The floorboards creaked underfoot as Frank Bryce slowly climbed the rickety staircase of the old manor house. His feeble torch cut only a few feet into the darkness and he leaned heavily on his stick as his old war wound throbbed in his right leg. Eventually, and with much muttering and complaining, he reached the landing and set off in search of the mysterious light he had seen.
Frank had been caretaker of the old house for over fifty years, though for the vast majority of that time it had stood empty and unused. Once it had been the proud home of a rich and important family, the most influential in the district. But that had all come to an end one strange day in the midst of the Second World War, when the last three surviving members of the family were found dead in the house, without a scratch on them.
There had been a perfunctory investigation, in which Frank had been a chief subject, but no cause of death could be established and the whole thing fizzled to nothing. There were bigger things to worry about in those days, and the Riddles had never been popular. That didn’t stop the locals forming their own opinions about Frank however. The same people who had welcomed him back as hero after being injured in combat in North Africa now whispered behind his back over his supposed guilt.
Frank had learned to live with it and in fifty years he had never once thought about moving. He was a stubborn Yorkshireman and Little Hangleton was his home. Besides, he still had his job to do. Shortly after the end of the war he had received a mysterious anonymous letter from someone claiming to have purchased the manor house and retaining his services as caretaker. Following that, a regular stipend was paid into his account every month, but he had never met his employer.
The job amounted to little more than maintaining the garden, keeping the house secure and chasing away occasional trespassers. This warm August evening, from his own home down the road, he had glimpsed light from an upstairs window in the house and had grumpily set off to investigate. He hoped it wasn’t squatters; they could be real trouble to get rid of at times.
He had been surprised to find the front door still locked, and the ground floor seemed undisturbed. Now on the first floor, he passed by several dark empty rooms until he reached the room at the far end. The door of this room was half ajar and light was flooding out into the hallway. Frank switched off his torch, raised his heavy walking stick and was about to push open the door when he heard a high, cold voice from inside the room.
“I am most disappointed, Peter, most disappointed.”
Another voice replied, a thin, squeaky voice that sounded weak and submissive. “Forgive me, my lord, but the target has proved more elusive than we had expected. We are running out of time and soon he will be beyond us. Without him, the plan cannot hope to succeed.”
“Nonsense, Peter,” said the first voice, which strangely chilled the overhearing Frank. “It is a setback, yes, but our preparations will go ahead as planned. Other arrangements will have to be made. My faithful servant will not fail me, no matter how I employ him. If it cannot be as Mad-Eye, then it must be as someone else.”
“I beg you, my lord, is all this necessary? Do we really need the boy? Would it not be better…?”
“Of course it is necessary,” interrupted the high voice. “I must have the boy.” There was a strange hissing sound and a noise as if something heavy had just slid onto the wooden floor. “Now is not the time to lose nerve, Peter. Lord Voldemort will not be denied his…”
But at that moment, the door behind which Frank stood moved slightly on its hinges and Frank half jumped. Yet no one appeared in the doorway. Frank had begun to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the hissing sound once more and looked down. Slithering out from behind the door had appeared a giant snake, monstrously huge and with piercing eyes. Frank backed away as quietly as he could manage, but the snake just fixed him with a sharp stare and then turned and slid back into the room.
Bewildered and relieved, Frank considered whether to leave or to storm into the room. Suddenly he heard a noise like an ugly, strangled hiss, quite unlike what he had heard before. Almost immediately, the cold voice called out, “Peter, quick, the door.” Frank heard heavy footsteps across the room and the door was flung open to reveal a short, balding man with a round, pasty face and squinting eyes. He held a short wooden stick in his hand.
Frank drew himself up to his full height, determined not to be intimidated by the intruder. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.
From behind Peter, the cold voice said calmly, “Peter, bring in our guest.” Refusing to be manhandled, Frank strode into the room as defiantly as he could, given his walking stick. The room inside was empty save for a long wooden table, on which were several candles providing light for the room, and a high-backed armchair. The chair was facing away from Frank towards a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the giant snake was coiled about the chair’s feet. The voice came from the armchair. “How long have you been listening at the door, Muggle?”
The word Muggle conveyed nothing to Frank, but he countered, “You’ve no right to be asking me questions. I run this house and you shouldn’t be here. And from what I’ve heard, you’re up to no good here, talking about plots and such. I want you to leave now.”
“I have more right than you can know to be here, Muggle. No, I do not think I shall be leaving. And now you have heard too much, I cannot allow you to leave either.” There was a shuffling sound on the armchair and for a moment, Frank caught sight of a small, hideously shaped creature, like some grotesque mutation of a baby, clutching another thin stick in its tiny hands.
“Avada Kedavra!”
There was a flash of green light and the walking stick and torch fell from Frank’s hands.
And, in a house not forty miles away, a boy named Neville Longbottom burst awake.
He sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. He was sweating profusely and the lightening-bolt shaped scar on his forehead was throbbing intensely painfully. Confused images were tumbling about in his brain: a large, grand, decaying house, an old man, a candlelit room, a cold voice. None of it made any sense to him and he was now only left with the burning scar. He rubbed it to try and quash the pain and shivered, though he did not know why.
