Chapter 444: The Gaunt Ring
Sean had seen this wizard, Bob Ogden, in the Daily Prophet. He was on official business, and Dumbledore and Sean followed him.
As they passed a wooden signpost, Sean looked up at its two directional arrows. The one pointing back the way they came read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles. The one pointing in the direction Ogden was heading read: Little Hangleton, 1 mile.
The general location is confirmed… Sean noted silently.
They walked for a while, surrounded by nothing but the high, tangled hedgerows, the vast, deep blue summer sky above, and the figure of the man in the frock coat trudging ahead of them.
Then, the lane veered to the left, dipping sharply down a hillside, and suddenly, they were presented with a panoramic view of a valley.
Sean saw a village—undoubtedly Little Hangleton—nestled between two steep slopes, the church and the graveyard clearly visible. On the hillside opposite the valley sat a grand, imposing mansion surrounded by vast, green meadows.
"The villagers of Little Hangleton call that Riddle House," Dumbledore said with a smile.
Sean looked at the house. In time, Tom Riddle, after being sought out by Peter Pettigrew, would enter those gates. But if Pettigrew were imprisoned, would Riddle still be resurrected? Sean didn't know. Perhaps some other wizard would travel to Albania; perhaps there would be a "Worm-Ear" or a "Worm-Nose" instead.
Sean disliked things going off-script. And so, he had formulated a precise plan.
Now, back in the memory, the path grew steeper, and Ogden began to trot involuntarily. Dumbledore took longer strides, and Sean followed close behind.
Suddenly, the path turned right. As they rounded the bend, the hem of Ogden's frock coat flashed, and he disappeared through a gap in the hedgerow. Dumbledore and Sean followed him into a narrow dirt track where the bushes were even taller and denser than before. Despite the clear, cloudless sky, the ancient trees overhead cast a cold, dark shadow. It took a few seconds for Sean's eyes to make out the house, half-hidden among the tangled roots and thickets.
It appeared rarely inhabited: the walls were covered in moss, and many roof tiles had fallen away, exposing the rafters beneath. Dense nettles grew all around, reaching up to the windows—small, dirty panes thick with years of accumulated grime.
"We're here," Dumbledore said.
Click. A window opened, and a thin wisp of steam or blue smoke drifted out, as if someone were cooking.
Crack. A man in rags leaped down from a nearby tree, landing directly in front of Ogden. Ogden stumbled backward, tripping over his own coat and nearly falling.
"Hiss-hiss..."
The man standing before them had thick, matted hair so dirty its original color was unrecognizable. He was missing several teeth, and two small, dark eyes stared in opposite directions. He ought to have looked comical, but in truth, he was terrifying.
"Er—good morning. I am from the Ministry of Magic—"
"Hiss, hiss, hiss."
"Er—forgive me—I don't understand you," Ogden said, looking uneasy.
"I imagine it's quite difficult for us to understand him, too?" Dumbledore, standing behind them, asked Sean with a twinkle.
"He said, 'You are not welcome,'" Sean replied.
"Oh? That is quite a curious thing," Dumbledore remarked, sounding genuinely surprised.
"Parseltongue syntax, it shares some structural adaptations with Old Futhark. There's a section on this in Parseltongue: A Comprehensive Study," Sean explained.
"Forgive me, I haven't read that particular volume," Dumbledore mused.
Sean reached toward his neck; the Wizard's Tome was still there, but in the memory, it felt impossible to open. He couldn't retrieve the copy of that book Ravenclaw had left behind. In truth, within Ravenclaw's memory, Sean preferred to think of that text as Salazar Slytherin's Observation Diary.
The memory continued to unfold.
An old man walked out, his appearance causing Ogden to relax slightly.
"I've come to see your son, Mr. Gaunt. That was Morfin, I take it?" Ogden said.
"Aye, that's Morfin," the old man said casually. "Are you pure-blood?" he asked, his tone suddenly aggressive.
