Anne followed Dumbledore's instructions to the letter. In her secret meeting with Harry the next day, she made no mention of Horcruxes or how to complete Dumbledore's assignment. Instead, she feigned ignorance just as Dumbledore had asked.
In the end, Anne offered a half-solution: Harry would need to find a way to press Professor Slughorn for more information, while the research duties in the library would fall to Hermione and herself.
But for the first time ever, the library let Hermione down. She combed through the Restricted Section, yet all she found was a single line in the preface of Secrets of the Darkest Art:
"On Horcruxes, the most evil of magical inventions, we offer no discussion, nor any guidance."
With that, all their hopes now rested on Harry. It seemed only he could retrieve that crucial memory.
February arrived quickly, and the snow at Hogwarts began to melt. After a Potions class, Harry cornered Professor Slughorn, but learned nothing. Worse, he only made Slughorn more suspicious.
Now, on his way to the fourth lesson with Dumbledore, Harry's mood was heavy with frustration. He hadn't made any progress.
"Sorry, sir… I didn't get the memory," Harry said gloomily the moment he saw Dumbledore.
"I know it's a difficult task, Harry," Dumbledore replied gently. "Take your time."
Dumbledore didn't blame him at all, but that only made Harry feel worse. He vowed silently to keep trying.
"Let's continue the story from where we left off, shall we?" said Dumbledore. "Do you remember where we stopped?"
"Yes, sir," said Harry quickly. "Voldemort… he killed his father and grandparents, then made it look like his uncle did it. After that, he returned to Hogwarts and asked… asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes." He muttered the last part with guilt.
"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Now, I trust you remember that from the beginning, I warned you we would be venturing into the realm of speculation."
"I remember, sir."
"Good. So far, I've shown you mostly reliable memories, and from them I've constructed a picture of Voldemort's life before he turned seventeen."
Harry nodded.
"But from now on, Harry, things become murkier. Finding evidence about young Riddle was hard enough. Finding anyone who can clearly recall the adult Voldemort is nearly impossible. In fact, I suspect that aside from Voldemort himself, no living person could tell us in detail what he did after leaving Hogwarts. Still, I have two final memories to show you," he said, gesturing toward two glowing crystal vials near the Pensieve. "Afterward, I'll be very interested to hear your thoughts on the conclusions I've drawn."
That Dumbledore valued his opinion made Harry feel even more ashamed about failing to get Slughorn's memory. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Dumbledore held up the first vial to the light.
"I hope you're not tired of diving into other people's memories," said Dumbledore. "These are rather unusual. The first one belongs to a very old house-elf named Hokey. Before we view her memory, I must briefly explain how Voldemort left Hogwarts."
"You may have guessed, he passed his seventh year with top marks in every subject. While other students were planning their careers, almost everyone assumed Tom Riddle was destined for greatness. He was a prefect, top of his class, and had received special awards from the school. A number of professors, including Slughorn, suggested he apply to the Ministry of Magic and even offered to introduce him."
"But he turned them all down. Eventually, the staff learned that he'd taken a job at Borgin and Burkes."
"Borgin and Burkes?" Harry exclaimed.
Dumbledore nodded calmly. "Yes. And when you see Hokey's memory, you'll understand the appeal that shop held for him. But that wasn't his first choice. Very few people knew this, I'm one of the few who heard it directly from then-headmaster Armando Dippet. Voldemort first approached Dippet to ask if he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher."
"He wanted to stay here?" Harry said in disbelief.
"I believe he had several reasons, though he didn't share any with Professor Dippet. Most importantly, Hogwarts was the place he felt most attached to. It was the only place that ever felt like home."
Hearing that made Harry uncomfortable, it was how he felt about Hogwarts, too.
"Secondly," Dumbledore continued, "the castle is steeped in ancient magic. Voldemort had already discovered more of its secrets than most students ever would, but I believe he thought there was still more to uncover."
