I arrived to Little Haggleton. The sleepy muggle village looked exactly as I remembered, but it was not my destination. I took the only road towards an ominous-looking house that sat atop the second hill.
In defiance of the promises of power hurrying me on, I did not apparate straight to the Gaunt house. What if someone followed me? Or everything had been reduced to ashes like Lucius' storage room? Except in this case they would be cursed ashes, if the explosion spread the powerful curse Tom put on the ring. If I overestimated myself and stumbled into my own curse… Talk about a humiliating death! The outskirts posed no danger: the DMLE could not have missed an entire village dying from a withering curse. I proceeded forward slowly, scanning the ambient magic with every few steps. Not detecting anything unusual, I decided it was safe to enter.
The Gaunt house… It was an old, half-ruined shack. If it changed for the worse in the last 40 years, it wasn't noticeable. No magic source. An ordinary hovel built on ordinary land. Moreover, I could see no magic disturbances. Lucius' vault had extensive damage - maybe I should come closer? After erecting a ward against magic detection over the shack and applying additional shields and masking charms to myself, I walked inside.
The interior was the exact opposite of pride and nobility expected of Slytherin's last descendants. Three dirty, tiny rooms, one of which served as both kitchen and living room… Just as it was in my memory of meeting "Uncle Morfin."
How was it at all possible for wizards to be so poor and dirty? Sure, permanently transfiguring a house was the realm of select few masters, and expansion charms were above the average level, but what was stopping them from fixing these ruins with a simple Reparo? Why live in poverty? Buy one decent suit and duplicate it, buy a bit of good food and multiply the volume, or multiply coal and sell it to muggles! And that's not even mentioning "confiscating the surplus." The DMLE had a subdivision dealing with fans of getting rich at muggles' expense. But no one would look to closely if you did it occasionally, little bit, without endangering the Statute: discreetly confound and obliviate, no blowing up banks with explosive curses while wearing a formal robe. There was no need to steal at all - any Hogwarts fifth year could copy paper money! Just don't get too greedy! Did the Gaunts simply not care how they lived?!
I walked into the largest room and got lost in memories of the long past summer of 1943…
All and all, I did a good job framing half-mad Morfin for the murder of my so-called relatives. Was he still alive in Azkaban? This was a loose end worth tying off. Surely my servants will manage. Any more traces? Riddle's memory was silent, but I will think it over later - maybe I missed something else.
Back in the present, the magic that washed over me felt familiarly tainted and twisted. Strange, why were the disturbances contained within the walls?
The room was littered with remainders of concealment charms and pieces of the jewelry box. In magical vision, the ring itself looked similar to the diary and was just as miraculously unharmed by the surrounding chaos. The stone… didn't feel like anything. Not that it was any indication: if the Hallows could be sensed with magic, they would have been collected ages ago.
I resisted the compulsion to put on the ring and check whether it can raise an army of undead, remembering massive effort I put into cursing it with the Kiss of Death. The ring could kill even Dumbledore, in a world where he was careless enough to put it on. How unfortunate that the curse's difficulty made it unusable in battle. It took even me half an hour of chanting and orchestra-like wand waving.
Approaching the ring, I began testing it for the charms and curses I had placed on it. Everything was gone. But I refused to believe it. Tom hid his "special gift" well. One more charm chain and, who would have guessed, the Kiss of Death was still in place. This curse worked by convincing the subject's energy field that it was dead, so irreversible energy damage was followed by quickly spreading gangrene.
I never understood how anyone enjoyed curse breaking over their creation. This will take a while… Magical sight showed twists that would make the Gordian Knot cry with envy. I wished I could bring in a team of curse breakers, but their disappearance would be too high profile…
My charms pulled some threads and cut others. More than anything, the curse resembled an onion weaved from multicolored thread. Every layer was followed by a more complicated one, for the total of 84 times! I finished two thirds in three hours before feeling the imminent approach of fatigue. But this was not a curse that one could crack a little bit, take a nap and come back to finish it later: left damaged but not broken, it kept regenerating.
Without stopping, I transfigured a chair with my free hand and sat down. One more hour… fatigue continued to accumulate and I started to sweat… Another thirty minutes later I felt sore like I ran a marathon and could physically sense my magic channels as if I grew new blood vessels.
On one hand, it was stupid to come here before fully recovering. On the other, it was stupid to waste a single minute when a possible absolute weapon was within reach. And so, just when I was seriously considering stopping this self-torture and beginning from scratch later, the last layer finally came off.
I should sit and rest. And think. Now the ring must be harmless. After all, nothing happened to me when I touched the diary. Yet I still felt apprehensive about putting it on: what if I missed something? The optimal solution would be to test it on someone disposable, but who? Call a Death Eater? Wasteful. And what if they tried to run off with the ring? Go find a muggle? And leave the ring unattended? Put up wards first? I lacked the energy for anything decent.
