Chapter 444

Wizard Sean Green had seen this wizard, Bob Ogden, in the Daily Prophet.

He had come on official business, and Dumbledore and Wizard Sean followed him.

As they passed a wooden signpost, Wizard Sean looked up at its two directional arrows.

The one pointing back the way they came read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles.

The one pointing in Ogden’s direction read: Little Hangleton, 1 mile.

The general location was confirmed…

Wizard Sean memorized it silently.

They walked a while longer, seeing nothing else but tall hedges on either side, the vast blue summer sky above, and the figure ahead in a long overcoat, rustling as he walked.

Then the path turned left and plunged steeply down the slope, and suddenly, before them, lay an entire valley laid bare.

Wizard Sean saw a village—undoubtedly Little Hangleton—nestled between two steep hills, the church and graveyard clearly visible.

On the opposite hillside stood a grand, imposing mansion, surrounded by vast green lawns.

“The villagers of Little Hangleton call it the Riddle House,” Dumbledore said with a smile.

Wizard Sean looked toward the house. Soon, Tom Riddle, retrieved by Wormtail, would enter it.

But if Wormtail was imprisoned, would he still return?

Wizard Sean did not know.

Perhaps other wizards would enter Albania. Perhaps “Worm-Ear” or “Worm-Nose” might appear.

Wizard Sean disliked unplanned events.

So he devised a precise plan.

Now, in memory: because the downhill path was too steep, Ogden unconsciously broke into a run.

Dumbledore lengthened his strides, and Wizard Sean quickened his pace behind him.

Suddenly, the path turned right, and as they rounded the bend, they saw Ogden’s overcoat flap vanish through a gap in the hedge.

Dumbledore and Wizard Sean followed him onto a narrow dirt track, where the hedges towered higher and denser than those they had passed earlier.

Though the sky was clear, the ancient trees above cast cool, dark, thick shadows, and it took several seconds for Wizard Sean’s eyes to make out a house half-hidden among tangled roots and undergrowth.

The house seemed long abandoned: its walls were covered in moss, many roof tiles had fallen away, exposing the rafters beneath.

Thick nettles grew all around it, rising as high as the windows, which were tiny and caked with layers of ancient grime.

“Here we are,” Dumbledore said.

Click. One window opened, releasing a thin wisp of steam or smoke—as if someone were cooking.

Then came another click, and a man in tattered clothes leapt down from a nearby tree, landing squarely before Ogden.

Ogden stepped back hastily, tripped on the hem of his own overcoat, and nearly fell.

Right after came another crack, and a man in tattered clothes jumped down from a nearby tree, landing right before Ogden.

The man standing before them had thick, matted hair, caked with filth, its original color unrecognizable.

He had lost several teeth; his small, jet-black eyes stared in opposite directions. He looked absurd, yet he was terrifying.

“Er—good morning. I’m from the Ministry—”

He had lost several teeth, and his two jet-black little eyes stared in opposite directions. He should have looked comical, but in fact he was terrifying.

“Er—I’m sorry—I don’t understand you.”

Ogden said nervously.

“I suppose we also struggle to understand him?”

Dumbledore asked, smiling, from behind them.

“He said, ‘You are not welcome.’”

Behind them, Dumbledore smiled and asked Xiang Xiang Xien.

“Oh? That’s peculiar.”

Dumbledore looked surprised.

“Serpent speech sounds like a modified form of ancient Futhark runes. The book ‘Serpent Speech’ covers this.”

Wizard Sean explained.

“Forgive me—I’ve never heard of that book.”

Dumbledore looked thoughtful.

Wizard Sean glanced at his neck. The Wizard’s Book was still there, but in memory, it was nearly impossible to open.

The ‘Serpent Speech’ left by Ravenclaw would also be inaccessible.

In truth, in Ravenclaw’s memory, Wizard Sean preferred to call it ‘Salazar Slytherin’s Observational Diary.’

The memory images continued to flow.

An old man emerged, and his appearance eased Ogden slightly.

“I’ve come to see your son, Gaunt. That was Morfin, just now?”

An old man stepped out, and his appearance eased Ogden slightly.

“Ah, that’s Morfin,” the old man said indifferently.

“Are you pure-blood?”

He asked, his tone suddenly aggressive.

“That has nothing to do with today’s conversation,” Ogden replied coldly.

But Gaunt clearly dismissed this. He narrowed his eyes at Ogden’s face and muttered something clearly meant to provoke.

