Harry Potter and the New Day; Book four!

Chapter one of this dark book-in-a-book: Dreaming.
(YUP WE'RE BRINGING BACK THE BOOKINABOOK THING BECAUSE I MISSED IT)

also I hate taking tests so much because!!! um!!!! I didnt study for my algerba test!!!!! or any of them lol!!!!!

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In a small town, just on the edge of Northern England, the people of Little Hangleton still called the house up on the hill "The Riddle House," though it had been many, many years since a Riddle last resided there. Some of the windows had been boarded up, tiles of the roof had fallen and ivy had worked its way up and over the fence. Once quite the fine-looking manor, easily having been the lagest and nicest of houses for miles, the Riddle House was now damp, dark and unoccupied. All of Little Hangleton agreed the old place was unforgiveably creepy.

Half a century ago, something strange and rather horrible occured-- something that the older of the village residents still discussed when gossip topics would become scarce. The story had been told over so many times, embroidered in so many places that no one could tell fact from make-believe in every telling.

Every version of the story, however, started exactly the same; Fifty years ago, at daybreak on a nice summer morning, way-back-when the Riddle house was at it's finest, when the maid entered the drawing room to find all three of the Riddles dead.

She ran down the hill, screaming, alerting anyone in the village that she saw.

"Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner clothes!"

The police were summoned shortly and the entirety of Little Hangleton had shook with curiosity and poorly-hidden(if hidden at all, that is) excitement. Nobody dared to bother and waste their breath pretending to feel sorrow for the Riddle family, for they had never been quite popular to begin with.

Elderly Mr and Mrs Riddle were the rich-and-snobbish type, and not to mention, unreasonably rude. Their full grown son had been no better, if not worse. The most the villagers cared for was the identity of the murderer-- obviously, it had to have been a murder, anyhow, for three presumably healthy people did not all drop dead on the very same night, especially not of natural causes.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, had gotten business like never before that night; Nearly everyone in the village wanted to speak about the news. And they were rewarded for staying out rather late when the Riddles' cook arrived ever-so-dramatically, announcing to the suddenly silent pub that a man named Frank Bryce had just been arrested.

"Frank!" Several cried, "Never!"

Frank Bryce was the Riddle family's gardener. He lived in the shabby, run-down cottage on the side of the hill. He returned from war with a painfully stiff leg and a great dislike for crowds and loud noises. He'd been working quietly for the Riddles since his return.

There was a rush to buy the cook drinks, trying to bribe her for details.

"Always thought he was off," she said after her fourth sherry. "Real unfriendly like. I'm sure if I've ever offered him a cuppa-- even once-- then I've offered it a hundred times. That one, he never wants to mix, I tell ya'. Never-ever."

"Ah, now, now," Said a woman sitting up at the bar, "it was a long war. Frank wanted a quiet life, and he's earned it--"

"Who else had a key to the back door then?" barked the cook. "A spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage for as far back as I can remember! Nobody nor nothin' forced that door open last night! No broken windows, nobody came over for dinner or anything! An' all Frank had to do was creep up with that key in his hand while we's was all sleepin'..."

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

"Always thought he had a nasty look to him. Matches up real well," muttered a man, sounding a bit drunken, sipping his beer.

"War made him all funny, I bet." Said the landlord, grimacing.

"Told you there was somethin' odd about Frank, didn't I, Dot?" An excited lady in the corner asked, jumping in her spot.

"Yup. Horrible temper, he had," Dot agreed, nodding. "Why, I remember, back when he was a little kid..."

By the morning, barely anyone doubted Frank to be the killer. However, in the town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was repeating, again and again, that he was innocent. That the only person who he'd seen near the house on the day of the Riddles' deaths had been a teenage boy, no younger than eighteen, no older than twenty; A stranger, in fact, dark-haired and very pale, and not to mention, held a strong resemblance to the late, "young" Mr Riddle.

Yet not a single other person who heard these pleads had recalled seeing a boy of such, and the police were incredibly sure Frank made up the story.

That was, until the reports on the bodies came up. They'd never read-- or even heard of-- a report so irregular.

A team of doctors examined the bodies and concluded that absolutely nothing showed up. No signs of poisoning, strangulation, being shot, no signs of struggle at all, infact. It was becoming questionable if they'd even been harmed at all. They were all in perfect health-- save for the fact they were dead-- but it was noted many a times that they each bore a look of horror on their faces.

As frustrated as the police were, they couldn't arrest a seemingly innocent man-- could the Riddles possibly been scared to death? And even then, what scared them all so horribly? Surely not a grumpy war veteran. So, Frank was let go, and the Riddles were buried in the churchyard of Little Hangleton. The graves became no more than a spot of curiosity in a knowing world, and for whatever reason, Frank moved back into the little cottage on the hillside.

