31: Blood of the Covenant

Hermione

In her primary school, Hermione had been targeted by bullies. They drew her beaver-toothed on notes that got taped to her desk when no one was watching; they whispered and giggled and stuck pencils in her hair; they moved her books and cut in front of her in line; they pretended to be friendly, sometimes, just to copy her homework. They were rancid little horrors, in other words. Which she knew was not the sole purview of Muggle children: magical children could be every bit as bad. Some of Hermione's peers at Hogwarts had been truly awful in her early years here.

Still. The pamphlet in her hands, featuring a front-page drawing of a caricaturized bushy-haired big-toothed person, took her back, not to moments facing bullies in Hogwarts, but to the linoleum-lined and fluorescent-lit halls of her primary school.

The Mudblood Menace, read the pamphlet. Underneath this: Next thing you know it'll be Muggles coming to tell us how to cast spells!

Dead silence filled the hall. Hermione's breathing did not hitch; her hands did not shake. Her hair threatened to burst out of the ties and charms that kept it tame—her eyes flickered as she began reciting digits of pi in her mind, fighting for calm. In this specific moment that will not be a warning. Only an invitation to be mocked.

"Where did you get this?" she said.

Two students stood before her, all shuffling feet and hesitation. Fifth years. Hermione knew them both. Ottavia Newelly, Ravenclaw. Connie Bowen, Gryffindor.

Bowen broke first. She had come to many of the tutoring sessions Hermione ran for younger Gryffindors prepping for their OWLs. She knew that when Hermione pulled out this sort of steely silence there would be no waiting it out. "Vee found it in her common room."

"Oh?" Hermione looked from her House mate—and didn't that just sting—to the other girl. "I presume you did not 'find' it in another student's belongings."

"No!" Newelly looked at her under short brown bangs and mulishly set brows. "There were a bunch of them—just spread out on different tables, you know…"

"I see. And it occurred to neither of you that this is," Hermione flicked the pamphlet, "is full of propaganda and lies not worth the paper used to print it?"

More sullen silence.

"Spreading talk that puts down your fellow students like this is cruel and indecent," Hermione said. She put each word in place after the former. Stacking stones in a wall. Counting syllables to stay calm.

"It's just about Muggles," said Newelly, half under her breath, but—

That a fellow student would say that to Hermione's face, would say it only half below a prefect's hearing—

"It is not just about Muggles. How do you think your Muggleborn house mates feel when they see you reading things like this?"

Bowen's hands twisted together in the folds of her robe, but when she lifted her head and met Hermione's coolly wrathful attention, she did so with defiance. "None of them has said anything."

"I can't imagine why," said Hermione.

"You always say we should think for ourselves when we're doing homework—" Bowen stabbed a finger towards the pamphlet. "Well, how are we supposed to do that if we can't ever know what other people are saying? I'm glad anyone's finally talking about these issues—Muggle exposure and the danger and—you might not understand, but it matters!"

"That will be five points," said Hermione, "for your tone, Miss Bowen. I'll be confiscating this." Briskly she folded the pamphlet in half and tucked it down her pocket. "If you continue to behave disrespectfully I will take more points. Are we clear?"

Bowen's mouth tightened.

"Yes," said Newelly, tapping her foot against her friend's under the folds of their robes, like that might be enough for Hermione to not notice.

"Yeah." Bowen shoved her hands into her pockets. "We get it, Granger."

"Five more points. Any more cheek and I'll assign you detention."

Both pairs of eyes dropped now to the floor. Hermione stared at the neat part on the top of Bowen's head and the coiled braids full of flyaway hairs on Newelly's. Tiredness tugged lead-heavy at her bones, filled her lungs like concrete. Sentences ran through her mind half-formed and were discarded in milliseconds. What could she possibly say?

What could she do?

Nothing, really.

They were just reading a pamphlet. Just words on a page.

"Dismissed," she said, with a crisp tone she did not feel. They didn't wait around to be told twice—just scuttled around her and went on their way as they'd been doing before Hermione passed them, caught a glimpse of the pamphlet's cover, heard their giggling, demanded to see what it was.

They'd just get more. From Newelly's common room, or—much as Hermione loathed it—from someone in Gryffindor: these horrid things had appeared there too, off and on, and been read by more than one person. Forbidden things drew the house of the bold like flies into honey. Doubtless if she confronted anyone they would dismiss the idea that the drawing on the front could be at all related to Hermione. No, of course not, it's just an art style, this person's hair is way too short to be yours anyway, and look, it's not like they even look like a witch—yeah, I thought it was a drawing of a boy—

Her hair won its battle against gravity, steel pins, and Hermione's bad mood. It burst all at once from the pins holding it in place. Hermione heard her hair pins bouncing off the walls with sad little pings and for just a moment she wanted to cry.

No. Absolutely not. Accio hairpins, she thought, sweeping her wand out, and twisted her other hand, palm up, will and magic pulling the pins to land neatly in it. None of that wild snatching-things-out-of-the-air nonsense for her. Hermione liked precision. Hermione liked control. Hermione could do things with charms that Connie bloody Bowen couldn't imagine in her wildest dreams.

There was absolutely no point in doing it back up again. Hermione shoved the pins down in the same pocket as the pamphlet. She'd have to tell Daphne later that this set also failed under serious duress. Granted, using steel and diamonds to anchor the spells helped them last longer than several of Hermione's old sets. The pins themselves had been a gift for her majority from Daphne's parents but the enchantments set in them were all Hermione and Daphne's invention.

At least now, most of the time, Hermione could look presentable with a minimum of effort. A few charms, stick in the pins, and done: her hair would stay in place all day. Barring unusually upsetting incidents.

Still, she found leaving it loose more comfortable, and preferred doing so in private, and her destination certainly counted. Hermione and Theo had set up their occlumency lessons in an out-of-the-way classroom to avoid other Vipers as well as the student body more generally. With Theo, as with any of the people she had known since they were all eleven or twelve and awkward about it, there was no need to worry overmuch about appearances.

"Rough day?" said Theo the minute she walked in.

"One of those anti-Muggle pamphlets floating around."

Theo's jaw tightened, then relaxed.

"You don't disagree with them about the dangers of Muggles, but you recognize it's a horrible way to treat Muggleborn students, yes, I know." Hermione set her bag down on the table with more force than strictly necessary. "We don't need to go over it again."

"Hermione…"

"I get it. No, I really do," she said, cutting off his next attempt to speak. "I happen to think many of the concerns about Muggle reactions to the exposure of the magical world are sound. I understand," she listened helplessly to her own voice rising towards shrillness, "why people are afraid, and why it's so easy to hook their interest; and I understand just fine that the people writing those things are not doing so out of a sincere concern about adapting the Statute of Secrecy and associated Ministry policy to the modern age, no, I understand perfectly what they're really after—"

Theo came to his feet in one movement, hands rising to grip her elbows. "Hey. Listen to me—stop."

Air sucked in and out of her lungs. Hermione wrapped her arms around herself tightly.

"What's the proof of Cipio's fifth theorem?"

She knew that equation. Hermione groped for the lifeline, shut her eyes, clung to it. "Begin with the fourth theorem. Let delta r be the mutability quotient…"

"And?"

 "Then—then take the second derivative, solve for the mutability shift rate with delta r as your baseline…"

This was arithmancy years beyond what Hogwarts taught, arithmancy one would normally only learn in a pre-mastery program. Not a formula she knew by heart. Not a proof yet engraved in her mind. She forced her thoughts to turn towards mathematical paths, shaped and swallowed by cool logic.

She worked her way to the right answer, eventually. By then her heart rate had slowed again and Theo's grip on her arms had loosened to a light touch. If his fingers were a little too warm to be natural, Hermione would pretend not to have noticed. Unless he got scorch marks on her robe. If Daphne saw that she'd go on the warpath.

"Better?" he said, letting go.

"Yes… thank you."

"I don't mean to—" He stepped back, flicked a hand. "Be like them."

"You aren't," said Hermione, and meant it, mostly. You aren't like them, but you could be. If Harry hadn't met Theo buying telescopes at age eleven—if Harry hadn't pulled them all into his orbit— Looking back Hermione, saw how deliberately he had shoved her in Daphne and Theo's faces: for that age he'd been subtle but to more adult hindsight it was painfully clear. Their contempt—layers of it Hermione hadn't even fully noticed, at the time. Their slowly shifting opinions. And the shift in her own mindset, too: she, friendless, lonely, know it all-bookworm-teacher's pet, had been drawn to their lure like a moth to candle-flame. In some ways she had been lucky to fall in with children whose parents, however privileged, treated her with sincere generosity. In others—what did it make her, what did it mean to be both a Mudblood and a foster daughter of House Greengrass? What had it made Theo, who came here to learn occlumency invented by a Muggleborn and derived from Muggle cryptography, yet who, absent intervention, could even now slip so easily into the Death Eater mold?

"You all right?"

The question pulled her back to the present. Hermione made herself smile: it came out tight and small, devoid of humor, but that was fine, she didn't need to pretend here. "I'll manage. Shall we begin?"

"Yeah." Theo let her get away with the deflection, thank Merlin. Hermione appreciated that about him. Theo so rarely pushed.

They sat, cross-legged, on the floor, facing one another. Hermione took a deep breath. Conventional occlumency was often taught with guided meditation laid out in the pages of a book or the voice of an instructor. She had torn through as many introductory texts as possible, cross-referenced the logic and syntax and order of concepts of their guides, attempted to derive common principles from methods new and old. Some clear patterns did emerge. Others remained contradictory, originating from, she presumed, stylistic or methodological preferences of their creators and cultures and time periods. From this she drew the structure of guided meditations to put her brand of occlumency into practice. It followed convention on the whole, but in places she had imitated more niche techniques, and reordered exercises to better suit her needs. The end result was quite a bit longer than the practical guides for learning occlumency any other way, despite assuming its reader already knew the basics of occlumency as usually taught. Her guide, which existed as yet only in her notes and in her memory, also left out the entire arithmantic and mathematical knowledge base required for this type of occlumency to work. Those things Hermione had taught Theo, or given him the materials to teach himself, separately. In that sense Theo was a perfect first student for this. His knowledge of arithmancy already surpassed their age group and his motivation… well, that had never been in question, to say the least.

At any rate Theo had mastered the basic principles of this type of occlumency with relative ease. Time now to move on to more active practice, which they both needed.

Hermione read and re-read her notes so many times that it was only a small step farther to memorize the things she would need to say out loud. Now the concepts and words came to her like the quadratic equation, Gamp's principles of transmutation, the address of her childhood home: simply true.

