The village of Little Hangleton was not a popular village, was not exciting, and was not known to many people aside from those who lived there. It was known to most as "the forgotten land," and the Muggles – non-magical folks – made no effort to change or deny this name, which had been revealed to them simply by rumor.
The population of the village was not high, maybe a few hundred at most. People cared more about their heritage than anything else. Most of the folks who lived in the village had descended from people who had also lived there, and families were therefore quite old. Some even dated back to earlier centuries in the millenium. There was one family in particular who was quite wealthy, and whose ancestors dated back to the early millenium. They were the Riddle family.
The Riddles were easily the richest people in the area. They lived in a large manor, larger than any building in the area for miles, which sat at the top of a large hill, overlooking an enormous yard. They owned over half of the valley in which the village sat on. Predictably, they were not well-liked: Thomas and Mary Riddle were rude, uncaring, and did not mingle with anyone they considered to be below them, which described the entire town.
They had a son as well. Tom, the only child of the Riddles, was almost an exact replica of his father and mother. He mingled only with upper class members of society, was seen frequently with high-level women in the village, and rode on a horse through the village every day.
But if the Riddles were rich, their opposites were met only in another family, who lived on the other side of the village, out of the common way. This family was known as the Gaunts, and were only known through their snobbish attitudes rivaled only by the Riddles.
The Gaunts were everything the Riddles were not: dirt-poor, unhealthy, and living out of the sight of the other members of the village. The only thing Marvolo Gaunt, the family patriarch, cared about was his ancestry. He did not seem to care that he had nothing but heirlooms of his own ancestors.
He had two children, his wife (who had been Gaunt in female) having passed away shortly after their birth. Morfin and Merope, the son and daughter respectively, were born roughly around the same time, and were both completely independent; and yet, you would never find two who were related so closely that were so different.
Merope Gaunt was a sickly girl who did not know a life outside of being the family slave. She was the one who cooked and cleaned, and she was the one who carried the heirloom of Salazar Slytherin, an ancestor of the Gaunts who had lived almost a millennium previously and who had already made a large impact on the world by founding one of the magical schools of the world. This heirloom, a locket with the 'S' for Slytherin imprinted on it in emerald jewels, was treasured far more than she was, and Merope was to inherit it upon Marvolo Gaunt's death only by the fact that she was his daughter. She rarely spoke, and she almost never performed magic. Gaunt did not care, as long as she could cook.
Morfin was far different from his sister. Though mad, he had his father's pride, and he was to inherit his father's other heirloom, a ring with the Peverell (another ancestral family) coat of arms upon it. He was obedient to his father and, being a Parselmouth – the ability to speak to snakes – he had a love of serpents that seemed unmatched by all. He carried a wand and a long knife around, and those who were unfortunate enough to meet him first thought of madness. Like his father, he held a severe dislike of non-magical people, and attacked them when he saw them.
Morfin Gaunt rarely left the small property that the Gaunt family held. Their house was little more than a shack, and their land consisted of a small amount of earth surrounding it. He rarely spoke in any language other than Parseltongue.
However, he did remember what he had done just last night ...
Morfin watched from atop a tree in front of his house, staring at the gravel path that passed by their small area. He held his wand in one hand, the other holding a branch to keep himself steady. Years of practice had made him an expert; he did not even need magic. His knife, which he treasured almost as much as his wand, was attacked to his waist, bound by a small cord he had found on the ground, turned black with soot.
He was waiting for the Muggle to come. He wanted to see the Muggle who had his sister's attention and – quite clearly to him – her interest.
He giggled with delight. The filthy Muggle was going to wish he were dead after he was through with him.
He looked down at his wand. He had caused a lot of pain using this wand, but he had never killed another human with his wand. He merely liked toying with people and dealing pain. The Cruciatus curse, a curse that made one feel as though their innards were on fire, was one of his favorites. His father had used it on him several times in his past when Morfin had disobeyed him, but Gaunt had not done this in a long time. Perhaps it was this that had contributed to Morfin's madness, perhaps it was other factors; Morfin had long since stopped caring what the reasons were.
