Little Hangleton, the great fire that had burned all night gradually faded into the morning mist.

Officer Frey pushed open the gates of the Riddle House, leading a group of police officers and magistrates inside.

Behind the iron gates, the once magnificent old mansion was now nothing more than a few charred ruins.

There seemed to have been an explosion here as well. Frey noticed that shattered stones and fireplace debris were scattered away from the gate, as if they had been under heavy artillery fire. But more strangely, apart from the pungent burnt smell, there was no trace of gunpowder or gasoline.

"Check inside—"

Frey gestured to the team behind him, then turned to look at the magistrate not far away.

"You said that you first heard a loud noise from inside, and then saw flames rising from the Riddle House, right?"

"That's right," the magistrate nodded. "Around two or three in the morning, old Frank came knocking, saying he saw a group of extremely dangerous people breaking into the Riddle House. Just as I was asking him for details, there was a loud noise from halfway up the mountain—like something exploded, and more than once—and then the Riddle House caught fire. I've never seen such a raging fire; it engulfed the entire house in two or three seconds."

"No one ran out? Did you see anyone else? This is the only way down the mountain, right?"

Officer Frey tapped his notepad with his pen, preparing to dig for more clues, when his eyes suddenly stopped not far away.

A man wrapped in a black trench coat was walking towards them along the only mountain road. Without even asking the magistrate, the man's high-collared trench coat made it clear that he was out of place in Little Hangleton. And Frey's intuition told him that this guy was clearly coming for them.

"MI6, Kingsley Shacklebolt. From now on, we're taking over this case."

The man walked up to Frey and his team, pulled out an identification card from his pocket, showed it, and said cleanly.

"Regarding my identity, you can have your superiors call our department's phone number and make an inquiry—I hope you can provide the incident records, verbal accounts, and preferably assistance in collecting important witnesses and physical evidence... Also, as this incident involves a national terrorist threat, I hope you can cooperate with our work and refrain from spreading information in the surrounding area until our operation is complete..."

The "MI6" member who identified himself as Kingsley had a deep, slow voice that could calm people down.

Frey had never been in contact with MI6 before, but he had heard of their name long ago.

"I understand. Let me make a call first—"

Frey frowned deeply, his gaze sweeping over Kingsley Shacklebolt's dark, serious face.

As an old policeman who had worked for decades, Frey was a little sorry to see the big case slip away, but he knew better that some things were beyond his level to handle. Handing it over cleanly now was better than being riddled with bullets one day and having it handed over as his belongings.

Meanwhile, while Frey went to make a call to verify, Kingsley turned and walked to the magistrate and old Frank.

It was the same introduction and the same standardized case inquiry process.

The only difference was that when he heard the "butler's" name, a flash of shock quickly crossed his dark, steady face.

"Bartemius Crouch? I see—" Kingsley pondered for a few seconds. "We need to leave for London immediately. Things are more serious than we thought. This... uh, Mr. Frank, I'm very sorry, you may be involved in an extremely complex and dangerous incident."

"I can't answer your questions for now, but I can assure you that you can get all the answers in London."

"When the time comes, you just need to describe everything you saw and heard as you did before..."

Kingsley paused, turning to look at the middle-aged police officer walking over after hanging up the phone on the right.

"Hello, is there anything else?"

"Judging from the current situation, my best answer is 'no', right?"

Frey shrugged and put away his phone. "I don't want to cause trouble. It's all yours, Mr. MI6—"

"Thanks for understanding. Just fill out the police report as it is. I'm not 007, just another unfortunate soul who wants a cup of coffee like you."

Kingsley smiled and nodded to the middle-aged police officer, saying it naturally, his tense nerves relaxing.

Obviously, even though the Ministry of Magic had been attacked, the previous cooperation with the Muggle government had not been affected.

Or more accurately, compared to the Ministry of Magic, the Muggle government was much more reliable in this regard—if it weren't for this relationship, it would have been difficult for him to get the important witness to appear at the right place and time according to the "original plan," and to guide the deduction.

...

Old Frank thought he had seen enough strange things.

However, he was sure that everything he was experiencing was definitely the most bizarre experience of his life.

The man from MI6 wandered around the village for a while, and then he sat in the black car parked at the entrance of the village.

An old man with an unusually long beard sat in the back seat of the car. The old man told him a strange story about magic.

Old Frank naturally didn't believe these bedtime stories for children, but when he took advantage of these people's inattention to pull open the car door and roll out, he found that the outside was no longer the dirt road of Little Hangleton—he had come to a bustling modern city with towering buildings and asphalt roads everywhere.

"We're here, Mr. Frank. Welcome to London."

The old man stepped out of the open car door and reached out to help old Frank, who had fallen to the side of the road.

"I'm very sorry, these things are indeed difficult to accept. But time is of the essence, so we had to use the fastest method. If you have any doubts or concerns, we can accompany you to the London City Public Security Bureau first. But after that, we'd better go to the Ministry of Magic as soon as possible. Terrible things happened last night. Everything you witnessed and heard can be said to be the most important evidence to help us clear the fog."

"So... this is really magic?"

Old Frank murmured, touching the cold stainless steel lamppost next to him.

The sky was still slightly bright in the distance, and there were not many people on the street. Most of the shops had not yet opened for business.

"Well, whether you're the Ministry of Magic or MI6... you're the people who can solve the problem, right?"

Obviously, nothing was more "magical" than crossing more than half of England in a dozen minutes.

Even though old Frank's mind was still a mess at this time, deep down, he had to begin to accept the fact that:

He may have really encountered wizards who could use magic, and there was a magical world outside the ordinary world.

Most importantly, these people were willing to believe what he said, and that alone was enough for old Frank to make up his mind.

...

British Ministry of Magic, temporary interrogation room.

