Chapter 18- Plans in the making.

Wednesday, July 12, 1995

The old Riddle House stood on a hill overlooking the village of Little Hangleton with all the grace and warmth of a hungry vulture. About fifty years ago, it had been a grand manor house, home to Mr. and Mrs. Riddle, and their grown son, Tom. Now it was a mere shade of its former self, with broken windows, missing roof tiles, and ivy spreading unchecked in the gardens and on the exterior walls.

The Riddles had not been popular with the other Little Hangleton residents. They were aristocratic, and class-conscious, and kept mostly to themselves, but their story, or parts of it, were well known in spite of this. It was a beloved piece of local folklore, known to all the locals, and it's legend grew with each retelling. It was a most compelling saga, after all, which included many of the best story elements: love, tragedy, betrayal, mystery, and unexplained death.

The Riddles, it was said, were not the friendliest of sorts. All three of them had no patience with anything or anyone different or unusual, and they considered themselves a cut above the other villagers. The parents were considered snobbish at best, and Tom was worse if that was possible. All of Little Hangleton had always been assumed that he would be married off in some huge pre-arranged affair to one of the more well-to-do girls from Great Hangleton or some such place. It had been a huge surprise to the locals, then, when Tom hit young adulthood, and began seeing a local village girl. Not once in their wildest dreams had the villagers ever suspected that Tom Riddle would fall for one of their own...or that his parents would tolerate such a relationship.

Sadly, it had not turned out well. The residents of Little Hangleton had been disappointed, but really not that surprised, when the Tom had abruptly severed relations with his young lover, and refused to even acknowledge her existence. His parents had never approved of her, after all. Humiliated and heartbroken, she had eventually left Little Hangleton, and had never been heard from again.

The whys of the relationship always provided ample fodder for the speculation mill. Even after nearly seventy years, people still wondered why Tom Riddle cast her aside so coldly. Some thought she might have been pregnant. Others speculated that his parents put pressure on him to end it. Still others guessed that he might have just tired of her, like a little boy might abandon an old toy in favor of a shiny new one. Blame was almost always laid at Tom's door, and not the girl's. She had been gentle soul, sweet and well liked if somewhat unorthodox. The villagers did not think she broke it off, and could not envision her cheating on Tom, or doing anything at all to deserve such callous treatment. Her fate was also the topic of much debate. A few practical individuals thought she must have picked up the pieces and gotten on with her life. Others with a more romantic or morbid bent, insisted she had died-in childbirth, by her own hand, or wasting away from a broken heart.

There were some grains of truth in the rampant speculation. The girl had indeed been pregnant, but that was not the sole reason her relationship had crumbled. Tom had, in fact, cut all ties, and violently rejected her after discovering she was a witch.

One of the few times it was permissible for witches and wizards to purposefully reveal the magical realm to a muggle, was when the witch or wizard was about to forge some kind of familial bond with the muggle in question. Marriage was the most common circumstance, others included engagement, adoption, legal guardianship, and sometimes fostering. Most magical folk waited until they had some sort of promise, either legal or verbal, before sharing their secret, but the young witch Riddle was seeing did not. They had casually discussed marriage, and she had assumed he would be as pleased about the child as she was.

Unfortunately for her, Tom had not been supportive of her heritage, or the pregnancy, even going so far as to accuse her of infidelity. Repulsed and disgusted, he had abandoned her, advising her to get rid of the child, and leaving her to bear the burden alone. Secure in the knowledge that he was the injured party, Tom had returned to his parents, and his ancestral home. She had misrepresented herself to him, after all, and since she was a witch, surely she should have been able to prevent such a mistake. He never knew or cared that she had died shortly after his son was born, only living long enough to name the squalling, dark-haired baby after his father, whom she still loved in spite of everything. Since his mother had seemed to be quite alone in the world, the attending midwife had turned little Tom Marvolo Riddle over to the authorities. From there, he had been placed in a muggle orphanage.

The villagers hadn't been privy to these details, so they had invented their own. Eventually, the furor over Tom's disastrous love affair had settled down, and other topics began to pop up in local gossip. The villagers generally agreed that the Riddle's were cruel and heartless as well as snobbish, but they had thought that before, and life in Little Hangleton had returned almost to normal.

