In the remote southeast of England, where most sparsely populated towns relied on traditional agriculture, life moved slowly.
In this highly industrialised nation, those who remained in such towns were mostly elderly folk whose families had lived there for generations.
Little Hangleton was such a village. Its residents could trace their lineage back three to five generations, and neighbours knew each other well. Children often heard elders recount strange tales from the village's past.
The story of the Riddle House was one such tale—enduring and oft-repeated.
When the elderly ran out of topics, they'd resurrect this story, though versions varied. The beginning, however, remained unchanged: Fifty years ago, the Riddle House belonged to the village's wealthiest family—a landowning farmer with vast fields and pastures, his still-graceful wife, and their handsome son.
On a clear summer dawn, a maid entered the parlour to find all three Riddles dead.
Screaming, she fled down the hillside and into the village, shouting—"They were all lying there, eyes wide open, cold to the touch, still dressed in their dinner clothes!"
In the end, even the police were called in, but no leads were found. Far from grieving, the villagers were secretly pleased.
The Riddles hadn't been popular. Old Mr and Mrs Riddle had been snobbish and rude, and their son even worse—loathed by people and dogs alike.
After their deaths, the Hanged Man pub did brisk business as the whole village came to discuss the murders—for murders they surely were. Such wicked people must have crossed someone dangerous.
Nowadays, few villagers ventured up the hill to Riddle House, except for Frank the gardener, who still lived in his cottage on the grounds.
Yet tonight, a dim light flickered in the windows of Riddle House.
"Master—is the temperature to your liking?"
"Barty, how many times must I say it? I haven't actually become an infant," came a high-pitched voice from inside the room.
"Apologies, my Lord. I merely wished to make you more comfortable. Would you like more milk?"
In the shabby parlour, firewood crackled in the hearth. An old-fashioned armchair stood nearby, where Barty Crouch Jr knelt respectfully, holding a baby's bottle.
Upon the sofa lay a hideous infant, no more than a year old, its skin deathly pale with a sickly greenish hue.
"Set it aside. I've had enough for tonight."
At these words, Barty Jr placed the bottle down and crouched lower so the infant–Voldemort could see his face more clearly.
"Why hasn't Peter returned yet? That useless waste of space can't even handle the simplest tasks."
Just as Voldemort complained, Peter Pettigrew returned – not alone, but accompanied by a woman in her forties with vacant eyes.
"My Lord, I've brought the newspaper you requested."
"What took you so long?" Barty Jr demanded on his master's behalf.
"It's a big day today – the World Cup final. Everyone left their homes. Bertha and I had to visit several places before we could obtain a newspaper."
"Pathetic distractions," Voldemort said coldly. "Wizards squander their talents, obsessed with meaningless bloodsport. What difference is there between Quidditch players and beasts in an arena?"
Peter's lips twitched, but he remained silent.
"Read it, Peter," Voldemort said lazily.
He relied on the Daily Prophet's reports to stay informed about wizarding affairs. This was also why Bertha Jorkins remained alive – with everyone present having dubious backgrounds, Peter had suggested keeping her under the Imperius Curse to run errands for them.
"Genius Krum Falters as Ireland Claims Victory After 32-Year Drought," Peter squeaked as he read the headline.
"Skip this damned Quidditch nonsense! Find something relevant!" Voldemort snapped impatiently.
Peter hesitated, then turned the page. "Muggle-born Noble Youth Reaches World Summit: Wayne Lawrence's Close Ties with Minister for Magic Fudge..."
At this point, Peter suddenly trembled violently. While Snape had tortured him, those horrific whips had come from Wayne!
"Ah!"
To Peter's surprise, someone reacted even more intensely. Barty Jr let out a piercing scream, collapsing to the floor in convulsions.
Even Voldemort seemed momentarily stunned. "Barty, what's wrong with you?"
"M-my Lord, I don't know," Barty stammered, still shaking uncontrollably. "J-just hearing that name makes me feel... ill. It's unbearable."
"But I've never even met him!"
"Stand up straight!" Voldemort commanded sharply – though from an infant's mouth, it merely sounded shrill. Barty struggled to his feet.
