Masterlist I Ao3 link I Chapter Three - Next
Harry James Potter x Reader
Tw: Mature and Explicit/Graphic depictions of violence.
Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle.
Chapter IV: This is a happy house (We're happy here, in the happy house)
The change of robes had been a hasty affair.
He did not wish to be reprimanded for entering the hall in his ‘muggle’ clothes.
When he reunited with you and Luna just at the steps of the door, his nose was still pouring out blood, even if less than before.
The handkerchief you’d given him was soaked red. The white cotton was sure to be left stained no matter how much washed it would be.
It was a pretty thing with embroideries on the sides. He could spy the protruding needlework mark songbirds and roses, once blue and now a crusty deep red.
Blue. The same colour as the tie, stripes and crest of your uniform, the same as Luna’s beside you.
Of course, you are. He thought. Fitting, he supposed. Great minds think alike, after all.
Therefore, it must have been you; he could only assume — the roommate Luna was talking about on the train.
Everywhere and nowhere at once, Luna was right. If until a month ago he didn’t know of your existence, it was as if you had entangled yourself in every way his life went.
The Great Hall was already brimming with students when the three of you walked in. Several students looked up from their meals, their gazes lingering on his blood-stained handkerchief and nose. In the light of the hall, Harry’s blood-spattered face is quite the sight.
Hermione spins, watching the three of you approach, concern etched on her face.
He leaves you and Luna to take his seat at the Gryffindor table, Ginny beside him, while you, hand in hand with Luna, walk towards the seats Choo had left you two.
His eye spies with his hand the way your cloak sways in the air and your hair bounces behind you, your perfume lingering up his nose still.
“Where’ve you been, Harry? And what happened to your face?” Hermione urges in great worry.
“Later” he dismisses “What I’ve missed?”
“Sorting Hat urged us all to be brave and strong in these troubled times -- easy for it to say -- it’s a hat, isn’t it? First Years seemed to enjoy it, though. Wankers.” Ron shrugs as he continues stuffing his pace with the gelatine in his golden plate.
Harry steals a spoonful of it, gulping the only bit of dinner he’ll get tonight.
He hadn’t noticed Ginny and Hermione’s eyes eying the handkerchief with curiosity.
“Where’d you get this from?” Asked Ginny, taking it from him and offering a damp napkin which to clean himself with.
Harry took the napkin, trying to clean the blood from his nose, which had now stopped leaking. "from a friend," he muttered. The vagueness of the response was not lost on his friends.
The indistinction of his answer leaves Hermione and Ginny in an exchange of bewilderment, but they don't press on further, which he is grateful for.
He was in no mood to discuss exactly how he had gotten the handkerchief at all.
“Like the one you came in with? Who was that beside Luna?” Asks Ron in great amusement.
Tease. Frowns Harry. He was sure Ron knew who you were, to a degree, and was just asking for the thrill of the game. He shoots him a warning glare.
"A friend," he repeats, more conviction in his words again, more emphasis on the word.
Before Ron can continue his prodding, the light in the Hall dims gently, and all eyes turn to Dumbledore, standing at the top of the Hall, ashen hand raised to the enchanted ceiling, where clouds respond to his gestures and shroud a gleaming full moon.
Dumbledore always knew how to gain the attention of his students, and it was no different this time.
“What happened to his hand?” Hermione whispers in horror at the sight of the darkened flesh of the professor.
“It was like this the last I saw of him, too,” he tells her, his eyes too stuck on the raised hand.
“The very best of evenings to you! New and old. First off, please join me in welcoming the newest member of our staff, Horace Slughorn.”
Slughorn raises from his seat, plump cheeked from the feast, a few buttons of his big waistcoated loose to let his stomach breathe from his indulgence. He smiles at the future arrays of students and possibilities laid before him.
“Professor Slughorn, I’m happy to say, has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master. Meanwhile, the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts will be assumed by Professor Snape.”
The news is met with stunned silence. Harry groans in his head, and were it not for the bang he took to the head earlier, he might have let his bump on the table right now.
“Now, as you know, each and every one of you was searched upon your arrival tonight. You have a right to know why.” A beat, then “Once there was a young man who, like you, sat in this very Hall. Walked this castle’s corridors. Slept beneath its roof. He seemed, to all the world, a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle.”
The silence is deafening as the name of the darkest wizard of all is uttered so casually, too. It had become easy enough to speak of Voldemort as Voldemort and not as ‘You-Know-Who’. But Tom Riddle? Harry wasn’t sure he was ready to humanise him in such a way as a figure.
“Today, of course, the world knows him by another name. Which is why, as I stand looking out upon you all tonight, I am reminded of a sobering fact. Each day, every hour, this very minute perhaps, dark forces attempt to penetrate this castle. But in the end, their greatest weapon remains… you.”
He knows Dumbledore enough to know his eyes are not just wandering the sea of students for nothing. When his eyes stop, Harry finds that they’ve landed on you.
Dread rises up his troath and washes over him.
Harry turns his eye to watch on you. As unbothered as ever, you hold the gaze of the professor. An understanding is shared between you two.
