Little Hangleton, a small village on the southwest side of England, was a quiet, rural place, naturally isolated from its neighbors by surrounding fields and rising hills.
Throughout the year, it experiences a temperate maritime climate, with generally mild weather that is damp and often overcast rather than extreme. Summers are mild rather than hot, marked by longer days, though rain still appears regularly, sometimes as sudden downpours followed by humid air.
It was one such evening, and the village was caught in a heavy downpour, with thunder rolling overhead and lightning flashing often enough to make even the streetlights barely visible from afar.
Over the dim, flickering lights of the village below, blurred and trembling in the sheets of rain, a four-story mansion also rose atop one of the surrounding hills.
It was indeed a mansion, but a glance revealed that it had long been abandoned. Tall, broken windows stared blindly into the darkness, streaked with age and damp, while ivy crept along the façade like grasping fingers and sections of the roof sagged clearly under years of neglect.
Boom! Crackle!
Each roll of thunder caused the structure to shudder in silhouette, and with every burst of lightning the mansion briefly revealed its true shape, sharp and oppressive, before sinking once more into shadow.
And inside, the darkness was so thick it seemed to press against every wall, heavy enough to suffocate.
The kitchen, or at least what appeared to be a kitchen, lay buried in shadow, its edges barely visible as lightning forced its way through a grimy window. In the flickering light, a short, fat man could be seen hunched over a wooden table, his shoulders drawn tight, thinning hair damp and clinging to his scalp, and sweat glistening on his pale, rat-like face.
He appeared to be stirring a murky, pale mixture in a ceramic bowl, his hand trembling so violently that the spoon clinked faintly against the sides with each motion. He was so absorbed in his task that he did not notice the door creak open behind him, and only when a cold, rasping voice, heavy with command and cruelty, came from the shadows did he freeze, his breath catching in his throat.
"Wormtail!" Every syllable crawled across his nerves, making the hairs on his arms stand on end. "The Master grows impatient… he requires his supplements. Now!"
The short, fat man with a rat-like face was indeed the heinous fugitive Peter Pettigrew, who had escaped prison months ago, and upon hearing the cold words, he nearly dropped the bowl as he spun around, eyes wide with panic, as if caught committing some unforgivable crime.
"Yes. Yes, of course," he stammered, nodding rapidly. "They are ready… ready right away. I was just—"
"Spare me your pathetic whining, rat. It is humiliating enough that I was the one tasked to fetch your useless self." The man cast one final glance of disdain at the shivering creature and, without another word, closed the door, leaving Wormtail alone inside once more.
At the same time, deeper within the mansion, a large chamber lay steeped in damp, choking gloom. The air was cold and heavy, carrying the scent of decay and dust left to fester. Cloaked figures were scattered across the room, their faces hidden in shadow, forming a loose half-circle around a sagging couch positioned at the center, facing the fireplace. At first glance, it appeared empty, though the way the others avoided looking directly at it suggested otherwise.
Thunder rolled overhead, rattling the walls.
A high, thin voice rose from the couch, sharp and piercing, slicing through the silence with unnatural clarity.
"How proceeds the preparation, my loyal servants?"
The sound of it made several of the figures stiffen.
"Exactly as you commanded, my Lord," came a voice, eager and unhinged, as a man stepped forward with jerky, devoted movements and lowered himself onto one knee beside the couch. "The instructions have been delivered according to your will, and they, along with the rest of us, shall act as soon as the closing ceremony concludes…"
The storm outside answered with another violent crack of thunder, briefly illuminating the faces within the room.
"And how many of those greedy, feeble-minded insects have pledged themselves to this task?" the piercing voice continued, its tone tightening with contempt.
"Thirteen, my Lord, including Goyle, Crabbe, Malfoy, Nott, Avery, and a few others," the man replied quickly, then faltered. "Though they have asked, rather insistently, to be granted the honor of seeing you..."
A hiss of fury filled the room, sharp and venomous upon hearing the reply.
"Honor," the screeching voice echoed, dripping with mockery. "They mistake their usefulness for worth. They are not loyal, only fearful. Traitors, nothing more."
"I could not agree more, my Lord," another voice chimed from the shadows, thick with reverence. "They should count themselves fortunate that you even permit them to serve..."
"I still think this is a reckless idea, Mr. Voldemort." Another voice, feminine this time, cut in. Unlike the others, hers carried little reverence, speaking instead almost as if to an equal.
"How dare you defy my Lord's brilliance!" another feminine voice shrieked, hysterical and burning with fury as it interrupted her. "I should rip your filthy tongue from your mouth and let the snakes feast—"
"Enough, Bellatrix."
"My Lord?" The hysterical voice changed completely the instant her name was spoken. Instead of fear, her expression twisted into something even more fanatical, as though merely hearing her name uttered by the figure on the couch filled her with ecstasy.
"Do not delude yourself, Rosier. It is you who needs me, not the other way around," the piercing voice continued coldly, ignoring the fanatic woman and addressing the one who had raised the objection.
"We agreed to cooperate," the woman, now identified as Rosier replied without budging, her gaze fixed squarely on the couch. "I offer my service to help you return to life, and in exchange, once you regain your full strength, you will aid me in freeing my master from prison."
"And your cooperation falls under aiding me in this operation," the cold voice replied evenly. "Either you agree, or our arrangement ends here."
From the side, Bellatrix cackled, her laughter sharp and mocking as it cut through the chamber, while Rosier clenched her fists beneath her robes, breaths ragged, yet she held her tongue and did not argue further.
Already, she was having second thoughts about this so-called cooperative arrangement. The person, or rather, the thing before her was a complete madman, and the rest scattered across the room were no better.