He had only killed another human on one occasion. When he was twelve years old, he had been in his yard near the tree he stood in now, talking to a small garden snake. Back then, he had not been nearly as mad; his eyes had not been looking in different directions, and he had not attacked anything he saw. The garden snake had been mentioning something about "hogwarts," whatever that was, when a man had passed by. He looked as Morfin made a horrible hissing noise, and the snake made the same noises back at him. The man had been terrified. Morfin, who was a little frightened by the reaction of the Muggle man, had tried to reassure him that there was nothing to fear from the snake, but it did not seem to work. The man had pulled out a fist-sized rock and chucked it at the snake, aiming at its head. Morfin had saved the snake by blasting the rock to pieces with a spell from his wand that his father had taught him, and the man had screamed. He'd then took a knife from his pocket, run over, and stabbed the snake through the head. That had been the last straw for Morfin. He had slowly pointed his wand at the man and fired a hex that covered the man's face and arms in boils. Screaming in pain, the man had not noticed Morfin pull the knife from the snake's head. The knife had elongated in length at Morfin's grip, and Morfin had silenced the man by chucking it at him. It had struck him in the chest, killing him instantly. Morfin had carried the knife with him ever since, its blade still as sharp as it had always been, and nobody had ever found out about the man's death. Ever since that day, Morfin had carried a deep-seated hatred of Muggles, especially Muggle men, for killing his snake, but he had never killed again. He had not come across many since that day, and had hexed those who came near him. Another one, a Muggle in particular, had come by many times now; he had seen the man from his tree. It was this Muggle who he was waiting for now. As for the snake, he had nailed it to his front door, as a tribute. His father had not cared enough to remove it, and Merope would stab herself with her brother's knife before disagreeing with what he did.
He heard the sound of hooves, and he looked up, broken from his own reverie. A horse was coming up the road, and on it was a young man, with dark hair and a handsome face. He looked down and saw Merope inside the window, staring at the young man with a look of lust on her pale face. Morfin took one look at him and he grinned madly, his insanity taking over once more, and stuck his wand in his pocket, beside his knife.
The man on the horse had come towards the tree when Morfin jumped, high up, into the air and landed five feet in front of the horse, which let out a sound of surprise and stopped in its tracks, almost dropping the man on it. Morfin pushed his long dirty hair out of his eyes and his grin deepened, almost like a sneer. Merope fell back and ran further into the house, not wanting to watch what she knew would happen.
The man stepped down from the horse, facing Morfin. He was not armed, and he looked at Morfin as though he were another piece of dirt on the gravel path.
'Do you know who I am?' the man asked with contempt in his voice, never taking his eyes off of Morfin's dirty hair, which was down to his shoulders. His eyes narrowed in disgust. 'Get out of my way, scum!'
Morfin merely grinned. He had not had much contact with other villagers in the six years since he had killed the other Muggle man; he had gone a few times, but not for more than a little ruckus. He did not care much what this man apparently thought of himself, and the other man seemed to realize this too late.
'I am the heir to the Riddle family,' said the man coldly. 'Get out of my way! I have no business with paupers like you!'
Morfin did not reply. His snake had slithered out of the tree towards him, and he bent down, lowering one arm, to let the snake slither to his shoulders. This made Riddle's look fill with even more disgust.
'I will not tell you again,' Riddle snarled. 'If you do not move, I will see to it that you are removed from this area for good.'
Morfin laughed at this, clutching the wand in his pocket tightly. Flicking his head to let the hair out of his eyes, he looked at Riddle, who now looked a little unnerved.
'I will not repeat myself! Get out of my –'
He was unable to finish this sentence, however, as Morfin had pulled his wand and fired off a spell faster than Riddle could conprehend. The hex had hit Riddle in the face, which was slowly covering itself in hives, which swelled all over Riddle.
Riddle screamed in pain, falling to his knees and clutching his face, as Morfin howled with mirthless laughter.
'You won't look so good to my sister now, Muggle!' Morfin sneered, speaking in Parseltongue. If Riddle had heard him, he would not have understood; he did not give any indication that he had heard, however, as he had started to run, screaming, from the spot, his horse galloping after him. Morfin laughed, watching them run, and walked back towards his tree, his snake hissing its approval to him in Parseltongue.