Years had passed...some said fifteen, others insisted that it was closer to twenty. If nothing else had happened, Tom Riddle's little dalliance might have been forgotten altogether, but all chances of that had flown out of the window when Tom Riddle and his parents had been found dead one morning.

The town had broken into fearful, excited whispers, but no one had felt any true remorse. The townspeople were far more concerned about the capture of any mad killers running about than they had been about the deceased. Frank Bryce, the Riddle's gardener, had been arrested, and taken in for questioning, all the while claiming he had seen a stranger-a pale, dark-haired teenage boy-the night the family had died. His story had not been widely believed, but there had not been sufficient evidence to charge Frank with any crime. He had been released, and had continued to live in the gardener's cottage on the Riddle property until his death the previous summer.

The villagers now regarded the old house with suspicion, and refused to go anywhere near it. The practical villagers pointed out the shaky condition of the structure, the impractical ones insisted it was cursed or jinxed or haunted. Perhaps the vengeful spirit of the unfortunate girl lurked there. Maybe the Riddles themselves or Frank Bryce wandered the halls. People began avoiding going anywhere near the old residence. Even the village boys abandoned their ways of breaking the house's windows, and daring each other to enter it. The old timers who remembered when the Riddles had died were asked to re-tell their stories. Frank's death had brought it all back, since he had been found in the same house, in the same condition as the Riddles had about fifty years before. That was the scariest thing of all. There had been no mark or injury on any of the bodies. They appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be perfectly healthy-except for the horrified looks on their faces. Was it possible to be scared to death?

Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, sat by the fireplace in the Riddle House. His snake, Nagini, was at his side, and his servant, Peter Pettigrew, also known as Wormtail, cowered in the shadows, awaiting orders or instructions.

The house, Voldemort had decided would serve as an acceptable base of operations, for now. He remembered the first time he had come to this place-the first time he had laid eyes on his filthy muggle father and grandparents. He had not killed them immediately, of course. He had wanted his pound of flesh for his mother's desertion, and all the miserable years he had spent languishing in that horrible institution before getting his Hogwarts letter. It felt good to lash out...to hear them scream and beg. He found he liked being the tormentor, instead of the tormented. Growing up in the muggle orphanage had been a wretched, miserable experience, and when he came into his power, Voldemort had decided that the world in general should pay for not saving and protecting him. He hatred, especially for muggles, mud-bloods, and the wizards who tolerated them, knew no bounds.

The Dark Lord sneered as he unobtrusively watched Pettigrew out of the corner of his eye. The man was a coward-a weakling both physically and magically-but for now, at least, he was necessary. Voldemort had managed, with Pettigrew's help, to construct another body for himself, using bone of the father, flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy. Voldemort wished he could have seen the look on Wormtail's face when he had severed his own hand, and Potter's when his blood had been harvested for the potion. Instead he had to content himself with the memory of his servant's anguished sobbing, and the boy's pain and dawning horror when he realized his mother's protection had been effectively nullified as far as Voldemort was concerned. The ceremony had been successful, but initially his new body had tired easily. The night of his rebirth and subsequent duel with Potter had taken more out of him than he would have liked. It had taken the better part of the last two weeks to build up his physical and magical stamina.

His Death Eaters hadn't suspected his infirmary, though. They expected him to bark orders, and were accustomed to waiting on him hand and foot. No one had commented when he took a purely "supervisory" role while the Riddle House was repaired and fortified with wards, protective spells, and Muggle Repelling Charms. He was Power Supreme. The Ultimate Dark Wizard of Recent History. As such he was not expected to dirty his hands with such mundane tasks.

Still, he had required the services of a full time servant, at least for the time being, and although he was a sniveling, incompetent, traitorous coward, Pettigrew had been the logical choice for that task. He was supposed to be dead, so he had no job to return to, no family or friends to notice his absence. Voldemort's mouth twisted into a cruel smile. His condition was improving daily. Once he got his strength back, he could always dispose of the annoying little parasite if he chose. For now, he would let the other wizard stay. Besides, Peter Pettigrew had information that would lead him straight to Harry Potter. As soon as the Snape's memory potion was finished, he could set events in motion.

