I do not own Harry Potter. Charlotte Potter, Lori and Rachel are my OCs.

The Last Descendants of Salazar Slytherin

Years of living with the Dursleys had taught Charlie how to be sneaky. It was a skill she eventually mastered, utilizing it to slip out of her cupboard without detection when she was meant to be locked in isolation and to pilfer food when she was supposed to be on punishment.

Paranoid that Draco would be desperate enough to infiltrate Ravenclaw Tower to gain her Felix Felicis, she switched out the sneakers Sirius had bought her two years ago for Dudley's old, worn-out, oversized shoes. There was plenty of room for her to stick the vial into her right shoe without the decorative crystal topper digging into her foot.

"Don't you think you're overreacting?" asked Hermione with a frown, watching as her best friend seized the frayed laces and tightened them as much as possible.

"Maybe," said Charlie. "But I'm not taking my chances."

"I still can't believe you kept those horrid things," said Hermione with a shake of her head.

"I figured they'd be good for outside work. Besides, I'm kinda glad I kept them." Charlie stood, wincing slightly as the shoes, even with the laces tied as far as they could go, flopped around with her steps. "Geez, it's been a while. I don't remember them being this uncomfortable."

"That's because you didn't know anything else," said Hermione softly.

"Guess I'm just out of practice," said Charlie, pointedly not acknowledging Hermione's remark. There were certain parts of her past with the Dursleys that she didn't like wading into. "This is the safest place it can be. With me and out of sight."

Hermione sighed. "Well, if it'll help you feel at ease."

They grabbed their bookbags and went to the Great Hall for breakfast. A few minutes into their meal a swarm of owls flew into the Great Hall through the high, open windows. Charlie lowered her fork as the Daily Prophet dropped in front of her. She flipped through the newspaper, her stomach sinking at the slew of new names, witches and wizards that either vanished without a trace or were found murdered.

There was no one she recognized, but it was an empty comfort.

"Is anyone we know dead?"

Ron appeared behind Charlie, eyeing the newspapers she and Hermione held with trepidation. Hermione rolled up her copy and said, "No."

"But a lot of people are dead or gone," muttered Charlie, setting the Daily Prophet aside.

"Do you think…" Ron hesitated for a second, gathering the courage to finish his thought. "Do you think there's any logic to who he's killing? Or taking?"

Charlie pursed her lips. Moments like these were when she wished Voldemort would open his mind to her. At least amongst the torture, amongst the agony, she could glimpse his intentions. "I don't know."

"What's going on?" asked Harry, approaching Ravenclaw table and standing beside Ron.

"Ron wanted to know if anyone we knew was dead," said Hermione, shooting Ron a reproachful look. "Which isn't very sensitive."

"There's no sensitive way to ask that question," defended Ron.

"Ron's got a point." Setting his hand on Charlie's shoulder, Harry said in a low voice, "I found the second-year Hufflepuffs, by the way."

Ron whipped his head to stare at the Hufflepuff table but Hermione grabbed his arm, redirecting his attention. "Don't look," she hissed.

"Are they okay?" asked Charlie in concern.

"They're terrified. Nearly fainted when I approached them in the common room last night. Had to convince them that Malfoy and Parkinson know they didn't blab, that it was all you, and the Slytherins aren't stupid enough to come after them when you've already told two professors what happened. I had to practically drag them out to breakfast this morning."

"I can't believe they haven't been punished," said Hermione crossly.

"Well, Professor Flitwick did take away fifty points," said Charlie. "Draco was complaining about it when I eavesdropped on him and Professor Snape."

"If it was anyone else and Snape heard about it, he'd give detention for a month," said Ron in irritation. "He lets his Snakes get away with murder."

"They want to talk to you," Harry directed at Charlie. "But after Draco and his goons leave."

"Of course," said Charlie immediately.

Harry and Ron returned to their respective House tables and Charlie and Hermione continued eating. They had just polished off their plates when Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise left the Great Hall. The second they disappeared out the doors Charlie peered over her shoulder and saw Harry and the two small Hufflepuffs, who were sitting next to him, get to their feet.

"Come on," she spoke.

She and Hermione stood and Ron, seeing their movements, shovelled one last handful of bacon into his mouth before jumping from his seat. They all walked into the Entrance Hall, which was empty.

