The Pensieve

The door of the office opened.

'Hello, boys,' said Moody. 'Come in, then.'

John and Harry went inside.

Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore's desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat.

'Harry!' said Fudge jovially, moving forwards. 'How are you?'

'Fine,' said Harry.

'And, er…?' Fudge looked John up and down.

'John Watson, sir,' he reminded Fudge. 'We've met.'

'Ah, yes, the supposed Seer.'

John winced as Sherlock's anger crashed through him. Stop it, he thought, but it didn't help much.

'We were just talking about the night when Mr Crouch turned up in the grounds,' said Fudge, eager to change the subject at John's expression. 'It was you who found him, was it not, Harry?'

'Yes,' said Harry. 'I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though,' he added, finding it pointless to pretend they hadn't overheard, 'and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?'

John hastily turned his laugh into a cough.

'Yes, well,' said Fudge, looking embarrassed, 'we're about to go for a short walk in the grounds, Harry, if you'll excuse us… perhaps if you just go back to your class-'

'We wanted to talk to you, Professor,' Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore.

'Wait here for me,' Dumbledore said. 'Our examination of the grounds will not take long.'

They trooped out in silence, and closed the door.

After a minute or so, the clunks of Moody's wooden leg grew fainter in the corridor below.

John sighed and leant against Dumbledore's desk.

Fawkes was standing on his golden perch by the door, watching them curiously.

Dumbledore's office made John feel odd. So many magical objects strewn about the room made his head spin. He ran his hands through his hair, thinking about what he had seen. It was further in the future than he had ever been before, and Sherlock being blasted across the Great Hall replayed itself in his head over and over again.

Can you come? John asked Sherlock

Sherlock sent him back an image of himself and Castiel attempting to wrangle some Leaping Toadstools. After…

Just then, Harry began walking cautiously to the other side of the room.

'What is it?' John asked.

'There's something…'

John saw what Harry had caught sight of: a silvery white light shining through a crack in the door of a cabinet. 'Harry, I don't know…' John said, but Harry had already pulled open the cabinet door, so John hurried over to join him.

A shallow stone basin lay inside, with odd carvings around the edge; runes and symbols that they didn't recognise.

John reached for Sherlock again. What is this?

Suddenly, excitement bubbled through him from Sherlock. A Pensieve.

'What's a Pensieve?' John muttered aloud.

Sherlock's excitement garbled any explanation he tried to get across, resulting in a blurred mixture of words, images and runes, none of which John understood. Your mind is weird. Tell me later. With words.

The silvery light that had caught Harry's eye was coming from the basin's contents. They couldn't tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid - or like wind made solid.

Harry put a hand out to touch it, but John grabbed his wrist.

'Maybe not the best idea you've ever had,' John said, drawing his wand instead. He prodded the substance, and it began to swirl very fast.

Then it became transparent, and they both bent closer to see the shapes that had appeared below the surface of the mysterious substance. It appeared to be an enormous room, and they were looking down at it through a circular window in the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit. There were no windows, only torches in brackets. They leaned closer and saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were sat around every wall, on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very centre of the room. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it.

It had an ominous feeling to it. This was certainly no room in Hogwarts. There were far too many adults in the room for that. John bent closer to try and see their faces a little clearer. His nose touched the substance, and Dumbledore's office gave an almighty lurch. He was pitched forwards and fell head-first into the substance.

It was icy cold, like falling into a dark whirlpool, but he didn't hit the stone floor as he had expected. Instead, he found himself sitting on a bench in the corner of the room he had just been observing.

Harry appeared a moment later, and they both sat, breathing fast.

'What happened?' Harry said. 'Where are we?'

John didn't answer. To his horror, when he had tried to reach Sherlock to ask him what was going on, he had felt nothing. His connection to Sherlock had been severed by whatever they had fallen into. Stay calm, he told himself.

None of the witches or wizards in the room seemed to have noticed two teenage boys drop into their midst

John looked around and jumped when he realised he was sitting next to Professor Dumbledore. 'Professor!' he gasped, but Dumbledore didn't move. 'Professor?' He waved a hand in front of Dumbledore's face to no reaction.

'This reminds me of when I got pulled into Tom Riddle's diary,' Harry said, peering at Dumbledore.

'So, what, this is a memory?' John said. He looked around at the gathered witches and wizards. 'What are they waiting for?'

At that moment, the door in the corner of the dungeon opened, and a man flanked by two Dementors entered.

John shuddered. Though they had no effect on him within the memory, he recalled the sensation vividly.

The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the Dementors placed the man into the chained chair. They glided out of the room and the door swung shut behind them.

With a start, John realised that it was Karkaroff sitting in the chair.

He wasn't wearing his sleek furs, and he looked much younger.

The chains on the chair glowed suddenly, and snaked their way up Karkaroff's arms, binding him there.

