It was a Monday evening when the headmistress of Hogwarts approached Hermione Granger, best friend of the Boy Who Lived and defeater the Dark Lord Voldemort, with a curious request. It was while Hermione was in the library, books piled around her, reading for leisure by her lonesome.
The 18 year-old, bushy-haired witch had looked up in surprise at the clearing of a throat.
"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have a favor to ask of you … There aren't many I can ask, you see … "
They entered the headmistress's office. It was much changed from when she had last seen it, no spindly, whirring instruments or objects emitting tinkling sounds. The bookcases, however, were much the same, rising high and touching the ceiling, filled to the brim. As was the great, clawed desk and golden, high-backed chair behind it.
Professor McGonagall halted before one of the numerous glass cabinets on the right side of the room and turned round to face her. "Thank you for doing this, Miss Granger. It is greatly appreciated. I would have done it myself, but..." Professor McGonagall trailed off, a sad look in her eyes.
"It's alright, professor," Hermione reassured, conjuring a hair band and using it to tie her hair up and out of the way. "No trouble. I'll make sure to watch and label the memories properly and put them in their respective boxes." She swished her wand and a neatly ordered set of boxes appeared on the floor, each with divisions for individual vials.
The old witch smiled at her. "Such a wonderful girl you are, Miss Granger. I'm so proud to have had you in the house of Gryffindor."
Hermione's cheeks reddened slightly and she turned and busied herself with tapping her wand in the correct pattern on the appropriate cabinet in the wall.
Dumbledore's hidden memory cabinet slid gently open, revealing dozens of glittering tiny bottles, row upon row, gleaming from a light set within. They were labeled only by number and a series of symbols that were coded in a system only Dumbledore knew.
"I see what you meant by them being hopelessly ordered," Hermione remarked, selecting one at random and slipping it out of its slot. "It will take me days to sort through all of this."
Professor McGonagall nodded. "Yes. I did try to start going through them, but, well." She looked unsettled and awkward. "It was one of his memories of Grindelwald."
"Ah." Hermione cleared her throat. No explanation was needed. "Well, just ignore me so you can get some work done. I'll just get to work as well."
McGonagall patted her on the arm and headed to the great desk that occupied the back of the large office.
Without further ado, Hermione turned back to the cabinet and the adjacent Pensieve. She marveled for a moment at the beautifully lit vials and then selected one at random. She opened it with a silent click and poured the softly glistening memory into the stone bowl of shimmering silver liquid. Then, she plunged her face in.
As the memory coalesced into existence around her, Hermione had a split second of thought in which she wondered if Pensieves ever got contaminated by all the faces that it was subjected to. (And wasn't that just an appetizing thought). She squirmed a little, imaging Professor Snape, his sallow complexion and greasy hair mixing with the magical liquid that was always a constant in these devices. She frowned a little at her uncharitable thoughts.
Dumbledore appeared, younger and healthy looking but already sporting his long silver beard. He marched through a hall of darkly green, gleaming bricks which she recognized as belonging to the Ministry.
He walked right past her and she rushed to catch up to him. Together, they entered a large, circular court room filled with witches and wizards sitting on high benches circling the entire width of the room. A man was chained to a chair in the center of it all, looking surly and bedraggled. Hermione had no idea who he was.
Unfortunately, the trial was already well in progress, so she had to wait until his name was mentioned in the passing before she could put a name to this particular memory. Then, to ensure there was nothing else of significance, she waited it out. With the pace of the trial and the attempts at shortening sentences or wheedling more of Voldemort's followers names out of the accused, the memory lasted a good two hours before she was released back into the Headmistress's office.
She straightened and looked around the quiet room. The Headmistress had left at some point while she'd been inside the Pensieve. Alone and unobserved (conveniently forgetting the many portraits), Hermione uttered a curse. The length of just a single memory was much longer than she expected. If there were many more court cases or memories of the equal length stored in the cabinet, the task would take not days but weeks.
Labeling the memory, she whisked it into the first unmarked box. One down, around a hundred to go. The next memory just happened to also be a trial.
Several hours later, when Hermione resurfaced from the fourth memory, Professor McGonagall was waiting for her, standing from her seat at her desk and looking disapproving. She was dressed in her night cap and had a cup of tea in hand.
"My girl, it's quite late. You should get some sleep. The memories don't need to be sorted all in a day's work. You look exhausted!"
