Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two - A Sluggish Memory
Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, the six young residents of the Burrow lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-time connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to school after their holidays. While Mrs. Weasley gave a tearful goodbye to her children, a list whose membership now seemed to include Draco, Harry bid farewell to Remus.
"Promise me you'll stay out of trouble," he said, enfolding Harry in his arms. "Look after yourself, and Blaise and Millie. And give my best to Severus, whether he'll accept it or not."
"That reminds me," said Harry, disengaging from the hug as he turned to grab a small, brightly wrapped parcel from the mantelpiece. He turned back to Remus, careful to keep his expression open and innocent as he asked, "What's Snape's type?"
Remus raised his eyebrows at the unprompted question, though he answered rather cheekily, "As I recall, he liked redheads."
"I'm not talking about my mum," said Harry pointedly, "I meant his taste in men."
Remus, who could raise his brows no further, settled for sputtering incoherently at the question, caught between laughter and bewilderment.
"Harry… What? Why on earth…?"
"Never mind," said Harry hastily, for he had spotted Mrs. Zabini giving him a quizzical look. She had just finished saying goodbye to Blaise, who stepped into the fire and soon vanished in a swirling flash of green flame. Harry was quick to follow him, taking his place in the empty hearth before grabbing a fistful of Floo Powder and shouting clearly, "Hogwarts!"
He had one last view of the Weasley's kitchen and Remus's confused face before the flames engulfed him. Spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other rooms, which whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look. As soon as it had begun, he was slowing down again, finally coming to a solid stop in the blackened fireplace of Snape's office.
The professor sat behind his desk, scribbling away at a stack of paperwork. He didn't even glance up as he said, "Welcome back, Potter."
Harry cheerfully deposited the brightly wrapped parcel, a late Christmas gift, onto Snape's desk with a hearty, "Happy New Year, Sev!" Then he pranced away before the hex Snape fired at him could meet its mark. Harry was still unable to think of a single person who might distract Snape from his devotion to the memory of Lily Evans, though he was fairly certain that the professor would like his gift. Harry had very few photographs of his mother, but a simple duplication spell had worked perfectly on one from his album.
Harry immediately regretted giving him this most generous gift the moment he stepped foot in the Slytherin common room. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting comfortably on the sofa before the fireplace, chatting with Pansy Parkinson as if nothing at all were the matter.
"They should be expelled!" Harry complained to Blaise and Millie as they made their way to the Great Hall for supper. "Snape said he'd take care of it!"
"Maybe we were right," said Millie in an offhand way, "Maybe what you overheard wasn't enough to get them expelled."
"Or maybe Snape wants to keep them close, so he can figure out what they're plotting next," suggested Blaise.
Harry was about to reply, when a voice from behind loudly called his name. Nell came rushing toward him, slightly out of breath from her dash down the hall, though she was smiling all the same. She rummaged in her pocket before withdrawing a scroll of parchment.
"Got another message from Dumbledore for you," she explained. Her gaze darted shyly toward Blaise, who was observing her flushed face passively. Harry wondered at his friend's heartless indifference, especially after the two of them seemed to have such a good time at Slughorn's party. Nell did not seem to mind, for she continued speaking with Harry in an animated voice. "Did you have a good holiday? I only just got back a moment ago. Wild that they let us use the Floo Network this year, wasn't it? I had a hard time trying to explain it to my parents, I can tell you…"
Blaise remained silent for as long as their group remained intact, but his detached demeanor provided to be nothing more than an act. The moment they stepped into the Great Hall and Nell proceeded toward the Ravenclaw table, he announced his intention to join her.
Harry was surprised by this proposal, though no more than Nell's friends, who were understandably shocked to see the handsome Slytherin student sitting amongst them. Harry and Millie, reduced to a party of two, made their way toward their fellow Slytherins. Harry cast his eyes toward the Gryffindor table in search of Hermione, and soon found her sitting beside Neville, already tucking into their evening repast. Neville met his eye and gave him a friendly wave, but Hermione kept her nose pressed to a large book she had propped open before her. Harry sighed, wondering whether Hermione had thrown herself into her studies on purpose to avoid him again.
He was considering whether it was too late to apologize for his behavior and mend their broken circle of friends when his view of Hermione was eclipsed by none other than Luna Lovegood.
"Hello, Harry Potter," she said in her airy, yet formal way. "May I sit with you?"
Harry was momentarily taken aback, but he recovered quickly. He offered Luna a genuine smile as he replied, "Sure! Have a seat."
"It's unusual for you to join us," Millie observed.