"Charlie, this is Lori," said Harry, hovering his hand over the blonde's head. He shifted it so it hung over the dark-haired girl and continued, "And this is Rachel."

"We're sorry," said Lori, her eyes welling with tears. "We didn't know what to do."

"We didn't want to get hurt, but we let them hurt you," said Rachel regretfully.

"Hey." Charlie knelt down and looked intently into their eyes. "Listen. You did the right thing. I've got a quite a bit of experience in dealing with Draco and Pansy. I can handle them. It's not your fault. They shouldn't have threatened you in the first place."

"Do you think they'll come after us?" asked Lori fearfully.

"No. They won't," said Charlie confidently. "They know I'm the one who snitched on them, not you. So they'll leave you alone."

"Are you sure?" asked Rachel uncertainly.

"Positive. And on the very slim chance they try anything, let Harry know. He is your prefect, after all."

"I'd have a few words to say to them," muttered Harry.

"A few hexes, you mean," said Ron with a scowl.

"Ronald," said Hermione sharply.

"Charlie's right," said Harry, smiling reassuringly at his Housemates. "Don't worry about those Snakes. They won't hurt you."

'Just you, Charlie.'

'Yeah, thanks, bro,' thought Charlie sarcastically.

Lori and Rachel exchanged nervous glances, but the fear and unease melted from their expressions. "Okay," said Lori in a small voice. "We're still really sorry."

"Don't be," said Charlie firmly. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

"But you will be sorry if you keep missing more meals," warned Harry. "Don't make me tell Sprout."

"We won't," said Rachel quickly.

"All right. Get ready for class."

Charlie straightened as the two darted off, looking much happier, and she shook her head. "I'd say I can't believe Draco and Pansy would stoop so low but that would be a lie."

"Don't even think about hexing them," said Hermione, smacking Ron in the arm.

"I was just joking," snapped Ron. "Kind of."

"The last thing we need is to start something with them," said Charlie sternly. "So listen to Hermione."

Ron made a face. "Fine. If that's what you want."

They started down the corridor, heading for their first class of the morning, and Hermione said, "You'll never guess where Charlie hid her Felix Felicis."

"Where?" asked Harry.

Charlie quickly looked to make sure they were still alone before grabbing Ron's shoulder for support and thrusting out her right leg, shaking her foot. The shoe moved slightly with her motion and she said, "Dudley's old shoes make for decent storage space."

Ron gaped. Harry snorted. "There's no way anyone is finding that."

…

Charlie's first lesson with Dumbledore was at eight in the evening a week after classes began. At five to eight Hermione earnestly wished her good luck and Charlie left the common room, entering the castle corridors. She felt woefully underprepared. She'd hoped to do some research on advanced spells, but the sheer amount of homework her professors were handing out made it nearly impossible to do extra reading. With her heart thudding in her chest, Charlie arrived at the entrance to Dumbledore's office and gave the gargoyle the password, which had inconspicuously been included in the summons he sent her.

The spiral stone staircase carried her to the door and Charlie knocked. When she was granted entry, she nudged it open and stepped inside the space. "Hello, Professor."

"Hello, Charlotte," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "How are you enjoying your classes thus far?"

"Great," said Charlie.

"Professor Slughorn tells me you're his star student in Potions."

She hadn't told Slughorn how she was achieving perfect results while the rest of her class floundered, including Hermione, who she had caught glaring at the Half-Blood Prince's book more often than not. As far as Slughorn was concerned, she was a natural talent at Potions. She didn't think following the written instructions of a former student counted as cheating, but she nonetheless felt like it would be better if she kept the existence of the book to herself and her friends.

She wouldn't learn nearly as much about Potions if she had a regular copy of the assigned textbook. Whoever the Half-Blood Prince was, he was a prodigy at Potions. His knowledge was invaluable. She didn't want to throw that away.

"I wouldn't say star student," she said honestly. "I'm just doing my best."

"As anyone can do. Now, before we get started, I must ask that you inform Harry that you are not to be disturbed. I would have done so during our conversation back at The Burrow, but I believed it would be best if you were the one to speak to him of our private lessons first."