"And third, teaching would give him influence over young witches and wizards. I suspect this idea came from Slughorn, the professor he was closest to. Slughorn showed him just how much influence a teacher could wield. But I never believed Voldemort intended to remain here for long. He likely saw Hogwarts as a prime place for recruitment."
"He didn't get the job, did he?"
"No. Professor Dippet told him he was too young, but encouraged him to apply again in a few years."
"What did you think, sir?" Harry asked hesitantly.
"I was deeply uneasy," said Dumbledore. "I advised Dippet not to hire him, not for the reasons I've just told you, because Dippet liked Riddle and trusted him, but because I feared what he might do with power at Hogwarts."
"What position did he want? Which subject?"
Dumbledore didn't have to answer, Harry already knew.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts," Harry said. "It was being taught then by Professor Galatea Merrythought. She'd been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years."
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "When Voldemort went to Borgin and Burkes, many of his former professors lamented the waste of such talent. But Voldemort wasn't just a shop clerk. His charm and intelligence earned him a role few could handle, he was sent to acquire rare magical objects. Apparently, he was very persuasive."
"I believe it," said Harry grimly.
Dumbledore gave a faint, tired smile. "Now, let's hear Hokey's memory. Her mistress was a very wealthy and elderly witch named Hepzibah Smith."
Dumbledore tapped the crystal vial with his wand, and the stopper flew off. He poured the swirling silver memory into the Pensieve. "Your turn, Harry."
Harry stood and leaned over the Pensieve until his face touched the surface. Instantly, he was spinning and falling into darkness, landing in a richly furnished sitting room. There, he saw a tremendously fat old witch wearing an ornate ginger wig and a bright pink robe. She sat before a bejeweled mirror, dabbing more rouge onto her already vivid cheeks. A frail, ancient-looking house-elf was fastening tiny satin shoes onto her mistress's plump feet.
"Hurry up, Hokey!" snapped Hepzibah. "He said four o'clock, only two minutes left! He's never late!"
She put away the powder puff. Hokey straightened, her head just reaching the seat cushion. Her parchment-like skin sagged over her bones like the linen she wore.
"How do I look?" Hepzibah asked, turning her head to admire herself from all angles.
"Very beautiful, madam," Hokey squeaked.
Harry suspected Hokey's contract required her to lie, Hepzibah Smith was far from beautiful.
The doorbell rang with a chime, and both the mistress and elf jumped up.
"He's here! Quick, Hokey!"
The little elf darted out. The room was so cluttered it was hard to imagine anyone crossing it without toppling over a dozen objects, display cabinets of lacquered boxes, bookshelves of gilded volumes, stands of telescopes and magical instruments, even plants sprouting from copper pots. It looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a greenhouse.
Moments later, Hokey returned with a tall, dark-haired young man, Harry recognized Voldemort immediately. He wore a black suit; his hair was longer, his cheeks more hollow, but it suited him. He was more handsome than ever. He moved through the crowded room with ease, as if he'd been there many times before, and bowed low, brushing his lips against Hepzibah's plump hand.
"I brought you flowers," he said softly, conjuring a bouquet of roses.
"Oh, you wicked boy, you shouldn't have!" Hepzibah shrieked, clearly delighted. Harry noticed the vase already waiting on a side table. "You spoil an old woman like me, Tom. Sit down, sit down! Hokey, where's, ah!"
Hokey came rushing in with a tray of little cakes and placed it by her mistress's elbow.
"Help yourself, Tom," Hepzibah said warmly. "I know you love my pastries. But you look pale. That shop's working you too hard, I've said it a hundred times…"
She laughed girlishly, and Voldemort gave a practiced smile.
"So, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asked with a wink.
"That goblin-made armor," Voldemort said softly. "Mr. Burke is willing to raise the offer, five hundred Galleons. He thinks that's fair, "
"Now, now, don't rush me or I'll think you're only here for my treasures!" she pouted.
"I was sent here for them," said Voldemort. "I'm just a lowly clerk, madam. I follow orders."
