Everything is J.K. Rowlings. I only claim the plot. Everything else is hers, all the characters and the magic, all of it. Please let me know what you think. I encourage feedback of all kinds; just be nice about it!
Okay. I tried to make the viewing of the Horcruxes as book-accurate as possible and yet not so mind-numbing as forcing you to reread the entire scenes straight from the books. But it was also an important point that needed to happen, so Neville, and then indirectly Harry and Marvolo, needed to know. Let me know how that balance was. So yes, for copyright sake, some of the text is pulled from the second, fifth, and sixth, Harry Potter books.
Also, I've been writing this and the next two/three chapters simultaneously. Rearranging the order of scenes all the time for how I want the flow of information and time passing to go, but I hope that means the next few chapters won't take another half a year to come out. Fingers crossed. For the month of February being so short, I sure stuffed a lot of plot-necessary stuff into it.
As always, your commentary gives me life and motivation to continue and I greatly appreciate your unending, unwavering support.
There's Much to See
It took several deep breaths to ensure Neville didn't throw up all over Dumbledore's office floor. He sank into one of the chairs and held his head in his hands. He ignored Dumbledore staring at him from over those half-moon glasses, his blue eyes twinkling with mock concern. This was all just so wrong—so wrong and such an invasion of privacy. Neville felt disgusted with himself for even remaining in the office and allowing himself to be complicit in viewing these memories.
He hadn't been certain what Dumbledore had planned for him for today's private session. Each weekend since returning from the holidays, Dumbledore requested Neville to visit his office. The Headmaster would assess his dueling abilities, and Neville would miss many blatant openings as he dueled the dummy the Headmaster conjured, not all openings because then it would be too obvious, but more than he would like. It had been harder than Neville thought it would be to fail purposefully. He'd never before had to try to be lesser, but now, with the training from Harry last year and the continued work he'd put in this year, he was surprised by how much improvement he'd made. He hated having to play the fool still, but he knew it wouldn't be forever.
That had been the trend: show up for a few hours each weekend, pretend to be abysmal at dueling, and hope that Dumbledore would let slip any useful information. This time, Dumbledore insisted he show up early in the morning and not make any plans for the entire day.
Nerves had eaten at him at the thought of spending so much time with the Headmaster, but he had to do it. Harry was counting on him. Not only that, Harry had sent a request for information: Determine if Dumbledore had ways to detect Dark Magic or Dark Creatures entering Hogwarts and how precise it was, if there were any.
His stomach threatened mutiny, and his hands shook, but he couldn't fail Harry. He palmed the packet of Droobles in his pocket and felt his nerves steady. His mother had advised him to carry gum because one never knew when they'd need it. Neville had been carrying a pack ever since, and it had come in handy. Hannah certainly appreciated it anyway; she liked to chew gum while they studied. But the only reason he even knew what his mother's advice was was because of Harry. Because Harry had been able to grant him closure, allowing him to speak with his parents, hear their voices, and see them look alive. Neville's loyalty had never wavered from Harry, but it was now permanently cemented. He didn't think he'd ever be able to repay Harry for the gift he'd so willingly given.
After another breath, Neville looked back up at the Headmaster. "I know how terrible this is to witness, my boy. I do trust me. But it is necessary. Knowing your enemy is a necessary step in being able to conquer them." Neville just nodded. He didn't stare directly at the Headmaster, and he avoided looking at the Penseive entirely, so instead, he stared at Fawkes cooing at him soothingly, newly reborn and still dirty with ash. "Now, Neville, tell me your thoughts on what we just saw."
Neville didn't want to, but he did anyway. "It was hard to watch. The two men were so cruel to the girl. I couldn't understand much of it. Ogden was all right, though. He was real brave."
Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Yes, an overlooked wickedness of Parseltongue. Unlike other languages, none but those who share the bloodline can learn it. A trait that many like Salazar Slytherin, Tom, and Harry take pride in, for it fuels their misguided belief of being better." Dumbledore sighed, looking heartbroken for a few moments. "However, yes, you are quite right. Ogden was good and just in his attempts to offer the young Merope kindness."
Neville hadn't understood much of that memory, but he recognized the necklace around the poor girl's neck. It had taken effort to keep the recognition off his face, but he knew that necklace. It was the same one that Harry had held before rushing out of Grimmauld Place over the holidays. The muggle on horseback had shocked Neville, too. The muggle had resembled the Dark Lord when he attended the Yule Ball as a human.
The realizations and connections were snapping in his mind, and Neville shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He really didn't want to be here. He really shouldn't be hearing this. This was prying into a person's private life without permission – because Neville knew for certain the Dark Lord had never permitted Dumbledore to view and discuss memories of his family openly. It was a violation of human decency. It was an affront to every common decency teaching his Gran had taught him growing up.
Any wizard child with even a degree of basic education was taught that memories, like blood, were precious to the magical community and shouldn't be handled lightly. It's why pensieves were so rare, and potions involving blood of any kind were so closely regulated and reviewed, most banned entirely. It was why Legilimens had to be approved and certified before becoming licensed – not all of them did. Neville knew Dumbledore, Snape, and the Dark Lord were all unregistered Legilimens, after all. It could be so easy to cause harm to a person if you had their memories – particularly original memories – or their blood since both were so deeply embedded with a person's magic. However, the basic rule that any child could tell you was that you never viewed another's memories without their permission and consent. Memories were deeply personal to a person's psyche; to just pour them out and allow others to view and discuss them as though they were an arts program was vile.
Sure, it was all technically acceptable because Ogden probably gave Dumbledore permission, and it was Ogden's memories, not the Gaunts. But Ogden never gave Neville, or anyone else Dumbledore had shown these to, permission to view them. Even prisoners who consented to give their memories to prove their innocence did so only after those viewing them signed the appropriate documentation to not discuss them with those not involved in the court proceedings.
