Little Hangleton at Night
Long ago, Little Hangleton was a bustling gathering place for wizards, once vibrant and prosperous. The village thrived largely because of its proximity to the Gaunt family, descendants of Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of Hogwarts.
The Gaunt family had once been affluent and influential, living in luxury and extravagance. Naturally, a wizarding community formed around their manor. But with the passage of time and a series of misfortunes, the Gaunt family fell into decline, edging toward extinction.
Now, Little Hangleton is a shadow of its former self, desolate and forgotten. Most of the houses are dilapidated, with some lacking windows and others secured by doors so shabby that even a thief might pity their condition.
The village is eerily devoid of life. Only a few elderly residents and children remain, with most young people having moved to the cities in search of work.
On this dark night, the village was shrouded in near-complete darkness, save for the occasional flicker of candlelight through a cracked window. The wind whistled through the trees, accompanied by the faint chirping of cicadas and other mysterious nocturnal sounds, heightening the atmosphere's eerie intensity.
In the stillness of the night, a short, pudgy figure crept cautiously through the village, heading toward its outskirts. His hunched posture and the dark wooden basket clutched tightly to his chest made him appear more sinister. Inside the basket lay a grotesque, gray-skinned baby with wrinkled features and a menacing aura.
"Master, we've arrived at the location you described. What should I do next?" Peter Pettigrew's voice was barely above a whisper, laced with fear and servility as he addressed the creature in the basket.
From within, the baby's eyes flickered open, and the unnaturally chilling presence of Voldemort filled the air. Voldemort's piercing gaze swept over the barren field before him with urgency, his small, malformed body floating slightly above the basket.
"Hsss… hsss… hsss…" The sound of Parseltongue, Voldemort's sinister gift, hissed through the air.
The guttural, snake-like language sent shivers down Pettigrew's spine. Already timid by nature, the dark and ominous tone made his hands tremble as he struggled to steady the basket.
In response to Voldemort's incantations, the empty field shimmered as though it were water disturbed by ripples. Slowly, a shadowy black manor emerged, its eerie silhouette taking shape before their eyes.
"This is the Gaunt family's ancestral home," Voldemort said in his childlike, venomous voice before retreating into the basket. His current state was frail, and he needed to conserve energy. He knew that the very traps and curses he had left to protect the Horcruxes would now stand in his way.
"Go inside," Voldemort commanded coldly.
With a quivering nod, Pettigrew clutched the basket and began his cautious approach.
"Take the left path. Move at half speed. Going too fast will trigger the traps," Voldemort instructed.
"Jump over the stone steps. Do not touch them—there's a curse."
"Use a spell to open the door. Do not push it. Wait for the trap to disarm before proceeding."
Pettigrew followed every command to the letter. Each step brought him closer to the manor, but the air felt heavy with unseen danger. The oppressive aura of death and decay emanated from the ancient building, unnerving him further.
Finally, after navigating the treacherous path, Pettigrew reached a room deep within the manor. On a decayed mahogany table sat a half-open treasure box, inside which gleamed a ring adorned with a dark, black stone—the ancestral ring of the Gaunt family, containing the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hallows.
As soon as Pettigrew laid eyes on the ring, he felt an overwhelming compulsion to reach for it, his gaze consumed by an almost fanatical desire.
"Idiot!" Voldemort's enraged voice thundered, and a searing pain erupted in Pettigrew's arm. The Dark Mark glowed green, sending waves of agonizing torment through him.
Pettigrew collapsed, writhing and screaming on the floor, his body contorting as if his very soul was being shredded.
The pain jolted him back to his senses, breaking the spell of the cursed Resurrection Stone. Voldemort ceased his punishment once Pettigrew regained control, though the man remained trembling and drenched in cold sweat.
Ignoring Pettigrew's pitiful state, Voldemort floated toward the ring. The curse protecting the Resurrection Stone was his own creation, and he knew how to dismantle it.
Dark mist emanated from Voldemort's frail form, shrouding the ring in a sinister aura. His hissing Parseltongue incantations filled the room, each word infused with magical power.
"Hsss… hsss… hsss…" The tone was both melodic and menacing, resonating with an ancient, forbidden energy.
The black mist surrounding the ring writhed violently, cracks and faint pops echoing as the curse began to unravel. After what seemed like an eternity, the mist dissipated, leaving the ring free of its protections.
Voldemort reached out his small, deformed hand, sliding the ring onto his finger. A shiver ran through his body as a rush of soul-nourishing energy flowed from the Resurrection Stone.
The Deathly Hallows held immense power, and the Resurrection Stone was no exception. Beyond its ability to summon the images of the dead, it possessed a unique capacity to strengthen and amplify magic tied to the soul. For Voldemort, it was a vital tool to regain his strength and fuel his dark ambitions.
Voldemort, while absorbing the Resurrection Stone's soul-replenishing energy, seemed to recall something. He turned his cold gaze to Peter Pettigrew, who had finally managed to stand upright again.
"Go outside and wait for Barty Crouch Jr.," Voldemort commanded, his tone sharp and icy. Without waiting for a response, he resumed channeling the Resurrection Stone's power to restore his soul.
