Chapter 17: A Sluggish Memory


Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, Harry, Ron, and Ginny

lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had

arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students

quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. Weasley was there to say good-

bye, as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work. Mrs.

Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took

very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and off ever since

Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses

splattered with mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George, and Ginny all

claimed credit).



"Don't cry, Mum," said Ginny, patting her on the back as Mrs. Weasley

sobbed into her shoulder. "It's okay. ..."


"Yeah, don't worry about us," said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a

very wet kiss on his cheek, "or about Percy. He's such a prat, it's not really a

loss, is it?"


Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms.


"Promise me you'll look after yourself.. .. Stay out of trouble. ..."


"I always do, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry. "I like a quiet life, you know

me."

She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. "Be good, then, all of you. ..."


Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted "Hogwarts!" He had one

last fleeting view of the Weasleys' kitchen and Mrs. Weasley's tearful face

before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred

glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before

he could get a proper look; then he was slowing down, finally stopping

squarely in the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. She barely

glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate.


"Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet."


"No, Professor."


Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning

into view. When Ginny had arrived, all three of them trooped out of

McGonagall's office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced out of

the corridor windows as they passed; the sun was already sinking over

grounds carpeted in deeper snow than had lain over the Burrow garden. In

the distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in front of his cabin.


"Baubles," said Ron confidently, when they reached the Fat Lady, who

was looking rather paler than usual and winced at his loud voice.


"No," she said.

"What d'you mean, `no' ?


"There is a new password," she said. "And please don't shout."


"But we've been away, how're we supposed to -- ?"


"Harry! Ginny!"


Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a

cloak, hat, and gloves.


"I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and

Buck -- I mean Witherwings," she said breathlessly. "Did you have a good

Christmas?"


"Yeah," said Ron at once, "pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim --" ] "I've got

something for you, Harry," said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving

any sign that she had heard him. "Oh, hang on -- password. Abstinence."


"Precisely," said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to

reveal the portrait hole.


"What's up with her?" asked Harry.


"Overindulged over Christmas, apparently," said Hermione, rolling her

eyes as she led the way into the packed common room. "She and her friend

Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks

down by the Charms corridor. Anyway..."


She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out a scroll of

parchment with Dumbledore's writing on it.


"Great," said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover that his next lesson

with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following night. "I've got loads to

tell him -- and you. Let's sit down --"


But at that moment there was a loud squeal of "Won-Won!" and Lavender

Brown came hurtling out of nowhere and flung herself into Ron's arms.

Several onlookers sniggered; Hermione gave a tinkling laugh and said,

"There's a cable over here... Coming. Ginny?"




"No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean," said Ginny, though Harry could not

help noticing that she did not sound very enthusiastic. Leaving Ron and

Lavender locked in a kind of vertical wrestling, match, Harry led Hermione

over to the spare table.


"So how was your Christmas?"


"Oh, fine," she shrugged. "Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won's?"


"I'll tell you in a minute," said Harry. "Look, Hermione, can't you --"

"No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask."


"I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas --"


"It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine,

Harry, not me. So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?"


She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so Harry dropped the

subject of Ron and recounted all that he had overheard between Malfoy and

Snape. When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a moment and

then said, "Don't you think -- ?"


"-- he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into

telling him what he's doing?"


"Well, yes," said Hermione.


"Ron's dad and Lupin think so," Harry said grudgingly. "But this

definitely proves Malfoy's planning something, you can't deny that."


"No, I can't," she answered slowly.


"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!"


"Hmm .. . did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?"

Harry frowned, trying to remember. "I'm not sure ... Snape definitely said

'your master,' and who else would that be?"


"I don't know," said Hermione, biting her lip. "Maybe his father?"


She stared across the room, apparently lost in thought, not even noticing

Lavender tickling Ron. "How's Lupin?"


"Not great," said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin's mission among

the werewolves and the difficulties he was facing. "Have you heard of this

Fenrir Greyback?"


"Yes, I have!" said Hermione, sounding startled. "And so have you,

Harry!"


"When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened ..."


"No, no, not History of Magic -- Malfoy threatened Borgin with Kim!"

said Hermione. "Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told

Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he'd be checking up

on Borgin's progress!"


Harry gaped at her. "I forgot! But this proves Malfoy s a Death Eater, how

else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?"


"It is pretty suspicious," breathed Hermione. "Unless . . ." "Oh, come on,"

said Harry in exasperation, "you can't get round this one!"

"Well . . . there is the possibility it was an empty threat." "You're

unbelievable, you are," said Harry, shaking his head.


"We'll see who's right. . . . You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just

like the Ministry. Oh yeah, 1 had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well. . . ."