I looked around the shack and transfigured a monkey from dirt. Placed it under the Imperius and ordered to put on the ring. If I missed something, the monkey was toast. But no: it touched the ring, put it on and started playing with the stone. Everything seemed in order, so I dispelled the monkey and dared to try it on myself.
And now, the important question: what to do? In principle, a soul should be similar to a ghost, incapable of using magic. Probably. But what if Merlin got angry at being summoned and killed me? Once again I wished I had a disposable test subject… But what if the subject teamed up with Merlin and killed me? I wisely decided to start with someone other than Merlin. Someone I could easily handle.
I called on Voldemort's father.
Before me appeared a semi-transparent, ghost-like man, similar to me in appearance.
"You murdered me, you little bastard! You murdered my family! I hope you die in agony and…"
I cast a sound-muffling charm. Nothing. He continued to lament his fate and insult me. A shield against mental intrusions. His words were still audible. A Silencio. "Father" droned on.
"Incarcerous."
The ropes passed through him. I placed blades into his pseudobody. It was as if they passed through a hologram. Even in his throat, they did not affect his talking. I tried a ghost banishing spell. No effect.
I grew tired of it. Cursing inwardly, I cut my left palm and aimed it at "father."
"Consciuno Sanguinem Garide," I uttered the deadliest blood banishing spell I knew.
My blood simply went through the unfazed ghost.
What about the Spirit Leash? No effect.
"Expecto Patronum."
I followed Riddle's memories, imagining myself killing Dumbledore and ruling Britain. Riddle's Partonus was a snake. Mine… Something vaguely resembling a snake. I better look into it later because if, Merlin forbid, the Dark Lord's Patronus turned out to be a flobberworm…
A Patronus could easily drive away a Dementor, with some effort- a Banshee. But it aimlessly floated around, unable to see the ghost.
Tom Riddle Snr. had not once tried to attack me, just complained and cursed, not paying any attention to the blades I held in his head with my will. Maybe it was a simple Boggart? No, the blood banishing spell would have destroyed him. But maybe?! What was that specialized Boggart spell…
"Riddikulus!"
The clown clothes I planned to put on the ghost fell through him. Why was I so nervous anyway? He was not attacking me, and his words did not hurt.
"Imperio!" I tried again, "Shut up!"
Zero effect.
"Simply shut up!"
Nothing.
"Disappear!"
He did not. I pushed my will into the stone and ordered him to be silent. No effect. I ordered him to disappear. It worked! At the very least I now knew how to summon and banish souls. And Merlin should have no reason to hate me, right?
I turned the ring and called upon Merlin's spirit. I will soon know his secrets! Nothing happened… Was he too strong a wizard? Lived too far in the past?
I tried to summon Slytherin and find out the location of his family source, how he hatched a Basilisk, whether he had any stashes… Nothing. The other Founders. No. Maybe they were too benign? Herpo the Foul, creator of the first horcrux and basilisk? No. Morgan le Fay, Merlin's enemy? No. Emeric the Evil, one of the alleged owners of the Elder Wand? No.
Maybe it was limited to the recently dead? I tried summoning several Death Eaters who died last year. Nothing. Maybe the the ring got depleted? Needed time to recharge?
I tried calling on acquaintances from my previous life. Also nothing… Not surprising, summoning spirits from another timeline would be a whole new level of preposterous.
What else? Was it only possible to summon one's father? Blood relatives? Very odd. But a single case was not enough. I needed statistics…
I continued summoning more spirits. The only ones that appeared had all been killed by Riddle. They insulted me and threatened vengeance. I ceased using spells and tried speaking with them. Reasoning. Lying. Appealing to emotion. They completely ignored my words. I sent them back. Summoning a single spirit repeatedly made no difference. Luckily the stone did not use any of my energy.
I summoned my post-Hogwarts divination teacher. While he was insulting me, I tried to mold him into a phantom, a type of undead created from ghosts. Another failure. I took off the ring, and he disappeared.
James Potter. Same insults and promises of retribution. The Longbottoms. Same.
I decided to try Merope Gaunt.
"You disappointed me, son. This is not the life I wanted for you. Think about what you have done. Repent. It is not too late to surrender Dumbledore and redeem yourself…"
Well, at least someone didn't insult me. Go away.
I put the stone into a screened container. Erased the magical traces of my actions. Vanished blood from the floor.
The stone's purpose remained unclear. Souls could not be controlled, only summoned. Maybe it simplified the process of raising inferi? In my current state, getting into a fight in the pursuit of fresh bodies was risky. Raise them at a cemetery? If it worked, a mass raising would attract the entire Auror force, too much to face with the forces of a single cemetery. But wait… Why did I need to acquire captives? I already had them!
I finished restoring the shack to its previous condition and apparated to the Lestranges.
"Rodolphus, how many prisoners do you have?"
"Twenty muggles and three wizards, including Black."
"Move everyone but Black into the dungeon chamber number four. Prepare half of them for ritual raising. Call me once you are finished and wait outside."
