Chapter 56: Harry Potter : Chapter 55: Rich Hunt II
A few nights after my last failed attempt at finding a cure for Lycanthropy, I dizzily stumbled off the Knight Bus before the purple Triple Decker exploded away into the night once again, my hands running over my grey beard in the vane attempt to tame the mane I had once more adopted as a disguise, while I studied the surroundings from under my deep hood.
The few roads of village of Little Hangleton was barely illuminated by the occasional streetlamp whose light failed to pierce far through the falling snow.
I only had vague memories of the village's description, both from the 'Goblet of Fire' and 'The Half-Blood Prince', so I resigned myself to explore a bit before finding the location of my prize.
Distractedly touching several of my many pockets, checking for the vials they contained with a reflex that I had picked up while searching for Ravenclaw's Diadem, I walked over the freshly fallen snow with nary a sound, the thick, grey goop-like substance I had brewed and applied under my footwear achieved its purpose by allowing me to walk lightly above the white cover that separated me from the ground.
Riddle Manor was relatively easy to spot even in the dark: the small hill that dominated the village, if one was so generously inclined as to attribute such a title to what amounted to a twenty meters uphill slope, stood out thanks to the few lit windows that almost looked like eyes suspended in the night.
From there, I moved along the desert roads and empty alley until I found a graveyard, and moving in an outwards spiral from there, I eventually located my true target.
Not far from the dirt road that rolled north-west from the village, there was a random mess of hedges that curtailed a part of what should have been some sort of yard for the shack that hosted my target.
The house itself was a barely-standing conglomerate of planks of wood, and I couldn't help but shake my head in denial: how could an adult wizard, no matter how stupid, be so utterly incapable as to live like a squatter in an abandoned building?
Then again, simple charms can turn a part of the floor in a warm, soft surface... but still.
For all of their pride in their bloodline, apparently, the Gaunts felt that they could live in a pigsty without harming their impressive ego. With a familiarity that grew with each use, my wand twirled in a tight circle above my head, and shadows followed my command: all sounds around me dampened, and I became just another unimportant blur of darkness.
I walked across the distance that separated me from the door of the shack without feeling anything that could betray the presence of wards.
Then again, besides a random act of aggression, I hadn't seen the man do anything but curse a random Ministry Employee in the memories shown in the Half Blood Prince, but while the wizard I was about to rob was capable with a wand, he wasn't really bright, and if nothing else, the overinflated sense of ego of the Gaunt's meant that he never bothered to protect his property.
I fished a pear-shaped vial the size of a coconut from one of my pockets and swirled it lightly in the darkness of the night: the grey liquid it contained simmered with faint streaks of white.
The Draught of the Living Death was a ridiculously easy potion to brew, but besides being easy to detect, it affected only those stupid enough to touch it directly with their skin, and had an effect capable of being countered only with a specific antidote only when drunk.
Creeping Slumber was born with a precise purpose: I uncorked it and poured just where the door met the more or less rotten wood of the patio, being careful to not breathe as faint grey smoke started to seep under the entrance.
The story that gave meaning, and thus challenged magic, into the brew, was one of slow, unavoidable tiredness, one that shared a few elements with the Stalking Shadow potion that enhanced greatly my stealth.
Once I was done pouring, I stepped aside and remained still beside the door, to any observer, I'd be just like another shadow on the wall: while my brew acted, I simply had to wait. I breathed slowly, doing my best to remain calm, despite what I was about to do.
Oh, I had faced danger before: but werewolves, while terrible in their savagery and unpredictable in their answers to my potions, could be worked around. Terrible as they could be, there was a reason why the world wasn't completely overrun by them.
On the other hand, wizards had that terribly human spark that made the impossible possible even for muggles, never mind for those with access to magic.
My brew should work, my Potion Skills was one field where I didn't feel pressured to constantly research: I had a gift for it that constantly surprised me, but there was the absurd possibility that my target was still awake and that he'd notice, or that there was a magical snake ready to warn him... I could only hope for the best.
