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Chapter 19 — The Ring
Malfoy stepped around the unconscious Frank Bryce and walked slowly into the abandoned Riddle Manor.
The house, long without an owner, had grown shabby with time.
Even so, thanks to Frank's stubborn care, the side gardens remained neatly trimmed—flat grass, almost no weeds at all.
He headed straight for the largest room, which he assumed had once been the living room. He hoped to find even a hint of Voldemort's presence, but time had washed everything clean.
There was no lingering magic, no residual trace of anything. Malfoy shook the wooden table, then the stool beside it, hoping something might be hidden—but found nothing. He sighed, disappointed.
He moved toward the back of the house. There, half-swallowed by thick ivy, stood a door.
"Alohomora," he murmured.
Clunk.
The heavy door groaned and slowly swung inward.
It was pitch dark inside—like stepping into a cave. If not for the messy kitchen utensils scattered about, Malfoy wouldn't have guessed it had once been a kitchen. But otherwise, nothing stood out. No clues.
He finally wandered into the corridor. Light from large mullioned windows fell faintly across the dusty floor. He traced his way up the stairs, each step coated in a thick layer of untouched dust.
At the landing, he turned right and walked to the corridor's end. The door ahead was slightly ajar.
"Seems there really aren't any clues left… not that I expected much." He gave himself that small comfort.
"At least I can disgust someone with this someday," Malfoy muttered, stepping inside.
A few murmured spells echoed beneath his breath.
Moments later, he was back at the manor's front entrance.
"Old man, sleep a bit longer. You'll live." Malfoy cast a Muggle-Repelling Charm over the area, then departed quickly.
"Oh, Maria is still waiting for me…"
Frank Bryce awoke with a splitting headache, suddenly overcome by the memory of his first love.
A long-forgotten flame flickered to life in his fading years. He stumbled out of Riddle Manor and hurried toward the place etched most deeply in his memories.
As for the manor that had accompanied him for decades—it was as though he had forgotten it entirely.
"Innocent old man… better he stays far away from all this," Malfoy sighed, watching Frank's figure vanish.
"What happened just now was nothing," he murmured. "What comes next is different."
He straightened, alert.
Relying on his memory of the terrain, Malfoy reached a graveyard choked with tall weeds. Behind a towering yew tree on the right stood the black silhouette of a small church. To the left was a hill crowned with an old, elegant house—the one he had just searched.
The air around the graveyard was heavy and bleak. From time to time, a crow cawed sharply, each cry slicing through the thick, eerie silence.
Malfoy stopped before a tall marble tombstone.
Tom Marvolo Riddle
A cold gust shrieked through the yard.
Malfoy stiffened, shivering despite himself.
"Looks like I get to make a cameo as a grave robber today," he muttered, unfazed by the atmosphere—mocking himself more than anything.
He opened his black bag and placed several pieces of beef bone on the ground.
"Obliterate."
He tapped the bones.
They dissolved instantly into fine powder.
He waved his wand again. The heavy tombstone slid aside with grinding reluctance. Malfoy scooped away the mixture of ancient soil and ash, keeping about a third of it, and replaced the rest with the bone powder he'd created.
"Restore."
The tombstone settled back into place.
"Success." He clapped lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He continued toward Little Hangleton.
Tall hedges lined the road on both sides. After some distance, he turned right and stepped through a narrow gap in the fence.
A long, twisting dirt path stretched ahead. The hedges here grew even taller, denser, and wilder. Stones jutted from the uneven road. Just like before, the path wound downward toward a patch of dark forest.
Ancient trees cast deep, suffocating shadows.
Half-hidden ahead was a house. The canopy above swallowed nearly all light, plunging the valley into gloom. Moss crept across the walls. Many roof tiles had fallen away, exposing the rafters beneath. Nettles choked the perimeter—tall enough to brush the windows, which were small, grimy, and blank with age.
A dead snake hung nailed to the front door.
The entire house reeked of rot.
And beneath that—Malfoy felt it clearly—spilled an overwhelming tide of dark magic.
"Will of iron!"
He cast a spell to fortify his mind. The first Horcrux he was about to face was no joke.
"Why are my self-created spells always support spells…" he grumbled, helpless, though determined.
This was the Horcrux that had killed Dumbledore.
Malfoy gently pushed open the door.
Marvolo Gaunt's black gemstone ring lay on the floor, silent and still—as if inviting him to simply reach down and claim it.
"Come and wear me, my master…"
Malfoy felt it. A whisper brushing against his thoughts, seductive and soft.
"Don't you have someone who's passed on? A family member? A friend?"
The dark curse woven into the ring seemed to resonate strangely with the resurrection magic within.
"As long as you wear me… you will see them."
"I am one of the Deathly Hallows."
"Wear me… and you will be omnipotent. Command the souls of the dead."
Like the diary.
Like the locket.
This Horcrux shared the same insidious voice—always digging for the deepest desire in a person's heart.
Malfoy swayed. His vision blurred.
The whispering grew gentler, more intimate.
Even knowing he shouldn't, he wanted to pick up the ring.
He bent down—fingers inches away—
—and his entire body convulsed.
He collapsed, curling in on himself, sweat pouring from his forehead. His conscious mind and subconscious crashed violently against each other.
"Come… wear me. Become king of the world…"
"But I don't care about being king of the world!"
Malfoy gritted his teeth, resisting with everything he had.
His mind became the battlefield.
His will—his soldier.
He fought desperately against the crushing pressure and temptation.
He didn't know how long it lasted.
In suffering, every second becomes a century.
At last, his trembling stopped.
The battle was over.
His clear, steady eyes showed the victor.
"How terrifying…" he whispered. "I've never lost anyone dear to me, yet even I almost fell for it. No wonder old Dumbledore was deceived."
He wiped the cold sweat on his back.
Caution was the parent of safety—and the will-strengthening charm had likely been the decisive weight on the scale.
"But no one can indulge in illusions forever."
Malfoy took a breath, then began chanting a cryptic incantation—softly, slowly, carefully.
A spark flared in the empty air.
Then a black flame bloomed into existence.
"I wanted to bring it back for study… but that's not happening," he thought grimly. "With Dumbledore's obsession over his sister, I doubt I'd survive explaining. He'd kill me with a flick."
"So… better to destroy you here."
He guided the black flame toward the ring with all the precision he could muster.
One mistake would incinerate him like the Horcrux's previous victims.
Ssssshh—
The flame touched the ring.
The ring shuddered violently.
A thick, blood-like black ooze seeped from its cracks.
A faint, distant scream echoed—thin and agonized.
BOOM.
The black flame surged upward, doubled in height, then lunged ravenously for anything that could burn.
"This is not fun at all."
In the face of that sudden eruption, he had only one choice—run.
"A Horcrux and a cursed stone… plenty of fuel for the fire."
Malfoy admitted his reflexes were impressive; he cleared the house before the flames could swallow it.
Panting hard—as though he'd survived a true war—he watched the burning shack collapse under the furious blaze. Flames licked the ancient trees, crackling loudly. The sky lit with orange and black.
For a moment, Malfoy stood frozen.
One sentence from his previous life floated to mind:
"Set fire to a mountain and you'll spend the rest of your life in prison."
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