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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is based on the J.K. Rowling's World of Harry Potter. Everything you recognize belongs to her.

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure.” Rowena Ravenclaw read the inscription aloud and smiled. It was a fitting mantra, she thought as she adjusted the diadem on her mahogany tresses. Afterall, where would the world be if people didn’t learn and create, push themselves to their limit. They were on the cusp of an exciting new era and Rowena was helping to lead the way.

She picked up three packages from the chair. A long, heavy one wrapped in red paper. A smaller one wrapped in yellow and the smallest sheathed in green. Three presents for three good friends. All of them joining today to celebrate the opening of their greatest joint achievement: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

She strode across the entrance way of the newly built castle, passed by the grand staircase and paused at the imposing wooden doors that led to the Great Hall. Rowena pushed the doors open and entered. She surveyed the grand room in satisfaction. Four long tables ran the length of the Great Hall and a fifth stood at the other end on a raised dais. The room was noble, stately and imposing. It send a message to anyone who entered its four walls: Hogwarts was an exceptional school. Her eyes scanned the area once more. It was perfect, except. . . her eyes moved upward. “Hhhhhmmmmm.”

“No, no Rowena. None of that,” a voice boomed. “You have spent years on the design of this place: the everchanging floor plan, the moving staircases. It’s perfect. It’s time to sit back and enjoy this work of art. The man swept her arms wide to acknowledge the entire castle.

“An artist never really finishes his work. He merely abandons it, Godric,” Rowena replied. “I was looking at the ceiling. Doesn’t it seem plain to you?”

The tall, muscular man guffawed, his mane of red hair rippling as his shoulders shook. “My dear, I know it does not matter what I think. You never have, nor would I want you to come to me for decorating advice, Change the color, paint a mural. Do whatever you want to it.”

“I think I shall, but it won’t be a painting. I shall do something original. Sometime that tells the world how amazing this building is,” she mused as she readjusted her diadem that had slipped over one ear when she threw back to head to examine the ceiling.

“Don’t you mean, how intelligent and creative, you are,” Godric quipped, but he didn’t seem upset. Rather he chuckled to himself and walked across the room to a tall gentleman with a long, thin beard who had entered from the other side. He strode up and gave the gentleman a slight bow, “Good to see you, Salazar.” Behind him entered a round woman with bright red hair who had just come from the kitchens supervising the meal preparations. Godric greeted her as well. “Helga, I smell some wonderful odors drifting up from the kitchen. I can certainly tell you have been at work.” Helga Hufflepuff glowed with pleasure and pleased embarrassment. Godric leaned down and gave her gave her a swift kiss on the cheek

A few minutes later, four friends were seated at the high table. The four founders. The four Houses. The Four who, through their most prized accomplishment-Hogwarts, would be, for thousand years and beyond, probably the most influential wizards of Europe’s magical community.

Helga Hufflepuff, an expert in kitchen charms had orchestrated a delicious feast in honor of the occasion and the good friends debated and questioned, bantered and wrangled: Hogwarts, magic, old memories and future endeavors. After the last of the cherry tort was magicked away, Rowena reached into her bag and stacked three presents on the table. Three neatly wrapped packages that drew the others away from their conversations and turned their attention to the austere looking woman.

“My dear friends,” Rowena began. “Before we discuss the important matters of the day, I would like to present each of you with a gift, a token of our friendship and my appreciation for all you have done for me as well as Hogwarts.”

“To my dearest friend, Helga,” she handed the blue package over. “To our expert in food-charms, I present you with this. May your cup always overflowth with love, loyalty and hard work.”

“Salazar,” she turned to the man handed him a package as green as his robes. “Your cleverness and resourcefulness have been instrumental in developing the walls around us. Although I know we don’t see eye to eye on every topic, we never would have been able to open this school without you.

“And last, but certainly, not least, Godric, our brave lion.” She smiled as she handed him the largest of the boxes. “Through many trials and tribulations, you have faced with bravery and chivalry. I present you with this, a symbol of your willingness to protect others and fight for what is right.”

Quietly, the three tore the wrapping off to reveal more than a gift. In each of their hands was their legacy: a small, golden cup with large handles on either side. It was adorned with a badger, Helga’s favorite animal; a gold locket decorated with a serpentine-looking S in small emeralds. Salazar fingered the clasp and opened the heavy jewelry. He would have to charm it so no one else could open it, he thought and a goblin-made silver sword decorated, adorned with large rubies on its hilt. Godric ran his fingers along the shank to his name which was etched in it.

Each person was surprised yet touched by her thoughtfulness. Rowena had given them more than a token of her love. She had given them their legacy, an artifact turned heirloom that would be passed down through generations. She lightly touched her own diadem that crowned her dark hair thinking of the future, her own heirloom that she would someday pass on to her daughter.

The four relics at the table would be famous. Collectors would bid outrageous sums for one of them them at auction. Families would be torn apart by two of them when the reading of wills occurred. Treasure hunters would spend years searching for one but never find it. . . . .And one man, a thousands years later, would murder for some of them. He would turn their fame to infamy and defile three of them with some of the darkest magic known-Horcruxes.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is based on the  J.K. Rowling's World of Harry Potter. Everything you recognize belongs to her.

Rowena sighed as she looked about The Great Hall. How many meals had she eaten here? How many hours had she spent with friends and students? Here she was again, meeting her three dearest friends to discuss the future. A smile played upon her lips as she glanced up: her enchanted ceiling was twinkling with thousands of stars with Orion and Taurus smiling directly down upon her. The ceiling was one of her pride and joys. Everyone who walked into the room marveled at it. Some people revered her for her magical abilities and this ceiling was her triumph for all to admire.

As her eyes slipped down to her plate, however, her smile disappeared. She automatically touched the crown of her head. Her fingers only met hair-her diadem was gone. Every time, she thought about her daughter or her diadem, anger flared in her veins and her heart was torn all over again. Betrayed by her own daughter who had stolen her most precious possession. She glanced around the room. None of the others knew and she planned to keep it that way. No one, not even, her closest friends needed to know about her daughter’s treachery.

She dabbed her eyes and faced the other three founders. Helga sat to her left. She was sipping from THE CUP as the others jokingly referred to it. Helga loved the cup that Rowena had given her years before and rarely had a meal without it. She was talking to Godric, who likewise had his gift nearby, strapped to his waist ready in a moment’s notice. Salazar sat across from her. He, too, had worn his present on this evening. They rarely saw Salazar these days. Their differences had led to debates and debates to fights. Lately, he disappeared into the depths of the castle, doing who knows where. Often  he would not appear for days or weeks at a time.

However, today he was here, in his rightful place at the high table. They had a big decision to make on this day. Knowing they wouldn’t live forever, how could they continue the Hogwarts legacy of houses? How would it be decided in which house a new student would be welcome?

Several ideas had been tossed around but nothing they could all agree.

Salazar believed they didn’t really need houses. “If we only accept pure-bloods, we don’t have to worry about houses.”

