A/N: Posting this early, just because I can. And I'm doing another combined chapter.
Information on TFW can be found on my profile. You can also access a PDF of it through there.
Anti-Litigation Charm: I do not own this crazy world.
Please review!
The next two weeks passed by in a blur. Harry had promised Hermione that he would not attempt to enter Voldemort's mind without her present, and Ron and Ginny were often with him whenever he went to see Professor Granger in the evenings. Harry would have liked to see her directly after class, but she had dedicated that time to tutoring other students, and it would seem awfully suspicious if she gave it up.
Harry himself often went to Hermione's extra study sessions, because—like many of the other students who attended—they weren't there for remedial help. Hermione gave them additional practice that was, in a perverse way, challengingly fun and prepared them for the following classes, giving them an edge on the other students. Harry would not normally have cared about this, but after receiving a nasty shock from a particularly irritable and untamed enchanted teakettle, he decided he would rather take the extra lessons. It was a simple case of self-preservation, which Harry was quite familiar with after a lifetime of walking the wild side of danger. And after class, he and Ron often had tea in her office to catch up.
Draco Malfoy was always there, hanging onto Professor Granger's every word. Harry rather suspected he would be showing her a lot less suspect if he found out that she was really The Chosen One's muggle-born best friend, and this thought was the only thing that made the extra hour in Malfoy's presence tolerable. Selenius was always there as well, though he often partnered up with Neville, who had truly developed into a formidable opponent.
He had only made one other successful foray into Voldemort's mind. The time he failed was because he had skittered back when he realized Voldemort was alone and lost in thought—he wanted to catch the Dark Lord when he was preoccupied with others, not when he was introspective enough to detect and trace another set of thoughts in his mind. When he explained his failure to his companions, he was relieved that Hermione wholeheartedly agreed with his decision. Ginny was always jittery with nerves at the mention of his attempts, but Harry was relieved that she was determined to stay by his side. He needed her more than ever.
He spent some of his evenings checking the Marauders Map when he had the chance to try and coax the imprints of its creators to the fore. It was difficult. They were more than happy to provide advice for mischief-making, but beyond that, Harry could detect nothing tangible about his father. Even Mr. Padfoot was barely representative of Sirius, and though he revealed quite a bit about the secret passageways that Sirius himself knew, it did not begin to touch the core of Sirius's personality. It was disheartening, but Harry's curiosity was also quirked by the fact that he was discovering quite a bit by asking the four personalities of the map for knowledge on the castle.
He had also begun checking the Map in the evenings since the day he had told Ron about the four Marauders' and their message about the curfew breakers, more out of curiosity than anything else. But he could never seem to catch them at the right time—the library was almost always empty, save for the occasional Prefect doing rounds. He once caught a glimpse of Selenius well after curfew, but he was well aware of the younger boy's tendency to sneak out for late-night reads, and had written it off. Selenius would walk across broken glass for a good book. Curfew was nothing.
His second lesson with Dumbledore involved another foray into the pensieve—this time, Harry found himself following the blond-haired man from earlier as he paid a visit to a foreign wandmaker ("Gregorovich," Dumbledore informed him) and snuck into the shop to steal the Elder Wand. The memory ended with the blond-haired man grinning victoriously before he leapt from the window in the back of the wandmaker's shop and disappeared into the night. It seemed that to Harry, Dumbledore was helping him follow the path that the Hallows had taken.
And then he gave Harry his first homework assignment.
"You are aware that Professor Granger is in possession of the Resurrection Stone," Dumbledore said, peering over his half-moon spectacles. "She has vowed not to give it to me even if I should ask, and for good reason. It will be your job to persuade her to give it to you."
"And then give it to you, sir?" Harry asked.
"Oh, no," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "I still don't trust myself with it. It will be yours to keep, my boy—it's you who will need it."
The next day was the Halloween feast. Harry checked the Map before dinner, and seeing that Hermione was in her office—at her desk—he folded and stuffed it into his pocket, and made his way to the third floor.
He thought it would be an easy task. Hermione was his friend. She knew that what he was doing was vitally important. But when he knocked and entered, and took the seat on the other side of her desk, and tried to explain himself, things did not go as he planned.
