Into the Pensieve
Tuesday, September 3rd, 1996
“In the Pensieve, you must visit every memory labeled ‘Tom Riddle’ that I have stored. With Harry. It is imperative that Harry sees them.”
“Harry!” He’d been pushing it off for far too long now; there was no point in postponing it any longer, he had to fulfill Dumbledore’s wishes and see the memories of this ‘Tom Riddle,’ whoever he was, because it was clear from Dumbledore’s voice he was important. Not to mention Draco had just had a nightmare that night where Dumbledore came to him to repeat those words, looking deeply concerned. He never believed in superstitions before, but it still felt like a sign.
“I need to talk to you,” Was the only explanation he gave to the boy and grabbed him by the arm to drag him into a broom closet.
“What - Draco can we at least get breakfast -”
“Herbology is after breakfast!” Draco snapped, ignoring the way Harry’s cheeks had just flushed, probably due to the fact that their faces were as close as they had been on Harry’s bed at the Burrow, before he had so rudely got up and left the room in a rush. That had been the nail in the coffin back then that Draco’s painful feelings were not reciprocated, but couldn’t dwell on feelings with a war going on.
“Look, remember back at Grimmauld Place when I told you Dumbledore told me to tell you he cared about you?” A cloudy mist of grief covered Harry’s green eyes, but he nodded anyway, and Draco continued, “Well that’s not the only thing he told me. He asked that I take you to see every memory in his office labeled ‘Tom Riddle.’” Instantly, Harry stiffened. The mist cleared, replaced with a hard glare.
“Do you…” Draco creased his brows with concern. “Do you know who that is?”
Harry swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bounced. Of course he knew who that was. The name haunted his every dream and memory since Second Year, when a handsome young man the same age he was now wrote his name in the air and revealed who he really was in the second of many times Harry had been tricked or fooled so easily. Tom Marvolo Riddle… Merlin did he know who it was.
“Tom Riddle,” Harry swallowed once more, as his voice shook on the name, which was foolish. How could he easily say ‘Voldemort’ then shiver on his Muggle name? “Riddle is the one who opened the Chamber of Secrets when Moaning Myrtle died, back when he was sixteen, and he did it again in our Second Year. Riddle is the one who gathered followers throughout his schooling and went on to lead them into the first wizarding world, where he killed my parents. Riddle…” Harry inhaled a deep breath. “Is Lord Voldemort.”
Draco widened his eyes, taken aback, and looked down at their feet for a moment, pressed together in the closeness of the closet. “Oh,” he breathed, sighing deeply as understanding flooded him for why it was so ‘imperative’ Harry see those memories. “Oh.”
“Dumbledore has a - had a Pensieve in his office,” Harry said, hastily trying to change the subject. “We can look at the memories through there… How about Friday night?”
Draco locked eyes with him and, after a moment of opening and closing his mouth again, nodded sadly. “Sure… sure… I’ll tell McGonagall.” He grabbed the handle and burst out of the closet, hugging his arms to his chest as he walked off towards the Great Hall.
Harry watched him go, and couldn’t blame him a little bit. He was probably thinking of how Riddle had been behind the Chamber of Secrets which therefore meant his dad had been helping Voldemort as early as second year, voluntarily. Perhaps a small part of him had thought Lucius Malfoy was doing all of this because he had no choice, and maybe that was true now, but it didn’t change the fact that he truly was not a good person. Harry had a dad everyone told him how much they loved - he couldn’t imagine having a dad everyone hated.
-*-*-*-
When the Quartet entered the Transfiguration classroom after Herbology to find that, unlike Snape, Professor Jones had been more humble in moving into her classroom and only removed the various animal cages, stacking them instead behind the desk, and pulled blinds down on all the windows so that the room was only eerily lit by candles sitting at each of their desks.
There was a bigger selection of people then in their Potions class, much bigger, but slightly smaller than DADA, which included the loss of Neville. Apparently, he had not qualified for a N.E.W.T. level, as he had feared on the train.
Harry allowed himself to bravely sit at the front, having grown to quite enjoy Transfiguration since Fourth Year and wanting to make a good fire impression, so Draco sat there as well, Ron and Hermione sitting at the table behind them. Craning his neck around, Harry could see every Gryffindor save Neville had gotten in, and Lavender Brown, curiously, had sat herself in a seat at the table beside Ron’s, to whom she was gazing at dreamily.
He met her eyes and awkwardly waved before gripping his chair and shifting it closer to Hermione’s. Taking notice, the girl smiled warmly and laid a hand on his hand in response, and for a moment he seemed hopeful, but she only kissed his cheek and left him sighing.
From what Harry understood, Hermione hadn’t given Ron as much of the attention even now that they were an open couple as Ron had been expecting, and hadn’t even kissed him on the lips much since their first kiss - which he had learned to be during the food fight last April - much less snogged him yet.
