Malfoy circled the unconscious Frank before slowly entering the Riddle House. Though the place had long been without an owner and showed signs of decay, Frank's constant care had kept the lawn neat and nearly weed-free.
He walked straight to the largest room, guessing it had once been the living room. Hoping for some trace of Voldemort, he searched carefully, but time's erosion had erased all signs of magic. He rattled the old wooden table and chairs, as if something might fall out, then shook his head in disappointment.
Passing to the back of the house, Malfoy stopped before a door almost swallowed by ivy.
"Alohomora."
With a heavy creak, the door grudgingly opened.
Inside was pitch-dark, cave-like. Only the scattered kitchen utensils hinted that this had once been a kitchen. There was nothing else of value, and Malfoy remained clueless.
He returned to the corridor, where faint daylight filtered through the tall mullioned windows beside the front door. Step by step he climbed the dust-covered stone staircase. At the landing he turned right and followed the corridor to its end, where a door hung slightly ajar.
"It seems there are no clues here, but that's to be expected," he muttered, half to console himself. Then, with a crooked smile, he added, "Still, someday in the future, I might manage to disgust someone."
He stepped into the room, murmured a few quiet spells, and after a while returned to the front of the manor.
"Old friend," he said softly, glancing at the unconscious caretaker, "sleep a while longer. You'll live."
Casting a Muggle-repelling charm around the property, Malfoy turned to leave.
"Oh, Maria is still waiting for me."
Not long after, Frank stirred. His head throbbed as if splitting open, yet amid the confusion a long-buried memory rose — his first love. The faded flame reignited in his tired heart. Half-delirious, he stumbled out of the Riddle House, running toward the village of his memories. The home that had kept him company for decades he left behind, already forgotten.
"Innocent old man… stay far away from all this," Malfoy sighed as he watched the figure vanish into the distance.
"What just happened doesn't matter," he whispered, "but what's about to happen does."
He gathered himself. The view from Riddle House was wide and open. Relying on his memory of the terrain, Malfoy followed a faint path until he reached a neglected cemetery. Behind a tall yew tree loomed the dark outline of a small church. To the left rose a hill crowned with the elegant old house he had just left.
The air here was damp and gloomy. From time to time crows cawed harshly, accentuating the oppressive silence.
Malfoy stopped before a tall marble headstone and read the name engraved there:
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
A cold wind howled across the graveyard, and he shivered despite himself.
"Seems I'll be a grave robber today," he muttered, half-smiling. The eerie surroundings didn't truly unsettle him; if anything, he was amused.
He opened a small black pouch and withdrew several cow bones, arranging them neatly on the ground.
"Pulverize."
A light tap of his wand turned the bones into fine dust.
Then he tapped again. The tombstone slid aside with a dull rumble. Malfoy removed the soil and old bone ash beneath, keeping roughly a third, and replaced the rest with the new powder.
"Reparo."
The stone returned smoothly to its place.
"Mission accomplished," he said, clapping the dust from his hands with a satisfied grin.
After another brisk walk, he headed toward Little Hangleton.
There was nothing but tall hedgerows on either side. He turned right along a narrow dirt path leading through a gap in the fence. The road was rough and winding, sloping sharply downward toward a shadowed wood. The hedges grew higher and denser, the air cooler.
At last, through the tangled undergrowth, a house appeared — half hidden among the trees. The canopy above blocked almost all sunlight, leaving the valley below in perpetual dusk. Moss clung to the stone walls; roof tiles had fallen away, exposing rotted rafters. Nettles as tall as a man choked the yard and pressed against the grimy windowpanes.
On the door, nailed through the middle, hung the corpse of a snake.
The whole place reeked of mildew and pulsed with the heavy aura of dark magic.
"Iron Will."
Facing the first Horcrux of his journey, Malfoy dared not relax. The charm strengthened his resolve and steadied his mind.
"Why are all the spells I create only auxiliary ones?" he muttered with a trace of helplessness, though his expression soon hardened again.
This Horcrux, after all, was the one that had killed Dumbledore.
Pushing the creaking door open, he saw it — Marvolo Gaunt's black gemstone ring lying quietly on the dusty floor, as if waiting to be picked up.
And then came the whisper.
Come, wear me, my master.
Malfoy froze. The voice was silken, persuasive, almost affectionate.
Don't you have loved ones who've died? Friends you wish to see again?
The curse Voldemort had woven into the ring and the Resurrection Stone's own magic intertwined, producing a lure as sweet as poison.
Wear me, and you will see them.
Wear me, for I am one of the Hallows.
Wear me, and you will be omnipotent — lord of souls, king of the world.
Malfoy's head swam. The voice was everywhere — in his ears, in his mind — so gentle, so convincing. His body moved without command, his hand reaching for the ring. Even though he had no lost loved ones to call upon, an inexplicable yearning urged him closer.
Just as his fingers were about to brush the metal, pain surged through his body. He convulsed violently, collapsing onto the floor. Consciousness and instinct fought inside him — his mind a battlefield, his will the army holding the line. Sweat rolled down his face in thick beads.
The voice persisted, coaxing, mocking:
Come on … wear me … you are the king of the world.
"I don't care about that damned king of the world!" he shouted hoarsely.
Every second felt like a century. Yet slowly, through agony and resistance, the spell of temptation weakened.
When the tremors stopped, his breathing steadied. The clarity in his eyes told who had won.
"It's terrifying," he muttered, wiping sweat from his back. "Even without dead loved ones, it almost had me. No wonder old Dumbledore was tricked."
He shivered, remembering the old headmaster's fatal mistake. His own willpower — and that strengthening spell — had saved him.
"But people can't live forever in illusions," he whispered. Decision settled over him like armor.
Drawing his wand, he began to chant in a low, deliberate voice. Strange syllables spilled out, twisting the air. A spark flared in the void — a flame black as ink, flickering with malevolent life.
"I wanted to take it back for study," he mused grimly, "but that's impossible. If Dumbledore were still around, he'd summon me the moment I tried to explain — and that would be the end of it."
"So … let's end it here."
Guiding the black flame carefully, Malfoy sent it drifting toward the ring. He kept his distance; he had no wish to be caught in his own fire.
A hiss echoed — sizzle! — as the flame touched the gold band. The ring vibrated violently. From its surface seeped a thick, tar-like substance blacker than blood. A faint, distant scream — thin as a ghost's — rose and vanished.
Then came a deafening boom.
The flame surged skyward, swelling two meters high, devouring the rotted floorboards and clawing for anything that could burn.
"This is not fun at all," Malfoy muttered, watching the inferno spread. He had only one sensible choice — run.
He darted from the house just as the fire consumed the doorway.
"A Horcrux and a Philosopher's Stone — that's fuel enough to burn the world," he gasped, half laughing at his own luck.
Outside, he bent double, catching his breath. Behind him, the shack was fully aflame. Fire licked the ancient trees, making them crack and spit. The sky above Little Hangleton glowed red.
For a moment, Malfoy simply watched, dazed by the magnitude of the blaze. Then, with dark humor, a memory surfaced — a saying from his previous life:
"Set fire to the mountain, end up in prison."
He gave a weary, ironic smile.
Some battles, he thought, are won only to remind us what we've lost.
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