A/N: Hi, all! This is a revised version of a story I began two years ago under a different name. Rest assured that I'm 100% committed to finishing it this time around!
Had anyone been present to witness the current Hogwarts Headmaster's behavior, they would have reported that Albus Dumbledore, as always, appeared calm and content as he absentmindedly drummed his fingers on his desk with a careful grin plastered on his aging face. He sat leaning back against the old mahogany wood of his high-backed chair with his ankles crossed carelessly under the creaking desk, his eyes glued expectantly to the door at the front of the office. Inside, however, the old wizard's mind was frantically racing. His hunt for Horcruxes was, ultimately, failing. One glance at his charred and blackened hand was enough to remind him of this. The ring had been one of the two Horcruxes- two Horcruxes!- that had successfully been destroyed. Four...well, five...still remained hidden in Merlin knew what places. He had begun to give up hope. Even in the unlikely even that he did manage to locate all of the remaining Horcruxes, killing Voldemort would still have to come at a great cost, not necessarily to himself, but to someone whose death would be much more catastrophic than his own. The vanquishing of the Dark Lord would require the death of the boy who least deserved it. What's more, it would mean the death of the boy who served as an icon of hope in these darkest of times. There had to be another way. However, try as he might, Dumbledore simply couldn't find it.
Then, suddenly and inexplicably, it had found him. A memory had appeared in his silver candy dish that always sat faithfully on his desktop. He knew for absolute certain that he had not been the one to put it there. This was for two reasons, the first being that he would never have been so careless as to leave so valuable a possession lying unprotected in a candy dish. The second was the odd little container that it had been placed in. The memory was placed in a very small, emerald green box, which appeared as if it were meant to hold a piece of jewelry. The cover of the box was decorated with two very dark green snakes whose bodies were so intricately intertwined that one might think that the box sported only one snake that possessed two heads. Rather more significant than the jewelry box was the memory it contained.
Dumbledore knew enough to realize that this memory had not been tampered with. The signs of a modified memory were far too conspicuous to entertain the idea that he had missed them...but this...this was impossible! He cursed himself for not putting the pieces together during the time he had taught the person to whom the memory belonged in the subject of Transfiguration over fifty years before, but how could he when neither of the two people it involved offered a single piece to begin with? The boy...well, that was understandable, believable...but the girl? And of all the girls this boy had come into contact with...her? Granted she was quite a gifted witch, but she had been so utterly detached, uninterested in the rest of humanity, so closed off to everyone she came into contact with...romantic inclinations, frankly, were the last of the ambitions he'd expected this girl to have. Then again, that was certainly something that she and the boy had in common. Alright, so romance was very slightly possible, but what Dumbledore was hoping lay hidden beneath this memory was far, far less so...but still, there was hope.
The Headmaster's thoughts were then interrupted by the sound of the door on the opposite side of the room, and the woman he had been waiting for entered his office. She was an unremarkable woman in appearance in that she was of average height with ghostly pale skin and dull gray eyes. In contrast, though in her late sixties, she showed remarkably few signs of age. Her complexion remained smooth and healthy, and her elegant posture had not suffered with time. The only indication of the fact that she was getting on a bit in years were the silver-tipped roots gleaming at the crown of her long, jet-black hair. She still appeared, Dumbledore noted, as guarded as she had been for the two years during which he had known her. Everything about her, her stance, her expression, the position of her hands folded neatly behind her back as she strode toward his desk, had an air of defensiveness about it, as if she were constantly afraid that some dark secret of hers would be revealed. This time, however, Albus was determined to ensure that it was.
"Dumbledore," the woman said slowly, with a slight nod of her head.
"Miss Reed," Albus replied with precisely the same tone.
She looked slightly taken aback. Dumbledore had anticipated this, for Annabelle Reed had taken on an entirely different name during her time at Hogwarts, and she supposedly had never revealed her true name to anyone, and certainly not to him. It was only natural for her to expect that her facade would have lived on all these years, especially since the letter he had sent her had been addressed to her false name.
"How do you know my name?" Annabelle inquired immediately, her eyebrows narrowed in suspicion.
Dumbledore chuckled to himself before saying, "My dear, when you are in such a position as I am, discovering someone's identity, even one as carefully concealed as yours, is one of the easier things that you can accomplish."
He could tell that Annabelle wanted to say something but was holding herself back, so he waited patiently as she stared at her own hands, her eyebrows furrowed, holding a struggle within her own mind. Finally, she decided to speak.
"That's not the only thing you seem to have figured out," she snapped, appearing rather irritated, "though I don't know how...well, it doesn't matter, I suppose. Go on then, let's hear it."
"Hear what, my dear?"
"Fine. You want me to say it? I'll say it. What have you found out? How much do you know?"
This woman had come into his office ready to fight a battle. This was not what he had been hoping for, but he would have been very foolish indeed if he had not expected it. Annabelle, or Heather, as she had more often called herself, was going to be very difficult to crack.
"You're going to have to be more specific, Miss Reed."
This clearly wasn't what this woman wanted to hear.
"Fine, Dumbledore. If you insist on the formalities, I'll ask the question we both know the answer to. Why did you want me here?"
Annabelle crossed her arms and looked the Headmaster dead in the eye, waiting for his response. Dumbledore sighed and began to fiddle with the tiny green box in his hand. Perhaps if she saw it on her own rather than listening to his explanation...
"What is that?" the woman sitting across from him exclaimed, leaning over to get a better look at it.
Excellent.