The light chatter of the class died down instantly when the door, which had remained open since they stepped in and offered their only other source of light besides the candles, slammed shut. Everyone immediately jerked around in their seats in confusion and stared, wide eyed, as a cloudy mist began to creep its way from the crack below the door and across the floor, snaking its way around their ankles and up to their wrists.
Suddenly, every lamp on their desk flitted out until only the one on Professor Jones’s desk remained, and when they all turned forwards, they saw a woman standing with a cloak draped over her, head hanging low, obscuring her face.
“Welcome, children…”
There was a great deal of screaming as the mist turned to ropes binding some to their chairs by the ankles and wrists and their desks suddenly turned to several various beasts; giant spiders, massive cobras, and roaring tigers all sent them all into screaming fits as they wrestled in their chairs before Professor Jones raised a hand over her head and snapped her fingers together, and just like that, the animals morphed back into plain desks, the robes vanished into thin air, and every candle relit as the curtains on the walls vanished.
“... to Transfiguration class!” Professor Jones exclaimed, throwing her cloak back and grinning at them, her black bob now free and frizzy from a hat and her attire much more casual than the night before in a sleeveless dress robe over a white dress shirt that appeared to be more of a suit jacket on top and matching skirt on the bottom, but Harry had long since gotten to the Wizarding World’s peculiar fashion tastes.
“I hope you enjoyed that small taste to the extent of Transfiguration magic. As you can see, when you’ve reached the level of expertise as I and your predecessor Professor McGonagall have, you can easily turn a dangerous situation to a safe one with the use of Switching and Vanishment, and the reverse if you so desire.”
The class began to glance around at each awkwardly, embarrassed that they had screamed so much in front of each other and gotten spooked by something that never really was that harmless but turned their attentions back to the Professor when she clapped her hands together and began pacing before her desk, one arm behind her back, her other hand’s finger wagging with her every word. “Now, I know for certain that Professor McGonagall has given you quite the thorough education on Transfiguration already, I’ve never met a witch better at her craft than she, and I would say any witch or wizard if not for the late Albus Dumbledore.” She pressed a hand to her chest here, bowing her head, before continuing, “But as your new teacher I still wish to see what you are all capable of.”
“So,” She circled around to the chalkboard McGonagall always kept behind her desk and rapped on it with her wand. “Who can come up here and write me the Transfiguration alphabet?”
Hermione’s hand hit the air before Harry had a hope of raising his, and she gratefully accepted the chalk from Professor Jones and wrote the twenty-six characters of the Transfiguration alphabet and the letters they translated to in the English language beneath it. She seemed quite proud of this feat, despite this being something they learned on day one.
“And the Transfiguration formula, anyone?” Harry walked up and wrote the a, v, w, c, and z formula before returning to his desk.
“Excellent, now in these boxes,” She pulled open drawers in her desk and began placing stacks of thin brown boxes on top. “I have various different insects. My task is for all of you to turn them into buttons. This is a Second Year level spell, so it shouldn’t be too hard, but then again, that’s what I’m testing you for.” With a wave of her wand, Professor Jones sent all of the boxes to each of their desks, one for each student, then waved her wand at the chalkboard which magically began to write ‘10:00’ which he assumed was a timer for ten minutes.
“Begin!” She called out and everyone immediately opened up their boxes and recoiled at the crawling bugs inside, but Harry stomached it anyways and retrieved a beetle on top, tapping it with his wand and muttering, “Conjunctionem verto.” He smiled as he watched the beetle freeze in its eight legged tracks and morph into a smooth black button. Merlin, he missed Transfiguration.
The room was soon filled with the soft sound of students muttering, “Conjunctionem verto.” to their beetles until the timer ran out and Professor Jones walked along their desks, seemingly more pleased with every one she passed.
“All of you did marvelous! It appears Ms. Granger and Mr. Potter were the best, however, so take twenty points to Gryffindor. Now, can any of you tell me what an Animagus is?”
This time, Harry’s hand was able to beat Hermione’s for once, and he was called on with a polite smile from Professor Jones. “An Animagus is a person who is able to completely change their appearance into that of a certain animal - their ‘spirit animal,’ I suppose - and isn’t born with the ability. They also have to be licensed by the Ministry.”
“Very good, very good,” Professor Jones nodded as she turned back to the class, having been copying all of Harry’s words underneath the Transfiguration formula. “I don’t trust any of you can recall the intricate process to becoming an Animagus?” Even Hermione appeared stumped. “Yes, it’s not one usually taught. Well, let’s see…” She checked the watch on her wrist and frowned. “Perhaps later. For now, how about we take the next five minutes to perform color changing charms on our buttons?” She tapped the chalkboard, so again it held a timer in white chalk. “Begin!”