Hermione smiled sheepishly and McGonagall gestured her over. "Come sit for a moment, please."
Hermione sat and McGonagall handed her a cup of tea that had been standing idly by, evidently waiting, as she waved her wand to re-heat it. Hermione accepted it gratefully.
McGonagall waited until she had settled in and taken a sip before speaking. "How did it go?" She asked.
Hermione grimaced. "It's going to take longer than we thought," she informed her. She blew on her tea, having scalded her tongue with the first sip. "I've only managed to get through four memories and it took nearly six hours."
The old witch looked a little crestfallen at her words. "It's going to take up too much of your time, what with your Head Girl duties on top of the amount of NEWTs work. I can't rightly ask you to find the time-"
"No, no," Hermione hastened to reassure her. "I'm well ahead of my classes and easily keeping up with my class work, you needn't worry. And the Head Girl stuff is more than taken care of. I've already spoken with Neville." She knew that there were very few people her professor could completely trust with Albus Dumbledore's memories, some of which were very private. She wasn't about to back out.
"I'm just surprised," Hermione said. "I had no idea to what extent Professor Dumbledore had researched and collected even the slightest whisperings of anything to do with Voldemort. Some of the memories amount to a few hours on their lonesome. I don't know how long it will take me to sort through them."
Professor McGonagall frowned and looked apologetic. "I appreciate what you are doing, truly. As it stands, I just wish Albus would save us the trouble and inform us of the key to his code." At the same time, they both glanced towards the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, slumbering peacefully in his gold-gilded chair high up on the wall. "Stubborn, old man," McGonagall muttered under her breath.
Hermione glanced at her in shocked surprise and McGonagall blushed, realizing she'd been heard.
They decided to pretend she hadn't heard, though Hermione couldn't help the small grin that crept onto her face.
"He didn't prepare for it to be packed away with the rest of his stuff upon his death," she said, "so he must have wanted us to observe the memories, for whatever reason. I'll keep an eye out for any clues. I can't fathom what he can possibly think we still have to learn."
McGonagall nodded absently, wondering the same thing.
Hermione sat her finished tea back on its saucer. "For now however, I'd best get back. Sleep well, headmistress."
"Goodnight, Miss Granger."
Hermione spent the next several days after classes traipsing down Albus Dumbledore's memory lane.
Some of the memories were intensely interesting, and some of it got old quickly, like the Death Eater Trials. Many of the trials proved people innocent. Many did not. She confirmed that using Veritaserum did not guarantee a truth coming out of one's mouth. She also learned how absolutely ruthless the Minister of the time was, and got to see firsthand Barty Crouch Jr.'s accusation and his subsequent attempt to escape.
Professor Snape's trial was also very interesting, but still something she largely already knew the contents of. Curiously, she happened upon the memory of Nicholas Flamel saying his final farewells alongside his wife, which was intensely depressing. Seeing the famous Alchemist himself was akin to seeing a storybook hero brought to life. She had expected him to look normal, despite his age. But there was something extraordinary about both him and his wife. Hermione figured it was the more than 600 years of life, but she couldn't be sure.
Most of the memories were present for obvious reasons. Dumbledore kept them so he could examine them more closely. Others, because they were a burden, she guessed.
Most of Dumbeldore's Grindelwald memories were painful or embarrassing for Hermione to witness. She couldn't for the life of her reason out why her late headmaster had left these particular memories for all and sundry to see. None of it was explicit or too private, but most of it was confrontational and involved heated debates which tended to deteriorate into furious arguments. It was a side of Albus Dumbledore few had ever witnessed in full.
The first time she happened upon one of Voldemort's memories, Hermione exited without waiting for the memory to progress. The quicker she got through individual memories, the better, for it was already the third day. And she knew the contents of this memory perfectly without having actually seen it. Harry's recollections from the numerous meetings he had had with Dumbledore back in sixth year allowed this - and she had no need to finish a memory which would take up precious time.
But then she had stared at the label she had inked 'Vold. kills HS' (Hepzibah Smith) onto, and re-entered the memory to watch the recollection in its entirety.
It was of a 30-something still handsome Tom Riddle, wearing a suit and having tea with an older woman. In fact, he was charming Hepzibah Smith into letting him catch a glimpse of what she had spent a lifetime searching for.
