It was already early December when Dumbledore summoned her. Snow had descended on Scotland and painted the castle a brilliant white, the younger years losing themselves in snowball fights even as the headlines grew more dire. Prominent witches and wizards murdered in their homes, the tendrils of Voldemort seeping deeper and deeper into their society. Outside Hogwarts, paranoia had taken root; every neighbour a potential threat, every shambling figure a possible Inferius, every scream in the night a possible death. And inside Hogwarts, Ginny dreamt of Horcruxes.
When she entered Dumbledore's office, she didn't waste time studying whatever latest titbits he'd gathered, though they looked even more numerous than usual. Nor did she spare Fawkes more than a cursory glance. Instead, she threw the dark little tome that had tormented her so for the past month on the table.
"I wondered where that had gone too," Dumbledore remarked mildly, peering at Secrets of the Darkest Art over his spectacles.
"Voldemort has made a Horcrux, hasn't he?" she challenged.
"Indeed he has," Dumbledore agreed in a tone as if discussing the weather. That just made Ginny want to scream.
"Was that what the Prophecy was about?"
"No," Dumbledore said with a sigh.
"The diary, it was a Horcrux, isn't it?"
"It was," Dumbledore admitted. "As I am sure you have read, Basilisk venom is rather effective against them."
"Was it the only one?" she asked. The Tom she knew would never have been content with but one. He would have hedged his bets, hoarded pieces of soul in a dozen different containers to survive. Dumbledore favoured her with a proud smile.
"An astute question. While I am still in the process of uncovering the exact number, I can confirm he made more than one."
Several Horcruxes. She'd known it, but to hear those words spoken by Dumbledore made her fears even more tangible. And instead of looking for them, he was sitting here showing her memories from decades ago. Their adversary was immortal, an endless future ahead of him, and they were stuck in the past. She was still trying to figure out how to put that politely when Dumbledore beat her to it.
"I take it you have read all of it?" he asked, tapping the book. She nodded and with a flick of his wand, he sent it back to his bookcase. "In that case I will not bore you further with technical explanations. I cannot teach you more on the topic. What I can teach you, however, is how the mind of Voldemort works. That I believe is just as essential in our mission. You said it yourself during our last conversation; Voldemort likes trophies. It speaks to reason that his Horcruxes would take a similar form."
"Nothing but the best for his soul," she muttered.
"Quite. And it is with that in mind that I wish to show you another memory," he said. "Unless you object?"
"No," Ginny said stiffly as Dumbledore headed for the cabinet to retrieve the Pensieve and another silver vial and beckoned for her to come closer.
She had not been prepared for the more adult Tom Riddle. All the mannerisms and little smiles were still there, only the mask fit him better now, even more beguiling and tempting. The young Tom Riddle had taken her soul, the older might have taken her heart as well. His mask had been a work of art, only slipping when that cow of a Hepzibah Smith dangled his heart's desire in front of him.
"I take it she did not survive the week," she said.
"No, she did not. Unfortunately, poor Madam Smith's death was ruled an accident. Back then, Voldemort still traded in subtlety," Dumbledore said.
"It was the same locket as Merope's, wasn't it?" she asked, even as she couldn't help but feel she'd seen the locket even before that.
"Yes. To the locket, he at least had some kind of claim. For the Cup of Hufflepuff, there was no justification but greed."
"And they became Horcruxes?"
"Here we enter the realm of conjecture, but I suspect so, yes. Young Tom Riddle loved Hogwarts and admired its founders, greater wizards than even he could ever be. Do you now understand why these memories are so vital, Miss Weasley? They tell us what to look for."
"Though not where," Ginny said with a sigh.
"That is a more vexing question, yes. One I have been struggling with for these past few months," Dumbledore said, taking off his crescent moon glasses and polishing them.
"With any success?" Ginny asked and for a second, she thought he'd brush her off, like everyone in the Order always did. The thought must have crossed his mind too, because he was silent for longer than usual.
"With some success," he finally conceded. "You may remember the ring I had here? Prior to its destruction, it resembled the ring of Marvolo Gaunt more strongly."
"And it's destroyed?" she asked. Dumbledore glanced at his hand and nodded.
"Definitively."
"Where was it?"
"The old Gaunt shack. Like the items itself, it seems Lord Voldemort prefers some symbolism for their sanctuary."
"Yet somehow the diary ended up in my hands," she said, still feeling its indestructible paper underneath her fingertips.
"I am sure Lucius Malfoy did not know quite what price he held in his hands. Nor, I suspect, does Lord Voldemort know his servant no longer has it," Dumbledore said and Ginny almost had to smile. If Voldemort would ever find out, Malfoy would know a painful death.
"So maybe someone else has another piece," she speculated.
"Ah, an intriguing question, is it not? The answer, I suspect, depends on the number of Horcruxes. Lord Voldemort was rather sparing with his trust, though a few might qualify."
"Lestrange. Rookwood… Dolohov," she said.
"Those would come to mind, yes," Dumbledore agreed. "Which makes it all the more regrettable that Augustus Rookwood was liberated from Azkaban."
"What happened there, Professor? The Prophet didn't say much," she asked and felt a twinge of regret when a shadow passed over Dumbledore's face.
