Hogwarts. I doubt he's lurking around Privet Drive, but do you know anything about curse scars acting up years later, maybe for no reason?

I'll send this with Hedwig once she's back from hunting. I've kept her cooped up too long because of the Dursleys, and now she's out all day catching mice. I've had to toss a few before they notice.

Give Buckbeak my regards—and a fat ferret for those brilliant rides.

Yours,

Harry

Not bad, Harry thought, folding the parchment. It was vague enough to avoid worrying Sirius while still asking for insight. He set it aside and read the second letter.

Dear Hermione,

Thanks for your letters—they're sometimes the only thing that keeps me going here. Ron's not much for writing, and you know how the Dursleys feel about owls. They think Hedwig's some kind of demonic creature and worry the neighbors will notice.

Things are fine, though Dudley's face when Aunt Petunia hands me your letters is priceless. Ever since he saw your photo in my album, he keeps asking me to invite you for dinner, which drives my aunt mad. They only let me read your letters because they're scared I'll tell Sirius they're mistreating me, and he'll turn them into toads. I keep telling Dudley he'd look better with pig ears to match that tail Hagrid gave him.

Something weird happened this morning—my scar hurt again. I'm not sure why, but I bet you've got a book that says curse scars flare up sometimes. I also had a dream about you, that night we freed Sirius. I can still hear your screams about falling off Buckbeak and feel you clinging to me. Woke up in a good mood, picturing that smile of yours.

Say hi to your parents for me, and thank your mum for the birthday cake—it was amazing. I'm on my fourth read of that book you sent. I know what you're thinking: if I studied Potions like this, I wouldn't need your help with Snape. But let's be honest, I'll always need you.

Yours,

Harry

Harry grinned, though he wondered if mentioning the dream was a bit much. He decided against telling them about the attic discovery—that was too important for a letter. He'd share it in person. Grabbing an envelope from his trunk, he folded Hermione's letter, sealed it with a dab of glue, and wrote her address from memory, having sent so many letters recently.

Just then, Hedwig tapped the window, her beak clicking happily. She'd returned from her hunt with only one small mouse this time, dropping it on the desk. Harry stroked her feathers, relieved she hadn't brought a pile of rodents. "I know you've been out, girl," he said, tying Sirius's letter to her leg. "One more trip, okay? This one's for Sirius. Watch out for anyone trying to intercept it." Hedwig hooted cheerfully, nipped his finger affectionately, and soared out the window. Harry leaned against the sill, watching her silhouette fade into the morning sky.

He picked up Hermione's letter, deciding to drop it at the Muggle post office later. Today, he'd wander the shops in Little Whinging, as he'd done most days this week, returning late to avoid the Dursleys' complaints. Glancing at his calendar, he spotted two circled dates: "Back to Hogwarts" on September 1, and, just two weeks away, "Quidditch World Cup." A smile spread across his face. Soon, he'd be with Hermione, Ron, and the Weasleys, cheering at the match. Whatever shadows lingered from his nightmare, the thought of his friends and the wizarding world waiting for him chased them away—for now.