Even without the healthy glow his cheeks had maintained throughout his Hogwarts years, the black-haired, young - for wizard standards - Tom Marvolo Riddle was a sight to behold, austere but with a confidence and mysterious air about him that drew eyes like moths to a flame. Occasionally, his eyes would flash red with suppressed emotion, or an ugly look would cross his face when he lost control, which Hepzibah, for the most part, didn't catch.
Hermione couldn't draw her eyes away from the scene for the duration of the memory, and was disturbed after she left it. She had watched him dispassionately kill Hepzibah and then casually frame her house elf, Hokey, with powerful memory charms. His every action and reaction exhibited such subtle intensity that you had to observe to try to predict what he would do next. The powers of persuasion and manipulation he possessed were frightening.
The second time, it was a memory of his relatives, and though she was fairly disgusted by them and held nothing but pity for Merope - despite her very real drugging and subsequent rape of the disgustingly cruel Tom Riddle senior - she watched these memories, too. And more, of the very few that held Voldemort's school years, of chats with Dumbledore himself when he invited a blank-faced Tom Riddle in for tea, or Riddle's second, much later request for the DADA position.
Tom Riddle's life prior to his debut as Lord Voldemort was one enormous eerie retelling of a horror story. It culminated into a monster capable of any atrocity. Hermione was hesitant to sympathize and call it a tragedy. He had been a boy with such amazing potential, a real love for Hogwarts and magic itself. But he didn't have a compassionate bone in his body. People were objects, obstacles he had to overcome. They were instruments and he played them masterfully.
Through all of Voldemort's tenure at Hogwarts, Dumbledore alone remained vigilant. He never trusted the façade Tom Riddle presented to the world after their first fateful encounter, but that did not mean he did not genuinely offer help or kindness, either. But Tom Riddle continued, utterly unmoved by Dumbledore's efforts to help him turn from his destructive path.
He was the textbook example of a sociopath, and it was difficult for Hermione to accept that humans – the human experience - could be so two-dimensional. She went to her dorms at night and dreamt of the memories, wondering if he had ever had any chance. Could people really be born evil?
The orphanage memory certainly suggested so. 11 year-old Tom Riddle showed his untrusting, cruel streak right from the get-go - it danced among his words and in the reputation he had fostered at the orphanage. When he harshly ordered Dumbledore to prove himself, he showed how aggressive he was. When the box of stolen objects, trophies, was revealed, a penchant for cruelty that might otherwise have been exaggerated by the other inhabitants. The thirsting for attention and the want to be special seemed greedy and unsavory when cast in the light of his aggressive, cold personality.
The fourth day dawned muggy and cold - early November, the first snow had yet to fall. Hermione went through her classes, dutifully taking notes but largely distracted.
She felt guilty for letting her thoughts linger on Voldemort's character. She wondered if splitting one's soul and destroying your humanity automatically meant insanity, or if that was hidden behind Tom Riddle's blank expressions all along.
Potions with Professor Slughorn passed quickly. She bottled up her potion just in time for the class to end, handing it off to the jovial old Slughorn with a faint smile after he congratulated her on a flawless potion. She headed up to the headmistress's office, hoping and dreading that she would run into any Voldemort-esque memories today.
Of course this meant that she ran into Professor Snape's memory of a Death Eater meeting and Charity Burbage's subsequent death, on her second go. Although Snape had averted his eyes once Nagini started feeding, the memory of it was crisp and clear and Hermione watched with horror-filled eyes. She returned to the present and nearly threw up right into the Pensieve.
This cemented her decision to stop, telling Professor McGonagall that she was taking a break for the day. It was Friday, she had extra incentive in the form of homework anyway.
Leaving the school - she had special permission - she visited Harry and Ron at the Weasley house, where they were staying while they went through Auror training.
Mrs. Weasley greeted her like a second daughter. "Hermione, sweetheart, how are you?" Age seemed to have caught up to the appearance of the Weasley Matriarch in the last half a year, gray hairs lining the vibrant red and her frame slightly thinner than it once was.
Still, the woman herself remained warm and strong. She hugged Hermione tightly.
"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said into her shoulder, hugging back. "I'm alright."
"Molly, dear," Mrs. Weasley reminded. "Would you like something to eat? The boys aren't back yet from the ministry."
"That would be wonderful, thank you, Molly."
Mrs. Weasley sat her down with a bowl of warm soup and brought her up to date with the current goings-on with the Weasley family. Apparently, Fleur was pregnant, 3 weeks already.
