Chapter 3

The following day, Katie was moved to St. Mungo's, and by that time, the whole school had become aware of the fact that she had been cursed - though it appeared that only Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Leanne were aware that Katie herself had not been the intended target.

After they'd gotten up to the common room Harry had discarded Mundungus' case behind his trunk, stared at it and fumed for a moment before growling internally and abandoning it there. It was the last thing Harry wanted to deal with at the time, and as Sunday had arrived, this fact had not changed, so it continued to remain untouched, even though Harry could have used a distraction.

Harry felt like he was dragging his feet all through Sunday, partially dreading Monday evening, and yet also anxiously anticipating it.

Hermione managed to make Harry's nerves even worse by suggesting that this meeting would be the perfect opportunity for Harry to come clean with Dumbledore about what had happened to Harry and the Mirror. Harry had physically recoiled from the very notion of doing anything of the sort. His aversion to the idea had only grown in strength over the last month, to the point where he was now absolutely sure - though he couldn't say why - that he should do everything in his power to make sure Dumbledore never found out abut what had happened.

Finally Monday, and then Monday evening, had arrived and Harry presented himself outside Dumbledore's office at eight o'clock, knocked, and was told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as ever.

Harry was about to sit down when his eyes locked on that black withered hand and a surge shot through him, locking him motionless.

Dumbledore's hand… he was still wearing that ring. Harry had seen it before of course, but the last time Harry had laid eyes on it, had been before the Mirror, and Harry hadn't had any cause to think of it since then. But he was looking at it now, and unlike before, now he knew what that ring was.

He knew….

What…

He knew what it was.

Harry felt his knees go weak and he had to catch himself on the arm rest of the chair and the edge of Dumbledore's desk.

"Harry?" Dumbledore asked worriedly, but the voice was muffled in Harry's ears. The whole world felt hallow and small at the moment, and Harry felt suddenly claustrophobic.

That ring…

Horcrux…

The word slithered through Harry's mind, and another jolt of horror shot through him as Harry shakily guided himself into the chair, so as to not fall to the floor instead.

The stone in the ring was cracked.

He destroyed the horcrux.

His hand, withered and blackened… and the ring upon his finger…

It cursed him. That's Tom's curse…

Then, like some sort of tidal wave crashing over him, nearly drowning him with it's weight…

Dumbledore is going to die.

Horcrux…

"Harry!" Dumbledore's voice suddenly broke through the wall shock surrounding Harry and he blinked several times, finding that Dumbledore was now kneeling directly in front of him, and his crooked twice-broken nose was mere inches from Harry's own. "Harry, what is it?"

Memories were flooding in - the fog was lifting and all of those little hidden connections that had been leaving things so ambiguous up until now were coming into light and falling into place.

Harry felt sick. He wanted to run; he wanted to hide. He wanted to get the fuck away from this man and… and… what? He didn't even know…

Oh my god…

Harry's hand shook and raised unconsciously and against his own better judgement, brushing his finger tips gingerly across his forehead and over the slightly raised skin of his scar.

"Is your scar hurting you, Harry?" Dumbledore's voice managed to break through again, and some part of Harry began to scream at himself to snap out of it.

You can't have a breakdown in front of him! Not now! Show no weakness. Get your shit together Potter! WAKE UP!

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, jerking his hand down and trying to push himself up straighter in his chair.

"I'm okay," Harry said forcefully and not all that convincingly.

"What happened?" Dumbledore asked gently, looking worried.

Part of Harry wanted to let out a sharp cynical laugh at that. Worried… Right…

"I… I don't know," Harry said quickly, his voice still shaky, despite his best efforts. "I just got really dizzy… my scar burned, but… nothing else," he quickly lied.

Dumbledore frowned and hummed thoughtfully. "Do you need anything Harry? If you're not feeling up to it, we can arrange to meet again at another time."

Part of Harry was thrilled with the idea of getting the hell out of this office as soon as possible, but another part of Harry realized that he could be letting a valuable opportunity slip by, by bailing now. There was no telling what the hell Dumbledore was going to be showing him this 'lesson'…

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "No, I'm fine, really. I just needed a moment to clear my head. I'm fine."

Dumbledore eyed Harry cautiously for a minute and there was a moment where Harry was afraid the man was going to try and use legilimency on him, but fortunately he didn't. Dumbledore stood up and gave Harry a small nod before moving back to the other side of his desk and sitting in his chair.

