Author's Notes: Long overdue conversations are had. Insults are unwittingly thrown about. Working with someone as secretive and prevaricating as Dumbledore can be frustrating, Kronnis and the Emperor soon find.
Beta read by Circade.
Dumbledore was a busy man, his days occupied with the administration of Hogwarts, his evenings spent leading the Order, and his nights undoubtedly filled with the fitful sleep of a harbinger whose warnings had fallen on ears already plugged with velvet words of propaganda. Mornings brought the Daily Prophet's most recent smear campaigns, and by afternoon there might be a new Educational Decree nailed to the castle's walls, each one chipping away at its headmaster's authority. He was also watched by Umbridge, who, while making for a rather obvious spy, was quite good at making life difficult for Fudge's enemies.
It was mainly for this reason that Kronnis and the Emperor had never visited Dumbledore's office. One meeting could easily be explained away, and two wouldn't look too strange to the outside observer, but three toed the line of familiarity, and four might've led her to assume regular reports and exchanges of information to be just that – a conspiracy right under the Minister's nose. Why risk it at all, when they could simply remain behind after Snape's classes and whisper of stolen insights, knowledge only safe to share within Hogwarts' underbelly.
Now, however, they were in possession of an item that seemed somewhat more important than the trivialities they'd dredged from the heads of Death Eaters. A wrapped bundle that floated just above the Emperor's palm, too sensitive in nature to be passed through sets of hands that they didn't have direct control over. Another two feet above even that, his eyes glared at Dumbledore's gargoyle until the thing shook its wings, quailing under the weight of his contempt.
"Office hours are closed," it grumbled in complaint, its feet eventually forced aside by a password thrice repeated. A response wasn't offered – they weren't here to converse with a thrall of stone and magic.
One set of feet climbed the exceedingly long staircase, and another disregarded them entirely. At the top, Kronnis rapped his knuckles on the door, waited an impatient minute, and then rattled the handle, intent on leaving the diadem somewhere other than his own bedroom. It was a pleasant surprise when the hinges gave way, the door swinging open in as good an invitation as any. Having arrived at their goal, curiosity now overtook secretive urgency.
Twin tables were the first to greet their entrance, holding instruments both astrological and nonsensical. Portraits dozed on the walls, plastered from ceiling to floor, wherever room might be found between cabinets of books, curios, and keepsakes. An ornate desk held court from atop a dais, its surface dominated by spinning silver apparatuses and the golden perch beside it housing a magnificent-looking bird – the room's only inhabitant. Bright crimson feathers twitched as it watched Kronnis' every move, and he carefully set down the beautifully decorated coffer he'd been admiring.
Behind this display of trinkets and knickknacks, as tempting to explore as the Room of Requirement, were a pair of symmetrical staircases. They led to a sort of loft, an upper level that Kronnis could barely see, from which a telescope peeked over the railing. Beside it was a gigantic sphere, either a globe depicting an unfamiliar world, or a representation of the heavens. It was from up here that Dumbledore finally descended, wearing a gown of shimmering crimson over white and blue striped sleepwear.
"A bit late for a house call, isn't it?" he called, in lieu of the superficial pleasantries they often exchanged at meals. His eyes, creased in the shape of a genial smile, were focused directly at the bundle of scavenged cloth hovering before the Emperor, its outer layers seemingly unwrapping themselves on their own. "I enjoy a good midnight gab, of course – though it appears you've come with something a little more important."
Silver shone as the Emperor's fingers extended, the diadem gently floating in Dumbledore's direction. "Another of Voldemort's soul fragments," he bluntly replied. "We thought it might be safest in your office, with the locket."
The headmaster's steps hastened. "Indeed? I- one moment, please." Hands gestured for them to join him at the desk, and a pair of half-moon spectacles were plucked from its surface and slid atop his crooked nose. He then peered intently at the diadem for some time, evidently as spellbound as Kronnis had been, and the Emperor was forced to yank it away when aged fingers crept alarmingly close.
"It is dangerous," he warned disapprovingly, his mind reassessing the wisdom of his earlier words. "And strangely alluring, as we have previously discovered." One of the rags used in its transportation was offered by the purple glow of psionics. "Take care not to touch it directly."
Dumbledore absently thanked him and then grasped at the diadem anew, handling it with the rag like a cook would a scalding hot pot. "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," he mumbled to himself with a frown, words that meant little to either of them. "Where on earth did you find this?"
"Here," Kronnis said, with just a hint of accusation in his voice. "In Hogwarts."
Dumbledore glanced up sharply. "Here?"
"Specifically, in the room Harry uses for his extracurricular activities. You're aware of those, right?"
"Ah. The Room of Requirement, yes."
