Sean had seen this wizard in the Daily Prophet—Bob Ogden.
Ogden was here to carry out a mission, and Dumbledore and Sean followed him.
As they passed a wooden signpost, Sean lifted his eyes to the two arrow boards.
The one pointing back the way they'd come read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles.
The one pointing in the direction Ogden was heading read: Little Hangleton, 1 mile.
So the general location was confirmed…
Sean quietly filed it away.
They walked on for a while. There was nothing to see but the tall hedgerows on either side, the vast, cloudless blue of a summer sky overhead, and the figure ahead in a frock coat, his footsteps whispering along the lane.
Then the path turned left and plunged steeply down a hillside—and suddenly, unexpectedly, a valley opened up before them, spread out in full view.
Sean saw a village—clearly Little Hangleton—nestled between two steep slopes, its church and graveyard plainly visible.
On the opposite hillside stood a very grand house, surrounded by broad stretches of vivid green lawn.
"The villagers of Little Hangleton call it the Riddle House," Dumbledore said with a smile.
Sean looked at the house. Before long, Tom Riddle—brought back by Wormtail—would enter it.
But if Wormtail were imprisoned… would he still return?
Sean didn't know.
Perhaps some other wizard would venture into Albania. Perhaps there would be a "Worm-Ears," or "Worm-Nose," or something equally absurd.
Sean disliked anything outside the plan.
So he made the plan precise.
In the memory, the slope was so steep that Ogden broke into an involuntary jog.
Dumbledore lengthened his stride; Sean quickened his pace behind him.
Suddenly the lane bent right. When they rounded the corner, Ogden's coat hem flashed—then he vanished through a gap in the hedge.
Dumbledore and Sean followed him onto a narrow dirt track. The hedges here were even taller and thicker than the ones they'd passed before.
Though the sky was bright and clear, the ancient trees overhead cast a cold, dense shadow. After a few seconds, Sean's eyes made out a house half-hidden in tangled undergrowth.
It looked scarcely inhabited: moss covered the walls; many roof tiles were missing, exposing rafters here and there.
Thick nettles grew all around it, rising right up to the windows. The windows were tiny, caked in layers of old grime.
"We're here," Dumbledore said.
A window clicked open. A thin wisp of steam—or bluish smoke—drifted out, as though someone were cooking.
Then came another sharp crack, and a man in tattered, filthy clothes jumped down from a nearby tree, landing right in front of Ogden.
Ogden hurried backward, stepped on his own coat hem, and nearly toppled.
"Hisss—hisss—"
The man's hair was matted with so much dirt you couldn't tell its original color. Several teeth were missing. His small black eyes pointed in opposite directions.
He ought to have looked ridiculous—yet he didn't. He looked frightening.
"Er—good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic—"
"Hiss-hiss-hiss."
"Er—sorry—I can't understand you," Ogden said uneasily.
"I imagine we'll struggle to understand him as well?" Dumbledore asked, smiling, turning to Sean behind them.
"He said, 'You're not welcome,'" Sean replied.
"Oh? How curious," Dumbledore said, surprised.
"Parseltongue pronunciation is partially adapted from Old Futhark script—Parseltongue has a section on it," Sean explained.
"Forgive me—I've never heard of that book," Dumbledore said, thoughtful.
Sean glanced down at his neck: the Wizard's Book was still there, but inside the memory it was hard to open.
And even if he could, he couldn't pull out Ravenclaw's Parseltongue from it.
In fact, in Ravenclaw's memory, Sean preferred to call it Salazar Slytherin: Observation Notes.
The memory continued to flow.
An older man came out, and Ogden visibly relaxed at the sight of him.
"I've come to speak with your son, Mr. Gaunt—was that Morfin just now?" Ogden asked.
"Yes, that was Morfin," the old man said carelessly. Then his manner suddenly sharpened, turning aggressive. "Are you pure-blood?"
"That has nothing to do with today's conversation," Ogden said coldly.
But Gaunt clearly didn't care. He narrowed his eyes at Ogden's face and muttered something in a tone that was plainly meant to insult.
"Can we go inside to talk?" Ogden's voice went even colder.
"Inside?"
"Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you—I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl—"
"Owls are no use to me," Gaunt said. "I never read letters."
"Then you can't complain you weren't told someone was coming," Ogden snapped. "I'm here because of a serious breach of wizarding law that happened early this morning—"
"All right, all right, all right!" Gaunt roared. "Get into the blasted house, then—you'll be more comfortable!"
The house was made up of three tiny rooms. The larger middle room served as both kitchen and sitting room; two doors led to the other rooms.
Morfin sat in a filthy armchair by a soot-belching fire, thick fingers toying with a small live viper. He was softly singing in Parseltongue:
"Hiss-hiss, hiss-hiss,
little snakey, crawl across the floor,
be good to Morfin, or I'll nail you to the front door…"
A girl was there too—raggedly dressed—rummaging through ash-covered jars and bottles.
"My daughter, Merope," Gaunt said grudgingly when Ogden looked at her questioningly.
"Good morning," Ogden said.
The girl didn't answer. She cast a frightened look at her father, then quickly turned away and kept fiddling with the cluttered shelves.
"All right, Mr. Gaunt," Ogden said, "let's get straight to it. We have reason to believe your son Morfin used magic late last night in front of a Muggle."
Clang—deafeningly loud. Merope had knocked a jar to the floor.
"Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "What—are you going to get down on the ground like some filthy Muggle and hunt for it?
What's your wand for, you useless idiot?"
Ogden looked stunned. In the end, Gaunt forced Merope to attempt Reparo, but she failed—and the curses poured down like a storm.
Dumbledore shifted casually in front of Sean, blocking his line of sight—and even muffling what he could hear.
