Chapter 1 The Riddle House

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it “the Riddle House,” even though it had been many years since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a hill overlooking the village, some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied.

The Little Hangletons all agreed that the old house was “creepy.” Half a century ago, something strange and horrible had happened there, something that the older inhabitants of the village still liked to discuss when topics for gossip were scarce. The story had been picked over so many times, and had been embroidered in so many places, that nobody was quite sure what the truth was anymore. Every version of the tale, however, started in the same place: Fifty years before, at daybreak on a fine summer's morning when the Riddle House had still been well kept and impressive, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three Riddles dead.

The maid had run screaming down the hill into the village and roused as many people as she could.

“Lying there with their eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner things!”

The police were summoned, and the whole of Little Hangleton had seethed with shocked curiosity and ill-disguised excitement. Nobody wasted their breath pretending to feel very sad about the Riddles, for they had been most unpopular. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Riddle had been rich, snobbish, and rude, and their grown-up son, Tom, had been, if anything, worse. All the villagers cared about was the identity of their murderer - for plainly, three apparently healthy people did not all drop dead of natural causes on the same night.

The Hanged Man, the village pub, did a roaring trade that night; the whole village seemed to have turned out to discuss the murders. They were rewarded for leaving their firesides when the Riddles’ cook arrived dramatically in their midst and announced to the suddenly silent pub that a man called Frank Bryce had just been arrested.

“Frank!” cried several people. “Never!”

Frank Bryce was the Riddles’ gardener. He lived alone in a run-down cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since.

There was a rush to buy the cook drinks and hear more details.

“Always thought he was odd,” she told the eagerly listening villagers, after her fourth sherry. “Unfriendly, like. I'm sure if I've offered him a cuppa once, I've offered it a hundred times. Never wanted to mix, he didn't.”

“Ah, now,” said a woman at the bar, “he had a hard war, Frank. He likes the quiet life. That's no reason to -”

“Who else had a key to the back door, then?” barked the cook. “There's been a spare key hanging in the gardener's cottage far back as I can remember! Nobody forced the door last night! No broken windows! All Frank had to do was creep up to the big house while we was all sleeping…”

The villagers exchanged dark looks.

“I always thought that he had a nasty look about him, right enough,” grunted a man at the bar.

“War turned him funny, if you ask me,” said the landlord.

“Told you I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of Frank, didn't I, Dot?” said an excited woman in the corner.

“Horrible temper,” said Dot, nodding fervently. “I remember, when he was a kid…”

By the following morning, hardly anyone in Little Hangleton doubted that Frank Bryce had killed the Riddles.

But over in the neighboring town of Great Hangleton, in the dark and dingy police station, Frank was stubbornly repeating, again and again, that he was innocent, and that the only person he had seen near the house on the day of the Riddles’ deaths had been a teenage boy, a stranger, dark-haired and pale. Nobody else in the village had seen any such boy, and the police were quite sure Frank had invented him.

Then, just when things were looking very serious for Frank, the report on the Riddles’ bodies came back and changed everything.

The police had never read an odder report. A team of doctors had examined the bodies and had concluded that none of the Riddles had been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangles, suffocated, or (as far as they could tell) harmed at all. In fact (the report continued, in a tone of unmistakable bewilderment), the Riddles all appeared to be in perfect health - apart from the fact that they were all dead. The doctors did note (as though determined to find something wrong with the bodies) that each of the Riddles had a look of terror upon his or her face - but as the frustrated police said, whoever heard of three people being frightened to death?

As there was no proof that the Riddles had been murdered at all, the police were forced to let Frank go. The Riddles were buried in the Little Hangleton churchyard, and their graves remained objects of curiosity for a while. To everyone's surprise, and amid a cloud of suspicion, Frank Bryce returned to his cottage on the grounds of the Riddle House.

“As far as I'm concerned, he killed them, and I don't care what the police say,” said Dot in the Hanged Man. “And if he had any decency, he'd leave here, knowing as how we knows he did it.”

But Frank did not leave. He stayed to tend the garden for the next family who lived in the Riddle House, and then the next - for neither family stayed long. Perhaps it was partly because of Frank that the new owners said there was a nasty feeling about the place, which, in the absence of inhabitants, started to fall into disrepair.

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The wealthy man who owned the Riddle House these days neither lived there nor put it to any use; they said in the village that he kept it for “tax reasons,” though nobody was very clear what these might be. The wealthy owner continued to pay Frank to do the gardening, however. Frank was nearing his seventy-seventh birthday now, very deaf, his bad leg stiffer than ever, but could be seen pottering around the flower beds in fine weather, even though the weeds were starting to creep up on him, try as he might to suppress them.