He didn't elaborate further, a frustrating dismissal of the risks he was allowing Harry to take with no assistance but their own. Gratitude would've been appreciated. "Yes. Well, it was quite accidental, really," Kronnis continued, making no mention of the riches weighing down his pockets. "But we found it while-"
"While looking through the room's hidden relics?" Dumbledore interrupted with a knowingly-raised brow.
The smile that curled Kronnis' lips lacked guilt. "That's right," he said, holding the headmaster's gaze and meeting sparkling amusement with a challenge.
Dumbledore blinked first. "Well, I'm glad you did," he muttered, rightfully more concerned with the diadem's mystery than a little bit of treasure hunting. His fingers turned it over until the bird-like shape of its construction gleamed with the burn of his chandelier's candles. "As I never would've thought to search Hogwarts for Ravenclaw's lost diadem."
His statement carried a weight, and was obviously supposed to imply some sort of significance. The only thing it meant to Kronnis, however, was that the diadem was likely more valuable than first assumed. "It's related to the castle, then?"
"It belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw herself," Dumbledore confirmed before opening a drawer of his desk, retrieving from its depths a familiarly-wrapped bundle. "And this," he said, his fingers pinching apart cloth to reveal the locket they'd discovered months ago, "is Salazar Slytherin's locket."
Even the most dimwitted of children could've followed the headmaster's hints. Kronnis felt the twitch of his partner's mind, its psionic power bristling behind purple eyes. A craving to simply devour the knowledge from Dumbledore's head, consequences be damned. It was pushed down by a self-control Kronnis himself couldn't ever hope to wield. "The other founders have similar artifacts, I presume?"
Dumbledore nodded. "Gryffindor's sword rarely leaves my office," he replied, pointing at a cabinet to the left, where a straight-edged blade appeared safely stowed behind glass. "It hasn't been tampered with either – I've checked. Hufflepuff's cup, however, still remains lost."
"Hidden, you mean," the Emperor corrected with great patience, and Dumbledore smiled.
"I only have suspicions," he said leadingly. "My research has been subjective, as memories oft are. My conclusions, therefore, are mostly guesswork and interpretation."
Kronnis crossed his arms, part of him grateful that the headmaster hadn't been idle, while they'd done the job of searching libraries of paper and brain matter for Voldemort's secrets, and another part wishing that they'd at least been kept in the loop. Presumably, Dumbledore hadn't been wasting time on things unrelated to the brewing war. "What, exactly, have you been researching?"
"History," the headmaster answered, meandering his way to a cabinet of reflective glass. "As seen through the eyes of others."
A rumble sounded when he waved his wand, the clatter and scrape of shifting stone. Unfolding, the cabinet revealed itself to house a bowl of shimmering liquid, its currents swirling with a magical glow. Dumbledore gestured them over. "Sirius tells me you're familiar with Pensieves?"
"We know of them," the Emperor said, his mood not at all improved by the reminder that they'd made negligible progress in organizing the man's trial. "Is this one yours?"
"It is," Dumbledore absently confirmed. Tucked into the back of the cabinet-turned-closet, a multi-tiered rack of vials was searched label by label. "And I've already agreed to loan it out, should our dear friend find the opportunity to use it."
Kronnis eyed each of the tubes fished out by the headmaster's hands, stoppered filaments of light that felt more like magic than remembrance. "Those are memories, then?"
"Yes. I've been curating a collection for some time now, but your discovery of Slytherin's locket allowed me a considerable narrowing of my search."
The Emperor, used to stealing secrets directly from the very core of consciousness, appeared skeptical, his eyes mere slivers of light on an otherwise shadowed face. "And how do wizards go about the extraction of memory?"
Dumbledore picked up one vial, seemed to think better of it, and replaced it with another. "It's not too difficult," he said. "Without a foundational basis in Occlumency, however, some might find their remembrance colored by disorderly association."
"Ah. Yes, I imagine clearing the brain of unwanted thoughts would help keep the amygdala's meddling to a minimum."
"Precisely – unprompted connections sometimes result in a memory that morphs into an entirely different recollection. In any case, one simply thinks on the experience and then siphons it from the mind. The temporal lobe, specifically."
"Does that not weaken an individual's recollection of the experience? Tampering with synaptic pathways is an ill-advised endeavor."
"It can," Dumbledore admitted. The purpose of their gathering became clearer when the hand not holding his collection of memories was waved, and the closet expanded until large enough for even an illithid to fit inside. "It is more like making a copy, though. A simulacrum of the brain's subconscious processes, if you will."