This whole situation made Neville's skin crawl, and he clenched his hands into fists on his lap. "Merope?" Neville asked, hoping Dumbledore would keep talking despite wanting to hide in his Greenhouse back home.
"Yes, allow me to shed some light and background on the memory we just witnessed." Dumbledore settled himself in the Headmaster's Chair on the other side of the desk. Completely oblivious to Neville's moral discomfort. "We just witnessed young Merope and Morfin with their father, Marvolo. These individuals became Voldemort's mother, uncle, and grandfather, respectively. The muggle you saw became the father. Now, I'm sure you're curious about how it happened." Neville wasn't. He really didn't want to learn about how the Dark Lord was conceived. "Well, once Morfin and Marvolo were sentenced to Azkaban, thanks largely to the good Mr. Ogden's intervention, Merope discovered a newfound freedom and took matters of the heart into her own hands. She brewed a love potion and offered the young man, Tom Riddle, a drink on a hot day. They married soon after. It was quite the scandal. I'm sure you can imagine." Neville stared at his hands, observed the dirt under his fingernails from when he'd been working in Greenhouse Seven last night with Professor Sprout, and made a noise that he hoped came across as more awed and interested than a groan. It seemed to suffice for Dumbledore, though, and the man began talking again. "A few months later, though, Tom Riddle returned to his manor with his parents sans wife, claiming he'd been hoodwinked. A witch, he claimed. Tom Riddle left Merope while she was still pregnant with the soon-to-be Tom Riddle Jr, eventual Dark Lord Voldemort. Admittedly, the rest of my theory is based solely on guesswork. However, I must humbly admit that my guesses are very rarely wrong," Dumbledore said with a small wink that Neville assumed was supposed to be endearing or something. "Now, my theory postulates that Merope, so deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him. Perhaps she thought he'd stay for the baby, or she believed his feelings had become genuine. She was wrong on both accounts. Tom Riddle left and never returned."
Neville felt a deep sympathy forming for Merope. Her actions and desperation in using a love potion to such an extent were horrendous and would have landed anyone in Azkaban for a few months at a minimum. Still, Neville could understand her desire for love and kinship, especially seeing where she had grown up. Growing up, Neville had always been a disappointment, but he'd known his Gran loved him despite it all. She was a stern woman; affection was not her strength, but he knew she cared. Merope didn't even have an inkling of familial affection, which was heartbreaking.
"This understanding that he was conceived via a love potion is very essential to understand regarding Tom Riddle Jr as a person. He can not feel love, can not feel it nor give it. It is a primary characteristic for why he was so quick to accept the Dark Arts and why he is unable to care for even his most loyal."
Neville pursed his lips and thought of how the Dark Lord had looked at Harry during the Yule Ball, how he had dropped his monstrous, reptilian guise simply because Harry wanted to dance with him, how he and Harry had danced together. Neville thought of all the small comments Harry had made offhand regarding the Dark Lord. Neville didn't believe for one second that the Dark Lord couldn't feel love. He might not be a fountain of warm fuzzies and was more the type to burn a rose than offer it, but he could still feel. He was human at the end of it all.
"Come now, let's see the next one."
"There's more?" Neville asked, standing nervously.
"Oh yes, my boy. You will not be dueling today, nor will it be the focus for any upcoming sessions."
Neville walked slowly towards the pensieve. His small flower pin remained on his collar, providing him with mental protection against Legilimency attempts. He tripped on his way to Dumbledore's side, which probably only reinforced his bumbling, clumsy persona.
"Why? Shouldn't I know how to defend myself? If you think I'll need to fight one of them, shouldn't that be the focus?"
"We will return to dueling; don't fret, my boy. I'll not leave you defenseless. However, as I said, it is crucial to know thy enemy. So we will be focusing on knowledge."
"Knowledge, Sir?"
"Yes, we have a few more memories to view today. Most are my own, and some have been donated. Focusing on both Tom and Harry, key moments where they displayed their weaknesses and the foundational traits of their characters, however unintentionally."
Memories of Harry? Neville's anxiety grew. Viewing memories of a child Dark Lord was bad enough, and he desperately hoped the Dark Lord never learned that Neville was seeing this stuff; he would be dead in seconds. But memories of Harry too? Harry was his friend. He didn't want to watch memories of him during such intense moments. It was voyeuristic and dirty. But he also needed to know what Dumbledore knew, so he clenched his fists and steeled himself. He thought of the calm peace of his greenhouse, warm soil sifting between his fingers, the smell of the air after a hard rain, and straightened his shoulders with a sharp nod. "Ready, Sir."
"Excellent, I knew you would understand. Come now, come. There's much to see." Dumbledore poured another vial into the pensieve. "Come now." Neville glanced at the Headmaster warily but leaned over the pensieve and closed his eyes as the sensation of falling into the memories overtook him.
When he felt the memory settle, Neville opened his eyes. A much younger Dumbledore stood there, staring at a building on a muggle street. It was grey and drab, and even in the memory, it felt hopeless. Neville walked alongside the young Dumbledore and the current Dumbledore as they entered the building and spoke to a woman, the orphanage matron, about a boy.
"That's right. I remember it, clear as anything, because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour." The orphanage matron, Mrs. Cole, said before adding, "He scares the other children." Memory Dumbledore used magic on the matron, leaving her to drink in her office before continuing on alone. Hypocrite, Neville thought bitterly at the blatant display of magic used on a muggle as he trailed behind the Headmaster as the Headmaster followed his younger self.