"Why did Albus say you needed the ring?" Hermione asked, frowning at him over the fifth-year essays she was grading.
"He said I'd need it, it's part of the Deathly Hallows—"
"The what?"
Hermione sat up a bit straighter in her chair and gave Harry the look, the look that said she had no clue what he was talking about, but that she was about to find out even if she had to interrogate it out of him. So Harry tried to explain what they were—everything he had thus far learned about the Deathly Hallows. The Elder Wand's bloody swath through history, the Invisibility Cloak, the Resurrection Stone that had been passed down through the Gaunts for at least several generations before ending up as a Horcrux in the dilapidated shack…
He was extremely disconcerted when Hermione's entire expression closed up as he finished his tale, and appeared to be utterly unimpressed. The woman he saw sitting across from him had the cold, calculating look of a war-worn officer who suspected that the blinds were being pulled over her head, and had no intention of letting it happen.
"I will consider it, after I indulge myself in a bit of thorough research."
"You don't believe me?" Harry asked incredulously.
"I've never even heard of the Deathly Hallows before now, and believe me, Harry, I've come across a lot in my lifetime," Hermione said, resting her chin on her folded hands. "I have a lot to consider about this, and I don't commit to anything I don't know about."
"But didn't Professor Dumbledore tell you that the Stone was the Resurrection Stone?" Harry argued. "He was honest with you from the beginning. It's not like he didn't tell you."
Hermione said nothing for a moment, though Harry suspected it was because she was considering how much to tell him, and not because she was actually contemplating the logic in his argument. He felt disbelief sink in, cold and slippery. Hermione had always been stubborn, but he had never seen her so unreasonably flat-out mulish.
He watched her sit there for a moment, tapping her chin with one finger, and then her eyes slowly slid back into focus.
"I might have come across a very vague mention of it before…" she said slowly, and Harry could see the gears turning in her brain. "But I'll have to double check…"
She set her quill down. The nib had been chewed off.
"The sign of the Deathly Hallows, which you described, I am familiar with," she said coldly. "It's precisely the same mark the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald carved into the wall of Nurmengard."
She tossed her quill aside and plucked a fresh one from the holder, and then flicked the feathered end toward the door.
"That should give you something to think about while I research the Deathly Hallows."
Harry had stared at her in a mixture of bewilderment, incense, and utter disbelief before slowly getting to his feet. He walked out of the office with a robotic gait, trying to make sense of Hermione's behavior.
She had never treated him like this before. Of all the adults Harry had come across, she had been the most honest, the one prepared to treat him like an equal. Yet it was clear to Harry that she was hiding something, and that only a slight knowledge of the subject was all she was willing to admit to him while she delayed giving him Gaunt's ring. He didn't doubt that she would be researching it thoroughly, but he was baffled and insulted by her secretive, suspicious demeanor.
As he made his way to the Halloween feast, a startling realization occurred to him. It almost felt as though Hermione and Dumbledore were trying to pull through two entirely different schemes, and when they came into conflict, he, Harry, was the one who got caught in the middle. Dumbledore didn't want him making use of his link with Voldemort. Hermione did. Dumbledore wanted him to take possession of the Resurrection Stone. Hermione did not. It was like watching two people on the same side of a chess board squabbling and attempting to out-scheme each other while simultaneously trying to take down their shared opponent with complex maneuvers. It was maddening.
Which meant that Harry was going to have to make a choice about which scheme to follow.
With a very real growl of frustration, he stomped down to dinner. He didn't much fancy how closely he resembled a chess piece.
~o~O~o~
The first Quidditch match of the year was hailed by a heavy storm that left the field soaking and muddy. The Gryffindor team marched out, their heads bent against the howling rain and wind despite the Impervious Charms cast on their goggles.
"I'm surprised Malfoy hasn't asked to reschedule the match," Ron said, as they came to a stop in the middle of the field. "Wouldn't have thought he'd want to get mud on his robes."
"I don't think I need to tell you to expect bad weather—" Harry began, as he addressed the team.
"Yes, yes, we're practically drowning in sunshine and rainbows," Ginny said sarcastically.