'Igor Karkaroff,' said a curt voice to their left. Mr Crouch was standing up in the middle of the bench, his face much less lined, and he looked fit and alert. 'You have been brought from Azkaban to give evidence to the Ministry of Magic. We understand that you have important information for us.'

Karkaroff straightened himself. 'I have, sir,' he said. 'I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I - I know that the Ministry is trying to - to round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can…'

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then they heard a familiar, growling voice from Dumbledore's other side.

'Filth.'

Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there, though he didn't have his magical eye, just two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.

'Crouch is going to let him out,' Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. 'He's done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and a Crouch is going to let him go if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information and throw him right back to the Dementors, I say.'

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent.

'Ah, I was forgetting… you don't like the Dementors, do you, Albus?'

'No,' Dumbledore said calmly. 'I have long said the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures.'

'But for filth like this…'

'You say you have some names for us, Karkaroff,' said Mr Crouch. 'Let us hear them, please.'

'You must understand,' Karkaroff said hurriedly, 'that He Who Must Not Be Named operated always in the greatest secrecy… he preferred that we - I mean to say, his supporters - and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them-'

'Get on with it,' sneered Moody.

'-we never knew the names of every one of our fellows - he alone knew exactly who we all were-'

'Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented someone like you turning them all in,' muttered Moody.

'Yet you say you have some names for us?' said Mr Crouch.

'I - I do,' said Karkaroff breathlessly. 'And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own two eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely-'

'These names are?' said Mr Crouch sharply.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath.

'There was Antonin Dolohov,' he said. 'I- I saw him torture countless Muggles and - and non-supporters of the Dark Lord.'

'And helped him do it,' murmured Moody.

'We have already apprehended Dolohov,' said Crouch. 'He was caught shortly after yourself.'

'Indeed?' said Karkaroff. 'I - I am delighted to hear it!'

But he didn't look it. One of his names was now useless.

'Any others?' Crouch said coldly..

'Yes, there was Rosier,' said Karkaroff hurriedly. 'Evan Rosier.'

'Rosier is dead,' said Crouch. 'He was caught shortly after you were, too. He preferred to fight rather than coming quietly and was killed in the struggle.'

'No - no more than Rosier deserved!' said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice, his eyes darting to the door, where the Dementors were undoubtedly waiting.

'Any more?' said Crouch.

'Yes!' said Karkaroff. 'There was Travers - he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber - he specialised in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He Who Must Not Be Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!'

He had struck gold with this name, and the watching crowd all murmured.

'Rookwood?' said Mr Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. 'Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?'

'The very same,' said Karkaroff eagerly. 'I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information-'

'But Travers and Mulciber, we have,' said Mr Crouch. 'Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide - '

'Not yet!' cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. 'Wait, I have more!' He was sweating in the torchlight. 'Snape!' he shouted. 'Severus Snape!'

'Snape has been cleared by this council,' said Crouch. 'He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.'

'No!' shouted Karkaroff, straining against the chains binding him to the chair. 'I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!'

Dumbledore got to his feet. 'I have given evidence already on this matter,' he said. 'Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more Death Eater than I am.'

Moody shot a look of deep scepticism at Dumbledore's back.

'Very well, Karkaroff,' Crouch said coldly, 'you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime…'

Mr Crouch's voice faded. The dungeon dissolved as though it were made of smoke, and everything faded until all Harry and John could see was each other, all else was swirling darkness…

And then, the dungeon reappeared. They were sitting in different seats; still on the highest bench, but now on the left side of Mr Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different; relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to each other, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. Rita Skeeter was sitting half way up the rows of benches opposite them, wearing magenta robes and sucking the end of an acid-green quill.

Dumbledore was sitting beside them again, wearing different robes. Mr Crouch looked tireder and somehow fiercer, gaunter… It was a different memory, a different day… a different trial.

The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room.

John stared down at the chair, that didn't bind Bagman as it had Karkaroff, and rubbed his head, wondering how they would get out of this memory. Aside from no longer being able to feel Sherlock, something about being trapped inside it felt very wrong. He was almost certain that at least one of the names that Karkaroff had mentioned should have elicited some sort of response from his powers. He closed his eyes to try and force it, as he had done hundreds of times before, but nothing happened. He looked around the dungeon again, unnerved by how quiet his mind was. Though he had often longed for it to go away, it wasn't until that very moment that he realised just how much he had come to rely upon it.

While they were watching, Bagman was accused of passing information to Rookwood, one of the names that Karkaroff had mentioned in the previous memory, but the jury voted against imprisoning him.

The dungeon dissolved again. When it returned, they were still sitting beside Dumbledore and Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr Crouch.

'Bring them in,' said Crouch.

The door opened. Six Dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four people. They were each placed in one of the four chained chairs that now stood on the dungeon floor.