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore watched with intrigue as her chin shifted slightly to the side and her eyes fixed on an invisible point. It looked as if she was in a deep, complex daydream.

'Harry?'

'Yeah?'

'I'm about to start my lesson with Professor Dumbledore. Which means—'

'I interrupt you every five minutes, right?'

'Ha ha.'

'Did you really think I was going to distract you in the middle of something so important?'

'Professor Dumbledore just wanted to make sure he'd have my undivided attention. I'll talk to you later.'

'I can't wait to hear every detail.'

'If I'm allowed to give them, I definitely won't leave anything out.'

"He said he wouldn't distract me while I'm doing something so important," she relayed to Dumbledore.

"I thought as much, but sometimes curiosity can overwhelm our best judgement," he responded, sending the girl a knowing look.

Charlie flushed. "It definitely can."

Dumbledore stood from his chair and swept around his desk, approaching his Pensieve. "During the course of our lessons, Charlotte, I will be sharing with you information I've collected over the years."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "Information about Voldemort?"

Dumbledore inclined his head. "Indeed. But I want to be forthright with you, Charlotte. While the information I have is telling it is also incomplete. I have filled in the gaps with guesses, and though my guesses are usually right, there is always a margin for error. The reason Voldemort tried to kill you fifteen years ago is fact. The rest of which I have to tell you is not concrete, but I do not believe I have created fictions out of my old mind."

"So…you have theories?" asked Charlie slowly. "Regarding Voldemort?"

"Precisely." Something flitted across her expression, akin to disappointment, and Dumbledore said, "I would have thought you above all others would hold value in being armed with knowledge."

"Of course I do," said Charlie quickly. "It's just not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?" asked Dumbledore curiously.

"Er, well, last year, you told me I could become adept at wandless magic. I thought that might be what you were going to teach me."

"Ah." Understanding dawned on Dumbledore's features. "You were correct when you said wandless magic is difficult to master for most witches and wizards, and I was correct when I said you are not most witches and wizards. Your emotions are your strength, Charlotte. You feel so deeply, so completely. Your magic unleashes itself, out of control and powerful, when you are angry. Your temper ignites rarely but when it does your magic ignites with it. It is your emotions that drive your wandless magic, not sheer skill, and I am afraid I cannot teach you to control your emotions, to harmonize them with your magic. That is a journey you must navigate yourself, from within."

"Have…have you known anyone else who uses wandless magic through their emotions?" asked Charlie hesitantly.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Certainly not."

Of course.

Seeing the way her brow pinched and her lips crinkled, Dumbledore said gently, "It is not a race nor a test, Charlotte. While learning to harness your emotions to fuel your wandless magic would be beneficial, it does not need to be done today, tomorrow or a year from now. You have already proven great skill with a wand. Let us focus on the matter at hand."

Charlie gave her head a hard shake, trying to bring herself into the moment. "Yes, sir. Sorry. So these lessons, do they have anything to do with the prophecy?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore simply.

Dumbledore removed a vial from his pocket and poured a cloudy substance into the Pensieve. "The memory we are about to delve into is that of Bob Ogden, Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. He has since passed away, but not before I managed to gather this memory."

As this would be the third time she would venture into the magical basin, Charlie needed no instruction. She dunked her head into the Pensieve and was immediately pulled under. After a brief moment of spinning in total darkness she emerged on a country lane, the sun shining brightly above her. She blinked and turned in a slow circle. They were in the middle of a long road, bordered on each side by tall hedges.

A plump man with thick glasses was inspecting a sign. She glanced at Dumbledore, who stood behind her. "This must be Mr. Ogden."

"That he is," said Dumbledore.

Charlie curiously went up to read the sign he was looking at so intently. There were two arrows pointing in opposite directions and Ogden set down the path which would carry him to Little Hangleton. Dumbledore and Charlie followed after him. After a while they came upon a village, tucked into a valley between two hillsides. As they sloped down the hill that led into the valley, Charlie's eyes roamed over the landscape, at the rolling green fields, thick hedges and quaint buildings.

The obvious crown jewel of the town was the manor sitting on the opposite hillside, positively towering over everything else. Charlie half-hoped that would be Ogden's destination, for she wanted to see if it was as magnificent on the inside as it was on the outside.