The Emperor took his place at the bowl's edge, his claws unclasping bothersome fabric from a face soon to be submerged in a Pensieve's waters. Dumbledore's words were then digested a second time, and it was with a newfound interest that purple eyes shifted their attention to the headmaster's rack of vials. "And these manifestations of neural tissue are tangible, no?"
"Tangible enough to be spilled, yes," Dumbledore replied with a rueful smile.
"And" the Emperor continued, newly-freed tentacles twitching, "given that the process does not erase the memory, could you then, in theory, endlessly extract them, without much of a negative effect?"
"I suppose one could, though the use of this magic is intensely private. I'm not sure why you'd want to have so many copies of your memories floating around."
"Irrelevant. Do you have any you would be willing to part with?"
"What for? Without a Pensieve-"
Kronnis cleared his throat, interrupting the conversation before his partner could pour mysterious substances down his throat. These conjurations of neurons might be packed with the ghosts of emotion, but it was just hours ago that they'd discussed wizarding magic's incapability to provide nutritionally sufficient foodstuffs. "You wanted to show us something, headmaster?" he said when the two men turned to look at him.
"Of course," Dumbledore quickly said. One of the vials was upended into the bowl, its contents turning from shimmering gold to a black, inky substance, once swirling in the Pensieve's waters. "To understand Voldemort, and to unravel his behavior, you must know his past," he continued. "I won't bore you with the minutiae of his long and sordid history – it is late enough tonight – but this memory pertains to his family, and you may recognize some things."
No further explanation was offered, as he then dipped his head into the bowl between them, clearly expecting his guests to follow along. Kronnis only hesitated long enough to take a deep breath and brush trailing strands of white hair behind his ears.
The Pensieve's waters didn't feel wet at all, he noted after submerging his face. Like a lazy summer breeze, the sensation that engulfed him was refreshing – for all of one second. The next, his feet left the floor, and he was abruptly thrust into a scene just bright enough to force his eyelids into a fierce bout of involuntary blinking.
When adjusted, Kronnis found his vision distorted by swirls of green and blue. A rolling landscape of cultivated fields stretched from one horizon to the next, and above this hung a cloudless sky, occupied only by the wind and the singing of birds. He stood upon a dirt path, among hedges, patches of forest, and stone fencing that served to divide grazing pastures. To his right, a manor crowned a hill. To his left, a man walked along, unfamiliar and apparently blind to the presences of himself, Dumbledore, and the Emperor, whose inhumanly-tentacled face had joined the setting with a coalescing of dark mist.
Kronnis wiggled his fingers, satisfied that he'd be able to control his own phantasm of existence, and fell into step behind Dumbledore, who'd begun to trail behind the stranger – Bob Ogden, as was explained. These memories, it seemed, would be viewed as though present at the scene itself, rather than from the point of view of their owners.
Signs proclaimed that they were headed in the direction of Little Hangleton, a mundane-looking village occasionally visible through tall sedges and bushes. This was not their destination, however. Soon coming to a halt by a copse of trees, Ogden righted his frock coat and ducked through a gap in the hedgerow, headed for a ramshackle shed of a house, its door charmingly adorned with the dead body of a snake.
Whatever business he could've possibly had here, at this domicile of rotting wood and flesh, it was interrupted when another figure dropped from the trees above. This second man was dressed in rags and dirt, his hair wild and his hand aggressively brandishing a wand. He spat, hissing as though a rearing cobra.
Kronnis spent the next few seconds thinking that Ogden was spending entirely too long trying to get the other man to respond in some sort of coherent manner. Personally, he would've started hurling spells the moment a stranger felt it necessary to jab a sharp stick in his face.
"Is that Parseltongue?" the Emperor asked while Ogden tried to explain that he'd been sent by the Ministry.
"It is," Dumbledore confirmed.
Kronnis frowned. "I thought hardly anyone spoke that. Besides Harry."
The headmaster smiled. "Harry is more an exception to the rule," he said.
A sudden flash of light interrupted any further questions Kronnis might've had. Ogden, now sitting on his rear, had a hand clutched to his pus-dripping nose, while the other man roared with laughter. The door of the house was then thrown open with a bang, and yet another shabbily-dressed man stepped out with a shout, diffusing Ogden's anger with words in a language he could understand. This was Marvolo Gaunt, apparently, and the man who'd dropped from the tree was Morfin, his son.
Now continuing their discussion in English, all three went inside the house, where Ogden was finally given the opportunity to explain the reason behind his visit – someone had used magic to assault a muggle of the village.
A Ministerial summons was pulled out. An explanation of the law was offered and then mockingly criticized by wizards who obviously thought it ridiculous that a little bit of muggle harassment should be worth official punishment. The situation devolved, diplomacy failing to pierce the Gaunt's stubborn attachment to bigotry.