Dumbledore smiles before his eyes flick to the Slytherin table, where they stare intently at a boy older than he and you —Harry’s do so, too.
He forces his eye to transcend past your figure to watch over him as well.
Tall and lean-faced, he has the cheekbones of a sphynx.
The likeness does not bypass him. When their eyes met, he was taken aback by the same striking eyes you stare at him with.
The same but not in colour.
Whereas yours are alive despite your disposition, his are dull, empty of the life yours alight with.
For a moment, he thinks, Sirius is staring at him again. A younger version of his godfather comes alive once more in this man.
His eyes are adorned with sunk dark caverns that highlight the light colour of his eyes. White, almost, if not grey. His by nature or not, Harry could not decide, but as they narrow in silent fury, he snaps his away from them to land on the seat beside his. On his white-haired companion — Draco.
He slouched low, lazily levitating a fork with his wand as if Dumbledore were unworthy of attention.
He can’t resist the urge to sneer lowly at the blatant show of disregard. Draco's arrogance and lack of respect knew no bounds. No matter the circumstances, the boy never fails to irk him, and Harry has not forgotten their earlier altercation.
This back-and-forth of eyes moving around the room seems to last an eternity, but in reality, it is but a moment lost in time before Dumbledore returns to end his speech.
“Just something to keep in mind. Now, off to bed. Pip pip!”
As Dumbledore dismissed the hall, a collective sigh of relief echoed through the students. Exhaustion washes over Harry and sets deep in his bones.
The day had started with the excitement of seeing Hogwarts again and had ended with the prospect of dark forces trying to penetrate Hogwarts.
His head was hurting just by thinking about it.
"That was cheerful" comments Ron with a small scoff as they rise from the table.
"Yeah," he said dryly, "A real morale booster.”
The heavy atmosphere lingers in the air and sets deep inside of him. The younger students are none the wiser to the implications of tonight’s speech as their chatter fills the air like a song of many voices, eager to be escorted to their common room for the first time in many to come.
Ginny taps his shoulder as they walk, returning him the bloodied handkerchief and it is then, just as he turns to regard her, that he catches the sight of you and that boy talking together.
He freezes just as he is about to put the handkerchief in his pocket, his eyes fixated on you two. There is something in the way you two conversed together that sets him on edge — the closeness, the familiarity, the hand that grips at your arm, protectively and angrily.
Two sides of the same coin and It is only as he sees the two of you side by side, just at the steps of the grand staircase he’d climbed halfway through, that it dawns on him that this boy is the brother Slughorn was insistent about earlier on the train.
It’s uncanny, he thinks. The theatrics of personalities coming alive. You were quiet, calm, almost demure, while from the short and brief interaction, he’s had with him, your brother seemed arrogant, cold, and proud. A true Slytherin, as green as spring grass, the same colour as his robes.
He couldn’t call it a proper ‘interaction’, for it would not be fair, and Harry was a fair person.
They’ve barely met the other's eye, and he was sure that to your brother, he might have come off as a pipping creep for staring at him from where he sat three tables over.
He can see that your brother is in a frenzy about what he’s inquiring about. Harry wishes he were closer so he could hear whatever it was clearly, but alas, he can only slow his steps to delay his departure from the scene any further. Ron, Ginny and Hermione don’t notice his slacking in climbing the steps as they advance forward in order to catch the stair in time, while his feet move to a slow drag as snippets of your brother’s low voice reach his ear.
"Where were you? I was looking for you everywhere, and then in you come, with Potter of all people. Haven’t I told you to stay away from him?”
It is one thing to hear Malfoy’s drawl; it’s another when he hears it from others. He frowned in confusion at the discontent your brother’s voice laced with when speaking his name and the insistence in which he urged you to not engage with him.
"Haven't I told you to be careful? Hasn't Father warned you enough? It's dangerous out there, Y/N! You can't go waltzing around as you please anymore.”
“I can take care of myself.” You neither flinched nor reacted to your brother’s harsh tone.
You knew him better than he did. He didn’t suppose you would shout in his face the few choices of words that came into his mind as he would.
“You think you'll be able to fend yourself against death eaters were they to come knocking at our door? Do you think this is a game you can play the way you do? You can't!” your brother heaved “Why do you wish to let me know what it is to come close to losing you?”
The pain in your brother’s voice was as clear as the night sky outside. He cared for you deeply, and Harry could hear the concern behind his harsh words. He could understand his fear for your safety, even if he didn’t agree with the way he expressed it.
He couldn't help but stare from his shoulder in fascination as you rose on your toes to place a kiss on your brother's cheek. It was a gesture of comfort, a wordless act of reassurance, and despite all, it seemed to come effortlessly from you. He wondered if that's what it was like to have a sibling — someone who would care for you and worry about you like that.
Your brother sighed as you did so. The harsh lines on his face softened slightly at your affectionate gesture.
Harry felt a pang of envy in his chest. It was a tender moment between a brother and a sister, it wasn't meant for his eyes. He felt like an intruder, a witness in something so private and intimate.
He slips away before he can hear what you say to your brother.