"That's wonderful," Hermione said, smiling. "Please give them my congratulations. I haven't seen them in some time."
Mrs. Weasley hummed happily. "I haven't seen Bill so excited since he got his Hogwarts letter for the first time. Practically bouncing off the walls, he was."
They laughed and sat in silence for a short time, Hermione finishing off the last vestiges of her soup. She could feel Mrs. Weasley appraising her and raised an inquiring brow at her.
"How are your parents?" Mrs. Weasley asked finally, gently. "Are they adjusting well?"
Hermione shifted uneasily. She should have seen that coming. "They've settled back into their old jobs easily, but..." She shrugged. "They say they've forgiven me, but they seem uncomfortable when I'm around."
"Give them some time, dear. They're your parents, they love you."
A short time later ruckus in the form of two bickering young men was heard from outside. Faster than walking would have suggested, they burst into the front door of the Weasley home and toppled inside, one after the other.
"You cheated," Harry Potter's muffled voice wheezed from underneath the tall and lanky form that was Ronald Weasley sprawled across him. An elbow belonging to the messy, raven-haired figure shoved into Ron's side.
"Ow!" Ron complained and grumbled. His freckled face lifted and grinned down at his squirming best friend. "It's called strategy Harry, I can't help it if you're bollocks at chess."
"Get off me, you're heavy," Harry complained.
Ron struggled upwards, their limbs managing to tangle unhelpfully. Harry pushed and jostled him. "Quit pushing, you're not helping! And are you calling me fat?"
"Yes, you'd give my uncle a run for his money."
They managed to untangle and rose, giving each other a last shove.
"When Teddy's older, I'm going to tell him his godfather called his dad fat," Ron informed him, brushing down his clothes.
Harry made a face at Ron, but not before Hermione laughed and they spun around in surprise.
Smiles split their faces at her visage. "Hermione!" They chorused.
They sat down at the table to catch up, steaming bowls of soup already set out by Mrs. Weasley who had risen as soon as the telltale crack of apparition had signaled their arrival. She claimed work to do once they started eating and went off into the bowels of the house, waving off their thanks of food.
Eventually they settled down to turn their talk to more current matters.
"Enough about work, how's school Hermione?" Ron asked through a mouthful of bread dipped in soup. A chewed piece fell out of his mouth back into the soup.
Harry snorted into his soup while Hermione stared, horrified. "That's disgusting, Ronald Weasley," she told him frankly.
He shrugged unapologetically and grinned. She rolled her eyes.
"It's been good," she said. "I'm hardly needing to put effort into schoolwork. Especially the practical, I learned so much of the 7th year curriculum ahead of time trying to prepare for Voldemort."
"That's not really a new thing though, is it?" Harry said nonchalantly, eyeing her.
Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. "Do you even remember how hard third year was for me? Or fifth year OWLs?"
"That's only because you were trying to take one too many classes that year," Ron said in between a mouthful.
"And in fifth year it was because you started SPEW and were trying to supply the house elves with your knitting in between all the homework," Harry added with a nod.
"Not to mention having us and everything about Voldemort to distract you and take up your time."
"And the fact that Umbridge-"
"Okay! I get the point," Hermione huffed. A red tinge had adorned her cheeks.
"And you still managed to score top student all those years," Harry said, smiling now with a raised brow.
Hermione shot him a glare and collected their finished dishes. She stood, walking over to the sink to put them alongside the enormous pile in the sink. After a quick, wandless scourgify over the pile, she turned the water as hot as it could go and started washing each dish by hand to make sure they were properly sanitized.
Harry and Ron rose to help, cracking dry jokes and telling her Auror training stories while drying each dish by hand for her sake.
It warmed her heart to see the two of them so lighthearted and care free. She didn't want to spoil it by mentioning the Pensieve memories. She would wait until another day. For now, she would bask in how simple their lives had become.
Saturday afternoon, all caught up with her homework, Hermione made her way from the library to the headmistress's office.
"Ventus Nox," she told the gargoyle, and made her way up the spiraling stairs after it jumped aside.
The headmistress wasn't in her office. Hermione figured that even McGonagall took time off on the weekends, although perhaps the woman was patrolling or simply occupied elsewhere in the castle.