As the dispute intensified, a third inhabitant of the house was introduced as Merope, Marvolo's daughter. Belittled, disparaged, and abused, she was a sorry sight, but all three members of the family were, in truth. The siblings each had misaligned eyes, and the father's body was misshappen in a way that suggested a long history of inbreeding.
Ranting and raving about the importance of his heritage, Marvolo then thrust a valuable-looking ring into Ogden's face, claiming it to be centuries old and proof that he wasn't some low-life that the Ministry could order around. The Gaunts were pure-bloods, their bloodline spanning centuries.
Ogden's reaction didn't quite satisfy – he merely stared cross-eyed at the bejeweled finger held in his face – so Marvolo decided to throw around some more weight. He turned and hauled Merope forward by her necklace, intent on showing off another family heirloom and ignoring the way she choked and gasped for breath in the process.
This one, Kronnis recognized – the very same locket that now sat on Dumbledore's desk. These were descendants of Salazar Slytherin, then.
The noise of a passing carriage interrupted the quickly escalating argument of Marvolo's abuse, the voices of its unseen occupants drifting in through a broken window as they derided the hovel and its inhabitants. Its wheels rattled on by, heading to the handsome manor presiding over the village valley.
When Morfin made fun of his sister for fancying one of the muggles in the carriage, a new conflict broke out, and the memory concluded with Ogden running from wild spellfire, his defense of Merope having earned him the ire of her father and brother.
Resurfacing from the Pensieve, Kronnis heard the Emperor make a statement. "That locket, it must have made its way into Voldemort's hands."
"Eventually, yes," Dumbledore agreed, already uncorking the next vial. "Though not before changing ownership quite a few times. I've spent the past months calling in favors, and found it to have next been seen in Borgin and Burkes."
"The antiques shop? In Knockturn Alley?"
"The very same. Burke claimed to have sold it for quite the profit, after buying it from a heavily pregnant witch not too long after the memory I just showed you."
Kronnis grimaced. "Would that have been Merope, by any chance? Her family…" he trailed off, his suspicions of the Gaunts' reproductive habits too distasteful to voice in polite company. He'd certainly seen worse – Menzoberranzan was the opposite of kind, and when it came to sexual partnerships, male drow were hardly afforded choice, protected only by association with powerful houses or prior claims. The culture here, however, was more similar to those of Faerûn's surface, where such things were seen as deplorable.
Dumbledore nodded. "It was, and the father of her child was the young man from the carriage," he said, refuting some parts of Kronnis' assumption.
"The man she fancied?" He raised his eyebrows, impressed. The individuals in that carriage hadn't seemed to think too highly of the Gaunts. "How'd that happen?"
"Ogden returned with a group of Aurors, and both Marvolo and Morfin were arrested and sentenced to time in Azkaban. This allowed Merope the chance to pursue her own interests, and I believe she dosed the man from the carriage, Tom Riddle, with a love potion."
Kronnis' eyebrows rose even higher, his opinion of the girl flipflopping once more. Best to move on, rather than lingering on these unsavory revelations. "So, she sold this necklace, it ended up in Borgin and Burkes, and then somehow landed in Voldemort's hands before…" He waved his own hand in a nebulous gesture. "Something else happened. And then he either lost it or hid it at the Black's house? I'm not quite sure how this is relevant."
Smiling in a way that Kronnis only tolerated from the Emperor, Dumbledore asked a leading question. "You haven't wondered who the Gaunts are?"
"Some forgotten branch of Salazar Slytherin's descendants?" he guessed, given the destitute state of their home, the fact that their family name had at one point changed to Gaunt, and Marvolo's claim that the locket had been an heirloom.
"His only descendants," Dumbledore corrected, "and Voldemort's family."
The Emperor's steadily building impatience swelled, breaking free from his mind to sour his tone as he voiced the conclusion they'd been gently nudged towards. "Merope was pregnant with Voldemort."
Dumbledore nodded, opening his mouth to give what would no doubt be another cryptic half-answer and a staggered dissemination of knowledge.
"We are not your students, Dumbledore," was what instead rang through their heads, the Emperor's sharp words interrupting whatever the headmaster had been about to say. "And I think it inefficient for you to quiz us as though we were in a lesson. Have we not proven ourselves capable?" he asked, gesturing at the artifacts gathered on the office's desk. "Each of us have all seen more decades pass by than I have fingers and toes, so I trust you to understand the immense value of time."
Dumbledore's eyes flickered to the Emperor's hands, and then to Kronnis' features. To his credit, he looked apologetic as he replied. "Truly? I had thought…"
"What?" Kronnis asked, his lip twitching into a smile. "That I was young? Because of my face?"