Not that it went perfectly. Hermione knew better than to expect perfection on a first try—at anything, but especially at a project like this. At some points she stuttered. At others, putting it in practice revealed bad ordering of logic or flaws in the structure. Hermione made mental notes as they went about moving certain exercises earlier in the process, or later. She also noticed a discrepancy between Theo's mathematical fluency and his ingrained occlumency habits. Typically one was taught to clear the mind; learned properly, occluding became habit, one she could see Theo fighting with greater difficulty than Hermione herself had, as she taught herself this. Perhaps her own journey had been sufficiently gradual and organic to avoid this pitfall. It was also possible that she just found the necessary mindset easier than Theo did. In either case she would need to readjust the guided meditations for this phase of teaching to accommodate for the disparity between her method and typical occlumentic habits.

Theo began showing signs of strain at around the point in the meditation that Hermione had anticipated. Gratifying to have predicted that much with some accuracy. She led him through a few quicker, lighter exercises to finish things off on a positive note—feelings of success and satisfaction towards a particular activity helped the mind self-motivate towards it in the future—and then fell silent, letting Theo rearrange his thoughts on his own back to whatever baseline he wanted.

He broke the quiet first. "Merlin fuck, Hermione."

"I don't think Merlin is doing much of that," she said, half-smiling, "seeing as he's just dust in the—"

"You are a horrible, pretentious witch, you know that?"

Now properly grinning, Hermione leaned back on her hands on the dusty floor. "I've been reliably informed, yes, but one never minds hearing a compliment twice."

"Getting you and Pansy to be friends was the worst thing Harry's ever done. Shite, my head hurts."

Maybe Hermione should reconsider how much of this meditation to do in one session… "Do you need a potion?"

He shook his head. "Pain potions fuck with occlumency, you know that. I won't internalize the habits if I'm taking a headache potion every time."

Definitely going to lower the intensity of a single work session. That implied Theo would take a potion for this amount of pain, normally, and only chose to forego it in this case for the sake of progress with occlumency; that was his choice and Hermione would be a hypocrite to quibble about it, but routinely letting him overstrain his mind and magic like this would only be counterproductive. Then again, one often felt sore and tired after a particularly intense workout of one's body, and there was a grey area in which such soreness remained at safe levels before becoming injurious. Maybe one or two sessions of this intensity a week, then, and the rest lowered. Now that she had this as a baseline she could create a first draft of a schedule.

One more for the list. Hermione already had so many schedules: for exam review, Vipers dueling sessions, DA meetings, and of course her weekly one with slots marked out for homework, relaxing, social time—

Oh no.

Hermione squeaked. No time to even be embarrassed about that. She scrambled to her feet, snatched up her bag and wand, hurriedly redid the robe fastenings she had left open for the sake of comfort while sitting on the floor.

"Are you late for something?" Theo drawled, leaning back and watching her. The ghost of a smirk played around his mouth. Probably he was enjoying this, especially after she'd essentially just spent two hours putting his brain through a pasta machine.

"Seeing Draco," she said shortly, and if Theo responded at all she didn't hear it, on account of already having dashed from the room.

Merlin. Again. Hermione slowed to a fast walk as she skidded down one last flight of stairs to a more trafficked part of the school, but the hot flush in her cheeks didn't fade—it had little to do with exertion. This was the fourth time in the last three weeks that she had been late. At least today wasn't too bad, she would get to the Knights' Room to meet him only half past the time they'd agreed upon, but still…

Half a dozen plus schedules and she couldn't even do this right. Though she knew that was precisely the problem. With so much going on, if she had to prioritize her time—everything else seemed so inflexible, so vital. Occlumency: without it Theo could not function and his devolution was shaking the foundations of their whole group. Wizengamot analysis: she and Harry needed that to figure out if he could get the votes for what they were cautiously calling the subsidized transit and secrecy proposal. Private research into the Dark Mark and family magic: this no one had particularly pushed Hermione to do in a while, but intuition insisted it mattered and so she kept on— And then of course she had homework, marks and a reputation to keep up—

"Hi," she said, breathless, skidding to a stop in the Knights' Room with hair even more disarrayed than it had been before. "I'm sorry, I was—"

"Theo wrote me," said Draco, tapping the journal open on the table in front of him. He closed it, stood, and came over to her.

Hermione let her bag slump to the floor and her body slump into his embrace. Face pressed to Draco's shoulder, breathing the faint spice of his cologne… Tension eased. Warmth returned to rigid muscle. "Sorry," she said again, the words muffled against his chest. "Today was the first time we did a full, active guided meditation… I misjudged how much time to allot."

Standing like this, Draco's voice came as a low rumble, soothing enough that Hermione almost missed his actual words: "He said something about… another of those pamphlets?"

She stiffened again in his arms. "Yes."

"Fuckers." He exhaled sharply, arms tightening around her, and kissed the top of her head.

"To be honest," Hermione said, shifting back a bit so she could look up at him, at his sharp, narrow face she knew so well, "both of those two are so busy sticking their noses in other people's business that I doubt they're getting any."

Lately Hermione had few enough pleasures. One of the best that remained consistent was this: arms around Draco, feeling and hearing him laugh, the tiny one-sided dimple that only appeared in unguarded amusement, and only if you knew to look. A tiny smile touched her own mouth, unbidden. She had meant to make him laugh. She liked that she got to make him laugh.

"Harsh, love," he said, running a hand up and down her back.

Hermione feigned petulance—knew she couldn't quite mask the playful smile that wanted to come back. "Am I wrong?"

Draco's hand stilled between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer. Anticipation prickled over her skin. "My mother taught me better than to contradict a lady," he said, and kissed her before she could retort.

Her eyes slipped shut. Hermione leaned into him, lost herself in the touch of their lips moving together. It began softly enough, all comfort and affection, and then began to deepen; heat rose to her cheeks yet again, this time unrelated to exertion or guilt. She stepped forward, once and then again, and then broke the kiss to push at Draco's chest. Understanding what she wanted, he smirked at her as he leaned back against the edge of the table in the middle of the Knights' Room.

"Don't give me that look, you know my neck cramps," Hermione said, poking him. Neither of them believed her prickly huff for an instant: she'd already stepped forward again, into the space between his legs, and leaned in to kiss him again, this time with less of a height difference between them.

The next time they broke apart they were both breathing heavily. Hermione bent her head, rested her forehead on his collarbone, slid her hands along his back and hips and ached for more. But— "We probably… shouldn't," she said. "Not here."

Draco's voice was rougher than usual. "No, probably not. I don't fancy giving any random Viper who wanders in a show."

Unspoken went the possibility of going somewhere more private. Hermione swallowed. Her fingers worked into the fabric of his shirt and crumpled the material in their tightening grip. Part of her wanted more: they had gone farther than this a few times, the shape of him under his robes was no mystery to her, but—

"You're getting tense," said Draco. He pulled her closer, into a proper hug. "What is it?"

"Do you… want to go for a walk?" said Hermione. Her voice came out small.

"Happily."

Draco kissed her one more time, slow and gentle. Even that little contact made her ache and reconsider her hesitation. No, Hermione told herself. Too much going on right now. Too many things in flight; she couldn't afford such distraction. Not to mention—that much intimacy, that much exposure—what if they didn't work? What if—her thoughts tumbled over themselves, stones caught in a river, runaway—what if one of these days she took his shirt off and found a Dark Mark on his arm, what then?

She allowed herself to cling to him for another few seconds, breathing in safety and comfort and peace, before letting go. Both of them moved apart enough to re-fasten robes and straighten mussed hair. Draco helped Hermione with the latter task, sliding pins back into her hair while she did the charms, and if she took a bit longer in the casting of them than she would on her own, drawing out the moment and enjoying his touch, well, even if Draco noticed, she doubted he would mind.

March might have heralded the first blustery winds of spring, farther south, but in Scotland the air that struck their faces outside still carried a bite of winter. No trace yet of warm, wet air and growing things unfurling to new life. Hermione tangled her fingers in Draco's and stubbornly refused to put on a hat or scarf. The cold cleared her mind—focused her. And, in a sense, it comforted. Spring meant Ostara, meant the Wizengamot, meant time passing on. She wanted to charge ahead. She wanted to linger in the still, quiet cold.

Wandering the grounds, Draco briefly told her, under a privacy charm, about his and Theo's latest encounter with the boy they'd Imperiused to get close to Seaton, and Hermione in return caught him up on the bare bones of Harry's plans for the Ostara Wizengamot session, but those things could be discussed more with other Vipers. By quiet accord the bulk of their conversation involved smaller things, books and schoolwork and classmates' gossip. Silence fell between topics now and then. It should have been comfortable but Hermione found herself fighting, every time, to fill it, so that her thoughts wouldn't get too caught up in everything else she should be doing right now, in arithmancy or anticipating her unfinished Potions essay or going over who needed to do what for the upcoming Soothsayer. Draco needed this. And, much as she chafed at it, she probably did too. Daphne was not above slapping Hermione with a drowsiness charm if she suspected Hermione of overworking herself too much, and however much Daphne was usually right, unexpectedly losing a few hours threw Hermione's schedules all off. Better to preemptively allocate periods of rest for herself and keep Daph from ever getting to that point.

And admittedly she did feel better when they came back to the castle. Less tense. Steadier on her feet. She kissed Draco on the cheek in the entrance hall, mindful of the attention turned their way from other students likewise making their way to dinner, and held his hand into the Great Hall though they had to separate to return to their respective House tables.

However much tensions in the school had ramped up one or two orders of magnitude this year, Hermione couldn't deny the increased sense of camaraderie among her year mates in Gryffindor, or her own pleasure at feeling, for the first time, truly a part of them. Lavender greeted her with a genuine smile; Parvati and Dean made room for her on the bench; Jules passed an appetizer of roasted Brussels sprouts down, apparently having remembered that Hermione preferred them over most of the foods the elves put out as appetizers before they served the meal proper.

The only person missing was— "Anyone seen Neville?" Hermione asked.

"No," said Parvati. "Not since… he helped me look at my Herbology experimental write-up this morning. And he came to lunch, right?"

"He did," Lavender confirmed.

A furtive sort of look passed between Dean, Seamus, Ron, and Jules. Hermione might not have noticed it if not for Lavender's immediate and unsubtle attention shift towards the three boys. "What do you know?" she said, leaning forward so none of them could avoid her eyes.

"Er," said Dean.