Weeds were not the only things Frank had to contend with either. Boys from the village made a habit of throwing stones through the windows of the Riddle House. They rode their bicycles over the lawns Frank worked so hard to keep smooth. Once or twice, they broke into the old house for a dare. They knew that old Frank's devotion to the house and the grounds amounted almost to an obsession, and it amused them to see him limping across the garden, brandishing his stick and yelling croakily at them. Frank, for his part, believed the boys tormented him because they, like their parents and grandparents, though him a murderer. So when Frank awoke one night in August and saw something very odd up at the old house, he merely assumed that the boys had gone one step further in their attempts to punish him.

It was Frank's bad leg that woke him; it was paining him worse than ever in his old age. He got up and limped downstairs into the kitchen with the idea of refilling his hot-water bottle to ease the stiffness in his knee. Standing at the sink, filling the kettle, he looked up at the Riddle House and saw lights glimmering in its upper windows. Frank knew at once what was going on. The boys had broken into the house again, and judging by the flickering quality of the light, they had started a fire.

Frank had no telephone, in any case, he had deeply mistrusted the police ever since they had taken him in for questioning about the Riddles’ deaths. He put down the kettle at once, hurried back upstairs as fast as his bad leg would allow, and was soon back in his kitchen, fully dressed and removing a rusty old key from its hook by the door. He picked up his walking stick, which was propped against the wall, and set off into the night.

The front door of the Riddle House bore no sign of being forced, nor did any of the windows. Frank limped around to the back of the house until he reached a door almost completely hidden by ivy, took out the old key, put it into the lock, and opened the door noiselessly.

He let himself into the cavernous kitchen. Frank had not entered it for many years; nevertheless, although it was very dark, he remembered where the door into the hall was, and he groped his way towards it, his nostrils full of the smell of decay, ears pricked for any sound of footsteps or voices from overhead. He reached the hall, which was a little lighter owing to the large mullioned windows on either side of the front door, and started to climb the stairs, blessing the dust that lay thick upon the stone, because it muffled the sound of his feet and stick.

On the landing, Frank turned right, and saw at once where the intruders were: At the every end of the passage a door stood ajar, and a flickering light shone through the gap, casting a long sliver of gold across the black floor. Frank edged closer and closer, he was able to see a narrow slice of the room beyond.

The fire, he now saw, had been lit in the grate. This surprised him. Then he stopped moving and listened intently, for a man's voice spoke within the room; it sounded timid and fearful.

“There is a little more in the bottle, My Lord, if you are still hungry.”

“Later,” said a second voice. This too belonged to a man - but it was strangely high-pitched, and cold as a sudden blast of icy wind. Something about that voice made the sparse hairs on the back of Frank's neck stand up. “Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail.”

Frank turned his right ear toward the door, the better to hear. There came the clink of a bottle being put down upon some hard surface, and then the dull scraping noise of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor. Frank caught a glimpse of a small man, his back to the door, pushing the chair into place. He was wearing a long black cloak, and there was a bald patch at the back of his head. Then he went out of sight again.

“Where is Nagini?” said the cold voice.

“I - I don't know, My Lord,” said the first voice nervously. “She set out to explore the house, I think…”

“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.”

Brow furrowed, Frank inclined his good ear still closer to the door, listening very hard. There was a pause, and then the man called Wormtail spoke again.

“My Lord, may I ask how long we are going to stay here?”

“A week,” said the cold voice. “Perhaps longer. The place is moderately comfortable, and the plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup is over.”

Frank inserted a gnarled finger into his ear and rotated it. Owing, no doubt, to a buildup of earwax, he had heard the word “Quidditch,” which was not a word at all.

“The - the Quidditch World Cup, My Lord?” said Wormtail. (Frank dug his finger still more vigorously into his ear.) “Forgive me, but - I do not understand - why should we wait until the World Cup is over?”

“Because, fool, at this very moment wizards are pouring into the country from all over the world, and every meddler from the Ministry of Magic will be on duty, on the watch for signs of unusual activity, checking and double-checking identities. They will be obsessed with security, lest the Muggles notice anything. So we wait.”

Frank stopped trying to clear out his ear. He had distinctly heard the words “Ministry of Magic,” “wizards,” and “Muggles.” Plainly, each of these expressions meant something secret, and Frank could think of only two sorts of people who would speak in code: spies and criminals. Frank tightened his hold on his walking stick once more, and listened more closely still.

“Your Lordship is still determined, then?” Wormtail said quietly.

“Certainly I am determined, Wormtail.” There was a note of menace in the cold voice now.

A slight pause followed - and the Wormtail spoke, the words tumbling from him in a rush, as though he was forcing himself to say this before he lost his nerve.

“It could be done without Harry Potter, My Lord.”

Another pause, more protracted, and then -

“Without Harry Potter?” breathed the second voice softly. “I see…”

“My Lord, I do not say this out of concern for the boy!” said Wormtail, his voice rising squeakily. “The boy is nothing to me, nothing at all! It is merely that if we were to use another witch or wizard - any wizard - the thing could be done so much more quickly! If you allowed me to leave you for a short while - you know that I can disguise myself most effectively - I could be back here in as little as two days with a suitable person -”

“I could use another wizard,” said the cold voice softly, “that is true…”

“My Lord, it makes sense,” said Wormtail, sounding thoroughly relieved now. “Laying hands on Harry Potter would be so difficult, he is so well protected -”

“And so you volunteer to go and fetch me a substitute? I wonder…perhaps the task of nursing me has become wearisome for you, Wormtail? Could this suggestion of abandoning the plan be nothing more than an attempt to desert me?”

