A/N: So… I don't actually know what this is. It just… is. It started as a drabble, I think, but I can't write drabbles. Then again, it doesn't actually have a plot, so maybe it is a drabble. Huh. I guess I wrote a drabble then. :D I apologize for the lack of anything making sense. It was fun to write, though, which is what counts, I suppose.

Disclaimer: So many things I want that I really don't have or own. Among those things, including a strong enough pain killer that'll actually have an effect, are JK's awesome universe and Kripke's show of brilliant sexiness.

Warning: This totally ignores anything resembling a time-line. I almost forgot to mention that.

And Then There Was A Pensieve

Scene One: Two people, in a dimly lit, grungy hotel room, staring at a basin.

"…What is it?" Dean asked apprehensively, staring at the large stone basin in the middle of the floor like it was going to come to life and eat him.

"No clue. The guy was calling it a… pen-sive or something. Maybe it's some kind of special bowl?" Sam replied. Squinting in a way that Dean said made him look constipated, he tried, again, to decipher the bastardized Latin inscribed on the bowl. Whatever it was, it was probably important, and maybe he could figure out what it said if Dean would just shut up for a few seconds.

"Dude, he was totally a witch or something; there's no way it's just a bowl. You saw what happened when the guy touched it! It'll probably kill you if you touch it. I mean, look at the shit it's got inside it! It's like… opaque."

"Impressive, Dean, I didn't know you knew that word," Sam mumbled, still squinting thoughtfully. It was probably only some sort of warning sign, but you never knew; Dad had taught him not to overlook things like this, especially when it might prove crucial to a hunt.

Dean glared at him, but didn't kick him like he'd expected, likely for fear of upsetting the basin.

"Shuddup, Sam. We need to figure out what to do with it before Dad comes back, or we're so screwed. We weren't 'sposed to leave the hotel room, remember?"

Breaking his gaze away from the basin, Sam blinked up at Dean and considered this. Wincing and covering a shiver, he agreed, "…Yeah. Good point. But what're we going to do with it?"

They sat in silence for a moment, matching frowns on their faces.

"Well…" Dean said eventually, a speculative gleam in his eye.

Sam took one look at him, and groaned loudly. "Oh God, what are you gonna do?"

One Hour Later:

"I still can't believe it burned through the TV," Dean mumbled, glaring petulantly at the basin, convinced it was its fault and not his that the room's television now had a gaping hole in its screen.

"You probably shouldn't have thrown it, then. You know - after you took an axe to it," Sam said pointedly. "I'm just surprised you didn't break anything else."

Dean scowled. In the future, he thought to himself gloomily, when your next-door neighbor is making weird noises in his room, it would probably be smart to Not Go Investigate; also, to Not Allow Your Brother To Keep Strange Bowls Found In Said Neighbor's Room, Even If He Whines And Makes A Sad Face.

Sam, looking lost in his thoughts, poked an absent finger at the intricate markings on the bowl. Dean knocked his fingers away, not willing to risk Sam getting contaminated by whatever Mr. 213 might have been carrying.

Might be carrying, he amended with a grimace. The dude was still alive, probably, and hopefully the head wound they'd given his friend would be enough to keep him out and make him lose his memory. Unlikely, but Dean wasn't willing to consider the alternative.

"We could… put it back, I suppose," Sam spoke up, looking reluctant.

He would be reluctant, Dean thought irritably. Sure, it was kind of cool, and totally-not-creepy-or-anything, but that didn't mean they could keep it. Their dad was coming back in a few hours, and they couldn't afford to have evidence lying around.

"We're putting it back," Dean said finally, after a moment of annoyed contemplation. It wasn't like they could use it, and the guy had jumped into the thing… which wasn't physically possible, so Dean wasn't going to think about that too much. At least his friend hadn't been too hard to incapacitate. They were better off leaving his friend to get him out of thing once he regained consciousness. If he survived being thrown at the TV, anyway. Which was another thing Dean wasn't going to think about too much.

