The Cupboard Series 5: United We Stand ...

Chapter 4

Riddle Manor was an old, old house. Once upon a time, it had held generations of Riddles, the gentry of the Greater Hangleton area. They had owned much of the land between the two small townships of Greater Hangleton and Lesser Hangleton and people would come to them to solve their problems or to ask for help with their businesses.

And then, about fifty years ago, the last of the Riddles had died in mysterious circumstances. All three – Lord and Lady Riddle and their son, Thomas – had died on the same night with nary a clue as to their demise. One day they had been alive, the next, dead. There was no mark on their body and nothing that the constabulary of the time could find to mark as a cause of death. The only noteworthy thing that could be said about their deaths was the looks of surprise that the bodies wore.

Some, indeed most, said that the old caretaker, Frank, was to blame. But there was never any evidence, let alone a motive to link him to the murder. Still, the man had been shunned by the community, not that he let it get to him, he simply continued to perform his duty, caring for the manor day after day, month after month, year after year.

That was, of course, until he himself was murdered in identical circumstances. Not that anyone yet knew about his murder. While Frank hadn't been seen around the Hangleton area lately, his disappearance was simply put down to the strange old man staying close to the only home that he'd known for most of his life.

The reason for old Frank's demise was currently sitting in the manor's downstairs study. By right of birth, he had every right to be there, after all, it was his father and grandparents who had once owned the manor and grounds, not that he'd ever admit to that fact.

No, Lord Voldemort had long since discarded his muggle heritage, taking forevermore his new and preferred nom de plume.

At the moment he was waiting. Waiting for his followers. Once, not so long ago, he had hundreds at his command. And that wasn't adding in the various creatures and beasts that had aligned with his regime. They all had their uses. Uses that he, as their Lord, would be sure that they performed before he dealt with them, too.

Each and every follower at his command had been branded to his cause, they'd given oaths and pledged their lives and magic to him and him alone. They had waged war on magical Britain, on the short-sighted blood traitors who believed that all were equal. Their final lesson was within his very grasp – days or at most a couple weeks away – when everything went pear-shaped.

Potter.

It all boiled down to Potter. Potter and that blasted prophecy. If he hadn't acted so rashly, then everything would have been different. He could have solidified his reign over magical Britain and then sent his most trusted lieutenants to deal with the brat. But in his eagerness and arrogance to do it all himself, he'd lost everything.

Well, not quite everything, but almost. He himself had lost his body, condemned to wander the Earth as a spirit for over a decade, living off of the life force of the lowliest animals. His followers had scattered, either being rounded up and sent to Azkaban or gone to ground, pretending that they'd been 'imperius-ed'.

But now, finally, he'd returned.

He had a body once more. And while it wasn't as powerful as he was expecting, it was one that could perform magic. And what few followers he still retained had returned to him.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and Lord Voldemort looked up.

"Enter," he called.

With a creak worthy of this old, abandoned manor, the door was opened and one by one, his followers shuffled into the room. He watched them, searching for any sign of anything untoward in them. Luckily for them, he saw nothing. Oh, there was nervousness aplenty, as there surely should be. Wariness, too. And a hint of fear. All to the good.