Though it was more of a statement than an inquiry, Luna readily assented, adding, "I was planning to sit with Nell. But she seems more interested in Blaise Zabini at the moment, so I thought we could simply swap places. Besides, I wanted to talk to you about..." She paused, turning her large, rather protuberant eyes toward Harry. With a significant nod, she indicated a space further down their table were Crabbe and Goyle had just taken their seats. She did not want to be overheard, but her meaning could not be more clear. Harry leaned closer toward her from across the table, while she continued in a much lower voice, "I've been thinking about what Crabbe and Goyle were talking about all break."
"You have?" asked Harry, surprised to find that anything could fascinate Luna outside of her father's eccentric magazine.
Luna nodded her head, and in a tone of great seriousness asked, "Do you think they were referring to the horn of a Snorkack?"
"I… A what?" said Harry.
"A Crumple-Horned Snorkack, to be precise," Luna explained. "They're very rare, elusive creatures, you see. Their horns are said to have mystical properties, and are quite valuable. Remember how Crabbe said he could have been killed if he touched it? Well, if not properly removed, I suppose the horn could be quite dangerous..."
"Um, Luna… We think they were actually talking about a necklace?" Harry interrupted feebly. "You know, like the one that cursed Katie Bell?"
He expected Luna to be discouraged to have her theory tossed aside so quickly. But instead, her eyes grew even wider, and she eagerly pressed, "You think Crabbe and Goyle cursed Katie Bell? But why would they do that?"
Luna turned out to be far more receptive to Harry's theory that Crabbe and Goyle had joined the ranks of Death Eaters than Draco, Blaise, or Millie had been. Though Millie often rolled her eyes as they swapped conspiracy theories, she became more vocal when their conversation turned toward Rufus Scrimgeour, and the visit he paid to Harry over the holiday. Luna wasn't in the least disappointed to find that Scrimgeour was not, in fact, a vampire, and enthuastically joined Millie's criticism of the new Minister of Magic, and the role he had misguidedly asked Harry to perform. The three of them passed a very amicable dinner, remaining in the Great Hall long after Crabbe and Goyle had departed.
The new term started the following morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth years. A large sign had been pinned to the common room notice board overnight, which stated:
Apparition Lessons
If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before 31st August next,
You are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor.
Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons.
"I hope apparating alone isn't as awful as side-along apparition," Blaise complained after he, Harry, and Millie had all added their names to the sign-up board. "I mean, I know it's a useful skill, being able to appear and vanish as you please, but if it feels like my organs are going to be crushed every time, I think I'd rather take a car."
As Harry would not be able to take the actual Apparition test until summer, he was not as concerned with the upcoming course as Blaise, who had attained his seventeenth year in November, or Millie, who would be seventeen in just a few more days. Instead, he turned his thoughts to his upcoming meeting with Dumbledore, which, according to the note that had been passed to him by Nell, was scheduled for that very evening.
He arrived at eight o'clock on the dot. The lamps in Dumbledore's office were lit, illuminating the portraits of previous headmasters who were, as usual, pretending to sleep in their frames. The Pensieve was ready upon the desk once more. Dumbledore's hands rested on either side of it, the right looking as black and burnt as ever. It certainly showed no signs of improvement, though Harry couldn't guess how far the mark had spread. He searched the headmaster's face for some clue that he was in pain, but before he could make any inquiries, Dumbledore addressed him with one of his own.
"I have heard that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?"
"Remus told you?" Harry asked, considering that the information could only have come from one source.
"No," said Dumbledore with a wry smile. "I received a letter from the charming Mrs. Edana Zabini. She seemed to think I was at fault for allowing your location to be known by the Ministry itself."
Harry shook his head, though he was privately flattered by Mrs. Zabini's overprotective nature. "It's not like I mind, but I don't think the Minister is very happy with me, now."
"Nor is he very happy with me," said Dumbledore with a sigh. "In my case, I understand his frustration. But I wonder, Harry, what you could have said to upset Rufus Scrimgeour so?"
"I told him the truth."
"A dangerous proposition, even in the best of times. I don't suppose I could encourage you to be more specific?"
"I told him that the Ministry isn't fair to creatures who are… different from witches and wizards. Then I said I wouldn't parade myself around the Ministry to make him look good."
Dumbledore smiled. "And how would you handle things, if you were in charge?"
"Well, for starters, I wouldn't expect a teenager to do all my work for me, even if he was the Chosen One," said Harry bitterly, "And I'd try to make allies with giants and goblins. Like what you're doing, sir."
Dumbledore's smile did not vanish, but it seemed to become hard and fixed. He did not seem displeased, rather, he seemed to be considering Harry carefully.