"If you are sure," Dumbledore asked as much as said.

"I'm sure," Harry confirmed, using every bit of strength and self control to squash the shakes that wanted to wrack their way through his whole body.

"As I understand it, you have had a busy time while I have been away," Dumbledore said. "I believe you witnessed Katie's accident."

"Yes, sir," Harry said with a weak nod of his head. "How is she?"

"Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin: There was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse — as I understand it, you also contributed to this." Dumbledore's eyebrows raised into his forehead in an unspoken question.

"Er… I suppose so," Harry said, shrugging weakly.

"Professor Snape said that the Prohibre you cast upon Ms. Bell could very well have saved her life. It slowed the spread of the curse enough that she was in considerably better condition upon her arrival at the school than she would have been otherwise."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise at the thought that Snape could have possibly complimented anything Harry was responsible for.

Harry's eyes slipped back down to Dumbledore's hand and words somehow managed to tumble out of his mouth before his better judgement could prevent them.

"Did Snape help with slowing the spread of your curse, too?" Harry regretted the question the second it had finished leaving his lips.

Dumbledore's eyes widened. "My curse?" he responded innocently.

"Your hand," Harry muttered, resigned to following this through now that he'd already opened the door. Besides, he was curious if Dumbledore would actually be honest with him at all.

"Professor Snape did help me, yes," Dumbledore confirmed with a slow nod of his head, eyeing Harry curiously.

"But it's only slowed," Harry stated, suddenly meeting Dumbledore's eyes, silently daring him lie to him or dodge the question again.

Dumbledore held Harry's gaze for several long beats, looking thoughtful. "I was unaware you had developed an interest in curse breaking."

A voice deep inside Harry scoffed and he internally rolled his eyes at Dumbledore's dodge of Harry's unspoken question, but kept his reaction to himself.

"I've been trying to study up on a lot of different subjects lately," Harry said with a shrug, looking down at his lap. "Whatever I can think of that might be useful… you know, given that there's all sorts of people out there trying to kill me."

"Ah…" Dumbledore replied with a simple, seemingly understanding tone.

Harry caught himself scowling at his now clenched fists and had to force himself to smooth his features before looking back up.

"I suppose that we've gotten off to a rocky start, this evening. But now if you are feeling up to it, I think it's time that we turn our focus towards our lesson."

Harry sighed and nodded his head. He watched as Dumbledore poured the a collection of silvery memories into the Pensieve that sat on the desk before him, and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands.

"You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort's beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort."

"How do you know she was in London, sir?"

"Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke," said Dumbledore, "who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace that cursed poor Ms. Bell."

He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.

"Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along . . . Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin's. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, 'Oh, this was Merlin's, this was, his favorite teapot,' but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn't seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!"

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.

A knot of ice seemed to have taken root deep in Harry's chest.

The locket.

Dumbledore hadn't sought out this memory for evidence of where Merope had been at the time - he'd sought it because of it's subject matter. The locket. He'd been asking Burke about that locket.

He knows…

"He only gave her ten Galleons?" said Harry, deciding instead of voice his indignation over this detail, to try and pull himself away from his other thoughts.

"Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," said Dumbledore. "So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession. The locket that was one of Marvolo's treasured family heirlooms."

The ring… the locket… He knows.

He knows.

"Now Harry, if you would stand," Dumbledore said as he himself stood up behind his desk and made his way to the front.

Harry blinked at him owlishly for a moment, standing up awkwardly. "Where are we going?"

"This time," said Dumbledore, "we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry . . ."

Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again. . . . Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street."

Harry followed Dumbledore as he led the pair of them into an aging old orphanage and through the process of speaking with the matron about one of their charges. A young man by the name of Tom Riddle.

Satisfyingly accurate. Harry scoffed internally as he silently observed the fringe edges of the memory, spotting several telltale signs of modification.

It was a tight job. Dumbledore was good. But Harry had been trained by the best. He knew what to look for.

Trained by the best…

Oh god…

Harry watched as Dumbledore went through the motions of speaking with Mrs. Cole and milking her for information about the young Tom Riddle. Everything that came from her mouth lead one to the conclusion that this child was wrong in some way. He was odd, and odd things happened around him. That the other children were afraid of him.