"—but the wind is blowing in the direction of the Slytherin goalposts, so try to take advantage of that," Harry continued patiently, shouting to be heard over the wind.
"Lucky us," Katie called.
Madam Hooch appeared at that moment, with the Slytherin captain—a burly seventh-year Harry vaguely recognized as Miles Bletchley.
"Oi, Potter. A word with you!"
"Who wants to be he's going to try and get us switch sides on the field?" Ginny asked brightly as Harry stomped off to speak to the Slytherin captain.
"Madam Hooch isn't stupid. She won't let them—"
They all fell silent as they saw Madam Hooch pull her broom upright, and Harry and Bletchley took it in hand, their fists resting one on top of the other. At Madam Hooch's nod, they began leap-frogging their hands, one over the other, until Harry's came up empty.
"So much for that," Selenius said hollowly.
"That can't be right. They can't just demand to switch sides…" Demelza began, tapping her beater's bat against her boot.
"Looks like we don't have any choice," Ron said bitterly.
A moment later, they mounted up, shooting venomous looks at both Hooch and the Slytherin team, and then the whistle blew. They shot off, and it was only with sheer luck that Ginny managed to swipe the Quaffle first. She sped off toward the goal, with the Slytherin chasers in hot pursuit.
The game was as dirty as the field, and in the thick rain foul plays and illegal moves were difficult to catch. The wind often veered them off course, due to vision impairments and the fact that some of the brooms were not strong enough to maneuver against it—a slight turn ended up becoming a sharp swerve. Twice, Demelza was nearly knocked off her broom by a deliberate collide, and Ritchie Coote got nicked in the shoulder by a beater bat that was not his. Ginny almost had the Quaffle knocked out of her hands by a deliberate swing of another Slytherin beater's bats, though Madam Hooch caught this one, and the crowd had to endure the Slytherin's insistence that he had genuinely mistaken it for a Bludger. Several Bludgers were aimed at Harry, but the Gryffindor team gave just as good as they got, and Coote managed to hit one on the Beater who'd tried to dislocate his shoulder from behind.
They were at a complete standstill until Slytherin scored the first goal of the game.
"Ten-one to Slytherin," Zacharias Smith called. He sounded rather subdued, though whether it was because he didn't want to be smashed into by his ex-girlfriend again or because of the bad weather, it was hard to say. "And Gryffindor takes the Quaffle…"
Harry was darting around the field, trying to catch sight of the Snitch. If he caught it early, Gryffindor would still win, even if Slytherin took a scoring lead—
"Gryffindor scores! They can do something right every once in a while, I suppose—and Slytherin takes the ball…"
He thought he saw something gold flash out of the corner of his eye, but when he wheeled around to look, he was met with a bludger to the side. Pain exploded, and he felt himself swing on his broom, holding on for dear life as the dizzying nausea threatened to send him flying off. There was a loud boo from the Gryffindor stands.
"Harry!" Ginny shouted.
"I'm fine," he gasped, as he struggled to swing himself upright. "Just… peachy."
He darted forward suddenly, when he caught the faintest flash of gold again, mere meters in front of him. It was flittering about, diving toward the ground, and Harry followed; a moment later, he caught sight of Malfoy on his tail, and the two were racing for the ground, struggling not to be thrown off by the wind—
"Twenty-ten, to Slytherin!"
Harry's fingers closed around the snitch, and he veered back up just in time to avoid crashing into the ground. Unfortunately, he had not realized how close he was to the stands, and the cheers were drowned out by a sudden groan as he and Malfoy both collided into the sides of the stadium, tearing through the Ravenclaw house cloth and smacking into the wooden support beams within the stands.
But the snitch was caught. Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and Ginny and Selenius were the first ones on the ground. Ginny pulled Harry free from the wreckage, where he was still holding the fluttering snitch in his hand, and Selenius yanked Malfoy up by the back of his robes.
"You okay, mate?" He asked as he heaved Malfoy free of the tangle of torn cloth.
Malfoy's face had turned pink with humiliation, and he hobbled to his feet. "Sod off, Black."
