Chapter 445: The Resurrection Stone
Night.
Deep in the heart of a chaotic, overgrown woodland on a hillside near the village of Little Hangleton, two black-robed figures appeared abruptly.
Well, not two—three. One of the figures was so small that, amidst the dense weeds, it would have been nearly impossible to spot. It looked smaller even than a gnome, easily evoking rumors of dwarves or goblins.
"We are almost there, Mr. Green," Quirrell said cautiously.
He was constantly scanning his surroundings, not letting a single rustle of the wind go unnoticed. The phrase "there is a high probability of danger" had been haunting him; since Mr. Green hadn't specified where the danger lay, he assumed everything was a threat.
"Professor, have you heard the Tale of the Three Brothers?" Sean's voice resonated through the dense, dark woods. Before them, only the faint glow of their wands illuminated a small patch of gnarled trees.
"Ah… yes, Mr. Green…" Quirrell kept his guard up as they trekked along a secluded, narrow path. The night air was as murky and ominous as the story he now contemplated. "Legend has it that they used magic to bridge a dangerous river and avoided Death. Death was angry, feeling he had been cheated of three new victims. But he feigned congratulation and offered them each a prize: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility.
"Two of the brothers sought to further conquer Death, foolishly choosing the wand and the stone, and met untimely ends. The third brother, wiser than the others, chose the Cloak and greeted Death like an old friend when his time came."
Quirrell remembered the wizarding fable, a staple of every childhood, quite clearly.
"Do you believe the story is true?" Sean asked, still some distance from their destination.
"I prefer to believe they were three immensely powerful wizards who created three immensely powerful magical objects," Quirrell replied, carefully searching the brush.
To him, the moral of The Tale of the Three Brothers was painfully clear: humanity's efforts to evade or conquer Death were doomed to failure. It had always been so. Only the youngest brother—the "most humble and wisest"—understood that after cheating Death once, one could only hope to delay the next meeting. The youngest understood that mocking Death—whether by force of arms like the first brother, or by the mysterious arts of necromancy like the second—meant playing a game against a cunning adversary who never loses.
"Long ago, when I was as young as you, I once fantasized about possessing those three items, too," Professor Quirrell remarked with a faint, wry smile, as if sensing something in the air.
"I'd like to ask you: what about now?" Sean asked.
This question was crucial for him.
To retrieve the Gaunt ring, they faced two obstacles. The first was the obvious one: Voldemort would not surrender the ring easily. Based on past experience, he would have warded the old house with traps. As everyone knew, Voldemort's mastery of curses was ahead of everyone else—from the potion that weakened wizards in the cave to the curse on the ring itself, or even the jinx on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.
But Sean didn't believe this was the greatest obstacle.
The second obstacle—the greatest one—was a certain… entity.
Sean scanned the area. It was silent and pitch-black, save for the occasional bird darting from the bushes, startling the air with a sudden, discordant cry.
"Now, know this, Mr. Green: I have discarded such fantasies. I once did not understand that we live in hell simply because we try to turn the world into heaven," Quirrell murmured. "In the wizarding world, a small faction still clings to the belief that Beedle passed down a hidden message—a message that contradicts the literal text, which only those with sufficient wisdom can fathom.
"They believe that if a person legally possesses all three items, they become the 'Master of Death.' This is usually interpreted as being invincible, or perhaps even immortal. I want you to know that I once dreamed of this, too. Wizards and Muggles alike are filled with a craving for power. How many can refuse the 'Deathstick'? And who, having lost a loved one, can resist the temptation of the Resurrection Stone? But I have seen Death, Mr. Green. It told me that only one thing truly matters..."
They reached a filthy, dilapidated cottage. The walls were covered in slick moss, and many stone tiles had fallen from the roof, exposing the rafters beneath. The windows were small, grime-streaked, and let in almost no light. The most striking feature was a dead snake nailed to the door, forming a gruesome knocker. Peering through the small, dirty windows, the interior looked equally wretched: a single, dim, filthy room. Closer up, one could smell the stench of decay.
"Professor… if we find something... special, I need you to destroy it as quickly as possible," Sean said softly.
Quirrell nodded without hesitation, though he froze when he saw the snake knocker. He knew that the second brother, Cadmus Peverell, was the ancestor of the Gaunt family, and this terrifying knocker was their house crest.
This meant...
"The Resurrection Stone..." Quirrell couldn't help but whisper. He bowed his head. "And that task is... always, I will obey your will."
"Will." Sean remained silent for a moment before calling out.
"Yes, Master!" Will lowered his bow, standing tall and proud.
In the dark, suffocating silence, they broke through the lesser curses with ease. Just as Sean had anticipated, Voldemort hadn't wasted much effort on traps outside the ring itself.
Ten minutes later, Sean stood in an obscure corner of the filthy room. A Sneakoscope in his hand whirred and glowed intensely. Sean had purchased it in Diagon Alley; though it looked like a cracked glass spinning top, it could predict dangerous objects and people nearby. It was a practical Dark Magic detector. Now, it was alerting Sean that this unremarkable spot was the most dangerous place in the room.
"Will."
At Sean's call, Will snapped his fingers. A small, specialized box materialized out of thin air. It was exactly what had been buried in the hole beneath that unassuming patch of floor.
The Resurrection Stone.
"He won't understand. He won't even care..." Quirrell laughed abruptly, his voice low. He looked at the Pukwudgie butler, realizing they were both the same—"lesser" beings. In Voldemort's eyes, perhaps there was no difference between a wizard and a goblin. Voldemort could sense the thick layers of Dark Magic and protective enchantments here, but none of them were designed to guard against a creature like a Pukwudgie.
Voldemort would be defeated by the very things he didn't know existed—Quirrell had understood that since that fateful night.
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