He stood in his tree, breaking from his reverie and watched the road, wondering if the Muggle would ever make a reappearance. His father had told him about Memory Charms, and he wondered if another wizard had performed one on the filthy Muggle after healing him. Morfin giggled again, remembering the Muggle's reaction to his spell. Grinning under his mop of hair, he walked into the shack, knowing that if the Muggle ever came back, he'd hex him away again. It had only been last night, but he snorted derisively at it all the same.
Inside, he saw his father ripping up what looked to be another Ministry letter.
'What's it this time, Father?' asked Morfin in Parseltongue, staring at the shreds of paper on the table and wondering what it could possibly have been about.
'Another letter from the ruddy Ministry of Magic,' sneered Gaunt, who did not pay the pile of shreds another look as he chucked them in the fireplace, which he lit by throwing a match in it. He quickly switched to Parseltongue as well. 'Who knows what it's about? They probably think you did something to another filthy Muggle. I don't know or care.'
Morfin grinned; his father knew full well about all the Muggles he had hexed. The Ministry had not done anything outside of sending letters yet, but Gaunt knew it was only a matter of time.
'Who cares, anyway?' sneered Gaunt. 'They're all worthless! They can't even defend themselves against us! Muggles and Mudbloods and filth ... It's us pure-bloods what matter, we're the real wizards!'
Morfin giggled.
'MEROPE!' shouted Gaunt, standing up again, his large arms drooping a little. 'GET OUT HERE!'
Almost immediately, Morfin's sister, Merope, came out of her room. She looked terrified. Obediently, she walked over to her father and stood still, not moving a muscle. Morfin grinned again, looking at his sister, who was almost trembling in her dirty long dress.
'Y-Yes, Father?' Merope asked, the fear in her voice evident even in her Parseltongue language.
'I want food. Make it!' Gaunt said.
Merope nodded and immediately went to the small section of the shack which looked like a kitchen. Rummaging through the cupboards filled with pots and pans, she worked frantically.
'What do you want to eat, Father?' called Merope, visibly shaking.
'I don't care what it is as long as it's meat!' called back Gaunt, and he walked out of the room, leaving Merope to gather the materials needed to make dinner hurriedly. Morfin stood to the side and watched her, amused by what was going on.
'How's the man?' Morfin asked with a small sneer.
Merope stopped in her tracks, wheeling around. Her face was pearly white.
'W-What do you m-mean?' she asked, horrified.
Morfin laughed mirthlessly.
'Father might not know, Merope, but I do. I've seen him. Nice looking bloke, ain't he? Or don't you remember how I saw you last night, when he came round on his horse? I saw you staring at him.' He looked very amused as he spoke, and he delighted in seeing Merope lose any remaining color she might have had, the pot of what looked to be roasted moose forgotten on the stove. 'You're lucky Father doesn't know, sister. He'd disown you without a second thought ... or kill you. You'd best hope I don't tell him. Oh,' he added as an afterthought, his grin widening maliciously, 'if he looks like he's got hives, don't be too offended. I thought it was a nice touch.'
Cackling madly at his deed, he left Merope, who now looked terrified for her life, standing next to the shelf, and walked back outside.
Morfin watched, his eyes still staring in opposite directions, but able to see quite clearly. A man was walking up the gravel path.
The man couldn't have looked more like an idiot than he did already if he tried. He was wearing what looked to be a swimming suit – Morfin had seen people pass by wearing them before – underneath a business suit. The man looked completely ridiculous. Morfin pulled out both his wand and his knife, which was a bit bloodier than usual, and continued to watch the man.
As he watched, he noticed that the man was walking right towards their area.
Morfin sneered a little. Though his ragged clothing hung from him like cloth, he knew the man would not care if he was here to see him; it made no difference even if he did care. Morfin narrowed his eyes, pushing his matted hair out of them, and bent down a little. He was going to take the man by surprise, because by the way the man was looking at his house, grimy and covered in moss, he knew the man was coming for them.
As the man walked into the yard, Morfin jumped from the tree, landing on his feet directly in front of the man, who stumbled and tripped over the tails of his coat, falling to the ground.