"Hospital wing, both of you," Madam Hooch said, landing beside them. She pointed her wand at the scar along Ravenclaw's banner, and it immediately repaired itself. "And congratulations, Mr. Potter."
~o~O~o~
"Shame about the points, but at least we're ahead," Ron said cheerfully as Madam Pomfrey had Harry checked out. "The weather will be better next time, you'll see."
And then he lowered his voice, with a glance over at the other occupant in the hospital wing before adding, "And maybe the ferret will think twice about ramming into you."
At the other end of the room, placed as far away from Harry as possible, Malfoy was sulking. Selenius was sitting at the foot of his bed, but whatever they were talking about, Harry hadn't a clue—they were out of earshot.
"Not sure it was deliberate," Harry said off-handedly. "Maybe Malfoy's just a bad flier."
Ron sniggered.
As soon as the matron excused him, Harry was up ready to leave, his Firebolt slung over his shoulder. They made their way back to Gryffindor house, ignoring the sneering looks and jibes from the Slytherins. Gryffindor wasn't celebrating this match; the weather had been so poor, hardly anyone had been able to follow much of what was happening, and it had ended under desperate circumstances. There wasn't much glory to be had in this first game of the season. Harry was relieved when they received a very warm welcome, however—someone had snuck into the kitchens and brought up treacle fudge and biscuits with fresh tea, and the Gryffindor team was more than happy to sit around the fire with comfort food. They were dry, but their bones still felt distinctly soaked.
About an hour later, Harry retired upstairs to find some parchment. There was a letter on his nightstand, with a rather ruffled-looking owl standing beside it, and he slit it open. The Ministry was holding a meeting over Easter break to discuss the war, and Scrimgeour wished for Harry to attend. Harry chewed on his quill for a moment, sat down at his bed, and wrote out a quick response. As soon as he sent the owl off, he pulled out a blank sheet of parchment, and began penning a letter to Sirius.
~o~O~o~
Hermione leaned against one of the shelves in the Restricted Section. The books within seemed to shrink back at this, knowing better than to snap at her for her insolence, and she flipped open one of the few texts she'd managed to find on the Deathly Hallows.
Ironically, it was a children's book. She had found it in the normal section of the library, and now at her wit's end, she set it down and decided to give The Tale of Three Brothers a proper read. She had combed through the library at Spinner's End, of course. Like the Philosopher's Stone, it was also mentioned in Convulsions of Nature—the Resurrection Stone was given particular attention to detail, and the other two objects were mentioned as more of a courtesy. The book was an infuriating, temperamental sort, and Hermione was greatly frustrated by the task of teasing information from its pages.
She knew why Dumbledore had not directly asked her for the ring. She had taken it for a reason, and at the time, he had agreed with her. It was her job to keep it until—or unless—it was needed. She was often tempted to try it herself, but she always slammed down on the thought and shoved it back into the Pandora's box it had come from. But now Dumbledore wanted it back, and Hermione had no idea why. Worse, he was involving Harry in the matter, knowing her young friend would eventually find a way to tug at her heartstrings and convince her to give it up.
Dumbledore could certainly force her to give it up, but Hermione knew that this was not his style.
What she was most concerned about was why Dumbledore wanted it back. What was he going to use it for? He was well aware of her reluctance to give it up. And even if he planned to give it to Harry, a stone that could bring back the dead—or shades of them, at least—was not precisely the best thing to give to a young adult who still harbored a raw spot over the death of his parents.
As she finished reading The Tales of Three Brothers, the answer she found did not comfort her, and she slammed the book shut. The nearby ones lying on the desk let out yowls of protests, like angry cats.
"Oh, shut up," Hermione snapped.
She had made her decision. Right now, she wasn't prepared to hand the ring over to Harry. She would continue with her current plan, which was neat and orderly and still eminently feasible—exploit the link between Harry and the Dark Lord, wait until the Philosopher's Stone matured, and then use it to free Harry from the piece of Voldemort's soul still clinging to him.
