Chapter 8
The cool, swirling silver of the giant Pensieve engulfed Harry and Hermione as they were plunged into the first memory. Linda had asked the question, and they found themselves reliving an event that seemed so long ago, yet felt so raw when seen through Ron’s eyes.
They were back in their first year at Hogwarts, the night of the troll attack in the girls' bathroom. Harry and Hermione could feel Ron’s heart hammering in his chest, the fear almost suffocating. They watched as he burst into the bathroom, seeing Hermione huddled in the corner, terror-stricken. The dread was overwhelming, and both Harry and Hermione felt a pang of guilt alongside Ron’s, knowing that she had been alone, scared because of something they had inadvertently caused.
Then came the moment of action—Ron’s arm lifted, his wand pointing at the troll. They could feel his hesitation, the panic bubbling inside him, but also a flicker of determination. When he shouted Wingardium Leviosa, it was as though all his fear and doubt poured into the incantation. The exhilaration that followed as the club flew from the troll’s hands and knocked it out cold filled them both. Victory, relief, and disbelief coursed through Ron’s veins—and through theirs.
But there was no time to process the emotion before they were yanked out of the memory, resurfacing in the Pensieve room. Linda’s voice echoed faintly, already asking the next question.
They were dragged back into another memory, this time into the deadly chess match from their first year. The giant chess pieces loomed large, and Harry and Hermione found themselves in the thick of the game once more. Only this time, they felt it through Ron’s perspective. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him—the fear that something might happen to Harry or Hermione, the knowledge that this was the only way forward.
They could feel his mind working, his fierce determination overriding his fear. Ron moved his knight into place, knowing full well what was going to happen. The dread as the white queen raised her arm and struck his piece down was palpable, but beneath the fear, there was resolution. He would do whatever it took to ensure Harry could win, even if it meant sacrificing himself. His body crumpled to the ground, and as Harry and Hermione were forced out of the memory, the sharp emotion still clung to them.
Linda asked the third question, and once again, they were pulled back into Ron’s memories.
This time, it was from their second year, when Ron, Fred, and George had rescued Harry from Number 4 Privet Drive. As they floated through Ron’s eyes, Harry could feel the knot of fear and determination building inside him. The sight of Harry’s emaciated, starved form hit Ron hard—guilt, worry, and anger all swirled together. There was no hesitation in Ron’s resolve to save his friend.
Harry, seeing himself through Ron’s eyes, felt the full weight of his friend’s emotions: the shock at how thin he’d become, the frustration that the Dursleys had let him suffer. They could feel the fierce protective instinct coursing through Ron as they pulled Harry into the car.
Once again, they were yanked out of the memory, and this time Linda allowed them a few minutes to recover. Both Harry and Hermione were panting, their minds spinning from the flood of emotions and experiences. This wasn’t just reliving memories—they were feeling Ron’s emotions as if they were their own.
Hermione’s eyes flickered to the center of the basin. Ron was no longer standing; he had collapsed to his knees, visibly drained. Hermione almost wanted to call the session off, but Linda, already calculating and efficient, asked the next question.
They were dragged into the memory of the Whomping Willow, where the great black dog—Sirius—had dragged Ron into the tunnel. They could feel Ron’s pain, his leg broken and throbbing, but overriding that was his fear for Harry and Hermione. Despite his injury, all he wanted was to protect them.
Then came the revelation. The dog was not just a dog—it was Sirius Black. The surge of confusion and betrayal hit them like a tidal wave when Ron learned that his pet rat, Scabbers, had been Peter Pettigrew all along. The anger, disbelief, and shock were overwhelming, and as they were pulled out of the memory, both Harry and Hermione felt emotionally drained.
The next memory was during their sixth year, in the Department of Mysteries. The moment the memory began, the pain hit them like a jolt—Ron, wrapped in tendrils of the brain, was being attacked. They could feel the searing pain as the brain’s thoughts invaded Ron’s mind. His disorientation, the terror of losing control over his thoughts, and the helplessness as it all spiraled out of control washed over them. The pain was indescribable, gnawing at their very senses.
Then, Linda asked the sixth question: the fight during the Horcrux hunt. They plunged into the memory of the night in the tent, when Ron had walked out. The influence of the locket weighed heavily on Ron’s mind, feeding his insecurities and doubts. The bitterness, the anger, and the crushing sense of abandonment were tangible. They could feel how the locket twisted his thoughts, warping his emotions until all that remained was a desperate need to leave. The heartbreak as he walked away from Harry and Hermione was as sharp now as it had been then.
But then came the final question—the seventh, the one meant to test the truth of this man’s identity. Linda asked about the day Voldemort was defeated.
For a long moment, nothing happened. No familiar tug, no rush of memories. There was only stillness. Harry and Hermione floated in the Pensieve, waiting. But there was no memory. No recollection. Nothing but an empty void where the answer should have been.
They were pulled back into the real world, the silence in the room deafening. Linda’s voice was steady as she announced, "This concludes the list of questions provided by the Minister." She paused, looking between Harry and Hermione. "Do you have any further questions?"
Both Harry and Hermione shook their heads, still reeling from what they had experienced.
At the center of the basin, the Ron lookalike lay motionless, unconscious from the toll the process had taken on him. His face was pale, and his body limp.
Hermione and Harry climbed out of the basin, their robes drenched in the silvery liquid. They levitated Ron out of the center, gently laying him on the floor. His chest rose and fell steadily, but he remained unconscious.
As Harry and Hermione stood studying the unconscious form of Ron, both still reeling from what they had just experienced, Linda Greengrass approached them, her expression calm and composed, as if unaffected by the torrent of emotions they had just been through. She cleared her throat gently, catching their attention.
"There’s something else," Linda said, her voice steady but quiet. "Throughout the entire process, I analyzed the subject's memories. There are no traces of memory tampering, no signs of manipulation, and no evidence of dark magic at work in his mind."
Hermione’s breath hitched, her eyes widening in disbelief. "You’re sure?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Linda nodded. "I’ve run a full analysis. If anyone had altered his memories, there would have been residual traces, even from decades ago. But there's nothing. His memories are his own."
The words hung in the air like a heavy weight, sinking deeper into the already overwhelming atmosphere. Harry glanced down at the unconscious figure on the floor, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.
"If there’s no tampering," Harry muttered, still struggling to wrap his mind around the situation, "then... this really is Ron, isn’t it?"
Hermione stood frozen, her mind spinning with the implications of what Linda had just confirmed. She knelt beside the motionless figure that looked so much like her husband, her heart pounding as a fragile hope began to stir within her.
"I don’t know, Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But if it is him... then how is any of this possible?"
Harry had no answer, and for once, the silence in the room felt even heavier than before.