"Well, so... we're just walking over there like this?"

"What else? Did you want to ride a flying broomstick or Apparate?" Old Kurt glanced at his nephew and said, sounding annoyed.

"I mean, we should at least cast a Disillusionment Charm or something, after all..."

The young wizard replied, looking around. They were standing on a country lane, flanked by tall, tangled bushes. A wooden signpost protruded from the thicket on the left side of the road, with an arrow pointing ahead, reading: Little Hangleton, 1 mile.

Following the direction of the signpost, a quiet village shrouded in the night was faintly visible.

"According to the files, Little Hangleton has a permanent population of 131. If any Muggles who can't sleep look out the window, it could be troublesome, right?"

"Indeed," Old Kurt nodded. "But it's hard to see clearly through the glass, so I'll have to get him to come outside—"

"Eh?! Him?"

Frank blinked, looking at his uncle in confusion.

"Frank, Frank Bryce, a Muggle who lives in a wooden house on the edge of town. Shares your name."

Kurt Meier said calmly, casting a stern glance at the troublesome young man beside him.

"He was the gardener at the Riddle House for most of his life and has a very important role. As for further details, that's not for you to know. Your mission tonight is to enter the Riddle House, light the fireplaces, leave the Portkey, and then await the order to withdraw after the mission is complete."

"Also, if you ask one more question, this will be your last field operation, understood?"

"Yes, sir," Frank shrugged his shoulders and replied seriously.

Old Kurt stared at Frank for a few seconds, then turned around and strode quickly in the direction of the Little Hangleton sign.

They walked for a while, the surroundings quiet and devoid of other people. Then, the road veered sharply to the left, leading steeply down a hillside. They soon saw their destination. Little Hangleton nestled between two steep hills, with the church, graveyard, and town hall all visible. On the hillside opposite the valley stood a gloomy, dilapidated mansion, with rubble and weeds spreading rampant around it.

"Now, draw your wand. Don't you think it's too dark around here?"

Kurt lowered his voice and whispered to Frank, "Forget about the blasted Statute of Secrecy. One of your tasks today is to 'accidentally' be seen. If you happen to hear any noise, just pretend it's stray dogs rummaging through stones. I'll go 'wake up' that Muggle first..."

As Kurt's voice grew fainter, his figure gradually faded away, disappearing into the darkness.

"Sigh, okay then—"

Frank looked around and shrugged, seemingly helpless.

As an ordinary operative of the Destiny Group, his authorization was clearly not enough to unlock the full mission briefing.

"Lumos."

A white, misty halo of light sprang from the tip of his wand, instantly dispelling a large patch of darkness.

***

Old Frank was awakened by the pain in his bad leg, which had been getting worse as he aged.

The bedroom window had been blown open by the wind sometime during the night, and the room was filled with a biting chill that pricked at his bad leg like needles.

He got out of bed and found that the hot water bottle he'd placed beside his knee was already ice cold. He limped out of the bedroom, wanting to refill the hot water bottle and warm his stiff knee. He stood by the stove, filling the kettle with water, and subconsciously looked out the window towards the hillside.

That wealthy, generous, and strangely mysterious "Mr. Riddle" had kept his promise and provided him with a house on the edge of the village.

Besides the spacious and clean living room, what pleased Frank the most was that the window offered a clear view of Riddle House on the hillside.

"Huh?" Old Frank frowned.

He saw a figure cloaked in dark robes crossing the street and heading towards Riddle House.

The person seemed to be holding an exceptionally bright candle, but from the pale white glow, it looked more like a lightbulb.

Within a few minutes, the figure reached the front door of Riddle House, and in the distance, he faintly heard the clatter of a heavy iron chain hitting the ground.

Logically, as the "former" gardener who had been "dismissed", whoever that person was had nothing to do with Frank, but he couldn't convince himself to put down the kettle and go back to sleep. The old man stood in the chilly living room, watching the glow gradually disappear behind the front door of Riddle House. He was hesitating whether to go over and take a look when Riddle House suddenly lit up, accompanied by what sounded like muffled explosions.

In just a moment, flickering firelight reflected from every window of the house.

Frank paused for half a second, then immediately understood what was happening.

The fireplaces! The fireplace mantels they had thought were useless were all lit!

Although he didn't know how that mysterious man had done it, Frank knew he had to do something—the fake fireplaces didn't connect to any chimneys. If fires were lit in those places, the flames would soon spread. He had to get closer and see.

If he didn't do something, by the time morning came, Riddle House might be nothing but fire-consumed ruins.

Frank's "new home" still didn't have a telephone.

Ever since the police had taken him in for questioning after the sudden deaths of the Riddle family, he had harbored a deep distrust of the police.

He quickly put down the kettle, dragged his bad leg back to the bedroom, got dressed, and returned to the living room to take a rusty key from a hook by the door—the key to the back door, which he had intended to hand over to "Tom Riddle" himself when he arrived—now it was proving useful. Frank quickly grabbed his walking stick leaning against the wall and stepped into the night.

The front door of Riddle House was ajar, the chain lying on the weed-covered gravel ground.

More strangely, Frank noticed that there were many figures moving around inside, but besides the rustling of robes and footsteps, he hardly heard any conversation. After hesitating for a few seconds, Frank hobbled around to the back of the house, stopped by a door almost completely covered by ivy, took out the old key, and was about to insert it into the lock to open the back door that led to the Riddle House's large kitchen.

Just then, Frank's hand suddenly trembled, and the key stopped two or three centimeters away from the lock.

An orange-yellow light flickered in the dark lock hole.

Although he hadn't been inside for many years, he could still clearly imagine the scene on the other side of the door:

The two dark fireplaces in the large kitchen must also be lit.

Noisy footsteps and voices came through the rotting, musty wooden door.

Frank pricked up his ears, held his breath, and tried to catch every sound from the other side of the wooden door. He recognized one voice, a cold, arrogant voice that sounded vaguely hoarse, the strange "butler" who had previously identified himself as Barty Crouch.

However, compared to before, there was an extra bit of flattery and madness in Mr. Crouch's voice.

"Most of the Aurors have left England, Master. When do we depart?"

"Wait a little longer," another voice said.

This was also a man's voice—but it was strangely high-pitched and as cold as the winter wind. Frank noticed that when this man spoke, all the discussion in the room stopped, as if everyone felt their hair stand on end, just like he did.

"Your father is still over there, isn't he? Crouch. Can you bring yourself to do it—"

***

Yay!