‘That’s settled, then,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll want regular reports, but make sure I’m not surrounded by people when you turn up. Ron and Hermione are OK. And don’t tell anyone what you’re doing. Just stick to Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters.’
— CHAPTER TWENTY —
Lord Voldemort’s Request
Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning, restored to full health by the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was friends with Ron again. Hermione even escorted them down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that Ginny had argued with Dean. The drowsing creature in Harry’s chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the air hopefully.
‘What did they row about?’ he asked, trying to sound casual as they turned into a seventh-floor corridor which was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth-years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying.
‘It’s all right!’ said Hermione kindly, hurrying forwards to help her. ‘Here …’ She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, ‘Reparo.’
The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.
‘I swear they’re getting smaller,’ he said.
‘Never mind her,’ said Harry, a little impatiently. ‘What did Ginny and Dean row about, Hermione?’
‘Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludger at you,’ said Hermione.
‘It must’ve looked funny,’ said Ron reasonably.
‘It didn’t look funny at all!’ said Hermione hotly. ‘It looked terrible, and if Coote and Peakes hadn’t caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!’
‘Yeah, well, there was no need for Ginny and Dean to split up over it,’ said Harry, still trying to sound casual. ‘Or are they still together?’
‘Yes, they are – but why are you so interested?’ asked Hermione, giving Harry a sharp look.
‘I just don’t want my Quidditch team messed up again!’ he said hastily, but Hermione continued to look suspicious, and he was most relieved when a voice behind them called, ‘Harry!’, giving him an excuse to turn his back on her.
‘Oh, hi, Luna.’
‘I went to the hospital wing to find you,’ said Luna, rummaging in her bag. ‘But they said you’d left …’
She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron’s hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Harry.
‘… I’ve been told to give you this.’
It was a small roll of parchment, which Harry recognised at once as another invitation to a lesson with Dumbledore.
‘Tonight,’ he told Ron and Hermione, once he had unrolled it.
‘Nice commentary last match!’ said Ron to Luna, as she took back the green onion, the toadstool and the cat litter. Luna smiled vaguely.
‘You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Everyone says I was dreadful.’
‘No, I’m serious!’ said Ron earnestly. ‘I can’t remember enjoying commentary more! What is this, by the way?’ he added, holding the onionlike object up to eye-level.
‘Oh, it’s a Gurdyroot,’ she said, stuffing the cat litter and the toadstool back into her bag. ‘You can keep it if you like, I’ve got a few of them. They’re really excellent for warding off Gulping Plimpies.’
And she walked away, leaving Ron chortling, still clutching the Gurdyroot.
‘You know, she’s grown on me, Luna,’ he said, as they set off again for the Great Hall. ‘I know she’s insane, but it’s in a good –’
He stopped talking very suddenly. Lavender Brown was standing at the foot of the marble staircase looking thunderous.
‘Hi,’ said Ron nervously.
‘C’mon,’ Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped past, though not before they had heard Lavender say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were getting out today? And why was she with you?’
Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them exchange a word all the time they were together. Hermione was acting as though she was quite oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day she seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that evening in the common room she even consented to look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry’s Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to that point, because she had known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work.
‘Thanks a lot, Hermione,’ said Harry, giving her a hasty pat on the back as he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o’clock. ‘Listen, I’ve got to hurry or I’ll be late for Dumbledore …’
She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning, Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to the Headmaster’s office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of toffee eclairs and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door just as a clock within chimed eight.
‘Enter,’ called Dumbledore, but as Harry put out a hand to push the door, it was wrenched open from inside. There stood Professor Trelawney.
‘Aha!’ she cried, pointing dramatically at Harry as she blinked at him through her magnifying spectacles. ‘So this is the reason I am to be thrown unceremoniously from your office, Dumbledore!’