Old Frank tried to suppress his pounding heart as he walked into the room.

The Ministry of Magic had obviously received the news in advance. The not-so-spacious circular room was full of people.

In the center of the room was a single high-backed chair. Old Frank didn't need to ask to know that it was reserved for him—he had to say that this made him a little uncomfortable. But he quickly relaxed because the old wizard with the long beard also sat down next to him.

"Relax, Mr. Frank, we don't intend to interrogate you."

The old wizard pulled out a small wooden stick (Frank had just learned that wizards called it a wand) and waved it, conjuring a chair out of thin air.

At the same time, Kingsley walked over to Cornelius Fudge and whispered something in his ear.

"This is no joke—"

Cornelius Fudge's face changed suddenly, and he said in a low voice.

"This is a very serious, very serious accusation, you should know what it means..."

"Yes, that's why I have to tell you in advance—" Kingsley Shacklebolt said, his eyes scanning the temporarily cleaned-up room, as if searching for someone, "So, Minister, do you think we should call that gentleman as well?"

"...No, don't act rashly for now."

Cornelius Fudge was silent for a moment, tapping his fingers lightly on the armrest.

"Kingsley, go and get Mr. Scrimgeour. As for that person, find a way to keep an eye on him first."

"Yes, Minister." Kingsley nodded and walked out of the room quickly with a serious expression.

...

A moment later, Rufus Scrimgeour pushed the door open and walked in.

Mad-Eye Moody followed closely behind, both of their faces looking rather grim.

"Good," said Cornelius Fudge. "Now that everyone's here, let's begin. May we, sir?"

"No problem, Minister—"

Dumbledore said gently, his slender fingers interlaced, his blue eyes glancing at the lame old man beside him.

"However, I hope that after the interrogation, the Ministry of Magic can send one or two Aurors to temporarily protect Mr. Frank—the misfortune of his later life was brought about by magic. I hope we can be flexible in our working methods, you know what I mean, about the Obliviate Charm..."

"Thank you for the reminder. I know how to arrange it when everything is over—"

Cornelius Fudge said unhappily, his eyes scanning old Frank a few times.

"So..."

"Ahem, ahem—sorry, I have a suggestion."

Just then, Mad-Eye Moody suddenly interrupted Fudge rather abruptly.

His blue magical eye was still staring at old Frank, but his normal eye turned to Cornelius, who was sitting not far away.

"We don't have much time to identify lies. If possible, I request to use Veritaserum directly—this Mr. Frank obviously doesn't have the ability to deceive potions. Compared to repeated questioning and confrontation, I think this might be a more efficient and credible way of questioning."

"Veritaserum?" Old Frank frowned, looking inquiringly at Dumbledore next to him.

"A magical potion that prevents you from lying for a period of time after taking it."

Dumbledore explained softly, patting the old man's shoulder. "Don't worry, if you don't want to, no one can force you to drink any potion." Dumbledore shook his head at Moody as he spoke, "Alastor, this is not an interrogation, I think..."

"Are there any side effects?" Old Frank suddenly asked.

"No, but—"

"Uh, so, as long as I drink that 'Veritaserum' thing, they will 100% believe what I answer?"

"Theoretically, yes, because you have no magic and cannot interfere with the effects of Veritaserum."

"Okay, I understand—"

Old Frank looked around at the wizards, his eyebrows twitching.

"I can take your Veritaserum, if you think it's worth believing..."

He more or less understood the current situation. Those sitting at the other end of the room were obviously big shots in the magic government.

Although he didn't know how wizards usually viewed ordinary people like him, it certainly wouldn't be easier to convince them than the police—he was tired of repeating the story over and over again and then being questioned.

"Uh, of course, of course... that's naturally best."

Cornelius Fudge was stunned for two seconds, then nodded quickly.

If it was just the true identity of Voldemort, or even his conspiracy, family background, or who he had killed decades ago...

These contents would have no special significance for the Ministry of Magic, at most it would just corroborate Voldemort's return and that tonight's attack was indeed launched by the Dark Lord and his followers—but if it also involved other things, then it would be different.

For example...

Cornelius Fudge watched old Frank drink the Veritaserum, first asking a few verification questions about his name and address.

Obviously, as a Muggle, old Frank had no power to resist the magic potion.

However, Cornelius Fudge wasn't curious about how many women this old guy had been with.

"So, Mr. Frank..."

He swallowed nervously and asked softly.

"You said that a few months ago, a butler claiming to be 'Tom Riddle' came to the town and bought Riddle House in Little Hangleton for his 'master'. Do you remember his name and what he looked like? And everything you heard last night..."

"Of course—"

Old Frank replied firmly.

"Bartemius Crouch, that's what the magistrate said before anyway."

"As for his specific appearance and everything I heard last night..."

Accompanied by the old man's calm tone without much fluctuation, the faces of all the wizards present changed suddenly.

...

At the same time, hundreds of miles away in the Crouch family mansion.

Dense fog silently enveloped the residence, seeping in bit by bit along the seams of doors and windows.

A few minutes later, a click sounded in the hall, as if something small had rolled off the table and onto the floor.

"Target confirmed unconscious, Team Two, move in."

Several men in black looked at each other, drew their wands, and gently opened the locked door.

On the living room floor, a small body lay there, unconscious.

The men in black deftly stepped over the small body, raised their wands, and patiently groped and searched through the surrounding air. Finally, they stopped in front of a sofa at the back of the living room. A layer of transparent invisibility cloak was gently lifted by them. Underneath the invisibility cloak was a man in a coma.

If old Frank was here, he would be horrified to find that this man was exactly the same as the one he was describing.

"Tsk, so pathetic..."

The leader of the men in black carefully compared the man's appearance and waved his hand.

"Take him away."

----

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Yay!