“My brother.My dearest brother.” You whisper to him tenderly, “You are not prepared for what is to come, and it will hurt you. But don’t worry, I’m with you, Leyton. I love you.”
Your brother is pained, he shows as much. His eyes are weary and wet as he places a hand on your cheek.
"I just want to protect you," he mutters.
You place a hand on his and give him a gentle squeeze, a silent reassurance.
He knows that he cannot protect you forever, but for a moment, he can cling to that hope as he draws a shaky breath and kisses your forehead.
That night, Harry finds no sleep, even back in the comforts of the warm bed with red and yellow beddings. But neither does Ron, apparently.
The two talk for hours on end before they truly grow tired.
Ron asks about Harry’s nose, and Harry is lucky enough that Ron has known him for so long that he doesn’t laugh at the tale. In turn, Harry tells him what he heard before the altercation.
“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson. What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?”
“How d'you know Voldemort doesn't need someone at Hogwarts?” Argues Harry.
“Whatever for would he?” Shrugs Ron.
Harry shakes his head, knowing it's a losing battle. He knows his suspicions are not unfounded, but perhaps a part of him understands why Ron didn't believe him. Ron is a logical person, even if he is a bit dense at times.
"You're not taking Care of Magical Creatures this year, are you?" Ron shook his head.
"And you're not either, are you?" Harry shook his head, too.
"And Hermione," said Ron, "she's not, is she?"
“I think not. I’m also not taking Divination.”
Ron snorts but tries to hide behind a sneeze. Harry knows better.
"Oh, nothing" Ron mutters, trying to maintain a straight face.
“Come on, Ron, I heard you already. Spill it," said Harry
"It's nothing, just-" Ron tries, but he bites his lip to muffle a chuckle "That girl. Abelar's daughter. She's like the best in our class in divination. Wouldn't have thought you would drop out now that you've got a friend such as her to help you out.”
The emphasis on the word “friend” was not lost on Harry.
“We know each other," he said dryly.
"Since when?" Ron is confused, and perhaps he’s right to be. "Have you actually ever met her before tonight? You didn't even know of her existence until what? a few hours ago?”
"I know her well enough.”
But he doesn't. Sure, you two have this thing where for an entire month of his summer, you've done nothing but enter his head, make him see dreams you wished for him to dream, whisper some intelligible words he's supposed to pass as prophetic and warn him against the danger coming by the result of Voldemort's return. But apart from that, what was there he knew? That you were fond of walking? That you smell of vanilla and warm cotton sheets? That you like ribbons?
"She seems nice” The words feel wrong as they come out of his mouth.
Nice isn't enough to define you at all. You are captivating, fascinating, bewitching, and strange… but "nice" feels almost offensive… to you. You’ve been more than nice. You’d saved his skin a few hours prior when you had no obligation to. Not everyone would do that.
“Sure she is” murmured Ron “She’s weird.”
“That’s rude, Ron”, argues Harry, and all of a sudden, he’s ready to defend your honour as if it meant the death of him.
"You don't know the whole of it, Harry. She used to come visit the burrow with her lot of the family. Mom’s relatives, distant and all. One time, there was an accident. I was eight or something. She'd been murmuring and muttering things all day to herself, attached to her father’s hip. Then, he leaves a moment, you turn your back, and next thing you know, she's on the floor, convulsing as her eyes roll back, and she’s choking on her tongue while she turns blue. I had nightmares for days on end.”
"That's terrible", Harry mutters, feeling sympathy for you. "But she was a child too, Ron. Whatever it was, can you fault it on her?"
"No, I suppose not" he responded quietly after a few moments.
"Then, it's hardly fair to call her weird, is it?”
"I guess not" he concedes with a reluctant sigh."Just…be careful, alright? There’s something about her…”
The ceiling of the Great Hall was serenely blue and streaked with frail, wispy clouds, just like the squares of the sky visible through the high-mullioned windows as they tucked into porridge and eggs and bacon the morning after.
The distribution of class schedules was more complicated than usual this year, for Professor McGonagall needed first to confirm that everybody had achieved the necessary O.W.L. grades to continue with their chosen N.E.W.T.s.
Turns out that spending his free period watching the parade of confused first-years wandering around trying to find their way was more entertaining than he thought, especially when it got Professor McGonagall in a frenzy.
Until it wasn’t, and in a moment, he’s beckoned forward by her with a disapproving shake of her head as he ‘swarm upstream’.
“Enjoying ourselves, are we?”
“I’ve had a free period this morning, professor—“
“So I’ve noticed” McGonagall chastised. “I would think you’d want to fill it with Potions. Or is it no longer your ambition to become an Auror?”
“W-Well” he stutters “It was but I was told I had to get an Outstanding in my O.W.L. —“
“And so you did when Professor Snape was teaching Potions. However, Professor Slughorn is perfectly happy to accept N.E.W.T. students with ‘Exceeds Expectations.’” She smiled, oh so happily.
“Really? Well… brilliant. I’ll head there straight away”
“Good. And take Weasley with you. He looks far too happy over there.”
He does, and Ron has not stopped complaining about it still, arguing he had to practice for the Quidditch tryouts.
