England, the northern edge of Sussex, Little Hangleton.

On a hillside on the outskirts of the village stood a dilapidated old house.

It used to be the largest and most imposing building within a few miles, but now it was hard to find any trace of its former beauty—several of the house's windows were boarded up, the roof tiles were missing, and ivy climbed wildly all over the house. Although the owners of the house had changed several times over the decades, the villagers of Little Hangleton still habitually referred to the house as "Riddle House."

Because of the bizarre and terrible events that had occurred there half a century earlier, most villagers, except for the mischievous boys in the village, would not voluntarily approach the area. However, whenever night fell, a small cottage in the courtyard of Riddle House would still light up.

Frank Bryce was the Riddle family's gardener and had worked for the Riddle family ever since he returned from the war.

Many people rumored that he was the murderer who killed the Riddle family, but the police found no evidence to prove that the Riddle family had been murdered—the Riddle family's death was ruled as sudden death—after questioning him for a few days, the police had to release Frank.

To the surprise of all the villagers, Frank did not leave Little Hangleton.

He stayed and took care of the garden for the families who subsequently lived in Riddle House. Perhaps because it was a haunted house, or because old Frank, who was lame and silent, looked a little creepy, the first two families who bought Riddle House did not live there for long.

As it was uninhabited for many years, the house gradually fell into disrepair and looked like a haunted house standing on the hillside.

Later, the wealthy people who owned Riddle House no longer chose to live in it, and several of the owners had never even been there.

The village constable said that the rich people kept it for "tax reasons," but no one else knew what was going on. However, those wealthy owners invariably continued to employ Frank to help look after the dilapidated house.

Frank once thought he would work there until he died, just like those guys who rang the church bells for a lifetime.

This situation continued until a few weeks ago...

…………

"You're fired, Mr. Bryce. I hope you can move out as soon as possible."

The man who called himself Barty Crouch said coldly, while the constable stood outside the cottage watching Frank with cold eyes.

"The master does not wish to smell the stench of Muggles in Riddle House. From now on, the garden is nothing to do with you. I don't want to see you here next time I come... Considering your hard work over the years, the master has generously given you some severance pay."

A roll of banknotes tied with a worn leather cord was thrown at Frank's feet, but the old man did not look at the pretty banknotes with the Queen's head printed on them.

He didn't even have time to ask what a Muggle was, although from the tone he knew it probably wasn't a good word.

"No, no, no—Mr. Crouch. You don't understand how bad the weeds are in the garden, and those naughty boys—"

Frank stood up excitedly, waving his arms, gesticulating clumsily and excitedly.

"Please, sir, don't kick me out! Even without pay..."

"One week."

The man with pale skin, a few freckles, and messy light yellow hair took a few steps back in disgust.

He ignored Frank and turned to look at the Little Hangleton constable standing by the cottage. "You'll take care of it, right? Only after this old guy leaves will we have the energy to tear down and renovate that broken house. This place has to be put to some use—"

"Don't worry, Mr. Crouch, we'll take care of it," the constable said with a smile.

The expression on his face was slightly subtle, more like a kind of subtle unease than flattery.

"Better be—"

Barty Crouch snorted and turned to leave the cottage.

"Tear down?! Wait, what are you going to do?!"

Just then, Frank Bryce finally reacted. The old man's eyes widened, one hand pressing on his bad leg, limping and struggling to move forward, the other hand reaching straight out, as if trying to grab the man's collar.

"No, no, no, it's not right, absolutely not. You can't just destroy Riddle House like this! Let me talk to your master!"

"Calm down! Frank, they can do that."

The constable quickly walked over and stood between old Frank and Barty Crouch.

He bent down and forcefully pressed the old man back into his chair, lest he pounce on the suspicious fellow from London, some so-called family butler.

"No, no, Rod, you don't understand—"

"The person who bought this house is called Tom Riddle! Understand?!"

Constable Rod's voice was like a bullet, piercing Frank's somewhat deaf ears. He felt as if he had been hit by a cannonball, and his whole body was momentarily stunned. A buzzing sound began to emerge. After a few seconds, the old man's lips trembled violently.

"Rod, this isn't funny, we all know that Tom Riddle died decades ago..."

"That's right! It's not funny at all. But..."

Constable Rod swallowed, subconsciously turning his head to look at the man who had already walked away.

"Whether it's the same name, or a deliberate prank, we've contacted the London police, and even asked people involved in real estate transactions to inquire a little. The new owner of 'Riddle House' is called that. Maybe they heard those legends from somewhere, you know rich people always have some strange ideas. And this Tom Riddle isn't the same name as the one you knew."

"I remember, the signature on that document seemed to be... Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"They..."

Frank's body seemed to be a deflated balloon, instantly losing strength.

"He just said that they hired you to help rebuild something... What do they want to rebuild..."

"Some strange requests—"

Rod frowned, trying to recall the construction requirements put forward by the generous Mr. Crouch.

"He wants... us to clean up the fireplaces in Riddle House, and also knock down some old walls and add a few more fireplaces, even if they don't have chimneys, just an empty fireplace cavity will do—they gave a lot of money, you know how rare that is these days."

In a depressed economic environment, such generous rich people could disappear at any time.

As the constable of Little Hangleton, Rod's only purpose today was to find a way to stabilize old Frank.

After all, if this old guy insisted on causing trouble, it would be quite troublesome—he didn't want to cause trouble, and he didn't want to know the relationship between that Tom Riddle and the Riddle family. He just wanted to get this temporary commission and win the bet in the tavern.

"But, but... fireplaces? What do they want to do?"

"Who knows? Anyway, they paid the village a large down payment."

Rod shrugged, looking at old Frank, who was gradually stabilizing, and said indifferently.

"Just some fireplace mantels that can't even be lit, can they become Satan's Gates of Hell?"

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Hooray!