Morfin raised his knife, as though trying to make a point that he did not want the man here.
'You're not welcome!' he hissed.
The man, who had stood up and backed away slightly, looked confused, but Morfin ignored it – he was more interested in making sure the man fled, right now. It was the only thing that was crossing his mind at this moment.
'Er – good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic –' the man said, but Morfin cut across him, his madness taking over.
'You're not welcome!' he hissed again, wondering why the stupid man wasn't getting the point. Was he simply dim?
'Er – I'm sorry – I don't understand you ...' the man said, looking wary.
Morfin ignored his voice. He began to walk towards the man, waving his knife a little. He remembered how his father had mentioned the Ministry, and he had no interest in listening to this man, who was clearly a Ministry member. He held his wand tightly.
'Now, look –'
BANG!
Morfin's wand was at his face, and now the Ministry man fell to the ground again, clutching his nose, which had begun spewing out a yellowish liquid. Morfin laughed mirthlessly, and he raised his wand again –
'Morfin!'
His father's voice rang through the yard, and he lowered his wand again, not bothering to look around. Marvolo Gaunt ran over to where they were and looked down at the man on the ground. Morfin continued laughing.
'Ministry, is it?' Gaunt asked, looking down at the man with disgust.
'Correct!' said the man, looking angrily at the two while trying to staunch the flow of the yellow liquid. 'And you, I take it, are Mr Gaunt?'
'S'right. Got you in the face, did he?'
'Yes, he did!' snapped the man.
Marvolo's face did not soften in the slightest; on the contrary, he looked colder, more aggressive, than before.
'Should've made your presence known, then, shouldn't you?' he snarled. He gestured to their land. 'This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself.'
The man looked angrier at this as he got to his feet.
'Defend himself from what, man?' he asked coldly.
'Busybodies. Intruders.' Marvolo Gaunt's eyes narrowed. 'Muggles and filth.'
The Ministry official did not reply to this. He took out his own wand and stopped the flow of yellow liquid coming from his nose at once. Gaunt's look of disgust was quite prominant now, but he did not adjust it. His eyes met Morfin's, and he whispered to him in Parseltongue.
'Get in the house. Don't argue.'
Morfin didn't want to leave yet. He wanted to entertain himself some more with the stupid man. However, when his father gave him a look of warning, he decided not to argue the point. He strode over to the door, where the dead snake was still nailed, and walked through it, slamming it behind him.
Merope was still working on the food, but it didn't look as though she was doing a good job of it. There was a slight burning smell. He chuckled to himself and walked over to the armchair next to the fire, settling down in it. The snake he sometimes carried around was curled up next to it, and he picked it up. He crooned to it a little in Parseltongue, but it did not wake up.
Outside, he heard his father's voice yelling at the Ministry man:
'Are you pure-blood?'
'That's neither here nor there,' was the loud response.
'Mudblood lover ...' Morfin said quietly, giggling a little.
'... Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?'
'Inside?'
'Yes, Mr Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We've sent an owl –'
Morfin cackled again, remembering the letter his father had torn up, and went back to crooning to his snake. He had no real tune or words, but he whispered on, hardly caring.
'Hissy hissy, little snakey, slither on the floor ... You be good to Morfin or he'll nail you to the door ...'
'All right, all right, all right! Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it'll do you!'
The door opened again, and both his father and the man walked into the room. Merope shuffled a little, unnerved at the sight of her father, who would no doubt be angry at her for not finishing his meal up yet.
'M'daughter, Merope,' said Marvolo Gaunt indifferently.
'Good morning,' said the man quietly.
Morfin tuned out their voices, twisting his snake around in his fingers and looking at nothing else aside from it. He had stopped crooning, but he did not add anything to the conversation. A loud banging sound snapped him back into sense, however.
'Pick it up!' snarled Gaunt, looking at his daughter angrily.
Morfin continued looking at the wall, not bothering to listen to his father jeering and insulting Merope; he heard it all the time anyway. Merope was practically a Squib with her utter lack of ability to perform magic.
'... so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him – what about it, then?'
'Morfin has broken wizarding law,' the official man said with a firm voice.
