"But you never truly trusted him, did you?" Anne said. "He told me… the Riddle who came out of the diary said: 'Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers.'"
"Let's put it this way, I never fully trusted him without question," Dumbledore replied. "As I mentioned earlier, I decided to keep a close eye on him, and I did. I can't say I noticed anything remarkable at first. He was very guarded with me. I believe he sensed that, in his excitement when he discovered his true heritage, he had said more than he should have. After that, he was careful not to reveal too much. But he couldn't take back what he'd already let slip, nor the things Mrs. Cole had told me. He was clever enough not to try and deceive me the way he had so many of my colleagues."
"Over his years at school, he gathered a group of fiercely loyal followers. I use that phrase for lack of a better one, though I've said before, Riddle clearly didn't care for them in the slightest. They formed a dark presence within the castle, some were weak and craved protection, others were ambitious and drawn to his influence, and still others were simply cruel, attracted to a leader who could teach them more refined forms of cruelty. In short, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters. Some of them did go on to become the very first among Voldemort's followers after they left Hogwarts."
"Riddle maintained tight control over them. They were never caught doing anything explicitly wrong, though several nasty incidents occurred during their time at Hogwarts. None could be definitively tied to them. The worst, of course, was the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused for that."
"There wasn't much I could find at Hogwarts about Riddle's past," Dumbledore said, placing his wrinkled hand on the Pensieve. "Few people who knew him at the time were willing to speak. They were too frightened. What I do know now, I discovered only after great effort, tracking down those who could be persuaded to talk, searching through old records, and questioning both Muggles and wizards alike."
"Those who did speak to me told me that Riddle was obsessed with his origins. Understandable, of course, he grew up in an orphanage and naturally wanted to know how he ended up there. It seems he searched the Trophy Room, the prefect lists in the school records, and even books on magical history for any sign of a 'Tom Riddle', but found nothing. Eventually, he had to admit that his father had never attended Hogwarts. I believe that was the moment he cast off that name and began calling himself 'Lord Voldemort.' It was also then that he turned his attention to the family line of the mother he had once scorned, you'll remember, he believed that any witch who could die like an ordinary human was no true witch."
"His only clue was the name 'Marvolo,' which he'd learned from the orphanage matron as being his grandfather's name. After a long and difficult search through old books and wizarding family records, he finally discovered a surviving branch of the Slytherin family. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage, where he was still required to return each year, to seek out his Gaunt relatives. Now, Harry, please stand…"
Dumbledore stood up, and Harry saw that he was once again holding a small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory.
"I was very fortunate to collect this memory," he said, pouring the shimmering contents into the Pensieve. "You'll understand why once we've seen it. Ready?"
Harry stepped closer to the stone basin and leaned forward, plunging his face into the memory. That familiar, weightless sensation overtook him, and then he landed on a filthy stone floor, nearly swallowed by darkness.
It took a few seconds for him to recognize the place. Then Dumbledore and Anne appeared beside him. The Gaunt home was indescribably squalid, dirtier than anywhere Harry had ever seen. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling, the floor was grimy, and rotting food and rusted pots cluttered the table. The only light came from a flickering candle near the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown it obscured his face. For a moment, Harry wondered if he might be dead, but then came a loud knock at the door, and the man startled awake, grabbing his wand in one hand and a short knife in the other.
The door creaked open, and in the doorway stood a boy holding an old-fashioned oil lamp. Harry recognized him immediately: tall, dark-haired, pale, handsome, young Voldemort.
Voldemort's eyes slowly scanned the filthy room until they locked on the figure slouched in the armchair. They stared at each other for several moments before the man rose unsteadily to his feet, knocking over empty bottles with clinks and clatters.
"You!" he bellowed. "You!"
Drunkenly, he lunged at Riddle, raising both wand and knife.
"Stop," Riddle hissed in Parseltongue.
The man stumbled into the table, knocking a moldy pot to the floor. He glared at Riddle, and they stared each other down until the man finally broke the silence.
"You speak that tongue?"
"Yes, I do," Riddle said, stepping further into the room. The door closed behind him. Harry felt a twinge of reluctant admiration at Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His face showed only disgust, perhaps even disappointment.
"Where's Marvolo?" he asked.
"Dead," the man replied. "Long dead, isn't he?"
Riddle frowned slightly. "And you are?"
"I'm Morfin, aren't I?"
"Marvolo's son?"
"Of course. And…"
Morfin brushed the filthy hair from his face, revealing a black gemstone ring on his right hand, Marvolo's ring.
"I thought you were that Muggle," Morfin muttered. "You look just like that Muggle."
"What Muggle?" Riddle snapped.
"The one my sister fell for. The one in the big house across the valley," Morfin said, spitting suddenly on the ground. "You look just like him. Riddle. But he's older now, isn't he? He was older than you… I remember…"
Morfin swayed slightly, clinging to the edge of the table.
"He came back, you know," he added stupidly.
Voldemort stared at him, as if gauging his usefulness. Then he stepped closer. "Riddle came back?"
"Ah, he left my sister. She deserved it, marrying filth!" Morfin spat again. "And he stole from us, before she ran off! The locket, where's Slytherin's locket, eh?"
Voldemort said nothing. Morfin grew enraged again, waving the knife. "She disgraced us, that filthy little! Who are you to come here asking all these questions? It's over, isn't it? All over…"
He looked away, body swaying. Voldemort stepped forward, and then a sudden, unnatural darkness swallowed the room. The oil lamp, the candle, everything disappeared…
Dumbledore's hand grasped Harry's arm, and the two of them soared upward, returning to the present. Anne emerged from the Pensieve beside them.