"Professor Snape once shared with me that you had aspirations of joining the Ministry, yourself, Harry. I do not know whether this is a lasting ambition of yours, or merely a spur-of-the-moment product of your feud with Professor Umbridge, but permit me to say that with such goals in mind, you would do a finer job of governing than either Scrimgeour or his predecessor. But we can discuss your future another time, it is the past to which we must, once again, direct our attention. Now, if there's nothing more..."
"There is actually," interrupted Harry, "Sir, I spoke to Professor Snape about a conversation I overheard…"
"Between Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Yes, Harry. I am aware of your concerns."
Harry goggled at him. "Then why are they still here?"
"You are asking me why, with such little justification, I have not expelled two students from my school?"
"Little justification?" Harry repeated, "They're trying to kill you! They tried to bring that necklace into the school! And now they're plotting something else!"
"You concern is touching, Harry. But permit me to suggest, for a moment, that I may be more aware of the goings on in my school than you are," Dumbledore replied snappishly. It was a tone Harry was not accustomed to hear from the headmaster, and it silenced him immediately. He noticed a convulsive twitch of Dumbledore's right hand, and wondered if his impatience were a symptom of the injury he had suffered. When the headmaster spoke again, his voice had resumed its usual calm aspect. "Let me reassure you, Harry, that what you wisely confided in Professor Snape causes me no disquiet. The matter will be settled in the way I see fit, and it is not for you to concern yourself with at present. Instead, I have two memories to show you this evening. Both were obtained with enormous difficulty, and the second of them is, I think, the most important that I have collected."
Harry did not say anything in response to this. He was trying to quell the feeling of mutiny that was brewing within him. He did not like the way Dumbledore so carelessly brushed his concerns aside. But though he was slightly angry with Dumbledore, the description of tonight's lesson had piqued his curiosity. He watched in patient silence as Dumbledore withdrew another phial of swirling memory, recounting as he did so, "Last time, we left Tom Riddle on the threshold of his arrival at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear he was a wizard, and that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley. I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school.
"Well, the start of the school year arrived, and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in secondhand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head."
Dumbledore waved his blackened hand toward the shelf on which the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. Harry wondered with a touch of bitterness whether Voldemort had specifically requested Slytherin, or whether his request had been ignored, as the hat had once ignored Harry's.
"How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House was a parselmouth, I do not know," continued Dumbledore, "Perhaps that very evening. In any case, the knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance.
"However, he showed no outward signs of arrogance or aggression, at all. An unusually talented and handsome orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff. He seemed polite, quiet, and hungry for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him."
"But not you, sir," Harry concluded, recalling what Dumbledore had said after their last lesson.
"Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy," assented Dumbledore, "I had resolved to keep a close eye on him, and so I did, though I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations. He was very guarded with me. He was careful not to expose himself before me as he had done in that first interview, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. He did, however, have the sense never to try to charm me as he charmed many of my colleagues.
"As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated… followers. I hesitate to call them friends, you see, for as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. They were not, in his mind at least, his equals. The group developed a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection, comprised of the weak who would seek protection, the ambitious who sought some shared glory, and the thuggish who wanted a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters. Indeed, some of them were the first to join his ranks after leaving Hogwarts."
Dumbledore placed his withered hand on the Pensieve, which now swirled with the contents of the memory he had deposited there.
"I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts," he remarked thoughtfully. "Few who knew him then are prepared to talk. They are too terrified. Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. It seemed that he searched in vain for his father, Tom Riddle Senior, among the shields in the trophy room, on the list of prefects in old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally, he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe it was then that he dropped the name Riddle entirely, and adopted the name Lord Voldemort. What is certain is that he began searching into his mother's family. All he had was the single name 'Marvolo.' I am sure it took much effort, but eventually he was able to discover the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually, and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, we may begin…"
Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed until his face sank through the surface of the memory. He felt the now familiar sensation of falling through a blank void until he landed upon a dirty stone floor.
The room was almost completely black. It took several seconds before Harry recognized his surroundings. He was standing next to Dumbledore in the Gaunt's old home, though the house was now so indescribably filthy that it was almost unrecognizable. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime, and moldy food laid rotting upon the table among a graveyard of crusted pots. The only light came from a single candle placed at the feet of a man with long, matted hair. His beard was so overgrown, Harry couldn't make out his features. He was slumped in an armchair, and for one horrifying moment, Harry believed he must be dead. But then he heard a loud rap at the door, and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left.
The door creaked open, and there on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once. He was tall, pale, and handsome. The teenage Voldemort.
Tom Riddle's eyes moved slowly around the hovel before they found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds, they looked at each other in silence. Then the man in the chair staggered upright, and the empty bottles at his feet clattered as they fell and rolled across the floor.
