You know what? Classes were alright. Some of them were even kind of fun. Herbology was my personal favorite. Handling life-threatening plants made me feel like I was back in Camp Half-Blood, where even a simple climbing wall had to come equipped with lava to spice up your life.
Potions was becoming my second favorite class. Based on the two periods we had so far, it was all group work. Slughorn kept me paired with Daphne. Not only did she do the work, she was honestly pretty fun. As long as none of the other Slytherins were in earshot.
Even if she didn't really mean them, some of the insults she came up with to 'keep up appearances' made me want to cry or clap.
If I had to pick a worst class, I would say it was Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall was strict. I don't know if it's because she'd heard rumors about me being related to Dumbledore, but she expected a lot out of me. I didn't have that much to give. I was excited when I managed to turn a matchstick into a needle in my free time— the first transfiguration lesson Harry ever did, based on what he wrote in my self-study guide.
Charms was confusing too, it's just that Professor Flitwick's enthusiasm was infectious. I could fail every spell and have a good time doing it.
Yeah, classes were good, all in all. Better than I thought they might be, jumping into the deep end the way that I was. The real struggle wasn't the work the professors guided us through.
It was the work they assigned us on our own time.
Even the reading assignments killed me. I'm not cut out for books. The letters have a habit of going on vacation across the page, and sitting still is one of my oldest enemies. I had to copy essays off of Ron, changing just enough of it to not count as cheating.
Give me a tree with anger issues over a stack of parchment any day. At least when we were harvesting components off of the Whomping Willow I could contribute something.
At least following Harry's notes was going well. I was shooting through the basics that first years would cover. Soon, he said I would be good enough to tackle the specific spells I wanted, like being able to conjure water. I couldn't wait.
Walking the halls beside Harry, I was levitating Riptide (in pen form) above the tip of my wand. The pen wobbled slightly. The harder I focused on it, the higher it would float.
"Having fun?" Harry asked dryly.
"Loads." I canceled the spell, letting Riptide drop, and snagged it out of the air. "What do you think this lesson will be about?"
The way that his face changed, it was like I had asked him the meaning of life. "I'm not sure. When I asked Dumbledore over summer, he dodged the question. I hope it's magic."
"Aren't you already learning magic?"
"Not the kind that Dumbledore knows," Harry said. "He's the only one Voldemort has ever feared. In the future, I'm going to have to fight Voldemort again. It has to be me."
The way he said it sounded like a reference. He had mentioned a prophecy before.
"I'll have to fight him," Harry repeated, "and I'm just a sixth year. He's the most powerful dark wizard in hundreds of years. He's got such a huge head start."
I patted his shoulder. "Don't be upset. That's why I'm here!"
It was the reason Hecate sought me out, but Harry looked dubious. "And how old are you?"
"Let's not focus on the negatives. Voldemort is, what, fifty at the oldest? That's not that old."
"With the way wizards age, he could be as old as a hundred."
"Still! That's nothing compared to a few thousand."
Even though I was trying to cheer him up, I got a dirty look for my trouble. I think he thought I was making fun of him. Short of asking Hecate to make another cameo, it would be hard to convince him that a hundred actually was young compared to the enemies I'd faced.
Harry suddenly stopped. I'd walked right past the big stone Gargoyle, but he looked it in the eye and said, "Acid Pops."
The Gargoyle sprung out of the way, giving us a path up a set of stairs. "Acid Pops?" I muttered.
"Like lollipops," Harry explained off-handedly. "Except they can put a hole in your tongue if you aren't careful. Temporary, of course."
That didn't sound very temporary to me, and I didn't understand what Dumbledore liked about them so much that he made it the password into his office. Maybe the taste made up for the mutilation?
Harry had been here before, but as soon as we got into the office I found myself looking all over. It gave a new meaning to the word 'clutter'. The walls were the same heavy stone that Hogwarts was made of on the outside. You could barely see it, though, because there was so much stuff. More than twenty magical portraits hung behind, above, and on both sides of Dumbledore's desk. At least half of them were watching us. Dumbledore had tables, bookshelves, and a mantle with a roaring fire inside— and all of them were covered with magical instruments.
I watched weird silver contraptions fizz and occasionally shoot out steam before my eyes kept moving.
More of the portraits were looking at us now, including — right behind Dumbledore's desk — a familiar face. I waved, snickering.
"Hey Phineas! Gone home recently?"
"I hope that you rot slowly in a grave befitting your pathetic bloodline," Phineas Nigellus Black said.