Anxiety and dread growing, Neville followed as Memory Dumbledore reached a room with a small boy inside. Remembering the adult Dark Lord from over the Holidays, pristine and intimidating, with power dripping from his every breath, it was hard to reconcile that image with this small, gaunt boy sitting in grey, overworn, second-hand clothes on the edge of a tiny bed. But even if the past and present were hard to reconcile, Neville thought he could see glimpses of the Dark Lord the boy would become in the shrewd suspicion and sharp calculation when Memory Dumbledore stepped in the room.
As the conversation continued, Neville spotted the driving ambition that, if nurtured, or perhaps more likely left unattended and directionless, would bloom into the desire to become the most feared man in the entire Wizarding World. "I knew I was different. I knew I was special." The excitement, yearning, and desperation encasing the boy's words at the concept of magic twisted Neville's chest sharply.
Honestly, Neville wasn't sure what he should be feeling while watching this memory other than sympathy. He'd grown up knowing magic, fearing he might be a squib but knowing that magic existed and that he belonged in this world. He'd never asked Harry or Hermione what it was like growing up believing one thing only to be told the opposite. He couldn't imagine experiencing such a monumental shift.
Neville glanced at Dumbledore, who was watching the memory with a strange look on his face, almost sad even. Was that genuine, or was it put on for his benefit? Was he sad because of the tragedy and disruption he had caused, or was he sad because he remembered his youth, or maybe he regretted how he handled the young burgeoning Dark Lord?
Looking back at the boy, Neville continued picking out the features that he could see in the adult: the greedy expression that he could keep off his face but couldn't dampen in the shine of his eyes, the shock and rage that mutilated the boy's face so swiftly before contorting back into an innocent and placid mask, the emotionless voice, cold and appraising, his face far too blank for a normal eleven-year-old.
Finally, they left the memory, and Neville stumbled when they were back in the office. He didn't sit down this time. Instead, he paced restlessly and picked at the hem of his sleeve. "Did you know then?" he asked because it seemed like Dumbledore was waiting for him to contribute something before leading the conversation.
"Did I know I had just met the most dangerous Dark Wizard of all time? No. I had no idea he would grow up to be what he is. His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard. And most interestingly and ominously, he had developed a measure of control. Similar to Harry, really." Neville stopped to face the Headmaster. He probably shouldn't have – the Slytherins would probably tell him that in doing so, he'd revealed something or given something away, somehow, because body movement was apparently important – but he couldn't help it. He didn't have the same discipline that the Slytherins did. "Another comparison I'm sorry to say I overlooked." Dumbledore sighed, hands clasped behind his back, looking sorrowful and grave.
"You did your best," Neville said stupidly, feeling awkward standing in the office with the portraits of past Headmasters blatantly watching the exchange.
Dumbledore hummed and nodded. "Your kindness is far too generous. I'm not sure if Harry mentioned to you his bouts of Accidental Magic growing up." Neville shook his head and shifted on his feet nervously. "I have reports of him Apparating; can you imagine? Yes, Apparating, shrinking clothes, changing another person's hair color, and even vanishing charms. These are all vastly powerful spells for such a young child, all spells that any person would need to demonstrate a level of control to accomplish. Much more powerful than most children who summon toys or levitate favored objects."
Neville wondered what his accidental magic of bouncing on the ground after falling several stories said about him. Did that mean he was powerful? Or did that mean he would forever be a clumsy oaf who only lived because magic allowed it?
"Now, what in particular about young Tom did you notice?"
"Err…he didn't like his name?" Neville offered lamely. He couldn't very well say he spent most of his time drawing comparisons between the child and adult.
"Yes, exactly, my boy," Dumbledore said enthusiastically, striding a few paces closer to Neville, who had to fight not to stumble backward and remain in place. "Contempt for anything that tied him to another, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, and notorious. I trust you also noticed that young Tom was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and friendless."
Neville had noticed, but he also thought Dumbledore was looking too deeply into a single encounter. Most children didn't want to play with those who disliked them, and from what the matron had said, Tom Riddle and the other children were at odds. Neville could sympathize. It was only this year and last that he'd really started making friends outside of an acquaintanceship with his Gryffindor yearmates. Plus, Dumbledore had just set the child's wardrobe on fire. Not many children wanted to remain near an adult who had purposefully –even if it was for pretend – destroyed their treasured possessions.
"The adult Voldemort is much the same," Dumbledore continued. "Many Death Eaters claim to be 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 he has ever wanted one." Again, Neville thought of Harry, thought of the interactions he'd witnessed and heard about, and stayed silent. "Lastly, young Riddle liked to collect trophies—souvenirs—a trait that has also continued into adulthood."
Neville couldn't speak to the validity of that statement, but he supposed it might be true. A powerful man like the Dark Lord would probably want keepsakes. Most people did. Neville kept every bubblegum wrapper his mother ever gave him. He had a clipping of the first chomping cabbage he'd managed to harvest – actually, he had the first clipping of most plants he'd tended and harvested from start to finish on his own – and he had the pressed petals of the first flowers he'd ever tended to back when he was four. It was human nature to cling to keepsakes, to hold tightly to tangible memories of the past.
"Now, more to see."
The next three memories passed in a blur for Neville, with very few details sticking out aside from the mention of Horcruxes. The word brought a cold shiver to Neville's spine, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. In each memory, Neville had watched Tom Riddle grow, charismatic and cunning as the Dark Lord beneath formed, sharp and hard, reshaping himself from a pitiful orphan to a Slytherin powerhouse. The thought of Horcruxes had tainted and overshadowed the other memories, but Neville tried to remember as much as he could. He had to tell Harry everything. Had to let Harry know what Dumbledore knew.