As soon as the words left, his mouth, Godric’s face turned an angry red. He rose from his feet and started to yell, “Your prejudice would be the death of the magical community. We need strong and brave students regardless of where they come from.”

“And dilute the bloodline with mud,” Salazar sneered.

Godric put his hand on his wand, ready to draw when Helgo grabbed his arm and pulled him down murmuring to him until his eyes stopped blazing.

“This isn’t helping,” Rowena snapped. She called them her good friends but in truth they fought more than they talked lately. “We aren’t going to agree of what type of student should be accepted, we never have. That is why we have the houses but we aren’t getting any younger. What about the future generations? How do we continue our ideas to them?”

Nobody said a word for several minutes. Finally Godric took off his hat and threw in on the table. It was a new hat, not a spec of dirt upon it. Black with a wide brim, it stood proud and tall coming to a point at the top. “There is a way we can  continue to sort by house, even in death,” he suggested. Then he carefully outlined his plan.

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               Surprisingly everyone was in agreement with Godric’s plan. Salazar looked at the other three, “ There is no time like the present. Who knows when we will be together again.” Surrounding the hat, they each held their wands aloft  and pointed at the object. In melodious yet sing song voices they began the enchantment.

We are the founding members

Of the Hogwarts school

Each one of us a vital member

Each one sorts by a different rule

This hat will know their minds

Know each student to the core

It will then decide which house he belongth

Which one of the four

Godric stepped up and tapped the hat.

Godric Gryffindor am I

My students are chivalrous and brave at heart

Never a battle will they shirk from

Their gallantry sets them apart.

He stepped back for Rowena’s turn.

Students of my house shall be

The wittiest and cleverest

Their ability to charm and transfigure

Will be above the rest.

Salazar sneered as he approached the hat.

Brawn and brains are all well and good

But a pure blood line is the best

  Cunning and ambition are most important

  And they will rise above the rest.

Helga watched him with sad eyes and then moved forward waving her wand around the hat.  

Intelligence, bravery and ambition will certainly serve ye

But the diligent students I will take

loyalty and work ethic

Great Hufflepuffs they will make

Together we embed in thee

Each of our own desires

So when we pass into another realm

Our houses of Hogwarts will nee retire

Each founder touched the top of the hat so their wands connected. The hat began to glow red, then blue, then green and finally yellow. A ripping of fabric could be heard as a line drew along the brim. The hat began to move on its own and speak for itself.

I am the Sorting Hat.

I will do by duty well.

Nothing in their mind will escape my note

I will determine in which house they dwell.

Satisfied, the founders congratulated themselves on a job well done. Elf-made wine was called for as was the best of mead. The newly minted sorting hat stood over them observing from afar. It watched as they ate and drank into the night, celebrating themselves and their accomplishments. Unfortunately, as what often happens when highly opinionated people imbue into too many spirits, their mouths moved much faster than their brains. The fight that had been brewing beneath the surface for years, bubbled to the top and exploded in a volcano of curses and hateful words.

It began with Salazar as he poured his fourth glass of wine. “Tell me dear Godric, are you so enamoured with muggles that you would allow them into our castle? Would you let them eat at our table? Will give you give them everything they desire by becoming their magical slave to the end of your days?”

Godric slowly shook his own wine glass, watching the red liquid spin like a whirlpool in the center. “Don’t try to goad me, Salazar. You know perfectly well those aren’t my beliefs.”

“But,” Salazar grinned as he leaned forward, “The more muggleborns you allow in here, the more nonmagical folk will know the intimacy of our ways. Those muggleborns will tell their parents, their siblings, their aunts and uncles. Soon everyone will be begging for things. Cure my daughter. Make me a bigger house. They’ll become lazy, thinking they can live off of our magic.”

“Do you really believe that, Salazar?” Helga asked. “Regardless of their parentage, if a child is able to do magic, he should be welcomed here. I would rather I know who they are than to allow them to wander about without magical instruction. That could be dangerous in itself.”

“Yes, let them come. Accept them into your house, Helga,” Salazar proclaimed facetiously. “Let them walk among our own. Let the pretty ones entice our boys away. Their blood is dirty and vile. If we allow them in, they will spread it around. Their spawn will dilute our noble blood until there is nothing left but a bunch of muddy blood--mudbloods. I would rather see the wizarding race die out that see them lower themselves to consummate with such beasts!” he spit out his eyes blazing red.

Godric Gryffindor jumped up and aimed his wand right at Salazar’s nose. “Take that back. How dare you insult Helga in such a way,” he roared but Salazar was already on his feet as well posed ready to fight.

“No,” he sneered. “I will not because it’s true. Every time you invite one in. Every time you show them our world, your blood means less and less. In two hundred, three hundred, maybe four hundred years, you will dilute yourselves so much that your magic will die out, but not my house. My house will remain pure and strong. My house will be the only one still standing,” he proclaimed with a mad gleam in his eyes. Then he dropped his voice into a quiet threat and picked up Helga’s golden cup fingering it lightly. “Your house will be so weak by then, Helga that my snake will bite right through your cup.”

Godric unsheathed his sword and raised it above his head. “And then my sword will stab through the heart of your locket and then slice off the head of your snake.”

“Only time will tell,” Salazar smiled and stepped back away from the others. He continued his retreat, his wand aloft, never taking his eyes off of them until four became three.

And so it would come to pass over a thousand years later. For the snake’s fang did pierce the cup and the venom imbued sword did stab the locket and decapitate the snake. However, like many events foretold, what actually occurs is vastly different from what one predicted.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is based on the J.K. Rowling's World of Harry Potter. Everything you recognize belongs to her.

The two brothers were caked in mud, knee deep in the thick, gooey substance, yet they trudged on. The mosquitoes had been attacking them for days. At the beginning, they tried various spells to get rid of the pests, but by the third day, they had given up, let the blood-suckers feast and trudged on.

Finally, they came to the edge of the swamp, “Aldrich,” Amherst hissed grabbing his brother’s arm. “I think we are almost there. Look!” He pointed toward some large trees. These trees appeared different, like their natural habitat was more forest than mud. The brothers continued their march with a renewed vigor as their tired muscles sensed an end to the day’s trials t Slowly the land changed and the ground solidified under their feet. Their screaming muscles began to relax in anticipation of a rest.

As if by silent consensus, the Urquart brothers found a large tree under which to camp for the night. They stretched out by the fire, warming themselves and scraping away the muck. “How much further do you think it is?” Amherst asked his elder brother.

“Hopefully, not too far,” Aldrich answered as he used a water spell to clean the ooze off his ring. “According to legend, she hid it in the hollow of a tree less than a 500 paces from the swamp’s edge. I vote for a good night’s sleep and then we start searching in the morning.”

Amherst agreed and then nodded toward the ring. “You probably should have left that at home. If you lost it out here, momma would probably haunt you from her grave.”

Aldrich snorted, “You are right but it can’t be helped now. I was more afraid to leave it in the hands of Cousin Frederick. If I had done that, I know momma would come back to haunt me.”