"You!" bellowed the man, "YOU!"
He hurtled drunkenly toward Riddle, swinging both the knife and wand wildly.
"Stop."
Harry recognized parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending the moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle, clearly dumbfounded. Then he broke the silence with, "You speak it?"
"Yes. I speak it."
Riddle moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry, though hating Voldemort, could not help but watch in awe at his complete lack of fear. He seemed merely disgusted by his surroundings, and perhaps even a little disappointed.
"Where is Marvolo?" he asked, continuing their conversation in parseltongue.
"Dead," said the other, "Died years ago, didn't he?"
Riddle frowned. "Who are you, then?"
"I'm Morfin, ain't I?"
"Marvolo's son?"
"'Course I am, then…"
Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, and in so doing, exposed the ring he wore on his right hand. It bore the same black stone Harry had seen on Marvolo before. The one that Dumbledore had located, and destroyed. In the memory, the ring was still intact. No crack marred its perfect black surface.
"I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin. "You look mighty like that Muggle."
"What Muggle?" asked Riddle sharply.
"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to. That Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," said Morfin. He spat on the floor between them before adding, "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it…"
Morfin swayed a little, clutching the edge of the table for support. A slightly dazed look came over his face as he added, "He come back, see…"
Riddle gazed at Morfin as though appraising his capabilities. He moved a little closer, hissing as he did, "Riddle came back?"
"Ar, he left her. And serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off! Where's the locket, eh? Where's Slytherin's locket?"
Riddle did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again. He brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who're you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit… It's over…"
The fight seemed to have left him as quickly as it had come. He looked away, staggering slightly. Riddle moved toward him, and as he did so, an unnatural darkness fell over everything, extinguishing the lamp and snuffing the candle…
Dumbledore's fingers closed around Harry's arm. In a moment, they had soared back to the present again. After the impenetrable darkness that had descended on the memory, the soft golden light in Dumbledore's office dazzled Harry's eyes.
"What happened?" Harry asked, removing his glasses and rubbing at his dazzled eyes. "Why did it go dark like that? Did he… Did Voldemort kill his uncle?"
"No," Dumbledore replied, gesturing for Harry to take a seat, "The memory ended because Morfin could not remember anything from that point forward. When he awoke the next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone, and Marvolo's ring had gone. Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house."
"His father?" Harry asked, remembering that Morfin had mentioned the man who abandoned Merope.
Dumbledore nodded his head and added, "Tom Riddle Senior. And his mother and father. The Muggle authorities were, of course, perplexed by their deaths. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died. The Killing Curse does not usually leave any signs of damage. The exception sits before me."
Dumbledore nodded toward Harry's scar, then continued, "The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house. A Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the victims… The Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him using Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murders on the spot. He gave details only the murderer could know. He was proud, so he said, to have killed the Muggles. He turned over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. Morfin then allowed himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight. The only thing that seemed to disturb him was the fact that his father's ring had disappeared. 'He'll kill me for losing it,' he said to his captors repeatedly. And that, apparently, is all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls."
"Then… Voldemort must have stolen his wand, and used it to kill the Riddles?" Harry inferred. "And he must have altered Morfin's memory, so he'd confess to the killings?"
"That is correct," said Dumbledore. "And as far as I know, Morfin never suspected that he had been used. He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession."
"Then… How did you get this memory?" Harry asked, "He might have mentioned seeing a boy who resembled one of the victims. What if someone else saw this memory, and came to question Voldemort?"
"Ah, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax the memory out of Morfin Gaunt," said Dumbledore. "And why should anyone delve further into Morfin's mind when he had already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life. By this time, I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died."
A strange thought darted into Harry's mind. Dumbledore, in his efforts to disrupt Voldemort's plans, had gone to great lengths to meet with Morfin and discover this memory. Why, then, had he allowed Sirius to waste away in Azkaban for twelve years, when surely he would have shared the memory of making Wormtail the Potters' secret keeper? Had Sirius's life mattered less than Morfin's? Tricked into a false confession or not, Morfin Gaunt had stilll been proud of the killing. Harry could not easily forget the man he had seen in the first memory, who had sold his sister out to an abusive father.
Alarmed at the feeling of resentment growing within him, Harry struggled to redirect his bitterness. It was unfair to lay the blame at Dumbledore's feet. Wormtail alone was responsible for exposing his parents to Voldemort. He alone chose to fake his own death rather than face justice, sending Sirius to prison in the process. And it was not Dumbledore who cut Sirius's life short, just when he had regained his freedom again. Yet Harry still felt uneasy as Dumbledore announced, "It is getting late. Before we part, there is one other memory you must see."