"How many times have I said? No blood supremacy will be tolerated in this office," Dumbledore said. "I am not afraid to move you to the far wall."
Phineas paled. "You can't do that! It's against tradition!"
"You will find me perfectly willing to punish poor behavior, even in recent headmasters," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "Please, keep it in mind."
He turned to Harry and I. He was sitting behind his desk, next to a bird's perch. I found myself staring at what I guess was his pet. The bird's crimson feathers wear the same color as the flames in the fireplace. If you squinted, it even looked like they were smoldering.
"Phoenix?" I asked, pointing.
The bird trilled a note, looking like it was tempted to peck my finger.
"That's right." Dumbledore stroked the bird's plumage, starting at the neck and running his fingers to its mid-stomach. "This is Fawkes. My partner, one might say. I would be careful exposing any fingers in his direction too carelessly. On occasion, he has been known to mistake them for carrots."
Fawkes squawked at him. It was a totally different sound than the musical trill we'd been treated to before. I guess he was saying that never happened. Or, he was saying You said you wouldn't mention that!
Dumbledore had prepped chairs for Harry and I. I caught Harry looking around the room before we sat down. He'd been hoping for Dumbledore to start turning him into a super-wizard, but the cluttered office was really only set up to talk.
"What are we here for, sir?" Harry asked.
"Directly to business, I see. More than understandable in your situation." Dumbledore stroked his beard. "Last year, Harry, you learned the truth of the relationship between Voldemort and yourself. Now, I think it high time that you know the entire story. Or, to be more exact, my best approximation of the story, given what things I have been able to sniff out, piece together, and mull over across many years. You will recognize this, I'm sure."
Dumbledore took out a bowl from behind his desk. It was covered in runes in a language that definitely wasn't Greek. They shimmered a little in the light.
Harry clearly recognized it, but I wasn't so lucky. "What's that for? Cereal?"
Dumbledore chuckled. "How lucky we would be if it were so. Alas, this bowl holds something both lighter and darker, cheerful and tragic in equal measure. What you see is a Pensieve, a magical device designed to dive into memories."
He took a vial out of one of his sleeves. Pulling on the stopper put him in physical pain. His hand had gotten worse since we spoke over summer.
"I can get it, Professor," Harry said.
"No, no, no need," Dumbledore proclaimed. He used magic instead. When the vial was open, he tilted it to dump the content into the bowl. A swirling, fog-like substance took shape.
"Was that one of your memories?" I asked.
"This one belonged to a certain Bob Ogden," Dumbledore said. "A long retired — and now, passed — member of the British Ministry. Prior to his death, I approached him and convinced him to part with this recollection. I daresay he didn't understand why at the time, but you will soon enough. Especially you, Harry."
Before I could ask when the memory was supposed to start, Harry and Dumbledore both leaned forward. They buried their faces in the bowl like they were bobbing for apples.
"Huh. I guess that works."
There was just enough room for me to follow their example. As soon as my face was below the surface, I teleported to a different place. It reminded me of the dreams demigods can get— except more focused, and way more controlled. Instead of being dropped somewhere that might show something useful, we'd gone to an exact time and place. Still, the feeling was weird.
The day was bright and didn't have any clouds. I should have felt the sun beating on my neck. Instead, I felt weirdly lukewarm, like the temperature was exactly sixty-five degrees and incapable of changing. I put my hand out and ran it through the bristles of a hedge. Instead of touching the plants, the bark and leaves turned into mist and smeared, going back to normal as soon as I pulled my hand back.
"A side-effect of our status as mere visitors," Dumbledore said. He and Harry were standing next to me, although only Dumbledore was watching me run my tests. "The past is already determined. Anything, even as small as a disturbed leaf, is beyond our power. The most we can do is watch. And learn."
"Sir, who's that?" Harry asked.
He pointed to a guy with glasses. This dude was short and making a fashion statement like I'd never seen, pairing a striped one-piece bathing suit with a trench coat and, just to tie it all together, pants with suspenders.
My first thought was monster. Usually this kind of thing means the Mist is working overtime to cover something that it doesn't want to be seen.
But that couldn't be right this time. Dumbledore said we were in someone's memories — Ogden — so that must be who the man was.
"Nice outfit," I said.
"Wizards do that." Harry sounded distracted. He was trying to see where Ogden was headed. "They aren't the best with Muggle clothes. They tend to throw on all kinds of things and hope for the best."
