HARRY POTTER Book 4: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

THE RIDDLE HOUSE

At the top of a hill in the small village of Little Hangleton, there is a big, dark house. People in the village still call it the Riddle House. Once it was large and beautiful. Its windows were bright, and its garden was full of flowers. Now the roof is broken. Rain falls through holes. The paint is coming off its walls, and the windows are covered with wooden boards. No one lives there. People say it feels cold and wrong.

Fifty years ago, the Riddle family lived in that house — Mr. and Mrs. Riddle and their grown-up son, Tom Riddle. They were rich and proud, and they didn’t speak much with the village people. The villagers did not like the Riddle family very much, especially their son, Tom.

One summer morning, the Riddle’s maid came running into the village. She screamed that the Riddles were dead. When the police came, they found the three Riddles in the living room. Their eyes were wide open. They looked terrified. There was not a single mark on their bodies. But they were dead.

The doctor could not discover how they died. There were no wounds, there was no poison, there was nothing strange. It looked as if they just stopped living.

People whispered and made guesses. “Who could kill them in such a way?” they asked. No one really liked the Riddles, so most people only wanted to know who killed them. Then the police arrested the gardener, Frank Bryce.

Frank was a quiet man who lived alone in a small house behind the main Riddle building. He had worked for the Riddles since he was a boy. The villagers thought he was strange because he didn’t talk much. 

But Frank said he didn’t kill the Riddles. He said he had seen something strange that night - a strange boy walking near the house. The police didn’t believe him.

Still, when the doctor said there was no sign of violence or poison, the police had to let Frank go. He returned to his small house behind the Riddle House. He continued to work as a gardener, even though everyone looked at him with suspicion.

Now Frank is an old man. His hair is gray, and his back is weak. His leg was injured from the war. He still looks after the garden of the empty house.

The villagers always talk about him. They think he is crazy to live alone in that place. Children run past his gate. They shout, “Murderer!” and run away laughing. Frank just shakes his head and continues his work.

One warm night in August, Frank wakes with pain in his leg. He goes to the kitchen for water and looks out the window. Up on the hill, he sees a light on in the Riddle House. He can see a fire burning in the fireplace in the upstairs windows.

He frowns in anger. “Those boys again,” he says angrily. He takes his coat, grabs his stick, and begins walking up the path to the house. There is no wind in the night air. Only the crickets sing.

The front door is locked, so Frank enters through the back door. He still has a key. Dust covers the floor; spiders hang from the ceiling. He moves through the kitchen and climbs the stairs toward the light. At the end of the hall, there is a door. It is open just a little. He hears voices on the other side.

One voice is small and shaking. “There’s more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are hungry.” Another voice, high, cold and evil, answers, “Later. Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.”

Frank looks carefully through the open door. A short man with a bald head pushes a chair toward the fireplace. Frank sees a small white hand on the arm of the chair. Frank cannot see the face of the speaker with the cold voice.

“Where’s Nagini?” asks the cold voice. “She has gone to explore the house, My Lord,” says Wormtail. “You must milk her venom before we sleep,” says the voice. “I will need to drink again later in the night. I am still weak from the journey.” Frank is confused. He does not understand these words. Then he hears more.

“How long will we stay here, My Lord?” asks Wormtail. “A week. Until after the Quidditch World Cup,” the cold voice says. “There will be too many wizards during the Quidditch games. They do not want the Muggles to know. It will be too dangerous for us.” “Quidditch?” Frank thinks. “‘Muggles’? Those must be code words for something else.”

“My Lord,” Wormtail says, “we could do it without Harry Potter.” There is a long silence.
The fire burns loudly in the fireplace. “Without Harry Potter?” repeats the cold voice. “You think I can rise again and be powerful without him?” “My Lord, it would be easier—” 

“Easier for you,” hisses the voice. “You wish to leave me.” “No, My Lord!” cries Wormtail. “Liar,” the voice says. “You are afraid of me. You are sorry that you came back to me.”

Frank’s heart beats faster. He understands only this: they plan to kill someone. Then Wormtail says, “People will ask about the disappearance of Bertha Jorkins.” “They will not find the body,” the cold voice replies. 

“You did well to bring her to me. The information she gave me was essential. Now I can complete my plan.” Frank decides he must go to the police. But his legs feel heavy. He stays frozen by the door. “One more death,” the cold voice says. “The boy, Harry Potter, and I will rise again. I think I hear Nagini.” 

Then Frank hears something moving behind him. He turns and looks. A giant snake is moving towards him. Frank looks at the snake in horror. The only way to escape is to run into the room! But before Frank can move, the snake slithers past him into the room. He hears the cold voice again, speaking in a strange way. 

Then, “Nagini says there is a Muggle outside the door. She says he is listening to us talk.” Frank thinks to himself, “The man with the cold voice can understand the snake?” Then suddenly, the door flies open. The small man jumps forward, pale and shaking. “Come in, old man,” says the cold voice. “I wish to speak with you.”

Frank walks into the room, scared. He is holding his stick. The snake is by the fire. It is like a giant, horrible pet dog. There is something small and dark sitting in the chair. It is in a shadow made by the light of the fire.

“So,” says the voice, “Did you hear everything?” “I don’t know what you mean,” says Frank. “You’re criminals. I’ll tell the police.” “There are no police who can help you,” says the voice softly. “No one knows you are here.” 

“Turn around and face me like a man,” says Frank. “But I am not a man,” the voice replies. “Wormtail, turn my chair.” The small man turns the chair slowly. The snake raises its head. In the firelight Frank sees what sits there.

Frank’s stick falls from his hand. He screams and tries to step back. A flash of green light fills the room. Frank falls. He is dead before he hits the floor.

Two hundred kilometers away, Harry Potter wakes from a dream. The scar on his forehead, shaped like a lightning bolt, burns in pain.