The villagers around Little Hangleton still stubbornly called the long-abandoned mansion "Riddle House," though the Riddle family had left years ago and never returned.
The mansion stood on a hillside overlooking the village, with a view of every corner of it. Now its windows were boarded up, tiles were missing from the roof, and ivy grew unchecked across every corner of the house, as though it meant to swallow the abandoned mansion whole.
Riddle House had once been the grandest building in the area, magnificent enough to take anyone's breath away. Now it stood damp and desolate on the hillside, forgotten by all. Whenever the villagers spoke of the old house, they called it "spine-chilling."
Half a century ago, a tragedy had occurred there that shocked the entire village. Whenever the older villagers gathered with nothing else to talk about, someone would bring up that terrible day. The story had passed from mouth to mouth, gaining a few embellishments with every telling until the truth had grown murky.
But every version began the same way: fifty years ago, before Riddle House fell into ruin, a maid entered the drawing room one summer morning and found all three members of the Riddle family dead, their faces frozen in terror and confusion.
"There's still some left in the bottle, Master. If you're still hungry, perhaps you could drink a little more." Peter Pettigrew stammered, his unease plain.
"Wait a moment." Voldemort's voice was high and strange, as piercing as a winter wind. "Wormtail, move me closer to the fire. And where is Nagini?"
"I... I don't know, Master." Peter Pettigrew, also known as Wormtail, sounded nervous. "I suppose she might be roaming around the house..."
"Remember, Wormtail, you must give Nagini milk again before bed."
"And what of Barty Crouch Jr.? Why