Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed

Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling through

nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness.

It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts’ house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere

Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only

light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an

armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his

right hand and a short knife in his left.

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome—the teenage

Voldemort.

Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the

many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

“YOU!” he bellowed. “YOU!”

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.

“Stop.”

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they

contemplated each other. The man broke it.

”You speak it?”

”Yes, I speak it,” said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for

Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.

”Where is Marvolo?” he asked.

”Dead,” said the other. ”Died years ago, didn't he?”

Riddle frowned.

”Who are you, then?”

”I'm Morfin, ain't I?”

”Marvolo's son?”

”‘Course I am, then...”

Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.

”I thought you was that Muggle,” whispered Morfin. ”You look mighty like that Muggle.”

”What Muggle?” said Riddle sharply.

”That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way,” said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them.

”You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, i'n ‘e? He's older'n you, now I think on it...”

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support.

”He come back, see,” he added stupidly.

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, ”Riddle came back?”

”Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!” said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. ”Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. Where's the locket, eh,

where's Slytherin's locket?”

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, ”Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you,

coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit... it's over...”

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle,

extinguishing everything... Dumbledore's fingers closed tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in

Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's eyes after that impenetrable darkness.