“My Lord! I - I have no wish to leave you, none at all -”

“Do not lie to me!” hissed the second voice. “I can always tell, Wormtail! You are regretting that you ever returned to me. I revolt you. I see you flinch when you look at me, feel you shudder when you touch me…”

“No! My devotion to Your Lordship -”

“Your devotion is nothing more than cowardice. You would not be here if you had anywhere else to go. How am I to survive without you, when I need feeding every few hours? Who is to milk Nagini?”

“But you seem so much stronger, My Lord -”

“Liar,” breathed the second voice. “I am no stronger, and a few days alone would be enough to rob me of the little health I have regained under your clumsy care. Silence!”

Wormtail, who had been sputtering incoherently, fell silent at once. For a few seconds, Frank could hear nothing but the fire crackling. The second man spoke once more, in a whisper that was almost a hiss.

“I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained to you, and I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years. A few more months will make no difference. As for the protection surrounding the boy, I believe my plan will be effective. All that is needed is a little courage from you, Wormtail - courage you will find, unless you wish to feel the full extent of Lord Voldermort's wrath -”

“My Lord, I must speak!” said Wormtail, panic in his voice now. “All through our journey I have gone over the plan in my head - My Lord, Bertha Jorkin's disappearance will not go unnoticed for long, and if we proceed, if I murder -”

“If?” whispered the second voice. “If? If you follow the plan, Wormtail, the Ministry need never know that anyone else has died. You will do it quietly and without fuss; I only wish that 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. By that time, my faithful servant will have rejoined us -”

“I am a faithful servant,” said Wormtail, the merest trace of sullenness in his voice.

“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.”

“I found you,” said Wormtail, and there was definitely a sulky edge to his voice now. “I was the one who found you. I brought you Bertha Jorkins.”

“That is true,” said the second man, sounding amused. “A stroke of brilliance I would not have thought possible from you, Wormtail - though, if truth be told, you were not aware how useful she would be when you caught her, were you?”

“I - I thought she might be useful, My Lord -”

“Liar,” said the second voice again, the cruel amusement more pronounced than ever. “However, I do not deny that her information was invaluable. Without it, I could never have formed our plan, and for that, you will have your reward, Wormtail. I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers would give their right hands to perform…”

“R-really, My Lord? What -?” Wormtail sounded terrified again.

“Ah, Wormtail, you don't want me to spoil the surprise? Your part will come at the very end…but I promise you, you will have the honor of being just as useful as Bertha Jorkins.”

“You…you…” Wormtail's voice suddenly sounded hoarse, as though his mouth had gone very dry. “You…are going…to kill me too?”

“Wormtail, Wormtail,” said the cold voice silkily, “why would I kill you? I killed Bertha because I had to. She was fit for nothing after my questioning, quite useless. In any case, awkward questions would have been asked if she had gone back to the Ministry with the news that she had met you on her holidays. Wizards who are supposed to be dead would do well not to run into Ministry of Magic witches at wayside inns…”

Wormtail muttered something so quietly that Frank could not hear it, but it made the second man laugh - an entirely mirthless laugh, cold as his speech.

“We could have modified her memory? But Memory Charms can be broken by a powerful wizard, as I proved when I questioned her. It would be an insult to her memory not to use the information I extracted from her, Wormtail.”

Out in the corridor, Frank suddenly became aware that the hand gripping his walking stick was slippery with sweat. The man with the cold voice had killed a woman. He was talking about it without any kind of remorse - with amusement. He was dangerous - a madman. And he was planning more murders - this boy, Harry Potter, whoever he was - was in danger -

Frank knew what he must do. Now, if ever, was the time to go to the police. He would creep out of the house and head straight for the telephone box in the village…but the cold voice was speaking again, and Frank remained where he was, frozen to the spot, listening with all his might.

“One more murder…my faithful servant at Hogwarts…Harry Potter is as good as mine, Wormtail. It is decided. There will be no more argument. But quiet…I think I hear Nagini…”

And the second man's voice changed. He started making noises such as Frank had never heard before; he was hissing and spitting without drawing breath. Frank thought he must be having some sort of fit or seizure.

And then Frank heard movement behind him in the dark passageway. He turned to look, and found himself paralyzed with fright.

Something was slithering toward him along the dark corridor floor, and as it drew nearer to the sliver of firelight, he realized with a thrill of terror that it was a gigantic snake, at least twelve feet long. Horrified, transfixed, Frank stared as its undulating body cut a wide, curving track through the thick dust on the floor, coming closer and closer - What was he to do? The only means of escape was into the room where the two men sat plotting murder, yet if he stayed where he was the snake would surely kill him -

But before he had made his decision, the snake was level with him, and then, incredibly, miraculously, it was passing; it was following the spitting, hissing noises made by the cold voice beyond the door, and in seconds, the tip of its diamond-patterned tail had vanished through the gap.