"Ah, no, it was… your face. Yes."
His smile dropped, and Kronnis suddenly wished for the ability to cast Disintegrate. Voldemort would not have treated him like this, he thought wistfully.
It was only after his partner had smoothed his mind of its vengeful anger, filing the usefulness of Lolth-ingrained impulses away for later consideration, that he replied. "You'll be hard-pressed to find a wizard or witch older than me. Unlike humans, drow commonly live to be several hundred years old."
"Well." Dumbledore paused to clear his throat. "Wizards do usually age into their first century with a bit more grace than muggles do, but a second is undeniably rare. Regardless, you're right – let us continue. Merope Gaunt was indeed pregnant with the child who would one day become Voldemort," he summarized, upending a new memory into the Pensieve as he did so. "And his father was the muggle Tom Riddle. Late in her pregnancy she sold the locket out of desperation, and, knowing that she wouldn't survive long, sought refuge in an orphanage on the night of his birth. She only lived long enough to name her son after his father and grandfather – Tom Marvolo Riddle."
A succinct explanation of the facts they'd been dancing around, provided in less than a minute. They were making progress now! When Dumbledore dipped his head to the Pensieve's surface, Kronnis and the Emperor didn't hesitate to join him, and together they watched a younger version of Hogwarts' headmaster visit the orphanage in question.
The first person he'd spoken with was the matron, truthfully informing her that he was here to offer Tom a place at Hogwarts, and then confounding her when the inquiries tumbling from her mouth approached an uncomfortable level of insight. One glass of gin later, and the matron sang like a canary, leaving pointed questions behind to share all sorts of tales. Mysterious happenings followed Tom Riddle, she claimed; rabbits that hung themselves from the rafters, and children that came back wrong, after exploring a sea-side cave with the boy.
When the younger Dumbledore was eventually brought in to meet Tom Riddle, the boy was guarded and wary, and commanded the headmaster – then still a professor – to explain the reason for his visit, fearing him to come from some asylum. It took some calming before Dumbledore was able to explain that he was here to invite Tom to a school of magic, information that turned defensive posturing into eager babbling.
Quick to brag, Tom explained how animals would follow his instructions. That he could move things with his mind, vanish them, and that he could make bad things happen to people who annoyed him. That he could make them hurt. He was crazed, his mouth twisted into a wild grin, and his eyes brimming with an ugly sort of arrogant elation, one that Kronnis found not too unfamiliar. "I knew I was different," the boy said, breathless. An orphan desperately grasping at exceptional circumstance. "I knew I was special."
This was then controlled, and Tom Riddle's face transformed into a charming mask of politeness, his cherubic mouth requesting a demonstration of magic. In response, Dumbledore set the wardrobe in the corner of the room on fire, only revealing the spell to be harmless once the flames had abated. For Tom, who'd howled at his apparent loss, this comfort was a bit late.
"You know, I thought Hogwarts different from the schools of Menzoberranzan," Kronnis dryly commented in his partner's mind. "But that would've fit right in with the mind games my teachers liked to play."
The Emperor hummed distractedly. "I think," he then carefully replied, as the younger version of Dumbledore asked Tom Riddle if he'd stashed anything in the wardrobe that he ought not to have, "that Voldemort is as much a product of his environment as he is a creation of this boy's psychopathy."
A box was retrieved by small hands, upended onto the bed at Dumbledore's request. Kronnis watched as an assortment of stolen knickknacks tumbled across the mattress. "You've never even met the man and you're going to call him psychopathic?"
"Theft," the Emperor whispered, whilst Dumbledore told Tom Riddle in no uncertain terms that this type of crime would not be tolerated at Hogwarts. "A lack of remorse," he continued, as the boy voiced his understanding with lips free of guilt. "Aggression, charm, and an inflated ego. A collection of trophies, even, signifying conquest over others." The stolen objects were gathered and temporarily returned to their hidden cache. "In the past minutes, I have witnessed more than a few telltale signs."
Dumbledore discussed punishments for the abuse of magic. An allowance for supplies was mentioned, and the entrance of Diagon Alley was explained. Tom didn't like that the Leaky Cauldron's barkeep shared his name, expressing disdain for its commonness. He then brought up the father he knew himself to be named after, and asked whether Tom Riddle Senior been his wizarding parent – surely he hadn't inherited his magic from a woman weak enough to die during childbirth?
Back then, Dumbledore hadn't known the answer to this question.
"You could say the same of just about any drow in Menzoberranzan," Kronnis noted, his eyes watching the scene play out before him and his mind captivated by an unease brought about by his partner's words. "You've even described some very similar traits in myself before."