“May we go inside to talk?”

Ogden’s tone turned icy.

“Inside?”

“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I’ve already told you. I’m here about Morfin. We sent an owl—”

“Owls are useless to me,” Gaunt said.

“I never read letters.”

“Then don’t complain you didn’t know someone was coming,” Ogden snapped.

“I’ve come to investigate a serious breach of wizarding law that occurred this morning—”

“Fine, fine, fine!” Gaunt bellowed.

“Go to the bloody house then—you’ll be more comfortable there!”

The house had three small rooms: a central room serving as both kitchen and parlor, with two other doors leading elsewhere.

Morfin sat in a filthy armchair beside a smoky fireplace, fiddling with a live venomous snake, humming softly in Parseltongue:

“Sssss, sssss,

Baby snake, crawl fast on the ground,

Be good to Morfin, or I’ll nail you to the door.”

A girl appeared in the room, dressed in rags, rummaging through piles of ash-covered jars and bottles.

“My daughter, Merope,” Gaunt said reluctantly, noticing Ogden’s questioning look.

“Good morning,” Ogden said.

The girl did not answer. She glanced fearfully at her father, then turned away quickly, continuing to fumble with the shelves of jars.

“Alright, Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden said,

“Let’s be direct. We have reason to believe your son Morfin performed magic in front of a Muggle last night.”

CRASH! A deafening sound—Merope knocked a jar to the floor.

“Pick it up!” Gaunt roared at Merope.

“What, crawl on the ground like a filthy Muggle?

What’s your wand for, you useless lump?”

Ogden was stunned. Eventually, Gaunt forced Merope to cast Reparo—but she failed, and curses rained down like a storm.

Dumbledore subtly stepped in front of Wizard Sean, blocking his view—and his hearing—of what followed.

He only knew that after a while, Gaunt growled at Ogden:

“So what? Morfin gave a Muggle a beating—so what?”

“Morfin broke wizarding law,” Ogden said solemnly.

“Let’s get straight to the point: we have reason to believe your son Morfin cast magic in front of a Muggle last night.”

CRASH—deafening. Merope knocked a jar to the floor.

“Pick it up!”

Gaunt roared at Merope,

“What, are you going to crawl on the ground like a filthy Muggle?”

“What good is your wand, you useless lump?”

Ogden was stunned into silence; finally, Gaunt forced Merope to cast Reparo, but she failed, and curses rained down like a storm.

Dumbledore subtly stepped in front of Wizard Sean, blocking his view and any further sound.

Only after a while did Gaunt snap at Ogden:

“So what? Morfin gave a Muggle a beating—so what?”

“Morfin broke wizarding law.”

Ogden said sternly.

“Mofen broke wizarding law,”

Gaunt mimicked Ogden’s voice, deliberately dragging his words with arrogance. Mofen cackled again.

“He gave a filthy Muggle a taste of what for, and now it’s illegal?”

“Yes,” Ogden said. “I’m afraid so.”

He pulled a small scroll of parchment from inside his coat pocket and unrolled it.

“What’s this? His sentence?”

Gaunt raised his voice in fury.

“To summon him to the Ministry for trial—”

“Summon? Summon? Who do you think you are, daring to summon my son?”

“I am the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,”

Ogden said.

“Do you think we’re common trash?”

Gaunt shrieked, advancing on Ogden and jabbing his yellowed, filthy fingers into his chest,

“Does the Ministry snap its fingers and we come running? Do you know who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, hmm?”

“I believe I’m speaking to Mr. Gaunt.”

Ogden was wary but did not retreat.

“That’s right!”

Gaunt roared. He raised his finger—Wizard Sean knew Gaunt was showing Ogden the ugly black gemstone ring on his middle finger.

He waved the ring back and forth in front of Ogden’s face.

“See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? It’s been in our family for centuries—our lineage is that old, and always pure-blood! Do you know how much someone offered to buy it from me? The stone bears the Peverell coat of arms!”

“I didn’t know,”

Ogden said, blinking as the ring passed an inch from his nose,

“and it has nothing to do with this matter, Mr. Gaunt. Your son committed—”

Gaunt bellowed in rage and lunged at his daughter, his hand shooting toward her throat.

For a moment, Wizard Sean thought he meant to strangle her.

Then Gaunt yanked a golden chain around his daughter’s neck, dragging her forward to face Ogden.

