Chapter 243: Riddle’s Most Reliable Ally
Yurm followed his gaze, its snake eyes gleaming brightly, hissing and flicking its slender tongue, about to approach the dusty pots and pans on the bedside cabinet.
“Don’t go over there. Your task is already completed. That thing can’t be touched casually; it’s been coated with deadly poison and a curse.”
Melvin held back the eager young snake, took out his wand, and slowly approached. “Even if Dumbledore came, he’d fall here.”
A black clay vase covered in mud and dust lay quietly on the cabinet. Melvin examined it with his wand, hearing no spells. The vase cracked open with a sound, the fragments and mud collapsing into a small pile of earth. He didn’t rush to search but carefully summoned a whirlwind, methodically clearing the obstacles like an archaeologist.
“This is a ring passed down through the Peverell family. The Gaunt Family regarded it as proof of their ancient bloodline, but they didn’t know—not even Voldemort knew—that the ring itself is irrelevant. The gemstone in the ring face is the key.”
Melvin slowly cleared away the mud and dust. “The Resurrection Stone, the legendary Deathly Hallow.”
Yurm’s tail twitched restlessly. Its thumb-sized head couldn’t comprehend such complex matters. It only knew that the thing in the pile of dirt was very important yet very dangerous. The young snake felt a thrill of excitement and eager anticipation.
The whirlwind carrying the fragments and dust gradually dispersed, revealing a small black box inside.
The outer shell had no markings, as if it were a gift box bought casually from a roadside shop.
Following Melvin’s will, magic formed a layer of bubble film to protect himself and the young snake as he slowly lifted the box lid.
The instant the box lid opened, a dark golden glow flickered from the seam. Yurm stopped flicking its tongue, instinctively holding its breath. It seemed to sense that the thing in the box was some kind of living being with life, and it could feel that the two of them were being watched by some presence.
An ancient and crude ring lay inside, with a dark golden band, thick and clumsy, bearing signs of wear.
The ring’s setting held a black gemstone, its texture similar to obsidian or onyx, with a faint layer of crack-like engravings on the surface—the mark of the Deathly Hallows: a triangle enclosing a circle, bisected by a straight line.
The Gaunt Family had passed it down for generations as the mark of the Peverell family, later adopting it as their own crest to symbolize their noble bloodline. Later, Voldemort killed the Riddle family, framed Morfin Gaunt, took the ring from him, and turned it into a Horcrux hidden here.
“It contains two streams of magic inside: one is the Deathly Hallow within the gemstone, and the other is the Horcrux attached to the band. Fortunately, the two are distinct, unlike the diadem and the golden goblet—no worry about not being able to separate them.”
Melvin murmured in admiration. “If Riddle breaks his promise, destroying the Horcrux won’t hurt.”
Yurm hissed and shook its head. Of course it remembered that close friend Riddle, who always used half-truths to deceive, extracting the remaining value from the remnants of soul and memory. It didn’t like those sinister, evil presences that always tried to control it with Parseltongue.
Melvin didn’t touch the ring rashly. Although the curse only activated when worn on a finger, something that could stump Potions Master Snape and the strongest wizard Dumbledore called for caution.
Another box encased the outside, planning to take it back for slow study. Just as he prepared to Apparate away, Melvin paused, suddenly recalling the story he’d heard earlier in the village tavern.
“Poor Mister Gardener.”
……
Ten minutes later, the Hangman’s Pub.
This was one of the few places in the village to kill time. The lights were old and dim, the drinks all near expiration, but the villagers frequented it tirelessly. With nowhere else to go, the bartender occasionally told suspenseful stories at low cost—a fine pastime.
The Riddle Manor mystery was just one topic of conversation, something of a signboard, but with eyewitness Frank sitting here, it was best to tell other stories.
The bartender leisurely wiped a glass cup, eyeing the old gardener at the bar counter, who was now glaring with a pair of cloudy, reddened eyes at his glass of whiskey.
An old soldier returned from the battlefield carried hidden wounds, plus that lame leg that ached constantly. On sunny days, basking in the sun eased the pain; otherwise, he drowned it in whiskey to numb his brain with alcohol.