"I was proven fallible yet again," he said simply and Ginny knew there was no point in asking further questions. "Now, I do have another memory to show you, courtesy of my colleague Horace Slughorn." He retrieved another vial from the cabinet. "After you, Miss Weasley."
Her head was swimming when she rose again, expecting to find her confusion mirrored in Dumbledore's face, but he simply nodded sagely.
"Disconcerting, wasn't it?" he said and she wondered if they'd seen the same memory.
"Is the Pensieve damaged?" she asked, studying the stone basin for fractures.
"No, the Pensieve is in as perfect a state as ever. The fault lies with the memory. I fear Horace has deemed it fit to tamper with it, albeit inexpertly."
"But why?" she asked, thinking of Professor Slughorn. As tiresome as he could sometimes, he had never treated her with anything but perfect courtesy and kindness. Nor would he have chosen to come to Hogwarts if he had ties with the Death Eaters, surely?
"I suspect because he is ashamed of what the memory reveals about himself, Miss Weasley, just as I suspect that the genuine article would tell us how many Horcruxes Lord Voldemort sought to create."
"And can we undo his tampering?"
"No. We can only hope he will give us the real memory. I have been trying to convince him to give it to me, but if he persists in this folly, I will have no choice but to resort to coercion," Dumbledore said. "Before doing that, however, I was wondering if you could perhaps have a friendly chat with him on the topic."
"Me?" she repeated, not quite sure if she'd heard Dumbledore correctly. "I'm sorry, Professor, but he's my teacher. I don't see how I can make him give me the memory."
"From what I have heard, he is very fond of you. He tells me you have attended all his dinners."
"I'm not sure if that makes me any better placed," she said, but then added, wilting under Dumbledore's patient look, "but if you think it could help…"
"I think so, yes. Do let me know if you have known no success by the Christmas party he intends to organise and then I will take matters into my own hands, but I genuinely wish to avoid that. Bluntly put, it would entail using means that would not necessarily have any result and would certainly alienate Horace. I do believe that would be a genuine loss for the war effort and, if the memory were to elude us, possibly catastrophic."
"All right, Professor," she said, wondering how on earth she'd get the memory out of him. Astoria was much better at playing him. "Can I tell my friends about this?"
"I would advise against it. As important as it is to trust one's friends, this information is too delicate."
"Is it because Astoria's a Slytherin?" she asked, thinking of how Susan Bones still pretended her friend was nothing but air every D.A. meeting.
"Hardly, Miss Weasley," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "I would advise just as much caution with Miss Greengrass, as I would with Miss Robins. It is simply because they have not yet bled for the cause."
"Is that why you trust me?" she threw back angrily. "Why you share all that information? Because of this?" she said, brushing back her hair so her scars were fully on display. Dumbledore shook his head sadly.
"No, Miss Weasley, the reason I trust you fully is because of something far more important. Love," he said. The look in his eyes told her he was speaking of more than a sister's love, or a friend's love.
"Nice work, Gin. I'm glad you're here."
"Now, unless there was something else you wish to discuss, I shall bid you goodnight."
"You said the Prophecy didn't concern Horcruxes. Does that mean you know its contents?" she asked. For a while, the question hung in the air. Dumbledore took off his glasses.
"Yes, the Prophecy was made in my presence."
"And did it contain anything that could help us?" she asked.
"No, it offered nothing more than a few promises that never amounted to much," Dumbledore said with a sigh. "But if you wish to know, I see no purpose in withholding its content from you. You did fight for it after all."
Dumbledore rose and placed his wand against his temple, pouring memories inside the Pensieve. But rather than wait for her to enter it like before, he tapped it and a ghostly figure rose from it. Professor Trelawney, though she spoke in a way unlike any Ginny had ever heard before.
Ginny was crying by the time Trelawney was finished. Finally, she understood. Harry had never known it, but he'd been marked for a lifetime of war. He'd died doing what he thought was right, but the game had been rigged from the start.
"It wasn't fair," she said, voice hoarse as she dabbed at her eyes with a beautifully embroidered handkerchief that she'd never gotten around to returning to Astoria.
"No, it was not," Dumbledore agreed.
"Why did you never tell him?" she asked.
"Because I was a foolish old man who thought I could protect him, instead of turning him into a weapon. And I will spend the rest of my life wondering if he might have survived instead of Voldemort, if only I had played this game more wisely."
She wasn't sure what to say. Would Harry still be alive otherwise, if Dumbledore had carefully crafted him into a deadly weapon? And at what cost? Would he still have been a boy willing to go into the Chamber of Secrets for a friend's sister he hardly knew? Would he still have cried as he brought Cedric's body back? Would he have gone to the Department of Mysteries to save a godfather who had never been in danger? All those questions crowded her head, but in the end, she asked a different one.
"The power the Dark Lord knows not… what was it?" she asked.
"I thought I knew, but lately, I am not sure anymore. I fear I sought to imbue the mundane with too much power," Dumbledore admitted and Ginny could hear a lifetime of sadness in those words, even if she wasn't entirely sure what he meant. "Now, the hour is late and I am afraid I really must be going. A few Order members await me. Goodnight, Miss Weasley."
"Goodnight, Professor," she said, throwing the cloak – the cloak, not hers, it would never be hers, always Harry's - and left the office and all its questions behind her.