A/N: This is for round seven of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I am the Seeker for the Wasps. The prompt was to use the movie Green Lantern for inspiration. I chose to focus on the ring itself and the power it holds as inspiration for this fic about the Gaunt ring.

Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide, very undetailed suicide, and there is a line of mentioning it as a weakness. Please note, the Author does NOT feel this way about the topic, but the character does.

Final word count (according to google docs): 1466

The stone had been created out of spite. Death had been furious, the three wizards had found a way and robbed him of their lives. But with each gift they would ask for, he intended to claim them still.

So when Cadmus Peverell had asked for a way to bring back the dead (Oh how death had seethed at that), the stone was granted the ability. But the catch was, it would not—could not—bring them back in physical form. No, they'd be stuck behind a veil, for only the summoner to see. They'd be trapped.

Before Cadmus killed himself to join his long lost love, he'd written a note, and left the small stone on it. He left it for his children, warning them of what it could do, and that they should be prepared for the consequences.

The stone was passed down the line. A few generations later, someone had decided to put it in a ring. The ring would hold the reminder of the power the family had. The power to pull those they loved away from Death. It was a power they had to be careful with. The price for punishing Death came at the cost of also punishing whomever the stone summoned, trapping them in the land of the living despite belonging in the land of the dead.

Most of the family did not use it. Some thought they were strong enough, but they were always wrong. And so the ring would pass to their next of kin. Some were never tempted by the power, having heard the ways it tortured both the summoned soul and the summoner.

It went for several generations, unused, sitting in the ring.

Marvolo Gaunt had been but a teenager when he found his father dying. The boy (almost a man) had come home and found his father lying in bed, having just taken a potion. He did not rush to aid him. He did not even try. He didn't care enough to. But he stood at his father's side as the man lay dying. He watched as each breath became harder, a small, secret little satisfaction in it.

"Son," his father croaked through labored breaths, "be wary of the ring. It's power will sing to you. It will beg you to use it. But don't be tempted by it."

"What are you talking about?"

Marvolo had long thought his father crazy, and believed this part of his father's rantings.

"Do not ever lose it," his father continued, ignoring the question. "It is one of our most sacred heirlooms. Given to our family by Death himself."

Marvolo coughed, laughing at the thought. He didn't believe in such nonsense. Of course, he'd heard the tale of the three brothers, and as his family had told it, they were descended from one of the three men it was based on. And he'd never been stupid enough to believe it.

"I wanted to see your mother," he said. "She is so beautiful. But she is sad, being trapped here. I will be joining her soon."

Weak. His father was weak. And Marvolo had no respect for him, only for the prized family heirloom that proved they were Pure.

Marvolo didn't believe in the powers of the rings. He didn't believe in the myths. And he'd never much cared for his father. He'd return to school after the break, and when he returned home again in May, he'd be done for good with the wretched place, and he'd be free of the crazy old man.

The old man wheezed, a hand flying to his chest before he reached out for his son. Marvolo watched him with disdain before relenting, seeing that his father was holding something he wanted to hand over. Marvolo offered out his hand, cringing when his father gripped it tightly in his own, pressing a small piece of metal between them.

"Do not use it if you can help it," the old man wheezed once more. "Not unless you want to see those you love tortured."

But Marvolo didn't love anyone. And he did not even love his own father. He was content to watch the crazy fool die because of his own weakness.

Only a few more minutes passed before Marvolo watched his father take his last breath.

Over the years, Marvolo wore the ring with pride. He wore it and flaunted it, despite his family living in poverty. And when he found a suitable pureblood wife, he wed her. There was no love.

He first felt love the day his son was born. Morfin was everything Marvolo wanted in an heir, everything he needed. He felt love for the boy, and welcomed him. And that affection even spread to his wife, affection for giving him such a perfect son.

And then, Merope was born. The small, sickly girl-child born early, who had claimed her mother's life as she entered the world. He didn't want her. He didn't want to keep her. But his wife's dying wish was that he would take care of their children.

He resented Merope. The hate towards her grew and festered. And he treated her like a slave. He justified it, saying she only needed to know how to cook and clean and take care of a husband. He didn't think it wrong. He thought she would appreciate it, that she loved him. But that meddling Bob Ogden had to come into their home. He had to intervene. He ruined everything.

Six months, for six months, Marvolo rotted in Azkaban. He was weakened over the time. But he held out hope, hope that he would return home to a clean home, a grateful daughter, and a hot meal. Instead the house was cold, dark, filthy, and all he found of his daughter was a note saying she'd left to get married.

He managed to take care of himself for three months, with his son's sentence lasting years to his six months., that ring being the only thing he had left after Merope had taken the locket. He glared at it every day. But in the fourth month, he stopped caring, and that ring was calling him in his weakened state. He listened to it every day. He listened to beg him to use it. And while he listened, he slowly withered away.

And then he caved, so close to Death's door anyway. He turned it thrice over in his hand.

His wife and Merope stood before him. Neither was happy to see him, but he did not understand why he was seeing Merope. She was off and married was she not.

"Why are you here?" he asked her.

"Do not speak to her like that," his wife chided, coming to stand between them, though he could still see his daughter, barely, behind the woman. "You promised me, and you lied."

"No, I didn't. I took care of her!" He was frantic. Hadn't he done just that all those years? Hadn't he fed her, clothed her? He'd taken care of their children, just like he'd been asked.

"You used her, and abused her. You hated her. You left her alone in the world."

"No," he moaned. A terrible guilt building up inside him. As if only nearing Death could he understand the truth of his actions.

"You have a grandson," Merope said, stepping out from behind her mother. "His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I named him for you, father."

Marvolo tried to spit, his body not being able to properly produce the liquid or the action. "No! He is no family of mine."

"He is!" she declared. "And all the world will know it!"

Marvolo was chanting over and over, "No. No. No."

His wife and daughter watched him with angry eyes, waiting for his dying moments, Death standing by to claim him.

It was the first time the ring had ever been alone. Marvolo had dropped it in his final moments, and the ring spent years lying on the ground, feet from Marvolo's decaying corpse. It spent years waiting for the next in the line to claim it.

Morfin returned home and claimed the ring shortly after finding his father's corpse. The ring could not work it's magic on the violent boy, the boy who cared for no one, and spat on everything, though it tried. It tried to tempt him with his sister and his father and his mother. With a little more time, it might have worked, it might have persuaded the boy. But it would not have its chance before it was claimed by another, and one who was too strong, someone who could not feel love, and did not care who died. And the ring sat in the basin, waiting, slumbering, until someone else would come along.