"Have decades reduced you to cowering at the mere mention of a name?"
"Master, I didn't..." Barty Crouch Jr. hastily defended himself. "I don't know this person at all, never even heard of him before."
He didn't seem to be lying, and Voldemort's anger momentarily dissipated by half—but only half.
The remaining half was directed at Lawrence.
That somewhat... no, that very talented Mudblood had thwarted his plans two years ago—twice!
"Peter, you said his current abilities are formidable, correct?"
"Yes, Master." Peter bowed his head meekly. "Lawrence defeated Sirius and Snape with a single spell—he's practically the next Dumbledore."
When mentioning Snape, Wormtail's teeth clenched involuntarily.
After calming himself slightly, Voldemort said softly, "Since you both despise that name as much as I do, then we'll simply kill him."
"However... this isn't something the two of you can accomplish alone. I must handle it personally."
Voldemort wouldn't deny Wayne's talent and strength. After all, there wouldn't be a second young wizard in the world who could beat him and Quirrell like dogs during their first year.
Yet he remained confident that once resurrected and restored to full power, he could easily kill Lawrence.
Voldemort closed his eyes. "Suppress your hostility towards Snape. His hatred for you is justified. Because of you, I sought out Harry Potter, and all I once promised him vanished into thin air—precisely proving his loyalty."
"Yes, Master," Wormtail murmured weakly.
"Let Wayne Lawrence and Harry Potter live a little longer. Once I regain my body, I'll erase both names from this world."
"Barty, have you tracked Moody's movements?"
"Master, with Wormtail and me ambushing him together, there's a seventy per cent chance we can subdue him. He's grown too old, and his injuries are severe."
"Seventy isn't enough. Take Uroboros with you—it will assist you."
Both answered in unison.
Hiss... hiss!
A massive serpent, at least twelve feet long, slithered through the door crack. When it entered, Wormtail and Barty instinctively shut their eyes.
"Don't be afraid... Barty, Peter..." Voldemort let out a scornful chuckle. "Uroboros isn't fully grown yet. Even if you meet its gaze, you'll only petrify briefly."
The serpent ignored them, slithering to the sofa and resting its head beside the infant.
Uroboros—or Ouroboros—was the immortal serpent of Western mythology, also known as the tail-devouring snake, symbolising infinity.
This was the name Voldemort had carefully chosen for the Basilisk he'd personally hatched, embodying his ambition.
He intended to emulate the mythical Ouroboros—to live forever!
...
The Quidditch World Cup campsite.
Wayne sensed the alarm spells at the entrance being triggered and bolted upright from Cho's bed.
Throwing on his coat, he pushed open the door and stepped outside the tent. In the distance, screams erupted as flames licked the sky.
The Silencing Charm dissolved, letting the chaos flood in. Soon, the girls were all awake, bewildered.
"What's happening?" Hermione asked, rubbing her bleary eyes.
"Riots," Wayne said grimly.
Hermione snapped awake instantly. Stepping out of the tent, she saw crowds of people fleeing towards the distant woods, their screams and drunken shouts carrying over a mile away.
Opposite them, Mr Weasley came rushing out, his clothes hastily thrown on with only a coat over his pyjamas. Behind him followed Sirius, Mr Diggory, and three adult Weasleys.
Seeing Wayne and the others already outside, Mr Weasley exhaled in relief. "I was just coming to get you. Something's not right."
"Sirius, take everyone and follow the crowd. We'll assess the situation."
"I'm coming too," Sirius said, already drawing his wand.
"No, the children's safety comes first," Mr Weasley frowned.
As the two began arguing, Wayne interjected sharply, "This isn't the time for disputes. Let Sirius go. Everyone else, gather in my tent. Gardevoir."
A sharp crack split the air as Gardevoir materialised beside Wayne.
"You and Nagini will guard the tent. No one approaches – remember, no one."
"Gardevoir!" she nodded solemnly. A burst of blue light erupted from her body, forcing everyone to shield their eyes from the brilliance. When the glow faded, her pristine white dress had turned black, radiating an aura of palpable power.
