The Master’s Return Ⅸ

With the new moon approaching Little Hangleton could only be just barely seen nestled between two steep hills. The church was a stark dark outline and the graveyard was even darker. Across the valley on the opposite hillside, there sat a handsome manor surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn. On the lush well cared for grounds, the figure of Voldemort appeared with Nagini at his side. Removing his hand from the serpent's head, Voldemort is silent as he observes the sleepy village down below, and the manor which had once belonged to the Riddle family, (and still did in an ironic twisted manner to him).

Voldemort's crimson eyes turn away and trace the path down the steep downward slope from memory. The lane would curve right and round through a gap in the hedge onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those left behind on the path. The dirt track was crooked, rocky, potholed, and sloped downhill even more than the last one, before ending at the patch of dark trees a little below. One had to carefully look but would see the track open to a copse.

He had been so much younger, a mere fledging in his youth. And naive, so very naïve, that he did not know what he had been hoping for that night, but certainly not that. And worst of all, he had still carried that foul name of that MUGGLE, Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Voldemort's crimson eyes fill with old anger and for the briefest of moments an unfamiliar emotion that just as soon faded away as he once more delved into that night's disappointing memory.

It had been rather dark that night with only a glimmer of moonlight, and he had only had an old lantern to aid him. It had taken him several attempts of retracing his footsteps before finding the opening in the copse. He had not seen anything at first as the building was half-hidden amongst a tangle of trunks. Its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around the hovel, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. And there on the door nailed was a dead snake.

He had knocked, but there was no response except for a loud thump heard from inside. A sense of anticipation filled him as he shoved the door aside and stood at the threshold staring inside the hovel. His eyes moved slowly and narrowed at the indescribably filthy, the ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard that neither eyes nor mouth could be seen. The man held a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left.

For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor. "YOU!" He bellowed. "YOU!" And drunkenly hurtled at Voldemort, a wand and knife.

"Stop," Voldemort spoke in Parseltongue lest the reeking man approached him.

The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Voldemort. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it.

"You speak it?"

"Yes, I speak it," said Voldemort as he moved forward and allowed the door to swing shut behind him. "Where is Marvolo?"

"Dead," he replied. "Died years ago, didn't he?"

Voldemort frowned. "Who are you, then?"

"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"

"Marvolo's son?"

"Course I am, then…" Morfin paused to push the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see and revealing Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand. "I thought you was that muggle. You look mighty like that Muggle."

"What Muggle?" Voldemort sharply asked as a tinge of uncertainty filled his insides.

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," Said Morfin, and spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it..."

Morfin sways a little clutching the edge of the table for support. "He come back, see."

"Riddle came back?" Riddle asked in disbelief. And at that moment, all his dearest hopes and wishes crumbled into ashes. A muggle father, and one who had abandoned him and his mother. A muggle...

"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" Morfin spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off!! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherins locket?"

Morfin was working himself up into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And whore' you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit… It's over…"

Voldemort had been unable to bear the foul words of that THING and knocked it unconscious. Rage, old anger, shame, and even pain, yes. Perchance, that was even what humiliated him the most. He had thought himself impervious and having outgrown such weak sentiments, but he had been wrong. He still felt…...

Voldemort's crimson eyes blink rapidly shoving aside the recollection of such weak emotions. Turning his crimson snake-eyes towards the Riddle Manor on the hill, his lips twitch with viciousness and triumph. Oh, yes, but what had followed had brought him the greatest of joys.

Having reclaimed his birthright, the Gaunt ring, Voldemort had merciless marched to Riddle manor. And there he had slain the MUGGLE and the remaining muggle relatives. And oh, how they had pleaded for their lives, but he had no mercy on them. Just as they had no mercy on his mother and his yet unborn self.

Nagini sensing her kin's turbulent emotions rubs her head against his hand. Voldemort's flat, snake-like nostrils flair as he controls himself and pulls his hand away from the serpent. "Forgive me, Nagini, I lost myself in the past. Come," he instructed as the two of them descended down below towards the remnants of the Gaunt home.

Down the winding path onto the dirt track and through the copse, Voldemort came to an abrupt halt as he stepped into the clearing. The tall grass had been burnt laid strewn and dried except for patches of grass that still grew upon the outskirts. Trees lay broken and strewn in smithereens from a violent explosion. And where a hovel resided was a large crater with only bits and pieces of foundation that remained standing.

Voldemort stood there in shock unable to compose himself until he heard the serpent words of Nagini. "Death, it smells of death here," Nagini whispered as her forked tongue tasted the air. "Not even mice and other creatures dare come here with such a strong scent."

"Death?" Voldemort whirled around as his crimson eyes narrowed at the serpent. "What do you mean by those words, Nagini?"

"It is just as I have said, kin," Nagini hissed back. "This place has been touched by death, and no living thing shall easily abide here."

Voldemort opened his mouth to yell when the words of Runcorn resound clearly in his ears. "Mm, but not all tales are mere myths and legends. And even the tallest of tales hold a grain of truth to them, Voldemort. You would do well to remember that considering that which you have done. - A life for a life, so to speak, and Death has never failed to claim the outstanding debt."

Spider-like hands reach into Voldemort's robes and grip Salazar Slytherin's locket as if to comfort himself. And for a very real moment, he felt weaker and very much afraid. Enraged at his own failings and weaknesses, he releases the locket as if his hand was scalded. He was stronger and better than that, and he would live forever!

Though in a whispered corner of his heart, a small voice hissed, "And what of the ring?" And that was not a question that he was yet prepared to answer despite already knowing the response to that terrible question.

Shoving the ramifications aside, for the time being, Voldemort whirls away closely followed by the darting form of Nagini. However, behind them for the briefest of moments a third shadow intertwined with their shadows and vanished.