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"I can feel that we're getting close," Dumbledore said excitedly.
Ethan and Dumbledore walked past a weathered wooden signpost jutting out from the thorn bush on the left side of the path.
The signpost had two arrows: one pointing back toward the road they had traveled, reading Greater Hangleton, 5 miles, and the other pointing forward, reading Little Hangleton, 1 mile.
Tall hedges flanked the narrow path as they continued walking. The trail soon veered left, descending sharply down the hillside.
A valley stretched before them, revealing a small village nestled between two steep hills—undoubtedly Little Hangleton.
A church and its graveyard stood prominently among the clustered houses.
Beyond the valley, on the opposite hillside, loomed a crumbling mansion, its silhouette swallowed by tall, wild weeds.
"This is it," Ethan thought.
The Gaunt family's old home.
The road leading to the house was a winding, uneven dirt path, littered with rocks and pitted with deep potholes.
The hedgerows on either side grew even taller and denser, enclosing the path in a tunnel of tangled green.
The trail dipped into a patch of dark woodland before emerging at the foot of the decayed house.
A massive, gnarled tree in the yard cast long, dense shadows over the building, blocking out what little sunlight reached the property.
The entire place exuded an eerie gloom.
The walls were cloaked in moss, and the roof was riddled with gaps where tiles had fallen away, exposing the skeletal rafters beneath.
Nettles, some reaching as high as the grimy, thick-paned windows, choked the perimeter of the house.
Ethan's eyes landed on a large, gaping hole in the roof, through which a stray plant had taken root—a clear sign the house had long been abandoned.
Most unsettling of all was the dried, shriveled corpse of a snake, nailed to the door.
As they approached, the pendant around Ethan's neck trembled violently.
The sheer concentration of magic in the air was palpable.
Ethan didn't need the pendant to tell him that. He could feel it—dark magic whispering through the air like a hidden presence.
Wrinkling his nose in mock exaggeration, he muttered, "The stench of black magic."
"It seems Voldemort doesn't want us here," Dumbledore remarked lightly.
Raising his Elder Wand, he murmured, "Finite Incantatem."
At once, a cascade of sharp crackling sounds erupted from within the house.
The old structure groaned in protest, dust billowing as if it might collapse entirely. But after a moment of tense stillness, it remained standing.
"I believe we can proceed," Dumbledore said calmly.
They stepped forward, but the moment Ethan set foot on the wooden porch, the rotted planks gave way beneath him.
He barely managed to regain his footing, the entire porch creaking ominously under their weight.
Moving carefully, the two reached the front door. Just as Dumbledore raised his hand to push it open, Ethan stopped him.
Dumbledore arched an eyebrow in question.
Ethan silently pointed to the top of the doorframe.
A nearly invisible thin wire stretched across it.
"Spells alone can't always disarm every trap," Ethan murmured.
"Voldemort layered his defenses well."
With practiced precision, he unfastened the knot. A rustling noise came from behind the door.
Slowly, Ethan pushed the door open. A handful of slender crossbow bolts lay scattered across the entryway floor—the remnants of the trap he had just disabled.
He smirked. "Not bad for an old house."
The house appeared to consist of three small rooms.
The largest, situated in the center, doubled as both a kitchen and a living area.
Two doors branched off into the other rooms.
Ethan wrinkled his nose as the overwhelming stench of decay filled his senses. Everything in the house was rotting.
The floor was slick with something dark and sticky.
Cobwebs draped every surface, their silken threads quivering with movement.
Fat, black spiders scuttled in the corners, their bloated bodies a sign that this place had long become a haven for insects.
A large iron pot with a broken bottom lay overturned on the stove, its surface rusted and pitted with age.
To the left of the stove, a sink was cluttered with glass jars of varying sizes.
Some of the jars held writhing shapes in the darkness, shifting sluggishly against the glass.
Others were filled with thick, foul-smelling liquids that Ethan had no desire to investigate further.
Moving cautiously through the ruined space, the two men combed the room for traps.
Ethan bent down, sidestepped, or raised his hands periodically, disarming the lingering remnants of dark enchantments Voldemort had left behind.
Then, all at once, a sharp sensation pricked at the back of Ethan's mind.
A presence.
Something—or someone—was watching him.
His heart pounded as he spun around, sword drawn.
A flicker of movement disappeared into the shadows at the end of the corridor.
"I'll check it out," Ethan murmured to Dumbledore.
With his sword gripped tightly in his right hand and his wand in his left, he advanced carefully.
Every sense sharpened. His demon-hunting instincts flared to life, scanning every inch of the room for any trace of a living being.
But there was nothing.
Aside from the scurrying of rats, the buzz of mosquitoes, and the occasional croak of a toad, the house remained silent.
At last, Ethan reached the end of the hallway. The rooms here were long abandoned, their furniture so decayed that it had lost all recognizable shape.
And then he found it.
The source of the shadowy figure.
A mirror.
Its surface was dull and clouded, barely reflecting his own outline. Even as he stood directly before it, his reflection remained vague, distorted.
Ethan frowned. His instincts were rarely wrong.
Someone—or something—had been watching him.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore was meticulously scouring the room, his every movement purposeful.
He was searching for something important.
The ring.
Then, suddenly, a voice called out to him. A voice he had longed to hear.
A voice that had haunted his dreams.
"Brother..."
Dumbledore's breath caught. His heart clenched as he looked up, disbelief washing over his face.
Standing before him, bathed in soft light, was a young girl with golden hair, dressed in a pale blue dress.
Her expression was gentle, her eyes filled with warmth.
"Brother, have you finally come to me?" she whispered.
Dumbledore's lips parted, his voice barely audible.
"…Ariana?"
But how?
"Brother, help me!"
The girl's voice sharpened into a desperate plea as she reached out to him.
Without thinking, Dumbledore reached for her hand.
Ethan, still in the corridor, heard Dumbledore's voice—and instantly knew something was wrong.
He rushed back just in time to see Dumbledore lifting a gold ring set with a dark gemstone toward his finger.
"No!"
Ethan didn't hesitate.
He raised his hand and cast a forceful Aard Sign straight at Dumbledore.
The pulse of energy struck Dumbledore in the chest, sending him stumbling backward. The ring slipped from his fingers, rolling across the dusty floor.
Dumbledore hit the ground hard.
His head snapped up, his eyes blazing with fury as he turned on Ethan.
"You—!" he roared, his voice twisted with anger, his face contorted in rage.
For a terrifying moment, he wasn't Albus Dumbledore, the wise and composed headmaster.
He was something else entirely.