And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both of them abusing

the Minister of Magic, for Hermione, like Ron, thought that after all the

Ministry had put Harry through the previous year, they had a great deal of

nerve asking him for help now.


The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth

years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards

overnight.




APPARITION LESSONS


If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the

31st August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition

Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign below

if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons.

Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling around the notice and

taking it in turns to write their names at the bottom. Ron was just taking out

his quill to sign after Hermione when Lavender crept up behind him, slipped

her hands over his eyes, and trilled, "Guess who, Won-Won?" Harry turned

to see Hermione stalking off; he caught up with her, having no wish to stay

behind with Ron and Lavender, but to his surprise, Ron caught up with them

only a little way beyond the portrait hole, his ears bright red and his

expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione sped up to walk with

Neville.


"So -- Apparition," said Ron, his tone making it perfectly plain that Harry

was not to mention what had just happened. "Should be a laugh, eh?"


"I dunno," said Harry. "Maybe it's better when you do it yourself, I didn't

enjoy it much when Dumbledore took me along for the ride."


"I forgot you'd already done it. ... I'd better pass my test first


time," said Ron, looking anxious. "Fred and George did," "Charlie failed,

though, didn't he?" "Yeah, but Charlie's bigger than me" -- Ron held his

arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla -- "so Fred and George


didn't go on about it much . . . not to his face anyway . . ." "When can we

take the actual test?" "Soon as we're seventeen. That's only March for me!"

"Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to Apparate in here, not in the castle . . ."


"Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could Apparate if I wanted."

Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect of Apparition. All

that day there was much talk about the forthcoming , lessons; a great deal of

store was set by being able to vanish and reappear at will.


"How cool will it be when we can just --" Seamus clicked his ringers to

indicate disappearance. "Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you

wait till I can do it back. . . He'll never have another peaceful moment. . . ."


Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too

enthusiastically, so that instead of producing the fountain of pure water that

was the object of today's Charms lesson, he let out a hoselike jet that

ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face.


"Harry's already Apparated," Ron told a slightly abashed Seamus, after

Professor Flitwick had dried himself off with a wave of his wand and set

Seamus lines: "I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick." "Dum -- er

-- someone took him. Side-Along-Apparition, you know."


"Whoa!" whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and Neville put their heads a

little closer to hear what Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry

was besieged with requests from the other sixth years to describe the

sensation of Apparition. All of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when

he told them how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering detailed

questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that

he needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his

lesson with Dumbledore.

The lamps in Dumbledore's office were lit, the portraits of previous

headmasters were snoring gently in their frames, and the Pen-sieve was

ready upon the desk once more. Dumbledore's hands lay on either side of it,

the right one as blackened and burnt-looking as ever. It did not seem to have

healed at all and Harry wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, what had

caused such a distinctive injury, but did not ask; Dumbledore had said that

he would know eventually and there was, in any case, another subject he

wanted to discuss. But before Harry could say anything about Snape and

Malfoy, Dumbledore spoke.


"I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?" "Yes," said

Harry. "He's not very happy with me."


"No," sighed Dumbledore. "He is not very happy with me either. We must

try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on."


Harry grinned.


"He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that the Ministry's doing

a wonderful job.'


Dumbledore smiled.


"It was Fudge's idea originally, you know. During his last days in office,

when he was trying desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with

you, hoping that you would give him your

support --"


"After everything Fudge did last year?" said Harry angrily. "After

Umbridge ?"


"I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the idea did not die when

he left: office. Within hours of Scrimgeour's appointment we met and he

demanded that I arrange a meeting with you --"


"So that's why you argued!" Harry blurted out. "It was in the Daily

Prophet"'


"The Prophet is bound to report the truth occasionally," said Dumbledore,

"if only accidentally. Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that

Rufus found a way to corner you at last."


"He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'"


"How very rude of him."


"I told him I was."


Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind

Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry's

intense embarrassment, he suddenly realized

that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes looked rather watery, ami stared

hastily at his own knees. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was

quite steady.


"I am very touched, Harry."


"Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when you're not at Hogwarts,"

said Harry, still looking fixedly at his knees.


"Yes, he is very nosy about that," said Dumbledore, now sounding

cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to look up again. "He has even attempted

to have me followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It wasn't

kind. I have already been forced to jinx Dawlish once; I did it again with the

greatest regret."


"So they still don't know where you go?" asked Harry, hoping for more

information on this intriguing subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over

the top of his half-moon spectacles.


"No, they don't, and the time is not quite right for you to know either.

Now, I suggest we press on, unless there's anything else -- ?" "There is,

actually, sir," said Harry. "It's about Malfoy and Snape."


"Professor Snape, Harry."


"Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor Slughorns party . . . well, I

followed them, actually. ..."

Dumbledore listened to Harry's story with an impassive face. When Harry

had finished he did not speak for a few moments, then said, "Thank you for

telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it out of your mind. I do not

think that it is of great importance."


"Not of great importance?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Professor, did

you understand -- ?"


"Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary brainpower, I understood

everything you told me," said Dumbledore, a little sharply. "I think you

might even consider the possibility that I understood more than you did.

Again, I am glad that you have con-lided in me, but let me reassure you that

you have not told me anything that causes me disquiet."


Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. What was going on?

Did this mean that Dumbledore had indeed ordered Snape to find out what

Malfoy was doing, in which case he had already heard everything Harry had

just told him from Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had heard,

but pretending not to be?


"So, sir," said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice, "you

definitely still trust -- ?"


"I have been tolerant enough to answer that question already," said

Dumbledore, but he did not sound very tolerant anymore. "My answer has

not changed."

"I should think not," said a snide voice; Phineas Nigellus was evidently

only pretending to be asleep. Dumbledore ignored him.


"And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important

things to discuss with you this evening."


Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if he refused to permit

the change of subject, if he insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy?

As though he had read Harry's mind, Dumbledore shook his head.


"Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the best of friends!

Each of us believes that what he has to say is much more important than

anything the other might have to contribute!"


"I don't think what you've got to say is unimportant, sir," said Harry

stiffly.


"Well, you are quite right, because it is not," said Dumbledore briskly. "I

have two more memories to show you this evening, both obtained with

enormous difficulty, and the second of them is, 1 think, the most important I

have collected."


Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry at the reception his

confidences had received, but could not see what was to be gained by

arguing further.

"So," said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, "we meet this evening to

continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the

threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was

to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon

Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he

arrived at school.


"Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a

quiet boy in his secondhand robes, who lined up with the other first years to

be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the

Sorting Hat touched his head," continued Dumbledore, waving his

blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat,

ancient and unmoving. "How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of

the House could talk to snakes, I do not know -- perhaps that very evening.

The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-

importance.


"However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with

displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the

staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an

unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew

attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival.

He seemed police, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most

favorably impressed by him."


"Didn't you tell them, sir, what he'd been like when you met him at the

orphanage?" asked Harry.

"No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible

that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn

over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance."


Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry, who had opened his

mouth to speak. Here, again, was Dumbledore's tendency to trust people in

spite of overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it! But then Harry

remembered something. . . .


"But you didn't really trust him, sir, did you? He told me . . . the Riddle

who came out of that diary said, 'Dumbledore never seemed to like me as

much as the other teachers did.'"


"Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy," said

Dumbledore. "I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye

upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my

observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in

the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He

was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what

he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me.

However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so

many of my colleagues.


"As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated

friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already

indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group

had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection;

a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared

glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them

more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of

the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters

after leaving Hogwarts.


"Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open

wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a

number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the

most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of

Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was

wrongly accused of that crime.


"I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts," said

Dumbledore, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. "Few who knew

him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know,

I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after

tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old

records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike.


"Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed

with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an

orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems

that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields

in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in

the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his

father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he

dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Volde-mort, and

began his investigations into his previously despised mother's family -- the

woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if

she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death.


"All he had to go upon was the single name 'Marvolo,' which he knew

from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother's father's name.

Finally, after painstaking research, through old books of Wizarding families,

he discovered the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of

his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and

set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand ..." :


Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again holding a. small

crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory.


"I was very lucky to collect this," he said, as he poured the gleaming mass

into the Pensieve. "As you will understand when we have experienced it.

Shall we?"


Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face

sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of

falling through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in

almost total darkness.


It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time

Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts' house was now more

indescribably filthy than anywhere Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was

thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay

upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a

single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so

overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an

armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was

dead. But


then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake,

raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left.


The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned

lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and

handsome -- the teenage Voldemort.


Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man

in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man

staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling

across the floor.


"YOU!" he bellowed. "YOU!"


And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.


"Stop."

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending

moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long

silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it.


"You speak it?"


"Yes, I speak it," said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing

the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful

admiration for Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed

disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.


"Where is Marvolo?" he asked.


"Dead," said the other. "Died years ago, didn't he?"


Riddle frowned.


"Who are you, then?"


"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"


"Marvolo's son?"


"'Course I am, then..." · ,, .


Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and

Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.

"I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin. "You look mighty

like that Muggle."


"What Muggle?" said Riddle sharply.


"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in

the big house over the way," said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the

floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in

'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it. ..."


Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge

of the table for support. "He come back, see," he added stupidly.


Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities.

Now he moved a little closer and said, "Riddle came back?"