Voldemort seethed a moment in frustration, as he remembered how his other carefully laid plan had been thwarted by a mere slip of a boy. Before, he had meant to rid himself of Potter quickly. A clean, surgical strike to show the wizarding world how foolish they'd been to pin their hopes on an untried youth. Now he intended to make his enemy suffer dearly for his humiliation. Yes, he would plan a much more...satisfying demise for the Brat-Who-Lived-Just-To-Annoy-Him.

Casually, he stood, and turned to face Wormtail, enjoying the way the man's eyes involuntarily widened in fright. "The hour of our meeting is nearly at hand," Voldemort said silkily. "I require your assistance in summoning the rest of my loyal Death Eaters."

Stifling a resigned sigh, Peter murmured an obedient "Yes, Master, it is my honor to serve you," and approached the dark wizard. Knowing what the other wanted, he knelt and stretched out his left arm, exposing the Dark Mark. God, but I hate this, Peter thought, bracing for the icy, long-fingered touch, and the pain that would inevitably follow. He suspected that the Dark Mark could be made to serve its purpose without having to hurt so damned much, but his master thrived on the suffering of others. Even when the tatoo was not in use, it itched and burned maddeningly. A little warning to the foolhardy that they were under the Dark Lord's scrutiny, and disobedience would not be tolerated.

"Death Eaters, answer my call," Voldemort intoned, laying his spidery hand on Pettigrew's left arm, and activating the Dark Mark with his magic. Peter winced, and cried out sharply as the tattoo burned under his master's touch, and the anti-apparation wards flickered slightly, allowing entrance. For a few minutes, nothing happened, then witches and wizards dressed in black Death Eater robes and masks began to arrive. With practiced ease, they formed a half-circle, before Voldemort, kneeling and bowing their heads in submission.

"Welcome Death Eaters," Voldemort spoke, finally removing his hand from Peter's arm, and facing them. Without preamble, he faced the Hogwarts Potions Master. "How is your potion progressing, Severus?" he asked, ignoring Pettigrew, as he whimpered, and rubbed his arm with his new silver hand.

"Preparations are nearly complete, Master," Snape's voice answered from behind his mask. "The potion will be ready by the week's end."

"Very well," Voldemort replied. He muttered a spell, and created a glass sphere, similar to a Rememberall. "Use this portkey to come here immediately when the potion is completed, then we can begin finalizing plans for Harry Potter's demise." Voldemort handed the portkey to Snape, then smiled cruelly. "And be sure to keep a better eye on your ingredient stores. I do not want to be inconvenienced again. Crucio!" he hissed, flicking his wand in Snape's direction, and holding him under the Cruciatus Curse for a few seconds as a warning. Satisfied that his message had been received, Voldemort turned away from Snape, and snapped, "Malfoy!"

"Yes, my lord?"

"What is going on at the Ministry?"

"The minister still denies any knowledge of your resurrection, my lord," Lucius Malfoy reported. "Arthur Weasley and Amos Diggory have been sniffing around, trying to garner support for Dumbledore, but many are reluctant to oppose Fudge without proof."

Voldemort nodded, then narrowed his eyes speculatively. "What was reported about the TriWizard Tournament?"

"A very small article, Master. Harry Potter was named victor, and that was all. A great many details were hushed up."

"The boy who died was not mentioned? Not at all?" Voldemort pressed, cackling evilly when Lucius shook his head. "Excellent! The Ministry of Magic is doing our work for us." He rubbed his hands together, a look of unholy glee on his face.

"But, master," one Death Eater ventured timidly, "Don't you want the world to know of your triumphant return? Aren't we going to continue Slytherin's noble work?"

"Patience, Avery. You'll get to torture muggles and mudbloods soon enough," the dark lord sneered. "For now, we will be silent, so that when we do attack we will have surprise on our side." He glared at each of the Death Eaters in turn. "We would be unwise to tip our hand."

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