Night.
On the hillside above Little Hangleton, deep in a tangled patch of woods, two figures in black robes appeared out of nowhere.
No—three. One of them was so small that, among the thick weeds, you wouldn't notice it at all unless you were looking. It seemed even smaller than a gnome, the sort of thing that made people think of dwarves, goblins, and all those rumors.
"We're almost there, Mr. Green," Quirrell said carefully.
He scanned their surroundings without pause, missing nothing—no rustle of grass, no shift of wind. That line—"there's a very high chance of danger"—kept circling in his mind. Since Mr. Green hadn't told him where the danger was, anything could be dangerous.
"Professor, have you heard the tale of the Three Brothers?" Sean's voice rose through the dense darkness of the trees. Ahead of them, only the light of their wands lit a small patch of scrub.
"Ah… yes, Mr. Green…" Quirrell didn't relax at all. They were hurrying along a narrow, secluded track, the sky as dim as it had been in the story he was thinking of.
"Legend says they used magic to conjure a bridge and crossed a dangerous river, cheating Death.
Death was furious, because he felt he'd been robbed of three new victims.
But he pretended to congratulate the brothers, and let each of them choose a reward: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak.
Two of the brothers wanted to conquer death outright, and foolishly chose the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone—only to die too soon.
The youngest brother was smarter. He chose the Invisibility Cloak, and only when he could accept death did he greet Death like an old friend, and leave the world."
Quirrell remembered the well-known story clearly.
"Do you think the story is true?" With some distance still to go, Sean asked.
"I'd rather believe they were three extraordinarily powerful wizards who created three extraordinarily powerful magical objects," Quirrell said, still searching the hedges and thickets.
To him, the meaning of The Tale of the Three Brothers was obvious:
Trying to evade Death—or conquer him—was doomed from the start.
Always.
Only the third brother—"the humblest and the wisest"—understood that after escaping Death once, the best you could hope for was delaying your next meeting.
He understood that mocking Death—by fighting him like the eldest, or summoning souls like the second—meant challenging an enemy who was cunning, who only ever won.
"Long ago, when I was as young as you, I used to dream of owning those three objects," Quirrell said, as if he'd noticed something, and gave a faint smile.
"I want to ask you," Sean said. "And now?"
The question mattered to him.
To retrieve the Gaunt ring, they would have to overcome two obstacles.
One was obvious: Voldemort would never let them take the ring easily.
By experience alone, Sean expected the manor to be layered with curses.
And as everyone knew, Voldemort's mastery of curses ran ahead of any other wizard's.
The weakening potion in the cave. The curse on the Gaunt ring. The curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post…
But Sean didn't think that was the greatest obstacle.
The second—and biggest—was something else. Some…
Sean looked around. Silent darkness. Now and then a bird burst from the brush, stirring a flurry of startled calls.
"Now," Quirrell murmured, "I hope you understand, Mr. Green—I have abandoned fantasies.
I once didn't understand that we're born into hell simply because we keep trying to turn the world into heaven."
He continued in a low voice.
"There's a small group in the wizarding world who still insist that Beedle passed down a hidden message—one that contradicts the plain words on the page—and only they have the wisdom to decipher it.
They believe that:
If someone lawfully possesses all three items, he becomes 'the Master of Death.'
That's usually taken to mean invincible… even immortal.
I want you to know—I once believed that too. Wizards or Muggles, people's hearts are full of hunger for power.
Who could refuse the 'Wand of Destiny'? And who, having lost the one they loved, could resist the temptation of the Resurrection Stone?
But I have seen Death, Mr. Green. And it taught me that only one thing truly matters…"
By then they had reached a filthy, crumbling shack.
Its walls were coated in slick green moss; many of the roof slates had fallen away, exposing the rafters beneath.
The windows were tiny and grimy, barely letting in any light.
Most striking of all was the dead snake nailed to the door, forming a grotesque door-knocker.
Peering through the small, broken window, they could tell the inside was just as bad—one main room, dim and filthy.
Up close, the stink of rot drifted out.
"Professor… if we find something particularly dangerous, I want you to destroy it immediately," Sean said softly.
Quirrell nodded without hesitation—then froze at the sight of the snake.
He knew that Cadmus Peverell, the second brother, was the Gaunts' ancestor, and that this horrifying emblem was their family mark.
Which meant…
"The Resurrection Stone…" Quirrell couldn't help whispering. Then he lowered his head. "This matter… I will always follow your will."
"Will," Sean called, quiet.
"I'm here!" Will lowered his bow, chest lifted proudly.
In the pitch-black hush, they dismantled a few minor curses without much trouble.
Just as Sean had predicted, Voldemort hadn't invested much effort in anything but the ring itself.
Ten minutes later, Sean stood in a grimy room, in a spot that didn't look remarkable at all.
In his hand, a Sneakoscope flashed and spun, bright and restless.
He'd bought it in Diagon Alley.
It looked like nothing more than a cracked glass spinning top—but it could warn of danger nearby: a practical detector for dark objects and people.
Right now, it was telling Sean that this unremarkable spot was the most dangerous place in the room.
"Will," Sean called again.
Will snapped his fingers at once, and a special little box appeared out of thin air.
This was what had been buried in a hollow beneath that unremarkable patch of floor.
—the Resurrection Stone.
"He won't understand. He won't care," Quirrell suddenly laughed, very softly. He glanced at the Pukwudgie butler and realized they were the same kind of existence.
To Voldemort, perhaps wizards and "goblins" were no different at all.
Quirrell could sense layers of Dark Magic and protective enchantments down here—yet not one of them was aimed at "goblins."
Voldemort would be defeated by something he didn't know.
Quirrell had understood that since that night.
~~~
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