The persistence of the fringe inconsistencies magnified when Mrs. Cole spoke about an incidence with Billy's Stubb's rabbit, and about Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop's trip to a sea side cave with Tom. Harry couldn't know what had been modified, but there was no question that those sections, especially, were not entirely real.

Every alteration that Harry spotted seemed to focus on making Tom look bad.

He wants me to believe that Tom was a lost cause from the very start. Harry realized. He wants me to think he's always been a monster. That he never had any decency or humanity. He wants me to believe that he's been Voldemort from the very start… That he's always been insane and cruel.

Finally the memory progressed onto the part where they actually met the young Tom Riddle himself.

Harry found himself transfixed with this young version of the man who had…

He quickly clamped down on that thought. He couldn't afford to go there - not yet. Not while he was with Dumbledore.

The memory continued on, and subtle signs persisted throughout, that the memory was not entirely unaltered.

"I think that will do," said the white-haired Dumbledore standing at Harry's side in the memory world some time later after his auburn-haired counterpart bid the young Tom Riddle goodbye. Seconds after that, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office.

Dumbledore had Harry sit and the pair discussed what they had seen for a brief time. In reality, Dumbledore discussed it, and Harry sat and tried to react in whatever ways he thought Dumbledore might expect him to.

"Time is making fools of us again," said Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. "But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings.

"Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle's reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, 'Tom'?"

Harry nodded numbly.

"There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of 'Lord Voldemort' behind which he has been hidden for so long."

Harry wanted to internally scoff. Dumbledore thought he knew Tom so well. How little he knew…

"I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one.

It took a great deal of Harry's self control to suppress the scowl that wanted to work its way across his face.

"And lastly — I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry — the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later."

He definitely knows.

"And now, it really is time for bed."

Harry finally escaped Dumbledore's office and stumbled his way down the spiral staircase on wobbly legs. The adrenaline was wearing off, but Harry still felt like he was partially in a state of shock.

There were too many thoughts swirling through his mind. To many conflicting ideas. Two parts of himself at war over what he had come to realize, and he still hadn't yet been able to process it all enough to understand all the repercussions of what he now knew.

Harry had made his way a short distance down the hall before coming to a halt and leaning, face-first, against a wall, letting his forehead rest against the cold stone wall and trying to block out the rest of the world for a minute.

Oh god, what do I do now?

He felt lost. He desperately wished he had someone to talk to, but was rather horrified with himself when the first person his mind supplied him with as a person to go to for help, was bloody Voldemort.

He let out a humorless laugh before turning around so his back was pressed against the wall and let himself slide down until he was sitting on the floor. He buried his face in his hands and tried to steady his breathing.

Part of him legitimately felt like crying, which he mentally berated himself for, refusing to let himself succumb to such a sign of weakness.

But he felt so alone and lost. There was no one he could go to. He couldn't possibly talk to Ron or Hermione about what he had just unlocked in his head. They couldn't know. They'd be horrified…

Who..? Who could he go to?

Harry let his head fall back and hit the wall as he looked up to the ceiling of the hallway and stared at nothing.

"Merlin, I wish Draco was here," he whispered to himself.

Het let his eyes fall closed and squinted hard against the wet sting threatening to break him. After a moment he forced out a rough breath, pushed himself to his feet and began to walk with a quickened pace back towards Gryffindor Tower.

He gave the password to the Fat Lady's portrait and rushed through the common room, avoiding anyone's gaze and tossing some throwaway excuse to Ron when he tried to call him over to the chest board he was perched in front of.

Harry went straight up the stairs and directly to his dorm where he quickly grabbed his rucksack and dug the Marauder's map out of it. He flattened it out on his bed, spoke the passphrase and began scanning it's surface for any sign of Draco. He wasn't even sure what he was doing, or what he intended to do if he found Draco… Harry realized he was somewhat functioning on auto pilot and desperation.

Harry was about to give it up as a lost cause when Draco's name suddenly popped into existence in the seventh floor corridor.

Harry's eyes widened with sudden understanding.

That's where the Room of Requirement is…

Draco had been in the Room of Requirement! That was why he'd been missing from the map so many times recently when Harry had checked.

Without giving himself time to second-guess whatever it was he was about to do, Harry flipped open his trunk, reached in and grabbed his wadded up invisibility cloak and stuffed it into his rucksack before slinging it over his shoulder and stuffing the Marauder's Map into his pocket.