The two laughed as the elder finished carefully washing it. Finally, they could see the insignia perfectly: a triangle circumscribed around a circle with a line down the middle. Their mother and her sister had been Peverell’s before their marriages. Amherst remember looking at the ring on his mother’s finger once and asking if that was the Peverell Coat of Arms for while it did adorn the ring, it was rather unusual looking for a family crest. His mother’s musical laugh radiated out. “No, my darling, it isn’t. Although many have mistaken it for that because the ring is so ancient and priceless. One day I shall leave it to your brother for he is the oldest, but if it shall ever fall to you, promise me that you will honor and treasure it.”

He dropped down to his knees and kissed her fingertips. “I promise, Momma with all my heart.” Of course, his young heart said that would never happen. What could possibly happen to his brother.

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The next day, the brothers rose with the sun, breakfasted on a meal of cold meats and cheese then began their search. They, like their father before them and their grandfather before him, had been searching for years. How many times had they begged the Grey Lady to tell them where she hid artifact, but with no luck. She only smiled a vague ghostly smile as she floated away from them. ”The legend said she hid it in a hollow tree somewhere in what now is Bulgaria, close to a swamp’s edge,“ Aldrich reminded his brother.

“Was Bulgaria,” Amherst corrected. “The Ottoman Empire now, which is another reason to be careful. The Turkish wizards wouldn’t take too kindly to our trespassing onto their conquered territory.”

For three days, they continued their search, using searching spells and checking for any signs of magic within the trees. At last as the sun cast its longest shadows on the third day, Aldrich sensed something ahead. The tree was huge, easily several hundred years old. It’s branches were gnarled and twisted like a serpentine animal. About four feet from the ground, he could see a black hole in the trunk, just large enough for the prize to fit in.

Aldrich cast a charm in the hole to be sure no animals lived there and then reached inside. His hand searched among the dead leaves and bird droppings before it brushed something hard. It was thin but strong Not quite able to grasp it, the ring on his finger made a metallic clink when it hit the object-definitely metal on metal. He stretched out his fingers and felt smooth and oval --the sapphire stone! This was it. They had finally found Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem.

Aldrich yelled for his brother, “Amherst, I’ve found it. We’ve found it. Come quickly!” Amherst appeared between two trees but it wasn’t a look of victory on the younger brother’s face, but rather one of abject horror. Aldrich followed his little brother’s gaze upward to see a huge shadow descending quickly from above. Eight furry legs radiated from a body that was as large as a horse. Before Aldrich could even open his mouth to scream, the beast was upon him knocking him to the ground. He could see his brother’s spells hitting the armor-like body as the pincers sank into his neck.

“Nooooo!” yelled Amherst as he ran toward the arachnid. His spells seem to bounce off its tough hide, but the spells were distracting the spider from its attempt of having a meal. Amherst hit it with a stunning spell that sent the monstrous arachnid flying backward and into a tree. Fury built up in him like a mighty fire. He aimed carefully, wanting to be sure that he landed that the final blow. “Avada Kedavra!” He yelled with a angry twist to his voice A sudden green light flashed from his wand and struck the wiggling beast and it moved no more.

Amherst threw down his wand and he ran to his brother,. He cradled Aldrich’s head in his hands,but he know it was already too late. Multiple puncture wounds covered his brother’s neck and face and he was gasping for breath that would not come. With the last ounce of his strength, the elder brother pulled off the Peverell ring and pressed it into his younger brother’s hand. Then his arm went slack and Aldrich Urquart left the realm of the living

Amherst wept over his brother’s body; the ring clutched in his hand. Finally a noise awakened his sense: clicking sounds, hundreds of them. He didn’t know what this huge spider was but he knew he did not want to meet more of them. He tried to pick up his brother’s body but saw hundreds of eyes staring at him from above. He would never escape with Aldrich’s body encumbering him. “I’m sorry, brother,” Amherst whispered. He put the ring on his finger, grabbed his brother’s wand as well as his own and prepared to fight his way out.

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It took him almost four months, but Amherst Urquart eventually returned to England, the Peverell ring on his finger and his brother’s wand near his heart. He knew that his brother had finally found it. Their family had been searching for over sixty years for the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw and Aldrich had found it in the hollow of that tree, but the younger brother never told anyone where it was and he never returned himself. Some

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This is based on the J.K. Rowling's World of Harry Potter. Everything you recognize belongs to her.

Midnight had come and gone and yet he continued to work. Three candles flickered around him casting eerie shadows that danced across the whitewashed walls.

His fingers were gnarled and twisted and his skin pallor as if it hadn’t been kissed by the sun for years. Pain shot through his hands as he weaved the pages together and yet he continued to work.

If one approached close enough, one might see the mad gleam in the man’s eyes and hear him muttering to himself over and over again. “I am a bookbinder. I bind books. For each book has a message. Find my message and join me in my search. I am a bookbinder. I bind books. . . .”

His clothing was simple, drab gray robes, too big for his skeletal frame. As he pushed the sleeves up yet again, one might notice his only jewelry-a ring. Simple with a dark stone in the middle. One might have questioned the scratches upon the stone, a circle circumscribed by a triangle and bisected by a line, but he knew better. They weren’t scratches. They were a symbol, a symbol of his search for the others: His ultimate goal to unite the Deathly Hallows and become their master.

He had one: the ring and it never left his fingers. He had never tried to use its powers. Not out of fear or respect but due to lack of need. There was no one he needed, no one he loved, dead or alive.

Love, he scoffed at the idea. Neither his wife nor his son appreciated his search. They didn’t understand the need, the passion of the Hallows. They laughed and mocked him behind his back, but he paid them little mind. They weren’t worthy of being Gaunts and certainly not worthy of being Searchers.

“I am a bookbinder. I bind books. For each book has a message. Find my message and join me in my search.” He finished the glueing and tapped the binding with his wand. A quick flash of light and the binding was done. He flipped through the blank pages of the book. Usually he bound regular books. That brought in the money, the paltry amount there was. In his spare time he bound blank books, potential journals for those who also searched. He had made hundreds, but not one Searcher had come to claim their right.

He added the usual enchantments to the book. As he stroked the binding, an eerie feeling overwhelmed him. Suddenly he knew, without a doubt, that this book was destined for great things.

He began to pant in anticipation. He pressed his face to the clean pages and breathed in the smell of fresh parchment. Yes, this diary would belong to someone worthy, sometime destined to do great things. He flipped to the back page, murmured the incantation as he pressed the ring to the page. The Deathly Hallows emblem burned like a ring of fire on the page and then turned black as coal. There it would stay until someone wrote about the Hallows in this book. Then the magic would be evoked and the Searchers could be united.

He held the book for a few moment more, smiling, a soft caress in his eyes. Then he set it gently aside. He had more work to do and the sun would rise soon. “I am a bookbinder. I bind books. For each book has a message. Find my message and join me in my search. . . .”