"'S'far as I'm concerned, he killed 'em, and I don't care what the police say," Dot declared in the Hanged Man. "If he had any decency-- and at all-- he'd be packing up his things! He knows we know he did it."

But Frank did not leave. He tended to the garden for the next family residing in the house up on the hill. And the next. Though none of them stayed very long. It wasn't long until the suspiscions of Frank led to the house no longer having local inhabitants, slowly falling into disrepair.

The man who owned the Riddle House in recent days, wealthy and unseen by many of the villagers, if not all of them, neither lived there or even bothered to do anything with it. The people said he purchased it for "tax reasons," though nobody knew what these reasons were. He still paid Frank to keep the garden nice, however.

Things could've been worse. Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday, now a bit deaf and his bad leg stiffer than ever these days, but he could still be seen walking about, pottering the flower beds in fine weather, even the weeds had begun to creep up on him, try as he may to suppress them.

But weeds were not the only thing Frank had to contend to-- young village boys made a habit a throwing stones through the windows of the house. They uncaringly rode their bicycles over the lawn Frank worked so hard to keep smooth and nice. A few times, they'd broken into the old house just for a dare. It wasn't unknown by many-- if unknown at all-- about Frank's devotion to the house ammounted to that of an obsession, and it was rather amusing to see the old man limping his way across the garden, flailing his stick and yelling profanities.

On Frank's end, he believed the boys tormented him very simply because they, like their parents, and grand parents, believed him a murderer. So it was when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old house, he took no time to assume the boys had gone all too far whilst attempting to punish him.

It was Frank's bad leg that woke him, truthfully; It had been paining him worse than ever lately, which could be attributed to his advancing age. He got up and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen with the intention of refilling his hot water bottle to ease the painful stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling up the kettle, he looked up to see one of the windows to the Riddle House glimmering with light. Surely, the boys broke in again, and, guessing by how poor the light was, a fire had been started.

Frank had no telephone, and he had no reason to ever trust the police again. Putting down the kettle at once, he hurried upstairs as fast as his leg would let him. He was soon fully-dressed, removing a rusty key from the hook on the door and picking up his walking stick, he was off into the night.

The front door had not a sign of being forced, and none of the windows were more broken than usual. Frank limped to the back of the house, reaching a door ivy and weeds had almost completely grown over. He took out the old key, put it into the lock, and the door opened noiselessly, save for the scratchy noise of moss and other nature-made burdens.

Frank hadn't entered the kitchen for years, let alone the house, but though it was very dark, he remembered where the door to the hall was located. His nostrils, which hadn't worked very well at all, were now fully functioning and stuffed with the smell of decay, and his ears listened for any footsteps or voices from overhead. When he reached the hall, he quickly climbed the stairs, blessing the thick layers of dust muffling the sound of his feet and stick.

Upon reaching the landing, he turned right and saw almost immediately where the intruders were; At the end of the passage, a door stood ajar, a flickering light shining through the short gap. Slowly edging closer and closer, holding onto his walking stick in preparation, he was able to just barely see into the room from the entrance.

The fire, he realised, had been lit in the grate. He was surprised, but froze immediately. A man's voice spoke, sounding timid and fearful.

"There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry--"

"Later," said a second voice dismissively. It too was a man's voice, and, although oddly high-pitched, sounded colder than a winter without fire. Without life. Something about it made the hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand straight up.

"Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."

Frank turned his better-hearing ear to the door-- his right ear,-- a hear the clink of a bottle being put on a hard surfaec, and the dull scraping of a heavy chair dragging along the floor. He caught a glimpse of a rather small man with his back to the door, pushing the chair up to the grate. He was wearing a long, black cloak and a large bald patch at the back of his head.

"Where is Nagini?" asked the cold voice.

"I-- I don't know, My Lord.." said the first voice, stammering. "I think she set out to explore the house..."

"You will milk her before we retire, Wormtail," said the second voice. "I will need feeding in the night. The journey has tired me greatly."

With a furrowed brow, Frank inclined his ear closer, listening very closely. There was a brief pause, before "Wormtail" spoke again.

"My Lord, may I be allowed to ask how long we will be staying?"

"A week," replied the cold voice simply. "Perhaps longer. This place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup has ended."

Frank quickly inserted a gnarled finger into his ear. Apparently, his ear had been worse than he thought; He'd heard the word "Quidditch," which wasn't a word at all.

"The-- the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?" repeated Wormtail.