"What if there truly is a king hiding somewhere in disguise?" she pressed, attempting logic this time. "What if all of this amounts to nothing, and you lose two of your best assets?"
"There will not be any," a man's voice interjected calmly as lightning flashed, briefly illuminating his face. "I have scrutinized the attendance records repeatedly. Only Alastor Moody presents any conceivable threat, and perhaps Minerva McGonagall among the guests, should she even decide to intervene. "The rest are magus rank Aurors and ordinary witches and wizards, along with a handful of Muggles. No other archmage is recorded to attend—"
"Kekeke! What's the matter, old hag?" Bellatrix sneered, turning her wild eyes toward Rosier. "Scared of a crippled man and some mudblood-licking teacher?" She cackled madly as she spoke.
Of course I am, you dumb cunt. Crazy—every last one of them was mad to the core. Rosier's thoughts raced as she clenched her wand tightly, anger and disbelief warring within her.
Yet what choice did she have if she wanted her master freed? Moreover, this was a cooperative arrangement, and she had been the one to seek out these freaks in the first place. Shaking her head, she forcefully brushed the thoughts aside, logic or not, and finally nodded in reluctant surrender.
"Then I want command of the operation," she said firmly, ignoring the hysterical woman and looking toward the couch.
"That can be arranged," the hoarse voice replied.
But Rosier was not finished, as more thoughts churned in her mind, she pressed on. "Does it truly have to be that boy? You know how heavily guarded he is."
"I have my reasons for using the boy, as I have already explained," the piercing voice replied, sharper now. "I will use no other. I have waited thirteen years, and 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 required is a little courage from my servants, and from you."
Listen to yourself, you lunatic. Of course, Rosier did not say it aloud. Instead, she nodded, again, reluctantly. This was not the first time she had questioned it as well, and she had received a similar answer each time. As for this so-called plan the madman referred to, it was risky and fraught with uncertainty, but… still possible.
The real problem lay with these lunatics and their tendency to change terms without warning. Like now, she thought, why was it necessary to cause such a ruckus?
She released another resigned sigh. At least she would command these crazed lunatics, and with the hysterical woman working alongside her, even if Alastor and Minerva both intervened, she was confident the plan could still succeed.
That was, of course, assuming no other monsters lurked among the audience.
And just as the thought settled, the slow creak of a door echoed through the room, and all eyes turned toward its direction.
Wormtail crept into the chamber, gripping the ceramic bowl as if it were a lifeline, his feet faltering and his breath shallow, uneven, and quick. Slowly, he approached the couch and attempted to lower himself in a show of respect, but his foot slipped, sending him lurching forward, face-first, nearly spilling the bowl across the floor.
"Wormtail!" the voice from the couch shrieked at the pathetic moron, fury reverberating through the chamber.
"I— I... beg your forgiveness, my Lord," Wormtail cried, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly struck the ground. His arms shook violently as he lifted the bowl with both hands, holding it out in a trembling offering. "It is milk, freshly drawn from your familiar, combined precisely with the remedy you prescribed. If I may be permitted, my Lord, I would be honored to feed you—"
Booom!
He did not get to finish before the air suddenly cracked with magic, and his fat body was ripped from the floor and hurled aside, smashing against the wall with a dull, painful thud before collapsing in a heap.
Bellatrix lowered her wand, breathing heavily, her presence sharp and electrifying. Dark hair tumbled wildly around her face, framing eyes that burned with feverish devotion. Before sending the piece of flesh hurtling across the room, she had, of course, snatched the bowl from him. The sheer audacity of this wretched creature even daring to think of being intimate with her most beloved master infuriated her.
"Disgusting creature," she spat, her voice high and trembling with fervor. "How dare you presume to place your filthy hands anywhere near my Lord."
She then lowered herself gracefully, her movements reverent, almost worshipful. Scooping a portion of the mixture from the bowl, she held it up eagerly.
A few chuckles of disdain crackled through the chamber, mingling with the rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning that revealed Peter Pettigrew sprawled like a lifeless ghost, half-collapsed against the wall, the object of everyone's silent scorn. Only Rosier remained composed, her mind already racing ahead to the task she would have to lead these mindless fools through.
More lightning tore through the sky outside, its pale glow spilling into the chamber, revealing who, or what, lay upon the couch.
It was a small, twisted form that lay there, swathed in dark cloth. Hairless and pale, its skin stretched taut and glistening, the shape was disturbingly infantile—somewhere between human and goblin at a mere glance.
Its limbs were thin and weak, its head grotesquely large, the flattened face marked by slitted nostrils and a thin, lipless mouth. Red eyes burned within deep sockets, alive with cold, merciless intelligence.
Those eyes fixed upon Bellatrix, and the room seemed to bow beneath the weight of that gaze, as thunder roared overhead and the storm raged on...
---
Hundreds of miles away, many hours later.
Boom! Booom! Roaaaar!
The titanic stadium exploded in a deafening roar. Fireworks tore into the night sky, streaking gold, crimson, and sapphire across the darkness. The crowd surged as one, voices raw from cheering, clapping, and whistling, waves of jubilation rolling over the stands.
Spectators leapt to their feet, arms raised, faces alight with pure exhilaration. Flags and banners snapped in the wind, catching the brilliance of the fireworks, as if the sky itself had ignited in celebration.
Candles, flares, and magical sparks danced through the air, illuminating faces turned heavenward, laughter and shouts mingling with the crackle and boom of the pyrotechnics.
Then, cutting through the chaos, the announcer's voice thundered across the arena, sharp and electrifying, sending a ripple of confirmation through the throng:
"And the winner of this year's Quidditch World Cup is… Ireland!"
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Author's Note:
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