Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

“The next conversation is completed in Parseltongue,” said Dumbledore, snapping his fingers, and a layer of white ripples quickly spread. “I later found a way to understand what they were saying. Everything you hear next is language I’ve translated.”

Evan did not speak, but was just thinking; could extracted memories be modified as well?

Even though this memory was not Dumbledore’s, there didn’t seem to be much of a problem.

The Headmaster’s power was truly astonishing. You might think you’ve seen through him, to soon realize it was just a fraction.

Just like a blind man touching an elephant, he could never tell the complete outline.

Dumbledore knew a lot of magic he didn’t use, not that he couldn’t but he didn’t bother to use them.

In this regard, Voldemort was not as good as him, and Evan was even further behind.

In front of them, the door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy: tall, dark-haired, pale, and handsome, he was the teenage Voldemort, fifteen-year-old Tom Riddle!

It was truly ironic how someone who could easily coast through life on looks chose to turn himself into a monster.

Voldemort’s eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found Morfin in the armchair.

For a few seconds they looked at each other, then Morfin staggered upright, the many bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

“YOU!” he bellowed “YOU!”

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.

“Stop!” Riddle spoke in Parseltongue.

Morfin skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor.

He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. Morfin broke it.

“You speak it?”

“Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

There was no fear that a normal person should have, and his face merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.

“Where is Marvolo?” he asked.

“Dead,” said the other, and his voice was a little strange. “Died years ago, didn’t he?”

“Who are you, then?” Riddle frowned.

“I’m Morfin!”

“Marvolo’s son?”

“’Course I am, then…” Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle.

Although the light was dim, Evan immediately saw that he wore Marvolo’s black-stoned ring on his right hand.

It seemed that before his old father died, he had inherited this family heirloom.

Riddle obviously noticed this, and his eyes moved to Morfin’s right hand.

“I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. “You look mighty like that Muggle.”

“What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply.

“That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. “You look right like him. Riddle. But he’s older now, isn’t he? Been so long, he’s older than you, now I think on it, everything is as clear as yesterday…”

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support.

“He come back, see,” He added stupidly.

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities.

Then, he moved a little closer and said, “Riddle came back?”

“Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. “Didn’t know where she died in the end. Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh, where’s Slytherin’s locket?”

He seemed to be asking Voldemort, but Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again.

“Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about that all? It’s over, isn’t it? It’s over…” he shouted, brandishing his knife.

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort’s lamp and Morfin’s candle, extinguishing everything…

Evan blinked, and through the darkness, he seemed to see Voldemort perform some king of magic.

Dumbledore’s fingers closed tightly around Evan’s arm and they were soaring back into the present again.

“Is that all?” Evan asked.

“Yes, Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,” said Dumbledore. “What we do know is that when he awoke next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo’s ring had gone; the very ring we’re searching for.”

Evan didn’t interrupt, waiting for Dumbledore to continue.

“Meanwhile, that morning in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father. The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avada Kedavra curse does not usually leave any sign of damage,” Dumbledore added. “The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard’s murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the murdered people.

“So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led to Azkaban without a fight. All that disturbed him was the fact that his father’s ring had disappeared. ‘He’ll kill me for losing it,’ he told his captors over and over again. ‘He’ll kill me for losing his ring.’ And that apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo’s last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls.”

“So Voldemort killed his father and his grandparents?” said Evan, “With Morfin’s wand?”

Though already aware of this, saying it out loud still sent shivers down his spine.

Many people had told Evan that he was as talented as Voldemort in his youth and was an outstanding wizard.

But from the scene he had just seen, this was the second time Evan saw Tom Riddle after the diary.

It was not a soul fragment, it was much more real and complete than the last time, and it included the things he had done.

Taken together, Evan could be sure that he was not as good as Voldemort.

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