I remained still until I spotted the smoke generated by my brew starting to seep out once more from the house, and with a last deep breath, I cast the extremely useful Bubble-Head Charm around me, tapping the door with my wand and ducking under the threshold.
The shack had a single living room that occupied most of the space with an unlit fireplace with a broken chimney, but I didn't even need to explore the other small rooms to see him.
Thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color, and several of his teeth were missing as he snored on a broken couch, Morphin Gaunt lived up to his surname as his cheekbones cast deep shadows on the rest of his face to the dim light of my wand.
The place was much warmer than it should have been considering the lack of flames dancing in the fireplace, and I could almost feel the thick cover that Morphin's Warming Charm maintained over the room.
My eyes were wide as I studied my target, while I bared my teeth once I spotted the fabled Resurrection Stone. It's not like I need it... but this really feels right.
Remaining somewhat large on a finger that looked like the leg of a pale spider, there was a ring that, if I were to listen to what my metaknowledge told me, had been and would be cause for much strife and unneeded grief.
I couldn't contain the flash of triumph as I reached forward, my wand still trailed on the man, and easily slipped off my prize from the last pureblood of the line of Slytherin.
The dark stone gleamed coldly under the light of my wand as I slipped the ring in one of my pockets only to fish out a rough copy of it: among the countless Lost Things I had searched for in Hogwarts, I hadn't been unduly surprised when I spotted a small, golden ring.
Crystallizing a potion so that it'd look like an onyx hadn't been too difficult: after all, shadows were one of the things that I was very familiar with.
Now he has still a magical ring, even if, just like the one I stole, it won't actually do anything. In the complete silence of the room, the constant snoozing of Morphin was the only thing I could hear as I slipped on the fake ring, and while my heart thundered with excitement, my hands remained steady while I retraced my steps, and soon enough I was closing the door behind me.
As I walked at a brisk pace atop the snow that didn't bother with turning my steps into tracks, I briefly considered stealing the man's wand while the effects of the Creeping Slumber persisted, only to shake my had and pop the Bubble that still contained my head.
The whole point of my excursion had been to get back at Tom without him ever knowing about it, just like his words and actions had likely pushed those kids to ambush me at school.
For that transgression, I felt like we were even, and with a last glance at the daunting shack of Morphin Gaunt, I apparated away.
I popped back into reality still under a snowing sky, only to stride with purpose under a shadow that I had learned to spot even in complete darkness: with the years, since Hagrid Sr.'s death, I had grown accustomed to the uniquely odd feeling that the tree gave off.
It was a subtle thing, something that just like the Shadow it represented, was there without being in any way meaningful.
It was supremely easy to use a few leaves from the tree to cast a specific spell, or to enhance a specific property of a potion: but I still understood very little of what it actually was.
I stopped under the threshold of my home and glanced back at the tree that maintained the protective ward, rising my wand and casting a silent Lumos as I did so: the Ash tree had a trunk that was composed of two intertwining parts that followed each other in a tight spiral, and the light wood was covered by liquid shadows cast by ever-moving, dark leaves that I had just started to experiment with.
Over the snow-covered ground, the tree threw a shadow that I knew engulfed the entirety of my home: the magic that had birthed the tree was undeniably powerful, and while I never suffered intruders of any sort, I couldn't tell if that was because of the tree or simply because of how isolated my home was.
I'll need to study that in depth. I resigned myself to the idea while I quashed the familiar self-loathing that rose at the memory of how I had exploited the dying man that believed me his son, and entered my home.
Shrugging off my patchworked cloak, I moved towards the living room instead of my bedroom, where I settled into the large armchair that faced my unlit fireplace.
Once more, just like I did years before, I rose my holly and phoenix wand in front of my face, briefly loosing myself into the meaning of fire, into what it felt like, into what it could be if properly directed, and blew.