She was certain it would work. She wasn't sure even Dumbledore had ever come across the tale—at this point, she had to acknowledge that they had very different tastes in reading material—but there was a legend about a wizard who had been so fascinated by death that he had sought to experience what dying would be like—and live to tell the tale. It was outlined in one of Hermione's more obscure texts as an experiment that had gone shocking right and only served to prove how malleable the soul could be, though it was not considered a practical defense against the Killing Curse. The few alchemists who were aware of the experiment cautioned that soul transmutation was a risky business, and that the wizard—though successful—had paid the price of his eyes because what he had offered for the ritual had not been suitable enough to maintain it. The tale expounded upon an elaborate way to experience death without dying, but it was wholly unsuitable for actual life-or-death situations.
And that suited Hermione's scheme just fine.
~o~O~o~
"Come in, Harry."
"Where are we going, sir?" Harry asked, as he took off his invisibility cloak and stuffed it into his pocket. Dumbledore had told him to bring it. They were not in his office this time, but were instead standing at the great iron-wrought gates. He had passed Proudfoot on his way here, though Mipsy had fortunately not noticed him.
"We shall be visiting a little town where an old friend of mine currently resides," Dumbledore replied cryptically, as he fastened his traveling cloak. "He's been on the run for nearly two years now, and I've finally located him. I do believe he would like to meet you."
The gates were unlocked with a gentle tap of Dumbledore's wand, and they stepped through. As soon as Dumbledore had them properly secured, he held out his hand to Harry.
"We shall be Apparating to our location. I assume you've acquired your Apparition License?"
"Yes," Harry said, recalling last year. "But I don't know where we're going—"
"No matter. Take my hand, if you please." Harry grasped it, and a moment later, felt the squeezing pop of Apparation. He shut his eyes, and as soon as he could breathe again, opened them.
They were in a dimly-lit street. The lamps flickered slightly at their approach, but otherwise remained steady as they cast their faint light into the cobbled path. Small houses lined the area, and Dumbledore set off toward one of them at a brisk pace, Harry jogging after him.
They walked up the driveway of a house with a rather manicured garden, and Dumbledore knocked once. They waited in silence for several moments, and the curtains in a nearby window were twitched back before the door opened.
"How in the bloody blue blazes did you track me down?" the man muttered, pulling the door open. "And without setting off my alarms, no less."
Harry blinked as he took in the giant, walrus-like man before him.
"May we come in?" Dumbledore asked politely.
The man huffed. "If you must."
They stepped inside, and Dumbledore shut the door behind him.
"Harry, I would like to introduce you to my long-time friend and colleague, Horace Slughorn."
"How do you do, sir?" Harry said, holding out his hand. Slughorn took it and gave it a firm shake, his mustache twitching as he recognized the name.
"What could you possibly need me for, Albus?" the man asked grumpily, turning around to straighten a portrait-laden shelf, which had gone slightly ajar. "Last I recall, school starts in September, not late November. Unless you've already lost your Defense teacher?"
"You taught Defence?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Goodness, no, but he was forever asking me to come back," Slughorn said, shaking his head. "Wanted me to take up Potions again, so Severus could do Defense. I always said—and I'll say it again—no."
"Have no fear, Madam Snape is still teaching Defence," Dumbledore said with a smile.
"Then what've you come for?" Slughorn asked suspiciously.
Dumbledore swept off his pointed wizard hat, and sighed.
"Years ago, you were approached by Tom Riddle on the nature of Horcruxes—"
"I already told you everything I knew," Slughorn said quickly. "I even gave you the memory where I told him—"
"I understand, Horace, but he approached you again years later when he sought a teaching job at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said calmly. "He asked you about the Elder Wand. I should like to ask for that memory."
"No, no, no," Slughorn said, shaking his head emphatically. "No, Dumbledore!"
"My dear Horace—"
"Can't you let an old man retire in peace? Haven't you already asked me enough?"
"Is that your answer?" Dumbledore asked simply.
"It is," Slughorn responded peevishly.
"Then I shall leave it at that. Would you mind if I used your loo?"
"To the right, down the hall," Slughorn said grumpily. Dumbledore disappeared through the door, and Slughorn turned to Harry.
"Don't think I don't know why he brought you along," He said, striding over to a comfy, stuffed armchair in the living room. He sat down, and summoned a box of crystalized pineapple to his hand, snapping it open. "I've always had a soft spot for favorites, and I'm terribly sorry I never got to teach you, but I knew your parents—bright students, the both of them. And your godparents too, come to that—I must say I was relieved to find out Sirius Black was pardoned, I never could believe he betrayed your parents."
