Yulm followed his gaze, its snake eyes gleaming brightly as it hissed and flicked its thin tongue, inching toward the dusty jars and pots on the nightstand.
"Don't go near it. Your job's done. That thing's not something you mess with; it's laced with deadly poison and a curse."
Melvin grabbed the eager little snake before it could get any closer, pulling out his wand and easing forward. "Even Dumbledore would've been in over his head here."
A grimy black clay pot sat quietly on the cabinet. Melvin tapped it gently with his wand; no incantation, just a soft crack as the pot split open, crumbling into a small pile of shards and dust. Instead of digging right in, he summoned a careful whirlwind, sifting through the debris like an archaeologist, bit by bit.
"This is the ring passed down through the Peverell family. The Gaunts saw it as proof of their ancient bloodline, but they never knew; even Voldemort didn't know; the ring itself doesn't matter. It's the stone in the setting that's the real deal."
Melvin brushed away the last of the dust. "The Resurrection Stone. One of the Deathly Hallows."
Yulm's tail twitched with excitement. Its thumb-sized head couldn't wrap around all the complicated talk, but it knew whatever was buried in that dirt pile was important; and dangerous. The baby snake was practically buzzing with anticipation.
The whirlwind cleared the last of the debris, revealing a small black box inside.
The box was plain, no markings; looked like something you'd pick up at a corner store for a birthday gift.
Following Melvin's will, magic formed a protective bubble around him and the snake. He slowly lifted the lid.
The moment the lid cracked open, a faint gold-black shimmer leaked from the gap. Yulm stopped flicking its tongue and held its breath. It felt like whatever was inside was alive; like something in there was watching them.
An old, rough-looking ring lay inside. Dark gold band, thick and clunky, worn smooth in places.
Set in the center was a black stone, like obsidian or banded agate, etched with faint cracks; actually the symbol of the Deathly Hallows: a triangle enclosing a circle, split clean down the middle by a vertical line.
The Gaunts had treated it as the Peverell crest for generations, later making it their own family emblem to flaunt their noble blood. Then Voldemort murdered the Riddles, framed Morfin Gaunt, and took the ring from him; turning it into a Horcrux and hiding it here.
"Two kinds of magic in there," Melvin murmured. "One's the Hallow inside the stone. The other's the Horcrux clinging to the band. Good thing they're clearly separate; unlike the diadem or the cup, no risk of them blending together."
He gave a soft, admiring whistle. "If Riddle tries to back out of our deal, destroying the Horcrux won't even sting."
Yulm hissed and shook its little head. It definitely remembered their "dear friend" Riddle; always spinning half-truths and lies, squeezing every last drop of use from the soul fragments' memories. It didn't like those creepy, evil things; especially how they kept trying to boss it around in Parseltongue.
Melvin didn't touch the ring. Sure, the curse only activated if you slipped it on, but anything that could stump a potions master like Snape and the greatest wizard alive like Dumbledore? Yeah, better safe than sorry.
He slipped another box over the first, planning to study it back home. Just as he was about to Apparate, he paused, suddenly remembering a story he'd overheard in the village pub.
"Poor old gardener…"
---
Ten minutes later, at the Hanged Man pub.
It was one of the few places in the village to kill time. The lights were dim and yellowed, the drinks mostly past their prime, but the locals still showed up religiously; nowhere else to go. The bartender spun the occasional spooky tale for cheap entertainment.
The Riddle Manor mystery was a favorite topic, practically the pub's signature story. But when Frank Bryce, the one who'd actually been there, was sitting at the bar, you had to switch to something else.
The bartender lazily polished a glass, eyeing the old gardener hunched over his whiskey. Frank's eyes were bloodshot and cloudy, fixed on the amber liquid.
A war vet with old wounds, plus that bum leg that ached constantly. Sunny days helped if he sat in the light, but most of the time he just drowned the pain in whiskey until the burn dulled his brain.
Seeing Frank's glass nearly empty, the bartender slid over a fresh one. Regular customer. He was just thinking up a new story when the door opened and a familiar face walked in.
"One mead, please."
Melvin took a seat at the bar, tapping the oak counter. The place was quieter than before.
"Find the old house, sir?" the bartender asked, surprised, handing over the drink. Figured the guy must've turned back once he saw how creepy it was.
Melvin just smiled. "Passed by on my way back. Thought I'd stop in and hear more about that old case; especially the suspect;"
"Shh!"
The bartender cut him off fast, glancing nervously at the old gardener. He leaned in and whispered, "That's Frank right there. Best not to mention the Riddles around him."
Melvin nodded. Got it.
Maybe it was a soldier's instinct, but Frank turned and stared at them, locking eyes with the younger man.
Deep black eyes, swirling with gray mist like a vortex pulling you in. Frank caught a whiff of whiskey, and his gaze went unfocused, his mind slipping into darkness.
In a daze, he was back in his cottage, sinking into deep sleep.
Hiss…
Frank jolted awake, his bad leg screaming. He was old; close to the end; and that leg hurt worse every year. Grumbling about the bartender pawning off expired whiskey again, he shuffled to the kitchen to light the fireplace and boil water for his stiff knee.
Passing the window, he glanced up at the Riddle house. A faint light flickered in an upstairs window.
"Bloody kids breaking in again."
He grabbed his cane, stuffed the rusty old key in his pocket, and limped toward the manor as fast as he could.
The front door was untouched, windows intact. Frank hobbled around to the back, easing the iron gate open without a sound.
It was pitch black outside, but he knew every step; the hallway, the stairs, the landing. Years of dust muffled his cane and footsteps.
