Remembering: a sequel to A Forgotten Memory
A/N: This chapter is the follow up to the previous one-shot A Forgotten Memory.
Here is the original if you haven't read it, this should still make some sense but it's a bit pointless without the first bit sooooo...
s/10095864/1/A-Forgotten-Memory
Hello lovely Tom fans, after receiving some beautiful reviews about the aforementioned fanfiction I have been advised that the reaction of one Harry James Potter would be appreciated.
However, I feel as though the addition of this, shall we say, prologue, would detract from the power on which the fanfiction ended.
SO... I decided to post it separately as an optional ending to the fanfiction, allowing you lovely people to read it if you want to but in no way demanding that you do.
Disclaimer: As ever, the queen of literature (J.K Rowling, just in case you forgot...) owns the characters, places and everything within this follow up... with a little bit of one of my personal favourites: Christopher Paolini.
Harry James Potter ripped himself out of the pensive with such force that the shallow basin rocked backwards and forwards, sloshing the silvery memory over the side of the bowl. For a second – perhaps longer – he watched the substance collect together in a puddle of mercury before it disappeared; no more than vapour in the air. Harry noticed how white his knuckles were as he clung to the edge of the Headmaster's desk, willing himself not to be sick.
"Another memory lost," sighed a deep, tired voice from the other side of the desk; Harry jumped, he had not noticed the silver-haired figure of Albus Dumbledore.
"my apologies Harry, I did not mean to startle you," continued Dumbledore. Harry did not yet feel as though it was safe to open his mouth so nodded once at the Headmaster.
"Professor," Harry said, in a flat tone, Dumbledore did not answer immediately but studied the features of Harry's face, perhaps trying to anticipate his reaction.
"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore prompted quietly, almost in a whisper.
"I'm sorry I entered the pensive without permission." This was not the reaction that Dumbledore was expecting, perhaps shouting or the anger that Harry was so prone to in recent times.
"Better to ask forgiveness than permission," Dumbledore shook his head and Harry raised his own to look at the Headmaster, misinterpreting the gesture.
"Sir, did you mean for me to see that memory?" Harry gave the glass phial, which had harboured the memory, a filthy look.
"No, Harry, not at all. On the contrary, I am sorry that you had to see it at all; that is one memory I had hoped that no one would ever need to see. I presumed that you would pass over it in favour of one of the others." Dumbledore looked away from his hands and into Harry's face again, sighing, "Ii seems that I was mistaken, I am only human after all."
Harry nodded, looking sharply up so that his startlingly green eyes met those of piercing blue, Dumbledore seemed to be asking for forgiveness and Harry could not understand why.
"Surely, Sir, this is more important than any of the other memories?"
"I can see what you mean Harry, but have I not given you enough reasons as to why Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort? Can you not see why an old man might try to protect others from seeing something like this? You must understand, Harry, that there are things in this world which were not meant for public viewing." Dumbledore sighed, pressing the tips of his fingers together; Harry did not know how to respond to this, the thought that the Headmaster was as affected by the thought of the memory that he would try to conceal it stunned Harry. Usually, Dumbledore showed Harry the memories no matter what, insisting that Harry needed to see it; yet, Harry could certainly see why he would want to protect anyone from seeing this who did not have to.
"But Sir," Harry pressed, his voice gruff and hoarse from emotion, "losing his – whatever she might have been to him – must have had a bigger effect on him than anything else!"
"Harry, you … misunderstand me," Dumbledore began, "I am not saying that this horrific event was insignificant; simply that it was unnecessary to … frighten you with it," he seemed to be struggling to explain what he meant; his expression telling Harry that he was not satisfied with the explanation that he had given.
"The death of the girl he loved solidified the idea in Tom Riddle's mind; the idea that humans are weak and that death is that weakness but, you see, Tom Riddle had already begun his transition, he had already killed his muggle father and grandparents and imprisoned his uncle in Azkaban." There was a longer pause this time, more uncomfortable than usual but Dumbledore seemed unwilling to break it, Harry was frowning when the Headmaster looked back at him.
"Harry?" Dumbledore prompted.
" I just never imagined that Voldemort had ever loved someone, that thought alone made me feel a little ill." Harry looked almost ashamed of himself.
Dumbledore chuckled slightly and Harry was shocked at him, "you should remember that Tom spent very little time at the orphanage to which he returned once a year and so – though many of the other children had been afraid of him in their childhood – he was more of a mystery to them than a threat."
"Still" Harry grumbled.
"Is that truly what troubles you about this particular memory, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No. No, Professor, it's not." Harry paused, looking down at his own hands, now gripping the edge of Dumbledore's desk, "How could he do that?!"
This was more the reaction that Dumbledore had expected, "Which part are specifically referring to?"
"All of it!" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow,
"How could he, is it even possible? How could he fall in love with that girl when he knew he was, he was, PURE EVIL?!"
"Harry, do you really think that Tom Riddle chose to fall in love?" Dumbledore asked and Harry shook his head again, looking back to the pensive.
"No, Sir."
"No, he did not. Harry, has it crossed your mind that it was not falling in love with her that was the bad part?" Harry stared at Dumbledore and he sighed, "Ah, Harry, what was it that made you want to see the memory?"
"I saw the picture of Voldemort smiling," Harry mumbled, "I didn't realise that he could be truly happy and I wanted to see what had caused it."
"Exactly Harry, and what did cause it?"
"That girl..."
"Anne-Marie Cobham," Dumbledore said, quietly, " I found out shortly after - from Mrs Cole at the orphanage."
Harry looked up at Dumbledore, horrified, a wave of pity and revulsion stole over him. His skin crawled as he realised that she – Anne-Marie Cobham – had loved Voldemort; truly loved him! And with another wave of sickness, he realised that she had died.
Voldemort had cradled her dead body.
A corpse.
"NO!" Harry cried, the horror of it all hitting Harry hard; pieces began to fall into place as he realised what it had meant when Voldemort's eyes had flashed red, Voldemort because by that point there was no humanity left to Tom Riddle, he had changed by then. He had - so easily - been able to throw her body from himself and move on.
"He killed her." Harry whispered, revolted, determined more than ever that Voldemort should get what he deserved, if not for the world, for her. For Anne-Marie Cobham; the girl who fell in love with evil itself!
"No Harry." Dumbledore's voice was stern, as if to impress the meaning of the words on to Harry with absolute finality.
"How can you possibly excuse him from this one?!" Harry was shouting now, the blood pounding in his ears as his heart pounded in his chest.
"Can't you see?!" Dumbledore raised his voice too, not quite as much as Harry but still, an unusual thing for him to do, "Tom Riddle was IN LOVE with her! He did not kill her, SHE KILLED HIM!"
Harry stood abruptly, fearing that he would be sick after all, he could not bring himself to look at the Headmaster.
"She killed the last little bit of humanity in him," Dumbledore's voice was quiet again and Harry almost didn't hear him.
Almost.
Making his was to the door of the circular office, Harry tried not to picture Tom Riddle falling through it, clutching the corpse of the girl he loved.
"Harry," Dumbledore called and Harry half turned, looking at the Headmaster with eyes that suddenly seemed older, burdened.
"I think it would be better if you did not share this with Mr Weasley and Miss Granger."
Harry nodded once and left the Headmaster's office, it had been pointless advice; Harry – as Dumbledore had tried to – would never burden another living soul with what he had seen. An yet, he thought, he would never forget all that he had seen and learnt; he owed that much to Tom Riddle.
THE END.