"It wasn't him," Harry said, sitting down on a less-stuffy armchair. "It was Pettigrew."
"Is he really still alive, as they say?" Slughorn asked curiously.
Harry nodded.
"He was never a smart boy, that Pettigrew," Slughorn said gruffly. "Overly-eager at times, but never in the same league as your father and his friends. Still—I must confess to being disappointed with how he turned out."
He looked Harry over with a critical eye.
"But your father—he was a good man, Harry. Talented with a wand and excellent at Quidditch. Has anyone ever told you that you look just like him?"
"Yes," Harry replied patiently, wondering how he was going to convince Slughorn to give him the memory. He knew that was why Dumbledore had left the room; to give Harry time to work on Slughorn.
"Except for your eyes—you have your mother's eyes."
"So I've been told," Harry said.
"I suppose you play Quidditch, too?" Slughorn asked, leaning back and pouring himself a glass of mead.
"Seeker for the Gryffindor Team," Harry replied. The conversation was getting nowhere, and so he switched track, gesturing at one of the photos on the nearby shelf. "Is that Gwenog Jones?"
"You recognized her, I suppose?" Slughorn said, sounding delighted. "Yes, indeed. Still sends me tickets to the games—and that there next to her is Dirk Cresswell, head of the Goblin Liason Office. He sends me crystalized pineapple every so often, as a thank-you for giving him a leg-up." He stood up and poked around one of the frames. "Ah, here we are—this would be your mother," he said happily, pointing to a picture of himself surrounded by several of his students. The photo looked old, though not nearly as old as some of the others. "And your father, along with Black… that would be Hermione Snape," he added, pointing to a girl holding onto Remus's arm. "Lupin was never a part of my particular collection of favorites, but this was taken at one of my Christmas parties, and she brought him along as a date—Lucius Malfoy was there too, if I recall…"
Interested, Harry stood up to take a better look. A plethora of familiar faces popped out at him at once. His mother was holding onto his father's hand, looking radiant. Sirius had his arm around Slughorn and a glass of firewhiskey in the other hand, with a girl Harry didn't recognize. Hermione, who could only have been a year or so older than Harry remembered at the time of her disappearance, was urging Remus to smile. Harry saw her chance a glance over her shoulder, and realized that Snape—about as young as Harry remembered from his foray into the pensieve— was watching her from the background.
There were other people there who Harry didn't recognize, but this was more than enough for him. In a way, seeing Hermione—getting a tiny snapshot of who she had been and what kind of life she had led after going back in time—warmed him. He was glad to see that she was well taken care of here; it was obvious to him that she was a part of the Marauders, and that they had taken her under their wing.
He silently found himself thinking, Thank you, Dad.
"…and that's Marlene McKinnon there, very talented, it's a shame her whole family was murdered," Slughorn was saying. "I kept in touch with her after she graduated, I was sure she would go far…"
Harry swallowed. "Do you keep in touch with most of your students?"
"The talented ones, of course," Slughorn beamed. "Of course," he added in a hushed voice, "I haven't spoken to anyone in nearly two years—I've been completely out of touch…"
For a moment, he looked rather disturbed at his own admission, and then rallied at once.
"But that's neither here nor there," he muttered, more to himself than Harry.
"Why?"
"To hide from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course!" Slughorn said.
"Forgive me, but why…?"
"Because I'm a very talented potioneer, if I may say so myself," Slughorn harrumphed, "among other things. They already came to call at my last permanent place of residence, just after I went into hiding. They want something from me, and I'm not willing to give it."
Harry pressed his lips together, knowing he would have to play this right. He glanced back at the picture of Hermione cajoling Remus into smiling for the camera, and tried to imagine what kind of advice she would be whispering into his ear if she were here.
"So that must mean you're a very important man," he hedged.