The class is packed, and the both of them look like two deers out of the headlight as everyone turns to stare at them the moment they enter. But they’re not embarrassed enough not to wrestle for the newer copy of the textbook in the abandoned cupboard. In the end, Ron stands triumphant as he goes off grinning, while Harry is left to stand defeated with the old, shabby and soiled copy.
As they settle in place among the crowd watching Hermione explaining the functions of Amortetia, Harry’s eyes settle on the little vial held in a ladle.
“You haven’t told us what’s in that one?” Ketie Bell asks.
“Ah, yes!” Slughorn smiles “What you see before you, ladies and gentlemen, is a curious little potion known as Felix Felicis. But it is more commonly referred to as —“
Before even Hermione can but in, a voice in the back calls for the name.
A buzz runs through the class. Even Malfoy perks up. The crowd parts, their heads turning in the direction of the sound, even Harry’s.
Your eyes and his meet in a locked battle of who can withstand the longest the sight of the other.
Today, you seem light. Your hair is not loose but up into a loose updo. He can spy the lilac strings holding it together.
It gives you an almost juvenile look. It makes you look younger, and the fact that your eyes were not as sunken as they usually were may be the result of a good night's sleep. Which you much need, you must admit.
You smile his way, in that heavenly but soulless way that carries a thousand agonies.
But while he held the sight with no problem, those beside you look as if they have seen a ghost. Some back away, if slightly, in startled surprise from you.
"Yes, Miss Gaunt.Correct!" grins Slughorn. You were really proving his words on the train yesterday right, and it was just the first day of classes.
"Ten points to Ravenclaw. Now, this potion is desperately tricky to make. Disastrous should you get it wrong. One sip and you will find that all your endeavours succeed… at least until the effects wear off.”
Harry watches Hermione’s shoulders sag at being preceded for the answer, and he smiles at her reassuringly.
"But be warned!” Slughorn adds in a solemn voice “Taken in excess, it may cause overconfidence and recklessness. So. This is what I offer each of you today. One tiny vial of liquid luck to the student who, in the hour that remains, manages to brew an acceptable Draught of Living Death, the recipe for which can be found on page ten of your book.”
Excitement seizes the class, and Slughorn smiles knowingly.
“You should know that in all the years of my previous tenure at Hogwarts, not once did a student brew a potion of sufficient quality to claim this prize. In any event — good luck! Let the brewing commence.”
The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws, including you. To his luck, his table and yours were not far from each other. That meant he could blissfully gaze whenever he wanted from across Hermione’s shoulder and there you would be, working on your own potion.
He tries not to think about it too much, as he finally opens the used book, only to find something else to worry about. The margins of the page before him are black with the tight scribblings of a previous owner. As he turns on the following, rows of graffiti, or rather notes, fill the pages going forth through the book.
Shaking his head, Harry runs his finger under the first printed instruction for one cauldron of Draught of Living Death.
“Cut up one Sopophorous bean.”
That had not proved to be the most useless of instructions, for the whole potion was wriggling with imperfections and misleading him in all ways. His silver dagger had not made a dent on the bean he was supposed to cut open. He had to instead duck from Ron’s bean, who shot across the room to bounce off Katie’s head.
Upon further inspection, Harry finds that everyone is struggling, not just to cut the resistant legume. He considers the instruction again. He notices an arrow has been drawn from the word “Cut” to the margin, where a modification has been written in the tight scrawl:
“Crush with blade -- releases juice better.”
Harry considers the dagger in his hand, then places the flat of the blade against the bean and presses. Instantly, the protective parchment covering the desk runs red with juice.
Despite his progress, Hermione is insistent that whatever he’s doing is wrong, even as doubt begins to gum at her when her potion goes awry midway through the process. But as he proceeded on, he and his mind were as calm as the gentle draft from the mountain on the horizon outside the window.
His eyes are divided between his cauldron, the book and you, who had sat on one of the stools, reading your textbook intently, your cauldron long forgotten. You do so without a care in the world, even as Slughorn comes to eye down on it and frowns at your lack of activity.
“Not working on your potion, Miss Gaunt?” Slughorn asks, his frown of disapproval making him look more like a bearded bulldog.
You look up from your book, unbothered by his words, as you smile at him in that way that makes the professor bristle.
“This potion's all wrong, Professor.” You affirm, leaving him in speechless confusion.
He can't help but snicker, if only under his breath. Hermione, beside him, is staring at you, too, wide-eyed, mouth agape at the blunt way in which you had chosen to answer the professor.
But Slughorn, as he often does in these situations, laughs it off.
“I suppose you need not worry about failing, now, do you?”
Slughorn chuckled again as he patted your slumped form on the shoulder.
“Of course you won’t.” He mutters, before moving on as if to look over Malfoy’s progress, cut had just cut himself, cursing.
Harry, cool as a cucumber, adds one last ingredient, steps back, done…
Hermione, hair like Medea now, glowers at him.
Slughorn drops a rose petal in his cauldron, the two, or rather four, well five if he counts you as well, of them at the table, watch as it drops on the pearly sheer bubbling liquid.