“Colovaria,” was the incantation that now filled the classroom for next five minutes, in which Professor Jones paced around their desks and nodded her head approvingly at the now blue, orange, pink, or any other color buttons. When that was over, she presented them with cages of ferrets - Harry and Draco smirked at each other for this one, and he could see other H.O.O.D. members doing the same - she wanted them to turn to feather dusters, and the reverse. By that point, they’d reached a topic from each year of Transfiguration, and eyed her expectantly as she sat on top of her desk so that her legs dangled just above the floor.
“Well it appears that I have a good understanding of all of your abilities…” She held up her wrist, smirking at them and raising five fingers which she suspensefully began to count down with. The kids played along, slowly reaching for their bags beneath their feet, and then… The bell rang, filling the room with the sound, and they all stepped up, Professor Jones hopping off her desk and clapping her hands, bidding them farewell.
As the students flooded into the corridor outside any passerby could easily observe from the chatter that they quite liked their new Professor, and expected it would be a lot more laid back and smooth than Transfiguration under McGonagall’s direction.
-*-*-*-
Friday, September 6th
“Montrose Magpies!” The gargoyle turned, revealing a staircase Draco and Harry swiftly stepped on to, which allowed them to rise up like a stone lift. Catching Harry’s curious expression, Draco smirked and explained, “It’s her favorite team.” In regard to the password.
The gargoyle stopped and the boys stepped out, Draco striding forwards to knock on the double wooden doors. Within moments, they opened, and McGonagall stood, confused, but when she saw who had knocked they could since a swift leaving of all tenseness. “Come in,” she gestured them inside, and Harry took a deep breath before stepping in, afraid of how the office might have changed.
It appeared McGonagall had been unwilling to change much at all, especially not in removing Fawkes’s perch, which still sat beside Dumble - McGonagall’s desk, but most of the various instruments covering the desk had been cleared, leaving only the smoke filled ball Harry had seen Dumbledore talk to a year ago after Arthur Weasley was killed, what looked to be a more professional sneakoscope, a tin of biscuits, other items Harry recognized from McGonagall’s office when she was Transfiguration Professor, and, laid out across the edge on a velvet piece of cloth, a number of small vials filled with silvery liquid.
As Harry continued to take in the room, stopping briefly to gawk at Dumbledore’s portrait, sleeping soundly above them, Draco strode over to the vials, frowning at them.
“Every memory he kept labeled ‘Tom Riddle,’” McGonagall said, coming to sit behind her desk, “Though you’ll find he gave some of these many names. I assume that simply means the memory at which they come from, as of course he couldn’t get memories from Tom Riddle himself.” Harry turned his head away from the sleeping former Headmaster to frown over at McGonagall.
“He told you?” He asked, the question coming out maybe a slight bit more accusatory than he had intended. “He told you who he was?”
“Harry,” McGonagall frowned at him sadly, “I went to school with him.”
A chill raced down the Gryffindor’s spine and the Slytherin jerked his head up to stare at her in surprise. “Sorry,” Harry mumbled, and instead turned to the cabinet he had previously looked through the Pensieve in, opening it up and pulling the bowl filled with swirling, clear liquid out and setting it on the desk.
“Are they in order?” Draco asked, eyeing the row of vials up and down. “Which do we do first -”
“Bob Ogden,” Everyone looked around in surprise, turning to the portrait that had suddenly spoken up and staring, wide eyed, as Albus Dumbledore looked down upon them with his piercing blue gaze. “He was an employee for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Your first memory is on a visit he made in the course of his duties. Minerva,” He turned to McGonagall, who jolted out of her chair, eager to await any order from him. “Will you leave the boys alone for a moment? This could get private.”
McGonagall nodded her head deeply, saying, “Of course, Albus,” and striding out of the room without a second glance to Harry and Draco, who were eyeing the Pensieve apprehensively.
“Professor -” Harry looked up, and frowned when he saw Dumbledore appeared to have fallen back to sleep, chest rising and falling evenly. Sighing, he looked back at the Pensieve, running his finger around the rim as Draco shuffled through the vials, looking for the one labeled with Bob Ogden’s name.
“Here we are,” He raised it to the candlelight, reading, “‘Bob Ogden and Gaunt House.’ Gaunt… Why that’s a pureblood family, Harry, did you know -” He looked over at his friend and frowned when he saw the uncomfortable expression on the boy's face.
“What is it?”
“I’ve been in the Pensieve before,” said Harry, staring into its clear depths. “What I saw… Wasn’t pleasant,” he looked over hopelessly at the crystal bottle in Draco’s hand. “I doubt this will be either.”
“It’ll be alright,” Draco stepped closer to Harry, so that their shoulders were touching, and reaching down to squeeze his hand. “This time you have me.” He said with a wink and Harry managed to smile, turning pink when Draco turned away and popped off the cork, pouring the silvery contents into the Pensieve. He had just smelled that same vanilla scent, which he had been convincing himself was just in the Amortentia because it was quite pleasant, and had nothing to do with the boy he associated it with every time in his mind.