There had been a large woman who bragged about a relation to Hufflepuff, a memory of the young Dark Lord applying for a job at Hogwarts – and what would the world have been like if he'd been hired? – and then the conversation with a young Professor Slughorn. The biggest takeaway was Horcruxes, and apparently, the Dark Lord had made seven, or at least tried to, according to Dumbledore.
"Horcruxes are vile things, my boy—the Darkest of magic. I do believe that young Tom was successful in his quest to create seven. And I believe I know of some of them. The diary Harry destroyed in Second Year was one. At the time, I believed it was evidence that Harry was truly the one destined to be the Chosen One, the one the prophecy spoke of. So young, and yet already working to defeat Voldemort. Now, I understand it was the Dark Magic within him rising up and striking out against the competition. Even at that age, Harry couldn't bear for another to be better, more revered, more powerful, so despite it only being a piece, Harry still sought to destroy."
"I thought he saved Ginny," Neville couldn't help but say because anything else would have revealed his outright incredulousness. Was Dumbledore serious? Did he think Harry, at twelve years old, was that power-hungry and Dark Magic savvy?
Dumbledore nodded. "The perfect cover. Darkness coated in perceived good intentions. I'm certain that Harry would have let young Ginny die down in the Chamber if bringing her out alive hadn't benefited him so greatly."
Neville hummed in response, biting his tongue to stop from arguing. He could imagine Ginny's brash laughter when he told her of that particular theory.
"Now, I believe the locket Tom's mother had, Slytherin's locket, to be another Horcrux." Neville thought of Harry holding the locket and storming out of Grimmauld in a cold rage. Unfortunately, Neville was inclined to agree with the Headmaster's assessment. "I destroyed one of the Horcuxes this past summer at great personal risk. And I believe another to be in Hogwarts." Neville gasped and didn't even have to fake it. Should he ask what the personal risk was? Or where in Hogwarts he thought the other was? Dumbledore continued before he had the chance, "Yes, I'm not certain what artifact Riddle corrupted. My theory is that it involves one of the Founders' Heirlooms; however improbable it might seem, I'm certain he left something of his soul behind in these hallowed halls."
"But Sir, certainly something so Dark wouldn't be able to last in Hogwarts? I mean, aren't there wards against such things?"
"There are now," Dumbledore corrected, stroking his beard, looking grave and somber. "Unfortunately, my predecessors did not understand the evilness of Dark Magic as I do. Over winter break, I implemented additional security measures, a ward to detect strong, potent, and concentrated points of Dark Magic, the likes of which are normally found on an object or person."
"That's so amazing, Sir. However, did you manage it? Will you be telling other businesses and families about it so that they can protect themselves, too?"
"In time, I shall. However, it is not infallible. This ward is a prototype, the first of its kind. It can detect Dark Magic, but only when it passes over the ward. Once the Dark Magic is inside the ward, it can do nothing. It is useless against Dark Magic already within its borders. All it can do is alert the one keyed into the wards and provide extra time to prepare."
"Can't it just block those with Dark Magic completely? Why even let them cross?"
"In time, my boy, I will adjust it to fit that criteria. As I said, it is still new. But now that it is in place around Hogwarts, I will know the minute Harry or Tom enter Hogwarts grounds, buying us at Hogwarts enough time to defend ourselves from the torrent of destruction they will no doubt inflict."
Neville nodded, trying to look somber, but inside, he was giddy. This was the exact information that Harry wanted to know! He couldn't wait to leave this bloody office. He had so much to tell Harry. He'd have to pass the information through Snape since there was no way he'd be able to sneak out, and he'd have to be as thorough as possible in his letter, but there was so much to pass along. This information could influence the upcoming actions Harry and the Dark Lord took; it could even influence the progress of the war itself. Finally, Neville could prove his worth.
"Now, there are still a few more memories to view, my boy."
Neville grimaced, but luckily, Dumbledore had his back turned to pour the next memory into the pensieve.
The next memory was one of Harry, and Neville jolted despite his best efforts. He shouldn't have been surprised. Dumbledore said they'd see memories of Harry, but it was still disturbing to witness.
It was Harry, at maybe twelve years old, standing in Dumbledore's office, Gryffindor's sword bloody and resting on the Headmaster's desk. Harry looked so small, so tired, but so full of courage, so full of that shining light that drew people to him without him even realizing it.
"–certain similarities–" Memory Harry said. Neville's anxiety formed a hard stone in his stomach. He had a horrible feeling, a shiver tickling his spine and a niggling in the back of his mind.
"You can speak Parseltongue Harry because Lord Voldemort – who is the last remaining ancestor of Salazar Slytherin – can speak Parseltongue. Unless I'm mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar. Not something he intended to do. I'm sure."
"Voldemort put a bit of himself in me?"
No, no, no, no, Neville pleaded silently to no avail. He hadn't known he was dreading this reveal until it occurred. Why else would Dumbledore show him this memory? If anything, it painted Harry in a heroic light. He'd just saved the day, killed the monster, and saved the girl. He was objecting to even the notion of being similar to the villain. The only reason Dumbledore would show this, in conjunction with the previous Dark Lord memories, was because of that revelation. Horcruxes. A piece of the Dark Lord was in Harry. Neville felt hot and cold in alternating flashes as the realization sunk in.
They exited the memory, and Neville stared at his dirty, calloused hands—a gardener's hands. "Why could Potter use the sword?" he asked, curious to know how Dumbledore would talk his way out of that. "You said that only a true Gryffindor could pull the sword out of the hat, and it's obvious now that Potter is nowhere near a true Gryffindor."
Dumbledore sighed, loud, dignified, and distressed. "Yes, of course, we will never know the true answer, but I do have a few theories. Two, in fact. Each is just as likely as the other. The first is that, at that point in time, young Harry still had the potential for Light. He hadn't fully succumbed to the siren song of the Dark, and both the hat and the sword were reacting to his potential rather than his current state. The other theory is that Harry's prowess of Dark Magic was strong enough to hoodwink the Founder's Heirlooms. The Founders, all good and Light, had never encountered Dark Magic like that of a Necromancer before. They wouldn't have known to shield and protect against it."