His bedroom was still dark; the night was not yet over. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but the pain from his scar was still too strong. It had never reacted like this before. Yes, it had ached from time to time, particularly back in his first year at Hogwarts he vaguely remembered, but this was different. It was an acute, shooting pain and it had come out of nowhere. Considering the circumstances under which he had received the scar, it was enough to worry him a great deal.
He clambered out of bed, lit a lamp and went over to look in the mirror on top of his chest of drawers. He pulled up his fringe and examined the scar closely. It was a thin, jagged line less than two inches long, just above his left eyebrow. It looked exactly the same as it had always done; a little stretched perhaps as he had grown (though not nearly as much as he would have liked), but otherwise just as he had always remembered it. Yet the pain was not fading.
He went back to bed and sat there, since there seemed nothing else he could do. Unable to sleep, he spent his time thinking, of which he didn’t do nearly enough, and worrying, of which he did an awful lot. His chief worry at this point was what his Gran’s reaction would be if he told her about his scar. He had been lucky so far to have spent the summer free from Gran’s overprotective glare, after she had accepted Dumbledore’s word that escaped convict Remus Lupin was in fact innocent and posed no threat to Neville.
She had seen fit to criticise his exam results, accusing him of spending too much time of concentrating on “lesser subjects” like Herbology and Muggle Studies, than on important ones like Transfiguration and Potions. Neville, who loathed both of the latter two subjects, had listened wearily and then had promised dutifully and insincerely to better in his fourth year. He couldn’t help the subjects he enjoyed and had grown used to Gran’s nagging.
He had no desire however to go back to the way things had been last year, with Gran barely allowing him out of his room, and so decided not to tell her about the scar unless it continued to hurt. He’d write to his best friend, Hermione Granger, and ask her about it instead.
Neville looked up to Hermione in a lot of things, particularly when there was a problem to be solved. She was the cleverest and most level-headed in Neville’s year. His other friends, the Marauders, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and Ron’s older brothers Fred and George, were helpful allies but not the best at giving advice.
The past summer, until this night, had probably been Neville’s happiest since first going to Hogwarts. He had left the school in a good mood, buoyed by the events at the end of the year when he had helped uncover a man’s innocence and had cast his first piece of truly powerful magic. He now had three good friends in Hermione, Harry and Ron, and had stayed in touch with them over the summer. He had even, in an uncharacteristic feat of memory, remembered Harry’s birthday and had sent him a pair of Quidditch gloves. That said, the day was not hard to remember, coming as it did exactly a day after Neville’s own birthday. Hermione, Harry and Ron had all sent him books for his birthday. He had the feeling they were trying to tell him something.
Neville’s mind had wandered so far from fretting about his scar that he was surprised to look up and see that it was light outside. He had actually dozed off again without realising it and it was now morning. He put his hand to his forehead. There was still an ache there, but the worst of the pain had gone. He felt relieved and got up and dressed, made a cursory effort to comb his hair, and went downstairs to the kitchen.
“Up at last,” said Gran from her usual chair when he walked in. “Porridge is on the stove. Oh, and this funny little owl arrived earlier this morning with a letter for you. I think it’s from that Weasley boy, what’s his name?”
“Ron,” replied Neville. The owl would have been Pigwidgeon, Ron’s new pet, an excitable little bird. He was a replacement for Ron’s previous pet Scabbers, who had turned out to be none other than Peter Pettigrew, the traitor who had betrayed Neville’s parents and had now gone on the run. The thought of Pettigrew made Neville stop for a moment, as if he was trying to recover a lost memory, but he had no idea what it could be.
He picked up the envelope, which was indeed addressed in Ron’s sprawling handwriting, opened the letter and began to read.
Dear Neville,
Fantastic news! Dad has been able to get hold of bunch of tickets for the Quidditch World Cup Final this weekend! Apparently someone in the Department of Games and Sports owed him a favour. It would be fantastic if you would come. Harry and Sirius are coming too and I’ve written to Hermione and asked her as well. It should be a fantastic day. Write back and tell me as soon as possible. Ron.
Ron was obviously extremely excited; he had used the word “fantastic” three times in a short letter. Neville was too, he had been listening to the progress of the World Cup on the Wizarding Wireless for the last few weeks and he knew tickets were almost impossible to come by. He had been disappointed when England had been knocked out early but like many in the country had adopted the Irish as a second team and had followed them all the way to the final, where they would play Bulgaria.
Neville showed the letter to Gran. “Hmm,” she said. “I shall have to write to Mr Weasley and ensure that you are properly supervised, but I see no reason why you can’t go. Provided you have that room of yours tidied before the weekend.”
“Fantastic!” exclaimed Neville, catching Ron’s affliction. He was already looking forward to the match, the pain of his scar and the nagging feeling that something had happened last night that he needed to remember were already forgotten.
Neville Longbottom and the Goblet of Fire by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which a caretaker investigates a disturbance at an old manor house and Neville Longbottom has a burning scar.
Chapter Endnotes: To confirm, as this chapter indicates, Moody will be the real Moody in this story. It's important this is made clear, as you need to be able to trust what he has to say.