Seventeen: Of tales told and towers tall

On Halloween, Dumbledore finally summoned her again, after having deferred their meeting twice. This time, Ginny no longer spent ten minutes entertaining the Gargoyle. One waspish 'cauldron cakes' later, they parted and she ascended the stairs. Of course, Dumbledore knew it was her even before she opened the door.

His office was still as much a marvel as last time. No longer fearing punishment, Ginny gladly took it in, staring at the silver instruments to figure out what they were or meant. All elegant curves and sharp edges shrouded in smoke.

"What are these, Professor?" she asked, crouching in front of them. One of the instruments looked like it didn't entirely fit in this reality, shimmering as if not quite there.

"A few toys I designed to help me think. In the end, they only ended up making me worry more. I do not recommend it," Dumbledore said. "I am sorry for taking so long for seeing you again, Miss Weasley. The war remains very exacting of me."

"No problem, Professor," she said, finally pulling herself away from the instruments and sitting down in front of him. Fawkes was asleep on his perch and that saddened her a bit. She liked the phoenix.

"I heard you've continued your friends' extracurricular activities in that particularly unique room," Dumbledore said and Ginny blushed, feeling like a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar. Whatever the extent of their subtlety, it had clearly not fooled the Headmaster.

"We felt it was necessary," she said, refusing to apologise. This was Harry's heritage.

"Quite, and I am honoured that I can still lend my name to such noble efforts. All I ask is that you continue it with the same careful deliberation that your predecessors showed. I would hate to see any students get hurt."

"Of course, Professor. I, uhm, also spoke with Sirius Black," she supplied. Dumbledore's eyebrows rose.

"Did you?"

"He needs help, Professor.".

"On that we can agree. Unfortunately, Sirius does not share that opinion. I have sent him several owls, Miss Weasley. Twice, I almost caught him. But he has proven himself as skilful at eluding me as the Ministry. And even if I were to catch him, what would I do? He no longer wishes to be restricted to Grimmauld Place and I can hardly lock him up there against his will. I fear we must accept that we all have different ways of fighting the war."

"He's going to die, Professor," she said softly, knowing it to be true.

"I will do everything in my power to prevent that… though I fear you are correct nonetheless and that my efforts will prove insufficient," Dumbledore said, his old grey eyes staring at her over his half-moon spectacles. She could just feel the exhaustion coming from them. Dumbledore was fighting the war on all fronts and it had begun sapping his strength. It gave her little hope for the future.

"I am sorry I cannot be of more help, Miss Weasley. I share your concern, but also your feeling of powerlessness," he admitted and she knew that part of the conversation was over. "Are you familiar with the concept of a Pensieve?" he asked, gesturing at a stone basin with odd markings on the side, resting on the pedestal that had previously held the broken ring.

"Yes, Professor," she said.

"I'd like for you to visit a few memories with me tonight. While I hope you will not need the knowledge contained therein, I fear that the times we live in leave us with little choice," he said, heading for the bowl. A silvery substance floated inside. "If you would, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny stepped closer and studied the substance, wondering what she'd find within. Would these be Dumbledore's memories? Her mind was already racing with dreams of secret techniques or arcane power, anything to give her an edge, anything to bring her closer to the power displayed by Dumbledore and Voldemort that night. Anything to win the war. It was enough to overcome her distrust of old memories and voices of the past, whether they spoke through images or ink. She took a deep breath and entered the Pensieve.

She left Bob Ogden's memory with a feeling of betrayal and disappointment. The familiar hissing sound of Parseltongue had left her feeling cold and try as she might, she couldn't feel sorry for Merope Gaunt, nearly strangled by her family.

"That was Voldemort's mother," she said, less a question than a statement of fact.

"I am surprised you recognised her, Miss Weasley," Dumbledore said as he siphoned up the memory with his wand and carefully returned it to a vial.

"If you know him like I do, it isn't difficult. Trust me," she said, perhaps a bit more impolite than her mum would have liked.

Even if he didn't take after her, she'd seen Tom reflected in Merope Gaunt's face. For once, Tom supplied no commentary herself, though she could feel him brimming with resentment. Strange to think this was where Voldemort had come from, just three relics of a shattered house.

"Of course," Dumbledore conceded. "You have had a singularly unique experience. I apologise, I should have warned you before."

"It doesn't matter," Ginny said and it didn't, not if it meant something to the war. She just wished she knew what.

Dumbledore studied her carefully, any trace of the kindly grandfather momentarily gone as she felt like being stripped bare underneath his eye. "No, maybe it doesn't," he admitted, his hale hand momentarily reaching for the blackened one.

"And the man on his horse, his father?" she asked. There the resemblance had been more striking, but it seemed impossible to think that proud Voldemort could have come from a Muggle. She could hear Tom snarl at the mere thought, a vehement denial already on his lips.

"Quite," Dumbledore agreed.

A small part of her wondered how two people that different had ever gotten a child together. Most of her didn't care and only wished they hadn't. If Dumbledore was disappointed in her not asking any further questions, it didn't show on his face. He only rummaged through his cabinet and produced a second vial, holding it up against the light. Somehow, this memory seemed a bit darker than the last one.

"Now, the next memory features a young Tom Riddle himself," he said. "I would understand if you preferred not to see it, though I would recommend that you do."