Lavender pouted. Merlin forbid she and Pansy should ever become friends; their combined arsenal of facial expressions would terrorize Hogwarts. "You can't just look around like that and not tell us!"

"We won't tease him about it," said Parvati.

"Much," said Dean under his breath.

Lavender turned a megawatt smile on him in an instant. "No, really, not much at all, only a teensy little bit—"

"There's not really much to tell, anyway," Jules said. "He, well, he might have been sneaking off to see someone, we're not sure who it is… or even if that's the real reason."

Several sets of eyes turned to Hermione. "Has he told you anything?" Lavender wheedled.

Hermione, who had heard both Harry and Pansy allude to this of late, kept her face bland. She may lack Daphne's knack for contemptuous dismissal or Pansy's practiced innocence, but she could do at least competently feign ignorance. It helped that she didn't actually have to lie. "No, he hasn't."

"Well, do you know anything else?" said Seamus cannily, pointing a fork at her.

"I don't know anything," Hermione said primly. "Certainly nothing on which to speculate."

"No one pester him about it." Jules leaned around Ron so he could give Lavender in particular a meaningful look. "We've all got enough going on, if Nev wants to walk out with someone in private—"

"Oh, fine," said Lavender with a theatrical sigh.

Whether she'd actually listen was another story. Hermione made a mental note to warn Neville, later, though he would need to weather their interest over dinner on his own; she couldn't get out her journal and write him in so public a space, especially when Jules, at least, knew what the journals did.

In the end it didn't matter. Dinner ended with no sign of Neville. None of them saw him until much later that evening, when he came in through the portrait hole dirty to the elbows and carrying a small tray of seedling plants that, he told them, needed extra care, and also none of his roommates should touch them because the leaves could make you see sound and hear colors for days on end and unless you wanted to go to McGonagall's class high…

"I mean, it'd be bloody funny if we did," said Seamus with a gleam in his eye that Hermione did not trust a whit.

"Merlin, now I'll have to ward the bloody things," Neville grumbled, clearly thinking the same things as Hermione. He grinned at them. "And no, Seamus, that is not a challenge."

Seamus nodded vigorously. "Yeah, right, no, of course—"

Neville vanished upstairs to put away and ward his plants while the rest of them ribbed Seamus about how many points McGonagall would take off him if she suspected he'd come to her class on some kind of mind-altering substance. Hermione tuned them out in favor of working steadily through her Potions essay, then an arithmancy problem set, then a side problem of her own for analyzing wards based on some cautious and academic exchanges with Barty Crouch a while back. He had implied some things about custom ward analysis that she wanted to learn on her own; given everything else going on, Hermione had let that slip to the back burner, but the knowledge that Seaton and his cronies could evade the Map somehow made her suspect it would become more relevant than she initially thought. It would have been easier to sustain her focus working in the Knights' Room or the library, but Hermione tried, at least a few nights a week now, to stay in the common room around her House mates and reinforce the group feeling that had been slowly growing this year.

Much of it, she knew, came back to the DA. Sending more Vipers to attend had been an excellent decision. Just in this one evening, Hermione heard Parvati and Dean talk about a jinx they'd learned from Daphne last week, and Jules muttering to himself about a lesson plan that would incorporate some of the group dueling techniques the younger Vipers had worked out on their on time; apparently Veronica and Graham in particular had impressed him recently. In the dorms getting ready for bed Hermione found herself not just included but welcomed into Parvati and Lavender's chatter; they didn't seem to mind her relative reticence, and spoke more freely now in her hearing than they would have done in years past. Lavender even, grinning, told them both that Ernie Macmillan saw Justin and Pansy sneaking off to the Astronomy Tower one afternoon this week, and how several of Justin's year mates in Hufflepuff waited in ambush to smack him with baguettes when he sneaked back into their common room after curfew.

This Hufflepuff house tradition was unfamiliar to Hermione but, knowing Justin, she believed it. She'd have to tell Draco about that one later: he'd have fun messing with Justin. Likely he'd do something convoluted and dramatic like serve fresh baguettes from an actual French bakery popped across the Channel by house-elf special delivery at their next Knights' Room study session. Hermione caught herself smiling fondly at the thought.

The next day brought with it another of the DA's irregular meetings, and more opportunity for Hermione to catalogue the changes at work among this group of the student body. She paid deliberate attention, both because Harry would want to know—part of the point of this whole exercise was strengthening the Vipers' collective ties across that social divide—and so that she would have something to set against bits of unpleasantness like that interaction with Bowen and Newelly yesterday.

This particular meeting was scheduled for right after breakfast. Hermione opted to skip breakfast entirely and go straight to the Room of Requirement: browsing its book selection was always a fascinating adventure, and if fewer members of the DA were around she could give it vaguer queries. Such requests often handed back tomes that she didn't care to read in front of her more ideologically straitlaced peers.

But after pacing three times before the blank wall and stepping into their practice room, Hermione discovered at least two others had had a similar idea of arriving early, and one of them had, like Hermione, taken advantage of the quiet to look at a pile of books. "Good morning," she said. "Sorry if I'm intruding…"

"No, no! Come on in." Hannah Abbott waved her over. She and Padma Patil had taken over a table that usually did not appear during DA meetings, its surface three quarters covered in books and one quarter weighed down by a breakfast spread of pastries, tea, and coffee.

"I didn't know the Room could provide food," said Hermione, eyeing the selection. She wasn't especially hungry… but a croissant would do her good, given she was about to spend two hours casting quite a lot of magic. And she always said yes to tea.

Hannah shook her head, curls bouncing. "I stopped by the kitchens and asked the elves to wrap some things up for me… The last time we did a morning meeting like this, I'm not sure you were here for it, but one of the kids overslept and came straight up here and almost fainted from low blood sugar."

"Oh. Goodness."

"And I notice you can't possibly have had time to go to the Great Hall," Hannah added, raising both eyebrows at Hermione.

"I wasn't hungry." Hermione took a seat with a quiet "Thank you" to Padma, who'd cleared a few books away to make space, and selected a scone. "I should probably eat though. Thank you for thinking of this."

"I like feeding people. I wish there was a culinary arts class here. Or a student society of some kind…"

"I'd say you should start one," said Hermione, "but I'm not convinced anyone has time right now."

"We really don't, do we? I've thought about it, though. I suppose I could ask around, see if there's any interest before next year… I wouldn't get much out of it at that point, what with NEWTs and… and everything, but if any younger students get involved it might stick around for someone else."

Hermione nodded along. That sounded like Hannah.

"You should ask the Room for cookbooks," said Padma without looking up from her current reading material.

"Ooh!" Hannah brightened. "I should do that. Do you know if books can be taken out of here?"

"Yes," said Hermione, "but I've always brought them back, after." Should she offer a copybook…? No. Those were illegal. Also expensive. Hermione didn't owe Hannah that much, or trust her quite that far. Perhaps she could take note of any that Hannah found of particular interest, and buy the other witch a copy as a gift next Yule: that was the sort of thing that conveyed interest and a desire for friendship but impersonal enough not to be presumptuous.

Well. On second thought Hannah was unlikely to care what was presumptuous or not. Hufflepuff tended to encourage more informality than Slytherin, even among people like Abbott, who hailed from and would inherit the reins of noble magical families. Hermione shredded a piece off her croissant and took a bite to hide her bitter smile. Some irony there—the Muggleborn being more hung up on social rules of gift-giving than the noble pureblood heir.

No. Optimistic thoughts only, this morning. Hermione sipped tea and let strings of numbers unspool in her mind. Digits of e this time. Memorization carried less problem-solving triumph than working through equations or proofs in her head but it had a certain clean simplicity that appealed.

"Do you mind if I do it now?" Hannah said. "Ask for some cookbooks, I mean—if there's room—Oh, wait. Can the table get a bit bigger, please?"

The table obligingly grew a meter or so longer. Padma's books shuffled themselves down towards her end of it; Hermione snatched up her teacup so it wouldn't spill as the Room's magic slid her and her things down the bench too, so she stayed in the same position relative to Padma and Hannah. The breakfast things receded. Convenienty this meant Hermione now had more space for whatever books she requested… though the presence of the others complicated her assessment of what to ask for.

Hannah developed an expression of mild constipation. Hermione paused—was this thinking about a request for the Room, or a different problem?—but before she could make up her mind about whether to ask, a stack of at least a dozen books appeared on the table in front of Hannah with a small thump. Well, that answered that question. Hannah made an excited noise and began digging through them.

When she first sat down Hermione had glanced over Padma's book selection; now she took another, closer look, and saw a number of things the Ministry typically restricted. At least two would, by current policy, get you a serious fine.

Padma saw her looking, and raised a challenging eyebrow.

"That one's interesting," Hermione said, gesturing at one of the two particularly restricted texts. "Interesting ideas about the point at which a charm, or chain of charms, becomes enchantment."

"Mmm." Padma eyed her. "I'd… I'd hoped so. I'm doing a private study of enchanting theory this year. Flitwick lets us submit theses for informal grading."

"He lets you cite things like that?"

"Not technically, but if nothing else it may help inform the arguments I make based on other texts."

"Interesting," said Hermione. Sometimes she wondered if she should have let the Hat put her in Ravenclaw. Most days the answer came to her as easily as it had in that moment, eleven going on twelve and full of fire. Occasionally—for example, right now—she had to take at least a second or two longer to remember that Gryffindor had been the better choice.

Padma acknowledged this with a tip of her head, but her body language didn't invite further conversation. Hermione understood that just fine: she too found it irritating when people came and interrupted her while she was deep in a research project.

Clearly Padma at least could be flexible about reading restricted books. And Hermione suspected that the Room could send an animated kelpie puppet tap-dancing across its open floor right now and not even get Hannah to look up.

Tempus. Still a good forty-five minutes before anyone would really get here from breakfast. Hermione strung together the specific request she wanted to make: "Books about ward theory and practice, leaning towards the old, esoteric, or controversial."

Hannah went right on muttering to herself as she turned the pages of a recipe book as thick as Hermione's massive rune translator's desk reference text. Padma did seem to hear, and cast another sideways look Hermione's direction, but otherwise didn't comment. Good enough. Hermione took their collective lack of reaction as a sign it was safe to proceed and gave in to the urge to snatch the top book from the stack the Room deposited in front of her.