One day a boy would find the journal, buy it and write in it. During his years at Hogwarts. The bookbinder was correct in his predictions. The boy was, as Ollivander explained to Harry Potter years later, “destined for great things, terrible things but great.” Eventually the journal’s owner would desire one of the Hallows, desire it for its power, to make him victorious. He would be become one of the most infamous dark wizards to ever live, but he would never become a Searcher for "of house-elves and children's tales, of love, loyalty and innocence" he "knows and understands nothing."

Direct quotes from The Deathly Hallows, Chapter 35, American Edition.

Chapter Text

It was a motley crew to be sure. A group that would, under normal circumstances, barely acknowledge each other’s existence let alone be in the same room together. Even the room and the building itself, was a bit unusual. Situated only two doors into Knockturn Alley, it was close enough to Diagon Alley, that a respectful lady such as Mrs. Hepzibah Smith might venture there during daylight hours without looking suspicious. Today, she was dressed in her finery with gold dripping from every finger and layered upon her neck. She was passed forty but not so far along that she couldn’t claim younger with only some suspicion. Beside her was her husband, twenty years her senior. He was also dressed to impress with best that Twillfitt and Tattling’s custom-made line could supply.

Across the room from them were two goblins and their human co-worker. “Interesting,” Mr. Smith noted their attendance. As one of the wealthiest magical families in England, he had numerous business arrangements with them. Besides amassing galleons, Gringotts shared another passion with him--amassing treasure. One of the goblins made eye contact and gave him a stiff nod. Mr. Smith returned the favor. He knew what Gdug was thinking about the rumor that he owned Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. The rumor had been floating around for years, one that Mr. Smith never confirmed despite its accuracy. He gave himself a secret smile. The cup was at home, buried under a mountain of enchantments, only known to his most trusted inner circle.

Standing next to the window was another contender for today’s prize-Caractacus Burke. Mr. Smith frowned at the tall man. If the object of their desire could be bought with money, then he and his wife might get lucky today, but if it could only be bought by family relationship, Burke stood a better chance, Mr. Smith admitted only to himself although he immediately placated himself with the reminder that Burke was actually a step-child of the deceased, not blood related.

Caractacus spent the time ignoring the others in the room. Born in abject poverty and at the mercy of a mad stepfather since he was four, he had pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Now, at twenty-five years old, he was working hard feeling the benefits of his minor successes although he knew his moderate income wasn’t enough to coax the others into conversations, so he contented himself by studying the scene outside the window. If he leaned out far enough, he could see one of Gringotts massive stone columns. If he twisted the other way, he looked down at a shop that sold shrunken heads among other less than pure novelties. Caractacus had spent much time on both sides of this building and sometimes he felt like his life was split in two. His youth spent in Knockturn and his present in Diagon. If he acquired his great wish from among his stepfather’s paltry will then it might be the key to permanent social standing in Diagon Alley.

The door opened and all eyes immediately turned anticipating the owner, but instead it was a small family-husband, wife and tot. They were immediately labeled filth by the others in the room whether based on the rather putrid smell that arrived with them or from their, obviously poor, economic state. The man wore a scowl which seemed to be a permanent fixture and his clothes ripped and patched in many places. His wife looked like a well-used dishrag, thin and pale. While one could guess her age, there was no doubt she had dealt with more than should be allowed for her years. The little tot started to whimper and she tried to quiet him as she set down in the last chair. Her husband learned over and whispered something in her ear which made her countenance even paler and she attempted to quiet the child with more vigor.

The Smiths and the bankers ignored the newest additions. Whoever they were, however, they came to be here, one glance told them that the small family was not important enough to be considered true competition. Caractacus Burke, however, observed them through narrow eyes. He knew better. These were the last of the Gaunts. Like his own surname, they were part of the famed twenty-eight pure-blood families. Also like him, theirs had been reduced to squalor. Caractacus should know. The man standing in front of him was Marvolo Gaunt, his step-cousin and the last of the Slytherin bloodline. This man was dangerous to today’s mission--very dangerous.

At the stroke of noon, the door opened again. This time by the portly owner of the building--a solicitor, who like the building specialized on working with both sides of the alley. As Mr. Ebr Harrow surveyed the chosen few in his office, he thought about how that was particularly true today.

Mr. Harrow cleared his throat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief before beginning the proceedings. “As you are aware, we are gathered here today for the reading of the last will and testament of Mr. Maldon Gaunt.” He paused for a moment, perhaps wondering if anyone wanted to a moment of silence for the deceased or to say a few words of respect. If he was, he was sorely disappointed. No one cared and his gaze was met with a wall of stony silence.

The solicitor cleared his throat again to resume. “To his stepson, Mr. Caractacus Burke, I leave my collection of Dark Artifacts and any remaining money in my Gringotts account.” The goblins snorted at that one. No doubt, the vault was completely empty and had been so for years but the solicitor continued. “I also leave you a reminder to find yourself a pure-blood wife so that you do not dishonor neither the Gaunt nor the Burke family.”

The young man nodded once in acknowledgement but remained silent as the reading continue. “That leaves just one thing mentioned in his will. Mr. Harrow pulled out a white cloth from his robe and placed it on the table for all the view. He unwrapped it very carefully as if he was wary to actually touch the artifact out of fear or respect, one couldn't be sure. He peeled away the last of the white fabric to reveal the very object they all wanted-Salazar Slytherin’s locket.

Some knew it from previous viewings; others only recognized it from its description in history books but all understood its significance. The party stood quiet for a moment, giving the locket the minute of silence that its previous owner never earned.

It was about the size of a fist but only half as thick. Despite the dinginess of the overhead light. the bejeweled S still glimmered giving the illusion of a real snake slithering along the metal. Or perhaps it wasn't an illusion. One could never be sure. After all it had been owned by Salazar Slytherin. The goblins strained their necks a bit to get a better look at it. Sometime in the last decades or perhaps even centuries, someone had replaced the chain. It was now tethered to one of trimetal like silver, gold and bronze snakes intertwined around each other ending with a merged head eating a merged tail. Gdug nodded to the other goblin. It was goblin-made--a fitting addition to such a historic piece.

Mr. Harrow broke the trance of reverence. “In Mr. Gaunt’s will, he asked me to invite all of you because you have all, at some point in his life, sought interest in Slytherin’s locket. Of course, it can only be given to one of you and I don’t know who that is.”

His speech was immediately interrupted by outrage and cries. “What do you mean? What type of game are you playing!”

“I’ll buy it from you, right now,” Mr. Smith bellowed above the others “10,000 galleons!” He shook a large bag of money he had concealed up to this moment.

Mr Harrow shook his head and held up his hand to demand silence. His audience immediately came to attention. “This piece is not for sale,” Mr. Harrow said sternly eying both the Smiths and the Gringotts employees “and I shall not even consider going against my client’s wishes to submit to your attempts at briberies.” Mr. Smith immediately sat down. His face was set in stone but a hint of defeat reflected in his eyes.

The solicitor continued his explanation. “The request of Mr. Maldon Gaunt is very simple. Each of you will be given fifteen minutes in this room alone with the locket. The first one to open it, inherits it. You will draw straws to determine who gets the first attempt.”

