Chapter 573: Old Frank
Following the narrow dirt path, the landscape unfolded in a series of somber hues.
The sun had finally dipped behind the towering beech trees, leaving the farm painted in a deep, bruised amber. The lime-washed walls of the farmhouse glowed a warm grey in the fading light, and plumes of soot-black smoke rose from the chimney, blending with the crimson streaks of the twilight sky.
From the cattle pens came the low, rhythmic lowing of cows; it was milking time. One could already hear the steady hiss-hiss of milk hitting the bottom of iron pails. It was a peaceful, domestic scene—a reminder that the world truly only requires three simple things to turn: milk from the cattle, green grain from the earth, and the steady hands of a woman weaving thread.
"I see her."
Sirius Black's voice was a jagged whisper, vibrating with excitement.
The trio stood on the grassy slope, their boots sinking into the damp earth as they watched a heavy, rhythmic rustling in the dark field below. Something was sliding toward them.
It was a giant serpent, at least twelve feet long. Its body moved in powerful, undulating waves, leaving a wide, winding trail flattened into the grass.
Remus Lupin drew his wand, his eyes scanning the surrounding shadows for any sign of a trap.
"She isn't a Horcrux," Sean said. He sounded relieved, yet his expression remained grave.
"What... what did you say?" Sirius's face went rigid.
"She hasn't been turned yet," Remus confirmed, staring at the approaching snake. After a moment of silence, he added, "The boy is right."
Sirius looked from the serpent to his old friend, his eyes flashing with uncertainty.
"Mr. Green, perhaps we should..." Remus began, his words trailing off. He knew Sean would understand the unspoken suggestion.
"There is a better way, Remus," Sean said after a pause. "Can you contain her?"
"By your command."
Lupin suppressed his curiosity and exchanged a sharp look with Sirius. Capturing a beast of that size was no small feat, but with a wand and the right intent, the impossible became routine.
By the time they left the eastern fields, the Wizard's Tome at Sean's waist held one more resident: a massive, slumbering serpent.
"What do you intend to do with her?" Sirius whispered as they reached the entrance of The Hangman's Inn. "She is a Maledictus, sir. You know as well as I do—that curse is irreversible."
"Only for a wizard," Remus noted quietly.
Sirius's eyes flickered. He didn't ask again.
Did Sean truly have a way to break a Blood Curse? He wasn't entirely certain himself. He knew it was a curse that attacked the very architecture of the soul, a form of permanent transformation that even the greatest Transfiguration Masters of history had failed to undo.
The only known instances of such power were dark and tragic. Sean remembered the legend of the Isle of Drear, where two feuding clans—the MacBoons and the MacLiverts—had wiped each other out. After a drunken duel ended in the death of Dugald Maclivert, his clan had retaliated by transforming the entire MacBoon family into Quintapeds—five-legged, mindless monsters.
The MacLiverts had eventually realized that while the MacBoons were poor wizards, they were terrifyingly efficient predators in their new forms. They had tried desperately to reverse the Transfiguration, but every attempt failed. Eventually, the monsters had slaughtered every MacLivert on the island. The truth of the legend was lost to time, as no survivors remained to tell the tale. The Quintapeds themselves refused all attempts by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to be restored to human form. It was assumed they preferred being beasts.
But what about Nagini?
Did she want to spend eternity as a cold-blooded animal? Sean suspected the answer was no. And for that reason, he was willing to try.
The evening bell tolled, and The Hangman's Inn was filled with the usual collection of local drunks. They bragged loudly about things no one cared about, occasionally downing entire bottles of ale in a single go to the sound of rowdy applause.
"To the Riddle House," Sean said, scanning the room. He didn't see the man he was looking for.
He suspected he would find him in the small gardener's cottage on the manor grounds.
The Riddle House.
Decades had passed, but the villagers of Little Hangleton still used the name, even though no Riddle had lived there in fifty years. The house sat on a high ridge overlooking the entire valley. Its windows were boarded up, its roof tiles were shattered, and thick, grasping ivy had choked the stone walls.
The manor had once been a magnificent estate, the grandest building for miles. Now, it was a damp, desolate ruin that the locals agreed was "creepy as hell."
Half a century ago, a horror had occurred within those walls—a story the village elders still trotted out whenever the conversation turned dry. The tale had been told and retold, layers of gossip and exaggeration added with every generation, until the truth was a blurry ghost. But every version began the same way:
Fifty years ago, during a clear summer dawn, a maid had entered the drawing room to find all three members of the Riddle family dead.
She had run down the hill screaming, waking the entire village. "They're just lying there! Eyes wide open! Cold as ice! Still in their dinner suits!"
The police had arrived, and the village had erupted into a frenzy of "curiosity." No one truly grieved for the Riddles. The parents had been wealthy, snobbish, and cruel; and their son, Tom, had been even worse. What the villagers cared about was the how. How did three healthy people drop dead in a single night with no mark upon them?