"That has no bearing on today's conversation," Ogden said coldly.
But Gaunt clearly disagreed. He squinted at Ogden's face, muttering something that was clearly intended to be insulting.
"Can we go inside to talk?" Ogden asked, his own voice cooling.
"Inside?"
"Yes, Mr. Gaunt. As I've already told you, I am here regarding Morfin. We sent an owl—"
"Owls are of no use to me," Gaunt said. "I never read letters."
"Then you can hardly complain that you didn't know someone was coming," Ogden snapped. "I am here to deal with a serious violation of Wizarding Law that occurred in the early hours of this morning—"
"Fine, fine, fine!" Gaunt roared. "Go into the bloody house, then! You'll be much more comfortable!"
The house consisted of three small rooms. The central one served as both kitchen and living room, with two other doors leading off it. Morfin sat in a filthy armchair by a smoking fire, toying with a live, venomous snake between his thick fingers, humming softly in Parseltongue:
"Hiss, hiss, hissing slow,
Little snake, crawl along the floor,
Be good to Morfin, or I'll pin you to the door."
A girl appeared in the room, wearing rags, searching for something among the ash-covered pots and jars.
"My daughter, Merope," Gaunt said reluctantly, noticing Ogden's inquisitive gaze.
"Good morning," Ogden said.
The girl didn't answer. She cast a terrified glance at her father, then turned her back, continuing to fumble with the pots on the shelf.
"Now, Mr. Gaunt," Ogden said, "let's be frank. We have reason to believe your son, Morfin, used magic in front of a Muggle late last night."
Clatter. A deafening sound. Merope had knocked a pot to the floor.
"Pick it up!" Gaunt roared at her. "What, crawling on the floor like a dirty Muggle? What is your wand for, you useless waste of space?"
Ogden looked stunned. Eventually, Gaunt forced Merope to perform a Reparo, but she failed, triggering a torrential downpour of verbal abuse.
Dumbledore stepped subtly in front of Sean, blocking his view—and perhaps his ability to hear more of the wretched scene. All that was known was that a moment later, Gaunt shouted furiously at Ogden: "And so what? Morfin taught a Muggle a lesson—so what?"
"Morfin broke Wizarding Law," Ogden said sternly.
"Morfin broke Wizarding Law," Gaunt mimicked, dragging out the words with heavy arrogance. Morfin cackled. "He gave a dirty Muggle a bit of a shock—and that's illegal now, is it?"
"Yes," Ogden said. "I'm afraid it is."
He pulled a small scroll of parchment from his inner pocket and unfurled it.
"What's this? A sentence for him?" Gaunt's voice rose in anger.
"A summons to the Ministry for an inquiry—"
"A summons! A summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son?"
"I am the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," Ogden said.
"You think we're scum?" Gaunt screamed, looming over Ogden and poking his chest with a yellowed, filthy finger. "We have to come running at the Ministry's call? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, eh?"
"I am under the impression I am speaking to Mr. Gaunt," Ogden said, looking alert but not retreating.
"That's right!" Gaunt yelled. He held up his hand, and Sean knew he was showing Ogden the ugly black stone ring on his middle finger. He shook the ring in front of Ogden's face. "See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? It's been in our family for centuries—that's how long our history goes back, and it's always been pure-blood! You know what people have offered to buy this from me? The Peverell coat of arms is engraved on the stone!"
"I truly don't know," Ogden said, the ring dangling an inch from his nose. He blinked. "And it has no bearing on this matter, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed—"
Gaunt roared with fury and lunged at his daughter, his hand closing around her throat. For a moment, Sean thought he was going to strangle her. Then, Gaunt yanked a heavy gold locket from a chain around her neck and shoved it in Ogden's face. Merope gagged, unable to breathe.
"I see it, I see it!" Ogden cried out.