Seeing the old gardener’s glass nearly empty, the bartender timely slid over a fresh whiskey. Frank was a regular. As he pondered a fresh story, he noticed another patron enter—a familiar face.
“One honey mead, thanks.”
Melvin sat at the bar counter, tapping the oak table with his fingers, noting fewer patrons in the pub.
“Sir, did you find that old house?” The bartender sounded surprised as he deftly handed over the glass, figuring such a quick return meant he’d given up.
Melvin didn’t argue, smiling faintly. “On the way back, I passed by and wanted to hear more about that old case, especially that suspect—”
“Shh…”
The bartender hurriedly interrupted, afraid he’d say the name, glancing guiltily at the old gardener before lowering his voice. “That’s Frank. Best not mention the Riddle family in front of him.”
Melvin nodded, indicating he understood.
Perhaps the old soldier’s instincts sensed the talk, Frank turned to size them up, meeting the young man’s gaze.
They were pitch-black, profound eyes from which gray mist swirled out of the pupils, vortex-like devouring the gaze. Frank inhaled the whiskey’s aroma, his eyes gradually glazing over as his consciousness sank bit by bit into the abyss.
In a daze, he seemed to leave the pub and return home, falling into a deep sleep.
“Hiss…”
Frank woke from the pain in his bad leg. At his near-death age, it hurt worse than ever. Muttering about the Hangman’s bartender foisting expired whiskey again, he rose to the kitchen, planning to light the fireplace and boil water to warm his stiff knee.
Passing the window, he glanced up at Riddle Mansion and saw a faint glow in an upstairs window.
“Must be those mischievous boys sneaking in again.”
Frank quickly set down the water kettle, grabbed his cane, and dragged his bad leg toward the old house, pocketing the rusty old key.
No signs of break-in at the front door of Riddle Mansion; the windows were intact. Frank limped to the back door and quietly opened the iron gate.
It was night, pitch black all around, but he knew the place well—remembered the path to the corridor, the steps and staircase landing. Years of dust muffled his cane and footsteps, barely audible.
Frank soon heard the intruder in a room off the staircase landing to the right—the living room, where the Riddle family’s three bodies had been found years ago.
The fireplace was lit, the door half-open, casting an orange glow on the floor. He sidled up and peered through the crack.
Three bodies lay on the ground—the elderly Riddles and their son. Their faces frozen in terror, staring at a figure by the fireplace, cloaked and hooded, face obscured.
“It’s the killer from back then!”
Frank held his breath, shifting closer for a better look at the murderer’s face.
The instant he pressed to the door crack, the figure snapped its head up, revealing a eerie, terrifying snake face—pale, noseless, with scarlet eyes glaring at Frank, shooting forth menacing light.
【Avada Kedavra】
A green light shot toward his face.
Frank’s cloudy eyes widened, his body trembling violently. At his age, he’d considered dying in bed someday, but he’d never felt death so vividly—bone-chilling cold, overwhelming fear.
“Ah—”
Frank jolted awake from the dream, bolt upright at the Hangman’s Pub bar, gasping, sweat beading on his forehead, shivering, hands shaking around the glass.
“Frank, Frank?”
The bartender waved a hand before his eyes. “What’s wrong? Drunk on two glasses? That can’t be—having a fit? Don’t die in my pub.”
The wall clock ticked. Frank downed the remaining half-glass of whiskey; the sharp alcohol pulled his mind back to reality, his bellows-like gasps steadying.
The dream scene was so clear, impossibly realistic—not like a dream, more like a death god’s preview.
“I need to retire.” The old gardener muttered dazedly.
“What?”
“I said, I’m quitting as gardener at Riddle House! Hope the government’s pension and subsidies buy me a graveyard plot!”
Frank roared in humiliated fury, slamming the glass on the bar, limping out while muttering incoherent ravings.
“How could the cause of death not be found?”
“Why’d I have to stumble on it?”
“Who knows if he’ll come back…”
The bartender scratched his head, watching the old gardener leave. “Guy’s lost it? His mental illness is worse.”