'Morfin has broken wizarding law,' mocked his father, and Morfin cackled, but still did not look over. 'He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?'
Morfin listened a bit longer, then heard something about a head of office and slowly looked over at the man, who was staring angrily at his father.
'I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr Gaunt,' the man was saying, looking more and more wary of the situation, yet colder as well.
'That's right!' yelled his father, who brandished the Peverell ring in the man's face. 'See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms on it?'
'I've really no idea, and it's quite beside the point, Mr Gaunt. Your son has committed –'
The rest of the man's reply was something that Morfin did not hear, for Merope had gasped in pain; she was being dragged across the floor by the locket hanging around her neck. Marvolo Gaunt was intent on proving to the man that they were no scum.
'Slytherin's! Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?'
Morfin found it hard to listen, as his sister had staggered by him, gasping for breath and massaging her neck, making loud noises to save herself from choking.
'... pure-bloods, wizards all – more than you can say, I don't doubt!' roared his father, who spat at the ground at the man's feet. Morfin cackled at the sight, still twirling his snake around in his fingers, and did not look up.
'... performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives.'
Morfin laughed again, remembering the sight of it ... the Riddle boy screaming in pain, dashing away ... tearing at his face, covered in hives, the whole way ...
'Be quiet, boy,' hissed his father angrily, and his laughter silenced.
Still staring at his snake, the next thing Morfin heard was, 'Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and pain to that same Mugg–'
Morfin suddenly stopped listening to the man, as he had heard something. It sounded like laughter. It was coupled by the sound of hooves on a horse. Morfin hissed; he knew who it was. He looked up, turning his head to the sound of the voices. Merope had lost the color in her face again, but this time, Morfin said nothing about it; he was too keen on paying attention to what the horseman said this time.
'My God, what an eyesore!' said a loud female voice, to Morfin's slight surprise; when had a woman been with the man the last time? 'Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?
'It's not ours,' said the voice of Tom Riddle. 'Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village –'
The girl roared with laughter, and Morfin, who was looking to jinx the man again, grasped the arms of the chair to stand, dropping his snake.
'Keep your seat!' snapped his father in Parseltongue, and he obediently stayed on the armchair, though he did not take his eyes away from the door.
'Tom, I might be wrong – but has somebody nailed a snake to the door?' the woman asked.
'Good Lord, you're right!' Riddle exclaimed. 'That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecelia, darling.'
And as Tom Riddle and the Cecelia girl kept going, their voices growing quieter and quieter in the distance, Morfin looked over at his sister, grinning madly.
'"Darling",' he said, and there was a slight cackle in his voice. '"Darling", he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway.'
It looked certain that Merope would pass out soon, she had lost so much color in her face, and the response nearly made her faint in terror:
'What's that?' snarled their father, and he stared at Merope, then Morfin, then back at Merope, looking mad himself. 'What did you say, Morfin?'
Morfin looked at him with a vicious grin and said, 'She likes looking at that Muggle. Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night, hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn't she?'
Merope shook her head frantically, but Morfin merely cackled. Gaunt looked at her.
'Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle? Is it true?' He stepped towards her. 'My daughter – pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin – hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?'
'But I got him, Father!' Morfin hissed, still cackling. 'I got him as he went by, and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?'
Marvolo Gaunt lost complete control.
'You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!' he screamed, grabbing her by the neck.
It was only seconds before Gaunt was blasted backwards off of his daughter, and Morfin turned his head to see the Ministry man with his wand out. That was the last straw for Morfin. He roared in anger, grabbed his wand and knife, and dashed from his chair, slashing with his knife and waving his wand madly, only distinctly aware that spells of all sorts were flying from it.
The Ministry man was in full flight, running as fast as he could away from the cottage, crashing into a horse as he ran. Morfin stopped, looking forward at the man on the horse, and was tempted to curse Tom Riddle right off the horse, but thought better of it. Turning on his heel, he walked back into the shack, slamming the door behind him once again.
The man had returned shortly after. This time, however, he had brought reinforcements. Morfin tried hard to fight off the half a dozen or so wizards that were here to bring him before the Ministry of Magic, but it was for naught: while he managed to injure three of them, they managed to bring him in.