"Slytherin's!" Gaunt bellowed. "Salazar Slytherin's! We are his last living descendants! What do you have to say to that, eh?"
"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!" Ogden said in a panic, but Gaunt had already released Merope. She stumbled away to the corner, clutching her throat and gasping for air.
Watching them, Sean felt a lump in his throat. Finally, he blurted out:
"Shall I mourn for your foolish mind, Salazar?"
The comment caused Dumbledore to look back, his expression intrigued. "Ravenclaw? Is it Ravenclaw?"
"Just the memory, Headmaster," Sean said, his voice low.
Ravenclaw's memories brought more than just old information; when he tapped into too many points of resonance, Sean found himself momentarily overwhelmed, forced to act according to Ravenclaw's instincts. At that moment, he felt a strange sense of detached amusement—he would have liked to find a Salazar Slytherin to mock as well.
"I think that is enough, my boy," Dumbledore said. He took Sean's elbow and gave a gentle tug.
In an instant, they felt a weightless sensation, soaring through the darkness before landing steadily back in Dumbledore's office. It was now night outside.
"What did you notice?" Dumbledore asked.
"A locket and a... ring," Sean replied.
"That is sufficient." Dumbledore looked pleased. The young wizard before him always managed to grasp the essentials—and it wasn't just wisdom that allowed him to do so. "An old man's ears are always hungry for the wisdom of the young, and of one thing I am certain: if you have received some revelation from the stars, might I have the honor of being the first to share in it?"
"I will," Sean said. But not this time.
The sky outside was pitch black, and the lights in Dumbledore's office seemed brighter than before.
"Thank you for sharing, Professor Dumbledore," Sean said before leaving.
"No, it is I who thank you, Green," Dumbledore replied, his gaze deep and searching.
The door to the Headmaster's office clicked shut behind him. The disadvantage of the Pensieve was just that—what felt like an hour in the memory might have been an entire day in reality. Sean had entered the office in the early morning; it was now evening.
"Will," he called out.
"At your service, Master Green." The Pukwudgie butler apparated out from the Wizard's Tome.
"To Diagon Alley," Sean said.
"As you wish!" Will snapped his fingers.
Diagon Alley. The Fairy Tale Workshop.
Even in the evening, young witches and wizards lingered in front of the window displays, reluctant to leave. This was the most mysterious and intriguing shop in Diagon Alley, selling magical items that had the entire wizarding world in a frenzy. More interestingly, the shop hid invitations inside the Chocolate Frog cards sold at their door.
They had seen several joyful students and their families leave with them! Upon entering the shop, everyone wore a smile, and the students often thought to themselves: I wish I could bring smiles to others like they do.
Suddenly, a young wizard appeared at the door. No one saw how he arrived, but a plump little girl kindly warned him: "Hey! You can't get in! The black-faced owner is terrifying!"
The wizard turned, and the girl realized it was a remarkably handsome young boy.
"Oh, I mean... a lot of people want to get in, but..." she stammered.
"Thank you," the boy said. Before the girl could react, she watched him push the door open and walk inside.
"He got in!" she shrieked.
The interior of the shop was the same as ever, bathed in a warm, orange glow.
"Professor Quirrell," Sean said.
"How did you..." Quirrell waved his wand frantically from across the room and appeared before Sean a second later, bowing respectfully.
"You know you don't have to do that," Sean said with a sigh.
"Yes," Quirrell simply replied.
"We are going somewhere, Professor. It will likely be dangerous."
"Must you go? If... if you trust me, I, I, I could go in your stead..." Quirrell stammered, looking flustered.
"Professor, I need you," Sean said softly.
Quirrell's face flushed a deep red; he stammered, unable to form a coherent word. Outside, the night deepened, and wizards gathered around their hearths to rest and chat. Sean looked out at the warm, glowing windows of Diagon Alley. He had been acting according to his plan—perhaps too fast, perhaps too slow—but he was never one to rest.
And he couldn't afford to, either.
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