“Merlin’s Beard! It is perfect. So perfect I daresay one drop would kill us all! Your mother was a dab hand at potions, but this… My, my, what can’t you do, m’boy? Perhaps you will save us all in the end…”
But his success is not met with the same enthusiasm by the exhausted crowd that stands before him as he’s handed the vial signifying his success.
“Here you are then, as promised. One bottle of Felix Felicis. Use it well.”
One clap, another reluctant follows until they’re all clapping.
No, you just stare at him with that knowing look of yours as your eyes skim his face to land on the hand behind his back that holds the book to him secretly.
Harry knows you know about the book, he can feel it. And he can’t help but feel like a hypocrite under your stare. A fraud, almost, for how he had come to achieve such a success.
But he doesn’t dwell on it as much as he would like to. Because as his gaze locks with yours once more, the look of boredom on your face is gone, replaced by an almost…pride. He has no words for it.
Harry slipped the tiny bottle of golden liquid into his inner pocket, feeling an odd combination of delight at the furious looks on the Slytherins' faces and guilt at the disappointed expression on Hermione's. Ron looked simply dumbfounded.
The rest of the day was spent flying between lessons to lessons, but alas, to his dismay he didn’t see the likes of you until the evening. And in the most unexpected way.
Dumbledore has called for him to his office, through a letter given to him by Jack Sloper, one of the Beaters on last year's Gryffindor Quidditch team, who was more interested in asking him when he would hold the tryouts than why he was delivering a letter from the headmaster to him.
It was late at night and for all rights, he should not be out of his bed, room, or common room altogether, but with the special permission he held between his hands, he was free to roam his way to the office as he pleased, taking as long as he liked.
He reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall.
"Acid Pops," was the word he’d been given instructions to use, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry stepped so that he was carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's Office.
He stopped just a few paces short of the office's door as he heard two voices coming from inside of it. His ears perked, and he paused, his hand hovering over the handle, listening curiously.
"Say, my dear. Have you made any progress with him?”
that was Dumbledore's voice, he was sure, but who was he speaking with?
"I think so, Sir" the voice responded "He's troubled. His mind is dark. Filled with the darkest of times, memories, and visions. He's plagued, but he remains strong and valiant…The road ahead is uncertain, but the end is clear. I can see it.”
You took a deep breath, one that filled your lungs and made your chest burn like fire.
“When the dark dims, and the sun sets, his presence in him shall end.”
It’s you. He knows it's you. He's grown accustomed to the way you speak. But there’s something in you. Something he can only recall to the night in the forest. Your voice, soft, feminine and as breathy as always holds the same authority as Dumbledore’s. A sureness as firm and calm as a sea on a moonless night.
"His presence…" Dumbledore echoed, his voice solemn as if the very words haunted him.
"That sounds rather poetic, my dear," he hears a hint of a smile in the man’s voice. "I suppose we should trust your judgment on the matter. I know better than to question your judgment by now. But say. You are sure of this?" He asks
"As sure as I can be" you affirmed "As sure as the oracles are.”
“The oracles have been wrong before, you know?”
“That remains to be seen”, he mused “But your confidence is admirable, to say the least. Very well, my dear. You've done as I've asked, and for that, you have my graciousness, but i'm afraid that we must end our conversation short, for we are not alone anymore.”
The door flows open before Harry, surely by the flick of magic, revealing his form before he can hide. Dumbledore smiled at him from where he sat at his desk, and before it stood you, who tilted your head in that captivating way of yours.
He stiffens under the watchful eyes. Dumbledore smiled a benevolent smile at his discomfort.
“Ah, there you are, Harry. I trust you had little trouble finding your way here?”
"Yes, Sir" his voice is as weary as his form as he steps into the office. He eyes the open pensive on the side. "You wanted to see me?”
“Quite right” Dumbledore regards you with a warm smile “Thank you, Y/N. We will finish this conversation another time.”
You nod, giving him one last look before leaving the office and closing the door behind you. His nose catches the scent of puff pastry lingering among all the others he’s become familiar with. He waits until the sound of your steps fades before turning back to Dumbledore.
The question is simple but it makes Harry smile.
“Enjoying your classes? Professor Slughorn for one is most impressed by you.”
“I think he overestimates my abilities, sir.” He chuckled sheepishly.
Dumbledore smiles affectionately, a twinkle in his eye, and nods.
“That young lady doesn’t.”
Harry feels his face warm ever so slightly. The twinkle in the old man’s eye is almost as if he could read Harry’s mind.
“She tells me lots about you" the man comments offhandedly "It's no wonder, I presume, after the time you two have spent together.”
The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye has turned sharper, observant almost, and Harry can’t but feel like Dumbledore is trying to read all the thoughts in his head.
It’s almost like the man had known about your little…dream encounters.
"Quite pretty she is, no?”
That snaps him out of his thoughts. "What?" he asked, his voice a bit too quick.
Dumbledore chuckled, a knowing smile on his face.
"I said, she's quite pretty, isn't she?" he repeated his tone light.
