Snape spat a few insults before storming off, looking as though staying another second in the same room with Sirius and Lupin would suffocate him.Of course, if anyone were to suffocate here, it would be Sirius and Lupin—the two of them clearly weren't on speaking terms with shampoo, and everyone knew it.
"He actually called me stupid?" Sirius's nose was nearly crooked with anger.
"Don't take it to heart. That mouth of his has never said a kind word."Charles smiled and tried to calm Sirius down. Since he wasn't the one being insulted, he naturally didn't feel the slightest irritation.
As for Snape's pitiful attempt at sowing discord—it was far too childish to bother with. Charles wasn't about to play along.
"All right, let's call it a day. I've got something else to take care of," Charles said, preparing to leave. He still needed to visit the Gaunt Shack.
"Fine, but next time, you must come over to my place. It's not much, but it's home," Sirius said, still reluctant to part.
"See you next term, Mr. Gold," Lupin said with a kind smile. "If you don't mind, could we keep in touch by letter until then? Should I be appointed as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I'd like to learn more about your Pokémon as well."
"Of course I don't mind."
Charles replied without hesitation.
He had been hoping to promote Pokémon more widely anyway, though progress had been slow. At present, Pokémon were only well known at Hogwarts; very few outside Britain had even heard the word.
In the Muggle world, the first generation of games still wasn't complete, though the manga had caused a small stir in Japan—not much, but enough to be noticed.
What Charles truly hoped to see was Pokémon integrated with other disciplines—Potions, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts... even Science!
Only then would people of this world begin to realize just how essential Pokémon were—and gradually come to depend on them.
The Gaunt Shack lay in Little Hangleton, a place somehow even bleaker than Knockturn Alley. It stood only a few miles away from Great Hangleton, and before heading to the shack, Charles decided to pay a visit to Riddle Manor.
There was a pub in Little Hangleton called The Hanged Man.Charles couldn't help but marvel—British pubs truly had the strangest names.
He changed out of his wizard's robes and walked through the village like an ordinary Muggle.
Even so, his polished manners and tidy appearance still drew plenty of curious stares. Clearly, a man as well-dressed as him hadn't appeared in this quiet town for quite some time.
Decades ago, the Riddles had been the most prominent family in Little Hangleton.
But fifty years ago, something strange happened.At the time, Riddle Manor was properly maintained and grand beyond measure—until one morning, when the maid entered to find all three members of the Riddle family dead.
The incident caused quite a stir, though no one in the village actually mourned them; the Riddles had never been well-liked.
Over the years, their mysterious deaths became a tale told and retold by the elderly—embellished a little more with every passing generation.
Charles found those local "edited versions" somewhat amusing, but he didn't bother chatting with the villagers. He simply walked straight toward the manor.
Even after half a century, Riddle Manor still stood out in Little Hangleton. Once the grandest house for miles, it was now damp and desolate.
Few dared approach it—the locals all agreed it was "a very creepy place."
Perched alone on a hillside, the mansion's dark, decaying walls were overrun by ivy, as if the greenery itself were devouring the building.
Every window was boarded up, and from outside, one could barely see in. Even during the day, the interior seemed pitch black. No wonder everyone thought it haunted.
In truth, since the day of the Riddle family's deaths, the manor had changed owners several times. Strictly speaking, it no longer belonged to the Riddles—
—unless its newest "resident" was Voldemort himself.
Charles stopped before the rusted iron gates. Through the bars, he could see the spacious courtyard beyond.Despite the mansion's ruin, the garden within was oddly tidy; the flowerbeds were neatly trimmed. Yet there were signs of vandalism—bicycle tire tracks across the grass, and windows shattered by thrown stones.
Unsurprisingly, this was where Voldemort had first returned after regaining a body—for his father's bones lay buried in the nearby churchyard.
Before his resurrection through Wormtail's ritual, he had hidden here.
Among all the Horcruxes, the one embedded with the Resurrection Stone—the ring—was physically closest to him, only a few miles away.If Charles were to take that ring now, it might alert Voldemort to the loss of one of his Horcruxes.
But that didn't matter much. By the time it happened, all of them would likely have been destroyed anyway.
Charles raised his hand toward the gate. Without speaking a word or drawing his wand, the chain lock clicked open with a faint clack.
That sound, however, caught someone's attention.
From a small, decaying shack in the courtyard came a noise—and out hobbled an elderly man, scruffy and limping on a cane, his expression furious.
"Get out!"Frank Bryce roared, assuming it was the local brats again causing trouble.
Nearly half a century ago, he had served as the Riddle family's gardener. After their deaths, suspicion had fallen on him, but since the police could find no cause of death, he was released.Still, most villagers continued to believe he was the killer, and the younger generation inherited that belief—tormenting him whenever they could.
Yet as he yelled, his voice faltered.
The man before him hardly looked like a mischievous child. He was far too refined—young, yes, but carrying himself like a nobleman.
Something about him stirred an uneasy memory.
Fifty years ago, on the night before the murders, Frank had seen a pale boy, perhaps ten or eleven, with dark hair much like this stranger's.
But the resemblance ended there—the boy back then had looked ghostly, hollow, inhuman.