My breath rushed above the wand with a deliberate and lightfooted twist, igniting immediately after only to deposit itself like an unfolding napkin made of yellow and orange flames over the waiting cold ashes: the magically created fire illuminated the room immediately, and warmth chased away the coldness of that winter's night.
I fished out the Resurrection Stone and studied it under the warm light: the faded mark of the Peverells could be spotted on one side, while the onyx-like stone wetly reflected the dancing flames without a care "It's not like I have anyone to call, is it?"
A self-mocking bout of laughter escaped my lips then, for some reason, I couldn't contain the sudden hilarity.
Even counting the dead, I was alone.
After a while spent feeling sorry for myself, my eyes landed on a pouch of cloth that contained a certain object, and as my mind returned to the problem that Tom Marvolo Riddle undoubtedly still was, I felt justified in feeling the need for some wisdom.
I lifted my wand once more, smiling lightly at the familiar rush that the length of holly and phoenix feather made run along my arm, and summoned to me the pouch: I opened it, and spent a second observing the Ravenclaw Diadem that rested within.
I had used it exactly once, and I would have been a liar if I said that I had been unnerved at the revelation of what exactly it was.
What does one reach by confronting oneself? The reflection of myself offered by the Diadem was strange indeed, but its words had shaken me deeply.
Also, once I had determined it wouldn't simply deliver me distilled knowledge, I simply decided to get busy with what I could do. That meant focusing on my studies, on my experiments, and my hopes for the future.
When magic is involved, lying to yourself can become crippling. That was obvious enough, wasn't it? Even more when I considered the undeniable truth of the triangle of Mind, Body, and Magic containing the Soul. That Tom told me.
I inwardly grimaced at the usefulness of Riddle's words: those had been fundamental to push me towards my new revelations when it came to lycanthropy, the ritual that I had attempted to use with Marie and Paul after all was meant to bring together their minds with their bodies' instincts, following the direction of the curse instead of pushing against it.
I hadn't worn the Diadem since that first time, since the magic within it asked me what I truly wanted. And maybe, just maybe, my actions up to this point were answer enough: besides the knowledge relative to Horcrux and Sacrifice, I had been open with my ideas and thoughts.
I had even allowed myself to write down 'Parseltongue' when I had reflected upon the merits of some inherited traits, and while I didn't parade it, I would be very surprised if Tom hadn't noticed it.
With the petty theft of the Resurrection Stone, I felt avenged, I even felt like I had punished Tom enough for the actions that led to those idiots ambushing me. But that didn't solve the problem I was facing.
My hand whispered against a pocket of my trousers, where I always kept a rooster transfigured into a wooden coin: there hadn't been signs of the Basilisk just yet, the spiders in the castle behaved normally from what I could tell.
And even if I had thought about the option of figuring out a way to sacrifice the unborn Aragog in order to craft some fool-proof way to be warned when the Chamber of Secrets got opened, it smelled strongly of cowardice.
Besides, an Acromantula was rare indeed, unique more than rare on the isles, and with the multitude of children that Aragog had the potential to produce, giving him up would sacrifice any hope that my potential business of cross-breeding had to take off reasonably quick.
While I was more than willing to spend years researching, I didn't want to spend that amount of time looking after my economic ventures.
There'd be options in the muggle world to make some money, but a proper magical business would destroy the need of keeping everything completely secret, as it'd be the case were I to illegally do everything that came to mind.
Not that I balked at the idea of breaking the law, but it sounded like a stupid problem that could be easily be diverted with the proper piece of paper justifying whatever bullshit I came up with.
I blinked tiredly at the Diadem in my hands, my eyes landing briefly on the sapphire that gleamed in answer to the flames dancing in my fireplace, and I sighed once more.
"I could use some good ideas about that as well..."
I closed my eyes, and in an instant, I was standing in a world made of grey, a reflection of myself but with sapphire blue eyes grinning widely at me.
"So," he started, "you made a decision."
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