"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting

on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. , Where's the

locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"


Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again;

he brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, , she did, that little

slut! And whore you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's

over, innit. . . . It's over. ..."

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As

he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and

Morfin's candle, extinguishing everything. . . . Dumbledore's fingers closed

tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present

again. The soft golden light in Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's

eyes after that impenetrable darkness.


"Is that all?" said Harry at once. "Why did it go dark, what happened?"


"Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward,"

said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry back into his seat. "When he awoke next

morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone.


"Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along

the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing

room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father.


"The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do

not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avadu Kedavra curse

does not usually leave any sign of damage. . . . The exception sits before

me," Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. "The Ministry, on the

other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's murder. They also knew

that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house,

a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of

the murdered people.

"So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him,

to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot,

giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have

killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed

over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the

Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight.


All that disturbed him was the fact that his fathers ring had disappeared.

'He'll kill me for losing it,' he told his captors over and over again. 'He'll kill

me for losing his ring.' And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He

lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of

Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other

poor souls who have expired within its walls."


"So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?" said Harry, sitting up

straight.


"That's right," said Dumbledore. "We have no memories to show us this,

but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his

uncle, took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to 'the big house over

the way.' There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch

mother, and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating

the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father

who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, performed the

complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind,

laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient ring

he wore, and departed."

"And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?"


"Never," said Dumbledore. "He gave, as I say, a full and boastful

confession."


"But he had this real memory in him all the time!" "Yes, but it took a

great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him," said Dumbledore,

"and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had

already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to

Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to

discover as much as I could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory

with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure

Morfin's release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision,

however, Morfin had died."


"But how come the Ministry didn't realize that Voldemort had done all

that to Morfin?" Harry asked angrily "He was underage at the time, wasn't

he? I thought they could detect underage magic!" "You are quite right --

they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: You will remember that you

were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, cast by

--"


"Dobby," growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. "So if you're

underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard's house, the

Ministry won't know?"

"They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic," said

Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harrys face.

"They rely on witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring's

obedience while within their walls."


"Well, that's rubbish," snapped Harry. "Look what happened here, look

what happened to Morfin!"


"I agree," said Dumbledore. "Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to

die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting

late, and I want you to see this other memory before we part. ..."


Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Harry

fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most

important one he had collected. Harry noticed that the contents proved

difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly;

did memories go bad?


"This will not take long," said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied

the phial. "We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the

Pensieve, then . . ."


And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in

front of a man he recognized at once.


It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald

that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair

quite disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his head thatched, though

there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His

mustache, less massive than it was these days, was gingery-blond. He was

not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons

on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. His

little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a

comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the

other searching through a box of crystalized pineapple.


Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that

they were standing in Slughorn's office. Haifa dozen boys were sitting

around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-

teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face

and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently

upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing

Marvolo's gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his father.


"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.


"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging a

reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly

by winking. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information,

boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."


Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your

careful flattery of the people who matter -- thank you fm the pineapple, by

the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite -- "


As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole

room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see

nothing but the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then

Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, "You'll go

wrong, boy, mark my words. "


The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any

allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just

happened. Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden clock

standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.


"Good gracious, is it that time already?" said Slughorn. "You'd better get

going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by

tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."


Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass

over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind.

Harry could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room

with Slughorn.


"Look sharp, Tom," said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still

present. "You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a

prefect..."

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."


"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away...."


"Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?"


And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled the room so that

Harry could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling

serenely beside him. Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had

done before.


"I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did!

Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them

again!"


"Well, that's that," said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry.


"Time to go."


And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the


rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.


"That's all there is?" said Harry blankly.

Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but

he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and

the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that

nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a

question and failed to get an answer.


"As you might have noticed," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind

his desk, "that memory has been tampered with."


"Tampered with?" repeated Harry, sitting back down too.


"Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Professor Slughorn has meddled with his

own recollections."


"But why would he do that?"


"Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers," said

Dumbledore. "He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better

light, obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you

will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows

that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations.


"And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be

your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which

will undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information of all."


Harry stared at him.

"But surely, sir," he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, "you

don't need me -- you could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum. ..."


"Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting

both," said Dumbledore. "He is much more accomplished at Occlumency

than poor Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has not carried an

antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me

this travesty of a recollection.


"No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from

Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do

not wish him to leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the

rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to

penetrate his defenses. It is most important that we secure the true memory,

Harry. . . . How important, we will only know when we have seen the real

thing. So, good luck . . . and good night."


A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly.

"Good night, sir."


As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas

Nigellus say, "I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you,

Dumbledore."


"I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas," replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes

gave another low, musical cry.