Dumbledore withdrew another crystal phial from an inside pocket of his robes. Harry made an effort to control the discontent he felt, remembering that Dumbledore had said this would be the most important of all the memories he had collected. Strangely, the contents seemed difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly.
"This will not take long," said Dumbledore when he had finally emptied the sluggish contents into the basin. "Once more, into the Pensieve, then…"
Harry fell through the silver surface once more, landing this time in front of a man he recognized at once.
It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair disconcerting. It looked as though his head had been thatched. For a moment, Harry wondered if it was a bad wig, then he noticed the Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, though less massive than he wore it these days, was nevertheless already full with gingery-blond bristles. He was also not as rotund as the Slughorn that Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. He sat well back in an winged armchair, his feet resting on a velvet pouffe. In one hand he held a glass of red wine, while with the other he searched through box of crystalized pineapple.
Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him. They were standing in Slughorn's office. Half a dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face, and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay absently upon the arm of his chair, and with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo's gold and black ring. The boy sitting before him had already killed his father and grandparents.
"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.
"Tom, Tom. If I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging a sugar-coated finger at Riddle. His reproving demeanor was ruined by a playful wink. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy. More knowledgeable than half the staff, you are!"
Riddle smiled while the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter… Thank you for the pineapple, by the way. You're quite right, it is my favorite…"
As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of Dumbledore, who was still standing beside him. Then Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, loud and unnatural, "You'll go wrong, boy. Mark my words."
The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared, and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.
"Good gracious, is it that time already?" exclaimed Slughorn, his tone as jovial as it had been before the strange fog. "You'd better get going boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."
Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. The young Riddle, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be the last in the room with Slughorn.
"Look sharp, Tom," said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. "You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect…"
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something," Riddle interrupted. Though direct, his tone retained its façade of careful politeness.
"Ask away, then, m'boy. Ask away."
"Sir, I wondered what you know about… about Horcruxes?"
Harry felt a jolt of excitement as he realized they would finally get to the bottom of this mystery. But the feeling was short lived. At once, the dense fog rolled through the room again. Harry could not see Riddle or Slughorn at all. He glanced at Dumbledore, who smiled serenely beside him. Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as before.
"I don't know anything about Horcruxes, and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning them again!"
"And that will be all," said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry, "Time to go."
Harry felt his feet leave the floor as Dumbledore took him by the elbow and lifted off. Seconds later, they were back in Dumbledore's office.
"That's all?" asked Harry, disappointed by what they had seen, or rather, failed to see.
Dumbledore nodded his head in apparent sympathy with Harry's feelings. "As you might have noticed, the memory has clearly been tampered with."
"Tampered with? You mean by Slughorn? But why would he do something like that?"
"Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers," advised Dumbledore. "He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, thereby obliterating those parts which he does not wish me, or others for that matter, to see. It is very crudely done, but that may be to our benefit, for it shows that the true memory is still there, beneath all the alterations."
"But we already know that Voldemort was making horcruxes," said Harry, voicing his thoughts aloud. "Who cares if he learned about them from Slughorn?"
Dumbledore, who had resumed his seat behind his desk, casually reached into a drawer and withdrew Gaunt's ring. He placed it on his desk, its cracked stone facing Harry.
"You are correct," said Dumbledore, "If I had any doubts about the locket after Sirius's unfortunate accident, they were dispelled when I myself encountered the protections placed around this ring. Voldemort was indeed making horcruxes. But Harry, the question we have yet to answer is not whether or not he made horcruxes, it is how many.
"This memory, which Horace has worked so hard to keep hidden from me, may contain the answer to that crucial piece of information. Indeed, he may be the only person alive, besides ourselves, who know what Voldemort has done."
Harry understood him at once.
"This is why you asked me to get close to Slughorn," said Harry. "You want me to get the uncorrupted memory."
"Yes, Harry. It would be foolish to try to wrest the information from him by force now that I have requested it. Professor Slughorn may be boastful, even vain, but he is nevertheless an extremely able wizard. He is as accomplished at Occlumency as Professor Snape, and I would not be astonished if he has taken to carrying an antidote to Veritaserum ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection. However, I believe that Slughorn's fondness for you, and his desire to associate himself with the truly talented and powerful, may induce him to provide you, willingly, with what he has denied me."
The idea that there were more horcruxes, like the locket or the ring, hidden away, lying in wait until they could curse the next unsuspecting person, was not to be borne. Although Harry couldn't picture his influence reaching as far as Dumbledore believed, he knew he had to try to secure the memory from Slughorn, if he could. In fact, he had no choice.
"Alright," said Harry, "Consider it done."