"Who are you? How did you get in here?" Frank demanded.
Only then did Charles recall that the manor was still inhabited by a Muggle. The man's presence in the film had been fleeting, but in the books, he'd been described in more detail—a diligent gardener who had spent most of his life tending this place, only to be murdered by Voldemort in the end.
A small, tragic soul—but one Charles could save with little effort.
"Good afternoon, sir," Charles greeted politely, drawing his wand.
He planned to alter the man's memory—to let him move somewhere else, live quietly, even if modestly, at least safely.
For something like Obliviate, he could cast wordlessly and wandlessly. But memory modification required more precision.
"I don't know who you are," Frank said warily. "The owner doesn't live here anymore. If you're looking for someone, you're in the wrong place."
Had it been anyone else, he'd have driven them off already. But Charles's attire and composure spoke of status, and Frank didn't wish to cause trouble.
"I'm not here for anyone. Just sightseeing," Charles said lightly.
He gave his wand a gentle flick. Frank's eyes glazed over, and he went still, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Wait here."
Leaving the entranced man behind, Charles strode alone into the mansion.
Compared to the sunlit courtyard, the manor's interior was like a cavern swallowed by shadow—enough to make one wonder if vampires lived here.
There was little of interest inside, aside from the slow, inevitable decay of time.
After a brief look around, Charles turned to leave and continue to the Gaunt Shack.
The shack, compared to Riddle Manor, was utterly pathetic: a decrepit wooden hut with moss-caked walls, missing roof tiles exposing rotten beams, and nettles growing thickly around it—so tall they reached the grimy little windows.
Even before opening the door, Charles sensed lingering traces of dark magic.
Naturally, Voldemort wouldn't have left a Horcrux here unguarded.The diary had been entrusted to Lucius Malfoy, the cup placed "safely" in Gringotts, the locket hidden by his own hand, and the diadem concealed in a secret room.
Even if someone knew of the Room of Requirement, they might never find its hidden storage form, nor recognize the diadem among countless objects.
So retrieving the ring that held the Resurrection Stone wouldn't be simple.
Voldemort's method of protection—a curse.
Curses were the cornerstone of Dark Magic, and Voldemort was a master.Even Dumbledore had once fallen victim to the ring's curse—though his obsession with the Resurrection Stone hadn't helped.
Charles couldn't be harmed by ordinary curses, but breaking one of Voldemort's was another matter entirely.
He lifted his right hand, holding the Destruction Wand, and his left, holding the Rainbow Wand—just in case.
"Substitute!"
"Transfigure!"
He first conjured a small doll, then poured magic into it. The green monster-like toy swelled and shifted until it grew humanoid—its face and build morphing until it became Charles's perfect duplicate.
A true, living Substitute.
"Catch."Charles tossed the Destruction Wand to the duplicate, intending to let it handle the danger. He himself gripped the Rainbow Wand, surrounded by healing flames born from Moltres's power—his Fire Escape Shield.
Unlike Grindelwald's dark variation, Charles's was a genuine protective fire.Orange flames wrapped around him, sealing him off from all harm.
The duplicate rolled its eyes.Really? Afraid of dying much?
If Charles had heard that thought, he'd have snapped right back—I'm the Stand User here. Protecting the main body is part of your job description!
Especially when facing something as irrational as a curse, caution was the only sensible path.In a duel, Charles feared no one—but curses were another matter.
The duplicate, having no say in the matter, trudged forward with the Destruction Wand in hand.
They entered together—Charles trailing behind, fire illuminating the pitch-black hallways.
After circling the shack a few times, they soon found it: the ring.
It sat openly upon a small table. To the naked eye, only a Muggle-Repelling Charm was visible. The true curse was deeply buried beneath.
"Careful," Charles warned.He and his duplicate stood on opposite sides of the table, examining it.
The ring was unassuming, set with a dull, black, faceted stone engraved with the Peverell crest—the mark of the Deathly Hallows.
"So this is the Resurrection Stone?" Charles murmured.
He could sense no magic from it—but that made sense. If it were that easily detectable, Voldemort would have realized its nature long ago.After all, it was the ring that was a Horcrux, not the stone itself.
Having finished his examination, Charles began to probe for the embedded curse.
Working in tandem, the Rainbow Wand suppressed the Dark Magic's influence with the holy aura of Ho-Oh, while the Destruction Wand—attuned to darkness—helped expose its trace.
Together, they revealed the curse's full form.
"Just as I thought," Charles muttered. "A truly wicked one."
Anyone who touched the ring would die instantly.Even with Charles's magic, he could only delay the effect for a short time.
No wonder even Dumbledore had been fatally poisoned by it.
"Disguise traits won't help against something like this," he muttered to himself.
"Let's see if we can lift it."
His mastery of curses was nowhere near Voldemort's—Charles specialized in combat magic, not this underhanded craft.
Whether he could truly unravel the spell remained uncertain.
Curses were like Perish Song—inescapable once triggered. Even defensive abilities like "Illusion Skin" couldn't nullify them.At best, they'd only slow the inevitable—poisoning the body bit by bit until death.
Good thing he had a Substitute.
(End of Chapter)