That meant we were in a Muggle area. I could have guessed. The dusty road we were on had hedges on both sides. If I went on my toes, I could just see over the top. Fields full of grazing animals ran at a slight slope until, way down the road, the valley was taken up by a little village. Ogden kept walking forward, checking a letter in his hands every now and then. We had to follow him, so I got close and looked over his shoulder. He was rereading an address scrawled onto the envelope.
"The late Mr. Ogden was an established official within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. In particular, his job pertained to cases of improper magic usage— that is, the bewitchment, assault, or otherwise exposure of Muggles to magic," Dumbledore said.
"He doesn't look too intimidating," I said.
"He was not an unparalleled warlock, and he always preferred the use of words to that of his wand," Dumbledore said. "All the same, I can attest to his character."
As the memory progressed, I found myself agreeing. Ogden kept going until he got close to the village. Little Hangleton, the signs called it. Before he actually got there, Ogden turned off and went down a run-down walkway into a dark copse of trees. I didn't like this place. The branches looked like they were choking the sunlight, scrabbling to keep every last ray off of the shack underneath them. A dead snake was nailed to the rickety door.
Ogden didn't like it either. He looked jumpy, replacing the letter in his hands with a wand. As he approached the door, a kid fell from one of the trees.
Armed with a wand in one hand and a bloody knife in the other, he hissed at Ogden like a wild animal.
"I don't know what you mean," Ogden said, his wand up between them. "Do you live here?"
The kid kept hissing. For some reason, Harry was looking at Ogden like he was dull.
"What's that kid doing?" I asked.
"You don't understand him?" Harry asked. His eyes widened "You don't understand him!"
He looked back at Ogden, then at Dumbledore, like he'd had a revelation.
"Indeed. A Parselmouth," Dumbledore said.
"He licks packages?" I asked.
"It means talking to snakes," Harry explained. By now, he'd gotten used to me never knowing anything. "It's a rare power among wizards. A lot of people consider it a trait of dark wizards."
"But you can speak it. You know what he's saying, don't you?" It was the only reason Harry would've reacted the way he had.
"...Yeah, I can speak it. He's telling Ogden that he's not welcome."
The door flew open, and out came the kid's dad. Things didn't get any more civil from there. There was a lot of hissing between the father and son, most of which Harry didn't even have time to translate. Eventually, Ogden entered the Gaunt Shack— home of Marvolo Gaunt and his two children, Morfin and Merope.
It was a bad scene. Not only were the kids warped from a few too many recurring faces in their family tree, they were living dirt-poor. Morfin was out of his mind. Marvolo was cunning, vindictive, and overly proud for a guy who had the body proportions of a skinny orangutan. He kept ranting about his heritage and treating his daughter like dirt. It turns out Ogden was there because Morfin had cursed a Muggle from the village, but Marvolo kept insisting they were above the law. At one point, the whole family started hissing at each other non-stop.
"What are they saying?" I asked.
"They're talking about the Muggle Morfin attacked," Harry said. "His name was Tom. Merope has a crush on him."
Things kept getting worse when Tom himself rode by on a horse. Merope reacted to his voice, Marvolo reacted to her reaction, and suddenly he was throttling her. Ogden stepped in. As soon as he did, Morfin attacked, forcing Ogden to flee. Since it was his memory, we followed him outside. I caught a glimpse of the guy on the horse.
He looked a little bit older than the Gaunt kids, but maybe that was just because he'd had an easier life. He was good looking. There was a girl sharing his horse with him. Both of them laughed as Ogden sprinted out of the shack in his ridiculous outfit. After that, the memory ended.
From Dumbledore's introduction, I knew what we saw had something to do with Voldemort. I was stumped about the connection though. So was Harry, so we sat and waited for Dumbledore to explain. Luckily, he did.
"You must know by now that to be a Parselmouth is passed down from parent to child— skipping generations at times, but always inherited."
"That's right sir," Harry said, because I sure didn't know that.
"The Gaunts were the last known family possessing the skill. Marvolo and Morfin were sentenced to stays in Azkaban following their attacks on Ogden. By the time they were released, Merope had fled their shack and Little Hangleton altogether. She eloped with Tom Riddle Senior."
"If you're calling him senior, that guy must've had a kid," I said.
"He did." Harry's voice was quiet. "Voldemort. Voldemort! It has to be, Professor!"
Dumbledore offered a proud smile. "Solid deduction, Harry. You see—" this part was directed to me "—I Am Lord Voldemort is a bit of a riddle. An anagram, to be exact. If you scramble the letters, you are left with Tom Marvolo Riddle. A first name from his father, and a middle name from his mother's parent, gifted to him by Merope. It was the only thing she gave him, in fact, before she passed away less than an hour after his birth."