Soon he heard voices from the room off the right of the stair landing; the sitting room where the three Riddle bodies had been found all those years ago.
The fireplace was lit. The door was ajar, casting an orange glow on the floor. Frank edged closer, peering through the crack.
Three bodies lay on the floor; Mr. and Mrs. Riddle and their son; faces frozen in terror, staring at a cloaked figure by the fire. Hood up, face hidden.
The killer from back then!
Frank held his breath and inched closer, trying to see the face.
The second his eye pressed to the gap, the figure snapped its head up; revealing a pale, noseless snake-face, red eyes blazing as they locked on Frank.
"Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light shot straight at his face.
Frank's cloudy eyes went wide, his whole body shaking. At his age, he'd thought about dying in bed someday, but he'd never felt death this close; bone-chilling, terrifying.
"AH;!"
He jolted awake at the bar, gasping, sweat beading on his forehead, trembling from head to toe, whiskey sloshing in his shaking hand.
"Frank? Frank!"
The bartender waved a hand in front of his face. "You okay? Two drinks and you're out cold? That's not like you. Don't go dying in my pub, now."
The wall clock ticked. Frank downed the rest of his whiskey. The burn snapped him back to reality, his heaving chest slowly calming.
The dream had been too real; like a warning from Death itself.
"I need to retire," he muttered, staring blankly.
"What?"
"I said I'm quitting the gardener job at the Riddle place. Hope the government pension's enough to buy me a damn plot!"
Frank slammed his glass down and stormed out, limping and muttering.
"How do they not know the cause of death?"
"Why'd I have to see it?"
"Who knows if he'll come back…"
The bartender scratched his head, watching him go. "Old man's finally lost it. Getting worse."
At the other end of the bar, Melvin stayed quiet, took a sip of the stale mead, and shook his head. Still can't beat the Three Broomsticks' mead.
---
Nightfall in Diagon Alley.
Melvin sat at his desk by the window, green-shaded lamp casting soft light. He glanced at the clear, starry sky, then down at the tools and potions laid out in front of him.
An open black box sat on the desk, the ancient ring resting inside. Next to it, a silver dish held a shallow layer of memory-revealing potion. Since Horcruxes carried soul fragments and memories, the silvery liquid should work on the ring just like it had on the cup.
The Dark Lord's confidant, Voldemort's partner; Melvin had found another Horcrux. The potion was ready. This was routine now. Based on past experience, he'd soon be face-to-face with Riddle again, building another beautiful friendship.
"I kinda wanted to play it off like I stumbled on the Horcrux by accident; just a clueless young professor who doesn't know anything," Melvin said with a sigh. "But the setup's not right."
Never mind that he'd already dug the ring out of the Gaunt shack; just look at all this stuff on the desk. No way Riddle would buy the "innocent newbie" act.
Timeline-wise, the Gaunt ring was Voldemort's second Horcrux. Made in the summer of 1943 when 16-year-old Tom Riddle tracked down his family, wiped them out, and created it; after the diary, but before the cup and the locket.
The soul fragment inside was 16-year-old Tom Riddle.
"Sixteen, ambitious, brilliant Tom. Already deep in dark magic, able to put a curse on the ring that even Dumbledore couldn't break. Hope you know a thing or two about Dementors," Melvin murmured, tipping the ring from the box into the silver dish.
The potion rippled. Silvery mist rose, forming a faint outline, shaping a ghostly figure. Light and shadow filled in color, and a young man appeared; handsome, proud, his face still untouched by years of dark magic.
Riddle looked around, frowning. "Who are you?"
Melvin pressed his lips together, fighting a grin. Showtime. "Melvin Lewinter. Your most reliable ally."
Riddle froze, stunned.
"It's 1993," Melvin continued, unloading a flood of wild information onto the soul fragment. "Voldemort fell twelve years ago. The Death Eaters are scattered. In your future; our past; we lost everything. Voldemort's real body was destroyed. The remaining soul pieces are missing. I followed the clues you left and found the Gaunt ring hidden in the old house. I woke you up."
Riddle's mind went blank. "This can't be real. It's impossible!"
"Harsh truths are hard to swallow, but you need to pull it together. We've got work to do. We're taking back everything that's ours!" Melvin said passionately, as if trying to spark Riddle's fighting spirit. He launched into tales of the Death Eaters' former glory.
"…The Dark Mark burned across Britain. Pure-blood families rallied behind us. Ministry officials didn't dare speak. Only stubborn old Dumbledore hid in Hogwarts, waiting for us to come take it.
"Just as we were about to usher in a new pure-blood era, something went wrong in Godric's Hollow. Overnight, everything collapsed…"
Riddle's ghostly form floated in the air, expression dazed, brain still rebooting.
"I… I became the Dark Lord everyone feared?"
"Yeah. No wizard in Britain dared say your name. Just hearing it made them panic. Seeing the Dark Mark sent them hiding in cellars."
"You know about the Horcruxes?"
"Of course. I'm your most trusted ally. I brought part of Slytherin's legacy from Ilvermorny to help you become the greatest dark wizard in history; greater than filthy Herpo, greater than Salazar Slytherin himself."
"Wait…" Riddle caught something. "I'm the greatest dark wizard, I made Horcruxes, I conquered death; how did I lose?"
Melvin shook his head. "That night, only the Boy Who Lived survived. He was one year old. Nobody knows what really happened in Godric's Hollow."
Riddle hovered, eyes glinting as he processed.
"None of that matters right now," Melvin said seriously. "What does matter is you telling me how to control Dementors. That's the key to bringing you back."