"Oh, not at all," Slughorn said modestly. "I just give leg-ups and recommendations to those with the talent and ambition to do splendidly in their fields. They send me gifts, certainly," he said, peering into the remains of an empty box of crystalized pineapple, "occasionally ask me for my take on something or other—"
"If Voldemort wants something from you, that makes you important," Harry said impatiently.
"Good lord, boy!" Slughorn said, jumping upright. His eyes darted from left to right. "Don't go around saying the name!"
"Sorry," Harry said unrepentantly, "but the thing is—just like all of your ex-students who needed something from you to help them get that extra lift into their career, I need your help, sir. You told Vol—You-Know-Who something, and I need to know what it was so I can stop him."
"He can't be stopped," Slughorn said, wiping his brow. "He's a madman—a powerful one, to be sure, but the depths he's gone to make himself impossible to overthrow…"
"I need to know what those depths are," Harry coaxed.
"I can't," Slughorn said firmly. "I swore I'd never tell again—you have no idea what damage I did that day— how much of what he is may possibly be my fault—"
Harry hesitated for a moment, unsure of what direction to take on this, but then he made his choice and pounced. "He already knew how to make Horcruxes before you asked him," he said seriously. "In fact, I'm sure he already made one by the time he asked you. You didn't send him down that path, sir, he was just using you to confirm something. And even if you hadn't given him the answer you wanted, he probably would have gone ahead and done it anyway."
Slughorn gave him a look of pure terror. "He—Dumbledore showed you that memory, didn't he?" he whispered.
"No matter what you told him that day, it wouldn't have changed a single thing," Harry said firmly, ignoring the accusation in Slughorn's eyes. "But what you told him about the Elder Wand might make all the difference."
He took a deep breath.
"I need that memory, sir. And if you give it to me, I swear—I will do everything in my power to undo whatever damage you did that day that I can."
Slughorn gazed at him for so long, Harry thought he might be seriously considering throwing him out. But then at last, the older man raised his wand to his temple, shoulders shaking as he did so—and Harry realized he was crying.
"You have no idea how much guilt I feel over what happened that day—both days," he whispered. "I should have learned my lesson the first time around, but when he came back, I had no idea—I just saw the brilliant pupil who desired nothing more than to learn more about the magical world…"
Silvery-blue memory leaked out of his temple, and he silently conjured a small phial. They dropped in, and he shakily handed them to Harry.
"I was so blinded back then," he said, and his voice quaked. "I hope I'm not making a similar mistake this time."
"You're not," Harry said quietly, feeling his heart thump with realization of his success. "Thank you."
Slughorn pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, seemingly overwhelmed, and after a moment's hesitation, turned and reached for one of the cabinets. He bent down and twisted the knob; it clicked open, and after a moment's rummage, he came up with a tiny phial of potion that resembled molten gold.
"I don't suppose… you've ever seen this potion, have you?" he asked, removing his hand. He hiccupped.
"No, sir," Harry said.
"It's called Felix Felicis, also known as Liquid Luck," He wiped his brow, looking rather lost, and then pushed it into Harry's hand, as though he were passing the burden of his sins onto Harry in that tiny phial. "I—I want you to have it. It's not much, and you mustn't take too much of it all at once, but—I hope it helps you on your quest."
~o~O~o~
The memories were poured into the basin without fanfare. Harry watched them swirl around for a moment, and then at Dumbledore's behest, he leaned in. The memories formed vague shapes that solidified into clarity; they were in Snape's office, only it was not Snape's office yet. It was luxuriously decked in odd gifts of crystalized pineapple and photographs of old students, and decorated in royal purple trimmings. Slughorn was sitting at his desk, not quite as bald as he was now, and Harry came with a start when he recognized the taller, thinner man standing in front of Slughorn's desk—Tom Riddle.
"It's good to see you again, sir," Riddle said, keeping his eyes averted, his tone utterly polite as he took in Slughorn's office. "I thought I'd drop by after my interview."
"Did you get the job?"
"No sir, though Professor Dippet did advise that I might reapply in a few years."
"That's a shame. You would have done very well here," Slughorn said, tugging his great walrus-like mustache thoughtfully. "Where will you go now?"
"I'm not sure yet, but I know I want to research magical history and artefacts," Riddle said, filling his voice with warm, charming enthusiasm. "I remember coming across a few things in the library when I was a student, and I found my interest… piqued. Have you ever heard of the Elder Wand?"