Frank only dug his finger more vigourously into his ear.

"Forgive me-- I don't understand-- why should we wait until the World Cup has ended?"

"Because, fool! At this very moment, wizards from all over the world are pouring into the country, and every stupid Ministry-of-magic-meddler will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be hopelessly obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice a thing. So we shall wait."

Frank no longer bothered trying to clean out his ear. He'd heard words that plainly couldn't have meant what they meant to him. Something secret. Surely, the two had to be criminals, speaking in code. Frank held still, however.

"Your Lordship is still determined, then?" Wormtail asked quietly.

"Certainly I am, Wormtail." There was a menacing term in the voice.

A pause followed, and then, Wormtail spoke, the words coming out rushed, as if forced.

"It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord, I am sure we may find... an alternative...."

Wormtail paused, stopping himself.

"Without Harry Potter?" repeated the second second voice softly. "I see."

"My Lord, none-- none of this is out of concern!" declared Wormtail, his voice sqeaking. "The boy means nothing, nothing at all! I merely mean that if-- if we were to use another witch or wizard-- an- any wizard-- it could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me a brief leave, only for a short time-- you know, My Lord, that I can disguise myself most effectively-- I could return in time as little as a day or too with a person perfectly suitable--"

"I could use another wizard, you say," said the chilling voice quietly. "That is true...."

"My Lord, please, it makes sense," said Wormtail, sounding severely relieved. "Retrieving Harry Potter would be so difficult, and he is so well protected, by so many--"

"And you volunteer to fetch me a worth substitute? I wonder... perhaps the task of nursing me properly had become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion be nothing more than a ploy to desert me?"

"My Lord, I'd--! I have no wish, whatsoever, to leave you! None at all!"

"Do not lie to me!" hissed the voice violently, the cold chill returned. "I can always tell, Wormtail! You regret that you ever returned to me! I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, I feel you shudder when you have to touch me...."

"NO! My devoted is to Your Lordship only--"

"Your 'devotion' is no more than cowardice! You would not be here if you had anywhere else in the world to be. How am I to survive when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini, if not you?"

"But you are so much stronger now, My Lord--"

"Liar!" breathed the voice sharply. "I am no stronger, and even a day alone would rob me completely of the scarce health I have gained under your pathetic, clumsy care. Silence yourself at once or I shall do it for you!"

Wormtail, who'd been sputtering nonsensical mutterings, fell silent at once.

For a short moment, all Frank could hear was the crackling of the fire. Then the nameless man spoke once more, so quietly that he was almost hissing.

"I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have awaited thirteen years. A few months will make no difference.... As for the boy's protection... I believe my plan will be most offective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail. Courage you do not have and need to find unless you want to be the first to feel the full extent of Lord Voldemort's wrath--"

"My Lord! I must speak!" Wormtail spoke, panic-stricken. "All throughout our journey, I have gone over the plan in my head! My Lord, Bertha Jorkins's disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed... if I murder--"

"If?" Spat the cold voice. "If, Wormtail? If you follow the plan properly, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know anyone has died. You will do it without a fuss unless you wish to be the first to fall. I only wish I could do it myself, but in my present condition.... Come, Wormtail. One more death and our path to Harry Potter is clear. I am not asking you to do it alone, technically. In soon time, my faithful servant will have joined us--"

"I am a faithful servant, My Lord," breathed Wormtail, a trace of sullenness in his voice.

"Wormtail, I need brains-- somebody whose loyalty has never faltered and their will unbending. You, unfortunately for me, fulfill neither requirement."

"I found you," Wormtail declared, and the sulky tint in his voice was enow evident. "I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins."

"True," hummed the second voice, seemingly amused. "An unpredictable stroke of brilliance I had not considered something possible from you. But now-- say it. You were not aware just how useful she would be when she was caught."

"I-- no, but I knew she would be useful nonetheless, My Lord--"

"Lies," snapped the second voice, and the amusement was now obvious. "However, I do not deny she was invaluable. Without it, I would not have formed my plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. In time. I will allow you to perform an esential task for me, one that many of my followers would give themselves entirely to perform...."

"R-really, My Lord? May I ask?--" Wormtail asked, now sounding terrified.

"Ah, Wormtail, you do not wish for me to spoil the surprise, surely? Your part will come at the very end... but I promise you, you will have the honour of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins."

"You... you..." Wormtail's voice had gone hoarse, as if his mouth was suddenly very dry. "You... you are going... to kill me too?"