"That's it?" Harry asked immediately. "Why did everything go black? What happened?"
"Because Morfin couldn't remember what happened next," Dumbledore replied, motioning for Harry to sit. "When he woke the next morning, he was lying alone on the floor, and Marvolo's ring was gone."
"Meanwhile, in Little Hangleton, a maid ran screaming through the street, saying there were three dead bodies in the manor house drawing room, Tom Riddle Senior and his parents."
"The Muggle authorities were baffled. As far as I know, they still don't know how the Riddles died. The Killing Curse usually leaves no mark… with one notable exception." Dumbledore nodded toward Harry's scar. "But the Ministry of Magic knew right away that it had been done by a wizard. And they also knew that a man who hated Muggles lived across from the Riddle house, and that he'd previously gone to prison for attacking one of the victims."
"So they arrested Morfin. No Veritaserum, no Legilimency, he confessed immediately. Gave details only the killer would know, and said he was proud of what he'd done. Claimed he'd been waiting years for the chance. His wand matched the murder weapon. He went without a fight. The only thing that unsettled him was that his father's ring was gone. 'He'll kill me for losing it,' he kept saying to the Aurors. 'He'll kill me.' After that, he said nothing else. He lived out the rest of his days in Azkaban, mourning the loss of the Gaunt family heirloom, and was buried in the prison graveyard alongside others who died there."
"Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it to kill them?" Harry sat up straight.
"Precisely," Dumbledore said. "There's no memory to confirm it, but I believe it's almost certain. He stunned his uncle, took the wand, crossed the valley to the manor, and murdered the Muggle father who had abandoned his witch mother, along with the grandparents, erasing the unworthy Riddle line and exacting revenge on the man who never wanted him. Then he returned, implanted a false memory in Morfin's mind, left the wand by his side, and took the ring."
"And Morfin never suspected?"
"Not at all. As I said, he confessed, and even bragged about it."
"But the real memory was still in his mind all that time?"
"Yes, but it took very skilled Legilimency to extract it. He had already confessed, who would bother to dig any deeper? I managed to extract it in his final weeks. I was trying to understand Voldemort's past. After seeing the memory, I tried to have Morfin released, but the Ministry delayed… and he died before they could decide."
"But why didn't the Ministry suspect Voldemort? He was underage, wasn't he? I thought they could trace underage magic!"
"You're right, they can trace magic, but not who cast it. Remember how they blamed you for that Hover Charm that Dobby cast?"
Harry scowled. "So if you're underage, and you're in a wizard household, they can't tell who did it?"
"Exactly," Dumbledore said with a small smile at Harry's indignation. "They rely on the child's parents to monitor them."
"That's rubbish," Harry said heatedly. "Look what happened, look at Morfin!"
"I agree," Dumbledore said gravely. "Whatever Morfin was, he didn't deserve to die in prison for a crime he didn't commit. But it's late. I want to show you one final memory before we end."
From an inner pocket, Dumbledore took another small crystal vial. Harry quieted immediately, remembering that this was the memory Dumbledore had said was the most important of all. He noticed that the contents seemed unusually thick, almost congealed. Could memories go bad?
"This one's short," Dumbledore said after emptying the vial. "We'll be back soon. All right, back into the Pensieve…"
"…which means the real memory is still buried underneath," Dumbledore said calmly.
"So," he continued, "I'm assigning you your first task, Harry. You need to find a way to get Professor Slughorn to reveal the true memory. This is, without doubt, some of the most vital information we need."
Harry stared at him, eyes wide.
"But sir," he said, trying to remain respectful, "couldn't you just, well, use Legilimency? Or Veritaserum…?"
"Professor Slughorn is a very capable wizard, more than able to defend against both," said Dumbledore. "His skill at Occlumency far surpasses poor Morfin's. And ever since I pressured him to hand over the distorted memory, I'd be surprised if he doesn't carry the antidote to Veritaserum on him at all times."
"I believe forcing the truth out of him would be foolish and counterproductive. I want him to stay at Hogwarts. But, like all of us, he has his weaknesses. And I trust that you, Harry, are the one who can get through to him. Obtaining this memory is crucial. Just how crucial, you'll only understand when you see it for yourself. Good luck… and good night."
Though taken aback at being dismissed so suddenly, Harry stood up at once.
"Good night, sir."
After Harry left, Anne removed the earpiece she'd been wearing and toyed with it in her fingers.
"Honestly, even now, I still don't think this is the right way," she said.
Dumbledore looked at her, his piercing blue eyes full of meaning. "There's only ever been one path, Anne, to kill Voldemort, while protecting as many as we can along the way."
Anne was silent for a moment. As she rose to leave the office, Dumbledore added a final reminder.
"This time, Harry must obtain the memory entirely on his own. It's incredibly important for him personally."
"He's going to use Felix Felicis anyway," Anne replied. "Would it really hurt to just tell him?"
"It wouldn't be the same," Dumbledore said gently. "What makes someone who they are is the sum of all the choices they've made. I hope you'll let him make this one for himself. This experience will mean far more to him than you think."
Anne gave a resigned sigh. "Alright. I promise. Good night."
⚡︎━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ❖ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━⚡︎
The complete release can be accessed through Patreon.com/Crimson_Lore