At the other end of the bar, Melvin said nothing, sipping the near-expired honey mead, shaking his head at the murky taste. The Three Broomsticks’ honey mead was still better.
……
Night fell on Diagon Alley.
Melvin sat at a window desk, the green-shaded desk lamp casting soft light. He glanced at the clear starry sky, then down at the tools and potions on the table.
Before him sat an open black box with the ancient, crude ring inside. Beside it, a silver plate held a shallow layer of Memory-Revealing Potion. Since the Horcrux bore soul fragments and memories, the silvery white potion worked equally on the ring and golden goblet.
The Dark Lord’s close friend, Voldemort’s partner—Melvin had found another Horcrux. The Memory-Revealing Potion was ready; everything was familiar. Based on past experience, he’d meet Riddle again, forging a fine friendship.
“I still wanted to pretend it was a chance discovery of the Horcrux, that I’m just an ignorant young professor, but conditions aren’t right.” Melvin said with some regret.
Never mind digging up the ring from Gaunt Old House— this pile on the table made claiming ignorance unconvincing to Riddle.
By timeline, the Gaunt Ring was Voldemort’s second Horcrux, made in summer 1943 by 16-year-old Tom Riddle after uncovering his heritage and destroying his family—later than the diary but before the golden goblet and locket.
The soul fragment in the Horcrux was 16-year-old Tom Riddle.
“Ambitious, brilliant 16-year-old Tom, crafting a Horcrux to conquer death, already skilled in Dark Magic, laying a curse on the ring even Dumbledore couldn’t counter. Hope you’re well-versed in Dementors too.” Melvin murmured, manipulating the black box to tip the ring into the silver plate.
Ripples stirred the Memory-Revealing Potion’s surface; silvery white mist gradually rose.
The ethereal silver mist outlined a form, shaping an illusory figure. Light and shadow added color; a young silhouette slowly appeared—handsome, arrogant, unmarred by Dark Magic.
Riddle looked around, frowning. “Who are you?”
Melvin pressed his lips, fighting a laugh, but his stage effects designer’s acting kept him steady. “Melvin Lavent, your most reliable ally.”
Riddle froze in shock.
“It’s 1993 now. Voldemort fell twelve years ago; the Death Eaters disbanded and collapsed.” Melvin continued solo, bombarding the soul fragment with vast, implausible information. “In your future—Voldemort’s past—we lost utterly. Voldemort’s true body was destroyed; his remnant soul’s whereabouts unknown. Following your traces, I found the Gaunt Ring hidden in the old house and awoke you from slumber.”
Riddle couldn’t believe it, mind blank. “This can’t be real—impossible!”
“Harsh reality is hard to accept, but you must rally. We need to rise again, reclaim what’s ours!” Melvin said sorrowfully, as if to stir Riddle’s fighting spirit, recounting the Death Eaters’ past glory.
“…The Dark Mark ravaged Britain’s islands. Pure-blood families united around us; Ministry of Magic officials stayed silent. Only stubborn Dumbledore hid at Hogwarts, awaiting our conquest.
“On the eve of our pure-blood new era’s dawn, disaster struck Godric’s Hollow overnight—our cause collapsed…”
Riddle’s ethereal form hovered midair, expression dazed, mind still rebooting.
“I… I became the Dark Lord all fear?”
“Yes. No wizard in Britain dares speak your name; hearing it sparks panic. Seeing the Dark Mark, they hide in cellars.”
“I shared the Horcrux secret with you?”
“Yes. I’m your most reliable ally. From Ilvermorny, I brought Slytherin’s other legacy, helping you become history’s mightiest Dark Wizard—surpassing vile Herpo, surpassing Salazar Slytherin.”
“Wait…” Riddle spotted the inconsistency. “I’m the mightiest Dark Wizard, mastered Horcruxes to defeat death—how was I beaten?”
Melvin shook his head. “That night, only the boy-who-lived survived—at just one year old. No one knows Godric’s Hollow’s truth.”
Riddle hovered, eyes flickering, still processing the information.
“None of that matters now. Most urgent: tell me how to control Dementors. It concerns your revival.” Melvin bluffed solemnly.