"I have. You carry them much better. My point, in any case, is that such mannerisms can be channeled into a less…" the Emperor trailed off, searching for a word. A few were thought loud enough for Kronnis to hear.
"Depraved?" he asked, sardonically. "Destructive?"
"…A less villainous disposition, given a sympathetic environment."
"Villainous?" Kronnis held back a snort and glanced over to where the Emperor's eyes refused to look at him. "Is that supposed to be a compliment? That I'm… that I'm not villainous?" It was difficult, to keep a straight face while standing next to the real Dumbledore. He wasn't quite sure if he was amused or offended.
"Ten minutes ago you considered betraying the Order over an accidental insult."
Kronnis pretended as though he hadn't heard. "Are you going to call Voldemort dastardly, next?"
"I have far worse things to call him," the Emperor replied, while Tom Riddle asked if speaking with snakes was common amongst wizards. By the shine of his eyes, he knew it wasn't, even before Dumbledore shook his head. "It is true that the Underdark breeds wickedness, though, is it not? I am glad you left when you did."
The conversation was abandoned once they'd pulled their heads from the Pensieve, though Kronnis admitted with reluctant vulnerability that he shared his partner's sentiment. Menzoberranzan truly was a place of vile depravity. "Are all of Slytherin's descendants Parselmouths?" he then asked aloud.
Dumbledore was already uncorking another vial. "Supposedly. Its an incredibly rare talent to wield. And it's regrettable," he said, pouring liquid gold into shimmering blue waters, "that the next memory I have is almost exclusively spoken in it. The context is what matters, however, not the words."
When they dove in, they found themselves back in the Gaunts' shack of a house, now filthier than ever. A disheveled man sat in a chair, his identity hidden by curtains of lank hair, and his clothes looking as though they'd tear in a stiff breeze. An impossibly-polished ring shone on one of his fingers – the Gaunts' other family heirloom – and Kronnis surmised that this must be Marvolo. He looked a pathetic thing, dead to the world and with a collection of empty bottles strewn about his feet.
A drop of stagnant rainwater slipped from the rafters above, and the house then creaked when the door opened to admit an older version of Tom Riddle, nearly an adult and growing into handsome features.
The memory suddenly sprang into motion. Marvolo exploded from his chair, his mouth bellowing and his wand held like a knife. There was a murderous hate in him, and it was jarring, when a single hiss from Tom's mouth stopped the man in his tracks. The language of the conversation then abruptly changed, Parseltongue slithering through the air as the two men shared a remarkably civil conversation – right until Marvolo worked himself back up into an unintelligible rage, his wand gesturing up the road, and the ring on his finger glinting in the weak beams of sunlight that cascaded down from the rotten roof. Seconds after this, the memory ended with an unnatural seeping of darkness.
Dumbledore was quick to provide them context, this time. "Tom Riddle visited the Gaunt residence in the summer of his sixth year, likely having tracked them down through records of his grandfather's name. He only found Morfin-" Kronnis stood corrected as to the identity of the man in the memory, "-as Marvolo had passed away shortly following his release from Azkaban."
"The day after this event occurred," he continued, gesturing at the Pensieve, "all three of the Riddles – Voldemort's father and grandparents – were found murdered in their manor. Morfin, the only wizard living nearby, and a man with a convenient history of assaulting the locals, was arrested as the Ministry's only suspect. He confessed on the spot, showed no remorse, and was thrown back into Azkaban."
A cut and dry case, seemingly. It was obvious, though, that there was more to the story. "I suspect that it was in fact the young Tom Riddle who murdered his family," the headmaster said. "Morfin's memory was altered – I'm sure you noticed the strange way it ended – and the ring his family valued so much had mysteriously disappeared sometime between this event and his arrest. He was more upset by its loss than his life sentence."
Dumbledore stopped again, looking like he was waiting for them to say something. The Emperor only crossed his arms, tapping claws against the black fabric of his shirt, and Kronnis looked over to see how many vials were left for them to view, surprised that they were already down to the last one.
The hint was received, and Dumbledore's fingers brought the final memory to the Pensieve. "After graduating from Hogwarts, Tom Riddle went on to find employment at Borgin and Burkes," he said, and Kronnis could already tell where this was going. "He collected trophies as a boy, and this predilection didn't subside as he grew up. He instead moved on to objects of greater importance."
It was a house-elf who had provided this memory. Going by the name of Hokey, she worked for Hepzibah Smith, an elderly witch who seemed to follow Dumbledore's sense of dress and wore more cosmetic product on her face than Kronnis had ever before seen in the market stalls of Baldur's Gate.
