The very next day, Katie was transferred to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. By then, word had spread all over the school about her being cursed, though the details remained unclear. Aside from a few people present that day, no one seemed to know that Katie hadn't actually been the intended target of the cursed necklace.
At exactly 8 o'clock on Monday evening, Harry arrived outside Dumbledore's office, holding a piece of parchment. He knocked softly on the door and was invited inside. Dumbledore was sitting there, looking more tired than usual. His blackened, withered hand was still the same, but he smiled and motioned for Harry to sit. Just like last time, the man in the grey robes, Skoll, was also present, seated in an armchair in the corner, engrossed in a heavy book.
"You've had quite a busy time while I was away," said Dumbledore. "You saw Katie's accident with your own eyes."
"Yes, sir. How is she?"
"She's holding on, and rather fortunately, at that. It seems only a small patch of skin touched the necklace, there was a tiny hole in her glove. If she'd put it around her neck or picked it up with her bare hand, she'd be dead. Possibly instantly. Thankfully, Professor Snape managed to stop the curse from spreading rapidly, "
"Why him?" Harry asked immediately. "Why not Madam Pomfrey?"
"That's rude," came a soft voice from a portrait on the wall. Phineas Nigellus Black, who'd appeared to be dozing, raised his head. "In my day, I wouldn't have allowed a student to question how Hogwarts was run."
"Thank you, Phineas," Dumbledore said calmly. "Harry, while Madam Pomfrey handled the initial treatment, Professor Snape has far more expertise in Dark Magic. And the staff at St. Mungo's are updating me hourly. I'm hopeful Katie will make a full recovery soon."
"Where were you this weekend, sir?" Harry asked, knowing he was pushing his luck, but unwilling to hold back. Phineas Nigellus made a quiet tutting sound of disapproval.
"I'd rather not say just yet," Dumbledore replied. "But in time, I promise, you'll know."
"Really?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Yes, I believe so." Dumbledore pulled a small vial of silvery memory from his robes and uncorked it with a tap of his wand.
"Sir," Harry said hesitantly, glancing toward the grey-robed Skoll. "I saw Mundungus in Hogsmeade."
Skoll looked up at this.
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said with a slight frown. "I'm aware he hasn't been treating your inheritance with much respect. That was a failure of oversight on my part, not Skoll's. He's already removed Mundungus from the Order's inner circle. We're trying to track him down, but ever since you confronted him outside the Three Broomsticks, he's gone into hiding. Probably too afraid to face me. Rest assured, he won't be stealing any more of Sirius's belongings."
"Professor," Harry continued after a pause, "Did Professor McGonagall tell you what I said after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes, she told me about your suspicions," said Dumbledore. "And I've passed them on to Skoll."
"Then you're?"
"Anyone remotely connected to Katie's incident is being thoroughly investigated," Dumbledore said. "But right now, Harry, I'd like us to focus on our lesson."
Harry was a little irritated. If these lessons were so important, why was there such a long gap between the first and second one? Still, he said nothing more about Malfoy and turned his attention to Dumbledore, who was now pouring the new memory into the Pensieve and gently swirling the stone basin with his long fingers.
"You'll remember that last time, we discussed Voldemort's early history. The handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle Sr., had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in the village of Little Hangleton. Merope, alone and pregnant, remained in London with the child who would one day become Voldemort."
"How do you know she was in London, sir?" Harry asked.
"Thanks to evidence from Caractacus Burke," Dumbledore replied. "As it happens, he helped establish the very shop that sold the cursed necklace in question."
Dumbledore swirled the Pensieve more vigorously, like a gold prospector sifting for treasure. Within the silvery swirls, a small, ghostly man appeared, rotating slowly. He was pale and looked almost spectral, but more solid than a ghost. His thick hair covered his eyes completely.
"Yes, we acquired it under rather special circumstances. A young witch brought it in just before Christmas, this was years ago. Said she was desperate for money, and it showed. She was ragged, gaunt... and pregnant. Claimed the locket once belonged to Salazar Slytherin. Ha! We hear that kind of nonsense all the time: 'Oh, this belonged to Merlin himself, his favorite teapot!' But this time, I took a closer look. Sure enough, there was Slytherin's mark on it. I did a few simple enchantments to verify. Oh yes, it was genuine, no question. Worth a fortune. But the girl didn't have a clue how valuable it was. She sold it for ten Galleons, and walked away satisfied. Best deal we ever made!"
Dumbledore gave the basin a final swirl and Caractacus sank back into the whirling memory.
"Only ten Galleons?" Harry exclaimed angrily.
"Caractacus Burke was not a generous man," said Dumbledore. "What we learn from this is that, heavily pregnant and desperate for money, Merope sold the only thing of value she owned, the treasured locket Marvolo cherished."
"But she could do magic!" Harry blurted. "Couldn't she have conjured food or whatever she needed?"
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said, "But I believe, and this is speculation, though I trust it's accurate, that Merope stopped using magic after Tom Riddle left her. I suspect she didn't want to be a witch anymore. Or maybe the crushing weight of her unreturned love and despair had simply broken her spirit. Such things can diminish a person's magical power. In any case, as you'll see shortly, Merope didn't even try to save her own life with her wand."
"She didn't even want to live for her child?"
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"Could it be," he said, "that you're feeling sorry for Voldemort?"
"No," Harry said quickly. "It's just... Merope had a choice. My mum didn't."