Time passed in companionable silence. Well, mostly silence. Hannah, it seemed, liked to talk to herself while reading, and of course one could hear the turn of pages and the scratch of quill or fountain pen across paper from Hermione and Padma's respective note-taking. It might as well have been silence, though, compared to studying in Gryffindor Tower; Hermione found the others' presence rather pleasant, if anything, and certainly not a distraction.

The absence of distraction alone couldn't make her studying fruitful, though. In abstract, the books the Room gave her were fascinating. Hermione could dive into the esoteric, strange, wandering fringes of wards theory and stay there for years. Maybe later in her life she would do that. Resurface with a few papers and a book and a list of hypotheses to test that would occupy a whole research team for years more afterwards. She closed off the part of her heart that longed for that kind of freedom.

In the present, necessity ruled. Any of these books might hold a thread that, when followed, would unravel the knot of the Map and the wards of Hogwarts and how Seaton managed to evade them. Any of them might just as easily be useless and she had no way to know and she lacked the years it would take to even begin to master this subject.

Hermione indexed the books' contents more than anything else. Rambling theoretical and philosophical texts like this, especially of the older variety, lacked clear internal references; many didn't have a table of contents, let alone robust citations or their own indices. Her hand began to ache with the speed of writing as she noted title, author and date of publication if such information existed, and an approximate summary of what the books' contents appeared to be on first glance. Later she could schedule time to sit down and go through this information, identify which books might be useful, and then track down a copy—either from the Room or elsewhere—to study in greater detail.

The content summaries took up almost two feet of the cheap parchment she used for this sort of note-taking by the time Hannah and Padma began to pack up their own projects. Roused by their movement, Hermione checked the time, and hurriedly began to gather up her things as well. The Room swallowed the books she'd gotten from it with a small whoosh of air rushing in to fill the empty space.

"Got your own extracurricular thesis there?" Padma said dryly, nodding to the parchment with Hermione's index.

"Unfortunately not. Even if McGonagall wanted to arrange for such a thing, I doubt she'd have the time." Hermione really hoped that Selwyn's agitating for separate Head of House positions so professors wouldn't need to split their time would eventually bear fruit. "Just… my own extracurricular studies."

Hannah grinned. "I'll leave those sort of studies to you swots, thanks."

Padma threw a scone at her.

The two of them were still giggling, and Hermione smiling, a moment later, when the door swung open. A few younger kids came in, talking. When they realized there were older students already present, they faltered, paused, quieted down, though their conversation went on. One of them waved, a bit awkwardly, at Hannah, who waved back and went over to talk to them, gesturing back towards the table of food.

Merlin. They were so young. Hermione pressed her fingers to the old wood of the tabletop. Their fresh eyes. Their self-conscious posturing in bodies growing too fast to be wholly familiar. When she was their age—third or fourth year, if she had to guess—the sixth and seventh years seemed so old, so far away. The same space yawned open at her feet now, dizzyingly wide, but seen from the far precipice. When had she stepped across that chasm and not noticed? What was going to happen to these children, in the war so many people seemed desperate to start? What had already happened?

Because for some of them, the war was not coming, it was already here. More students trickled in, coalescing into groups and devouring the snacks Hannah brought. Hermione watched them and saw the ones whose hands already flickered, at loud noises, towards a wand—whose eyes tracked too warily around the room as they came through its door—whose smiles came slower, and faces were more shadowed, than those of their peers.

"Doesn't feel like we were ever that young."

Hermione twitched: she'd been too lost in thought to realize Padma had come closer, and stood now by her elbow. "Hm?"

Padma nodded at a clot of students that included, Hermione saw with satisfaction, Veronica and Graham as well as several others about their age, at least one of every House color. "They're tiny."

"Was it that obvious what I was thinking?"

"No." Padma's lips quirked. "Call it a hunch."

"Two or three years feels like a lifetime," Hermione said, "but it's not, really."

Padma's eyes trailed across the room, landed unerringly on her twin: Parvati and Lavender side by side as they so often were, and, as so often, smiling, bright bubbling fountains of flirtatious cheer. Younger Hermione found them shallow and annoying. Now she couldn't help but be glad some bits of joy remained.

"Time goes faster than we think," Padma said.

Ominous. Hermione glanced between the Patil sisters but whatever intuition let Padma guess her thoughts, Hermione could not do the same: the Ravenclaw girl's expression remained as inscrutable as the depths of the Great Lake in winter.

"Are you all right?" Hermione said, treading cautiously. "You and Parvati, that is."

For a moment it seemed as if Padma might not have heard the question. Then: "How much do your parents know about… all this?"

"Bit of a non sequitur," said Hermione, raising an eyebrow.

"It's related."

"Not much." In point of fact, extremely little, but Hermione saw no need to expose her private frustrations on the subject to a girl who, however clever and interesting, remained at best an acquaintance.

Padma smiled again, a hard and bitter thing. "Not to say you have it easier—but in that sense at least you're lucky."

"Yours know a bit too much, I take it?"

"They wanted us both to transfer to the university preparatory school in Chennai."

Layers of tension lurked beneath that simple sentence that could put an onion to shame—both in the number, and in capacity to provoke tears. Hermione elected not to push. "Different kinds of complicated, I suppose."

Padma snorted, and dropped her gaze from her sister. "Tell me."

"I think it's brave," Hermione said quietly. "To stay."

"Or it's wisdom," said Padma, with a tiny smile. "Knowing when to run, or stay."

An answering smile tugged at Hermione's face. True enough. No House had a monopoly on its own traits, and variable motivations could drive people to similar ends. Proof enough in the room around them. Or in the Vipers' ranks.

Jules

Splitting his time between homework, apparition lessons, independent Moody-assigned study, and the increasing number of letters he had to write meant Jules barely got to sleep anymore. Seriously, the letters. So, so many of the bloody things. Would it be so hard to get Roger to hire him a secretary? Did Harry have to write this many letters? Well, no, Harry probably had to write more, seeing as he, unlike Jules, was actually the legal, acting head of his House. Jules should ask Harry sometime if he had a secretary or executive assistant or whoever was the person that was supposed to manage routine correspondence. You could only write notes full of polite nothing words signed Yours sincerely, Julian F. Potter, Heir of House Potter so many times before the mere sight of a post owl made you want to scream.

So getting a note from Dumbledore summoning him up to the Headmaster's office at eight o'clock was not the most welcome thing. Jules stared at it and fought the urge to throw it right back in the face of this poor random younger Gryffindor who'd been sent to give it to him. No sense hexing the messenger. He had four essays to finish this week and seven charms to learn for Flitwick before tomorrow's class.

Merlin. Ugh. What would the Headmaster do if Jules just… didn't go. Or sent back a note of his own. Dear Headmaster Dumbledore, I regret to inform you that I have prior commitments and so am unavailable this evening. Yours sincerely, Julian Potter. Jules half-grinned, rather against his own will. Honestly the Headmaster would probably also find that funny. The first time at least.

On the other hand, the meetings, with the chance to learn more about Voldemort—Jules couldn't pass those up. Couldn't deny how much of Dumbledore's time—already in much shorter supply than Jules's—had been devoted to this project of making sure Jules understood his foe.

Jules might not agree with all of Dumbledore's opinions about Voldemort, but the chance to learn more, that mattered. He trusted Dumbledore. He believed there was a point to this.

"Thanks," he told the kid, whose name he couldn't quite remember—McNally? McLean?—and kept his tiredness as hidden as he could until his younger House mate scurried off to rejoin his friends.

What would Dumbledore have for him today? Another memory, probably—Jules couldn't even begin to guess whose it might be. Another of their discussions that left Jules feeling both turned around and steadier on his feet at the same time, somehow.

Up until now Jules had spent the morning sitting quietly in a corner minding his own business and grimly attacking his Transfiguration homework. He tried to go back to it, but after half an hour staring blankly at the parchment, he gave up and went out to the pitch for some quidditch practice.

He came in for lunch sweaty, windblown, and ravenous, so of course his friends gave him a hard time for being so hungry he hadn't bothered to shower. Jules returned their ribbing with a grin and pretended not to see Ron's frustration at still being under a Harry-ordained quidditch ban. Tremors and hitching, jerky motions lingered, but they were mild enough that no one had noticed, or at least no one had gotten concerned enough to ask outright. And he was getting better. Thank fuck. Jules tried not to think about how bad that could have gone, if not for Harry.

Although with Ron out of commission they'd need a backup keeper at the upcoming match with Hufflepuff… and the only person who could reasonably replace him was Cormac McLaggen. Jules tried not to think about that either: anytime it came to mind he sort of wanted to put his face through the nearest wall.

He needed to check if Harry had figured out the poison in the chocolates yet. It hadn't even been a week yet—Jules knew just enough about potions to grasp the edges of how fucking complicated a task that could be, so he didn't want to push. He dithered over his sandwiches and in the end jotted down a quick message after he and Ron had gone back to their dorms to shower and change: Do you know when you'll have time to look at the chocolates?

Then he stared at the message and added: I know you're busy—just wanted to ask.

Harry's response appeared just a few minutes later. Likely not until this weekend. I need the better part of an afternoon or evening to myself to get it done.

Which figured. Jules did not envy Harry that task.

Good luck, Jules wrote back, and thanks again.

He checked the time. Three in the afternoon. Merlin, eight o'clock was so far away.

A couple seconds of thinking about homework was all Jules needed to confirm that he would not be able to concentrate worth a knut. And his friends were busy—Ron had gone off with Lavender after lunch, Parvati was in a corner of the common room with Hermione when Jules went down to check, and Neville was absent, probably with the secret boyfriend or girlfriend he thought his roommates hadn't noticed him sneaking off to meet on the sly. Jules could go to the Room of Requirement and throw hexes at a target dummy for a while, but…

Fuck it. Time for a nap. At least he'd get some sleep in and if he was resting, or at least dozing, the time would go faster.

Unfortunately, he neglected to set alarm charms, which meant Jules woke up disoriented in the dim grey room, frantically cast a quick Tempus, and then said to the empty room: "Merlin's saggy bollocks." He'd managed to sleep through the start of dinner. At this point he had no time to get down to the Great Hall and eat anything before he'd need to leave for the Headmaster's office.

Ron had some pastries in his nightstand his mum had sent a week or two back. That would have to work—Jules could apologize later. He rummaged through his friend's drawers until he found the stasis charmed paper box and its contents, took two ham-and-cheese pastries, and put the rest back. Not the best dinner of his life but better than nothing. Jules preferred that his lesson with Dumbledore not be interrupted by a loudly growling stomach, thanks.