Her home, cluttered with overgrown plants, lacquered baubles, and enough oddities to rival the headmaster's office, was to host a representative from Borgin and Burkes, sent to negotiate the purchase of a set of goblin-made armor. Of course, this representative was none other than Tom Riddle, who had now grown from a fair-faced teenager into a handsome young man.
Hepzibah leered when he walked in, flowers in hand, and Kronnis couldn't blame her! With hollowed cheeks, perfectly neat, dark hair, and power blazing in eyes that shone like dark bloodstones, Tom Riddle looked delicious.
"Really?" the Emperor demanded as soon as this notion flitted its way through Kronnis' mind, his voice oozing with a baffled displeasure. "Voldemort, of all people?"
"That was a subconscious thought!" Kronnis quickly protested, as Hepzibah simpered rather pathetically and tried to feed Tom Riddle a cake. "I can't help having eyes!"
"You can help where they roam," his partner replied in a surly tone.
His words were sharp, but their claws had already distanced themselves from Kronnis' brain to conduct an activity of great importance – the expungement of any consideration he might've given to the swapping of allegiances. Voldemort could've offered a never-ending feast of brains, the world's riches, and more, all worthless in the face of the Emperor's possessive nature. Though the idea of cutting Dumbledore's opponents a mutually beneficial deal had mostly been a product of whimsical jest and the planning of a million and one contingencies, it was now a joke that Kronnis would have to retire.
No matter. The purpose of today's trip down memory lane remained the same – know thy enemy.
The scene continued to play out; Hepzibah fussed over her visitor, twisted around his finger as she was, and dismissed any attempts made to discuss the business he'd supposedly come to perform. She bragged about her hoard of artifacts, historically important and valuable enough to warrant consistent attention from Knockturn Alley's most renowned antiques dealer. It wasn't long before she had Hokey fetch some things worth showing off.
The elf disappeared between footstools and tables, returning with a set of boxes. The first contained a golden cup, finely wrought and with a badger engraved on its front. Tom Riddle, a historian of some skill, immediately identified it as Helga Hufflepuff's, his voice a reverent murmur.
Once Hepzibah had properly emphasized the cup's importance and her distant connection to the Hufflepuff line, it was set aside, replaced by her other treasure. The lid lifted, and this time Kronnis didn't need Tom Riddle's help to identify what lay within. It was Slytherin's locket, apparently bought from Burke years ago and making yet another appearance in this journey through time.
The hunger that had darkened Tom Riddle's expression upon the reveal of the cup now grew into a desire so obvious that even Hepzibah commented on it, asking if he was well.
Kronnis could guess what must have happened soon after, as red eyes followed Hokey and the treasures she was sent to take away. When Dumbledore pulled them out of the memory, it was to no one's surprise when he declared Hepzibah Smith to have been found dead, just two days after the events of this memory.
"Poisoned by her house-elf," he curtly explained. "Supposedly."
"Supposedly," Kronnis echoed with a wry smile. "Just as Morfin murdered those muggles."
Dumbledore nodded. "Her family spent a long time gathering her collections, but both Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket were never found, and the young man who'd worked for Borgin and Burkes disappeared around the same time."
Voldemort was very good at covering up his murders, it seemed. "If he did this to the locket and the diadem," Kronnis said as they returned to Dumbledore's desk, pointing at the items that now held slivers of Voldemort's soul, "then the cup will probably be the same."
"And that ring," the Emperor added, looking at the headmaster. "It is important, somehow. You alluded as much when you mentioned that it had gone missing. These trophies he is collecting, he is turning them into these… things."
Dumbledore didn't respond right away, his vision momentarily sliding past them and into an inscrutable haze. "Voldemort always looked down on his muggle father," was what he then mused, seemingly to himself. "The ring was proof of an ancient lineage, evidence of his place in the wizarding world. As you can imagine, it's difficult to feel like you belong, as an orphan."
Kronnis allowed him a brief moment to gather his thoughts. "You sound like you know him well."
"I did watch him grow up," the headmaster reminded, before shaking himself out of old memories. "Not as well as I'd wish, though. I had my misgivings from the start, when I met him at the orphanage, and kept my distance once he arrived at Hogwarts. I watched as he charmed his way through his professors and his peers, a model student. He even made Head Boy." Dumbledore paused, sighing. "Unfortunately, this mistrust went both ways. If he ever expressed the purpose behind these objects to anyone, it wasn't to those who've been willing to share their memories with me."
"I'm still of the opinion that you've got a lich's collection of phylacteries, here," Kronnis said in the ensuing silence, "but I've learned quite a lot about your magic in the past months, and I haven't figured out how they might've been created, or how he might've used them to return from the dead – if that's even how he did it."
Dumbledore hummed, his eyes trailing over the objects before them. "That is the mystery, is it not?