I kept pondering the stone…
Soon my prisoners were ready. I entered the room and raised privacy wards. Rodolphus patiently stood outside the door.
Some of the prisoners were chained to the floor. Some were inside runic circles. Some conscious, some not. I killed one muggle and immediately summoned his soul. He began insulting me, and I talked back. Legilimency of the conscious prisoners showed they did not see him. Illusion? Hallucination? Something only I could see and hear, impossible to interact even using my own body…
I had little remaining energy, but the killing curse was not necessary. I killed them with Secos, heart attacks, a knife… Raising zombies and inferi with my own power worked as it always had. The ring had absolutely no effect on the ritual. Touching the bodies with the stone did nothing. Summoned souls refused to interact with their freshly separated bodies when I tried to stuff them back in with telekinesis.
Surely the stone can't be useless? Perhaps it was a matter of quantity? Required more deaths? But I already ran out… where to get more material? Rosier? I put the ring back into the isolating container and walked out.
"Rodolphus! There are a dozen zombies and an inferus. Find some use for them. If you need me, I'll be at Rosier's"
From the apparition platform, I went straight to Rosier's camp: a system of catacombs that housed prisoners awaiting their turn to become undead.
I was greeted by the youngest Rosier.
"My Lord, to what do I owe the honor of your unexpected visit? We currently have nine wizards and nearly four hundred muggles who will soon serve our cause…"
"Deliver all to the large dungeon hall. And make sure they are immobilized. I wish to spend some time alone with them."
"Certainly, my Lord."
Pity that human sacrifice could not refill magic reserves - every individual had his own type of energy, and using someone else's was similar to transfusing a wrong blood type. The energy released from sacrifice must be used then and there, without channeling it through the caster.
Everything was ready. I stood alone among hundreds of bound bodies. How to kill so many with little magic? Gas. Magic substances may not be possible to conjure, but muggle sarin… I would be protected by shields, just like everyone outside this hall.
Watching hundreds of people die from gas poisoning was unappetizing. Riddle might have laughed, but for me it was the price of power.
I tried funneling the death energy into the stone. I tried summoning souls, filling them with surplus of energy churning around me.
Zombie. No. Inferus. No. Skeleton. No. Phantom. No. Manipulations too delicate? I gathered a couple dozen bodies into a pile. Flesh golem? Again no…
I wasted an insane amount of material without raising a single barely moving zombie! Did the stone refuse to obey me or not work at all? How to test this?
I summoned Derek Wright through his Dark Mark. A rather pathetic half-blood. Fervently loyal but absolutely useless: bankrupt, a thimbleful of magical power.
"Derek, you are my faithful servant, are you not?"
"Of course, my Lord."
"Take off all of your shields and amulets."
He did, revealing sincere, limpid loyalty.
"Are you willing to obey any order?"
"Yes, my Lord."
It was true.
"How would you like to assist me in my research by exploring the afterlife?"
"Anything you wish, my Lord."
"Avada Kedavra!"
I turned the stone immediately, before he had a chance to change his mind. To think of it, what did wizards know about the afterlife? Nothing. Dementors demonstrated the existence of souls, ghosts suggested something exists beyond the physical death. But what?
The Stone brought my servant's spirit before me. He did not insult me.
"Are you dead, Derek?"
"Yes."
"What is it like, being dead? What have you seen so far?"
"I can't say."
"Can't or won't?"
"I can't say."
"What do you feel? Where are you?"
"I can't say."
Bummer. Tom asked the Hogwarts ghosts, and their answers had been the same. Whether they were refusing, truly unable to say or mocking the living, the result was equally useless.
"Can you be of any use to me?"
"No."
I let him go and returned the ring to its container.
So, what have we learned? Hypothesis number one. A mental artifact of tremendous power, able to enter my subconscious undetected, showed me what I expected to see. Hypothesis number two. It truly was the Resurrection Stone. Those were real souls. The Stone could summon and banish but not control them. They said what they wanted but were unable to attack. Strangers did not answer the call- they had no interest in speaking to me. My victims came to spout insults, as a kind of vengeance. Loved ones would have probably come to support me, but Lord Voldemort had none.
Would Bellatrix answer my call if she died? What would she do? I wasn't going to test that…
The only good news was that even these "ghosts" could not tell me apart from the previous Voldemort. This stone was utterly useless.
What was the goal in creating this artifact? It could not create an army or assist in necromancy. The only possible use was asking an unexpectedly passed relative where he hid the money. Surely many people went insane listening to their dead parents or lovers… Kill someone's family, put the subject in an isolated cell with the Stone, and you got yourself a ready-made madman.
I sighed. A lightning-fast victory via a giant army of undead was not going to happen. The stone was useless, but the former ring horcrux still needed to be tested along with the diary. They did not protect me from death anymore, so hiding them was not as important. I decided to carry them with me until I understood what happened. I had the diary and the ring. Bellatrix would soon bring me the cup. And the locket and the diadem were well protected.
Since my energy was once again depleted, I went home. I had a lot to learn.