John watched them and leaned closer. They were familiar to him somehow. There were two men, who appeared to be brothers, a woman with shining dark hair and hooded eyes, and a boy in his late teens. The boy was shivering, his straw-coloured hair all over his face and his freckled skin milk white.

Mr Crouch stood up, and John squinted at the four of them. Where had he seen them before?

'You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,' he said clearly, 'so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime so heinous-'

'Father,' said the boy with straw-coloured hair. 'Father...please…'

John gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. He remembered who they were, and what he had seen them do.

'-that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,' said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son's voice. 'We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror - Frank Longbottom - and subjecting him to the Cruciatus curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He Who Must Not Be Named-'

John shuddered. He wasn't forced to experience it again, but he could still remember how it felt.

'Father, I didn't!' shrieked the boy. 'I didn't, I swear it, Father, don't send me back to the Dementors-'

'You are further accused,' bellowed Mr Crouch, 'of using the Cruciatus curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He Who Must Not Be Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury-'

'Mother!' screamed the boy, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch sobbed harder, rocking backwards and forwards. 'Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!'

'I now ask the jury,' shouted Mr Crouch, 'to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban.'

In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon of the dungeon raised their hands, and the boy began to scream.

'No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't know! Don't send me there, don't let him!'

The Dementors were gliding back into the room. The boy's three companions rose from their seats; the woman looked up and called, 'The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban, we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!'

But the boy was trying to fight the Dementors off, even though their draining power was already affecting him.

'I'm your son!' he screamed up at Crouch. 'I'm your son!'

'You are no son of mine!' bellowed Mr Crouch. 'I have no son!'

The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and fainted, but Crouch didn't seem to notice.

'Take them away!' he roared at the Dementors. 'Take them away, and may they rot there!'

'Father! Father, I wasn't involved! No! No! Father, please!'

'I think it is time to return to my office,' said a quiet voice.

Harry and John both jumped and looked around.

There was an Albus Dumbledore on their right, watching Crouch's son being dragged away by the Dementors - and there was an Albus Dumbledore on their left, looking right at them.

'Come,' said the Dumbledore on the left. He reached over and grabbed both of them by the elbow.

The dungeon dissolved once more, and they rose out of it, suddenly landing on their feet, and dazzled by Dumbledore's sunlit office.

Sherlock burst into the office, and John felt his frantic worry in the back of his mind. John was relieved to feel it again, but only for a moment. He felt his nose dripping, and his head exploded in pain, like a thunderclap tearing through him.

All the things he should have seen whilst in the memory all tried to show themselves at once, and John dropped to the floor.

Everything was mixed together, and he could only catch hold of snippets. The Dark Mark, Frank and Alice Longbottom, and Sherlock again being blasted across the Great Hall. Eventually, it released its grip, and John came to on the floor of Dumbledore's office, his nose still streaming blood.

'It's June, nineteen ninety-five,' Sherlock said softly, lifting him up. 'We're in Professor Dumbledore's office.'

John groaned. 'Do you hear that ringing?' he said, taking the handkerchief that Dumbledore offered him.

'Unfortunately,' Sherlock said. 'Water?'

'Mmm.'

John drank from the goblet that Sherlock pushed into his hands, and Sherlock helped him wipe away the rest of the blood on his face, while Dumbledore explained what a Pensieve was for. His brain felt as though it were rattling around inside his skull.

'John?' said Dumbledore, who had moved to sit behind his desk.

John looked up at him, though he was finding it difficult to focus.

'Before you both got lost in my thoughts, you had something to tell me?'

'Perhaps Harry should go first,' Sherlock said, to John's relief.

Harry nodded. 'Professor - I was in Divination just now and - er - I fell asleep.'

'Quite understandable,' said Dumbledore. 'Continue.'

'Well, I had a dream,' said Harry. 'A dream about Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail. He got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail's blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn't be fed to the snake - there was a snake beside his chair. He said - he said he'd be feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus curse on Wormtail - and my scar hurt. It woke me up, it hurt so badly.'

Dumbledore didn't react.

'Er - that's all,' said Harry.

'I see,' Dumbledore said quietly. 'I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, except the time it woke you up over the summer?'

'No, I - how did you know it woke me up over the summer?' said Harry, astonished.

'You are not Sirius' only correspondent,' said Dumbledore. 'I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay.'

Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down behind his desk. 'And John?' he said. 'What did you see?'

John shook his head. 'Erm- It was - I'm not really sure what it was.' He took a deep breath and squeezed Sherlock's hand. 'It was really far in the future. I don't know how far exactly.

'We were in the Great Hall, but everything was destroyed, and I saw the Dark Mark, and-' He cut himself off, thinking of Sherlock once again.

'Oh,' Sherlock muttered, seeing what John had seen.

Dumbledore nodded. 'Have you seen anything else this year?'