"Except for Salazar Slytherin."
"Excuse me, my boy?"
"The Founders were all good and Light, except for Salazar Slytherin. He was Dark, wasn't he?"
Dumbledore chuckled good-naturedly and nodded. "Most assuredly, Salazar Slytherin would have been the Darkest Wizard of their time, but not a Necromancer, thank Merlin."
Neville would have to ask Harry when the first Necromancer had come around. He knew the Peverell brothers had been the last until him. Still, based on the off-hand comments Harry had made, it seemed as though there had been many generations prior to the Peverell brothers, and if that were the case, then there would have been Necromancers during and before the Founders' time. Neville let the trail of thought fade; it wasn't something he needed to get himself tied up in knots about, not with all of the other information Dumbledore provided.
"Now, the last memory, my boy. I understand how draining and tiring it has been, but the point is almost made. Come, one more."
The memory formed around them, and Neville jerked at the sight. It was recent—really recent. Harry and Dumbledore stood in this very office, Harry older, looking the same age he was now, and the office was a wreck. Neville clenched his teeth and fought back the grimace that threatened to overtake him as the memory progressed. He understood now.
This was right after the Battle in the Ministry. Harry screamed and ranted and destroyed objects in the office, his grief at a drowning pinnacle: eyes bloodshot and wet, face dirty and bloody, clothes torn and stained, voice hoarse and rough. Neville stared at the office window in the memory and let Harry's grief-stricken vitriol wash over him, his heart breaking with every shouted accusation and demand his friend made.
Finally, after many minutes of shouting and yelling, Neville noticed a change of tone in the conversation and knew this was the part that mattered to Dumbledore. This part confirmed what Neville had already pieced together.
"I guessed that it might be the sign of a connection forged between you and Voldemort – this ability of yours to detect Voldemort's presence, even when he is disguised, and to know what he is feeling when his emotions are roused, has become more and more pronounced since Voldemort returned to his own body and his full powers," Memory Dumbledore said.
Neville swallowed. There it was. Harry was a Horcrux, and Dumbledore knew about it. Did Harry know? Surely he must, being a Necromancer now. Shoving his hand into his pocket and clutching the Drooble packet tightly, Neville let the conversation flow over and around him.
"People don't like being locked up! You did it to me all last summer." Neville winced at Memory Harry's accusation. He remembered how Harry had been when he returned at the start of Fifth Year: angry, grieving, depressed, and buckling under the weight of it all.
"Not quite whole – you had suffered. I knew you would when I left you on your aunt and uncle's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years."
Dumbledore had known about the torment Harry suffered? This thought pulled Neville more firmly into the present. He didn't know the details of Harry's childhood and had only heard pieces from Ron, Hermione, and the twins, but he knew enough to know that no magical child – no child at all – should have suffered it. If the Wizarding populace knew that their great Light Leader had willingly allowed their Golden Child, former Light Savior, to be raised in such a way, there would be an uproar. Neville was tempted to whisper in the ear of a few reporters that his Gran was friendly with but stomped down the urge. It was Harry's life. Neville was already mocking his friend's privacy by viewing these memories without his knowledge. He would leave it to Harry to determine how knowledgeable society was about his childhood.
"But I don't. I haven't got any powers he hasn't got," Memory Harry said. "I couldn't fight the way he did tonight. I can't possess people or…or kill them." Not then, Neville thought with a bitter grimace, but Harry had those powers now.
Finally, Neville was allowed to retreat from the pensieve for the last time. His mind spun with the realizations he'd witnessed today.
"Do you understand what I showed you today?"
Neville glanced at the Headmaster and debated what kind of answer the man wanted. Would saying he understood the Horcrux connection be outside the parameters the old man expected him to operate in, or was that what the man wanted him to guess? Would he be showing too many cards or not enough?
Licking his lips, Neville attempted an answer. "Potter kept talking about a connection," he said, trying to sound hesitant and uncertain. "And you said that You Know Who created lots of those soul pieces. Do you think? Well…you don't think that…surely not, right?"
Dumbledore was nodding before Neville had even finished. "Yes. It pains me to think about it, but yes, I believe that Harry became one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, however unintentionally on Voldemort's part. Prior to this year, I acted on the understanding that if each Horcrux were destroyed, then Voldemort would be defeated, once and for all. However, with Harry in the picture, being what he is, I can't be sure how he affects the Horcruxes. I can't be certain if he's holding them hostage to control Voldemort, or if he's destroyed them and is puppeteering an Inferi husk of Voldemort, or perhaps something else so Dark that I cannot fathom it."
Wringing his hands nervously in front of him, like a trembling, nervous oaf, Neville thought about what he'd witnessed during the Yule Ball. None of Dumbledore's theories seemed plausible, but maybe Harry had destroyed the other Horcruxes, and now the Dark Lord was a simple, mortal man. Or maybe it was in the works?
Neville didn't know, and he didn't want to know. He had no desire to ask Harry about the status of the Dark Lord's soul. He only wished to relay the information and let Harry and the Dark Lord figure things out from there. Neville wasn't a strategist like Ron, a genius like Hermione, Daphne, or Theo, a political mastermind like Blaise or Draco, a socialite like Pansy or Tracy, or even Ginny. Neville was a Herbologist. At the end of this war, all he desired was his plants and Hannah. He didn't need to get in the weeds about particular details.
He trusted Harry. He trusted his friends. He didn't need anything more than that.