‘My dear Sybill,’ said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, ‘there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does have an appointment and I really don’t think there is any more to be said –’
‘Very well,’ said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. ‘If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it … perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated …’
She pushed past Harry and disappeared down the spiral staircase; they heard her stumble halfway down and Harry guessed that she had tripped over one of her trailing shawls.
‘Please close the door and sit down, Harry,’ said Dumbledore, sounding rather tired.
Harry obeyed, noticing as he took his usual seat in front of Dumbledore’s desk that the Pensieve lay between them once more, as did two more tiny crystal bottles full of swirling memory.
‘Professor Trelawney still isn’t happy Firenze is teaching, then?’ Harry asked.
‘No,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the Forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside the castle. She does not know – and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her – that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see.’
Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, ‘But never mind my staff problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly – have you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?’
‘Ah,’ said Harry, brought up short. What with Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor Slughorn … ‘Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn’t give it to me.’
There was a little silence.
‘I see,’ said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. ‘And you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercis
ed all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?’
‘Well,’ Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. ‘Well … the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood –’
‘And did that work?’ asked Dumbledore.
‘Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned –’
‘– which, naturally, made you forget all about trying to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it became clear that Mr Weasley was going to make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very important that memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it.’
A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Harry’s head all the way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.
‘Sir,’ he said, a little desperately, ‘it isn’t that I wasn’t bothered or anything, I’ve just had other – other things …’
‘Other things on your mind,’ Dumbledore finished the sentence for him. ‘I see.’
Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore’s head. Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had shrunk a little since he had entered the room.
When he could stand it no longer he said, ‘Professor Dumbledore, I’m really sorry. I should have done more … I should have realised you wouldn’t have asked me to do it if it wasn’t really important.’
‘Thank you for saying that, Harry,’ said Dumbledore quietly. ‘May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little point our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory.’
‘I’ll do it, sir, I’ll get it from him,’ Harry said earnestly.
‘Then we shall say no more about it just now,’ said Dumbledore more kindly, ‘but continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry quickly. ‘Voldemort killed his father and his grandparents and made it look as though his uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked … he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes,’ he mumbled shamefacedly.
‘Very good,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?’
Harry nodded.
‘But now, Harry,’ said Dumbledore, ‘now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you.’ Dumbledore indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. ‘I shall then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely.’
The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this highly made Harry feel even more deeply ashamed that he had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it.
‘I hope you are not tired of diving into other people’s memories, for they are curious recollections, these two,’ he said. ‘This first one came from a very old house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts.
‘He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Special Award for Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes.’
‘At Borgin and Burkes?’ Harry repeated, stunned.
‘At Borgin and Burkes,’ repeated Dumbledore calmly. ‘I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey’s memory. But this was not Voldemort’s first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time – I was one of the few in whom the then Headmaster confided – but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher.’
‘He wanted to stay here? Why?’ asked Harry, more amazed still.
‘I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet,’ said Dumbledore. ‘Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home.’
Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts, too.
‘Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.
‘And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army.’
‘But he didn’t get the job, sir?’
‘No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach.’
‘How did you feel about that, sir?’ asked Harry hesitantly.
‘Deeply uneasy,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I had advised Armando against the appointment – I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty – but I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this school, and especially not in a position of power.’
‘Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?’
Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it.
‘Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.
‘So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specialises, as you know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this.’
‘I’ll bet he was,’ said Harry, unable to contain himself.
/> ‘Well, quite,’ said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. ‘And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith.’
Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork flew out and he tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, ‘After you, Harry.’
Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his face touched them. He tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was looking into a small jewelled mirror and dabbing rouge on to her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers.
‘Hurry up, Hokey!’ said Hepzibah imperiously. ‘He said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to and he’s never been late yet!’
She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf ’s head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah’s chair and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga.
‘How do I look?’ said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror.
‘Lovely, madam,’ squeaked Hokey.
Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey’s contract that she must lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion.
A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.
‘Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!’ cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: there were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes and many flourishing pot plants in brass containers: in fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.
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