"Tom?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. A snake in her stomach seemed to uncoil. "If it's information I need to know," she said, voice trailing off.

"I think it would help you, yes," Dumbledore said.

"Fine," Ginny said. Dumbledore emptied the vial in the Pensieve, his eyes twinkling.

"I am pleased to see you more than earned your Sorting, Miss Weasley."

"Sure," she muttered, staring at the memory that swirled in the basin. Tom was in there. He couldn't hurt her, no more than his voice in her head could.

And am I truly that harmless? She could hear him whisper the question in her mind. Taunting her, daring her. But that had rarely discouraged her. She'd show him. Without another word, she dove in the memory.

When she resurfaced, Ginny could almost see him standing there in the corner of the room, cold, imperious and paranoid.

"He was twisted from the start," she said.

"He had certain traits that worried me," Dumbledore admitted. "Though you will probably not be surprised to learn he hid those well at Hogwarts. So well that I almost forgot my initial impression. Almost, but not quite."

"But he fooled the rest."

"I am sorry to say so, yes. Like I told you before, Miss Weasley, Tom Riddle was good at deceiving and manipulating people. His time at Hogwarts was no exception, to the detriment of many."

"How does this help, Professor?" she asked and she was surprised by how much she'd sounded like Tom at that moment, demanding an explanation. For a second, she'd wondered if she'd gone too far, but Dumbledore just gave her a sad smile.

"I want you to understand Voldemort, Miss Weasley. And that is not a pleasant journey of discovery, but a necessary one."

"And why me? Or is everyone in the Order getting to see these memories?"

"Not everyone, though I will confess to having shared them with a select few. But I fear that you will still have a crucial role to play in this war. Thus, I seek to arm you to the best of my capabilities." Ginny traced the scars on her cheek and wondered what role that could be. A victim, again? It was hard to imagine anything else.

"And that means knowing Voldemort was rotten from the start and liked his trophies?" she said and was surprised how proudly Dumbledore suddenly beamed at her.

"And the latter in particular is of significant importance. Indeed," he said, returning to the cabinet again. "That is where the next memory comes into play."

However, before he could say anything more, a brilliant silver lynx appeared in the room and spoke in the grave, loud and above all worried voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

He's attacking Azkaban

Dumbledore's eyes widened briefly. A new wave of exhaustion seemed to settle on him as he just stood there, frozen in place. Then, he closed the cabinet and whistled softly, waking Fawkes. His wand was already in his hand and Ginny watched him take a deep breath, pushing down whatever frailty that had sought to come to the fore.

"We will continue this later, Miss Weasley," he said, extending his good arm for the phoenix to land on. "I ask you to not share this with anyone. Except maybe Miss Greengrass," he added, seeing her hesitate.

Next, he disappeared in a burst of flames. To Azkaban no doubt. Ginny could already picture it, dark figures with white masks assaulting its tower tall in a bid to free whatever Death Eaters still remained there. Malfoy. Rookwood. Nott. Rabastan Lestrange. Jugson. If their attack was not repelled, they'd all be free again. She prayed that Dumbledore would be able to stop them, but he'd look so weak for a second. And Kingsley had said 'he'. That must mean Voldemort was there. Could he even be stopped?

She took out the invisibility cloak, ready to depart, and then realised she was alone in the Headmaster's office. She could feel the portraits watching her, knowing what she was thinking. They'd tell Dumbledore, but did that matter? He'd said he wanted to prepare her for war and then only showed her vague memories. Dumbledore could hardly fault her for doing some independent study. Besides, she doubted she'd be able to sleep after hearing Kingsley's grave warning.

So instead she returned to the fragile silver instruments and gently prodded one. It emitted a high-pitched whine and then emitted a puff of smoke larger than any before, which slowly took the shape of a snake. She wondered if she could have spoken to this one too if she still knew Parseltongue. Not sure what to make of it, she let her eyes roam across the rest of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls and while those may have intrigued Hermione, they hardly appealed to Ginny. Except, one book seemed to stick out just a little bit more. She softly walked to it and when she touched its back, it almost seemed to shiver with recognition.

Secrets of the Darkest Art, it simply read.

"Don't touch that!" a voice commanded. She almost dropped the book in surprise. As it was, she turned around and searched the room until her eyes found the familiar portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. "You heard me," he repeated. "That is no book for a student. For anyone, really."

Somehow, the book had ended up in her hands. Like a diary long ago, really. Her first instinct was to put it back and flee the room. But what if something important was in there? What if it meant the difference between saving her friends, and losing them?

"Don't tell him, or I'll take turpentine to your portrait in Grimmauld Place," she threatened him and then threw the cloak over herself and the dark little tome.

She read it alone under the covers, a Lumos lighting the pages as she turned them in ever-increasing horror. She thought she knew of dark arts, taught in class and witnessed on the field of battle. But this was different. This was truly foul, the kind of magic only a twisted mind could dream up. And then she read a passage which explained it all. Why Dumbledore had it, and why Tom had fallen suspiciously silent since she'd found the book. She thought of a diary that had seemed to suck her in through black ink and then reconstructed itself with her own life. It had been more than a memory.

It had been a piece of someone's soul.