“See this?”

He roared at Ogden, shaking a heavy golden locket hanging from the chain—Merope choked and gasped for breath.

“I see it! I see it!”

Ogden hurriedly said.

“Slytherin’s!”

Gaunt shouted,

“Salazar Slytherin’s! We are his last living descendants—what do you have to say about that, hmm?”

“Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!”

Ogden cried in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope.

She stumbled away from him, retreating to her corner, rubbing her neck and gasping for air.

Wizard Sean watched them, feeling something stuck in his throat.

Finally, he blurted out:

“Should I mourn your foolish mind, Salazar?”

Dumbledore turned around, his tone curious:

“Ravenclaw? Ravenclaw?”

“Just a memory, Headmaster.”

Wizard Sean’s voice was low.

Ravenclaw’s memory didn’t just bring forth long-buried recollections; when too many memory points were touched, it seemed to overwhelm Wizard Sean, forcing him to act on Ravenclaw’s instincts.

For instance, now—he felt cheerful. It would be even better if he could find a way to mock Salazar Slytherin.

“I think that’s enough, child.”

Dumbledore said. He gripped Wizard Sean’s elbow and tugged gently.

In an instant, they were weightless, soaring higher into darkness, then landing steadily back in Dumbledore’s office, where night had already fallen outside the window.

“What did you notice?”

Dumbledore asked.

“A locket and a… ring.”

Wizard Sean replied.

“That’s enough.”

Dumbledore was satisfied.

The young wizard always grasped the essentials—not merely through wisdom.

“Old ears always long to hear the wisdom of youth. On one point I am certain:

If you receive any insight from the stars, may I be your first to share it?”

Dumbledore said.

“I will.”

Wizard Sean said.

But not today.

The sky outside was pitch black; the light in Dumbledore’s office seemed brighter than ever.

“Thank you for sharing, Headmaster Dumbledore.”

As he left, Wizard Sean said.

“No, I thank you, Green.”

Dumbledore’s gaze was deep.

The door to the Headmaster’s office closed behind him.

The drawback of using the Pensieve is this: what feels like an hour in memory may be a full day in reality.

Wizard Sean had entered the Headmaster’s office in the morning; now it was evening.

“Wil.”

He called.

“Respected Mr. Green.”

Puckett the butler teleported out from the Book of Wizards.

“To Diagon Alley.”

Wizard Sean said.

“As you command!”

Wil snapped his fingers.

…

Diagon Alley.

Fairy Tale Emporium.

Even in the evening, young witches and wizards lingered before its dazzling windows.

This was the most mysterious and fascinating shop in Diagon Alley, selling magical artifacts that the entire wizarding world went mad for.

Even more intriguing, the Fairy Tale Emporium hid invitation letters inside the Chocolate Frog cards sold at its entrance.

They had seen several delighted young witches and wizards—and their families—emerge with them!

Everyone who entered the shop left with a smile. If only they could bring such joy to others too.

The young witches and wizards thought happily.

Then a young wizard appeared at the door.

No one knew how he arrived, but a chubby-cheeked young witch kindly warned:

“Hey! You can’t get in!”

The young wizard turned—and the girl realized he was an exceptionally handsome young wizard.

“Oh, I mean, lots of people want to go in, but the boss with the black face is terrifying!”

The girl stammered.

“Thank you.”

The boy said. The girl’s face lit up—then she watched him push the door open and step inside.

“He went in!”

The girl shrieked.

The Fairy Tale Emporium looked the same, glowing with warm orange light.

“Professor Quirrell.”

Wizard Sean said.

“How did you…”

Far away, Quirrell swiftly waved his wand and instantly appeared before Wizard Sean before him, bowing respectfully.

“You know there’s no need for this.”

Wizard Sean felt a touch of helplessness.

“Hmm.”

Quirrell merely nodded in response.

“We’re going somewhere—very likely dangerous, Professor.”

Wizard Sean said.

“You must go? If you trust me, of course, I—I—I could take care of it for you...”

Quirrell stammered, flustered.

“Professor, I need you.”

Wizard Sean said softly.

Quirrell’s face flushed crimson at once; he stammered but could not utter a word.

Far away, the night had grown deep; most wizards sat gathered by the hearths, resting and chatting.

Wizard Sean gazed at every warm window along Diagon Alley—he had always followed his plan, whether faster or slower, but he never grew accustomed to stopping.

Nor could he.