"This," he mused, for his own benefit nearly as much as it was for Annabelle's, "is the answer to your question."
"Give it to me," she commanded in a whisper, her hand outstretched with a desperate, pleading look on her face.
Dumbledore obliged, gently placing the box into her waiting hand. His eyes never left her face as she turned it over and over in her hands, tracing the figures of the two snakes engraved on the cover slowly with her finger. Her expression was unreadable, even to Albus Dumbledore, who'd been able to read so many in the past. That old, familiar wall that she had so often used to hide her thoughts and emotions from the outside world was evident once again. However, her hands betrayed her. Albus saw them quiver, ever so slightly, as she brushed her fingers delicately over every inch of the surface of the box. She reluctantly let her eyes drift up from the object in her hands into the face of the man who had handed it to her.
"Where did you get this?" she asked so quietly that he could hardly hear her.
"Here in this office, actually," he replied, "I haven't the slightest idea as to who brought it here. I had hoped that it would have been you, Annabelle, but I can see that I was incorrect."
"This is impossible," she said, her words coming out agonizingly slowly, as if they were being unwillingly wrenched from her throat, one by one, "I...I left it with..."
"With Tom?"
The silence that followed these two simple words was palpable. It seemed that this woman shied away from this man's given name in the same way that the rest of the wizarding world shied away from the name he had given himself.
"No," she said with a bitter anger ringing in her voice, "No, not Tom. If Tom were still there, I...I never would have had to leave. If it had been Tom, sir, he never would have let me go. You know as well as I do that Tom Riddle has been dead for a long, long time."
Dumbledore wasn't so sure of that. Lord Voldemort was living, breathing proof that people do change, and that change certainly isn't necessarily for the better. However, the idea that someone could lose every single part of themselves in the process...well that was unimaginable. There was hope; he was sure of it, but Annabelle Reed was going to take a great deal of convincing.
"Alright, alright," he feigned, "I suppose you're right."
"Don't give me that," she snapped, more in exasperation than in anger, "What are you playing at?"
He knew he wouldn't get away with this little trick so easily. Unfortunately for the woman sitting across from him, however, if ever Annabelle Reed had a match, that match would be Albus Dumbledore.
"I'm not playing at anything, my dear," that careful smile plastered on his face once again, "I am simply acknowledging that you are correct."
His former student's suspicion remained unsatisfied, "You asked me to come here all the way from the United States...to admit that I'm right?" she asked skeptically.
"Of course not!" he replied, chuckling quietly to himself, "And let us not pretend that it was so difficult for you to reach Britain from America; what with all the skill in magic I remember you possessing, I can't imagine it took much effort at all."
Ignoring Annabelle's irritated grimace, he went on, "I need your help," he stated very seriously.
"I won't speak to him if that's what you want. You've wasted your time."
Dumbledore faltered, but only for a moment, "I know how difficult this will be for you, Annabelle, but it could mean saving the lives of a countless number of people, so I'm going to ask anyway."
Annabelle waited, staring at him with a pointed glare, for him to ask his question, but the old wizard remained silent. He was studying her, attempting to find the best way to approach such a delicate situation. He scrutinized her while she squirmed in discomfort, unwilling to meet his gaze. Her old professor knew that sitting under his watchful eye for this long would make her feel vulnerable, and although she hated this feeling, perhaps it was precisely what she needed. After several minutes had gone by, she was seemingly unable to stand his silent observation of her any longer.
"Well?" she asked with a note of impatience, "What is it?"
Dumbledore remained silent for a few moments longer before deciding it would be better to beat around the bush just a bit more.
"Miss Reed, are you aware of what is in that box you're holding?"
The woman looked down at her hands, seemingly surprised that the tiny green box was still laying in them.
"I...wasn't aware that there was anything in it," she stated slowly and uncertainly, "it was empty the last I saw it."
Annabelle made no movement to open the box, only staring at the lid, so Dumbledore felt compelled to move things along a bit faster by revealing its contents to her himself.
"It contains a memory. Your memory, actually. Are you aware of which one I'm speaking of?"
"Yes," she answered, her tone monotonous, her expression unreadable.
"Then I believe you know what information it is that I'm looking for."
Now, it was Annabelle's turn to remain silent. Her utterly incomprehensible expression was frozen on her face as she brushed her thumb under the lid of the box in her hands. Supposedly deciding against actually looking at what it contained, she swiftly removed her thumb, causing the box to close again with a faint click. She bit her bottom lip as she reluctantly lifted her eyes to meet Dumbledore's again. When she spoke, her shaking voice gave away the emotion she so desperately tried to conceal.
"You don't understand," she said, closing her eyes as if the words themselves caused exhaustion, "I have worked so hard for so long to push back memories like this one. I've kept him locked away in parts of my mind that I don't dare to reach. Please, sir, don't ask me to remember."
"I have to. Again, I know how hard this is for you, but think of your parents."
"What do you know about my parents?" she interrupted, briefly brought out of the strange, melancholy state of mind she had been dragged into.
"A fairly long time ago, I made it my business to know everything there was to know about Gellert Grindelwald. He used horrible methods of murder, Annabelle, but Voldemort's are far worse in some cases. It's just possible that your story could save millions of others from that fate."
Annabelle did not take a moment to think it over, like Dumbledore was expecting. Her response came quickly and decisively, albeit she did not sound particularly enthusiastic while she gave it.
"Alright then, Dumbledore. You may want to make yourself comfortable, though, sir. It is, after all, a very long story."