"Bah! Mr. Burke, indeed!" she said with a dismissive wave. "I want to show you something he's never seen. Can you keep a secret, Tom? You must promise not to tell him. If he knew I showed you this, he'd never leave me alone! But I'm not selling, not to Burke or anyone. You, though, you'll appreciate the history."
"I'd be honored to see whatever you'd like to show me," Voldemort murmured. Hepzibah giggled again.
"I had Hokey fetch it already… Hokey? Where are you? Bring out our finest treasures. Yes, both of them."
"Here, madam," piped Hokey. Harry saw two leather boxes stacked and floating toward them, carried by the tiny elf navigating through the crowded room.
"Good," said Hepzibah cheerfully, taking the boxes and resting them on her lap. "I think you'll love this one… oh, if my relatives knew I was showing you this, they'd snatch it away!"
She opened the top box. Harry leaned forward and saw a small golden cup with two delicate handles.
"Know what this is, Tom? Take it, look closely!"
Voldemort reached out, his long fingers closing around one of the handles. As he lifted it from the satin cushion, Harry thought he saw a flicker of red in his dark eyes. His greedy expression reflected strangely in Hepzibah's beady eyes, though hers were fixed on his handsome face.
"A badger," Voldemort muttered, studying the engraving. "This is…"
"Helga Hufflepuff's! Clever boy!" Hepzibah squealed, pinching his hollow cheek with a loud creak from her corset. "Did I never mention I'm descended from her? It's been in the family for ages. Gorgeous, isn't it? Said to have all sorts of powers, but I've never used it, I just keep it safe…"
She tugged it gently from his fingers and tucked it back into its box. Voldemort's face briefly darkened.
"And now," she said brightly, "Hokey, yes, take that away, now this one, Tom, I think you'll like even more…"
She opened the flatter box on her lap and revealed a heavy golden locket with a serpentine S glittering on its surface.
"Salazar Slytherin's mark," Voldemort whispered, his eyes locked on the locket.
"Indeed! I paid a fortune for it, but I had to have it. Burke bought it off some destitute woman, probably stolen, poor thing had no idea what she had, "
There was no mistaking it this time, Voldemort's eyes glowed red. His grip on the chain turned his knuckles white.
"Gorgeous, isn't it?" Hepzibah said. "Said to be magical, but I've never tested it…"
She reached for it. For a moment, Harry thought Voldemort wouldn't let go. But he did, reluctantly, and the locket dropped back onto the velvet.
"There now, Tom, darling, I hope you liked them!"
She beamed at him, but her smile faltered. "You all right, dear?"
"I'm fine," said Voldemort softly. "Perfectly fine…"
"I thought, it must be the light, " Hepzibah mumbled nervously. Harry suspected she'd seen that flash of red in his eyes, too. "Hokey, put them away, use the strong enchantments…"
"It's time to go, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. As Hokey tottered off with the boxes, Dumbledore touched Harry's arm and they rose through the swirling dark, back to his office.
"Hepzibah Smith died two days after that visit," Dumbledore said, sitting down and gesturing for Harry to do the same. "The Ministry concluded her house-elf, Hokey, had accidentally poisoned her cocoa."
"That's rubbish!" Harry burst out.
"I quite agree," said Dumbledore. "The case was remarkably similar to the Riddle murders, both had scapegoats with false memories of the crime."
"Hokey confessed?"
"She remembered putting something in the cocoa, thinking it was sugar. It turned out to be a rare and lethal poison. She was found guilty of negligence, not murder."
"Voldemort altered her memory, just like he did with Morfin!"
"Yes, that's my belief. And as with Morfin, the Ministry was already biased, "
", because she was a house-elf," said Harry, suddenly more sympathetic than ever to Hermione's cause.
"Precisely. By the time I tracked her down and obtained her memory, she was near death. Her memory only proves Voldemort knew about the cup and locket."
"Hepzibah's relatives eventually realized her two most valuable treasures were missing. It took time, she was secretive and had many hiding places. But by the time they knew what was gone, the charming young man from Borgin and Burkes had already resigned and vanished. His employer didn't know where he'd gone. Tom Riddle had disappeared."
