Chapter 241: The Runaway Child
Late at night, on the second floor of The Leaky Cauldron, a brass nameplate on the room door indicated Room 13, and the number was not very auspicious.
Other rooms housed a witch from the countryside there for procurement, a Transfiguration scholar who looked impulsive and irritable, a noisy dwarf, and a young professor who had just checked in today.
The brick walls were covered with floral wallpaper, soundproofed well, and the corridor was very quiet, with only the occasional sound of vehicle horns from the street outside; there was no sound at all from the guests next door washing up or moving about.
The guest rooms were basically all the same layout: a comfortable and neat-looking bed, a few polished oak wooden furniture pieces, a simple wardrobe and desk, and the firewood in the fireplace crackling away. It wasn’t winter yet, so the flames weren’t very vigorous, just used to dispel the nighttime fog.
In the dim room, a young snake rustled across the cherry wood long table. As its tail tapped the lamp base switch, the green-shaded desk lamp lit up, illuminating half the guest room.
Soft light scattered from the lampshade, falling on the chair and plating the young professor’s face with a faint glow. His features were handsome, his pair of pitch-black eyes mysterious and deep. His slender fingers manipulated the potion in a porcelain bottle, using only one or two drops, dripping them into the exquisite golden goblet.
Misty white fog rose, and the shadow of a wizard floated above the golden goblet—a semitransparent illusory figure flickering with a faint glow, expressionless.
“Tom, my friend, we’re back in London.” Melvin said gently, with a smile, as if reuniting with an old friend.
Riddle stared into his eyes and said coldly, “Your Legilimency doesn’t work on Horcruxes. This figure is just a mapping of memory—don’t waste your effort.”
“I have no intention of probing your memories or secrets. That day was just your illusion. As we said, the magic power of the golden goblet and the Horcrux clashed.” Melvin explained patiently, looking up at those eyes modified by Dark Magic. The pupils had slightly narrowed into slits, forming the prototype of snake eyes, but they hadn’t yet turned scarlet.
Riddle’s memory mapping figure met his gaze but couldn’t see through this young wizard’s thoughts. Many Horcruxes had the ability to probe desires; the diary could even tempt people to bare their hearts, but nothing was as direct as Legilimency. However, his body was already destroyed, so he couldn’t use the Horcrux to launch a probe.
Melvin gently stroked Yurm’s scales, signaling it to go play aside. He needed to discuss some matters with his old friend.
“The first time we met, I knew you were a very dangerous wizard, Melvin. Your greedy ambition practically shines from your eyes, just like mine when I was young.” Riddle watched the young snake crawl along the long table toward the wardrobe, wandering about.
That night after manifesting, he had tried to control the young snake with Parseltongue. It was the first time in his memory that Parseltongue had failed. From then on, he knew this young wizard was tricky, as hard to control as that snake.
“The Dark Lord is very good at using others’ greed to achieve his own goals. Our previous cooperation was very pleasant.” Melvin was very patient. “Professor Gaunt, I can guarantee you’ll be the most popular assistant teacher at Hogwarts. This term will bring a new professor, but you’ll still have chances to continue teaching and investigate the secret of Harry Potter’s parentage.”
Riddle was silent for a few seconds. “I’m always cautious about things I can’t control. I don’t want to continue this game of lies.”
“I can promise you I won’t use magic to probe your secrets.” Melvin said patiently.
“Promises are made from the start to be broken—even an Unbreakable Vow, even a blood oath built on life, can be circumvented. I never trust others, because I’m that kind of wizard.” There was no room for negotiation in Riddle’s words.
“What about an exchange of interests? Just treat it as doing business.”
Riddle’s eyes flickered, seemingly tempted. He was silent for a few seconds. “What transaction do you want to make?”
“I want to consult you on some questions. I hope to capture a few Dementors for research. The relevant materials have no information on raising Dementors, communicating with them, commanding them…”
Melvin found it amusing. The Ministry of Magic could raise and drive Dementors because past Aurors had fought them off with the Patronus Charm. A wizard like Voldemort definitely couldn’t use the Patronus Charm, and Conventional Magic had no effect on Dementors.
He asked curiously, “They once obeyed the Dark Lord’s command. I want to know how it was done.”
