Chapter 128
The Mother's Secret
Albert's heart began to pound violently the moment he heard Salazar Slytherin utter his mother's name.
He froze in place, paralyzed by shock. His throat tightened, his tongue refused to form words. The impact was overwhelming, as if every revelation in this cursed place was designed to break him piece by piece.
At last, he managed to stammer, "H-how… how do you know my mother's name?!"
Salazar arched an eyebrow, then laughed, his voice reverberating like thunder.
"Ohhh, your mother? Was that girl truly your mother?! Ha! Ha! Ha! Then the riddle is solved at last! Proof, undeniable proof, that you are of my bloodline!" He stroked his long beard with pride, a triumphant smile spreading across his face.
Albert's lips curled with disbelief. He refused, utterly refused, to accept this truth.
Slytherin seemed to sense his doubts. He pointed a long finger at Albert.
"You still doubt me, don't you? Very well. What if I showed you? Come, see the truth with your own eyes."
Albert tried to protest, but before he could form a word, the world shifted around him.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer standing in the black void. Instead, he was witnessing a memory. Before him stood Salazar Slytherin and a young girl, no more than fourteen.
She had long, black hair and dark green eyes. Her face, delicate yet strong, carried a beauty that struck Albert's heart like lightning.
He knew instantly.
Mother…
It was his mother, Melanda Black, in her youth.
Albert's chest tightened with longing. He wanted nothing more than to run to her, to hold her. But Salazar's voice cut through his yearning:
"What you see are but memories, preserved within this place. You cannot touch them."
Albert's eyes stung, but he forced himself to watch.
Salazar's voice explained in the background:
"Your mother sought her origins. Her father told her she was not truly of the Black bloodline… and so she came to me."
The memory shifted again. Another Salazar, the one within the memory, lifted a finger and touched young Melanda's temple, slipping into her thoughts.
Albert was drawn into the flow of her memories.
He saw his mother as an infant, no more than seven months old, in a shabby, crumbling house. Poverty hung heavy in the air.
Then came a voice, gruff and bitter. Albert recognized it instantly from the original story he had once watched in another life.
Morfin Gaunt.
And beside him, sitting frail in an old chair, was his father, Marvolo Gaunt.
Marvolo muttered darkly, clutching what looked like a prayer scroll.
"It is the anniversary of my daughter Merope's death. You, boy, go tend her grave. I feel as though my time is near."
Morfin scowled. He hated Merope. She had betrayed their family by marrying a commoner, Tom Riddle, a filthy Muggle.
A baby's cry pierced the room. Little Melanda wailed in hunger.
"Your daughter, Morfin," Marvolo said sternly. "See to her. She is hungry."
Shame flickered in Morfin's eyes. They were destitute, barely able to feed themselves, let alone a child. More than once, he had considered abandoning her to an orphanage.
But in the end, he had not. He had a wealthy acquaintance, someone from the House of Black, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Through this connection, he survived, though the thought always haunted him: Wouldn't she live better if she were truly a Black?
Suddenly, three sharp knocks at the door. Uneven, deliberate.
Morfin stiffened, rage burning in his eyes. He knew that knock.
He stormed to the door, stomping past Albert and Salazar's incorporeal forms.
Albert turned his gaze, heart twisting as he saw his mother lying helpless in a cradle. So small. So fragile.
The door creaked open.
A young man of about twenty-four stood outside, sharply dressed, his eyes gleaming with serpentine green.
Albert's stomach dropped.
Salazar's ghostly smile widened.
Tom Riddle. Voldemort.
Morfin snarled, hatred twisting his face. The man's resemblance to his sister's Muggle husband was unmistakable. Without hesitation, Morfin lunged.
But Voldemort had come here with one intent. Murder.
A flash of greenish light. The spell struck Morfin squarely in the stomach, hurling him back against the wall with brutal force. He crumpled, coughing blood, too broken to rise.
Marvolo, sick and frail, watched in horror from his chair. His eyes widened as recognition dawned.
"You… why have you returned after all these years?!" the old man rasped, fury and dread in his voice.
Voldemort stood calm, collected.
"You have something that belongs to me. It is my right to claim it. Hand it over."
Marvolo frowned in confusion, until Voldemort's gaze locked on his left hand.
"No! Not this, never!" Marvolo clutched his hand to his chest, trembling. "It is the legacy of my bloodline… it was given to us by Death himself!"
His words shook with terror.
Albert's eyes widened as he followed Voldemort's gaze. He saw it, the ring.
A golden band, ornate in its craft, but set with a dark, ominous stone. A stone etched with the symbol of the Deathly Hallows: a triangle enclosing a circle.
At last, Albert understood why Marvolo had feared its loss.
The Ring of Gaunt.
The Resurrection Stone.
To be continued…
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الآن ما بقى أي شرطة طويلة (—) في النص.
تحب أراجع باقي الفصول بنفس الطريقة وأحذف كل الشرطات الطويلة منها كمان؟