"Um…yeah," Harry replied, a bit unsure of where this conversation was going.
"Very bright too," said Dumbledore "Though, I do suppose she does not play the part well"
Harry raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” He asked, feeling as if he was purposely being played at. You did that often enough.
"Unfortunately for our dear Y/N, her sight got the better of her when she was born," said Dumbledore "Some may perceive her as rather…odd. Different, no? But, as I used to say, it is what's beneath the surface that shows the true iron beneath. But on the contrary to what people might think, that one is a very bright and reasonably good witch at that. That and much more she is," he smiled "I'm sure in time, you will see what she's able to do as well.”
He took every single word in, absorbing it as if he were a dry sponge. He mulled the words, taking care not to put his own bias in them. He was silent for a moment, thinking, before finally speaking up again. Sight? he would have to ask about that later.
"How do you know so much about her, Professor?”
"I know much and more. Harry" Dumbledore said, before standing from his chair "but why don't I show it to you?"
The look on Harry’s face is one of confusion and curiosity as Dumbledore stepped around from his desk and made his way to the pensive. He swings open a cabinet where dozens upon dozens of glittering vials stand like tiny glimmering soldiers.
"You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything," said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added.
"And so I did," said Dumbledore placidly. "I told you everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."
"But you think you're right?" said Harry.
"Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. Being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger. Mine own mind does not stand the test of time, and time fades like a memory, which is why sometimes we must rely on murky methods to remember.”
Harry looked at the pensive then between Dumbledore and the basin, his curiosity slowly growing with every word out of Dumbledore's mouth, only to be followed with more and more questions as Dumbledore spoke.
Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension. His previous experiences with the odd device that stored and revealed thoughts
and memories, though highly instructive, had also been uncomfortable. The last time he had disturbed its contents, he had seen much more than he would have wished. But Dumbledore was smiling.
“I’m just…confused. I feel..like a pawn in some bigger game I’m not playing at,” said Harry, voice quiet.
Dumbledore gave him a sympathetic and perhaps a bit guilty look as he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.
"I am sorry, Harry," he said, sincerely "I know you have been burdened with so much. So much has been left on your shoulders, and it is far too unfair. But it is a necessary burden. I have confidence, in you, in your courage and in your strength. There is a long journey ahead, Harry, but I have every faith in you. You will not carry it alone.”
He gave the man a bitter smile. Who would choose this path willingly? All those who wished to be the ‘Chosen One’, how much would they still wish for the same if they were standing here right now?
The memory falls in the waters of the pensive as it swims along its current. He pushed his face in, and in a moment, he was no longer in the comforts of Dumbledore’s office, where the warmth of the fireplace seeped in him, and the dim light almost made him sleepy.
He’s in a country lane, bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. Some ten feet in front of him stands a short, plump man wearing enormously thick glasses that reduced his eyes to molelike specks.
He follows after him as the man sets off on a frisky walk. Nothing on the horizon graces this short way, with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead.
Harry could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton from what Dumbledore had told him, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible.
Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawns.
He follows him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them.
Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it took Harry's eyes the beat of a moment before they could discern the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks.
Harry knows it’s there the man is heading.
Its walls were mossy, and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. It looks inhabited, and it should be by its condition, but there are signs of life all around it if one has a keen eye to spy on it.
Like, the dead snake some had nailed by the front door.
The place in front of him leaves him a furry of thoughts, all snapped away by the sound of a rustle and a crack, and the show of a man in rags dropping from the nearest tree.
“You’re not welcome.” He hisses, but the man before him does not seem to understand the boy.
The boy — or man?— had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any colour. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions, almost serpentinely. He might have looked comical, but he did not. He was frightening, and Harry could not blame the man for backing away several more paces, as he did, as well as if he might be affected by the memory himself before he spoke.
“Good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —" "You're not welcome."
"Er — I'm sorry — I don't understand you,” the man said, nervously.
But Harry does. He understands well.
Parseltongue. A sibilistic sound.
The boy in rags was now advancing on the man, knife in one hand, wand in the other. Until a bang and the man was on the ground, clutching his nose in pain.
”Morfin!" said a loud voice, angry, raging from the cottage, where an elderly man came hurrying out of, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically.
This one is even shorter than the first and oddly proportioned. With shoulders broad and arms too long and grown. His bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face gave him the look of a powerful, aged, distorted monkey. He came to a halt beside the boy with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.
"Ministry, is it?" said the older man, looking down at Ogden.
"Correct!" The one on the ground shouts angrily, dabbing his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?"
Gaunt. The name leaves Harry’s troath dry and his lungs without breath. This is your family, your blood. And the scene before him suddenly makes much more sense.
"Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?" said Gaunt aggressively. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself."
“Busybodies and Intruders like you! Muggles and filth." Mr Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin. "Get in the house. Don't argue."
Morfin looks over at him with a resentful look, before disappearing inside the house, the door banging shut behind him.
"It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt!” argues the man, as he mops after himself "That was Morfin, wasn't it?"
“What’d you want from him?”
“I've no use for owls," said Gaunt. "I don't open letters."
"Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors," said Ogden tartly. "I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning —"
“Alright, alright. Just get in the bleeding house!!”
The house is tiny, and so are its rooms. It’s cramped, maybe just like the cupboard he used to sleep in. Two doors led off the main room, used both as a kitchen and living room combined. Morfin is off to the side, sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue.
A scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window takes on Harry’s attention as he realises there is somebody else in the room with them.
A girl wearing a ragged grey dress the exact colour of the dirty stone wall behind her. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, her hair a lanky and dull brown and a plain, pale, rather heavy face set in a frown. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Harry thought he had never seen a more defeated-looking person.
"M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.
“That’s two. May I inquire about your eldest? Denyse Gau-“
“Do not speak that blasted name in my house!” howls Gaunt “That bitch is dead to me! To all of us! She chose her new ‘family’ over us! I will not have her be spoken of in my presence or in this house! I’ll be dead before that happens!"
At the raging, the girl looks up, fear evident on her face.
“Ssh!” she muttered, casting a horrified look at her father “Do you want Morfin to hear you -?”
"I don’t care!” snarled Gaunt, his face purpling with rage again. “Let him hear it anyway! He knows too what your sister has chosen! Money, riches over her own blood!”
The girl seemed more frightened than ever at her father’s words. She muttered something inaudible as she went back to her work by the stove.
The man in the coat seems almost as nervous as the girl, his eyes flickering towards Morfin, who is still sitting in the armchair with the snake in his hands.
“Mr. Gaunt," said the man with caution, “I’m not here for your family’s quarrels. I have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night.”
There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.
"Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle. What’s your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"
"Mr. Gaunt," Ogden began again, "as I've said: the reason for my visit —"
"I heard you the first time!" snapped Gaunt. "And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him. What about it, then?"
“Morfin has broken Wizarding law,” said Ogden, clenching his hands inside his pockets “The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.”
He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.
"What's that, then, his sentence?" said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily.
"It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —"
"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?"
"I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," argues Ogden.
"And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Gaunt, advancing on the man with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. "Scum, who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?"
The fear is clear as day on Ogden's face at Gaunt's outburst. But his voice remains strong as he replies.
"I was under the impression that I was talking to Mr. Gaunt. And I seem to have a memory of the conversation turning to your son Morfin rather than yourself.”
“You are speaking to him!” Roared Gaunt.
For a moment, Harry thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before the man’s eyes with great pride.
"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"
The man tries to dismiss Gaunt’s flaunting, but with a howl of rage, Gaunt runs toward his daughter. Harry’s heartbeat to a mile as he thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat. His feet move ever slightly as if he could help the girl in any way, but the next moment, Gaunt is dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.
"See this?" he shakes a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.
"I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily.
"Slytherins!" yelled Gaunt. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"
"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!!" said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope, who staggered away from him falling on her knees, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air.
The show horrifies Harry.
"So!" said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. "Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — more than you can say, I don't doubt!"
“Quite so,” said Ogden loudly, "but you seem to have been present on the night that Morfin performed a jinx that rendered a Muggle completely mad, so you will understand that the Ministry had to act.”
“Quiet!” The boy falls silent again.
"Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —"
Ogden breaks off his commentary, as does Harry, when he catches the jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices drifting in through the open window by Merope, who raises her head, a starkly white.
"My God, what an eyesore!" rang out a girl's voice, as clear as though she were in the room beside theirs "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"
"It's not ours," said a young man's voice. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —"
The girl laughed, a girlish sound. Morfin made to get out of his armchair, a mad look in his eyes.
"Keep your seat," said his father warningly, in Parseltongue.
"Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were right beside the house, "I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?"
"Good lord, you're right!" said the man's voice. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling.”
The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing faint again.
"'Darling,'" whispered Morfin in Parseltongue, looking at his sister. "'Darling, he called her. So he wouldn't have you anyway."
Merope was so white Harry felt sure she was going to faint as she looked back at her brother.
“What did you say, Morfin?" Gaunt's voice is dangerously low and for a moment they all forget about the minister, even Harry.
"Nothing," muttered Morfin, turning back to the fire. "'Darling,' he called her," he spat again quietly. “She likes looking at that Muggle. Always in the garden when he passes, peering through the hedge at him, isn't she? And last night — "
Morfin stares at his sister with a vicious look on his face, who now looks terrified as her father inches on her.
"Is it true?" said Gaunt in a deadly voice, advancing a step or two toward the terrified girl. "My daughter—pure-blooded descendant of Salazar Slytherin — hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?"
Merope shook her head frantically, pressing herself into the wall, apparently unable to speak.
"But I got him, Father!" cackled Morfin. "I got him as he went by and he didn't look so pretty with hives all over him. Did he, Merope?
Harry’s eyes widen as Gaunt goes for his daughter’s troath. He shouts but the sound is muffled through the sound barrier between the world of the living and that of memories. Ogden raised his wand and cried for him "Relaskio!"
But he’s off. The moment he blasted Gaunt, he was chased by Morfin, wielding a bloody knife as his weapon. But the memory does not stop, so he goes after them.