“There’s nothing to it. You can do it too…”
Riddle revealed a sinister smile. He heard Melvin hinting that he couldn’t master the Patronus Charm, but he didn’t care. “Pain and fear are the most effective means of enslavement.”
“Dementors’ pain and fear—what do you mean?” Melvin pondered and asked.
“Conventional Magic can’t affect Dementors, but the Killing Curse can.”
“Aren’t they unable to be destroyed?”
“Young Melvin, though you’ve mastered some power, your knowledge is too shallow. You don’t know what a great achievement conquering death is. From the birth of magic to now, only I have truly conquered death.”
Riddle took a deep breath, his words full of pride. “That group of Dementors are just malformed existences born from despair. They have physical form, fear the Patronus Charm, and can feel pain. They’re special, but still fragile.”
“Dementors can be killed by the Killing Curse?” Melvin frowned; this contradicted the materials he’d seen.
“No, they have no body that can be destroyed, nor a soul that can be killed.” Riddle spread his right hand, green light floating above it. “But precisely because of that, they can perceive pain and fear even more clearly.”
Dementors were like ghosts; they didn’t fit the definition of conventional life, so they were immune to many spells. But if it was a soul as cold and resolute as Voldemort’s, unleashing unmasked cruel malice with the Killing Curse, it might actually affect Dementors.
Melvin’s heart stirred. He lowered his head in thought, the wall clock ticking away.
His Dark Magic was almost all powered by unicorn-blessed magic power; he never cared about malice when casting. It was hard to say if a Killing Curse released that way would work on freakish creatures like Dementors.
After a few minutes of silence, Melvin asked again, “So how do you communicate with Dementors, command them, give them orders?”
“Business is two-way, Melvin. I’ve started delivering my goods; you should pay the deposit for the rest of the transaction to continue.”
“What do you want?” Melvin shrugged, acting like an honest businessman. “Intelligence on Dumbledore, gathering Death Eaters who escaped trial, or killing Harry Potter during summer vacation? By the way, he lives next door.”
Riddle suddenly turned to look at the wall, then shook his head. “No, the destined nemesis appointed by fate must be killed by my own hand. I want you to help me escape the golden goblet and gain a brand-new body.”
“What about the main soul wandering outside? You want to ditch him and be Voldemort yourself. What if he succeeds in reviving in the future?”
“No need to stir up my confusion about myself. He and I are both Voldemort, but there will only be one Voldemort in the world. The answer will come then.”
“Alright, my business partner, what do you need me to do?”
“Select a young, strong male wizard. Marinate and soak him in the Golden Cup Potion I’ve corrupted, using the steps for making an Inferius. Press the golden goblet to his face so I can absorb his soul and reshape that fleshly body.”
Riddle looked at his semitransparent hands. “If all goes well, bathing in the starlight of six full moons, and I can return to the world.”
Melvin pondered briefly, lost in thought. Though he looked forward to the spectacle of Voldemort’s dominance contest, he couldn’t bring himself to murder an innocent young, strong male wizard.
He couldn’t help sighing. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? The Purifier we met in Paris would have been perfect, but we missed him now.”
Riddle frowned slightly; this business partner seemed unwilling to help him revive.
“I can give you everything you want, Melvin: power, wealth, the truth of magic power, even sharing the secret of eternal life.” He advised sincerely. “If you find it hard to harm an ordinary wizard, there are Dark Wizards in Knockturn Alley, heirs of pure-blood families, and the detestable bureaucrats of the Ministry of Magic—they all deserve to die.”
Melvin did get some ideas: find a criminal Dark Wizard to fool Riddle, like Wormtail or old Goyle.
But this year’s big show still needed Wormtail to perform; pure-blood families were to be used for developing the Projection Mirror; Fudge at the Ministry didn’t deserve death. Taking down the toad would be no psychological burden, but Voldemort probably wouldn’t agree.
Melvin sighed softly. “Tom, I’m probably going to be a black-hearted businessman.”
Riddle lowered his head to say something, just meeting Melvin’s pitch-black, deep eyes. Gray mist overflowed from the pupils, instantly filling the entire eyeballs, the whites turning to ashen desolation.
He froze in place, his eyes becoming dazed, silent.