"The Deathstick, the Unbeatable Wand?" Slughorn asked, leaning back in his chair.
"Yes, sir," Riddle said, looking eager.
"Well, I can't say I know very much about it, Tom, not much at all…"
"But surely you've heard of it?" Riddle pressed.
Slughorn gazed at Riddle thoughtfully. "It's been lost in history, it's got a very spotty record and pops up from time to time, but it's said to have been created by death himself. Given as a gift, one of three gifts to three brothers, and that unlike ordinary wands, it could only be won by killing the former over. Not that I'm an expert on wands," he added, sitting up a bit straighter. "Certainly, it's a wand that many would kill for, so perhaps that's where that part of the legend comes from—"
"So it really is an unbeatable wand?" Riddle asked, his eyes alight with interest.
"Well, legend says it is, so I can only assume…"
The memory faded, and Harry found himself once again in Dumbledore's office.
"First, I must applaud you for coaxing this memory out of Horace, and I must confess I rather thought you might not succeed," Dumbledore said, slowly returning to his chair. "Secondly, as I hope you've realized, what this memory confirms is that Voldemort's knowledge of the Deathly Hallows is incomplete."
"How do you figure, sir?" Harry asked, taking a seat.
"He was singularly interested in the wand," Dumbledore said, "and not in the lore that the Elder Wand is an important part of."
"So he just wants a powerful wand, and he doesn't care about the other two objects?" Harry confirmed.
"That's right," Dumbledore said.
Harry sat back in his chair, thinking hard.
"Does the wand really have to be won by killing the previous owner?" he asked quietly.
"No, it does not," Dumbledore said, giving Harry an approving nod for this insightful question.
"And taking someone else's wand doesn't make it yours," Harry said slowly. "I mean, I could just grab your wand right now, and it probably wouldn't work for me…"
"It wouldn't work nearly as well for you as your current wand does," Dumbledore agreed, setting his own wand down on the desk. "You're welcome to give it a try, if you're so inclined."
Harry hesitated, shocked at what Dumbledore was offering him, but then he picked up the wand. He was instantly flooded with understanding. It felt wrong in his hands, and when he pointed it at the poker by the fireplace and uttered, "Accio!", the poker did sail over to him; but the spell felt forced, the poker reluctant. It dropped to the floor with a sad clatter. The wand wasn't cooperating with him. He felt as though he had to mentally beat the wand into submission to get it to do his bidding. He carefully set it back down on the desk.
"I understand, sir," he said quietly. He paused. "I suppose that follows the other objects of the Deathly Hallows, as well? They have to be won or inherited?" Something else occurred to him. "And the man with blond hair we saw stealing from Gregorovich—why did the wand work for him?"
"As it turned out, the wand did not work for him as it should have, though it behaved quite well for the man who defeated him," Dumbledore replied. "It performed powerful magic, certainly, but never to its full potential. As for your first question, yes indeed—it is also why it is important that you gain mastery of the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone in addition to your Invisibility Cloak—"
"My Invisibility Cloak? You mean—my Invisibility Cloak is—?"
"Yes, indeed! Haven't you wondered how it's lasted all these years?" Dumbledore said, beaming. "Most of them lose their magic with wear and tear—but yours is as good as the first day it was made."
Harry gaped at him, unable to speak.
"Your Invisibility Cloak has been passed down for generations, from father to son, all the way back to the youngest Peverell brother," Dumbledore said. "The ring was passed down the Gaunt line in similar fashion, and then abandoned, which is why Professor Granger currently has its allegiance. Should you win it from her, or if she should freely give it to you, only then will it become yours."
"And the wand… the Elder Wand…"
"Shall be left up for discussion another night," Dumbledore said, smiling, "as the hour has grown exceptionally late, and you have class tomorrow. I fear I've kept you for too long."
"Yes, sir." Harry got to his feet, his mind still whirling. "Good night."
He patted the phial of Felix Felicis in his pocket as he left, thinking that if Hermione didn't unbend soon, he might have a use for it after all.
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-Anubis Ankh