Morfin did not argue from then on. He was brought before the court, laughed at them when asked for a defense, and was thrown in Azkaban prison without a second thought. The dark, demonic Dementors had little effect on him; his madness was not made of happiness, and this caused little interest for the Dementors. His father was in a cell near his, sentenced to six months in the prison, while he had three years.
The three years passed quickly. After he was released, Morfin returned to the village, to his cottage, to find that his father had passed away, and his sister had run for it. He later learned that she had hoodwinked the same Muggle he had always hated into eloping with him, only for the Muggle to return several months later, claiming the same thing: he had been hoodwinked. The Muggle had returned to his high status, and Morfin lived alone, not caring about the future.
That was to change.
Though Morfin did not know or care, it had been several years since the day he had been imprisoned. The days whittled away without a thought from Morfin Gaunt, who drank them away, letting the house dissolve into little more than a giant dumpster.
He had not seen the Muggle called Tom Riddle in a long time. Riddle was presumably taking over the family businesses, and Morfin did not go after him again. He wanted the man dead, but he did not care enough to find him. He did not care much about anything.
That night, he heard the door knock. He jerked up from his armchair, his hair now so long, coupled with a long beard, that it covered his face. He grabbed his knife and wand and looked up to see the very man he hated so much, carrying a lamp to light his way.
Morfin knew nothing but rage.
'YOU!' he screamed. 'YOU!'
He jumped up and ran at the young man, raising his knife as though to hack at him, but was surprised by the reply:
'Stop.'
The reply was in Parseltongue, and it shocked Morfin enough that he smashed into the table, knocking a bunch of garbage and pans over. He stared at the young man, then spoke up.
'You speak it?'
'Yes, I speak it,' was the reply.
The intruder looked quite disgusted at Morfin.
'Where is Marvolo?' he asked.
Morfin looked confused and replied, 'Dead. Died years ago, didn't he?'
'Who are you, then?' the Riddle look-alike asked, frowning at the place and at Morfin, as though he, too, were confused.
'I'm Morfin, ain't I?'
'Marvolo's son?'
'Course I am, then ...' Morfin trailed off, pushing his hair out of his face. The ring of the Peverells was on his finger; the intruder's eyes looked on it for a split second. He spoke up again. 'I thought you was that Muggle. You look mighty like that Muggle.'
'What Muggle?' the younger man asked sharply.
'That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,' was Morfin's slightly angry reply. He spat at the floor. 'You look right like him.' He remembered the name suddenly. 'Riddle.' Then his memory came back in full for a moment. 'But he's older now, i'n 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it ... He come back, see,' he added, clutching the table so he wouldn't fall over.
'Riddle came back?' the young man said, moving a little closer.
'Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!' He spat at the floor again. 'Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?'
The other man did not say anything, but Morfin continued anyway: 'Dishonored us, she did, that little slut!' He looked at the other man now, a thought striking him. 'And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit ... it's over ...'
He felt faint, and he only vaguely noticed that the other man was walking towards him, holding his wand up ... and all he felt was darkness ... when he awoke, it was brighter, and the other man was gone. He looked around, and with horror, realized his ring was gone as well.
For some reason, he seemed to have a good memory of going to the big house over the way and killing the people who lived in it, because it was all he could think about when he did not dwell on the ring. He had gone to it, raised his wand and killed Tom Riddle, the Muggle he hated so much. He had killed Riddle's parents along with him. He knew that he had done it, and yet he didn't.
He was arrested for the murders, but he did not care. All that mattered to him was that his father's ring was gone, and his father would look at him in shame ... As he was carted back to Azkaban, the ring was all that was on his mind, and he could not think of what could have happened to it.
He did recall an older man with long hair and a long beard coming to visit him, but he had had no idea who he was, and had not cared. The man had used some kind of magic to prowl through his memories, and as he did, Morfin saw visions he did not recall: visions of the filthy Muggle walking out of the shack, the ring of Marvolo Gaunt clutched in his hand ...
And all he would remember before he died in Azkaban was the laughter of a voice that sounded like Tom Riddle's, jeering at him from beyond the grave ...