The wall clock ticked away, time passing second by second.
The alienated magic power spread along the memory, probing toward the depths of the remnant soul. In a daze, he recalled the taste of being ostracized as a child—that weak creature, ants banding together to exclude and scorn the python, whispering behind his back every time he turned away, their chatter annoying.
Back then, he always stared out the orphanage bedroom window, wishing to brick those people into the walls, to take away what they loved, strip their happy memories, make them lose consciousness in pain, just like Dementors.
Melvin’s consciousness was preparing to delve deeper along the Dementors, but Riddle was after all the most powerful Dark Wizard in history. The instant the childhood memory surged, he realized it was an intrusion. The remnant soul jolted fiercely, and the illusory figure instantly dissipated.
The golden goblet shook violently on the table, trembled a few times, and toppled onto the parchment.
“Woof?”
Yurm, coiled atop the wardrobe, poked its head out and asked in a thin, piping voice.
“Sigh, nothing…” Melvin righted the toppled golden goblet, wiped clean the unexhausted Developing Potion inside, and sighed regretfully. “Just that the reputation I’ve built up over time has collapsed. Can’t do business anymore.”
“Woof~”
“If it can’t be done, then it can’t. He can’t spread it to ruin my signboard anyway.”
Melvin’s hand paused over the golden goblet. His idle chat teasing the young snake suddenly reminded him of something, and his eyes brightened. “If business with the golden goblet Horcrux can’t continue, there are other Horcruxes.”
The diary was fooled, the diadem was with the headmaster, reputation bankrupt here with the golden goblet—now left were the locket and the Gaunt Ring.
The locket was at Black Old House; getting it would be troublesome.
The Gaunt Ring was at Gaunt Old House, unguarded.
Melvin beckoned and took Yurm down, stroking the scales on its head. “Rest early. Tomorrow we go to Hangton.”
“Woof?”
Yurm tilted its head, its dark snake eyes gleaming.
Meanwhile, in Room 11 next door, Harry was writing a letter to Privet Drive under the desk lamp. He’d pondered a long time but still didn’t know what to say; the wording was slow, harder than a History of Magic thesis.
Normally Hedwig would go out at night to roam and hunt for food, but because of this letter that was taking forever, she stayed on the windowsill. At first she idly preened her feathers, but gradually grew impatient.
Pacing back and forth, flapping her wings, occasionally cooing two urgent notes.
Night deepened, but Harry still didn’t know how to write the letter home. He’d never written one from Hogwarts, not even thought of it. Mimicking Ron’s family letters, he wanted to talk about recent events, complain about troubles encountered, pour out his inner woes—but every two sentences, he’d tear up the letter paper and couldn’t continue.
Should he apologize for what happened with Aunt Marge? Should he explain his anger came from her insulting his parents?
In the end, he chose not to mention that night he ran away from home, simply stating recent events like a news report.
「… Temporarily staying in Diagon Alley, everything is fine. Will head directly to Hogwarts after term starts.
Enclosed is the weekend activities consent form; sign in the guardian section and have Hedwig send it back.
No need to feed Hedwig; I’ve put reserve rations in its package. 」
Would Uncle and Aunt sign the consent form? Were they still upset about Aunt Marge? They probably wished he’d never return to Dursley’s Home… Why did he have to believe Professor Levent’s words when the Black matter was more urgent?
Harry’s mind was a mess. He actually cared a lot about the Black matter; behind the surging hatred was worry for his own safety. Being targeted by an escaped criminal Dark Wizard, could he safely take the Express Train back to Hogwarts?
Right beside Diagon Alley was Knockturn Alley, a den of Dark Wizards.
Now the streetlights on Privet Drive in Little Whinging should still be on. Was fat Cousin Dudley quietly getting up to raid the refrigerator, stuffing doughnuts and cake into his mouth?
He still remembered that impulsive night leaving Dursley’s Home—not knowing where to go, where he could stay, like a stray cat in the park chased by naughty kids, only able to hide behind a trash can.
Harry sealed the envelope, added a few dried white mice to Hedwig’s bundle, leaned close and gently sniffed her feathers. “Good thing I have you with me.”
The snowy owl in her white plumage shook her wings and vanished into the night sky over Diagon Alley.
