"No need," Vaughn said. "Those Death Eaters make me sick. Take me to Dumbledore."
The Auror looked as though he had been pardoned from a death sentence.
He was genuinely afraid Vaughn would insist on continuing the inspection. There were still several levels of Death Eaters below. If another Dementor lost control and was injured, he would have no way to explain it.
"Understood, Mr. Weasley," he said cheerfully. "Please stand still. We'll return to the upper level immediately."
As for whether anything had happened in the cells—
There was no need to ask.
Aside from the naïve and overly kind Minister Fudge, no one believed Death Eaters deserved human rights.
As long as no one was dead, whatever disturbances occurred would quietly disappear.
Morfin Gaunt
Back on the upper levels, thin sunlight filtered through the clouds, casting a hazy glow over the island.
After spending time in the high-security wing, Vaughn felt profoundly uncomfortable. He stood in the sun for a while before being guided to a warmly furnished lounge at the top of the fortress.
Dumbledore sat by the window, his half-moon glasses reflecting the light.
Opposite him sat an elderly man with matted hair and a vacant expression.
A thin silver strand extended from the man's forehead to Dumbledore's fingertips. Dumbledore's eyes glowed deep blue as countless shadows flickered in his pupils.
He was reading the man's memories.
"This is Morfin Gaunt?" Vaughn asked, looking down at the old wizard.
The man's hair was filthy and tangled, his skin pale and nearly translucent—typical of long-term Azkaban inmates.
What stood out most were his eyes.
They were grotesquely misaligned, each staring in a different direction, even in his dazed state.
"Pitiful pure-blood ideology," Vaughn remarked flatly. "Inbreeding."
Dumbledore sighed. "Yes. Even among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Gaunts were the most fanatical. In pursuit of 'purity,' they abandoned all reason—and produced nothing but tragedy."
The blue light in Dumbledore's eyes faded.
"These memories are false," he said quietly, returning the silver strand to Morfin's head.
Vaughn wasn't surprised.
According to the case files, Morfin had confessed to murdering the Riddle family. Without memory alteration, such a confession would have been impossible.
"Extraordinary memory magic," Dumbledore said grimly. "If I weren't skilled in this field, I might not have detected it at all. Even now, fewer than ten wizards alive could."
"And at the time," he added softly, "Tom was still a student."
He glanced at Vaughn.
Vaughn immediately rolled his eyes. "Rest assured, Headmaster. I value my face far too much to end up looking like that."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Good. Otherwise Hermione would be heartbroken."
Ignoring the joke, Vaughn asked, "What's your plan?"
"Restore Morfin's memory," Dumbledore replied. "He knows where the Gaunt ring is. And… he himself sensed something was wrong. Even after decades in Azkaban, he preserved the Riddle case in his mind."
"He deserves exoneration."
Inside Morfin's Mind
Repairing Morfin Gaunt's memories was no simple task.
Decades under Dementor influence had shattered his consciousness.
"It's like walking through a rubbish heap," Vaughn muttered.
They stood inside Morfin's mindscape.
Fragments of memories, emotions, and thoughts drifted chaotically through endless darkness, like shredded paintings.
At their feet lay a short stretch of dirt road—less than ten feet long—surrounded by nothingness.
At its end, thorny vines obscured a weathered signpost.
Dumbledore brightened. "Little Hangleton."
The sign pointed one way to Great Hangleton, another to Little Hangleton—but no road extended beyond.
Memories, once unified, had splintered into sensory fragments.
Dumbledore tried to summon more.
Only blotches of colour drifted back.
"Already scattered this badly…" he sighed, turning to Vaughn. "My dear?"
Vaughn smiled lazily. "Why look at me?"
"This is part of our deal."
"I never agreed to that," Vaughn replied. "And surely a wizard of your experience can manage basic memory synthesis."
Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you want?"
"I want to copy some magical knowledge from Morfin's memories."
Dumbledore hesitated.
The Gaunts were Slytherin's direct descendants. Whatever Salazar Slytherin left behind could be dangerous.
Yet… could he really refuse Vaughn?
"…Very well," Dumbledore said at last. "But promise me this—don't experiment recklessly. If you study something dangerous, come to me first."
Vaughn nodded.
The Personality Construct
Vaughn reached to his shoulder.
With a gentle pull, a pale humanoid silhouette detached from him—
A personality construct.
It dissolved into white mist, but beneath the illusion, countless invisible filaments stabbed into the mindscape.
Road fragments, memory shards—everything was pierced.
White filaments spread like mycelium, knitting fragments together.
The broken dirt road regrew.
A forest formed.
At its heart stood a ruined house—overgrown with moss and vines.
The Gaunt shack.
"This isn't a true memory," Dumbledore observed. "But that doesn't matter. I only need a location."
They walked forward.
Moonlight filtered through the trees as Vaughn snapped his fingers.
A tall, handsome black-haired boy appeared, carrying an oil lamp.
Young Tom Riddle.
They followed him.
He knocked.
Inside, Morfin Gaunt awoke, wand raised.
Hissing filled the room.
"Parseltongue?" Vaughn asked.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "The Gaunt inheritance."
Young Tom's gaze swept the squalor.
Disgust.
Pride crushed by reality.
Then—
Rage.
A curse struck Morfin.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Clap!
Dumbledore froze the scene.
"This is where it ends," he said softly. "Tom learned the truth. His father was a Muggle."
"He attacked Morfin, took his wand, murdered the Riddles… then altered Morfin's memory."
"And took the ring."
The ring—black stone engraved with the Peverell crest—gleamed on Morfin's hand.
The Subconscious
Dumbledore placed his hand on Morfin's head.
Darkness.
Then light.
Dumbledore stood radiant, like a star in the void.
In his palm floated the reconstructed Gaunt house.
Infinite reflections appeared.
Within them—countless Morfin Gaunts.
"His subconscious," Dumbledore said. "The repository of forgotten memories."
Vaughn understood at once.
"The mind… connects to the Ether."
"Yes."
Alchemy texts spoke true.
The mind and the Ether were never separate.
Which raised a terrifying question—
If all minds connected to the Ether…
Why could only alchemists enter it?
Perhaps, Vaughn realized—
Everyone should be able to.
They were simply missing the key.
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