But Ogden ducked through a slim gap between the hedges to their right. Charlie swatted some branches away from her face as they went further downhill, stumbling down the rocky path that was much less maintained than the smooth main dirt road. This area was much darker, the sunlight barely peeking through the thick foliage of the surrounding trees and looming hedges.

They came upon a run-down house and Charlie froze, staring at the deceased snake that was nailed to the front door.

"You're trespassing."

Both Charlie and Ogden jumped when a man with small dark eyes and dressed in rags leapt from the branches of one of the trees. "I'm sorry?" said Ogden warily.

"Leave. You are trespassing on our property."

"I am from the Ministry of Magic. I wish to speak with—"

"Leave! Now!"

The man raised his wand and a knife and Ogden hastily backed away. "I'm afraid I can't understand what you're saying," said Ogden, keeping his voice calm.

Charlie furrowed her brow. She turned to Dumbledore and asked uncertainly, "Can you hear what he's saying?"

"I cannot."

Parseltongue.

There was a bang and Charlie whirled around, eyes widening as she watched Ogden hunch over, clutching at his nose. The front door to the shack burst open and another man rushed out, his brown eyes brighter than that of the other, but contained the same absence of warmth.

"Morfin, stop it!" he barked. Morfin backed down. "Get inside." Morfin sent an aggressive glare at Ogden before obeying, trooping into the house. The elderly man turned and studied Ogden coldly. "Nicked you, I see."

"It was more than a nick," said Ogden in outrage, raising his wand to fix his nose.

"I heard you say you were from the Ministry."

"That's correct," said Ogden stiffly. "You must be Mr. Gaunt."

Gaunt gave a short nod. "What about it?"

"We sent a letter, in regards to your son Morfin."

"We don't have a use for letters here," said Gaunt, lifting his chin. "Don't open any of them."

"That's probably why you aren't prepared for visitors," said Ogden flatly. "I need to speak to him. He breached several wizarding laws."

Gaunt's eyes narrowed. He surveyed Ogden's appearance with visible disgust. "I don't suppose you're a pure-blood?"

"That's not relevant," said Ogden tightly. "I am here to discuss—"

"Fine!" snapped Gaunt. "Come into the house, then. But don't think you're staying long."

Charlie followed after the pair, her eyes trailing to stare uneasily at the dead snake being used for decoration. The interior of the house was just as filthy as the exterior. Morfin was sitting in a torn armchair in the room connected to the kitchen. A girl with long, limp hair puttered at the sink, scrubbing at the dishes. Her face was pale and her eyes tired, and she wearing the same rags as Morfin and Gaunt.

"Merope. My daughter," muttered Gaunt.

Merope sent Ogden a nervous, fearful look before ducking her head back over the sink. Ogden cleared his throat and said, "Mr. Gaunt, I'm here because your son performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night."

The plate Merope was holding slipped from her fingers and shattered against the stone floor. Gaunt whirled on her. "Pick it up, you useless girl!" he shouted.

With trembling fingers Merope took out her wand and tried casting a spell. But the pieces whipped in all directions rather than joining back together. Gaunt's screaming increased in volume and Merope shrunk back, clutching at the edge of the sink. Ogden raised his wand and uttered the Mending Charm.

Merope scuttled over and seized the fixed dish. She quickly put it into the cabinet and stuck her shaking hands back into the sink of water. Charlie stared at her, at the defeated slump in her posture, the misery in her eyes, and felt her heart lurch.

She knew that look. She'd often seen it in her reflection, during her childhood days at the Dursleys.

"Disgusting Squib," sneered Gaunt. "Can't even fix a plate."

"Mr. Gaunt, please," said Ogden firmly. "I am here because your son broke—"

"He taught one of those filthy Muggles a lesson," snarled Gaunt.

"And that's illegal," returned Ogden, who was not to be intimidated. He dug a scroll from his pocket and opened it. "His hearing is to take place—"

"Do you know who we are?" boomed Gaunt. He thrust his hand in Ogden's face, brandishing a ring bearing a black stone. "Do you, Mudblood?"

Charlie stared at the ring. Her eyes darted from it to Dumbledore's blackened hand. He avoided her probing gaze.