Walking over to the section of wall that hid the tall cabinet of memories, she tapped the correct pattern and left it to slowly slide open while she fetched the Pensieve from its pedestal. First box filled, she also conjured a new box to store the next memories in.
Humming thoughtfully, Hermione called a house elf and asked them to bring up dinner for her at 5 pm. She planned to get through as many memories as possible, disturbing or not. She plunged her face into the Pensieve and vanished from the Headmistress's office.
Several hours later, dinner finished and cup of tea drained, Hermione collected her fifth vial of the day and poured it into the Pensieve. The sun was starting to go down, but she paid it no mind.
Five minutes later, she came to, gasping with tears streaming down her face.
It only made sense, since she had seen one of Snape's memories already, that she would see more. But his Last Memory held particular significance to them all.
Heart aching painfully and hands shaking, she labeled a vial accordingly and slipped the memory inside with her wand. There was no way she would be able to watch the rest of it.
She reached for the next vial, unsettled. Deep down, Hermione resented Dumbledore for all his machinations. Raising Harry like a pig for slaughter, indeed.
She clenched her eyes shut, grimacing. A baby, unloved and neglected to the extreme right up until the day he learned he was more special than anyone. As if the gift of being a wizard made up for it, or fixed the damage that had been done and invariably built into his psyche.
Luckily, her best friend was smarter and more resilient than anyone could have hoped for. He had survived and managed to retain his health of mind, mostly. It was part of what actually made Harry Potter special from the beginning, really. Not a lightning bolt scar he had acquired through his mother's sacrifice.
Dumbledore meant well. Hermione poured the contents of the vial she held into the Pensieve and plunged her face into the airy liquid. She slid into a memory she had only heard Harry tell the full details of once.
It was Professor Slughorn's office more than fifty years ago, cosy with a large green carpet and antique looking furniture. It gleamed with brightly lit torches and lake-lit light streamed through the windows. A lit fireplace lent the place warmth. In one corner of the large room, a large table laden with empty plates and with discarded chairs around it morphed into existence. In the living area, six teenage boys sitting around Professor Slughorn, all on couches and whatever surfaces available, appeared. With it came the noise of quiet talk and the occasional chink as teacups or glasses were replaced on their coasters.
A much younger Slughorn sat well back in a comfortable winged armchair, his little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe. In one hand he grasped a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystallized pineapple. Hermione was so used to him being bald that she almost didn't recognize him for a moment. He had thick, straw-colored hair, though there was already a galleon sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, too, was blonde instead of the salt and pepper gray it was these days.
Hermione recognized a young Voldemort immediately. He was easily the most handsome and he looked the most relaxed. He had dark, slightly wavy hair which was artfully parted off middle and had a quiet air of aristocracy to him. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair, a gold and black ring upon his ring finger. Hermione recognized it as the second Horcrux, the one Dumbledore had destroyed himself and damaged his hand with.
Riddle was talking. She stepped closer to their circle, choosing a spot behind a couch across from Riddle. She wanted to be able to keep track of his expressions.
Riddle's eyes flickered as he turned to his professor. "... is it true, sir, that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.
"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," Slughorn said, waggling a reproving finger, though the effect was slightly ruined by him winking. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information from, boy. More knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."
Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks. It was obvious that Riddle already had them well under his spell.
"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter - thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite -"
Several of the boys tittered again.
"- I confidently expect you to rise to Minister for Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple. I have excellent contacts at the Ministry."
Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again.
"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."
A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. They obviously knew something the rest of the room didn't.
"Nonsense," Slughorn said briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet."
For all that Slughorn claimed he wasn't biased towards Muggleborns, it couldn't be clearer to Hermione that he still maintained certain expectations for magical prowess. If anything, it soured her to him only more.
The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him and he looked round.
"Good gracious, is it that time already? 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."
One by one the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look round; Riddle was still standing there.
Slughorn eyed him curiously. "Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed after hours, and you a prefect …"
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something," Riddle said, his voice carefully nonchalant.
"Ask away then, m'boy, ask away …"
"Sir, I wondered what you know about … about Horcruxes?"
Slughorn stared at him, his thick fingers frozen in the act of absent-mindedly caressing the stem of his wine glass.
"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?" Slughorn asked.
Hermione could tell that Slughorn didn't believe it for a second.
"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle, cocking his head. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."
"No … well … you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn.