The man runs for his life. Merope’s screams haunt the scene before him even as they grow distant, and it is only then the memory ends — as he watches Ogden leap and fall into a chestnut horse ridden by the handsome, dark-haired young man whom it has been revealed Merope had the fancy for, as his companions beside him ring in laughter — that he can finally breathe again.
He leaps his face out of the pensive with eyes wide and mind blank at what he’s just witnessed.
His stomach feels all over the place, and the chicken he’s had for dinner threatens to make its way out of his stomach, as well as the bonbons he indulged in for dessert.
"What was that, Sir?" he whispers in great agitation.
“The Gaunts,” said Dumbledore, raising Harry a glass of water for him to take “the beginning of a very long story, that I fear we won’t finish tonight.”
"Were those….?" he leaves his question hanging, but Dumbledore understands what he's asking. Your ancestors.
“Yes,” Dumbledore answers, “Y/N's family. Her ancestors.” he sighs deeply "Though the ones she descends from are not part of this memory, apart from Marvolo, of course.”
"Marvolo?" Harry repeated wonderingly. “As in?”
"That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. “Voldemort's grandfather, yes. Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope. The last of the Gaunts, or so it was believed for a very long time. A very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense, coupled with a great liking for grandeur, meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."
You and Voldemort. It strikes fear into his heart. What if he's been commuting with the enemy all along?
Harry wants to ask more, so many questions, but Dumbledore holds a hand up.
“Have patience, all will be explained”
"What happened to those in this memory?" he all but asks “Did any of them survive? The girl, Merope, did she..?”
“You might wish you’d never asked. Survived she did, indeed, that and much more. That man, the minister, Ogden apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo received six months."
"So Merope," he’s star-struck. If the things coming together in his brain are right then that would mean ”She was…Voldemort's mother?"
“She was,” his sense is proven right. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?"
“The man the brother attacked,” he concludes.
“Tom Riddle senior. The handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion."
His brows furrow. But in the memory, Tom looked happily in love with that woman — what was it? Cecilia? Cecily?— so when did the two get together? Dumbledore watches the confusion etch into Harry’s face.
“You’re forgetting who Merope was” he instructs Harry, helping him solve the puzzle “A witch,despite all. I do not believe that her abilities appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorised by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. Can you guess how?”
“The Imperius curse?” Or better, he recalled what Hermine’d been tested on just this morning. “Or love potion…”
“I’m inclined to the latter. Seems more romantic for a girl in such pessimistic circumstances, no? Shines a bright light upon her dreary outlook. In any case, within a few months of the scene, we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope. But no one was more shocked than Marvolo himself, for when he returned, the shack was empty of his daughter’s presence, and only a note had been left behind. He never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage."
He did the same with his daughter as he’d done to the other one.
“There was another mentioned…” Harry trails off, trying to remember the name. “D-…Denyse?”
"Oh, yes. Denyse. Now that's another story," said Dumbledore. But I fear I've kept you up too late. Perhaps we can discuss it tomorrow?”
“Right,” Harry said as he stood to leave. “I’d like that. But as for Merope. Did she die? She did, didn't she? Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?”
"Indeed, she did. But as for the tale of how it happened, I must do a little guessing. Within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumour was that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment now lifted. But, of course, people come up to their own conclusions, and the villagers may have guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby and that he had married her for this reason."
"But she did have his baby."
"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant."
“Why did the love potion stop working?" Harry asked as he himself thought of the reason as to why.
"I believe that Merope, deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. She may have chosen to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son."
The sky outside was inky black, and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before, indicating the rather late hour.
"I think that will do for tonight, Harry," said Dumbledore after a moment or two.
He got to his feet but did not leave.
Harry had to ask, even though there was something in him that didn’t want to know.
”Professor.” He began before taking a deep breath. “Why have you allowed familiarisation with the Gaunt siblings and for them to remain at Hogwarts despite being…Voldemort’s family?”
Dumbledore smiled faintly at the question, an almost mischievous twinkle in his eye. "I was waiting for you to ask," he confessed pleasantly.
“You know what they say. Keep your friends close…”
“And your enemies closer.” Finished Harry, voice above a breathy whisper. “But, Y/N—“
“Y/N is very valuable. Keep that in mind. An ally of mine” he looks at Harry, eyes serious “and yours. Remember that. As is the whole of her family.” He smiles in that knowing way “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Harry looked back at Dumbledore, a look of understanding passing between the two. He nodded, a realization washing over him.
"Thank you, Professor," he said, heading to the door.
“Oh, and Harry?” Dumbledore calls after him.
Harry paused, standing in the doorway, ready to leave.
"You may find that a good night's sleep does very well for the nerves" Again that smile, but this time it takes an amusing edge. "a dreamless empty sleep.”
It takes a moment for it to click, and when it does, Harry can feel a hint of a red tinge over his cheeks, flushing to his ears, which feel as if they might explode.
Despite the bewildered he feels, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth before saying, “I'll try. Good night.”
Who knew the old man could pull some jokes like that?
I was thinking that this story has grown its own following by now. Would anyone be interested in a taglist?