In the common room and on the stairs Jules passed a few stragglers heading down to eat before dinner ended, but once he veered off towards the north tower and the Headmaster's office he saw no one save the portraits and a ghost whose name he couldn't recall. They waved, and Jules waved back, obviously—you'd have to be crazy to be an arsehole to a ghost. Piss a ghost off too much over time and you might wind up on one of the paths to creating a poltergeist: Hogwarts might not survive two of Peeves bouncing around.

"Toffee éclairs," he told the gargoyle. It gave him its usual beady glare before moving aside. Jules resisted the urge to ask it What've I ever done to you anyway? and stepped onto the moving staircase.

As he neared the landing, voices reached his ears—two of them. Dumbledore and who else? Jules hesitated outside the door. Should he knock and risk interrupting, or just wait? Or…

"Enter," called Dumbledore. Well, that answered that question. Jules turned the knob and went in.

Nestor Selwyn looked back at him as he got up from one of the squashy chairs in front of the Headmaster's desk. His brows drew together. Bollocks. Jules skidded to a stop. "Er… pardon me."

"It's quite all right, Julian. Inquisitor Selwyn was just leaving."

"Right," said Jules.

"I'm sorry that I can't do more, Headmaster," Selwyn said. "Thank you for agreeing to see me—I know your time is valuable."

A shadow passed across Dumbledore's face almost too fast to track, there and gone in a blink. Selwyn, straightening his robes, couldn't have seen it—a year ago Jules wouldn't have either, before spending so much time with Dumbledore in the last few months.

"No more valuable than anyone's," said Dumbledore, "save perhaps that it is in shorter supply."

Selwyn appeared not to know what to say to that, which was, in Jules's opinion, quite reasonable. Jules wouldn't have had a bloody clue how to respond either.

"Mr. Potter," the Inquisitor greeted him, tipping his head.

"Sir," said Jules in return, with an effort at being respectful. He held the door open for Selwyn to leave and let it close on the man's heels.

"Please have a seat, Jules," said Dumbledore, sounding tired.

Jules chose the chair Selwyn hadn't been using. "What was that about, sir? If you don't mind me asking—"

"It's quite all right." Dumbledore removed his spectacles and set about polishing them with a small, richly violet cloth. "The Inquisitor—goodness, but that is an unfortunate title—wished to discuss some of the recommendations he has made to the Board and the faculty this year… well intended recommendations, to be sure, but not all practicable, and he may advise the Board of Governors but not dictate their decisions."

"There've been some changes already… what else does he want to do?"

"Increase the size of the faculty, among other things, on which subject I have no objections, but the Board are reluctant to make any further changes beyond those already implemented. They are also, at the moment, rather disinclined to listen to me."

Jules frowned. "Can't you…"

"I could disband them wholesale," said Dumbledore, with some dryness, "but in doing so lose access to a great deal of the school's funding."

"Oh. Yeah, okay."

"But never mind my logistical challenges… Have you managed the task I set you with regards to Professor Slughorn?"

"Not yet," Jules admitted.

Dumbledore replaced his spectacles and looked at Jules over the tops of the lenses. "No?"

At a loss, Jules cast about for words. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, or that he didn't understand the task to be important—just that last time he had a good chance he'd thrown it away for the sake of clearing things up with Harry, and there hadn't been another day when he really aced a Potions class like that thing with the bezoar. But he didn't want to tell the Headmaster any of that.

"I'm trying to find a good time," he settled on saying. "He likes me, but he's been withdrawn since the holidays—there haven't even been any more Slug Club dinners or whatever."

Another pause. Jules thought of clear blue skies and summer winds, and crossed his fingers where the desk blocked Dumbledore's line of sight.

"Very well," said the Headmaster. "I know that you have been burdened with a great deal of responsibility, disproportionate to your age, and I have no doubt many people are crowding about impressing upon you how very important their priorities are. But I cannot overstate how vital this memory is—and the extent to which we will be wasting our time without it."

Jules nodded determinedly. "I understand, sir. I won't let you down."

But at this Dumbledore shook his head. "Do not commit to this for my sake," he said, with a new, strange urgency. "Listen to me, Julian. Jules. These lessons—the task of acquiring that memory—and the things that will come after—and ultimately, facing Voldemort himself—you must not do any of that for me. You must do it for yourself, for those you love and wish to protect, for whatever motivates you in your own heart. You must find your own reasons, do you understand? You must be driven from within, not without."

In the face of this unexpected speech Jules found himself, once again, at a loss for words. Not only the words… but the tone, the like of which he had never heard from Dumbledore before. Intense and—almost pleading.

Still—

"I think I understand," he said, quietly. "And I will. I am, I mean. Doing this for… my own reasons."

"Good… that does an old man good to hear." Dumbledore's eyes unfocused for a moment, then sharpened and returned to Jules. "Let us move on, then from the matter of Horace… Our mutual friend requested that I make sure this reached you safely."

Jules took the envelope Dumbledore held out, saw his name written on it in Ethan's handwriting, and tore it open eagerly. Everyone who's on board, Ethan had scrawled at the top of a list of names. "Oh, great, thank you, sir."

"Might I inquire as to the nature of this covert correspondence my Order members are carrying on under my very nose?" said Dumbledore.

Jules looked up: the old man had a twinkle in his eye, and a smile. Jules grinned back at him. "What if I said it's a secret?"

"Then I suppose I should have to trust in you," said Dumbledore, hands spread, "as I have asked you all to place your trust in me."

He really meant it, Jules saw with some startlement. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

"I cannot be everywhere at once—I may not always be here at all. I am not and should not be the only person trusted to make choices and to act," he said, more somberly, the amusement of a moment ago fading.

"It's not actually secret, sir," Jules said. "Just—just sensitive, I guess. There's a few Muggleborns in Gryffindor and Hufflepuff already who might not be able to go home for the summer and who knows how many more there'll be by June. Ron said Mrs. Weasley can let a few of them stay at the Burrow… but they don't have enough room. So I asked Ethan to see who'd be okay putting people up over the summer. He knows more of the younger Order members… I figured people would be more comfortable staying with a family that's got a kid at least sort of near their age."

Dumbledore was nodding halfway through this explanation. "Admirable foresight, and a sound solution to that problem. Do bear in mind that some individuals may, however, be… more subject to scrutiny than others, if the DMLE is considering bringing civil or criminal charges against their parents for neglect or abuse."

"Er," said Jules. "Is that… likely?"

"I cannot speak to any events which may not yet have been made public," said Dumbledore, each word placed deliberately into the space between them, "but yes, I would say that it is very likely indeed."

Which could only mean there had already been at least one such case found, and Dumbledore knew about it because of being Chief Warlock, and the oaths of the position kept him from telling Jules any details. Great. Bloody… fantastic. Jules absorbed that one and did not like where his mind went. "That's going to be—bad. Isn't it?"

"Such a case would likely be picked up and twisted to fit different propagandist agendas," Dumbledore agreed. The lines on his face carved themselves deeper.

"Is it… could a case like that be… made up?" Jules said, careful to keep it hypothetical.

"In theory, such a fradulent story could be created—but it is vanishingly unlikely to stand up to any focused scrutiny from the DMLE, and the scrutiny, I can assure you, would be very focused indeed."

So it wasn't just a Death Eater ploy. Not that abuse like that didn't ever happen. Jules should know that, he thought sourly, better than most, given—what happened to Harry.

And now that he thought about it—

"This would've helped Harry."

Yet again Dumbledore appeared to age before Jules's eyes. "It would have, yes. Though in its current form… at the cost of persecuting a great many other innocent families."

"And… do you think that's… worth it?" Jules said hesitantly.

"I think," said Dumbledore, "that I cannot believe this policy to have been written in good faith when it makes no provision to help Muggle parents of magical children meet its requirements, when those parents are in all nonmagical senses loving and adequate guardians."

That lined up, more or less, with what Jules thought, and the way he'd heard Hermione talk about it late at night when tiredness and the relative solitude of a mostly empty common room got her to open up a bit. He nodded. "Right. Well… yeah, that's… what Ethan and I were up to."

"And I encourage you both to carry on," said Dumbledore. "Is there anything else you wished to speak to me about before we carry on with our study of Voldemort?"

"Actually—"

Dumbledore raised a single brow. "Oh?"

In as few words as possible, Jules explained the poisoning incident. "I'm worried about Ron getting better, but if we go to Madam Pomfrey she'll have questions… unless you explain to her in private, sir."

"I see." Dumbledore's whole attention had sharpened and now pinned Jules back into the soft, downy depths of his armchair. "In particular, I see you taking remarkable care to disguise the identity of the person who assisted with young Mr. Weasley's recovery."

Jules fought a war with himself, and lost. "I went to Harry."

Dumbledore stilled. "Not Professor Snape? Or Slughorn?"

"It was late—I didn't know how to get to either of them and I—I know it would cause more problems if another student got poisoned and nearly died in the school."

"Not incorrect," Dumbledore allowed, "but I am surprised to hear that you placed such conerns above the risk to your friend's life. That implies… a great deal of trust in Mr. Black."

Jules steeled himself. "Sir—I know you don't like him—"

The Headmaster held up a hand. "It has little to do with such personal sentiments as like or dislike. I have had cause for concern regarding those people with whom Mr. Black surrounds himself and the influences they exert. There are legitimate security issues at stake."

Jules couldn't argue with that, given he didn't like some of Harry's friends much either. "I understand that, sir. I know you don't trust him, and I know why not. But I do."

"And in this, your trust was rewarded?"

"Yes. He—I have a way to contact him," please Merlin let Dumbledore not ask exactly how, "and as soon as he heard he came running. He was up until way past curfew with us and he's made enough potions to get Ron this far—but he's busy, I don't want to make him keep doing that, and he said he'd try and work out what the poison in the chocolates was—and he said himself he's not got proper healer's training and it would be better for Ron to see a real mediwitch."

Dumbledore hummed, and pressed his fingers together, deep in thought. "I had not known that you and your erstwhile brother were so close."

"We've been—reconciling. In secret." Jules hesitated, then plowed on: "I think—he's in a bad spot right now. Some of his friends are… he hasn't said this outright but I'm pretty sure Voldemort's got something to do with Pansy Parkinson running away, and also that he's pressuring Malfoy for some reason—I think Harry's trying his best not to put them in danger. I know it puts him and me both in danger if we're seen being friendly in public."

"He truly cares for them?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he—I've never doubted that."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "You believe he is attempting to sustain a neutral position."