There was sweat on Frank's forehead now, and the hand on the walking stick was trembling. Inside the room, the cold voice was continuing to hiss, and Frank was visited by a strange idea, an impossible idea…This man could talk to snakes.

Frank didn't understand what was going on. He wanted more than anything to be back in his bed with his hot-water bottle. The problem was that his legs didn't seem to want to move. As he stood there shaking and trying to master himself, the cold voice switched abruptly to English again.

“Nagini has interesting news, Wormtail,” it said.

“In-indeed, My Lord?” said Wormtail.

“Indeed, yes,” said the voice, “According to Nagini, there is an old Muggle standing right outside this room, listening to every word we say.”

Frank didn't have a chance to hide himself. There were footsteps and then the door of the room was flung wide open.

A short, balding man with graying hair, a pointed nose, and small, watery eyes stood before Frank, a mixture of fear and alarm in his face.

“Invite him inside, Wormtail. Where are your manners?”

The cold voice was coming from the ancient armchair before the fire, but Frank couldn't see the speaker. the snake, on the other hand, was curled up on the rotting hearth rug, like some horrible travesty of a pet dog.

Wormtail beckoned Frank into the room. Though still deeply shaken, Frank took a firmer grip on his walking stick and limped over the threshold.

The fire was the only source of light in the room; it cast long, spidery shadows upon the walls. Frank stared at the back of the armchair; the man inside it seemed to be even smaller than his servant, for Frank couldn't even see the back of his head.

“You heard everything, Muggle?” said the cold voice.

“What's that you're calling me?” said Frank defiantly, for now that he was inside the room, now that the time had come for some sort of action, he felt braver; it had always been so in the war.

“I am calling you a Muggle,” said the voice coolly. “It means that you are not a wizard.”

“I don't know what you mean by wizard,” said Frank, his voice growing steadier. “All I know is I've heard enough to interest the police tonight, I have. You've done murder and you're planning more! And I'll tell you this too,” he added, on a sudden inspiration, “my wife knows I'm up here, and if I don't come back -”

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

“Is that right?” said Frank roughly. “Lord, is it? Well, I don't think much of your manners, My Lord. Turn ‘round and face me like a man, why don't you?”

“But I am not a man, Muggle,” said the cold voice, barely audible now over the crackling of the flames. “I am much, much more than a man. However…why not? I will face you…Wormtail, come turn my chair around.”

The servant gave a whimper.

“You heard me, Wormtail.”

Slowly, with his face screwed up, as though he would rather have done anything than approach his master and the hearth rug where the snake lay, the small man walked forward and began to turn the chair. The snake lifted its ugly triangular head and hissed slightly as the legs of the chair snagged on its rug.

And then the chair was facing Frank, and he saw what was sitting in it. His walking stick fell to the floor with a clatter. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. He was screaming so loudly that he never heard the words the thing in the chair spoke as it raised a wand. There was a flash of green light, a rushing sound, and Frank Bryce crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two hundred miles away, the boy called Harry Potter woke with a start.

小汉格林顿的村民还叫它“谜宅”，尽管理德家很多年前曾居住在那里。谜宅坐落在小山上，山下是村庄，有时窗户用板封着，屋顶上瓦片不全，常青藤爬满屋前，已很久无人打理。它一度是一座华丽的庄园，是方圆几里内最大最雄伟的建筑物，但现在却潮湿阴霾，残桓断壁，无人居住。

　　村里人都认为谜宅令人毛骨悚然。半个世纪以前，那里发生了些稀奇古怪的事情，村里的老人在缺少聊天的话题时都喜欢谈论这件事。故事讲来讲去如此多遍，如此多次，以致于谁也不能确定事实到底是怎样的。但是每个版本的故事都有同样一个开头：五十年前，一个晴朗夏日的早晨，天刚刚亮，那时“谜宅”保养良好，一个女佣进入大堂，结果发现：谜宅的主人——理德一家三口都死了。

　　女佣尖叫着跑下山去，跑进村庄，尽量多唤醒些村民。

　　“躺在那里眼睛睁得大大的！像冰一样冷！还穿着晚宴服。”

　　警察来了。小村子整个骚动起来，村民们充满好奇、吃惊、掩饰不住的兴奋。没有谁需要假装伤悲，因为理德一家在村子里最不受欢迎。老理德夫妇非常有钱，但却很势利，而且待人刻薄，他们的儿子——汤姆，更是比他父母有过之而无不及。所有村民关心的是要证实他们确实被谋杀，显而易见，三个身体凉爽的人不可能因为自然死而死于同一个晚上。