Sean only knew that after a while, Gaunt snapped at Ogden again, furious:
"So what? Morfin taught a Muggle a lesson—so what?"
"Morfin broke wizarding law," Ogden said sternly.
"Morfin broke wizarding law," Gaunt echoed in a mocking drawl, heavy with arrogance. Morfin cackled.
"He gave a filthy Muggle what he deserved—so that's illegal now?"
"Yes," Ogden said. "I'm afraid it is."
He pulled a small roll of parchment from an inner pocket, unrolled it, and held it out.
"What's that—his sentence?" Gaunt shouted.
"A summons to appear at the Ministry for questioning—"
"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son?"
"I'm the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," Ogden said.
"You think we're low trash?" Gaunt shrieked, jabbing Ogden in the chest with a yellowed, filthy finger as he advanced. "The Ministry calls and we come running? Do you know who you're talking to, you foul little Mudblood, eh?"
"I believe I'm speaking to Mr. Gaunt," Ogden said warily, but he didn't back down.
"That's right!" Gaunt roared. He thrust up his hand—Sean saw he was showing Ogden the ugly black-stoned ring on his middle finger.
Gaunt wagged it inches from Ogden's nose.
"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? It's been in our family for centuries—our family's history goes back that far, pure-blood all the way! Know how much people offered me for it? It's got the Peverell crest carved on it!"
"I truly don't know," Ogden said, blinking as the ring swung near his face. "And it has nothing to do with this matter. Your son committed—"
Gaunt suddenly roared and lunged at his daughter, one hand shooting toward her throat.
For a split second, Sean thought he meant to strangle her.
Then Gaunt yanked at a golden chain around her neck, dragging her in front of Ogden.
"See this?" he howled, shaking a heavy gold locket on the chain right under Ogden's nose. Merope choked, coughing violently, barely able to breathe.
"I see it—I see it!" Ogden said quickly.
"Slytherin's!" Gaunt screamed. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're the last living branch of his line—what have you got to say to that, eh?"
"Mr. Gaunt—your daughter!" Ogden cried, panicked.
But Gaunt had already released Merope. She stumbled away to her corner, rubbing her neck and gulping air.
Sean watched, and something lodged in his throat.
Before he could stop himself, he blurted, "Shall I mourn the stupidity of your mind, Salazar?"
Dumbledore turned back, voice amused. "Ravenclaw—Ravenclaw?"
"Just a memory, Headmaster," Sean said softly.
Ravenclaw's memory didn't only dredge up old knowledge. When too many triggers hit at once, Sean couldn't always cope—he slid into Ravenclaw's instincts.
Like now. He was in an oddly good mood, and if he could find a Salazar Slytherin to mock, all the better.
"I think that's quite enough, my boy," Dumbledore said, taking Sean by the elbow and giving a gentle tug.
In an instant, they were weightless, rising through darkness—up, up—until they landed solidly back in Dumbledore's office, where night had already fallen outside the windows.
"What did you notice?" Dumbledore asked.
"A locket… and a ring," Sean answered.
"That will do," Dumbledore said, pleased.
The boy always caught what mattered. It wasn't only intelligence.
"Old ears always long to hear young wisdom—on one point I'm quite certain.
If the stars have ever whispered anything to you, would I have the honor of being the first you share it with?" Dumbledore asked.
"I will," Sean said.
But not this time.
Outside, the sky was pitch black. The lights in Dumbledore's office seemed brighter than they used to.
"Thank you for sharing this, Headmaster Dumbledore," Sean said as he left.
"No—it is I who should thank you, Green," Dumbledore said, eyes deep.
The headmaster's office door closed behind him.
That was the drawback of a Pensieve: an hour in memory could be a whole day in reality.
Sean had entered the headmaster's office in the morning. Now it was evening.
"Will," he called.
"Honored Mr. Green," the Pukwudgie butler Apparated out of the Wizard's Book.
"Diagon Alley," Sean said.
"At your command!" Will snapped.
…
Diagon Alley.
The Fairy Tale Shop.
Even at dusk, younger students still loitered in front of the dazzling display windows, unwilling to leave.
This was Diagon Alley's most mysterious, most fascinating shop—selling magical items the entire wizarding world had gone mad for.
Even better, the Chocolate Frog cards sold at the door sometimes hid invitation slips.
They'd seen it with their own eyes: a few jubilant younger students—and their families—going in!
Everyone who entered came out smiling. If only they could bring smiles to others like that, too.
That's what the younger students thought, beaming.
Just then, a boy appeared at the entrance.
No one knew how he'd arrived, but a chubby-cheeked child kindly warned him, "Hey! You can't get in!"
The boy turned his head, and the girl realized he was very good-looking.
"Uh—I mean—loads of people want to go in, but the black-faced boss inside is terrifying!" she stammered.
"Thank you," the boy said. The girl had only just lit up—when she saw him push the door open and walk right in.
"He got in!" she shrieked.
Inside, the Fairy Tale Shop was just as ever—glowing warm orange.
"Professor Quirrell," Sean said.
"How did you—" Quirrell, in the distance, flicked his wand. In the next instant he had Apparated in front of Sean, perfectly respectful.
"You don't need to do that," Sean said, helplessly.
"Yes," Quirrell replied, as if that settled everything.
"We're going somewhere with a high chance of danger, Professor," Sean said.
"Must you go?" Quirrell stammered, flustered. "If you trust me—then of course—I…I…I can do it in your place…"
"Professor, I need you," Sean said quietly.
Quirrell's face flushed at once. He stuttered and couldn't find a single coherent word.
Outside, the night had deepened. Most witches and wizards had gathered around their hearths to rest and chat.
Sean looked at every warm-lit window in Diagon Alley. He had always acted according to plan—maybe faster, maybe slower—but he never stopped.
He couldn't.
~~~
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