Chapter 445: The Resurrection Stone

Night.

Deep within a tangled grove on the hillside of Little Hangleton village.

Two figures clad in black robes suddenly appeared.

Oh no, three— one of them was so tiny that, amid the thick undergrowth, he went utterly unnoticed unless you looked closely.

He looked even smaller than a dwarf, easily evoking rumors of goblins or sprites.

“We’re nearly there, Mr. Green.”

Quirrell said cautiously.

He kept scanning every corner, missing nothing, not even the faintest rustle.

The phrase “extremely likely to be danger” had haunted him ever since; since Mr. Green hadn’t told him where the danger lay, everything could be dangerous.

“Professor, have you heard the tale of the three brothers?”

Snape’s voice echoed through the dense, dark woods; before them, only the wandlight illuminated a small patch of scrub.

“Ah… yes, Mr. Green…”

Quirrell remained utterly alert; they were traveling along a secluded, winding path, and the darkness matched the gloom of the story he was thinking of.

“Legend says they used magic to build a bridge across a perilous river, avoiding death.”

Death grew furious, for he felt he had lost three new victims.

But he feigned congratulations and let each brother choose one gift: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility.

Two of the brothers, eager to conquer death further, foolishly chose the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone—and died prematurely.

The youngest brother, wiser than his two elder siblings, chose the Cloak of Invisibility; and when he was ready to die, he welcomed Death as one greets an old friend, and left the world.”

Quirrell naturally remembered this well-known wizarding tale vividly.

“Do you believe this story is true?”

With still some distance to go, Snape asked.

“I’d rather believe they were three immensely powerful wizards who created three immensely powerful magical artifacts.”

Quirrell carefully searched the bushes.

In his view, the moral of “The Tale of the Three Brothers” was unmistakable:

Human attempts to evade or conquer Death are doomed to fail.

Yes, always.

Only the youngest brother—the “most humble and wisest”—understood that after escaping Death once, all he could hope for was to delay their next meeting as long as possible.

This youngest brother knew that mocking Death—whether by the eldest’s violence or the second’s mysterious necromancy—meant battling a cunning, undefeated foe.

“Long ago, when I was as young as you, I once dreamed of possessing all three items.”

Professor Quirrell noticed something, and smiled faintly.

“I’d like to ask you now—what of you?”

Snape asked.

This question mattered deeply to him.

To obtain the Gaunt ring, they faced two obstacles.

One was obvious—Voldemort would never let them take the ring easily.

Based on past experience, he would surely have filled the manor with curses.

And as everyone knew, Voldemort had surpassed all others in the art of curses.

Like the liquid in the cave that drained a wizard’s strength, the curse on the Gaunt ring, the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson…

But Snape did not believe this was the greatest obstacle.

The second obstacle—the greatest one—was… something…

Snape glanced around: silence, darkness; occasionally birds burst from the trees, startling a flurry of cries.

“Now, Mr. Green, know this—I have abandoned my illusions.

I once did not understand: the reason we are born in hell is simply that we wish to turn the world into heaven.”

Quirrell murmured,

“A small fraction of the wizarding world still firmly believes that the Peverells passed them a hidden message—one that directly contradicts the written words, accessible only to those with sufficient wisdom to decipher it.

They believe:

If a man legally possesses all three items, he becomes the Master of Death.

This phrase is usually taken to mean he is invincible, even immortal.

I want you to know: I once dreamed this too. Whether wizard or Muggle, every heart is filled with longing for power.

How many could resist the Elder Wand? And who, grieving a lost love, could resist the Resurrection Stone?”

“But I have seen Death, Mr. Green—and it told me one thing matters above all else…”

At that moment, they stood before a filthy, dilapidated cottage.

Its walls were covered in slimy moss; many roof tiles had fallen away, exposing the rafters beneath.

The windows were small and filthy, letting in almost no light.

Most striking of all was a dead snake nailed to the door, forming a horrifying door knocker.

Peering through the small, broken windows, one could see the interior was equally squalid: a single main room, dark and filthy.

Closer still, the stench of decay reached them.

“Professor… if we find something unusual, I hope you’ll destroy it as soon as possible.”

Snape said softly.

Quirrell nodded without hesitation—but froze when he saw the snake.

He knew: Cadmus Peverell, the second brother of the tale, was the ancestor of the Gaunt family—and this horrifying door knocker was their family emblem.

This meant…

“The Resurrection Stone…”

Quirrell whispered involuntarily, then lowered his head.

“That thing is… to obey your will, always.”

“Wil.”

Snape fell silent, then called again.

“Yes!”

Wil lowered his bow, stood tall and straight.

Amid the black, silent stillness, they easily dispelled several unimportant curses.

As Snape had expected, Voldemort had not invested much effort in curses surrounding the ring.

Ten minutes later.

Snape stood in an unremarkable corner of the filthy room.

The Mirror of Erised glowed steadily in his hand, spinning.

He had bought it in Diagon Alley.

Though it was merely a glass top, cracked and unassuming, it could detect dangerous objects or people nearby.

A practical dark magic detector.

Now it warned Snape: this unremarkable spot was the most dangerous.

“Wil.”

Snape called again.

Wil snapped his fingers; a small, unremarkable box instantly appeared out of thin air.

It was the very object buried in the hole beneath that unremarkable spot.

—The Resurrection Stone.

“He won’t understand. He won’t care…”

Quirrell suddenly laughed, his voice low; he looked at Puckett the butler and realized they were all the same.

In Voldemort’s eyes, perhaps wizards and goblins were no different.

He could sense many dark and protective magics beneath, yet none were designed to deter goblins.

Voldemort would be defeated by what he did not know—Quirrell had understood that since that night.