"Of course, Tom Riddle's appearance at the meeting with the Creature Dignitaries under the guise of his past human self does raise a great deal of questions as well."
Neville remained silent. This wasn't the first time Dumbledore had said this. He'd been whispering it into conversations all over the school. Luckily, Neville hadn't heard of it gaining any traction, especially not after the Emergency Wizengamot Session. Most people were focused on the Dementors and how they were no longer a threat than the random stranger who had attended the creature meeting.
He probably should have commented, given some favorable reaction, but Neville was exhausted and just wanted to leave. Plus, he'd given all the appropriate horrified and appalled reactions the first handful of times he'd heard it over the past week, so he didn't bother doing so again now. So, for the remaining hour—an hour of more grandiose theories, grandstanding, and mock humbleness—Neville proceeded to let his exhaustion show more prominently until, finally, Dumbledore sent him away looking disappointed.
Neville retreated to his dorm room, ensuring his pace remained steady the entire time and tripped a few times in full view of portraits and ghosts that floated past him. He wanted to go straight to Snape, but he couldn't risk that Dumbledore wasn't tracking his movements, and he had no reason to visit a Professor at this time of night on a weekend. Plus, Neville knew Snape wasn't even in the castle tonight. He was off with the Weasley twins brewing some prank potion that would reveal Dumbledore as the hypocrite he was. Snape hadn't provided many, or any, details regarding the potion, only passing the word that he would be unavailable during certain hours. So Neville gripped the bubblegum in his pocket and let his feet trace the familiar path back to his bed. He would slip a message to Snape tomorrow, or he would pass the letter to another trusted, probably Luna or Tracy or Theo, the ones who received the least notice, to pass along to Snape. Either way, Harry needed to know.
Ron, Seamus, and Dean glanced at him when he entered their dorm room. It was late, and they were all already dressed for bed, loudly discussing the latest Quidditch game: the Falmouth Falcons versus the Ballycastle Bats. Ron was vehemently in support of the Falcons, Seamus argued for the Bats, and Dean played mediator. Neville wasn't an avid Quidditch fan. He preferred watching a game and moving on instead of debating and listening to the wireless over it. But he wondered if Rons' support was based on actual statistics or if it was because he knew some of the players now.
All three glanced at him as he gathered his night clothes; Neville gave them a smile he was sure was too shaky to be believable – he gave an extra reassuring nod to Ron, who watched him with sharp, analytical blue eyes from the moment he entered the room – and disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth and dress for the night.
Despite knowing the loyalty of his dorm mates and knowing that Ron was one of Harry's most trusted friends, Neville wasn't going to tell the information he'd gained that day to anyone but Harry. No one else needed to know of the violation of Harry's privacy unless Harry allowed it. It was the least Neville could do.
George watched the cauldron flare a bright red as Fred steadily stirred counterclockwise. His hand clutched a pinch of ground bat spleen that he would sprinkle in… now! He ducked as green sparks erupted from the cauldron. Professor Snape tutted at the reaction and wrote something down on the parchment in front of him, crossing bat spleen out of their list of possible binding ingredients; a deep frown pulled his brows together and made his hooked nose look even more prominent.
It had been two and a half weeks of potion experimentation, trying to determine what ingredients they could mix from the original recipes and what they could possibly add to make them actually come together. And bloody hell, George was learning a lot regarding theoretical and practical potions experimentation. He already had so many ideas for their Wheezes' products, and he knew Fred did, too. George wished he'd had this kind of class experience during his time at Hogwarts. Maybe he would have attended class more often.
It was a bloody brilliant puzzle, and George loved the challenge, especially since the outcome would result in the greatest prank ever pulled. He almost wondered how he and Fred hadn't already thought of it. Temporary truth candies would sell quickly.
The three of them couldn't meet daily to work on the altered Veritaserum for many reasons. The main one was that all three had actual jobs that they had to be present for, or suspicious questions would be raised. A second major reason was that if people saw the three of them together, it would again raise countless suspicions.
Still, they concocted potential recipes during their time out of the laboratory in Snape's personal home. A dreary place that gave George depression just looking at the dull furniture and dingy walls. A place they hadn't even been allowed to step foot on the premise, let alone see a single shingle of the exterior, until they had sworn about five different privacy and secrecy oaths, with wording so airtight that George was sometimes afraid to even think about the house when outside the ward boundaries. The twins sent their recipe ideas through their Slytherin friends under the guise of former students having potions questions. The professor would work on the algorithms of the potential solutions before selecting the most likely combinations. Then, they would focus on those during their brewing time – evenings when the Professor could slip from Dumbledore's twinkling gaze.
The secrecy was both exciting and frustrating.
George wished he could lock himself in the lab with the professor and his brother until they created a viable solution. With each failed attempt, he felt the looming deadline that the Dark Lord set hovering in the near future. Veritaserum on its own required a full moon cycle to brew, and if they were to use this potion, proven and tested, at the March Wizengamot meeting, they needed to start the final brewing within the next week.
It wasn't just the deadline; it was the expectation and trust. Harry had vouched for him and his brother, believing they would benefit and help the project. No one had ever shown such trust in them before. Sure, Harry had funded their joke shop, but they'd already had products to back up their claims. This was completely new territory, and George was loath to let his youngest brother down.
The potions' lab was filled with a hazy heat that made his clothes cling to his back. George ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. They couldn't risk cracking a window just in case the cold or the wind interfered with the potions, but at this moment, George wouldn't mind a breeze of some kind. It was the worst part of potion experimentation. Well, outside of constant failure.
"I think we need to bring Hestia in on this," Fred said, leaning against one of the tables and frowning. George glanced at his brother.
"There are already two more than necessary in this room," Snape commented dryly, frowning at the ruined potion attempt. He referred to the parchment again, scratching out notes.