　　那天晚上“闲士”酒吧做了一笔大生意，全村人都在聚论谋杀案。当理德家的厨师戏剧性地加入他们时，他们都自然而然地离开烤火炉，厨师对忽然静下来的酒吧宣布，一个叫弗兰克·布来斯的人刚刚被捕。

　　“弗兰克·布来斯！”几个人惊叫起来。“不可能！”

　　弗兰克怖来斯是“谜宅”的园丁。他独自住在谜宅地盘上的一座已停工的农舍里，孤单一人。弗兰克退役归来，一条腿不灵活，极不喜欢群居。他不喜欢嘈杂喧闹，自从退役以来一直就在为理德干活。

　　有人冲上来给厨师酒喝，想听更多的详情。

　　喝了第四杯酒，他告诉这些急着想听的村民：“我总是觉得他有些古里古怪的，也不对人友好，我每次都把茶送到他那，因为，他从来不和别人混在一起，从来不。”

　　酒馆里一位女士说，“啊，我说，他打了场很艰苦的仗，他喜欢宁静的生活，没有理由去——”

　　厨师反驳说，“除了他还有谁有后门钥匙？我记得在农舍里有一把备用钥匙，昨天晚上没有人强行破门，窗子也没有破坏，弗兰克·布来斯只需要爬到大房子里去，而我们都在熟睡……”

　　村民们交换了他们的眼色。

　　酒吧里一位男士咕哝道，“我总觉得他很邋遏。”

　　酒吧老板说：“战争把他搞得滑里滑稽的。”

　　角落里一个妇女兴奋得叫了起来，“我不是告诉你我不想说弗兰克·布来斯的坏话吗，多特？”

　　多特猛地点头，说道，“他的脾气太可怕了，我记得当他还是个孩子的时候……”

　　到第二天早晨为止，村子里几乎没有人再怀疑不是弗兰克·布来斯杀了理德全家。

　　但在汉格林顿邻镇那边，昏暗的警察局里，弗兰克固执地重复他是无辜的，他说在理德一家被杀的那天晚上，他只看见一个十几岁的男孩在他们家附近，那男孩从未见过，黑头发，面色苍白。但没有任何村民看见过这个男孩，警察断定弗兰克。布来斯是凭空捏造的。

　　就在情形对弗兰克·布来斯看起来很不利时，验尸报告拿回来了，从而改变了一切。

　　警察们从来没有见过这样离奇的验尸报告。法医们十分谨慎地验尸，结论是理德一家不是被毒死、枪杀、刺杀、扼杀，也不是被闷死的，甚至根本没受伤。事实上，验尸仍在继续，但实在让人迷惑不解，理德家除了的确死了以外，身体是处于完全凉爽的状态。

　　法医们特别注明（虽然他们决意要找出死者身上有什么不妥之处），理德一家人的脸上均有恐怖之色。但据灰心丧气的警察说，有谁听说过三个人同时被吓死的？

　　既然没有证据证明理德一家是死于谋杀，警察不得不释放弗兰克·布来斯。死者葬在小汉格林顿镇的墓地。他们的坟墓也一度引起人们的好奇。令人吃惊的是，弗兰克·布来斯又回到理德家地盘上的农舍，这一切都充满疑云。

　　“闲士”酒吧里，多特说，“就我而言，是他杀了他们，我不管警察说啥。”“如果他还有脸的话，他会离开这里，他应知道我们晓得是他干的。”另一个人说。

　　但弗兰克没有走。他留下来为新搬来谜宅的一家照顾花园，接着又是新的一家，但两家都呆得不久。也许正是因为有弗兰克，两个新主人都说，这地方有一种阴冷的感觉，叫人起鸡皮疙瘩，渐渐地，这里因无人居住而年久失修。

　　现在的“谜宅”主人不住在里面，也不投入使用。他们说老板拥有它只是因为税务方面的原因，尽管谁也不清楚这些原因是什么。宅主有钱，弗兰克做园丁，宅主就付钱。弗兰克都快要七十七岁了，聋得很厉害，什么也听不见，他那条腿更加不能动弹，但天气晴朗的日子还可以见他在花床周围闲逛，虽然野草都开始把他淹没了。

　　弗兰克不光只与野草斗，村里的男孩常常向谜宅的窗户扔石子。弗兰克劳了很大的劲让草坪乎乎整整，而孩子们却在上面骑车，偶尔一两次他们竟破“宅”而人进行挑衅。他们知道弗兰克忠于谜宅和那片土地。孩子们看着弗兰克跛着腿走过花园，他们感到很有趣。弗兰克有时会挥舞着拐杖，对他们呱呱乱叫。对弗兰克来说他认为孩子们曲解了他，就像他们的父母、祖父母一样认为他是杀人凶手。八月一天夜间弗兰克一觉醒来，看到旧屋里有个怪物，他只不过认为一定是那些孩子们想进一步惩罚他。