"Now," said Dumbledore, "if you don't mind, Harry, I'd like to draw your attention once more to certain details in the story. Voldemort has committed another murder. I'm not sure whether it was the first since the Riddle family massacre, but I believe it was. As you must have noticed, this time, it wasn't for revenge, it was for gain. He wanted the two priceless objects that the poor old lady showed him. Just like he used to take things from the other children at the orphanage, just like he stole the ring from his uncle, this time, he stole Hepzibah's cup and locket."
"But," Harry frowned, "it seems crazy… risking everything, throwing away his job, just for…"
"It may seem crazy to you, but not to Voldemort," said Dumbledore. "I hope, in time, you'll come to understand what those items meant to him, Harry. Though I think it's easy enough to see why he felt the locket, at least, rightfully belonged to him."
"Maybe the locket," Harry said, "but why take the cup too?"
"That cup once belonged to another founder of Hogwarts. I think the school still held a powerful allure for Voldemort, he couldn't resist an object steeped in Hogwarts history. And… I suspect there are other reasons too. I hope one day to show you what they are."
Dumbledore poured the final bottle of memory into the Pensieve. Harry rose once again.
"Whose memory is this?"
"Mine," said Dumbledore.
Harry followed Dumbledore as they plunged into the swirling silver substance, landing in the same office they'd just left. Fawkes dozed on his perch. Behind the desk sat Dumbledore, this version looked much the same as the one beside Harry, but his hands were unblemished, and his face bore fewer wrinkles. The only difference in the office was the view beyond the window: snow drifted gently in the darkness, collecting on the sill outside.
The younger Dumbledore appeared to be waiting for something. Sure enough, a knock came at the door.
"Come in," he said.
Harry nearly cried out but caught himself just in time. Voldemort entered, not the serpent-like figure who had risen from the cauldron two years ago, but a version more human in appearance, with less red in the eyes, a face not yet mask-like.
The Dumbledore behind the desk didn't look surprised. Clearly, this visit had been arranged.
"Good evening, Tom," Dumbledore said easily. "Please, have a seat."
"Thank you," Voldemort replied, sitting in the chair Harry had only recently vacated. "I hear you're Headmaster now," his voice was higher, colder than before, "A noble choice."
"I'm glad you approve," Dumbledore smiled. "Can I offer you a drink?"
"I'd appreciate that," said Voldemort. "It was a long journey."
Dumbledore rose and walked briskly to a cabinet that now housed the Pensieve, but back then had held bottles of wine. He poured two glasses, one for Voldemort, one for himself, and returned to his seat.
"So, Tom… what brings you here tonight?"
Voldemort didn't answer right away. He sipped his wine.
"They don't call me 'Tom' anymore. These days, I'm known as, "
"I know what you call yourself," Dumbledore said pleasantly, "but to me, you'll always be Tom. Riddle. That's one of the annoying things about being a teacher, we never quite forget what our students were like when we first met them."
He raised his glass, as if to toast. Voldemort showed no reaction, but Harry sensed a subtle shift in the room, Dumbledore's refusal to use the name Voldemort was a refusal to let him control the conversation. Harry could tell Voldemort noticed too.
"I'm surprised you've stayed here so long," Voldemort said after a pause. "I've often wondered why someone of your power never left the school."
"Oh," Dumbledore said, still smiling, "for someone like me, there's nothing more fulfilling than teaching ancient magic and shaping young minds. If I recall correctly, you once found the idea of teaching rather appealing too."
"I still do," Voldemort replied. "I just wonder why you, a man frequently consulted by the Ministry and nominated twice, "
"Three times, actually, but I never found the Ministry an attractive career path. I believe that's something we share in common."
Voldemort lowered his head, unsmiling, and took another sip. Dumbledore said nothing, merely waited, serene and patient.
"I've returned," Voldemort said at last. "Perhaps later than Professor Dippet expected… but I'm here to apply for the position he once deemed me too young to hold. I'm asking you to allow me to teach here, to share knowledge your students can't learn from anyone else."