The goblins and their co-worker immediately put their heads together, probably discussing types of spells and probable curses protecting the locket. There was no doubt that the wand carrier of the three was an expert curse breaker. The Smiths seem to be of the same mind as they whispered together. Caractacus, once again, focused on his step-cousin who seemed to actually relax at the solicitor’s announcement.

The rest broke up their conversations when Morvolo Gaunt declared loudly. “Anyone who gives me 50 galleons will be guaranteed a spot ahead of me regardless of how the straws are pulled.” The two wealthiest didn’t even flinch. Mr. Smith and the Gringotts handed the galleons to Mr. Harrow to walk them over. They were willing to do business with the derelict but wanted a third party to broker the transaction. Silently Mr. Harrow dropped the coins into Gaunt’s hand who tipped his invisible hat to the gentlemen in mock respect but he was already forgotten as they turned back to their plans.

Morvolo turned to his step-cousin questioning with his eyes if the Burke would take the same deal, but Caractacus shook his head no. He didn’t like it. Morvolo knew something, something the rest of them didn’t, something that gave him a big enough advantage that he was willing to gamble on it.

Morvolo stretched out his arms and cracked his knuckles in attempt to posture. As he did, the sleeve of his robe slipped up to expose his entire hand-including The Ring. Caractacus sucked in his breath. Morvolo had the Gaunt family ring with the strange Peverell coat-of-arms: A circle inscribed in a triangle with a line down the middle. Morvolo noticed Caractacus’s scrutiny and gave him a slight wave, wiggling his fingers to expose the ring.

After several more minutes of discussion by some and waiting by others, all groups announced they were ready. Mr. Harrow conjured up the various size straws and arranged them artfully. The Gringotts almost squealed in glee when they pulled the longest straw while Mr. Smith snarled from across the room. A moment later, he looked triumphant when he realized that he had beaten Burke to be second. The solicitor tried to hand Morvolo his straw, but the man shook his head. “No, I’ll be last,” he replied leaving his cousin more confused and worried that before.

The others were escorted out of the room as the bankers eagerly clustered around the table. Mr. Harrow closed the door and tried to motion the others toward his office where they might be more comfortable, but no one moved. Indeed Mr. Smith had his ear pressed up to the door and Mrs. Smith was reminding the solicitor that their fifteen minutes had already started.

The hallway felt like a tomb. It was long and narrow, but silent as the dead. Perhaps it was the drafty building, perhaps it was the company of each other, or perhaps it was the excitement and trepidation of their turn in the room, but everyone seemed to be shivering slightly. Everyone except Morvolo. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his permanent scowl looking more amused at the moment.

His young son started to fuss in his mother’s arms and his scowl quickly returned. He grabbed her arm and hissed at her but her jostling only seemed to make the baby fussier. The mother tried to whisper the suggestion of buying some milk but her husband just ignored her. The boy’s fusses had turned to lusty cries. He flicked his wand at the child and all fell silent although the child was now as red as a tomato and squirmed in his mother’s arms, flailing his arms and howling in muteness.

The Smiths swore they had heard some grunts from the room, but everything else was still. At exactly fifteen minutes, Mr. Harrow pushed past the nosey couple and opened the door. The bankers turned in surprise, not realizing the time. They tried to beg, plead and bribe to have more time. “We almost had it. I just thought of a new counter curse to try,” but Mr. Harrow would not be deterred.

“If no one else opens it, then you may start the second round,” Mr. Harrow declared. “If you continue, you will be eliminated from a second chance.”

This plus the appearance of five other heads and wands pointed at them convinced them to quickly exit the room. They moved far down the hallway already planning for round two. The Smiths strolled into the room and closed the door. The bankers didn’t seem too worried. If they had this much trouble than a middle-age couple with only average magical talent (except the size of their vault) would hardly be successful. Indeed, when the door opened, the Smiths came out meekly. Mr. Smith’s robes were burned in several places and had turned pink in others. Mrs. Smith had radishes growing from out of her ears and nose. They moved down the other side of the hallway as far from the bankers that space would allow and quietly attempted to clean themselves up.

Caractacus Burke started his famed fifteen minutes with a thud of the door behind him. He spent the first two minutes just studying the locket. It had been years since he had seen it--not since the day he walked out of Moldon’s hovel on his seventeenth birthday, Moldon had howled after him horrible things about himself, about his already deceased mother, about his heritage but Caractacus hadn’t cared. As far as he was concerned, he was walking away from hell and was never coming back. There was nothing he wanted from Moldon at that moment.

Yet here he was, staring at Salazar Slytherin’s locket. If he hadn’t walked away, would Moldon have out and out bequeathed it to him? Somehow he doubt it. The man had been stingy and manipulative. He never would have given it directly to his stepson especially since knew how desperately the young man wanted it. Still, he had left him his sizable collection of dark artifacts, a rather dedicated hobby of Caractacus’s, to him. He was interested to see what of the old man’s acquisitions were still around. . . . after he opened the locket.

He considered the bankers and the Smiths. They would have tested for most obvious methods of opening it. He somehow doubted Alohomora would work but checked just in case--no luck. The method had to be either so simple, yet so subtle that someone would overlook it or so complicated and archaic that no one would know the magic. What did he know about Salazar Slytherin and Maldon Gaunt? Both were pure-bloods. Both were from the same blood line albeit almost a millennium apart. Gaunt had been a Slytherin while at school. Both had been fascinated with the dark arts. In truth the two men had much in common although he doubt his stepfather’s slovenly ways would have endeared him to the the great founder of Hogwarts.

At the end of this time, Caractacus was as unsuccessful as his predecessors. Although, he placated himself, at least he didn’t step out of the room in pink robes and radishes spewing from his orifices. He stepped out of the room, his shoulders drooped in defeat. As he made eye contact with his cousin, a sense of fury spread over him like flames. His cousin knew the answer. He knew how to open it. Morvolo didn’t deserve it. He lived in squalor, never attempting to retain a job. He lived for only two things: firewhiskey and beating his wife. Somehow, this tramp was going to win the locket.

To mock the others, he made sure their eyes were on on him, then Morvolo calmly handed his wife his wand and walked into the room. Every jaw dropped. Every mouth hung open. Did that insane man think he could open the locket without his wand? Was he going to do ask it to open for him? Say, “Pretty please, locket, open for me?” They didn’t have much time to consider other possibilities because within thirty seconds, the doorknob turned. There he stood an open locket around his neck, a smirk upon his lips. He grabbed his wand from his wife and started to shove her towards the door.

“No, wait!” one of the bankers called. “Just tell me, how did you open it? What was the spell?” But Morvolo just laughed maniacally at the man. Then he gave them his answer. He hissed at them like a snake and walked out to Knockturn Alley.

Caractacus shook his head. How stupid of him! He had forgotten what else Salazar Slytherin, Maldon Gaunt and, obviously now, his cousin, Morvolo, had in common. They were all Parselmouths. Morvolo literally just told the locket to open although he doubted the man said please.