　　是他那不中用的腿弄醒他，年纪大了，疼得更加厉害了。他站起来，破着下楼梯，进到厨房，想给暖水瓶再次加热水以镇镇膝痛。他站在水龙头边，灌水壶，仰起头来看“谜宅”，上面窗户里灯光闪烁。弗兰克马上意识到了到底是怎么回事。男孩们再次破门而入，从这闪烁的光来看，他们在那儿生了火。

　　弗兰克没有电话，不管怎么说，自从当初警察把他抓起来，盘问他关于理德一家的死因后，他对警察就抱着深深的不信任。他马上放下水壶，尽快地上楼，又很快地返回厨房，穿好了衣服，从门钩那里取下那柄生锈的旧钥匙，他拿起靠在墙边的拐杖，一头冲进夜里。

　　谜宅前门没有被破坏的痕迹，窗子也没有遭到破坏。弗兰克跛着腿到屋后一条完全被常青藤隐住的门的前面，他拿出钥匙，插进锁里，悄无声息地开了门。

　　他走进空荡荡的厨房。弗兰克已经很多年没有进来过了。虽然厨房很黑，但他还记得通往大厅的门在哪里，他的鼻子里满是腐烂的气味，耳朵竖起倾听脚步声及上面的任何声音。他到了大厅，因为前门两边窗子有竖条栏杆，比厨房光亮一些。他开始一步一步往上爬楼梯，多亏了石级上厚厚的灰尘，这样使得没人可以听得见他的脚步声及拐杖声。

　　一爬上楼，弗兰克向右转，马上就看见了入侵者在什么方位。

　　就在走廊尽头，大门半开半掩，摇动的光从门缝里透了出来，在黑黑的地板上投下金黄色的长条亮影。弗兰克慢慢地往门边靠近，拐杖握得紧紧的。离门口只有几英尺了，可以看见房间里狭窄的一部分。

　　他看清了，火烧在暖气炉里。这令他很惊讶。他停止向前走，专心地听，有一个人在屋里说话，声音听起来紧张、胆怯：“主人啊，如果还饿的话，瓶子里还有一点。”

　　“过一会。”第二个人的声育，也是男音，不可思议的高音，像刺骨寒风突然爆裂一样冰冷。这声音有那么点东西使得弗兰克后脑勺上的几根稀松的头发也竖了起来。

　　“把我移得离火近点，温太尔！”

　　弗兰克用右耳贴近门面，听得清楚些。一个瓶子呕当一声放到一个坚硬的表面上，紧跟着是椅子拖过地板沉闷的刮地声。弗兰克瞥见了一个矮个子，背朝门，推着椅子靠近火炉。他身被一个长长的黑斗篷，后脑勺上没有头发。然后这小矮人就不见了。

　　“南格尼在哪里？”那冷酷的声音说话了。

　　“我不知道，主人，”第一个声音紧张地回应道，“我想她出去打探情况了……”

　　“温太尔，在我们睡觉前，你给她挤奶，”第二个声音说，“我夜里需要喂奶，长途旅行让我筋疲力竭。”

　　弗兰克眉头紧锁，额头上堆起深深皱纹，他把右耳再贴近些，十分艰难地听着。好阵子没有声息。然后那个叫做温太尔的人又说话了。

　　“主人啊！您能告诉我们在此呆多久吗？”

　　“一周，”冷音答，“也许还会长些。这地方总算还舒服。计划不能进行下去。在快迪斯世界杯赛结束之前行动是愚蠢可笑的。”

　　弗兰克把一个多节瘤的手指塞进耳朵里，掏转。毫无疑问，由于耳里有耳屎，他听见了“快迪斯”，其实这根本不是一个词。

　　“主人啊！快迪斯世界杯！”（弗兰克手指掏耳朵更用力了）“请您原谅我吧，但是我不懂，为什么我们要等到世界杯赛结束？”

　　“傻瓜，因为在现在这个时候，全世界的巫师们都像潮水一般涌入这个国家，魔法部管事的都在值班，都在观察任何不同寻常活动的迹像，检查，再检查你的身份。他们很注意安全问题，我们不要行动，以免让马格人注意到什么。因此我们必须等待。”

　　弗兰克停止掏耳朵。他清楚地听到了“魔法部”、“巫师”、“马格人”。很显然，这些词语都表示某种神秘意义。弗兰克只能想起两种用暗号讲话的人，间谍和罪犯。弗兰克再次握紧手中的拐杖，更加注意地听下去。

　　温太尔静静地说，“那您的统治地位仍然很稳固吧？”

　　“当然很稳固。”冷酷的声音中有一种威胁。

　　又稍微一段时间没有人讲话。接着温太尔说话了，这些话一下子从嘴里倒出来，好像在强迫自己在失去理智前一定要说完这些。

　　“主人啊！如果没有哈利·波特，我们早就成功了。”

　　又是一阵沉默，比刚才又要长些，接着第二个声音轻声说，“没有哈利·波特，让我想想……”