"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you – sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously – I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could – so I just thought I'd ask –"
It was very well done, thought Hermione, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. She recognized a master at work, and she could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps had been working towards this moment for weeks.
"Well," Slughorn said, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."
"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," Riddle said.
His voice was carefully controlled, but Hermione could sense his excitement.
"Well, you split your soul, you see," Slughorn said, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form …"
Slughorn's face crumpled.
" … few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."
But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he could no longer hide his longing. A shiver climbed up Hermione's spine.
"How does one split their soul?"
"Well," Slughorn said uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation, it is against nature."
"But how do you do it?" Riddle pressed.
"By an act of evil – the supreme act of evil. By committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent on creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: he would encase the torn portion –"
Riddle's brow furrowed in what looked like confusion, or frustration, Hermione couldn't tell. "Encase? But how -?"
"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" Slughorn said, shaking his head. "Do I look as though I have tried it – do I look like a killer?"
"No sir, of course not," Riddle said quickly. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean to offend …"
"Not at all, not at all, not offended," Slughorn said gruffly. "It's natural to feel some curiosity about these things … wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic …"
"Yes, sir," said Riddle. "What I don't understand, though – just out of curiosity – I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces? I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most magically powerful number, wouldn't seven -?"
"Merlin's beard, Tom!" Slughorn yelped. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case … bad enough to divide the soul … but to rip it into seven pieces …"
Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: he was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before and Hermione could tell that he was regretting entering the conversation at all.
The atmosphere had grown tense. Hermione's heart beat a staccato rhythm with it.
"Of course," Slughorn muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic …"
"Yes, sir, of course," Riddle said quickly. She wondered how Slughorn had treated Riddle after these events. Surely, he was not so blind as to try to brush it all under the carpet.
"But all the same, Tom … keep it quiet, what I've told - that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know … Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it …"
"I won't say a word, sir," Riddle reassured. He turned and left, but not before Hermione glimpsed his face, which was full of the same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human.
She shuddered and her wand shot, on instinct, into her hand. Sparks flew from the tip and she jumped out of the way of the passing Tom Riddle, not wanting his phantom body to go through her. With the action, his eyes flickered and shot to her.
She held his gaze numbly for all of a second, taking an automatic step back. Then the memory faded around her and she landed back in McGonagall's office, pale and trembling.
Shivers wracked her frame. Had he just looked at her!
She put a hand to her chest and stumbled away from the Pensieve, breathing fast. She leant against one of the numerous bookcases and slid to the floor.
She was terribly tired, exhausted even, she quickly reasoned. There might have simply been something behind her in the memory.
Hermione rubbed at her face, clenching her eyes shut. The image of slightly confused eyes flicking up at her, still leaking wild, manic happiness, appeared under her lids and she shuddered again.
But then, she recalled hazily, his eyes had looked straight ahead again, as if he hadn't seen anything. They led the way out of the office, his face blank.
There was only one explanation, then. It had been a coincidence.
Immediately, relief spread through her like a drug and she drooped limply, letting loose a shuddering breath.
It was time for a break, she decided. Hermione rose, returned to the Pensieve and started tidying away the boxes and vials she had already marked. After she was finished, she stared at the memory still laying dormant in the Pensieve.
Had Dumbledore left these memories behind purposefully, or had he simply not taken the time to ensure they were stored before his death? Either was possible, and his infuriating portrait persona had refused to wake for the last three weeks to answer any questions. Ever since he had asked Professor McGonagall to store his memories and put them in the Dumbledore Vault, according to her.
It felt like she shoving troubling occurrences aside too often lately, but she siphoned the memory into a vial and marked it, 'TMR, # of HRCRXS' with her quill and laid it off to the side, not in the box that was to be stored. Perhaps she would look at the memory again later.
A week later, Hermione presented McGonagall with four neatly marked and carefully sorted boxes of memories. One had a large Miscellaneous, written across the side, another Death Eater Trials, a third Voldemort; 1970s and on, and a fourth, Voldemort; pre 1970s. It wasn't meant to be creative or original, Hermione was only looking for adequate describers of the contents. Each also had a small detailing beneath their titles, to help if you knew what you were looking for.
Professor McGonagall thanked her profusely and invited her to partake of the Pensieve whenever she liked.
Hermione's eyes had widened at the offer. "Could I use it to study for my NEWTs?" she asked eagerly.
McGonagall smiled. "Of course, my dear."