The bankers left first off to find other magical treasure. The Smiths and Caractacus quickly followed. The latter two were changed. Caractacus no longer cared about being an accepted part of Diagon Alley. He would make his way however, he could. He would make contacts. He would make money and one day an opportunity would present itself to rob the Gaunts of their prize. Somehow they would drop the locket into his hand. Mr. and Mrs. Smith also swore they would one day they would have the locket, no matter how much they had to pay for it.

And so it came to pass, for Caractacus did practically rob a frightened, pregnant teenager when he offered her ten galleons for the locket. Then he sold it to Mrs. Smith for much more than it was worth. So in the end, both were very self-satisfied for each received what they desired. Well, at least, until Hokey accidently poisoned her owner’s tea.

Chapter Text

It came down in sheets, the rain cascading upon the cobblestones, the streetlights and anything else that got in its way. Situated on the southside of Diagon Alley so therefore facing north, Obscurus Books always always seemed to get the worst of the rain and wind rattling its windows, leaking through the cracks. Ethel sighed as she counted out the last of the galleons from the cash register. Technically, the store had been closed for over an hour and she should lock up, but didn’t have the energy nor the motivation to pick up her wand and wave it at the door. Besides, no sane person would be out in this weather, even with Christmas just around the corner, and in a few minutes she’d have to walk home in it. “I need to study for my apparition license,” she reminded herself yet again.

Suddenly the jingling of the door’s bell woke Irene up from her melancholy wallowing. A woman, well really a girl, came stumbling in. Her dark hair plastered around her defeated-looking face, water streaming down her pale cheeks, but the most noticeable thing was that she was pregnant--very pregnant. She took one look at the sales clerk, dropped a water soaked bag and crumpled to the floor.

Within a few minutes, Ethel had the young woman propped up next to a roaring fire, used a drying spell on her and wrapped in a thick blanket. She began to stir, her gray lips moving slightly. Ethel leaned in to hear her whispering, “Tom, Tom. Why did you leave me?” and her heart went out to the girl. Obviously her man had left her. Whether by choice or by death, he was no longer around.

Slowly, the girl opened her dull black eyes to Ethel’s concerned browned ones. “What’s your name?” Ethel asked her but the girl remained mute, her body rigid, like a tensed up rabbit ready to bolt at a hint of danger. “It’s okay,” Ethel said softly. “I won’t hurt you. Would you like some tea?” Slowly the girl nodded and Ethel busied herself with the preparations.

They spoke not a word for several minutes as the girl finished two cups of tea and nibbled on some biscuits the shop owner kept stashed behind the counter. Slowly, a bit of color returned to her skin and her shivering lessened. “Merope!” the girl said as she set down her teacup. “My name is Merope.”

“Well, Merope. I believe Barney has some fruit and cheese stashed in the back. Are you still hungry?” Ethel asked her. Slowly the woman nodded again. “Of course, she’s hungry,” Ethel thought.as she prepared a small plate. “I’ve never seen such a thin, stick of a woman. How can she be carrying that child?” Out loud she called to Merope, “When are you due?”

For the first time, Ethel saw the girls eyes soften at the mention of her baby, but with it came fear and pain. “Any day now.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Due date is in about two weeks.” Ethel smiled not sure if congratulations were in order.

Merope leaned over her large belly looking for something. “My bag? Do you know where it is?” Ethel nodded and summoned it from its location near the door. It flew over with several pieces of paper attached to the underside of it. Merope had dropped it upon the pile of today’s newspapers and the top one had stuck to the drenched bag. When the girl realized what had happened, she immediately, apologized but the sale clerk waved her hand away. “Don’t worry about it. Those are today’s papers. The Prophet will have the next edition out by sunrise and I would have just throw them out tomorrow morning anyways. Besides how many times do we have to hear the Grindelwald has been captured in a subway of New York City? I mean, I am as happy as the next witch to hear the news but that’s all they’ve talked about for the last three weeks!”

Ethel tried to brighten her up with her chatter and she was rewarded with a wane smile. The truth was Merope had thought very little about the Wizarding World in almost a year, not since she left it behind running away with Tom at her side or at least tried to.

Merope reached into her bag and pulled out two items. Miraculously neither one was wet. The first looked to be a piece of large jewelry for Ethel could see the bit of a chain poking out from the brown cloth. The other was a book. It was simple with a rough black cover, like a blotter or a journal of some sort. Ethel stared at the book for a moment and then raised her eyes up to the pinched face. “I remember you,” Ethel gasped. “You bought this diary here, didn’t you?”

The girl simply nodded as memories flooded back. “We were so happy,” she said. “I had just found out I was pregnant and I wanted a way to record my memories for the baby. My first thoughts when I held him, his first smile, his first word. Tom, my husband, and I couldn’t afford much so I went searching back in your used section to find this diary. It had never been touched. The owner said that the original spells were still on it just waiting for an owner to claim it. . . . . but now.” Merope’s voice trailed off. She held the book out to Ethel, pain seared into her eyes. “Can you buy it back from me?”

Speechless, Ethel nodded, took the book and walked over the cash register. In truth, the book was worth very little. True it had never been used but it was bound decades earlier and a bit worn around the edges. Barney would be very unhappy if she exchanged it for more than 10 knuts or so. Ethel pulled a galleon out of the registrar and handed it to the woman. Merope never even looked at the coin but slid it into her pocket.

Ethel took the book into the back where it would not remind Merope of things that were never to be. As she leafed through the empty pages, she noticed a small symbol in the upper corner of the back page: a circle, a triangle and a line. “Strange,” she noted. She studied it for a moment but then decided it must be some sort of signature of the author. If she had thought it through, she would have realized that blank books don’t have authors before they are bought, but the jingling of the door’s bell distracted her and the wind whipped into the store. Ethel ran back into the main room but the woman had disappeared into the night.

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Merope hadn’t traveled but a few steps before she was soaked to the bone again. She fingered the galleon in her pocket. She knew the lady had given her a lot more than the book was worth and for that she was grateful, but she needed more. Across the street was Talismans, a well known jewelry stores which Merope had never dared ventured, but it was almost ten and the doors were locked tight. “The people were already snug in their beds, no doubt,” Merope thought bitterly. Dejected she turned right and headed down a small alleyway toward a place where stores might still be open. She quickened her step as she passed under the sign: Knockturn Alley.
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Over twenty years ago, Caractacus had wanted to make a name for himself. He wanted people to respect him and come to him for advice. In some ways, he had reached his goal. People knew him as the loan shark of Knockturn Alley. They seeked his insight on any and all dark objects for he was an expert in such matters. He was a shrewd businessman with an eye for the unusual and profitable. Many came to his story, but very few came out the winners. Although there were notable exceptions. Mr. Septimus Malfoy could always find a good deal for he was a avid entrepreneur of the shop. His young son, Abraxas, was quickly learning an appreciation for dark magic himself.