I thought of what I had seen inside the Pensieve. "I don't mean to be rude, but… Tom actually fell for her?"
Even if Merope didn't seem evil like her brother and father, she shared a lot of their appearance. She struggled to find enough confidence to speak, let alone win over a good-looking guy like Tom Riddle.
Dumbledore looked grave. He took his spectacles off, cleaning them with part of his robes, before replacing them on his face. "Merope did not give it an honest attempt. Certain of failure, she chose to slip Tom Riddle a potent brew of Amortentia, an expensive love potion which, him being a Muggle, he was helpless to resist."
"I hate love potions," I said, glaring at Phineas's portrait. He avoided my eyes.
"It was not an honorable thing to do," Dumbledore said. "She was desperate. Unfortunately for Merope, despite the potion's name, love is not something that can be bottled. All they can create is lust and obsession. It fulfilled her dreams, for a time. Until she grew confident. Certain that by now, Tom must have fallen for her, she ceased her use of the potion. Tom fled back to Little Hangleton before the day was done, leaving Merope alone, carrying his child."
It was a sad story. It didn't really surprise me, though. Given what I'd seen of the Gaunt House, there weren't many ways they could have gotten a good ending.
"What about the rest of the family?" Harry asked.
"Marvolo died soon after his return from Azkaban. Perhaps shock played a part, learning that his daughter had left with a Muggle. Morfin lived over a decade longer, but the rest of his story is best saved for a different night."
Taking the queue, Harry started to stand up. I did the same, but Dumbledore asked me to sit. "Stay, Percy. I have a few questions for you, on behalf of your aunt. Harry, I will see you again sooner rather than later to continue our lessons."
Harry started to leave. He stopped, though, after just two steps. "Sir…"
"Is there something you are wondering, my boy?"
"In that memory," Harry said, "Marvolo was wearing a ring. He called it the Gaunt Ring. But that ring, sir, isn't it the one on your hand?"
Dumbledore's mangled hand, a sign of the curse that was killing him, had one bright spot— a ring that was shining in the light from the fireplace. Harry was right. It was the same one we'd seen.
"Well spotted," Dumbledore said. "It's one and the same."
"How did you come to have it?" Harry asked.
"That is a story even longer than Morfin's. I must plead to tell it another time." Dumbledore slid his hand back under its sleeve, hiding the ring. "Feel free to theorize to your heart's content until I find the time to share it. Good night, Harry."
"...Good night, sir."
Harry left. The room felt emptier without him. Dumbledore and I hadn't sat and talked since our conversation in Grimmauld Place. Back then, I'd guessed that he was dying. It had only gotten more obvious since.
"What did you need?" I asked.
"First, I wished to ask your opinion of Hogwarts. Forgive an old man for being hopeful about your impression."
"It's nice," I said. "Classes haven't been as hard as I thought they would be. I like some of the Professors."
He chuckled. "I've heard that you already ran afoul of Professor Snape. I took the liberty of moving your detention to next Saturday, to free you and Harry for this lesson. I'm sure you don't mind."
"I think I'll live," I said.
I looked around the office again. Most of the portraits had gone to sleep while we were watching Bob Ogden's memory. Fawkes had tucked his beak against his plumage and closed his eyes. If you listened closely, you could hear him trilling softly, snoring.
"That's not all you wanted me to stay behind for, is it?"
Dumbledore smiled. "There is one more memory I would like for you to view with me."
"That you didn't want Harry to see?"
"I will show him. I've promised him the whole story. But he would not understand if he saw it now, and I do not have the time to explain it the right way."
He took out another bottled memory. I watched him replace Ogden's with this new one. For some reason, instead of silver, this one was gold, like the color of ichor. Maybe memories came in different shades?
"Again, this memory is not my own," Dumbledore said. "It comes from someone else entirely who, after some convincing, was willing to part with it. Please, enter whenever you are ready."
I dunked my head. It wasn't immediately clear whose memory this was, because unlike with Ogden, there was more than one person in the room.
It was clearly an orphanage based on the number of beds in the room and the fact that I only saw kids. One of them, around ten, had dark hair and sharp eyes— full of intelligence and not much else. He was reading while the other kids played. A kid a few years older than him bumped into his leg.
The kid's book fell, landing with the pages down. He stared at it.
"Oops. Sorry!" the other boy said.
The kid calmly picked up his book. Something strange had happened, though. All the other kids who had been running around playing had stopped. They were watching the kid with the book as he dusted off the pages.