John shook his head. 'Nothing useful. I've seen the Dark Mark a lot, but whoever put Harry's name in the Goblet knows how to block themself from me.'

'Do you know how to remove the curse, Professor?' Sherlock ventured.

'Unfortunately not,' Dumbledore admitted. 'I have never seen the like of it before, though in all truth, I have not encountered a Seer like John before either.'

John sighed.

Dumbledore continued pacing. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed a shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve.

'Professor?' Harry said quietly.

Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry. 'My apologies,' he said, sitting back down at his desk.

'D'you - d'you know why my scar's hurting me?'

Dumbledore looked very intently at him for a moment, and then said, 'I have a theory, no more than that… It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.'

John winced.

'But… why?' Harry asked.

'Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,' said Dumbledore. 'That is no ordinary scar.'

'So you think… that dream… did it really happen?'

'It is possible,' said Dumbledore. 'I would say - probable. Harry - did you see Voldemort?'

'No. Just the back of his chair. But - there wouldn't have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn't got a body, has he? But… but then how could he have held the wand?' Harry said slowly.

'He has a - well not a body, really - but some sort of form,' John said.

'You have seen him?' Dumbledore said.

'Yeah, when I saw him in that house during the summer.'

'What did he look like?'

'It's hard to describe, really,' John said, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he remembered the vision. 'Like a scaly baby, and somehow his snake is keeping him alive.'

Dumbledore frowned, and added a few more thoughts to the Pensieve.

'Professor,' Harry said at last, 'do you think he's getting stronger?'

'Voldemort?' said Dumbledore, looking at them over the Pensieve. 'Once again, I can only give you my suspicions.' Dumbledore sighed again, looking older and wearier than ever.

'We think he is,' Sherlock said. 'John keeps seeing the Dark Mark, and there must be a reason.'

'The years of Voldemort's ascent to power were marked with disappearances,' Dumbledore told them. 'Bertha Jorkins has vanished without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last.'

John grunted at her name, his fingers digging into Sherlock's knee.

'She's central to all this, I know it,' Sherlock said, ignoring the echoing screams in his head from John.

Dumbledore nodded. 'Mr Crouch, too, has disappeared within these very grounds. And a third disappearance, which the Ministry does not consider of any importance. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort's father grew up, and he has not been seen since last August.'

'He's dead,' John said harshly.

'You're certain?'

'Yes.'

Dumbledore looked very seriously at the three of them. 'These incidents are all linked. The Ministry disagrees - as you may have heard, while waiting outside my office.'

Silence fell between them again, Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then.

John shakily gulped down some more water, his head pounding.

'Professor?' Harry said again.

'Yes, Harry?'

'Er… could I ask you about… that court thing I was in… in the Pensieve?'

'You could,' said Dumbledore heavily. 'I attended it many times, but some trials come back to me more clearly than others… particularly now…'

'You know - you know that trial you found me in? The one with Crouch's son? Well… were they talking about Neville's parents?'

Dumbledore gave him a very sharp look, and John dropped his goblet.

'Has Neville never told you why he has been brought up by his grandmother?' said Dumbledore.

Harry shook his head.

John bit his lip hard, though he knew he would be too weak to fight the vision off if it appeared.

'Yes, they were talking about Neville's parents,' said Dumbledore. 'His father, Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured for information about Voldemort's whereabouts after he lost his powers, as you heard.'

John wrapped his arms around himself and let Sherlock hold him up until the vision played itself out. He bounced off the barrier again and slumped in his seat, Harry's voice floating past.

'So they're dead?' he asked quietly.

'No,' said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness they had never heard before, 'they are insane. They are both in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do not recognise him.'

John sniffed, tears leaking down his cheeks. He could still hear their screams, still see the four figures standing around them.

'The Longbottoms were quite popular,' said Dumbledore. 'The attacks on them came after Voldemort's fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms' evidence was - given their condition - none too reliable.'

'Then Mr Crouch's son might not have been involved?' Harry said slowly.

'He was,' said John. 'I saw - I saw them…' He shuddered, and his head rattled.

'John,' Sherlock said softly.

His voice helped John bring himself back down to earth. 'I can't see it clearly,' he said in a stronger voice. 'But all four of them were there.'

Sherlock kept an arm around John's shoulders while Dumbledore told them that neither Bagman nor Snape had been accused of Dark activity since the trials.

He asked them not to talk about Neville's parents, and wished Harry good luck with the third task, before finally dismissing them from his office.

John got to his feet, though light-headed, and walked himself from the office. His head was hot, and he struggled to focus, but Sherlock held his hand the whole way back to Gryffindor Tower.

Welcome back everyone! Apologies for taking so long due to some technical issues. My laptop is getting on a bit so please be patient with her :L Thanks to VegasGranny and DaughterofMagic3 for the reviews!

Fair warning, the next chapter is going to be quite long so bear with me! See you next time!