Caractacus Burke stood behind the counter of his store inspecting a Hand of Glory that he had recently acquired. He was very pleased with the quality of it and the low price which he had obtained it. The anger of the torrential downpour outside seemed to increase for a moment as the door opened and then shut. Caractacus quietly set down the hand and picked up his wand, ready for whomever or whatever came through the door. To his surprise a young woman came from around the Vanishing Cabinet and meekly stepped closer to him.

Caractacus immediately lowered his wand and evaluated the girl. She looked no more a threat than a Pygmy Puff. She looked exhausted, pregnant, drenched from the storm, and desperate. One could not have asked for an easier person to swindle.

“How may I help you, ma’am,” Caractacus used his most professional shopkeeper’s tone.

The girl looked back and forth furtively before setting something wrapped in brown cloth on the counter between them. “I have something to sell,” she said. “And I think it’s worth a lot of money.”

“May I?” he asked gesturing toward the concealed object. The girl hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Raising his wand aloft again, he carefully removed the cloth with magic. He doubted this girl was trying to poison him, but one never knew.

He could not have been more shocked at what he saw. A locket, no the locket. Salazar Slytherin’s locket was staring back at him. He quickly concealed his surprise and then glanced up at the girl. “A family heirloom?” he asked innocently.

The girl simply nodded and then added. “It has been passed down through my family. It once belonged to Salazar Slytherin.”

Caractacus immediately saw an opportunity to complete a promise he made himself decades earlier--that somehow the Gaunts would just drop it into his hand and here it was. “Salazar Slytherin? You say,” he arched his his eyebrow at her. “How can you be sure?”

“My father bragged about it all the time. How we were the last of Salazar Slytherin’s pure blood line. How we should be respected because of that,” the girl replied raising her chin up a big daring him to argue with her father’s conclusions.

“And your father is. . . “ the shopkeeper again asked politely.

“Dead,” was the terse answer. Caractacus somehow doubted that. The last he had heard, Morvolo was imprisoned in Azkaban for some crime or another but he let it slide. Instead he studied her more closely. She looked a lot like the wife of Gaunt. He had only met her once on that fateful day that he couldn’t open the locket, but this girl was much too young--perhaps a daughter?

“Your mother?” he questioned her further.

The girls eyes turned at him sharply. “The same, a long time ago.”

Caractacus simply nodded and picked up the locket for closer inspection. Considering who had owned it for the past twenty years, it was in excellent condition. Of course, if a piece of jewelry could survive a thousand years, it could probably handle twenty with the likes of Morvolo Gaunt. “Miss,” he began his charade. “Here is my problem. People come in all the time claiming that they have something famous, that someone famous made it or used it, but without proof, I can’t do much about it. I assume your father was not an expert his magical archeology.” He didn’t even bother for her answer just continued on with his scam. “Salazar Slytherin did have a locket. I have seen pictures of it, but it looked very different. It was smaller and more square and his chain. . . “ he paused pretending to inspect it a bit more. “Well, this one is definitely not goblin made. It might not even be wizard-made. I think at some point, someone switched the chains out for a muggle-made one.”

Merope stared at him in horror. Her father had a muggle-made chain around his neck for twenty years. She shuddered at the thought or what he would do if he ever found out.

“However,” Caractacus said smoothly. “There is some redeeming value. Although it wasn’t owned by Salazar Slytherin, it is rather old. I would say two hundred years instead of a thousand and it is of good metal, so I can give you five galleons for it.”

Tears began to pool in her eyes and she bit her lip in frustration. All of her father’s claims to fame, all of his higher-than-thou attitude, all of his peacockery. Was it all lies? “I bet we aren’t even related to Salazar Slytherin,” she thought bitterly and then she turned inwardly on herself. “Do I deserve any less?” I had to use a love potion to capture my husband. He now despises me and my child. . . .” Her thoughts died off as she maternally touched her abdomen.

Caractacus watched the emotions pass over her face. “Ma’am, I have to make a profit on this but I can increase the price a bit. I might be able to get twelve or thirteen gallons for the locket so I’ll buy it for ten. Does that seem fair to you?”

The girl wiped her face and stared at him with dead eyes. It was almost like he wasn’t even there. She shoved the locket toward him and held out her hand. Silently he dropped ten galleons into the open palm. After the last clink, the girl turned around and never looked back.

If she had turned around even just once, all of her despondency and sorrow would have turned to rage for Caractacus had already picked up the locket with a look of pure joy and greed upon his face but she did not. Instead she slipped out the door, down the street and out of the magical world forever.

The shopkeeper cradled the locket almost lovingly. After almost thirty-five years of coveting the piece, it was his, all his. He briefly considered owling Mr. Smith and asking him if he wanted to buy it. Hadn’t the man offered 10,000 galleons to Mr. Harrow, the solicitor? Well, he certainly wasn’t going to take a knut less than 20,000 if the old man wanted it. Then he remembered that the old geezer died recently, perhaps a few weeks back. “Oh well, maybe his widow will be interested in it, but I shall not offer it up yet. It wouldn’t be respectful to approach a widow during her time of mourning. I will just enjoy the company of this fine piece of history for a while.”

Chuckling about his final thoughts, he locked the door with a wave of his wand and placed the locket under layers of enchantments in his vault. Then he left for bed whistling a Christmas tune.

Chapter Text

A loud crack ripped across the cloudless sky. One or two denizens of Little Hangleton looked up and shook their heads. Who was hunting in July? Then they went back to the unchallenged doldrums of monotony known as their lives.

If they had happened to look upon the side of the road just beyond the village’s wooden sign, they would have seen the sudden appearance of a man which coincided directly with the loud bang. If his inexplicable arrival had not been enough to set tongues wagging then his age might have, for he really wasn’t a man but rather a boy on the verge of adulthood.

At the tender age of fifteen, he was much too young to be able to arrive in such a fashion without assistance yet there he was as if he had performed this bit of magic many times already. His face reflected an innocence that his soul did not possess. He carried himself with the self-assurance of someone who knew he was special, of someone who was on a mission of great importance.

However, his arrival by apparition was unnoticed both by the locals and by the Ministry that was supposed to keep track of such underage activities. He glanced at the sign and began the slow descent down to the valley of Little Hangleton. He strode with purpose but took the time to observe his surroundings carefully as if attempting to understand the entire village through this singular stroll down the path. Before he reached the village, however, he stopped short and paused at a gap in the overgrown hedge which led to a road that was definitely less traveled by, If one had observed more carefully, one might see the ornate stick which the young man cautiously pulled from his pocket before he ventured deeper along the potholed path.

The path became even more treacherous as it led down to a copse of trees. Over the years, the trees had grown into gnarled twists and turns around each other until one could not determine which branch belonged to which trunk. Nestled in the middle of the boscage was a shack for calling it anything grander would cause one to question the observer’s eyesight.

The young man crouched low among the tall grasses in order to observe the hovel. The walls were covered in moss and mold. The roof had lost so many tiles that the rafters were exposed to the elements in many places. Nailed to the door was the withered and decaying body of a snake.