Peter Pettigrew, visibly trembling, nodded vigorously. "Yes, Master!" he replied, his voice shaking as he turned and cautiously exited the room.
Being in Voldemort's presence was an overwhelming burden, akin to a rabbit standing beside an injured tiger. Even in his weakened state, the Dark Lord exuded an aura of terror that made Pettigrew's heart race.
Outside the decrepit Gaunt manor, Peter Pettigrew breathed deeply, trying to steady himself. He glanced up at the pale moon hanging in the night sky and exhaled slowly. The tension was unbearable, but at least his recent actions had earned him some reprieve from punishment.
For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to relax. "Sirius is out there hunting me like a mad dog," he muttered under his breath. "At least by the Master's side, I'm safe."
But the momentary calm didn't last. A nagging thought tugged at his mind. Why does it feel like I've forgotten something important?
Suddenly, a faint golden glow appeared in Peter's eyes, spreading through his soul like a warm current. A golden dragon-shaped mark slowly emerged on his skin, and with it, long-hidden memories surfaced.
Fragments of suppressed thoughts surged into his mind.
"Mentor Peggy Carter. Agent training."
"Hiding around Voldemort…"
"Leading the confrontation…"
He staggered slightly as the pieces came together.
"I remember… I remember everything," Peter whispered, bitterness creeping into his voice.
The truth was undeniable. He hadn't simply stumbled into Voldemort's service out of fear and desperation. He had been captured by his true master, Gilderoy Lockhart, and subjected to professional undercover training. Lockhart, wary that Peter might succumb to Voldemort's manipulative influence, had sealed away his memories, guiding him toward a carefully constructed plan.
Peter had executed the plan meticulously. He found Voldemort in his Horcrux state, assisted in creating the grotesque infant form, and established contact with Barty Crouch Jr. Everything had gone as Lockhart had intended—so far.
The mere thought of Barty Crouch Jr. sent a chill down Peter's spine.
Unlike Peter, Barty's loyalty to Voldemort was fanatical. Even after being captured and subjected to relentless torture, he refused to betray his master. The ordeal had twisted his mind and soul, rendering him a deranged yet fiercely devoted follower.
Lost in these unsettling thoughts, Peter was startled by a sudden flicker of black light on the nearby plain. Out of the darkness emerged a figure in black wizard robes—Barty Crouch Jr.
"Peter," Barty said, his voice flat and emotionless as he approached, carrying a large package. "What's the status?"
"Everything is proceeding as planned," Peter replied in a hushed tone, trying to suppress his unease.
Barty nodded curtly, his blank expression giving nothing away. Without another word, he gestured for Peter to lead the way.
As they approached the manor, Barty's demeanor began to shift. His eyes filled with fervent devotion, and a crazed smile crept across his face. The sight of this transformation sent a shiver down Peter's spine.
If I weren't useful, I'd be no different from the mindless puppets he creates, Peter thought grimly. For now, his value lay in being a necessary tool for Voldemort's resurrection.
Inside the manor, Voldemort's childlike form hovered menacingly, the Resurrection Stone glowing faintly in his hand. His crimson eyes flicked to Barty Crouch Jr., who immediately knelt and presented the package with reverence.
"Master, I've brought everything," Barty declared, his voice trembling with excitement. "When shall we begin the ceremony? I will protect your resurrection with my life."
Voldemort's lips curled into a sinister smirk as he regarded Barty. "You've done well," he said, nodding approvingly. Compared to the cowardly Pettigrew, Barty's unwavering devotion was far more reliable.
The materials had been chosen carefully. The Gaunt family's ancestral home was more than a sanctuary; it was a fortified haven, its many curses and traps providing ample defense. Moreover, the Resurrection Stone's presence amplified Voldemort's connection to his fragmented soul, making the manor an ideal location for the ritual.
"Here will suffice," Voldemort declared.
Barty wasted no time. He opened the package, carefully unpacking an array of items and materials. At the center of the room, he placed a large cauldron, its metallic surface dull and weathered with age.
With a wave of his wand, Barty summoned water into the cauldron and ignited a brilliant blue flame beneath it. The liquid began to boil rapidly, steam curling into the air. One by one, he added the prepared ingredients, their essence blending into the bubbling mixture. Gradually, the liquid turned a shimmering silver.
Stepping back, Barty raised his wand high and began to chant.
"The bones of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!"
With a loud plop, a fragment of brittle, decayed bone fell into the cauldron. The liquid roiled violently, its color shifting to a deep blue as bursts of magical energy crackled across the surface.
Once the cauldron's contents settled, Barty continued his chant.
"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master!"
Peter Pettigrew stepped forward, his face pale but resolute. Without hesitation, he sliced off a finger, letting it fall into the cauldron. The liquid hissed and bubbled, turning a vivid, blood-red hue.
The boiling intensified, the cauldron's contents now pulsating with raw magical power.
Barty raised his wand once more, his voice echoing with fervor:
"The blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, shall resurrect your foe!"
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