"You're new here," he said.
The kid who bumped into him looked confused. He was much bigger than this little boy with a book. He couldn't figure out why the boy was so calm.
"That's right. I've been to all sorts of orphanages! The name's John!"
The kid with the book smiled. "I'm Tom."
He didn't say anything else. Slowly, John moved away. I could see what he was thinking. This Tom kid was too weird to pick on. There was something off about him.
"Kids! Dinner!" someone yelled downstairs.
All the kids that had been running around charged the door. John was the fastest. He was used to orphanages. He knew how to throw his weight around, get into line first, and get his way.
The second he got to the first stair, his legs went out from under him.
I couldn't see what happened. I heard loud noises. Kids started crying. One of them might've been John. At the base of the stairs, the matron who shouted about dinner screamed. For some reason, the only thing I could focus on was Tom. He was smiling. A second before John took his tumble, Tom had moved his fingers, as if turning a page.
He went back to his book.
"Interesting."
I knew that voice. Tom was alone in the room, not counting me, who wasn't really there. Then, the next second, a girl was with us. The fact that she looked like she was his age didn't fool me. Her features were the spitting image of the Hecate I knew.
"You aren't from here. Who are you? " Tom asked.
He was on guard. His fingers twitched, ready ready to do something. The girl didn't care.
"I'm your ancestor," Hecate said. "I could even be called the source of your power."
Tom scowled. He hated the idea of his power belonging to anyone but him.
"You look like you're my age."
"Irrelevant." Hecate grew a foot in an instant, reverting to the form I was familiar with. "I can look how I wish. Things such as form do not limit me."
Tom didn't look angry anymore. Instead, he seemed… hungry. "Could I do that?"
"You could do a great many things. It remains to be seen how much you will learn, or how far you will go. You have much growing to do."
"Please," Tom said. "Do not tell me to spare these weak fools."
Hecate didn't understand what he meant. After a second, she looked at the open door, where crying was still filtering in.
"I hardly care what you do with your power," Hecate said. "I say that you must grow because, to me, you are the weak one. Do you understand?"
Tom controlled his expression carefully. He nodded.
"Good," Hecate said. "Because you show promise. Continue to interest me, Tom Riddle. I hope, one day, that you can become something more."
She shrunk back into her child form, joined the crowd of orphans through the door, and disappeared. Tom Riddle sat in silence. Eventually, he pushed his book away and looked down, staring at his palm, until he clenched his fingers into a fist.
"A first meeting."
Dumbledore had joined me inside the memory. He looked at the young Tom Riddle, who had frozen as the memory ended. Time stood still around us. Dumbledore turned to me.
"Are you surprised?" he asked.
I looked at Tom — not even eleven yet, but already powerful and ruthless. I got the feeling I just watched one of his formative moments. He had been the biggest fish in a puddle. Hecate had shown him there was more out there. More for him to aim for.
"Honestly? No, I'm not surprised," I said. "Gods are different from mortals. Hecate wouldn't think twice about stepping on others to get what she wants. She wouldn't judge her descendants for it either. And if you mean the fact that she visited Voldemort, I kind of guessed. I heard from Slughorn that she likes to visit talented wizards. Voldemort might be horrible, but he has to be talented to be so scary."
"I wasn't aware that Horace was so well informed," Dumbledore admitted.
"He had suspicions. That was enough for me to figure out the rest."
Dumbledore, like me, looked at Tom Riddle. "You are correct, in any case. Hecate has been known to visit talented youth. There is a reason Grandmother and I were acquainted before she brought you to my doorstep. And, on the topic of morals, you are doubly correct. Hecate appreciates great magic. Whether it is being used to better the world or burn it is of little interest to her."
I thought Dumbledore sounded sad. He paused. The silence went on, so I asked a question.
"Slughorn said that she only appears to most wizards once. Did she visit Riddle again?"
Dumbledore continued to stay silent. Slowly, he faced me. "I suppose you'll see that, won't you. I'll call for you and Harry again, Percy. Perhaps, when we next meet, Harry will be prepared for more of this story."
Even though he dodged the question, I still got my answer. If Hecate never visited Riddle again, this was where the story between the two of them would end. The fact that there was more meant there had been more visits, and a deeper connection.
Clearly, whatever happened, Hecate hadn't disappeared from his life.
I was starting to wonder. Had I been brought here just because it wasn't fair for Harry? Or, underneath all her logical explanations, was Hecate feeling something else?
Guilt, even?