That night, The Hangman's Inn had done record business. In the middle of the debate, the Riddles' cook had burst in and announced that Frank Bryce, the gardener, had been arrested.
Frank was a war veteran with a stiff leg and a profound loathing for crowds. He lived in a shack on the edge of the estate. Everyone assumed he had done it because he was the only one with a key to the back door. They called him "vicious" and "odd," and by the next morning, the village was convinced of his guilt.
But then the autopsy reports came back. The Riddles hadn't been poisoned, stabbed, or shot. They had simply... stopped. The police had been forced to let Frank go.
Now, Frank was back at the manor, the silent caretaker of a dead house.
The manor was dark. Frank rarely bothered to light a fire in the main building. But tonight, a faint, sickly glow flickered behind one of the upstairs windows.
Frank Bryce assumed the village boys were back, throwing stones or breaking in on a dare. He scowled, grabbed his gnarled walking stick from where it leaned against the cottage wall, and began the slow, painful trek toward the big house. He hated going inside, but he wasn't about to let the "punks" win.
Inside the drawing room, a low, high-pitched voice echoed through the dust.
"Tell me more of the boy..."
The voice was like a needle of ice, sharp and piercing.
"Yes, my Master... he is... an extraordinary specimen. A boy of great renown..."
A sycophantic, groveling voice replied. It was Peter Pettigrew.
"He is quite remarkable... from his first year, his talent was the talk of the school. They call him the 'Greatest Wizard of the Next Era.' Some say he is already a Legend. They respect him, Master... they worship him. He runs a 'Club' that includes more than half the student body. Dumbledore encourages it... he helps him build his power base..."
As the words "Dumbledore" and "power base" were mentioned, the cold voice seemed to drop several degrees.
"So... Dumbledore believes this child is stronger than me?"
"He—AAARGH!"
A scream of agony followed, then the heavy sound of a body hitting the floor.
"Wormtail... you seem quite... preoccupied with him," the cold voice noted with a terrifying, playful mockery.
"He is our greatest obstacle, Master!" Wormtail cried from the floor, his face flushed with pain.
"And what of Harry Potter?" the voice asked, the mockery growing more pronounced.
"He cannot compare to Green, Master! He is nothing!"
"I see..."
The voice dropped to a whisper. "Tell me, Wormtail... where does one find a truly loyal servant these days?"
"I am loyal, Master!" Wormtail squeaked, his voice thin with panic.
"Loyal? No. You are merely a coward. If you had any other hole to crawl into, you would never have come back to me. Now, be off with you. Fetch me more milk."
Wormtail scrambled to his feet, his incoherent apologies fading as his footsteps receded down the hall.
"Loyal?" the voice hissed to the empty room. It sounded like a snake's rattle.
Frank Bryce reached the top of the stairs at that exact moment. He moved through the cavernous, pitch-black kitchen, following the memory of a layout he hadn't seen in years. The smell of decay was overwhelming. He climbed toward the landing, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the stone steps.
He rounded the corner, his stick raised, only to find two men standing in the hallway. One of them held a wand that was emitting a faint, ghostly green light.
"Who are you?!" Frank gasped, his entire body shaking.
"The people who are going to see you out," one of the men said lazily.
"Sirius—" the other man warned, his tone much gentler.
Under Frank's terrified gaze, the world went white.
Frank Bryce "died" that night. At least, that was the story in Little Hangleton.
The old man had been getting on in years, after all. He was sick, lonely, and bitter. One morning, he simply didn't wake up. A few men claiming to be his "nephews" had arrived to take the body for burial. The villagers assumed they were just after whatever meager inheritance the old man had left. No one had actually seen the body, but no one cared enough to ask.
A war veteran, haunted by rumors for fifty years, had finally been "saved" by the very gossip that had plagued him.
In reality, Frank Bryce was currently sitting on a train bound for Dorset. A small, comfortable farm was waiting for him there—a gift from an anonymous donor. His "nephews" had vanished the moment they'd handed him the deed.
"How did I end up with family like that?" Frank muttered, his confusion overshadowed by a sudden, intense excitement.
A farm of his own. A quiet, self-sufficient life. His dream of a peaceful retirement had materialized out of thin air. He felt a bit muddled, as if he'd forgotten something important, but the feeling faded whenever he looked at the countryside blurring past the window.
He felt a newfound warmth toward anyone in a robe today. He looked at the young boy sitting across from him in the carriage.
"Where was it I came from again, lad?" Frank asked with a raspy, rare smile. "Dorset, right? Couldn't be Little Hangleton... what kind of a name is that, anyway?"
"I'm sure you're right, Mr. Bryce. Have a pleasant life," the boy in the fine robes replied with a polite nod.
Frank's mind couldn't quite grasp the name "Little Hangleton," and he certainly couldn't remember why it should matter. By the time the train reached the next station, the memory of the dark manor and the cold voice had vanished entirely.
It was as if he had never met the boy at all.
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