"Wormtail, Wormtail," said the cold voice, smooth and silky, "Why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless anyway. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had returned to the Ministry saying she'd met you on her holidays. Wizards who were thought to be dead and then wanted for arrest would do well to not run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns...."

Wormtail muttered something so quiet that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh-- a cruel laugh, as mirthless as his voice, as chilling as his words.

"'We could've modified her memory?' But memory charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, and I proved so when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory to not use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail."

In the corridor, Frank was suddenly aware that his hands had been slipperly with sweat. The man whose name was unknown had killed a woman. And he had no remore when speaking-- if not amusement. He was a madman, surely. And he was planning more murders-- that boy- Harry Potter, whoever he was-- he was in danger.

Frank now knew what to do. Now, if any time, ever, was the time to go to the police. He'd have to creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box on the village street. But the voice was speaking again, and Frank was frozen to the spot, listening.

"One more murder... my faithful servant at Hogwarts... Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more arguement. Silence-- I think I hear Nagini..."

His voice changed- it became unfamiliar to anything Frank had ever heard. He had begun hissing and spitting without even breathing. Frank thought he must've been having a fit or seizure of some sort.

And then Frank heard movement in the dark passageway-- he turned to look, and found himself unable to move.

Something was slithering towards him along the floors of the dark corridor, and as it drew nearer, he realised, it was a snake. Larger than any he'd ever seen with his own eyes, atleast twelve feet-- minimum. Horrified, Frank couldn't do anything but stare as it cut a wide, curving track through the piles of dust on the floor, and it grew closer and closer every passing second.

What was he to do? The only means of escape was to burst into the room where two men were plotting murder, but the snake would surely kill him if he didn't move--

But before he could decide on his decision, the snake was right before him, and then, incredibly, fortunately-- any and every word he could think of that meant he'd been blessed-- it was passing him by. When he looked after it, the tip of it's patterned tail had just vanished throught he gap of the door.

Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and an unbelievably strange idea had crossed Frank's mind, an idea likely impossible.... This man could talk to snakes.

Frank wanted nothing more than to run, and be back in his bed with his hot water-bottle and his leg no longer aching, but both of his legs didn't want to move. As he stood there, trying and struggling to get a grip on himself, the cold voice had abruptly spoke in English again.

"Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail," he said.

"She does, My Lord?" wondered Wormtail.

"She does, yes," the voice snapped, though with an amused tone. "According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say."

Frank didn't even have the chance to hide. The door was flung wide open.

A short, balding man with graying hair and a pointed nose paired with small, watery eyes stood in the doorway, a look of fear and alarm on his face.

"Invite him inside, Wormtail, have you no manners?"

The voice was come from the ancient armchair sitting before the fire, but Frank couldn't see who he was. The snake was curled up on the rotting rug, as if mimicking a pet dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room, and though still thoroughly shaken, Frank grasped his walking stick and suddenly remembered how to walk, limping over the threshold.

The fire was the only source of light in the dim room, casting long, spidery shadows over the walls. Frank stared at the back of the armchair; The man had to be tiny- miniscule, even, for Frank couldn't even see the back of his head.

"You heard everything, Muggle?" asked the voice.

"Wha'ssat you're calling me?" Frank asked, for now he was here, and now was a time where he needed to act. He felt braver now. It had always been so in the war.

"I am calling you a Muggle," answered the voice simply. "For you are not a wizard."

"I don't know what you mean by wizard," growled Frank, his voice steady. "All I know is I've heard enough that informing the police is necessary. You've done murder and you're planning to do more! And I'll tell you this too," he added, doubting himself, "my wife knows I'm up here. If I'm not back in the hour, she'll--"

"You have no wife." said the cold voice quietly. "Nobody knows you are here. You told nobody you were coming. Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Muggle, for he knows... he always knows...."

"Is that right?" asked Frank roughly. "Lord, is it? Well I don't think very much of your manners, My Lord. Turn 'round and face me like a man, won't you?"

"I am no man, Muggle." said the voice, barely audible over the sound of flames. "I am much, much more than a man. However.... Why not? I will face you... Wormtail, come and turn my chair."

Wormtail gave a whimper.

"You heard me, Wormtail."

Slowly, with his face turnt in a way that looked as if he'd rather not, the small man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its and hissed as one of the chair's legs snagged on the rug.

And suddenly, the chair was facing Frank, and he wished he hadn't seen what was there. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter, and he screamed so loud to the point he never heard the words the thing in the chair said, only seeing the wand it raised.

There was a flash of green light-- a rushing sound-- and Frank Bryce fell to the ground, his screaming silenced. He was dead before he hit the floor.

A few hundred miles away, the boy named Harry Potter awoke with a start.