“Together?” Draco held out his hand to Harry, who gladly accepted it, turning his face to the shimmering surface of the Pensieve. “Together.” He repeated, and the boys plunged their faces through the silvery substance, beginning to fall, fall, fall through endless darkness.
Harry could hear Draco screaming, having never done this before, and when he did simply squeezed his hand tighter. Then, their feet touched solid ground, and they opened their eyes to a scenery lit by dazzling sunlight. A country lane, with high hedgerows which reminded them, painfully, of Malfoy Manor, and a sky unmistakably summer by its clear blue color and the hot brightness of the sun.
“Look,” Draco pointed a finger forwards and Harry followed it to a man just ten feet away, short, and plump, with comically large glasses set on his face, gazing up at a signpost so overgrow by the hedge that you could only see the plaque, not whatever wooden stick held it up. “That must be Ogden.” said Draco, and the two began to walk towards him.
He was dressed absurdly, as most wizards pretending to be Muggles were, but Harry also immediately took note of how his clothes were terribly old fashioned.
“What year do you think it is?” Harry turned and asked his companion, who simply shook his head silently. He was eyeing the sign poking out of the brambles with a small frown on his face. He looked up and didn’t have any reason to wonder why; They were going back to Little Hangleton.
Harry stepped closer to Draco and took his hand, nudging him forward, for Ogden had begun to set off down the road. The boys followed, and kept passing the same scenery of hedge groves before, suddenly, the lane turned and stepped low down a hill, giving the boys a clear view of all of Little Hangleton. They both sucked in a deep breath, eyes instantly flitting to the graveyard in the distance, and the house on the hill Harry had dreamed of throughout Fourth Year.
Ogden was walking slower now, which was absolutely fine, because Harry and Draco weren’t too keen on this excursion either. However, they didn’t have to look at the frightening village for long, as the lane had just turned sharply into a narrow dirt track running straight through the hedge. Draco had to let go of Harry’s hand to walk single file through the narrow bushes, as they continued to walk down-hill towards a patch of dark trees.
Once they’d reached this place, Ogden stopped and Draco stood beside him, Harry taking his other side. The man had drawn his wand. Squinting, the boys could see a building half-hidden in the dark old trees casting long shadows before them. It was certainly a strange choice, in Harry’s mind, but Draco didn’t doubt it in a second; from what he’d been told, the Gaunt’s were probably the most prejudiced pureblooded family in history, so it made sense they’d want to stay hidden from Muggle eyes. But not only that, it appeared they didn’t want anyone coming in.
The house was certainly dilapidated, with grime and overgrown nettles, and just when Harry was sure that it had to be abandoned, one of its tiny grimy windows was thrust open, a long stream of either steam of smoke pouring out, as if someone inside was cooking, if that was even possible inside a house like this.
Ogden was moving forward, so the boys had to follow, though they were just as cautious as he was, despite knowing, logically, that this was a memory, and nothing could possibly hurt them. As they got closer they could make out the front door around all the overgrown shrubbery, and Draco sucked in a breath.
Somebody had nailed a dead snake to the door.
A tree beside them began to rustle, and there was cracking of wood followed by a thump as the group of three all jumped back in surprise, Ogden so fast he tripped over his own coat, at a man in rags whom had just dropped down from the nearest tree to land on his feet. He had hair matted with dirt and grease and dark eyes that stared in opposite directions, and when he spoke, they could see several of his teeth were missing. It was here Draco remembered a particular fact about the Gaunts; they were severely inbred.
“You’re not welcome.” The man growled at Ogden, who had begun to back away several paces, so that Draco and Harry now stood in between him and man, giving them a full view of him and Ogden’s fear. Draco was gazing at the man with wide eyes, which Harry found a bit strange.
“Er - good morning. I’m from the Ministry of Magic -”
“You’re not welcome.” the man held out his hands, which held a wand and a bloody knife. Draco’s eyes flitted to the snake on the door, and an understanding budded in his mind, which was very clear across his facial features, so Harry asked him, “What is it?”
“Er - I'm sorry - I don't understand you,” said Ogden, which Harry thought even more strange than Draco’s face, as there was no misunderstanding a man who told him he didn’t want him on his property and was holding the ability to kill him in both hands. But then…
“Harry, do you know what he’s saying?” Draco pointed a finger at the man in rags, and Harry frowned at him.
“Of course. Why can’t Ogden -” He cut himself off because Draco was nodding at the door and Harry followed his gaze. The snake. The man must be speaking in Parseltongue, which meant Draco couldn’t understand either.
“He’s saying ‘you’re not welcome.’ How did you know it was Parseltongue?”
“I recognized it from Second Year.” Of course.
“Now, look -” It was too late. The next second, after a bang, Ogden flew back onto the ground, holding his nose, which had nasty yellowish goo squirted out of it.