"Come on, Snapey, you know you need us," George taunted. The man grimaced, and Fred chuckled.
"Hestia Carrow prefers brewing explosions than producing results," Snape said stiffly.
"A fresh mind," Fred countered. "Plus, I've just thought of another portion of this puzzle."
"Veritaserum requires specific questions, and if no one knows he's doused–"
"–then how will they know to ask the right questions," George finished for his twin and groaned at the newest level of puzzlement.
"There needs to be a layer of compulsivity," Snape said, picking up their train of thought with surprising ease. The man stared at the work table and scowled, his potion-stained fingers tapping arrhythmically on the wooden surface.
George did a small skip, clapping his hands together, before pacing around the room. "So we not only need a Veritaserum that a sugared candy won't compromise, but also we need to sneak in a compulsion potion that will make him want to answer any question presented, whether it is direct or not."
"What ingredients of a compulsion potion would counteract the veritaserum?" Fred asked Snape, hopping onto a worktable and swinging his lanky legs.
"A few ingredients, actually," Snape replied pensively.
"Maybe we should get Flora to help, too," George suggested as casually as he could, continuing to pace.
Fred chuckled. "This your idea of a date, mate? You're worse off than I thought."
George shoved at his brother on his rotation past him and blamed his blushing face on the room's heat. "She knows Herbology; her insight could be useful. Besides, you're just jealous that your boys have nothing to offer."
"Oh, they have plenty to offer, brother mine," Fred said with a salacious grin and a waggle of his eyebrows.
"Will you two cease with your inane chattering," Snape cut in, and Fred made a face at the Potion's Master. George snickered as his thoughts drifted to his girlfriend. Just thinking of her as his girlfriend still made him giddy.
George and Flora had finally sat down after the Yule Ball. They talked about what she considered "a prohibiting factor to pursuing a favorable, long-lasting courtship" and what George considered an acceptable compromise. So, after minimal persuasion on his part and with another long discussion regarding boundaries of comfort and acceptability, Flora had agreed to give them a chance. They were taking it slow, but George didn't mind. He enjoyed her company. Even if Fred didn't fully understand how they worked, George knew they did. So he suffered his twin taking the mickey on him over the arrangement and knew he could retaliate whenever it pleased him. After all, Fred had his plate full with Graham and Adrian – two pretentious and stubborn, old-fashioned blokes who had never entertained the thought of having more than one partner – so he wasn't one to talk.
Bloody hell, how had he and his twin ended up in this state? He was not looking forward to telling his mum.
"Inane chattering, my dear bat, allows the mind to rest and recalibrate," Fred said with a grin, bringing George's thoughts back to the present.
"Some of our best inventions came from chattering inanely," George agreed.
"I will not suffer two sets of twins. Though the Carrow twins are far more tolerable, one set is punishment enough. If you must seek their aid, do it outside our working hours. Now, let us begin creating recipes with this new factor under consideration."
Snape pulled out a new piece of parchment and dipped a quill in a pot of ink. Fred and George moved to crowd the table. The three of them bent over the parchment and began anew, thinking up a worthy potion to aid Harry and the Dark Lord in finally ousting Dumbledore.
"Okay, breaking it apart," Fred said after the three of them had stared at the parchment for twenty minutes. Snape had written out each of the ingredients of Veritaserum, the compulsion potion, and lemon drops side by side on one piece of parchment and then the steps for brewing side by side on another. "We know that the chopped dandelion root is the biggest hindrance in blending these two potions, not the only one, sure, but one piece at a time. So what are possible substitutes?" Fred palmed a crumpled, discarded piece of parchment from off the floor.
"Ground willow bark?" George suggested, catching the paper ball his brother tossed him.
"Even more volatile," Snape refuted immediately. He didn't argue with the twins tossing the crumpled paper ball back and forth, probably because he knew it would be wasted breath. It hadn't stopped them the other times they'd done it, and it wouldn't stop them now. George had found his respect growing from the brilliant potioneer's mind, but he was no longer George's professor and had no authority over his actions. "Shredded asphodel leaves?"
The ball passed between the brothers in silence as they both considered that suggestion and then Fred shook his head. "It wouldn't blend with the lemon flavor of the drops."
"What if we added a lemon-flavored ingredient to balance the loss of the flavor in the drops?" George said.
"There is no guarantee that the added lemon would result in the same lemon consistency of the standard drops," Snape replied. He now leaned against the table and watched the ball soar through the air with dark eyes. "And while it might be passable to us, Albus is an expert regarding the taste of those damned drops, and it would be too much of a risk to alert him in such an easily avoidable manner. No, we must maintain the odorless, tasteless consistency of the veritaserum if this is to be a successful endeavor."
George frowned in thought, absently catching and tossing the paper ball. "What are the overlapping ingredients?"
Snape glanced at the parchment. "Bicorn horn, sage, dittany, eye of newt, fire seeds, ginger root, lacewing flies, mint, pearl dust, valerian, and rose petals."
"The opposing ones?" Fred asked.
Snape pursed his lips, his annoyance evident, but he did comply with the request. "Dandelion, toe of frog, spider fangs, salamander blood, porcupine quill, moly, and mallowsweet"
George nodded absently as the ingredients tossed about in his head. "Hang on, Fred. Do you remember that time when we were kids and were mixing all those ingredients in Mum's favorite cauldron?"
"Which time?" Fred asked, a small frown on his face, his head tilted.
"When we were trying to make that wish potion."
Fred barked out a laugh. "Mum was furious. Made a good cake, though."
"It really did. Not as good as Charlie's, of course."
"Man should have been a baker. I bet that's how he gets the dragons on his side."
"Best tamer at the reserve, my left buttocks, best briber, more likely."