Gardevoir's current strength rivalled that of a Head of House professor. In her Mega-evolved state, she became even more formidable and could sustain it for a considerable time.
"Wait here until I return," Wayne told the girls behind him before gripping his wand and pushing against the fleeing crowd towards the distant flames.
When the twins and others arrived, Nagini raised her wand. The weeds beneath them twisted violently, transforming into massive serpents that encircled their campsite. Nearby spectators recoiled, giving the area a wide berth.
Ron turned pale. After spiders, snakes were his greatest fear.
He'd wager every knut in his secret stash that this seemingly gentle Eastern witch had definitely graduated from Slytherin.
...
Meanwhile, Mr Weasley went to assist the Ministry of Magic in crowd control as officials converged on the disturbance from all directions.
Wayne soon broke away from them, spotting several Hufflepuff classmates whom he directed towards the small woods near his campsite.
The mob of rioters swelled rapidly. Initially, just a few dozen hooded wizards – clearly trained and premeditated with their masks – they moved systematically, torching tents and anything flammable in their path.
Soon, more joined their ranks. The reason was simple: mindless destruction.
British football hooliganism was infamous worldwide, and while mainland Europe fared slightly better, it wasn't by much.
Quidditch fans proved no different. Their vandalism needed no justification – whether venting frustration over losses, celebrating victories, or simply indulging base desires.
As they moved forward, the crowd of troublemakers quickly snowballed into hundreds. These people didn't know each other, but it didn't matter—they revelled in the thrill of making others fear them.
Ministry of Magic officials desperately tried to push through, attempting to reach the hooded wizards at the centre, but faced great difficulty. They dared not cast spells, for the wizards in the middle held hostages—the Roberts family, the campsite managers.
In the core area, a masked figure suddenly spoke coldly: "Head that way—that campsite's still intact!"
Another masked figure looked up in the indicated direction and whispered, barely audible: "Douglas, what are you planning?"
"Lucius, still so timid. We're all disguised, and with so many people... we should teach that damned Mudblood a lesson."
"Hundreds against dozens—the advantage is ours!"
The first masked figure grinned viciously. "Wayne Lawrence nearly bankrupted the Flint family. Time to collect some interest."
His true identity was now obvious—Douglas Flint, patriarch of the Flint family and father of Marcus Flint. Among all pure-blood families, none bore deeper grudges against Wayne than the Flints and the Parkinsons.
Under his deliberate guidance, the crowd veered slightly, changing direction towards the campsite near the small woods.
Lucius Malfoy hesitated, recalling things Draco had once told him. Finally, gritting his teeth, he gradually fell behind when no one was looking, disappearing completely into the night.
Children wailed, adults panicked. Shouts and pleas for help echoed through the cold night air.
Wayne's expression grew colder with every step. He saw a wizard pointing his wand at a mother and daughter, laughing maniacally.
Bang!
The young man immediately cast a spell, striking the wizard with such force that he was hurled into darkness—his fate unknown.
The girl stopped crying, wide eyes fixed on the handsome young man now crouched before her.
"Hold your mother's hand tight. Don't get lost."
Wayne ruffled the girl's hair, then rose into the air as the mother thanked him profusely.
Soaring over clusters of people, he finally spotted the core instigators.
Above the hooded, masked figures floated four struggling bodies, contorted into grotesque shapes. The more they screamed in pain, the more excited the hooded crowd below became.
Not a trace of warmth remained in Wayne's eyes as he stared coldly at the figures below.
By the towering flames, the hooded figures and nearby rioters finally noticed the silhouette in the sky.
They squinted, rubbing their arms uncomfortably. Despite the surrounding fire, an inexplicable chill crept over them.
As the figure descended, they could see it was a young man.
Douglas Flint's breathing grew ragged.
He'd been planning to hunt Wayne down—yet here the boy was, delivering himself.
No wonder he could fly—must be using that Flying Potion of his.
Wayne spoke, his voice eerily calm, as if greeting a passerby.
"Aren't you a bit old to be playing with fire?"
"In that case... count me in. Don't be so stingy with the fun."
The youth indifferently lowered his gaze, like a deity looking down upon ants, and uttered softly:
"Blaze the path."