“Morfin!” Called a loud voice, and the boys turned to see an old man running out of the cottage, short and strangely shaped with broad shoulders and long arms, as well as bright brown eyes and short scruffy hair that made him look like an aged monkey. He stopped when he reached the man Harry and Draco assumed to be ‘Morfin,’ who had started to cackle madly.
“Ministry, is it?” The older man asked Ogden, and Draco was able to understand him this time, sighing as he heard proper English again.
“Correct! And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?” Ogden asked, stumbling to his feet and dabbing his face with a handkerchief.
“S’right,” said Gaunt. “Got you in the face, did he?”
“Yes, he did!”
“Should've made your presence known, shouldn’t you?” Despite being the one whose… colleague had caused harm, Gaunt sounded just as aggressive. “This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself.”
“Defend himself against what, man?” said Ogden.
“Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth.” Gaunt said, just as Draco had suspected, as Ogden pointed his wand to his nose, freezing its flow of yellow pus.
Draco frowned as Gaunt said something in Parseltongue out of the corner of his mouth, but this time Harry was able to tell it wasn’t English, picking up on a weird hissing noise beneath clear English. “He said ‘Get in the house. Don’t argue.’” He translated.
“I’m starting to wonder why Dumbledore would want me to see this,” Draco said, exasperated, but did recall Dumbledore telling him he didn’t need to force himself to watch all the memories, so this might be his own doing.
The door slammed shut as Morfin left, and Ogden took a cautious step forward, wiping his coat of pus. “It’s your son I’m here to see, Mr. Gaunt. That was Morfin, wasn’t it?”
“Ay, that was Morfin,” the old man tilted his head, eyes squinting and Draco recognized the skeptical look in his eyes in a moment, knowing his next question before he even spoke, “Are you pureblood?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Ogden immediately replied, eyes narrowing as well.
Gaunt scowled, peering every closer, the look in his eyes Draco’s father had so often had when looking at Muggles never leaving. “Now I come to think about it, I’ve seen noses like yours down in the village.”
“I don’t doubt it, if your son has been let loose on them,” Ogden gestured to the door, with the snake swaying silently against it from the force of Morfin slamming it a moment ago. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?”
“Inside?” Gaunt sneered.
“Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I’ve already told you. I’m here about Morfin. We sent an owl -”
“I’ve no use for owls,” said Gaunt. “I don’t open letters.”
“Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors,” Ogden snapped, and Harry managed a smirk, his respect for the man steadily rising. “I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning -”
“All right, all right, all right!” Gaunt all but screamed at him. “Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it’ll do you!”
As soon as Gaunt turned his back the boys saw the way Ogden raised his chin with pride, and followed him forwards into the house. It wasn’t any more a pleasing sight inside than out; the house seemingly had three tiny rooms, with two doors leading to the main room, which looked like a kitchen and living room combined. Here, Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair and gazing into the fire while twisting a very live and very squirmy adder between his fingers. He held it up to his lips and hissed, in Parseltongue:
“Hissy, hissy, little snakey,
Slither on the floor
You be good to Morfin
Or he’ll nail you to the door.”
Draco turned to eye Harry with a raised eyebrow, as he had of course only heard hissing, but he simply shook his head, grimacing. “You don’t even want to know,” he said, and Draco opened his mouth to rebuttal but, taking a second look at the malicious and insane looking Morfin Gaunt, he instead shook his head.
“You’re right, I don’t.”
A scuffling noise caught the pair's attention and they turned to the open window, first catching sight of a girl with hair just as gray as her dress, which was the same color as the wall behind her. Harry and Draco assumed that was why they hadn’t spotted her before, standing beside a steaming pot on the stove, shuffling around inside the shelf above it, which explained the noise. While she was certainly the cleanest, she also appeared to be the most depressed, and in fact, Harry and Draco both had never seen a more defeated person, and they’d seen some terrible things.
“M’daughter, Merope,” Gaunt introduced as Ogden’s eyes too turned to the girl.
“Good morning,” Ogden bowed his head, though Merope did not acknowledge him, instead glancing at her father, showing Harry and Draco she too had eyes staring in opposite directions, before turning back to the shelf.
“Well, Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden, “to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.”
With a sudden, deafening clang, Merope dropped one of the pots inside the shelf to the floor.
“Pick it up!” Gaunt bellowed at the girl as she kneeled to fumble for the pot. “That’s it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?”
“Mr. Gaunt, please!” Merope flushed and dropped the pot once more, shakily removing her wand to pointed at the pot, muttering a spell so quietly it was inaudible, which instead made the pot fly across the floor to hit and opposite wall, sending a crack straight through it.
Morfin began cackling like a madman, as Gaunt continued to scream, “Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!”