"I'm not sure…" Jules fumbled for words. "I don't know anyone can really be neutral for much longer. Voldemort will want him, right? Or—want all the stuff the Blacks have? He had that money and whatever before, from Bellatrix and… Sirius's brother was a Death Eater too, right? Ethan said everyone figured he'd inherit."

"Indeed. Regulus Black. Lord Voldemort cannot have been pleased that the elder brother inherited after all, and his passing does leave young Harry, however competent, exposed without an adult Head of that House…" Dumbledore sighed. "Lord Voldemort has worked diligently to bring as many of the old pureblood houses under his control as possible. Every day pressure mounts on those trying to maintain a middle ground— I fear Harry will soon be forced to make a choice."

"He doesn't want to have to cave to Voldemort. I'm sure of that."

"I have come to believe he would not want to," Dumbledore said. "But love—Voldemort may be incapable of understanding such emotion, but he knows how to use it as leverage. It may not be a matter of what Mr. Black wants. It may well come down to a competition of force, and very few have proven themselves able to withstand Lord Voldemort in such a manner and survive." He tapped his fingers on the table. "Let me ask you this. Do you believe Mr. Black to be holding to his neutrality because he hopes to avoid provoking Lord Voldemort into such a direct ultimatum?"

Jules didn't have to think much to answer that one. "Yes."

"And do you believe, all else being equal, that he would prefer to strike a neutral path? He would not, in other words, ally himself willingly with Lord Voldemort?"

"He wouldn't," said Jules.

He might, whispered Andromeda, in his memory.

Jules shoved that voice away. Okay, yeah, Harry might. So what? Anyone might. Look at Peter. The only way, he figured, to get rid of that risk completely was to never trust anyone at all, and maybe that would be the safer path, but it led to no kind of life Jules wanted to live.

Dumbledore looked at him like he knew exactly what Jules was thinking. "Thank you for being honest with me," he said. "I will speak to Madam Pomfrey—you and Ronald should visit her sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"We will, sir." Jules took the hint and said no more on the subject of Harry. "That was all I wanted to talk about."

"Very well." Dumbledore rose and retrieved the pensieve from its cupboard. "You remember where we left off?"

"Voldemort framed his uncle for killing his Muggle family," said Jules, "and asked Professor Slughorn about horcruxes."

"Indeed. Alas, this is the point at which we depart from what I hope you will agree have been relatively conclusive sources of truth about Lord Voldemort's life—" Dumbledore gave Jules an inquisitive look here, to which Jules nodded— "and venture into the realm of speculation. My greatest efforts have been insufficient to wholly trace the course of his life between his graduation from Hogwarts and his return to Great Britain as Lord Voldemort."

"I'd guess people were even less happy to talk about Voldemort than they were about Tom Riddle," said Jules.

Dumbledore smiled. "Quite understandably so. However, I have two more memories—the first one dates from 1947, two years after he graduated. The second is from 1958. I will tell you as little as possible about either. Please try to draw your own conclusions, and once we have viewed both, we will discuss what those conclusions may be, and whether they are consistent with my own."

Involuntarily Jules found himself sitting a bit straighter. "Yes, sir."

No pressure or anything, right? But then again—if he did disagree—Dumbledore might listen. Jules had brought up other ideas before and Dumbledore did hear him out, if not really change his mind.

"The first memory is that of an elderly house-elf named Hokey. The perspective is rather disorienting, as house-elves perceive events that occur near their bonded witch or wizard as much through magic as through their mundane senses. As standard practice the memory has been stabilized via enchantment such that a human mind may comperehend it at all. It still may be rather unsettling. I will swear a wand-oath to the effect that it has been examined by two independent experts other than myself, who themselves testified to me that the stabilization process had not distorted the memory beyond the point of being an accurate portrayal of events as Hokey remembered them."

"There's no need for that, sir," Jules said, though a part of him wanted to call the Headmaster's bluff, just to see if he'd do it. He was unsettlingly quite sure that Dumbledore would, if prsesed, do exactly that. Make an oath. Wand-oaths were relatively small, as oaths went—one and done, no lingering restrictions. Decided true or not in the moment spoken. But you didn't go making one to children. You did that as a courtesy to… to other adults. To people who you agreed had a right to doubt you.

When had Jules become an adult in Dumbledore's eyes? Why now?

Though if he looked back, he thought Dumbledore had been treating Jules less and less like a child, this year.

Dumbledore nodded once. "I will give you this context. Tom Riddle departed Hogwarts with Os in every NEWT he took. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. Several professors, Horace among them, had offered to facilitate Tom's entry into the Ministry or various prestigious programs of further magical education. His 'friends,' insofar as that word applies, included some of the wealthiest and most powerful young adults in magical society of the day. For a time he seemed interested by some such offers… but he ultimately refused them all, and instead took a position working at Borgin and Burke's."

Jules blinked. "Sorry?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling briefly. "You are far from alone in your surprise. It seems an inglorious position—one Tom Riddle would more likely see as demeaning than acceptable, let alone advantageous. But the job did expose an important opportunity to him, as I think you will see in a moment." He held up a hand. "Additionally, it is of note that Tom Riddle only ever actively sought one other source of employment. It never became publicly known, but shortly after graduation he approached Headmaster Dippet, and asked to be hired to teach at Hogwarts."

"Merlin," said Jules. Voldemort, teaching? His mind filled with visions of crucio in the classroom.

Dumbledore nodded. "Would you care to speculate why he might have wanted the position?"

"Well—" Jules looked down at his hands, thinking furiously. "He'd have gotten to keep his access to the library here. And—and maybe to the Chamber of Secrets, if there was anything useful down there—unless he can access it as an adult?"

"It has never been clear to myself or any other Head of the school precisely what access, if any, those bearing the Founders' blood may have to Hogwarts. The Chamber of Secrets is even more a mystery than the rest of the school. It's entirely possible that sections of it may be at least partially accessible to Lord Voldemort in ways I myself cannot anticipate or prevent. But you are not incorrect that such access would undoubtedly at last be much simpler from within, nor are you wrong that Salazar Slytherin may well have left notable resources of some kind in the Chamber." Dumbledore gestured at him to go on.

"I bet he'd have liked to keep teaching other students and… and getting the powerful ones to be loyal to him," Jules said.

Dumbledore nodded, but did not speak.

What else? Jules cast his mind back.

The answer came to him so clearly he couldn't believe he didn't think of it sooner. "It's just Hogwarts, too, right? Probably? He—he loved it here."

"It is my opinion as well," Dumbledore said, "that the closest Tom Riddle has ever come to love is his feelings about Hogwarts. It was the only place he ever felt at home."

Pity flooded Jules. He made himself nod. "But he didn't get the job."

"No. Armando Dippet told him that eighteen was far too young, and that he should reapply for the position in a few years—I believe he also offered to recommend Tom to a prestigious Mastery program in Brussels that specializes in training future educators."

"So Dippet didn't know…"

"What Riddle truly was? No, not in the slightest. I advised him against the appointment—I could not offer the same reasons, nor the same honesty, which I can now share. Dippet was very fond of Riddle and convinced of his honesty."

Hm. Jules would just keep his thoughts on that to himself. It'd be rude to speak badly of Armando Dippet when the man's portrait was probably listening to this conversation.

"He did not apply to the program in Brussels: this was the point at which he took himself off to Knockturn Alley. It was widely considered a waste of a brilliant young mind. However, he rapidly attained a status for himself that was far above that of a 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 Burke's, which specializes, as you are no doubt aware, in objects with unusual and powerful properties—and often of dubiously legal or consensual source. Riddle 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," Jules muttered.

"Indeed." Dumbledore beckoned. "It was through this work that Riddle made the acquaintance of a witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith—yes, of those Smiths—to whom the house-elf Hokey was then bonded."

Jules took a deep breath and rose to stand across from his Headmaster over the bowl of silver-gilt memory.

"Are you ready?" Dumbledore said.

"Yes, sir."

"Then let us begin."

Jules and Dumbledore bent together over the pensieve, and tumbled down into darkness and nothing that went on, and on—a void in which Jules frayed at the edges, suspended animation—

His feet hit the ground in a room that immediately assaulted the senses. Jules reeled. Color and texture and—a riot of smells, perfume, powder, mothballs and dried flowers and the peculiar dusty scent of many potions left open in an unventilated room—he heard a fly buzzing, a pot boiling, a high-pitched, shrilly anxious voice.

"Focus, Julian."

This—a different sound. Coming in through his own ears though how Jules knew this he couldn't have said. It was a command, an expectation. A familiar voice. Dumbledore.

Focus, Jules told himself. He shut his eyes. He counted to ten. He opened them.

Concentrating fiercely, he forced the scene before him into comprehensibility. It… jerked, for lack of a better word—jerked and juddered as though many different viewpoints had been compressed imperfectly into a single composite. Moody had taught him about something Aurors did with different memories of a crime, trying to line them all up and create one reconstruction of the scene so they could try to resolve inconsistencies in witness testimony. But that made human memories rigid and inflexible, and difficult to view in real time… that didn't look quite like this.

"I never knew house-elves…"

"Yes," said Dumbledore softly, but Jules was no longer paying attention. He had finally gotten his eyes and mind enough under control to spot the source of that shrill feminine voice. A witch at least as large as Professor Slughorn, wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink silk robes, leaned in to a mirror. From this angle Jules couldn't see her face. But also, he—could see it, as if standing right at the side of the vanity—

"Don't try to resolve the contradiction," said Dumbledore.

Okay. Sure, yeah, Jules would just… not think about that too hard. He saw her face. Didn't matter how. He watched as she dabbed rouge onto already reddened cheeks. This was makeup like Parvati and Lavender did to feel fancy and have fun, makeup that made no attempt to pretend at being your natural looks—this was makeup that loudly and boldly announced its presence. Bright blue eyelids, pink lips, rouge-red cheeks. Jarring—not in its boldness but in the angles, the bits highlighted or not. Jules had spent enough time in the same room as Lavender and Parvati to have learned more than he needed to know about how makeup worked and even he could see that Hepzibah Smith was fighting against her own appearance here instead of working with it. If Lavender saw any of the younger Gyffindors with that attitude she'd have pulled them aside for a chat and foisted probably sixteen different how-to guides on them. Jules watched Hepzibah totter as a tiny, ancient house-elf laced her mistress's fleshy feet into tight satin slippers, and felt rather sad for her visible discomfort, her anxiety masked with imperious commands: "Tighter, Hokey, that's a girl—now do up the back of my hair, quickly now, go on—"

Hokey scrambled up to the back of Hepzibah's chair and did something to the wig that left it looking, to Jules's eyes, no different than before, but evidently pleased Hepzibah, who looked at herself in a small jeweled mirror and finally nodded approval.