The building could only be described as destitute. He wrinkled his nose in disgust of the place. Was this the home of the Gaunts? Is this where his mother lived? His already poor image of his weak, hapless mother increased with every detail he inspected. Any sympathy he might have had for the woman was whisked away in that moment. This was the home of the bloodline of the great Salazar Slytherin? It looked more like a cancer growth, a growth the needed to be trimmed as much as those trees that surrounded it.

Suddenly the door opened and a man stumbled out. His hair was so matted with grime that the color would remain a mystery and his eyes looked in opposite directions simultaneously. His clothes were torn and stained with blood and excrement. Even from a distance once could get a whiff of the stench.

He slammed the door so hard that the snake’s carcase fell to the ground. He stepped on it several times in his staggering. Finally, the man fell to his knees and retched the contents of his stomach into the grass. After several minutes of heaving, he wiped his mouth with the back of a stained sleeve. As he did, something glinted in the sunlight-a ring on his finger. It was a gold ring with a black stone, the young man observed. Even from the great distance, he could tell that the jewelry was old, had value, and looked very out of place on the finger of the dipsomaniac. It intrigued the hidden visitor who immediately determined to find out more about it.

As the drunkard, attempted to stand up, something caught his eye and he peered deeper into the grass. As he did, the young man could hear him hissing in Parseltongue.

Chapter Text

If there was one topic that the human race is singularly most obsessed with, death would certainly be near the top of the list. After all most major religions either revolve around it or it is a major pillar in its foundation. We, as a people, are egotistical and narrow-minded, and desperately want to believe that our personal purpose does not end with our last breath.

One could argue this obsession of death can be loosely categorized into three main groups. First, many major religions view it as a gateway to the next level of existence-whether one refers to that metaphysical realm as Heaven, Tian or Valhalla. Those of true belief do not fear death but rather embrace for the promise of a more holy paradise than our current reality.

Still others believe that existence tends to stay in our own world. They favor the more cyclic pattern of reincarnation but still in the pursuit of goodness to reach a more enlightened state.

Then there is the last group who the desire to cheat death all together. There are numerous examples of them throughout history. Ponce de Leon’s exploration of la Florida and the fabled Fountain of Youth which led to a fatal arrow in his thigh. Diane Poitiers, mistress of French King, Henry II, drank a mixture of gold chloride and diethyl ether to extend her life. It worked quite well. . . until she died of gold poisoning. Probably most famous was the eldest two Peverell brothers, Antioch and Cadmus, who had ingenious yet failed plans to outwit Death itself.

Each of this third group fear death and attempt to conquer it by extending their physical form. There is, however, a small group who fear death so much that they were willing, not to mutilate their bodies but malign their souls. Of these Dark Arts practitioners, there was one that ventured well beyond even ordinary evil malignation.

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He might have been once handsome but his features were now pale and distorted as if he was standing in front of a warped mirror. If one got close enough, his eyes were the most noticeable. They were an odd shape, too narrow for his face and permanently bloodshot. Most, however, didn’t get close enough to notice. If they did, they were kneeling in reverence or keeling over in death.

He pressed his long, white fingers together and pursed his lips as he surveyed the articles in front of him. Here they were, his crowning achievement and his deepest secret. Five objects artfully laid out on a black, velvet cloth. He carefully picked up each one and cradled it. For each artifact was, quite literally, a piece of him.

His diary, his first and his proof that he was the Heir to Slytherin, a destructive force that could summon the deadliest animal with a mere whisper of his tongue. It was fitting that his first was created by the death of a mudblood by basilisk.

The Peverell Ring, his second. Again fitting that it was created by the death of the Riddles and the termination of their filthy, muggle blood. Slowly, he slid the gold band on his waxy finger, his thumb rubbing the etchings on the stone.

Hufflepuff’s Cup and Slytherin’s Locket-taken the from idiotic, annoying woman. Her death and a muggle tramp’s also became useful for these creations, number three and four.

Lastly, the diadem. Even with the Grey Lady’s confession, how many years did it take to find it? But finally he did-in the hollow of the old tree. For centuries, wizards had searched for it in vain. One had even died at the foot of the tree for he had stepped on the bones to reach into the tree but he was the only one triumphant.

As he grinned thinking about his collection, he surveyed the last three of the objects. His smile faded. Only three, three of the four Hogwarts Houses. His triumph was not yet complete. He needed the fourth. Gryffindor’s Sword. Somehow no matter what he tried it had always eluded his grasp, but not for much longer. He rubbed his pale, icy hands in expectation and an evil glee. That was his goal tonight. Well, one of his goals. The other was to hide one of the other four objects at the school, in a location only he knew because only he, Voldemort, had pursued and discovered the school’s deepest secrets.

“But which one?” he mused aloud in Parseltongue. Nagini crawled in just then. He picked her up and stroked her absentmindedly. She had been his almost constant companion since that fateful day when he acquired the ring. It had been almost twenty-five years but she still looked like a snake in her prime. Using a variety of dark magic, her master extended her life and made her almost twenty wands long and as thick as a man’s torso. She slithered up one arm, behind Voldemort’s neck and down the other until she looked like a reptilian feathered boa across his shoulders.

“Which Horcrux shall I take with me tonight, Nagini? Which shall have its final resting place at Hogwarts?” The snake moved to the table and surveyed the artifacts. First she stopped at the diary, but her master shook his head no. “I think it should be one of the founder’s artifacts.” The snake flicked her tongue toward the diadem. ”Yes,” the Dark Lord agreed, a mad glint in his red eyes. “That one. The Grey Lady will be furious that her hiding place was discovered but there is nothing she can do about it. How ironic that she attempted to steal it away only to have it returned to her home.” He picked up the crown, inspected it for a moment and placed it in a secure spell. Then he put layers of security spells on the others. They each would need fitting hiding spots -- locations secretive and magical enough to hold the horcruxes of a wizard as powerful as HE.

He moved to the outer room and waved his wand. Within a minute, four men had appeared in black robes and white masks. They immediately knelt before him. “Nott, Roier, Mulciber, Dolohov, I have an appointment at Hogwarts. Go to the Hog’s Head and wait for me there,” he commanded them. They nodded and disapparated immediately.

“Unfortunately, you cannot accompany me tonight,” her master explained to his adoring reptile, “but I hope to return with another artifact, Gryffindor’s sword. The last one I need and then my mission will be complete and I will be invincible. Nothing will stop me, not even death,” he cackled as he walked out the door. He felt he could not be defeated, that this object of his desire would soon be his just like the others.

However, the course of one’s life events do not always turn out as one expects --even for Voldemort.

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Final Thoughts:
And so, it came to pass. This tale of six objects is a story of love and friendship, of anger and greed, of loss and pain. And the fate of those six objects has now been sealed--all because of one man’s fear of death. He would have been far better off if he had spent his time grappling with a magic beyond his understanding-the magic of love. For it was the love of a parent, the love of a friendship long gone, the love of a mentor, the love of family and friends and AGAPE-selfless love for others, that was his downfall.