Merope started to stumble across the room, but Ogden, with an exasperated sigh, raised his own wand to point at the pot and caused it to heal and mend. Gaunt turned to glare at the Ministry man, but seemed to hesitate right before shouting, turning back to sneer towards his daughter. “Lucky the nice man from the Ministry's here, isn’t it? Perhaps he’ll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn’t mind dirty Squibs…”
Merope kept her head down as she picked up the pot and dashed back to the stove, placing it on the shelf with trembling hands.
“Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden tried once more, “as I've said: the reason for my visit -”
“I heard you the first time!” Gaunt had apparently made up his mind about shouting. “And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him - what about it, then?”
“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” Ogden stated.
“‘Morfin has broken Wizarding law.’” Gaunt screeched in a poor imitation of Ogden’s voice, but one that made Morfin roar with cackles. “He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that’s illegal now, is it?”
“Yes,” Ogden said at the same time as Draco. “I'm afraid it is.” He retrieved a scroll of parchment from an inside pocket.
“What's that, then, his sentence?” said Gaunt in a steadily rising voice.
“It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing -”
“Summons! Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?” Ogden raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed.
“I’m Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad,” he said, even as Ogden scoffed and started to walk towards him, pointing one of his dirty, uncut fingernails at his chest.
“And you think we’re scum, do you? Scum who’ll come running when the Ministry tells ’em to? Do you know who you’re talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?”
“I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt,” Ogden looked concerned, but didn’t step away this time, instead looking him straight in the eye.
“That’s right!” Draco sucked in a breath and Harry thought for a moment Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture at Ogden, but then he squinted, along with his companion, and the boy’s could see it was a ring, gold with a black stone on the center, ugly to Harry but clearly fine and expensive in Draco’s eyes, reminding him of home.
“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 pureblood all the way! Know how much I’ve been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?” The boy’s stepped closer, and could make out a carving engraved upon the stone, what appeared to be a triangle, with a circle in the center, and a clean line drawn straight through both shapes.
“I’ve really no idea,” Ogden blinked at the ring being waved inches from his face and seemingly not paying any attention, his tiny eyes never focusing behind his glasses. “and it’s quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed -”
Just as Ogden was paying attention to what Gaunt had to say, Gaunt couldn’t care less about the summons or crime which caused it, instead howling and running towards his daughter, and Harry and Draco were sure he’d hit her, but instead he grabbed hold of the golden chain around her neck and yanked her forwards, dragging her across the floor towards Ogden.
“See this?” He bellowed, and Harry and Draco could now see he was shaking at him a locket, hanging heavily on the girl’s neck, who was sputtering for breath as she was choked by her father.
“I see it, I see it!” said Ogden, though he seemed to be looking at Merope, not the locket.
“Slytherin’s! Salazar Slytherin’s! We’re his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?” As Ogden yelled Draco and Harry turned to each other, both wide eyed.
“Slytherin’s locket -” Draco said.
“- They’re descendents… like Voldemort.” Harry finished.
Slowly, they turned back to the scene, where Gaunt had released Merope and was scowling at Ogden with triumph.
“So! Don’t you go talking to us as if we’re dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all - more than you can say, I don’t doubt!” He spat on the floor at Ogden’s feet, causing Morfin to cackle some more, but Merope stayed quiet, having caught her breath, stepping back to huddle beside the window.
“Mr. Gaunt,” said Ogden doggedly, “I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night. He held up his scroll to examine. “Our information is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives.” Again, Morfin began to laugh, though this time it was just a giggle.
“Be quiet, boy,” Gaunt hissed and Harry immediately said, “He told him to shut up,” to Draco, as Morfin fell silent, scowling like a grumpy child at his snake, who he tightened his hold on it.
“And so what if he did, then?” said Gaunt, turning back to Ogden. “I expect you’ve wiped the Muggle’s filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot -”
“That’s hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt? This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless -”
“Ah, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you,” Gaunt gave him another spit to his feet for good measure.
“This discussion is getting us nowhere,” said Ogden, stating the obvious. “It is clear from your son’s attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions.” Again, he seemed to be reading from his scroll. “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 distress to that same Mugg -”
Ogden cut himself off when the sudden sound of clopping hooves filled their ears, and laughing voices began to drift in through the open window, to which Merope immediately raised her head, face paleing more than it already was. Gaunt froze to listen too, his eyes wide, and Morfin hissed - not Parseltongue, just hissed - turning his face to the noise.
“My God, what an eyesore!” A girl’s voice called out, hitting their ears easily through the window. “Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?”
“It’s not ours,” came a man’s voice, posh and drawling. “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 began to laugh. The horses were getting louder.
Morfin tried to jump from his chair but his father hissed to him, “Keep your seat,” in Parseltongue. Harry turned to translate but saw Draco wasn’t listening, instead moving towards the window.