Later that evening, as Hermione was readying for bed in the Head Girl's room, she cast her school clothes onto her bed and dressed in her pajamas. After entering her attached bathroom to brush her teeth, she reentered her bedroom and went to fold the cast offs. She got to her robe and as she lifted it, something tumbled out of the pockets and onto her covers.
A small, familiarly marked vial lay had fallen out. She stared at it, nonplussed, but then picked it up and glanced at the label, remembering with a sudden lightning clarity why she had set aside a week ago. However, she hadn't remembered pocketing it and didn't think that she would either; such an important, dark memory was dangerous to carry around.
But it was no longer relevant, was it?
Contemplating it for only a moment, she threw her robe back on, pocketed her wand and the vial and left her bedroom. She marched to the floo-connected fireplace the Head Girl and Boy had the privilege of having and knelt down with the floo pot in hand. She floo-called the headmistress's office and stuck her head in the fireplace.
Thankfully, Professor McGonagall was still awake. Although Hermione had planned to hand the vial over, she suddenly changed her mind and asked if she could borrow the Pensieve instead. Her Professor was more than happy to oblige. Hermione stepped through the fireplace and flicked her wand at the Pensieve, floating it through the castle back to her dorms.
Nervous and wondering what she was doing the entire trip back, she placed the stone Pensieve on her dresser and tucked her wand back into her robe pocket. Then she opened the vial and carefully tipped the contents. The Pensieve swilled, a faint whisper coming from the silver liquid, and Hermione stared at it.
She needed to know. She had to know that it had been a fluke. She lowered her face and was whisked inside.
A familiar scene appeared and she immediately made her way to the group of students and teacher. This time, she chose a spot near the entrance to Slughorn's office. She wasn't scared, she was just … being cautious.
"...is it true, sir, that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"Riddle's voice, smooth and cultured, started the scene.
Far enough away, near the door, she could distance herself somewhat from the happenings and the intensity of the confrontation between Riddle and Slughorn once the students left.
This time, she watched Riddle stay behind, sending the exiting young men dismissive glances when they gave him questioning glances.
Slughorn turned round after rising, as he had before, when he realized not everyone had left.
The jovial man eyed Riddle curiously. "Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed after hours, and you a prefect …"
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."
Hermione shuddered and wanted to plug her ears, or better yet, scream at her Professor to not say anything.
"Ask away then, m'boy, ask away …"
"Sir, I wondered what you know about … about Horcruxes?"
She tuned them out and instead readied herself for when Riddle would rise and exit. Just to be on the safe side, she positioned herself out of the way of Riddle's direct path to the door – and also on the opposite side of where she had stood before. This time, she would catch him glancing off to the side she was most assuredly not on, and then her fears would be laid to rest.
"Well, you split your soul, you see, and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But, of course, existence in such a form …"
Hermione glanced up in time to see Slughorn's face crumple.
" … few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."
She couldn't bear to look at Riddle, at the hunger in his face, at this point. She suddenly had the fiercest desire to hug Harry to pieces and never let go. How he had managed to face off this monster countless times, she couldn't fathom.
"How does one split their soul?"
Hermione thought of the many months she had spent with Harry and Ron, searching for clues to where the Horcruxes could be hidden.
She switched quickly to happier memories at the unsettling rise in Slughorn's voice when he said, "Don't ask me, I don't know!" Previous years at school, together with her two best friends. Recent times together, reveling in their freedom.
"Merlin's beard, Tom! Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case … bad enough to divide the soul … but to rip it into seven pieces …"
She cringed. She could almost feel how heavy the air had grown. Any moment now …
"Of course," Slughorn's voice muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic …"
Hermione practically froze when Riddle came her way, stepping calmly towards the door. She forced herself to look at his approaching face and see the fierce joy etched there, to catch the moment when his attention was diverted by seemingly nothing.
He passed the spot she had stood upon previously and continued as he was. Relief shot through her system like adrenaline - and just as quickly sent it spiraling in the opposite direction.
He hadn't looked to the side.
His eyes had not been attracted, even momentarily, to anything in that direction as they had been last time.
Faster than a striking snake, Tom Riddle's hand shot out and grasped her wrist.
She let loose a blood-curling scream of sheer terror, but no sound came out.
Grip vice-like, he locked another arm around her and dragged her from the room, Slughorn none the wiser.
Derp
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