"Your mother also had a choice," Dumbledore said gently. "Yes, Merope Riddle chose death, even though she had a child who needed her. Don't judge her too harshly, Harry. Years of suffering left her fragile. And she never had the courage your mother did. Now, please, stand up..."
The grey-robed Skoll closed his book and stood as well, joining them.
"Where are we going?" Harry asked.
"This time," said Dumbledore, "we're entering my own memory. I think you'll find it quite vivid, and accurate. You first, Harry..."
Harry leaned into the Pensieve, his face plunging into its cold memory. He felt himself falling through darkness... then landed firmly on solid ground. He opened his eyes to find himself standing with Dumbledore and Skoll on a bustling, old-fashioned London street.
"That's me," Dumbledore said cheerfully, pointing at a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.
This younger Dumbledore had chestnut-colored hair and beard. As he strode confidently down the sidewalk in a fine burgundy velvet suit, he drew curious stares.
"Nice suit, sir," Harry remarked without thinking.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. They followed the younger version of him at a distance, through a large iron gate and into a bleak courtyard.
At the far end stood a square, grim-looking building surrounded by tall railings. Dumbledore climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. A scruffy young woman in an apron answered.
"Good afternoon, I'm here to see Mrs. Cole. I believe she's the matron here?"
The girl looked confused and eyed Dumbledore's eccentric clothing suspiciously.
"Uh… wait a moment… Mrs. Cole!" she shouted over her shoulder.
A voice responded from somewhere deeper inside. The girl turned back to Dumbledore.
"Come in. She'll be down in a minute."
He stepped into a tiled hallway. Though worn and austere, everything was spotless. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the door had even shut behind them, a gaunt, tired-looking woman came hurrying down the hall. Her sharp features gave her an anxious rather than stern appearance. As she approached, she barked orders to another apron-clad assistant.
"Bring iodine up to Martha, Billy Stubbs scratched open all his scabs again, and Eric Whalley's blood is all over the sheets, blast it, he's caught chickenpox!"
She caught sight of Dumbledore mid-sentence and stopped in her tracks, as if a giraffe had stepped into her hallway.
"Good afternoon," Dumbledore said, extending his hand.
Mrs. Cole stared at him, dumbfounded.
"My name is Albus Dumbledore. I wrote to request a meeting, and you were kind enough to invite me today."
She blinked and seemed to accept he was real.
"Oh, yes. Right. Come with me then, to my office."
She led him into a cramped, shabby room that was half living room, half office. The mismatched furniture was worn and faded. She offered Dumbledore a wobbly chair and sat behind a cluttered desk, clearly sizing him up.
"As I mentioned in my letter," Dumbledore began, "I'm here to talk about Tom Riddle, to discuss his future."
"Are you a relative?" she asked.
"No, I'm a teacher," Dumbledore replied. "I've come to offer Tom a place at our school."
"And what sort of school is this?"
"It's called Hogwarts."
"And what makes you interested in Tom?"
"He is certain... qualities we look for."
"Are you saying he's won a scholarship? But he never applied for one."
"Oh, his name was recorded at birth."
"By whom? His parents?"
Mrs. Cole was clearly shrewd and not easily convinced. Dumbledore seemed to agree, as he took out his wand and lifted a blank piece of paper from her desk.
"Here," he said, handing her the paper with a small flourish of his wand. "This should clarify things."
Her gaze flickered briefly, then focused as she studied the page.
"Seems perfectly in order," she said calmly, handing it back. Her eyes then fell on a bottle of gin and two glasses that had clearly not been there moments before.
"Would you care for a drink?" she asked in a suddenly refined tone.
"Very kind of you," Dumbledore said with a smile.
She clearly wasn't new to gin. She poured two full glasses and downed hers in one gulp, smacking her lips. She smiled at Dumbledore for the first time. Sensing his moment, he leaned in.
"Could you tell me a bit about Tom Riddle's background? He was born here, wasn't he?"
"Yes," she said, pouring herself another. "I remember it well, I'd just started working here. It was New Year's Eve, snowing hard, bitterly cold. A young woman, not much older than I was, staggered up the steps. Happens a lot, sadly. We brought her in, and within an hour, she'd given birth. Less than an hour later, she was dead."
Mrs. Cole nodded gravely, took another sip.
"Did she say anything before she died? About the child's father?"
"She did," Mrs. Cole said, encouraged by Dumbledore's interest. "I remember she said, 'I hope he looks like his father.' Which was probably wise, she wasn't much to look at. Then she told me the baby's name was Tom, after his father, and Marvolo after her father. Riddle was the surname. Strange names, right? We thought maybe she came from a traveling circus. Anyway, no one ever came for the boy. No Tom, Marvolo, or Riddle ever showed up. So, he stayed here. Still here now."
Absentmindedly, she refilled her glass, cheeks reddening. Then she said, "He's a strange boy."
"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I rather guessed that."
"He was strange even as a baby, barely ever cried. And as he got older… well, things just got… odd."
"What sort of odd?" Dumbledore asked gently.
"Well, "
Mrs. Cole paused, eyeing Dumbledore sharply over her glass. Her expression was suddenly very alert.
"He will be allowed to attend your school, right?"
"Yes," said Dumbledore.
"Nothing I say will change that?"
"Nothing," he confirmed.
"You're taking him no matter what?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said seriously.
She squinted at him, as if testing his honesty. Deciding he could be trusted, she blurted, "He frightens the other children."
"You mean he bullies them?" asked Dumbledore.
"I suppose so," she replied, frowning. "But it's hard to catch him in the act. There have been… incidents. Some quite disturbing ones..."
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