　　温太尔的声音越来越尖：“主人啊！我这样说并不是出于关心哈利·波特，这男孩对我来说一钱不值，根本无足轻重。只是如果用另一个女巫，或男巫，哪怕是任何巫师，这件事可以完成得快得多！假如您允许我离开您一会，您知道我将会最有效地伪装自己，并可以在短短的两天时间内，带来一个合适的人选。”

　　第二个声音轻轻地说，“我可以用另一个人，那倒是真的……”

　　“主人啊！这样比较现实，”温太尔说，他的声音现在好像完全如释重负，“要碰哈利·波特，很难，他被保护得太好了。”

　　“你自愿去找回另一个人。我想，也许照顾我的任务已经使你厌烦，温太尔？你建议放弃这个计划会不会是想丢下我不管？”

　　“主人啊！我没想过要离开您，压根不想这样做！”

　　第二个声音嘘声说道，“不要对我撒谎了，温太尔，我还可以分辨。你在后悔又回到我身边。我对你不满意。当你看我时，我看见你害怕，当你碰我时，我觉得你在发抖……”

　　“不是这样，我对您忠心不二……”

　　“你的忠心只不过是怯懦而已。如果你有任何别的地方去，你不会呆在这里。每几小时我需要喂食，你不在这里我如何可以生存下去？谁去南格尼那里取奶？”

　　“但您好像已经强壮得多了，主人啊！……”

　　“骗子！”第二个声音说，“我并不强壮。过不了几天就可以把我在你愚笨的照顾下恢复的凉爽折腾殆尽。住嘴吧！”

　　温太尔一直在急速地讲话，语无伦次，一下子静了下来。接着第二个声音又说话了，但是悄声说的，简直就是嘶嘶声。

　　“我有我的理由要用这个男孩。我已经跟你解释过了，我不会用第二个。我等待了十三年。再等几个月没什么关系。至于那孩子周围的保护，我相信我的计划将会是有效的。而所需要的东西是来自你的勇气，温太尔，你要鼓起勇气，如果你不想让福尔得摩特公爵盛怒的话。”

　　“主人啊，我一定要说！”温太尔说，声音里充满恐惧，“在整个旅途中我脑海里不断思考这个计划，珀茜·佐金斯的失踪过不了多久就会让人发现，如果我们继续下去，如果我诅咒——”

　　第二个声音悄声说，“假使？假使你继续这一计划，温太尔，部里将没有人会知道还有人失踪。你要静悄悄地干，不能忙中出错，我只希望我能自己干，但我现在这种情形，……来吧，温太尔，又一个障碍排除了，我们离哈利·波特又近一步。我不会要你一个人干，届时我忠实的仆人将再次加入我们……”

　　温太尔说，“我是一个忠实仆人。”声音有点阴沉。

　　“温太尔，我需要有脑筋的人，也需要从不动摇他的忠诚的人，但这两种要求你都达不到。”

　　“是我发现了您。”温太尔说，他的声音几乎接近有些不高兴了，“正是我找到您，我把珀茜·佐金斯带给了您。”

　　“那倒是真的。”第二个人说，听起来很快活。“我意想不到你那么聪明，温太尔，讲老实话，你不知道你抓到她时，她是多么有用，是吧！”

　　“我，我认为她可能会有用，主人啊！”

　　“撒谎。”第二个声音更大了，既冷酷又兴奋，“可是，我不否认她的信息是无价的，没有她的信息，我的计划不可能形成，因此，你也要得到奖赏。温太尔，我将让你代我完成一个重大的任务，我的许多追随者都用他们的右手去完成……”

　　“真的吗，主人啊！什么——？”温太尔听起来又吓坏了。

　　“啊，温太尔，你吃惊吧？你的任务将在最后到来……但我答应你，你将会得到和珀茜·佐金斯一样的荣誉。”

　　“您，您……”温太尔声音突然变得十分沙哑，好像他的嘴巴十分的干渴，“您……将……也要把我杀了？”

　　“温太尔，温太尔，”冰冷声音变得柔和起来，“我为什么要杀你呢？我杀珀茜因为我实在迫不得已。我问完她后，她已不适合什么事情，已经完全无用。如果她回到部里说在她度假的时候碰到了你，那什么乱七八糟的问题都可能被问到。他们不会想到本来应该死掉的男巫们却会安然无事，还在路边旅馆里遇到的魔法部里的女巫们……”

　　温太尔喃喃自语，太小声音，弗兰克听不见，第二个人却笑了。尽管说话冰酷，但笑得却很开心。

　　“我们可能改变了她的记忆吗？当我问她时，已经证明了记忆咒语可以被一位法力强大的男巫破除。如果不用我从她那儿得到的信息，那是对她记忆的侮辱，温太尔。”

　　走廊外面，弗兰克突然意识到抓拐杖的手满是冷汗。那冷冷的人已杀了一个女人。他讲这件事完全没有不安，后悔，却带有风趣。他是个危险人物，是个疯子，在计划更多的谋杀，哈利·波特这个男孩，不管他是谁，正处于危险之中。