"You're the Gaunt family," said Ogden calmly.

"We're a pure-blood family dating back centuries!" roared Gaunt. "This ring is a family heirloom! It's worth a fortune, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved in it!" He spun on his heel and strode for his daughter. He grabbed the gold chain hanging from her neck and dragged her over, ignoring her gasping protests. "And this! The locket of Salazar Slytherin! We're his last descendants!"

"Mr. Gaunt, release her!" cried Ogden in panic.

For a brief moment, everything went black and quiet as Charlie's mind thrust her back several years. She was standing in the Chamber of Secrets with sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle sneering at her.

"Did you think I would use my filthy father's name? Did you think I would let that taint the Slytherin blood in my veins?"

Her body went still.

Gaunt let go of Merope and she stumbled back, rubbing at her neck and gulping for air. Ogden was not to be deterred. He repeated the crime Morfin had committed and was about to state the date and time of his hearing when the sound of a horse's hooves clattering against the path flowed through the open windows. Everyone paused, allowing them to hear the words of the passing Muggles clearly.

"Really, Tom, can't your father have this torn down?" a girl complained. "It's so horrible to look at."

Charlie gasped. She turned on her heel and sprinted out the door, tripping on the rocks as she barrelled down the path. She emerged onto the clear, dirt road and, a distance away, sitting on a chestnut horse with an attractive girl, was Tom Riddle Sr.

His face, his eyes, his chin, his hair—Voldemort, when he had looked more human than monster, was the spitting image of his father.

And if this was Voldemort's father, and if Voldemort was a true descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and the Gaunts were the last living descendants, then that meant—

Charlie raced back to the small, crumbling shack. Dumbledore, who had been about to go in pursuit of the raven-haired girl, quickly stepped aside as Charlie charged back through the door. Her eyes were wide with shocked awe as she stepped close to Merope. She was pressed against the countertop, her face deathly white. Charlie squinted at her, straining to find some familiarity in her features.

But the teenaged Tom Riddle Jr. she had encountered in her second year held no traits from his mother. He completely resembled the father he so despised.

As Tom Riddle Sr. passed by with his companion, Morfin maliciously teased Merope, telling her that Tom would never want her, even though she longed for him, and how delighted he was to have hexed her unrequited love. Gaunt, incensed by the revelation that his pure-blood daughter was in love with a Muggle, attacked her. Ogden leapt to her defense and was forced to retreat as Morfin came after him. Dumbledore and Charlie hurried after him, ending up on the main path, Tom Riddle laughing derisively at the oddly-dressed man as he sprinted by.

Little Hangleton was the home of the Riddles.

It struck Charlie like a bolt of lightning. Colour draining from her face, she stared numbly down into the village. The manor on the hill—that was where Frank Bryce had been murdered. It looked unrecognizable in the sunlight. And the graveyard—

She let out a choked sob.

"Time for us to go, Charlotte," spoke Dumbledore softly, gripping Charlie's elbow.

They returned to Dumbledore's office. Charlie collapsed into the chair located across from Dumbledore's desk, her mind whirling and her eyes glazed over with grief. "I am sorry," he said softly. "It must seem cruel of me, not to warn you of our destination ahead of time. I worried you would not wish to view Ogden's memory if you knew the significance of where it took place, and we cannot skip even one."

"It's okay," said Charlie in a strangled voice. She cleared her throat, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. "Mr. Gaunt—his first name is Marvolo, isn't it?"

"How did you know?" asked Dumbledore in surprise.

"Voldemort told me. In the Chamber of Secrets. That must mean Merope is Voldemort's mother."

"Yes. They were the last of the Gaunts. A family known for their instability and violence after generations of marrying their cousins."

"But if they're descendants of Slytherin, why were they living like that?" asked Charlie with a frown.

"Generations before Marvolo, the family fortune had been wasted. Marvolo was left with few family heirlooms and nothing else."

"What happened to them? Morfin and Marvolo?"

"Ogden returned to the cottage with reinforcements, and Marvolo and Morfin were arrested and sent to Azkaban. Merope, for the first time in eighteen years, was left alone. She was free from the abuse of her father and brother and her magic flourished. If she was going to escape from her miserable existence, that was the time. Her love and obsession with Tom Riddle was all-consuming. She wanted no one else. Wanted nothing else."