"How do I look?" said Hepzibah, and stood up, and did a little twirl, and if you'd asked Jules a minute ago if she could move like that he would have said absolutely not in shoes that pinched like those ones seemed to. Merlin. Okay.

"Lovely, madam," said Hokey in a house-elf's squeaky tones. Whether she meant it or not was impossible to tell.

A tinkling bell noise rang rhough the dressing room. Both Hokey and her mistress jumped. "Quick, quick, he's here!" cried Hepzibah. That must have been a doorbell then.

Hokey scurried out of the room. Jules and Dumbledore went with her, as it was her memory; Jules resolutely didn't worry about the way the world jumped and twitched around them. If he relaxed and just sort of let his brain figure things out he could look around without too much strain. Theoretically this was a parlor sort of room but in practice using it for anything beyond sitting very still in a corner would be a challenge: the place was absolutely packed with random shite, all of which looked valuable. Cases full of lacquered oddities. Shelves of leather-bound and gilded books. Jeweled accessories out on display. Decorative globes and tropical flowers on spindly, colorful little tables and walls teeming with art though none, Jules noted, containing human figures—all were abstract or featured only plant and animal life. It was a memory and he moved through it as one did a dream, without particular care for logic, but the paths that wound through the room seemed barely large enough for Hokey alone; how Hepzibah fit he hadn't a clue.

They followed Hokey to a cramped front hall. Their glimpse of Hepzibah in her dressing room off the parlor vanished. Jules's vision split dizzyingly: he saw Hepzibah puttering around, then bustling into the parlor, and at the same time he watched Hokey open the front door and greet a tall, dark-haired young man. Voldemort, said part of his brain, but a much bigger part was more concerned with ow ow bloody fuck.

Dumbledore put a hand on his shoulder. "Pick one," he said quietly.

Pick? How—

(Hokey welcomed Voldemort into the house, took his coat—)

"It is the same way your eyes may focus on a glass windowpane, or on the view beyond it."

Or, Jules's brain supplied, on a dead fly stuck to his quidditch goggles, or on the quaffle soaring through the air. Okay. Right, yes. Sure. Just Voldemort. Or Tom Riddle. Which one was he, at this point? In those earlier memories he had been decidedly more Tom than Voldemort, but as Jules's brain came to terms with the dual scene and steadied again (Hokey was now ushering Riddle forward down the hall) he catalogued some marked changes. Riddle's face was hollower now, just barely this side of sickly; he had grown his hair out a bit; he wore plain, narrowly tailored black robes instead of the Hogwarts uniform. All of this may have been merely the grown-up version of Tom Riddle… but more telling was the settled confidence he wore now like an invisible cloak over his robe—the easier grace. The cold detachment of his expression that vanished a heartbeat before they stepped back into the parlor and Hepzibah's line of sight, replaced by a polished charm, a practiced lie that sat easier than when he was still a boy. Jules felt for the comforting presence of his wand. Maybe at this point he wasn't all the way Voldemort yet, but he was well on the way there.

Riddle picked his way through the room with an ease that implied familiarity. He's been here before,Jules concluded. More than once. Hepzibah's welcome suggested the same; she called Riddle over to where she sat, plainly arranged with care, on one half of a sofa, as though they'd done this before.

Again Dumbledore laid a hand on Jules's shoulder, grounding. "Hokey will leave again in a moment—prepare yourself—stay focused on this room, so that we may remain."

Bloody hell. Okay. Jules took a deep breath—or maybe just remembered the feeling of taking a deep breath, who knew how these fucking memories worked—and locked his thoughts narrowly down. It was easier now. Both because he had warning and because with Riddle in the room he'd have had a difficult time focusing on anything else.

Riddle had, in the meantime, produced flowers from nowhere, and presented them to Hepzibah.

"Oh you naughty boy, you shouldn't have!" Hepzibah said, and giggled, though Jules noted a vase standing at the ready on a little table within reach of her spot. As Riddle lowered himself into the sofa the older witch produced a wand, waved it, and carefully put the bouquet into a vase now filling with conjured water.

Hokey popped back into the room at her mistress's elbow with a tray of little cakes and a tea service.

"Here we are—help yourself, Tom, I know you love my Hokey's cooking—Tell me, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times…"

Riddle smiled at her, so warm and self-effacingly likable. A chill went down Jules's spine. "I'm well, thank you… It can be a deal of work, but I do find it interesting—where else might I discover such a range of delightful treasures?"

Was that an innuendo? Oh, Merlin. Jules hoped to Merlin and Morgana and any Muggle gods who happened to be listening that this wasn't a memory of Riddle tumbling some poor old lonely society witch before he robbed her blind.

Hepzibah giggled again. "Most true! What is the old coot's errand for you today, anyway? We might as well get it over with…"

"He would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-crafted plate armor. Ten percent above the previous figure, he feels it is a more than fair—"

"Oh of course it's that again. Piffle." Hepzibah leaned back against the sofa in a practiced manner that would probably have been alluring if Jules was about forty years older than his actual age. "I'm quite certain he has a buyer, he's only so insistent when he knows he can move an item easily… You wouldn't happen to know who, hm?"

An artful hesitation.

Hepzibah pounced. "I see you do!"

"Such information, if I did know it," said Riddle, his mask spotless even to Jules, who knew it was a lie, "would constitute privileged client details… and please, madame—"

"I've told you a hundred times, it's Hepzibah, you silly boy—"

"Hepzibah," Riddle amended, with a small, shy smile, "I cannot risk my position with Mr. Burke, surely you understand…"

"I'll conduct the sale through an intermediary," said Hepzibah, "and include a secrecy clause in the contract of sale… and you may expect a cut, naturally… say…" A mischievous smile. "Ten percent?"

They had done this dance before too, Jules was sure. Clever of Riddle. And Hepzibah. Jules disliked the Burke family enough to find it kind of funny that this old lady and Voldemort the shopkeep were ripping off Burke's shady store.

Riddle gave up the name soon enough—no one Jules recognized, though he made a mental note of it, just in case.

"Now that that's done with—stay a while," said Hepzibah, pouring Riddle more tea. "I'll be sure to mention to Burke how very insistent you were the next time I see him…"

Riddle took the refreshed tea with a murmur of thanks, and ate one of the little cakes.

"I've something to show you that I've never shown to Burke," Hepzibah said, leaning conspiratorially forward with a slight creaking of corsets.

"I am always delighted to see anything you want to show me." A smile Jules could only describe as seductive.

Hepzibah put a hand on Riddle's arm. "Can you keep a secret, Tom? Oh, but of course you can—I won't sell, not to Burke, not to anyone! You mustn't breathe a word of it, he'd never let me rest if he knew, but you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many galleons it's worth."

Covering her hand with his own, Riddle said, "A gentleman never speaks of a lady's private affairs."

Jules couldn't wait to tell Ron about this. Voldemort, flirting. What the fuck.

"Hokey, where are you?" said Hepzibah. "I want to show Tom our finest treasure… In fact, bring both, while you're at it…"

"Here, madam," said the house-elf, appearing so quickly Jules assumed this had been planned in advance, and Hokey had been hovering nearby waiting for the order. She handed her mistress two leather boxes.

"Now," said Hepzibah happily, accepting the boxes from the elf, "I think you'll like this, Tom… Oh, if my family knew I was showing you…" A giggle that bordered on malicious. "They can't wait for me to die so they can get their hands on this!"

She opened the lid. Jules went around the side of the sofa to get a better view, and saw a small golden cup with finely wrought handles and—his eyes widened—the crest of Helga Hufflepuff on the front.

"Go on, Tom, dearest—pick it up, have a good look!" Hepzibah said in a hushed tone. A gravity had come over both her and Riddle, a still, charged solemnity.

Riddle reached out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup delicately from its silk-lined resting place. Red flashed in his dark eyes; his perfect mask faltered, for the first time, showing instead a bone-deep greed—which was mirrored, Jules saw, on Hepzibah's face too, except her small eyes were fixed, not on the cup, but on Riddle himself.

"The cup of Helga Hufflepuff," Riddle breathed, voice full genuine emotion for the first time in this whole conversation—awe.

"That it is, you clever boy!" Hepzibah beamed. "Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years… Usually the Head of the House keeps it but my great-grandmother willed it to me as long as I live… Lovely, isn't it? And all sorts of powers it's supposed to possess, but I haven't tested them much, I just keep it nice and safe in here."

She reached to take the cup back. Intent on carefully replacing it in the box, she couldn't possibly notice the dark look that crossed Riddle's face as it was taken away from him.

"And then," Hepzibah said, handing the box with the cup back to Hokey and undoing the clasp on the second one, "there's this… I think you'll like this one even more, Tom… lean in a little so you can see… Of course, Burke knows I've got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone…"

Under her bejeweled hands, the box opened. Resting on a bed of crushed red velvet lay a heavy golden locket. Emeralds flashed on its face… green jewels forming the shape of a stylized S.

Oh, no way.

This time Riddle didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He lifted the locket into the light and stared at it hungrily. "Slytherin's crest?"

"That's right!" Hepzibah's whole body angled towards him, transfixed, apparently, by the sight of Riddle so enjoying her locket. "I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn't let it pass, not a real treasure like that. I had to have it for my collection. Apparently Burke bought it from a ragged-looking witch he thought must have stolen it—she hadn't a clue of its true value, sold it for materials alone—I daresay Burke paid her but a pittance…"

This time, the red gleam in Riddle's eyes was more than a gleam, it burned. His knuckles whitened around the locket.

Hepzibah faltered. Could she see it too? Or did Riddle's raised hand and the locket itself hide his telling eyes?

"Pretty, isn't it?" Hepzibah reached for the locket. "All kinds of powers attributed to this one too, but I just keep it safe, like the cup…"

For a moment Jules thought Riddle might not give it back—but then his hand opened, the chain slid like water through his fingers, and Hepzibah carefully arranged locket and chain on their red velvet cushion, and the leather box shut it away again.

"Here, Hokey—take these away again—lock them up, the usual enchantments…"

"Yes, madam," squeaked Hokey, disappearing with both boxes and a little curtsey.

"Time to leave now," said Dumbledore.

Jules braced himself.