"Bribery does open a number of –"
"Is there a point to this asinine conversation? We have a deadline to fulfill, or have your witless minds forgotten?"
"My point is, remember what mum told us? About the honey and flour?"
Fred let the ball drop before him as he stopped to stare at George, blue eyes wide. "Bloody hell, Georgie, that's genius. It's about the intent of the ingredients more than the actual particulars themselves."
"Exactly. We've been looking too literal." George turned to look at Snape, who was watching them both closely. Behind the professors' dark eyes, George could see the gears turning.
"Even better, we just got a replacement," Fred continued, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We can use flour and honey to substitute–"
"–The dandelion, the salamander blood, and the mallowsweet."
"Those ingredients all provide–"
"–a foundational base. Yes…" Snape said slowly, his deep voice soft. "We need not be so strict with the focus on the individual pieces but the combined effects of paired ones." Snape spun on his heel, placing the parchment back on the desktop and grabbing a quill.
"Right. Add some octopus powder near the end," George said, moving to the table.
"And it can strengthen the combined effects all the more," Fred finished, brushing his shoulder against George's as they leaned back over the table again.
"The discrepancies would be satisfied without the need for overcomplication," Snape reaffirmed, scratching and drawing pair groupings between the solitary ingredients needed. "We are creating an entirely new potion, not simply combining two separate ones."
Potion lists were rewritten when the original became too illegible, with each of their notes and suggestions rewritten again on separate sheets. After an hour of brainstorming, George's head hurt, but his heart was light. He rocked on his heels as a giddy rush swept through him. Success was within reach. He could taste it. They'd faced roadblocks and complications, but he could feel it. This new perspective would be the key.
They'd regroup in three nights to begin the actual brewing, and George couldn't wait. He grabbed his copy of the finalized ingredient list and the steps list and left Snape's house with Fred at his side.
"When we meet up with the others tomorrow for lunch, let's run this by the girls," Fred said as they walked side by side down the street. It was late afternoon, but the sun was already starting to set because of the winter daylight hours. Both wore jeans and jumpers, so the muggles didn't look at them strangely.
George tugged his coat closer around himself and kicked a small chunk of ice off the sidewalk. "Or I can just run it by Flora tonight."
"Oh. Another date? Sorry, another courtship outing?" Fred teased, putting on a pretentious voice.
"Oi, at least my Slytherin has actually agreed to date me."
"Oh, they've both agreed," Fred countered, "just separately. The problem is getting them to admit they're into each other, too."
"What if they just aren't?"
"Oh, they are," Fred insisted, hands in his pockets. "At least based on how excited they get when I mention the other in dirty fantasies while we fu–"
"Professor, did we forget something?" George said loudly, cutting his brother off. Fred choked on his words and spun around to face an empty road. Fred turned back, scowling at a laughing George.
"This is why people like me better." George just laughed harder. After a few seconds, Fred joined in the laughter. Once their laughter faded, Fred and George continued walking down the street in companionable silence. They could turn down any alley and just Apparate home if they wanted to, but sometimes they preferred just to walk and be free from prying eyes. "I'm meeting them both for drinks tonight," Fred said with a heavy sigh. "Hopefully, I can get them to both admit it."
"What will you do if you can't?"
"I'll try again tonight, with both of them together instead of individually, and if they still refuse…" Fred trailed off with a shrug. "I won't push or force them. I just know that together, the three of us could be really great, you know?"
George nodded, squeezing his twin's shoulder in understanding and support. He'd certainly never seen Fred hung up on a partner, or partners, like this before. Normally, Fred was more interested in casual flings, like he had been with Angelina and the muggle bloke from the village near their house. He really hoped things worked out for his brother. Personally, George thought the three of them were great together and balanced each other out, but perceived compatibility only went so far.
"Anyway, where are you taking Flora for your courtship date?"
"It's not really much of a courtship date if we don't have a chaperone, but given the need for secrecy, Flora doesn't seem all that worried about bending the rules just a bit."
"It's not like there is really anything to worry about with ruining virtue and all that rubbish."
George grimaced but couldn't disagree. "Actually, I'm cooking tonight."
"I thought you wanted her to stick around."
George made a halfhearted swipe at his twin's head. Fred ducked, grinning broadly. "That's why I'm not asking you to cook."
"So, is this your way of saying I should stay out with my boys for as long as possible?"
"It'd be appreciated, brother mine."
"Just remember we have that pick-up Quidditch game tomorrow, so don't make me stay out all night. We're playing against professionals; we've gotta be at our best."
George rolled his eyes. "It's not like you'll be devoid of places to crash the night. One place is even with one of the professionals we will be playing against."
Fred gasped, mockingly affronted. "I'm not that kind of bloke, Georgie. Mum raised me respectable like."
"The only respectable one that mum managed to raise was Percy, and he's an uptight arse."
"Too true, our dis-respectability is a blessing on the world if you think about it."
"Right saints we are," George agreed.
"Ought to give us Orders of Merlin." Fred grinned at him, and George couldn't help but grin back.
They spent the rest of their walk exchanging jokes and exaggerated stories, debating which ones would be good to retell. George sighed in contentment. It had been too long since he and Fred could talk without the pressure of needing to reach a point. Most of their days were spent either at their shop, brewing with or exchanging letters with Snape, going on dates with their respective Slytherin partners, hanging with the Guard for dueling practice or muggle hunting, and keeping up with their other non-government overthrowing friend groups.
Finally, when they couldn't justify strolling any longer, they Apparated back to their flat to get ready for their respective dates. After a quick shower, Fred tossed a careless salute and stepped out for his date while George focused on prepping his own dinner. He had a gorgeous, brilliant woman to impress, and he be damned if he had to break down and call his mum for help.