“Draco!” Harry dashed after him, standing beside and uncomfortably close to the girl. She made him sad to look at. “What’re you -”
“Is that him?” The window showed only white space, which Harry assumed meant it couldn’t be seen by Ogden, therefore couldn’t be included in the memory. The voices were still coming in clearly, though, straight from outside the window.
“I dunno,” Harry admitted, and tried desperately, though he hated every second of it, to recall Tom Riddle as he was in 1943. How he was in the Chamber of Secrets. Exactly what he sounded like, mocking Harry for letting Ginny die…
“Tom,” the girl’s voice was saying, “I might be wrong - but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?”
“Good lord, you’re right!” Came this Tom’s voice, “That’ll be the son, I told you he’s not right in the head. Don’t look at it, Cecilia, darling.”
There was the sound of Parseltongue in his ear, and Harry turned to see Morfin was looking at his sister. “‘Darling,’” he mocked. “‘Darling,’ he called her. So he wouldn’t have you anyway.” Merope somehow turned paler and, thankfully, Draco seemed to give up the ‘is that the Tom’ question and instead turned to Harry to ask, “What’re they saying?”
“I think Merope likes him,” Harry nodded to the window, where the clopping of horses had all but faded away.
“What’s that?” hissed Gaunt, turning to look between son and daughter. “What did you say, Morfin?”
“And Gaunt doesn’t like that one bit,” Harry said with a shake of his head and a smirk on his lips. Draco, however, all too aware of how angry pureblood maniacs could get at ‘Muggle-lovers’ turned pale, though not quite as much as Merope.
“She likes looking at that Muggle,” said Morfin, and Harry translated every word. “Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn’t she? And last night -” Merope shook her head ruthlessly, as if begging him to stop, but Morfin clearly wasn’t the type to ever be convinced to do this. “Hanging out of the window waiting for him to ride home, wasn’t she?”
“Hanging out of the window to look at a Muggle?” Gaunt asked quietly, which of course Harry translated, though when he looked over it was to see Draco didn’t seem to want to listen to it anymore, stepping back towards the counter, which he tried to lean against but his hand went right through, of course, being a memory.
Meanwhile, Ogden was looking at all three of them with bewilderment, irritation, and probably well-deserved offense as he had been forgotten and disrespected by them all, and now caught completely off guard by incomprehensible hissing like that of snakes. Exactly like that, in fact.
“Is it true?” Gaunt had now begun walking toward the shaking girl. “My daughter - pureblooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin - hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?”
“Er -” Harry glanced over at Draco, who was frowning at the floor, and muttered, “He’s er - not happy… About his daughter, you know,” Harry swallowed. “Liking a Muggle.” There was hardly any need to explain.
“But I got him, Father!” Horribly, Morfin was back to cackling. “I got him as he went by and he didn’t look so pretty with hives all over him, did he, Merope?”
“You disgusting little Squib, you filthy little blood traitor!” Gaunt had lost all control now, running forwards and grabbing his daughter by the throat so that Harry and Ogden yelled, “No!” at the same time.
“Relaskio!” Ogden had raised his wand, and in a second Gaunt was flying backwards, tripping over a chair so that he fell flat on his back. Morfin sneered and, roaring with rage, leapt from his chair brandishing the knife and firing hex after hex from his wand, to which Ogden immediately turned and ran from, all the while Merope screamed.
“C’mon,” Harry held a hand out to Draco. The scene was already beginning to disappear as Ogden ran, so they had to follow, or they might be swept up with it. Harry didn’t honestly know how these things went, but he wasn’t too keen on finding out. “Come on!”
At last Draco reached up and grabbed his hand and the boys bolted for the door after Ogden, escaping into the trees. They followed the man as he ran for his life up the main lane bordered by hedges, arms over his head, before running straight into a beauty of a chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark haired man, who couldn’t be over his early twenties.
Beside him, on a gray horse, sat a pretty girl Merope’s age, and both roared with laughter when Ogden fell to the ground, and continued on still when he scrambled to his feet and pounded up the lane and out of sight. Harry and Draco didn’t follow, as they were staring at the man on the horse, laughing and laughing.
“No,” said Harry, “That’s not him,” he winced at the memories of a teenaged boy smirking in the dark beneath a head of gelled black hair, curled at the front. “But he sure looks just like him.”
“We should go,” Draco took Harry’s hand once more, and before he knew it they were rising, weightlessly, into the sky, and…
They were back in Dumbledore’s office, or McGonagall’s, Harry hardly cared about the difference, and the Pensieve was just below them, still displaying Tom’s handsome face. But what Tom?
“‘Bone of the father…’” whispered Harry, stumbling back from the bowl and collapsing onto an armchair by the fire. Draco turned and hurried towards him in a second, prepared to kneel and take his hands, but hesitating, and instead sitting down across from him. Harry looked up, swallowing. “That was - The graveyard - Wormtail he -”
“There was a grave back there,” Draco said, eyes glossing over as he too became transported back to the memory of the graveyard over a year ago but not quite two. “You read it and immediately knew You-Know-Who was coming. Whose was it?”