Dumbledore regarded him calmly over the rim of his glass.
"Yes," he said slowly, "I know you've seen much and done much since you left us, Tom. Rumors of your activities have reached your alma mater. If even half of them are true, I'm deeply sorry."
Voldemort remained expressionless.
"Greatness breeds envy. Envy spawns resentment. Resentment gives rise to lies. You must understand that, Dumbledore."
"And you call your deeds 'greatness,' do you?" Dumbledore asked with gentle curiosity.
"Of course," Voldemort said, his eyes glowing faintly red. "I've conducted experiments, pushed magic further than anyone has dared, "
"Certain kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him, calmly. "Certain ones. In others… forgive me… you remain woefully ignorant."
Voldemort gave a cold, mocking laugh, crueler than rage.
"The same old lecture," he said quietly. "But Dumbledore, in all I've seen of the world, I've found nothing to support your famous belief, that love is a magic more powerful than mine."
"Perhaps you've been looking in the wrong places," Dumbledore said gently.
"Then what better place to begin again than here, at Hogwarts?" Voldemort asked. "Will you let me return? Will you let me share what I've learned? I offer myself, my talents, to you, under your command."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
"And your followers? Those who call themselves, or are rumored to call themselves, Death Eaters?"
Harry saw the flicker of surprise in Voldemort's eyes, he hadn't expected Dumbledore to know that name. His slit-like nostrils flared slightly.
"My friends," he said after a pause, "will continue with or without me, I'm sure."
"I'm glad you consider them friends," said Dumbledore. "I had the impression they were more like servants."
"You're mistaken."
"Then if I went to the Hog's Head tonight, I wouldn't find Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov, all waiting for you to return? Such loyal friends, braving the snow just to wish you luck on a job application?"
Voldemort was clearly irritated by how much Dumbledore knew, though he masked it quickly.
"You're as omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."
"Oh, not at all, just on good terms with the local barman."
Dumbledore set down his empty glass and sat up straight, fingertips touching, his characteristic pose.
"Let's be honest, Tom. Why did you come here tonight with your followers in tow, applying for a job we both know you don't really want?"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed coldly.
"Don't want it? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much."
"Oh, you want to return to Hogwarts, but you no more want to teach than you did at eighteen. What is it you truly seek, Tom? Why not be honest for once?"
Voldemort gave a short, cruel laugh.
"If you won't give me the job, "
"Of course I won't," said Dumbledore. "And I believe you never expected I would. But still, you came. Still, you asked. You must have had something else in mind."
Voldemort rose, fury in his eyes, and looked less like Tom Riddle than ever before.
"Is that your final decision?"
"It is," Dumbledore said, standing as well.
"Then we've nothing more to discuss."
"No," said Dumbledore sadly, "Nothing. The time when a burning wardrobe might have frightened you into repentance is long past. But I wish it weren't, Tom… I wish it weren't…"
For a fleeting second, Harry nearly shouted a warning, he was certain Voldemort had moved his hand toward his wand. But the moment passed. Voldemort turned and walked out. The door closed behind him. He was gone.
Dumbledore's hand once again gripped Harry's arm, and a moment later, they stood in the present-day office. Snow no longer fell outside. Dumbledore's hand was blackened and withered once more.
"Why?" Harry asked immediately, gazing up at Dumbledore. "Why did he come back? Do you know?"
"I have some ideas, but they are only theories."
"What theories, sir?"
"When you have secured Professor Slughorn's memory," said Dumbledore, "I'll tell you, Harry."
Harry, still burning with questions, knew it was time to go, and that he must do whatever it took to obtain that critical memory.
"Wait, Harry," said Skull as Harry stood, heading for the door. Harry stopped and turned.
"I want to give you a heads-up, during the Easter holidays, you'll need to come with us to Privet Drive."
"Why?"
"Because you'll be moving out of there for good. You'll be relocating to the Burrow."
A wide smile spread across Harry's face. Joy and relief flooded through him.
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