His brother interrupted his thoughts with a sad pout, saying: "But Dean, it's so interesting! I mean, the guy jumped into it! If we could just explain to Dad what happened, maybe he could help us figure out what-"

"No. Not even," Dean snapped decisively. "I am in no way prepared to be shouted at and grounded for the rest of my existence. You're still a whimpy little pre-teen, so I don't expect you to understand, but I actually have a life that doesn't involve the library. Getting grounded would totally crimp my style."

Sam glared at him, and Dean glared right back. After a few minutes, Sam reluctantly broke his gaze and threw up his hands.

"Fine, whatever. But you're going to explain to dad why there's a huge hole in our TV."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Scene Two: Somewhere In England, three people in a dimly lit, dank and dingy room:

"I can't believe they knocked you out! Muggles, Ron! Muggles! You should just be grateful they didn't take the Pensieve with them, or we might never have gotten Harry back!"

Harry, lounging casually on the over-stuffed couch in the living room of Grimmauld Place, tried to look unobtrusive and totally not amused as Ron sank lower and lower in his seat.

It was really quite funny that two Muggles – neither of them old enough to be of age – had managed to get the drop on a battle-ready Auror. And while Harry admittedly couldn't say that he would have managed to avoid the same fate, it was still bloody hilarious; what made it even funnier was the look on Ron's face as Hermione bristled with incredulous wrath and berated him at an extremely high volume.

That the two Muggles had been able to enter the room in the first place… well. If he was lucky, Hermione wouldn't pick up on that detail. It wasn't like he'd intentionally left the room un-warded. He'd just been too busy fighting the urge to vomit all over himself and die to worry about wards, of all things. If he'd known what he'd be seeing when he touched the Pensieve…

Harry hid a shudder, feeling his amusement die, and tried to look Innocent and Uninteresting, in the hopes Hermione would ignore him completely.

Of course - Harry being a naturally unlucky person – this failed to fool or sidetrack Hermione.

He only had time to exchange an alarmed glance with Ron before the full fury of Hermione In A Rage was, after a deep breath, then directed at him.

Later, while sharing a celebratory drink (or five) over having escaped Hermione's presence intact, Ron slammed his empty shot glass on the table and said emphatically:

"It's these bloody American Muggles, Harry. There's something wrong with'em."

"Urmph," Harry grunted, staring dismally down at his empty glass.

Ron, taking this as a sign of agreement, continued, "I mean, if they'da been your average English bloke, they'd never've broke into our room in the first place! Everyone with a lick of sense knows you don't go into someone's hotel room, no matter what strange noises are coming out of it!"

"Hurmph." His glass was empty, as was the last bottle of Firewhiskey to escape Hermione's notice. This was Not A Good Thing. There had to be some sort of alcohol around here. After that lecture, Merlin knew he needed it.

"S'these damn Americans, mate, Americans. I knew we shouldn't have taken this job. Just because the Ministry thought they heard rumours of Grindelwald's lost Pensieve doesn't mean we had ta' go find the bleeding thing! Whose idea was it, anyway?"

"Mmmph. Dunno."Maybe in Sirius's old room? Someone has to have an alcohol stash somewhere.

"Musta' been Hermione's. She's gets all… odd-like when we get news about that sort of thing."

"Uhuh…."

Silence fell for a few minutes, both of them lost in their thoughts. Then Ron spoke, an obvious waver in his voice:

"About those memories, mate… just. Merlin, though."

The need for alcohol growing stronger by the second, Harry swallowed and murmured tightly, "Yeah, you said it mate. Merlin."

"I mean… Dumbledore and Grindelwald. That is just-"

"-Not right, I know. Not on any conceivable level."

There was another moment of silence, wherein Ron exchanged a stricken glance with Harry, and Harry tried to resist stabbing himself.

After a moment, Ron broke the silence again, saying thickly, "If those kids had fallen into the Pensieve…"

"…Yeah."

More silence. Then:

"No more whiskey, eh?"

"Nope."

"…Pub?"

"Hell yes."

A/N: Like it? If you do, I will be surprised, but feel free to leave a review anyway. :)