intoxication

Harry had been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device, though highly instructive about Voldemort’s past, had also been uncomfortable. Dumbledore was smiling, as usual, with that peculiar twinkle always in his eyes.

“Where are we going this time, sir?”

“For a trip down Oliver Jones’ memory lane,” said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal vial containing a swirling inky substance.

“Oliver Jones?”

“An employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. An Auror, if you will,” answered Dumbledore. “He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him to the battlefield. As you already know, during the First Wizarding War, Voldemort conducted numerous raids on Muggle villages. Aurors were tasked with fighting and apprehending the Dark’s forces. Now, if you will stand, Harry…”

Dumbledore pointed his wand at the vial and the cork flew out. He tipped its inky contents into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas.

“After you,” said Dumbledore, gesturing toward the bowl.

Harry bent forward, took a deep breath, and plunged his face into the silvery substance. He felt his feet leave the office floor; he was falling, falling through whirling darkness and then, quite suddenly, he was blinking in gloomy darkness. Before his eyes had adjusted, Dumbledore landed beside him. Eerie shadows danced across the uneven terrain, shifting with the flickering light of distant fires.

Next to them was, presumably, Oliver Jones and a large squad of Aurors, standing still in front of a small village. Orders were barked out in the distance, and the next moment, all were running towards the town.

"Harry, hurry up," Dumbledore's voice snapped, jolting Harry forward.

Spells whizzed through the air like streaks of light, crackling with energy, leaving trails of shimmering magic in their wake. Instinctively, Harry ducked, though he knew they would pass right through him. Sounds echoed across the battlefield, punctuated by the occasional roar of incantations. Some had fallen, wizard and Muggle, lifeless bodies scattered across the earth like discarded pawns. But they didn't have the time stop, and followed closely Oliver Jones as he advanced, shouting spell after spell.

Then, they beheld what could only be Voldemort, the looming presence at the heart of the chaos. He was, however, not alone. Beside him stood a slender figure with long dark hair and piercing eyes. Unlike the chaotic mess that was the other Death Eaters, his movements were elegant and fluid, dark robes billowing around him.

Harry was captivated by the scene unfolding before him. Voldemort and his companion moved with a chilling synchronization, perfectly in tandem, as if they were one single entity on the battlefield. They glided and twirled together, creating a harmonious yet deadly ballet. They were performing a perfect choreography—no doubt honed through endless practice—as they wielded their wands with lethal precision, their spells weaving seamlessly together.

They carved a path. A graceful and breathtaking spectacle, where each step, gesture and strike was executed with precision and purpose… inescapable. Harry wasn’t just witnessing a fight, but a stunning display of skill and power, an ethereal symphony of destruction.

Dumbledore nudged him forward, urging him to follow the Auror. “No time to spare, Harry.”

At that moment, Voldemort spotted Jones, his red eyes fixated on him like those of a predator targeting its prey. Harry knew this situation from experience; the Auror was as good as dead. But the spell never came. Just as Voldemort drew his wand, the other man intervened, murmuring something to him. To Harry’s surprise and astonishment, Voldemort nodded and continued forward, a new target in sight. No Cruciatus curse was directed to the man who dared to stop the Dark Lord.

The scene swirled and shimmered, wisps of ink becoming visible. Gradually, the battlefield dissipated into the surrounding ether. As the memory dissolved, Harry took one last glance at the man, bathed in the eerie light of the battlefield, an odd feeling of familiarity washing over him. In these last moments, he could have sworn the man looked right back at him.

“I think that will do, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He took Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore’s now twilit office.

“Who was that man, professor?” said Harry at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand.

“Right on point as always Harry. Many refered to him as Voldemort’s righthand, the Lieutenant,” Dumbledore began. Taking his seat behind the desk once more, he gestured for Harry to sit down too.

Dumbledore's expression turned pensive as he continued, "Some say he was once the most loyal follower of Voldemort, while others whisper that he may be something altogether different. I believe he was more than a mere follower, more than just a lieutenant. A confidant, perhaps even an equal, or… dare I say, a lover.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore like the man had suddenly grown a second head. “But, sir, isn’t Voldemort incapable of feeling love,” he blurted out.

Dumbledore let out a sigh. "Ah, my dear boy, while it's true that Voldemort's origins may have rendered him incapable of love as we know it, we must remember that love can take many different forms. It is possible that the connection between them differs from our conventional understanding. It may be a bond forged in darkness, fuelled by obsession or ambition, rather than affection.”

“One thing is certain,” he continued, “He was probably one of Voldemort’s most deadly forces. That said, I wouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I speak of him in the past tense; you never actually came across him, did you?”

Harry nodded in agreement, though that last part felt more like a statement than a question. The headmaster gave him a knowing look. “He died, in the same way your Godfather did. Voldemort and him were leading an attack on the Ministry. A stray spell pushed him through the Veil.”

Dumbledore's expression grew sombre, his gaze distant, lost in thought.

“As you can imagine, Voldemort's reaction was nothing short of explosive. He erupted in rage and unleashed his magic upon anything in his path… Many lives were lost that day,” he recounted mournfully. “That was the first and only time I saw Tom react so strongly to the loss of someone.”

The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in the office seemed to glow more brightly than before.

“I think that will do for tonight, Harry,” said Dumbledore after a moment or two.

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, leaving his seat. "Good night, sir."

“Good night, Harry.”

~

Getting the locket back from Umbridge was not supposed to end with him getting chased by an armada of snatchers in the Department of Mystery. But when did anything he ever intended go as planned. Be it the famous Potter-luck or something else, he always ended up in a whole lot of trouble. Backed up against the veil and facing Voldemort, locket in one hand and wand in the other, he was running out of time. It was his only choice.

He took one step back.

Hermione and Ron were probably out of danger by now. They would know what to do and would continue to search for the Horcruxes. They would continue the fight, even without him.

He took a second step back. He could hear the voices now, breathing down his ears, inciting him to go through. Maybe Sirius was there on the other side, waiting.

It was the right thing to do. He had nowhere to run. The only other outcome was him getting killed and Voldemort getting the locket back. Not a very endearing prospect. There was no other way. It was the most sensible thing to do. In one fell swoop he would destroy the locket and prevent any sensitive information about his friends whereabouts from getting into the wrong hands.

He took a third step back. This close to the veil, he could feel it fluttering, tickling his back. He locked eyes with Voldemort who seemed to have finally put two and two together and figured out what Harry was about to do.

“Potter! don’t you dare-” The rest fell on deaf ears as Harry took a final step back into the veil, addressing his brightest smile to an enraged dark lord.