“Tom Riddle Senior,” Harry said, clicking his tongue and locking eyes with his friend. “His dad. His Muggle dad.” Harry sprang to his feet. “But he had a witch for a mother so it must have been her! Merope!”
Draco raised his eyebrows high, clearly unconvinced. “A rich Muggle man ran off with a witch? What, eighty years ago?” He shook his head, standing and crossing back to the vials. “No, that’s insane.”
Harry ignored him, and instead chose to stare into the fire, thinking of a day many years ago, when he had first learned how Tom Riddle, the boy he’d met and trusted through his diary, just as Ginny had, was really Lord Voldemort. He recalled what he had said about his father, really remembered it, reaching into his memories as if with a wand, and recalled them, as if placing them into a Pensieve.
“You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father's name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch?”
“Draco it had to be her,” Harry sprang to his feet, running forwards and grabbing his shoulder, shaking it as if he could shake sense into him. “He told me, in the Chamber of Secrets,” Draco scoffed, still hardly believing they were just casually discussing how Harry had ventured in that place, killed a basilisk breeded by Slytherin himself, and apparently come face-to-face with teenaged Voldemort too. “That his mother had the blood of Salazar Slytherin in it.”
But you couldn’t argue with that fact. Draco turned to face his friend, frowning. “How many people in the world are left related to Slytherin?”
“The Gaunts were supposed to be the last ones.” Harry started to grin. “So you see, it’s got to be her!”
“But how? He hated that family, was disgusted by it, you saw -” Draco began but Harry cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“Tom told me, in the Chamber, his father abandoned his mother when he learned she was a witch, so he must’ve not known.”
Draco raised his eyebrows high in suspicion. “What, he just looked past the snake on the door and the creepy, snake speaking family of three and thought, ‘well this inbred girl looks swell! How about I marry her? How about I even give her a kid!’ And then, once he has this kid, he just wakes up and goes, ‘wait I actually think the magic stuff is a little dodgy. Not the incest but the magic.’” Draco threw his hands up in exasperation but, unknowingly, had just given Harry an idea.
“That’s it!” He paced circles around the desk, mind racing. “He must’ve ‘woken up’ one day, right? As if he’d been bewitched, right?” He was hit with a sudden memory of a display of love potions at Weasleys’s Wizard Wheezes. “Bewitched with a love potion, maybe?”
“Or the Imperius Curse,” said Draco, thinking of Rosmerta and catching on, clearly, as he snapped his fingers. “Of course! And she would have done it too, desperate to get out of there.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Harry had stopped pacing, stopping suddenly right in front of Draco, inches from him, in fact, so that he was able to get a full rush of that vanilla scent, he’d so distinctively picked up from the Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in the world.
And Draco could clearly pick up Harry’s scent of Quidditch and memories, something he’d picked up from the Amortentia to painful, twisting agony. He’d tried, desperately, to forget the feelings he’d discovered on the Knight Bus, and it hadn’t worked, not for a second. Not on his birthday, not in Grimmauld Place, and not at The Burrow, all throughout summer.
“You’re er -” Harry’s eyes flicked down, and Draco looked to see the chain he’d always worn since a sad June 5th peeking out of the top of his collar. “You’re wearing the necklace I gave you.”
“Oh! Yeah, erm -” Draco grabbed the chain and carefully removed it from under his shirt and robes, revealing the silver stag and tiny ferret perched between its antlers. “I wear it everyday,” He admitted with a shrug, and Harry reached out in spite of himself, so that the tips of his fingers just touched the glittering silver before bringing his hand back.
“It looks nice.” He grunted, clearing his throat and taking a large step back, to which Draco released a sad sigh all too reminiscent to the one he’d given when Harry had left him alone in their bedroom at The Burrow.
“What on Earth,” Draco smoothly changed the subject, gesturing to the Pensieve, “Does this have to do with defeating You-Know-Who?”
Harry, who had backed up to the fire and tucked his hands into his pockets, shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno,” he said, just before the doors were pushed inward and McGonagall strided in, waving her wand so that she sent the Pensieve floating back to its stone hold and the vials to their cabinets.
“I think, if you’re done viewing memories, that’s enough for tonight, boys. It’s getting late.” Sure enough, when Harry glanced over he could see the sky outside was midnight black, and he gave McGonagall a lopsided smile.
“Sorry Professor,” He said and began to walk towards the door, gesturing for Draco to follow. He didn’t, instead looking up at Dumbledore’s portrait, and the man still sleeping, and asking, “Whatever happened to the locket, and the ring?”
However, all he got was complete silence, so instead, he turned and followed Harry, and the two turned to call, “Goodnight,” to their Headmistress before leaving and closing the doors behind them.