Little Hangleton, a small Muggle village in northern England.
On a wooded hillside just outside the village, a burst of crimson flame erupted out of thin air. The fire twisted and flared brightly against the twilight before vanishing cleanly, leaving only a faint trace of warmth in the air.
When the flames disappeared, an old man and a teenage boy stood where the fire had been.
"We're here," Dumbledore said. "The Gaunt ancestral home."
Lucien didn't move right away. He stood beside the headmaster and took a slow look around.
The trees on the slope grew wild and tangled. Vines and weeds choked everything. There was no sign that any human had lived here in a very long time. The air smelled damp and heavy, thick with the scent of rotting leaves and wet earth.
Following Dumbledore's gaze, Lucien spotted the outline of a building half-hidden behind the overgrown thicket.
The house was a wreck. A crude wooden structure almost completely covered in moss and stinging nettles. The wood had turned black and soft with rot, like it might collapse at any moment. Grayish-yellow vines climbed from the base all the way up to the sagging eaves.
Lucien's eyes went to the front door.
A dead snake had been nailed there, twisted into an S-shape. The body was withered but still intact, the skin holding a faint sheen. The head was fixed dead center on the door, empty eye sockets staring straight at anyone who approached.
Magic had been used to preserve it. The corpse hadn't rotted down to bone.
Lucien studied the dead snake for a moment. He recognized the symbol — an extreme declaration of pure-blood pride. It fit the image of Voldemort's childhood home perfectly.
Dumbledore held Tom Riddle's diary in his left hand. The cover showed faint signs of corrosion. His fingers traced slowly across it, as if feeling for something.
"There's a weak resonance," he said quietly. "From the soul connection between Horcruxes."
They both drew their wands at the same time and started toward the house.
The door hung open. The moment they stepped inside the dusty ruin, cold eyes stared at them from every shadow.
A patterned venomous snake slid out from the darkness in the corner, forked tongue flicking as it moved toward the intruders.
That first snake acted like a signal. More followed. Snakes poured out from under broken chairs, from cracks in the walls, from the beams overhead. Dozens of them. The dry rustle of scales filled the room.
All different colors. Some patterned, some solid black.
It felt like they had walked straight into a nest.
Lucien didn't react much. He had seen enough snakes lately that the sight barely registered. He even took a moment to identify the species — ordinary British snakes, nothing magical mixed in.
Dumbledore spoke calmly beside him.
"As direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, the Gaunt family has a high chance of producing Parselmouths."
The Gaunts had always kept company with snakes. Even after the house had stood empty for years, the creatures still claimed it.
Lucien gave his wand a casual flick.
Dozens of Transfiguration spells shot from the tip, striking every snake with perfect accuracy.
The snakes twisted and changed in an instant. Scales vanished. Bodies stretched. Colors faded. Within seconds they had become rows of white candles standing neatly on the floor. The wicks lit themselves, casting a warm orange glow that pushed back the heavy darkness.
"That's better," Lucien said.
He flicked his wand again. Gentle currents of air moved through the house, gathering years of packed dust and spinning it out through the open door. The stale, rotten smell faded noticeably.
The wind also served as an extension of his senses, checking for any obvious surface-level dangers. Nothing in the walls or furniture gave off strange magical fluctuations.
Dumbledore watched with a faint smile. Bringing Lucien along had been the right call. It was a shame the summer holiday was the only time he could do this — dragging a student out of school once term started would have looked bad even for him.
The Gaunt house wasn't large.
Lucien and Dumbledore moved quickly through the garbage-filled sitting room and stopped in front of a half-open door. The wood was soft with rot and riddled with wormholes. It creaked as it swung inward.
Dumbledore paused at the threshold and glanced down at the diary in his hand.
"The resonance is strongest in this room."
Lucien swept his gaze across the space. It was packed with broken junk. Spiderwebs hung from the ceiling like layers of translucent curtains.
Both of them raised their wands. The junk lifted and drifted silently to the sides, piling up against the walls.
A simple wooden box floated up from the mess. The lid popped open on its own.
Inside, resting quietly, was a black gemstone ring.
The stone was a deep, light-swallowing black, smooth and glossy. The gold band carried a strange crest.
Dumbledore's eyes sharpened with interest. He leaned forward to get a better look at the ring —
The floor vanished without warning.
Solid wooden boards turned into empty air in the blink of an eye. A bottomless black pit opened beneath them.
Everything in the room began to fall. Lucien and Dumbledore dropped with it, robes snapping like flags in a storm.
As they fell, lines of magical light ignited along the dark, damp stone walls of the shaft — venomous green, dark red, pale blue — racing downward like a trap springing shut. The air grew thick with dangerous magic. The old smell of rot was replaced by the sharp bite of active spells.
Lucien raised his wand, a spark of real excitement in his eyes.
Now this felt like an adventure.
The next instant, wind answered.