　　弗兰克知道他必须干点什么。现在是报警的时候，他要爬出去，直奔村里的电话亭，但冰冷之声又说话了，弗兰克原地不动，十分投入地听着。

　　“还有一个诅咒，……我忠实的猎场看守仆人在霍格瓦彻……，哈利·波特像矿藏一样珍贵，温太尔，就这么定了。以后不要再讨论这件事，安静……我认为我听见南格尼……”

　　第二个声音改变了，他开始发出弗兰克从来未听到过的噪音，他在不断发出嘶嘶声和呼噜声，弗兰克认为他一定是某种痰病发作。

　　接着，弗兰克听见漆黑的长廊里有动静，就在他身后，他朝身后看去，惊骇得瘫着不能动弹。

　　某东西正在漆黑的地板上朝他爬过来，当快接近灯光长影时，弗兰克惊恐万分地发现，那是条巨大的蛇，至少有十二英尺长。太惶恐了，太可怕了，弗兰克瞪着它的眼睛一动也不动，那蛇身如同波浪一样起伏不平，在厚厚的尘土上扭开一道宽宽的弯弯曲曲的灰沟。逃身的唯一办法就是进屋，但屋里有两人正在策划谋杀，假使果在原地那可是必死无疑。

　　但是他还未来得及作出决定，那蛇已经在他身边了，接着，那蛇不可思议地，奇迹般地闪过，原来它是听从那吐液声，嘶嘶声，服从那冰冷的声音，转眼间那钻石型的尾巴也在灰沟里消失了。

　　弗兰克的额头上也大汗淋漓，握杖之手已开始发颤，室内冰冷之声还在发出嘶嘶声，弗兰克突然闪一个怪念头。这个人可以与蛇讲话。

　　弗兰克不懂正在发生的是什么，他现在要做的远不止是去拿热水壶上床暖腿。因为他两腿好像不能动。他站在那儿发抖，他努力地控制自己，冰冷之声突然转用英语说：“南格尼有一则有趣的消息，温太尔！”

　　“真——真的吗，主人啊！”温太尔说。

　　“真的如此！”那声音说，“根据南格尼所说，屋内有一个老家伙，听到了我们说的每一个词。”

　　弗兰克没有机会隐藏。有脚步声，房门一下子大开。

　　一个秃顶灰发，尖鼻子的矮个子站在地面前，眼睛小而湿润，脸上全是惊恐。害怕。

　　“请他进屋来，温太尔，你的礼貌到哪儿去了！”

　　那冰冷的声音是从炉火前的一把古旧的椅子上发出来的，弗兰克看不见说话人，那蛇在壁炉前的地毯上蟋伏成一堆，像一只小狗做一些滑稽的动作。

　　温太尔示意让弗兰克进屋。尽管还是发抖，弗兰克使劲地紧了紧手杖，破过了门槛。

　　火是房里的灯光来源，火在墙上映上长长的细亮的影子。弗兰克盯住椅子后面，里面的人好像还要比仆人矮，连他的后脑勺也看不见。

　　冰冷之声说话了，“你听见了所有的东西吗，马格？”

　　“你在叫我什么？”弗兰克挑战似地说，现在已经进了屋，是采取行动的时候，他觉得要勇敢了一点，他在战场上总是这样的。

　　“我在叫你，马格，”冷音冷冷地说，“那就是说你不是巫师！”

　　“我不明白你用‘巫师’一词说的是什么意思，”弗兰克声音越来越沉稳，“我只知道我今晚所听见的足够让警察感兴趣，你曾经杀过人，并且你在计划更多的谋杀，”不知从哪里来的灵感，他又说：“我老婆知道我上来了，如果我不回去的话……”

　　“你没有老婆，”冷音静静地说，“没有人知道你在这里，你并未告诉任何人你来这里，不要对福尔得摩特撒谎，笨蛋，因为他是什么都知道的。”

　　“是吗？”弗兰克粗声说，“福尔得摩特，是吗？我不管你那么多。转过来，像个男人一样面对我，你为什么不呢？”

　　“但我并不是人，马格，”冷声说，在火苗的噼啪声中，几乎听不见，“我可是大大超过你们人类，为什么不呢？我就面对你，来，温太尔转动椅子。”

　　仆人发出一声抱怨。

　　“你听见我说话了吗？温太尔。”

　　矮个子慢慢地向前走去，脸扭曲着，好像他宁愿干任何事情也不愿去接近他的主人和那条蛇躺着的地毯，他开始转动椅子。椅腿钩破地毯，那蛇抬起它那丑恶的三角头，发出轻轻的嘶嘶声。

　　接着，椅子面对着弗兰克，他看见椅子里面有什么，他的手杖“咣当”一声掉在地板上。他张开嘴，尖叫起来，他的尖叫声音太大，听不见椅子里面的东西举起魔杖时所说的话，一道绿光一闪，加上呼啸之声，弗兰克·布来斯倒下了，他还未倒在地上就已经死了。

　　在两百英里以外的地方，那个叫做哈利·波特的男孩猛地惊醒。