Chapter 334: Choices
"You are to return these items to their owners and apologize to them," Professor Dumbledore said calmly. "I shall know if it is done, and I must warn you: Hogwarts does not tolerate thievery."
There wasn't a trace of shame on Riddle's face. He stared coldly at Dumbledore, as if taking the man's measure. Finally, he spoke in a dry, clipped voice: "I understand, sir."
Beside Sean, the silver-haired Dumbledore's voice was equally level. "And then comes the second choice: how one faces their own conduct."
The scene shifted once more.
Riddle placed the small pile of stolen goods back into the cardboard box, his face remaining a mask of indifference. Once finished, he turned back to Dumbledore and said bluntly, "I have no money."
"That is easily solved," Dumbledore replied, pulling a leather coin purse from his pocket. "Hogwarts has a fund specifically for those who require assistance in purchasing textbooks and robes. You may have to rely on second-hand shops for some of your spellbooks, but—"
"Where do I buy magical books?" Riddle interrupted. He took the purse without a word of thanks and peered inside, his eyes fixing on a thick gold Galleon with an intensity that was almost predatory.
Both the younger Professor Dumbledore in the memory and the Headmaster standing next to Sean wore expressions of profound gravity. After a long silence, the modern Dumbledore spoke.
"Finally... the choice of how to face one's interests."
The memory shattered like glass, dissolving into silver vapor.
Seconds later, Sean felt himself floating weightlessly through the darkness before landing firmly on the carpet of the Headmaster's office. He felt a bit lightheaded—the transition from a Pensieve always left one feeling slightly untethered from reality.
"Time is playing tricks on us," Dumbledore noted, gesturing toward the pitch-black sky outside the window. "Goodnight, child."
Sean blinked. Professor Dumbledore had just shown him the childhood of Lord Voldemort, only to end the lesson without a summary?
As his gaze swept across the room, he saw the Headmaster smiling kindly.
"Mmm, I hope you didn't allow drowsiness to make you overlook that final point, Sean. Young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw that box of stolen items he kept in his room. They were taken from the children he had bullied—grim souvenirs of particularly nasty bits of magic.
"I suspect you have read that book—Magick Moste Evile. If you had any lingering doubts, perhaps you have some answers now. As for what I wish to tell you, child... it is to choose your life with caution. Though I must say, I have met no one who handles that better than you."
The heavy oak doors of the office swung shut. Dumbledore stood by the window, lost in thought. Different choices always led the story in different directions. Deep within the silver threads of the Pensieve lay other, darker memories—scenes of a fourth-floor classroom, the subterranean Chamber, and a rising home for orphans.
The Headmaster's beard twitched. He seemed to be remembering something that brought him a flicker of genuine joy.
Sean remained in deep thought as he walked away from the office. It was clear that Dumbledore had already deduced the existence of the Horcruxes, and Sean suspected the Headmaster had tacitly allowed him access to Magick Moste Evile. This meant the "plot" hadn't deviated much; if anything, it was simply shifting toward a more favorable outcome.
This is exactly what I wanted to see, Sean thought.
Avoiding the groups of excited students patrolling the corridors, Sean quickened his pace. He didn't need much more proficiency to reach the [Adept] level in Soul Transfiguration. Soon, he would be able to deal with the fragment of Voldemort's soul residing within Harry.
But as he walked, he noticed the students were acting... odd. He focused his senses and saw they were all clutching moving "Black Cat" cards.
Sean, who had been preparing for another grueling night of training, simply went silent. "..."
By nightfall, the morning's light snow had escalated into a violent blizzard. Thick, grey flakes swirled through the air, sealing the windows and leaving the castle much darker than usual.
A black cat eventually found a quiet corner to rest. Its ears swiveled, catching the sounds of students running through the lower corridors, their voices echoing with excitement. Fortunately, the far end of the fourth-floor corridor was deserted. Most students were gathered around the "Lucky Statue."
The base of the statue was now piled high with small "offerings." Sean sometimes felt the whole situation was becoming dangerously absurd. Whenever he tried to surreptitiously clear the offerings away, the pile would be twice as large the next morning. Eventually, he had simply given up.
Aside from the rumors being spread by the Kneazle Society, another piece of gossip had taken hold of the school today.
"Aha! Look at this! It's Potter, the rotter! What's he up to? Why's he acting so sneaky? Oh, Potter, you nasty boy, playing with snakes and thinking you're quite the hero—"
The black cat's ears twitched at the sound of a high-pitched, mocking voice.
It was Peeves. The poltergeist was cackling as he zoomed past Harry on the fourth floor, intentionally knocking Harry's glasses askew.
"Clear off, Peeves! The Bloody Baron is coming!" Harry roared. Peeves beat a hasty retreat, though he didn't forget to blow a loud raspberry over his shoulder.
"I'm nothing like him! And I don't belong in Slytherin!" Harry shouted to the empty hallway.
Ever since leaving the Headmaster's office, a sense of unexplainable panic had taken root in Harry's chest.
"I'm a Gryffindor..." one voice in his head insisted.
"But the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin," another voice countered instantly.
These two thoughts had been at war for hours, leaving Harry so agitated he felt like throwing himself into the frozen Black Lake just to clear his head.
In his distress, Harry caught sight of a black shadow flickering at the end of the hall. It looked familiar. He rubbed his eyes quickly.
"Mr. Kneazle!" he called out.
It was the Castle Kneazle. It knew about Voldemort's diary; surely it could answer his questions! But the shadow was already gone. Harry was left standing alone, his shoulders slumping with a sense of profound loss.
That night, Harry couldn't sleep. He peered through the gaps in his four-poster's hangings, watching the snow lash against the window, his mind a whirlpool of doubt. Eventually, in the grey hours of the morning, he drifted into a fitful slumber.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in the misty realm. Standing by the familiar sign of the "Oak Tree Children's Home" was the black cat. It was currently using a paw to try and tuck its own tail into a more comfortable position.
"Mr. Kneazle!" Harry shouted with joy.
The cat gave a very human-like nod of greeting.
"Do you know—"
Harry stopped. He had so many things he wanted to ask that the words seemed to jam in his throat. The black cat didn't seem to be in any rush; it was still focused on taming its tail.
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