"But he was already with someone, it seemed like," said Charlie slowly. "And not to be rude, but he didn't seem like the type to spare Merope a first glance, let alone a second."

"You are correct. So how do you suppose that Merope attained Tom Riddle's affections?"

"This is where the guesses come into play, isn't it?"

"It is."

Charlie stared at her hands with her lips pursed in thought. "I don't think she would have used the Imperius Curse," she said carefully. "That seems…so empty. And I think…I think she really wanted love. She wanted to be loved. It might have seemed…romantic, maybe, to use a love potion."

Dumbledore gave a pleased nod. "My thoughts exactly. I suspect it wouldn't have been difficult for her, to offer Tom Riddle a beverage one warm day as he was passing by."

"How did Marvolo react?" asked Charlie warily. "When he found out?"

"I gathered that he never again uttered her name. She left him a note, explaining her actions, and she never returned. Marvolo died before Morfin finished his sentence at Azkaban."

"Merope stopped using the love potion at some point," spoke Charlie. "Tom Riddle left her. Voldemort was raised in an orphanage. He…he said she died, and that his father abandoned her because she told him she was a witch."

"He told you that?"

"Er, yeah. In…in the graveyard," muttered Charlie.

"Very interesting," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "This is not information Voldemort likes to divulge. Yet he felt compelled to tell you."

"Well, whenever he tells me bits of his personal life, he expects to kill me immediately afterwards," muttered Charlie. "Is he right? Did his father leave Merope because she was a witch?"

"I suspect that Voldemort drew his own conclusions, and for him it was natural to place the blame on what he perceives to be the weakest link, his Muggle father. But he is not completely wrong. Tom Riddle returned to his family home without his wife. Little Hangleton, so small and tightly-knit, was rife with rumours. Apparently, he had been telling people he was tricked and manipulated by Merope. To the villagers, they thought Merope lied about having his baby in order to get him to marry her.

"But did he know she was a full witch? No, I don't think so. I think he knew something was not quite right about her. But he was a smart man, and knew better than to use such terms like magic and enchantment seriously."

"Why did Merope stop giving the love potion to him?"

"It is as you said. She wanted to be loved. I think she could no longer bear the falsity of their relationship. She truly loved him. She wanted him to love her without magical influence. Perhaps she had convinced herself that he must have fallen in love with her over the course of their months together. Perhaps she was certain he would stay for their child. But when the enchantment lifted, Tom Riddle left without looking back. He cared not what would become of his child."

For a moment, they sat in total silence. Charlie stared blankly at the silver instruments that populated Dumbledore's office, trying to wrap her brain around this piece of Voldemort's family history. "Do you have any questions, Charlotte?" asked Dumbledore gently.

"No, sir."

"That is all for tonight, then. You did well. I did not even need to tell you who the Gaunts were."

Charlie's cheeks turned pink. "It's only because I remember what Voldemort tells me. Professor, can I tell Harry, Ron and Hermione about all of this?"

"You can," said Dumbledore with a nod. "I know they will not break your trust, nor mine."

Charlie's eyes strayed to his blackened hand. "That ring Marvolo was wearing. It's the same ring you were wearing, when you came to pick me up from the Dursleys."

"It is."

"When did you get it?"

"A few days before I came to get you."

"Is that when you injured your hand?" pressed Charlie.

"Around then, yes."

He did not offer anything further and Charlie steeled herself. Dumbledore watched as her spine straightened and her shoulders squared. Green eyes, shining with determination and hungry for answers, stared steadily at him.

"What happened to your hand, Professor?"

"We are finished for the night, Charlotte," said Dumbledore with a smile, rising to his feet. "Pleasant dreams."

Her eyes glinted with disappointment, hurt and suspicion. She bowed her head, wished him goodnight, and started for the door. Before she left, he caught sight of her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a sure sign that she was in deep thought.

Dumbledore let out a heavy sigh as the door clicked shut behind her. She was a bright, clever girl. But this time, she could not forge ahead and discover the answers she sought by herself. He would not allow her to figure out the true purpose of their lessons until he was ready for her to hear it.

It was imperative.