Another pause punctuated their conversation, and then a subtle burst of psionic energy manifested, reminiscent of the clearing of a throat. Tentacles curled at their tips, and the Emperor's gaze rested heavily on Hogwarts' headmaster. "Several things have come to my attention tonight, Dumbledore," he declared importantly. "First, is that I must commend you on the thoroughness of your investigation. An illithid, blessed with a skillset far better suited to the task you have put yourself to, could hardly have done better. Second, however, is the fact that you are prone to the misuse of both assets and allies."
The headmaster's mouth, previously upturned in pleased smile, flopped open, and Kronnis bit the inside of his cheek.
"You let Harry blunder about in the dark," the Emperor continued, "refusing to illuminate him on the realities of the situation and instead allowing him to risk his own safety with the creation of an illegal study group. Voldemort would love nothing more than to see the boy who lived expelled and sent away from Hogwarts' protection, would he not?"
"It is good to teach students resistance in the face of oppression-"
"Maybe so," the Emperor swiftly interrupted, "but the duties of protecting him and his friends have fallen to us. Something that could have been avoided, had you taken the boy aside to properly explain what your Order is working towards. Now, it is far too late to change the past, though this does lead me to our next issue." A clawed hand was raised, its nails gesturing directly at the headmaster. "Just as Harry wanders about, lacking a sense of purpose, you too are blind to the solutions before your very eyes. If someone will not give you their memories, you must simply ask, and I shall fetch them in your stead."
Behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore blinked, taken aback. "What you're suggesting is a gross violation of privacy. Looking through the minds of Death Eaters is one thing, but to do the same with innocents?"
The Emperor leaned forward, his words low and droning. "I read the paper every morning," he said. "People are dying, Dumbledore, and with each hour that passes we allow Voldemort more time to consolidate his forces."
"Snape would say the same, would he not?" Kronnis chimed in when the headmaster didn't reply. "Nott, Yaxley, the Carrows, and the Malfoys – they're all prepared for war, the moment their master calls on them. We've seen it in their heads. What is the use of spies if you don't listen to their advice?"
Dumbledore's lips thinned. "I'd hoped to avoid underhanded methods," he eventually admitted, and while Kronnis didn't dare peek behind his barriers of Occlumency, he assumed that idealism was being shelved in favor of pragmatic action. "But I do find myself at a loss for alternatives. You will be careful, though? Minds are delicate."
"We haven't addled Lucius yet," Kronnis dryly assured him, before his partner's indignant offense could make itself known. "Just give us a name – someone who seemed like they were hiding something, or who seemed afraid to talk. We'll start there."
"Afraid… yes." Dumbledore slowly stroked his beard in consideration. "A good friend of mind – Horace Slughorn-" he then said, mentioning a shockingly familiar wizard, "-has recently started 'house-hopping'. I had a difficult enough time finding him once. These days, I'm lucky to hear just enough about his movements to confirm that he hasn't been taken by whatever – or whomever – he's running from."
"Horace Slughorn?" Kronnis echoed. "Hogwarts' old Potions Master?"
"You know him?"
"We've exchanged a few letters," he replied, thinking back on near-essay he'd been composing in response to the wizard's latest babbling missive. Next to Snape, who'd refused to add involvement in international trade to his admittedly large pile of responsibilities, Slughorn was one of the few other potioneers qualified enough to bother with. "I can ask if he'd be available to speak in person. Did he teach Voldemort?"
"Ah, I should've figured he'd reach out," the headmaster said, sounding amused. "He's always been fond of collecting those with talent or influence. Tom Riddle certainly fit the bill."
The Emperor leaned forward. "And you think Riddle might have let something slip while at Hogwarts? Something Slughorn could have been involved in?"
Dumbledore frowned at the implication. "Horace is a good man – he just couldn't see past Tom Riddle's gifts. Regardless, he's hiding from something, and refuses speak about Voldemort. I do not think it too much of a stretch to assume these facts connected."
"Well," the Emperor then rumbled, an undertone of amusement in his words and a crafty ploy taking form in his mind. "That is the wonderful thing about brains, Dumbledore. They can easily be tricked into sharing things the mouth would never dare mention."
Y'all every talk to an NPC that's being rude to you and decide to just fireball their ass? That's Kronnis.
On a completely unrelated note, I was scanning drow resources for info recently and realized with horror, fascination, and amusement that I've somehow, unintentionally, written nearly every classic horrible drow trait into my boy. The Emperor is probably into that sort of ruthless goal-setting, but Dumbledore best be careful. His hired help has an underdeveloped moral code and (my personal favorite, of all the descriptions I found that were hilariously on the nose) a tenuous grasp on sanity.