Around them the memory froze, swirled, dissolved. They fell or flew through nothingness. Jules poured back into his body and staggered back from the pensieve into the nearest squashy chair. "Ow," he muttered, pressing a hadn to his thumping head. "So… let me guess, Hepzibah Smith died not too long after that?"

"Indeed. Only two days later, in fact—it would seem Voldemort was too impatient to wait even for her sale of the goblin armor to conclude." Dumbledore sat down again as well. He didn't seem bothered by bloody impossible house-elf memories. "Hokey was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident."

Jules scoffed. "Right. Implanted memories again? He seems good at that—"

"It is a remarkable accomplishment to falsify memories of a species whose perception varies so greatly from our own," said Dumbledore. "Though to some extent it is likely that the Ministry did not look as closely as they might have done in the case of a human suspect."

"Old, addled house-elf… and if she confessed…" Jules grimaced. He knew enough of the DMLE to guess that wouldn't end well. "They didn't think to wonder why something lethally poisonous was in the kitchen and labeled so badly it could be mixed up with cocoa powder?"

"It is possible that an associate of Voldemort's encouraged the case to be swept under the rug—but I think simple negligence sufficient to explain that oversight, alas. She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket.

“By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah’s family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time."

Dumbledore paused, and fixed his gaze on Jules. "Tell me, what do you make of this memory?"

"He's greedy," Jules said, thinking of the way Riddle looked at the cup, not just the locket. "He didn't wait for the sale of the armor to go through… so it wasn't the money, it can't have been. And—have the cup or locket ever turned up again? He never sold them, did he?"

"He did not," Dumbledore confirmed.

Jules nodded; that fit his developing theory. "It's like—he stole things when he was younger, too… but that was, I don't know… jealousy, maybe. I don't think he was jealous of Hepzibah, exactly… He wants the legitimacy, though, maybe. Not just the locket, which he might think was his by right, being a descendant of Slytherin—he took the cup too, and he looked like he wanted it badly before he even knew of the locket. And then there's the way he feels about Hogwarts…"

Behind the Headmaster's desk, on the wall, rubies winked at Jules from the pommel of the sword of Gryffindor.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, glancing over his shoulder as well. "That is another artifact of the Founders… likely the one that would have interested Lord Voldemort the least, and certainly the most lost to history. It is common knowledge in some circles that the House of Smith is the last direct line of descent from Helga Hufflepuff—the diadem of Ravenclaw has been lost for centuries, but there are legends of what happened to it—and the locket of Slytherin was once commonly worn by those of House Gaunt before they drove themselves into penurious obscurity. This sword, however… it vanished during Godric Gryffindor's lifetime, and the surviving records indicate he refused to speak of it thereafter. Many assumed it had been returned to the goblins or else hidden away to be interred with Godric when he died."

"Instead he just stashed it in his bloody Hat. Or at least hid it somewhere the Hat could summon it, in need… What powers did the locket have, sir?"

But Dumbledore shook his head. "On that subject the records are silent, as with the cup of Hufflepuff."

Hm.

"He must have had other things planned… but he was really focused on finding some kind of important artifact, right? Or more than one? Why else would he take the job at Borgin and Burke's? And then—and then run away once he found the locket and the cup. Even if he can't have known about those specific things beforehand…"

"That is my conclusion as well," said Dumbledore warmly, and Jules grinned, feeling like he'd won something. "And now, before we continue—this is the very last recollection I have to share, and the only one save the truth from Professor Slughorn. Eleven years separate it from Hokey’s memory. I have discovered nothing reliable regarding Lord Voldemort’s whereabouts and actions during that time… only whispers and rumors, stories of a red-eyed man involved with this or that Dark Arts practitioner… I have reason to suspect that he was, for large periods of time, absent from the British Isles entirely, and that even when here he lived a very secretive life, engaging only with individuals living on the very fringes of society. During those eleven years I had no word of him and, I confess, hoped, when I thought of Tom Riddle at all, that he had fallen prey to the many dangers that lie in wait for those who seek the oldest and darkest forms of magic." He sighed. "I was proven wrong the day that a letter arrived addressed to the Headmaster of Hogwarts requesting an appointment for Thomas Marvolo Riddle. This memory is of that very appointment." A small smile. "I daresay you may find it rather clearer and more accessible to the mind than that of Hokey."

"I'd hope," said Jules without thinking, and then felt himself redden. Sure, Dumbledore had been inviting more and more informality, welcoming the kind of humor Jules wouldn't dream of using in front of for example, McGonagall—still, had this been too far—?

It would seem not. Dumbledore's smile widened. "After you," he said, tapping his wand against the pensieve, and Jules braced himself for one last journey into the past.

This time they reappeared in the very same office in which Jules's real body still waited. There was Fawkes, asleep on his perch and much bigger and shinier-looking than the gangly, juvenile Fawkes of Jules's time, who was still recovering from eating a Killing Curse the last June. Some of the artifacts on the shelves were different, and Jules thought there were fewer books; the Dumbledore behind the desk certainly bore fewer lines on his face than the one standing at Jules's side, and his hair and beard, though greying, were still mostly auburn. Blueish snowflakes filled the air beyond the windows. It was winter, then, in the past, and late in the evening, to judge by the dusky quality of the light outside.

They waited only a moment, the younger Dumbledore content to sit quite still and hum a little tune to himself, before a knock sounded from the door. The younger Dumbledore straightened. "Enter."

The door opened, and Voldemort came in. This time, it was beyond all doubt Voldemort and not Tom Riddle. Every hair on Jules's arms stood up; his wand snapped into his hand without conscious thought; every instinct screamed at him, danger, fight—

Memory. Just a memory. Jules sucked in a breath and then another and calmed himself.

Still pale, still dark-haired, Voldemort lacked a humanity Jules hadn't even recognized in his younger selves until he saw now the contrast of its absence. His detachment was complete, now—his eyes all the way red, his smile chilling, cold. He wore a long cloak, with snow still glistening on the shoulders, as though his body was itself cold enough to keep the warm air inside the castle from coming too near.

"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore—the younger one—pleasantly. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," said Voldemort, and took the seat that Jules had only just vacated in the real world. Ugh. Jules sort of wanted to scourgify the seat of his trousers. "I heard that you had become Headmaster. A worthy choice."

That voice… Jules's jaw clenched. His hand tightened on the wand he could not make himself put away, no matter how much he logically knew he didn't need it. His Dumbledore, from the present, must notice how tense Jules had gotten, but didn't comment, which was good: Jules didn't think he could make himself relax right now, even if Dumbledore told him to.

"I am glad you approve," said Dumbledore, smiling. "May I offer you a drink?"

“That would be welcome,” said Voldemort. “I have come a long way.”

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the pensieve, but which in the past was full of bottles. He drew out a bottle of wine that Jules vaguely recognized as being stupidly expensive, poured two glasses, and returned to his desk, passing one of them over to Voldemort. "So, Tom," he said, as Voldemort took a first sip. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I am not using that name anymore," said Voldemort. "These days I prefer Thomas."

"Ah, yes. I did note the signature." Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. "But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about one's former teachers… They never quite forget their charges' youthful beginnings."

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained stubbornly blank. There was a short, unpleasant pause. The hair on Jules's arms prickled again.

"I am surprised," said Voldemort, "that you have remained here so long. I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school."

"Well, to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills—helping hone young minds. If I recall correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching yourself." Dumbledore sipped his wine.

"I see it still," Voldemort said. "I merely wondered why you—who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister —”

“Thrice now, actually,” said Dumbledore. “But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think.”

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and drank again from his crystal glass. Dumbledore waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to speak again.

At last, Voldemort placed his glass down on the desk with a little click that meant business. "I have returned, as Professor Dippet advised me, to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach, now that I have acquired a great deal more worldly experience than I possessed at eighteen. Admittedly I took rather longer than he might have expected, and did not follow the conventional path into academia—but I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. There can be few better suited than myself to show and tell your students the truth of what they must defend themselves from, in the world."

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet. A bright, hard flash in his eyes had Jules shifting his feet, unnerved.

"Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, yes, Tom," he said quietly. "I should be sorry to believe half of them."

Voldemort's thin lips twisted contemptuously. “Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this.”

"You call it ‘greatness,’ what you have been doing, do you?” asked Dumbledore.

"There are variable definitions of the word—certainly I think it reasonable to claim that I have attained a mastery of magic rarely before seen." Voldemort gestured, a neat little twist of one hand: before Jules's eyes that very hand turned, without a word or a whisper of a spell, into a bouquet of rosebuds, petals tightly furled; they bloomed and grew, vibrant, growing thorny and bright from the stump of his wrist as though it were the most natural thing in the world—the scent of them filled the room—then the edges of their petals darkened, blackened, shriveled and cracked; they withered and died, and then the stalks did too, slumping over slowly and then all at once into a puff of dead plant matter that reformed, once again, into Voldemort's pale, long-fingered hand. Even younger Dumbledore's composure wavered, at this; his eyes widened slightly, and he leaned forward the barest inch, intent and keenly curious—before he caught himself and sat back.

But Voldemort had seen the reaction: he smiled, thin and smug. Proud. "As you see… I have experimented; I have explored; I have invented new powers and revived ancient works thought lost to time. I have faced great perils and here I sit, unscathed.”

“You have perhaps attained greatness in some narrow fields of magical expertise,” Dumbledore said quietly. “That does not, however, necessarily create the greatness of character required to wield them with sound judgment… Nor does does it encompass some vital sources of magical power of which you remain—you must forgive me—woefully ignorant.”

"That old argument," said Voldemort. "Nothing I have seen in the world supports your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than the magics I have sought to master."

"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places."

“Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?” said Voldemort. “Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command.”

"Are you now," said Dumbledore, and it wasn't a question.

Voldemort remained silent. His turn to wait.

After another sip of wine, Dumbledore sighed. "And what will happen of those whom you command? What will become of those who call themselves—or so rumor tells me—no longer the Knights of Walpurgis, but the Death Eaters?"

Clearly Voldemort hadn't expected Dumbledore to know that name. His nostrils flared slightly—the red in his eyes caught the fire's glow and threw it back brighter, crueler, than a warm hearth's light could ever be. "My friends," he said, "will carry on without me, I am sure. They have nothing to do with my interest in teaching, and no reason to care."

"Then if I were to go to the Hog’s Head tonight, I would not find a group of them — Nott, Rosier, Mulciber, Dolohov — awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck in a rather banal interview.”

Again Dumbledore's detailed knowledge threw Voldemort off. Like any predator, though, he grew more dangerous when angry; the air crackled, even in memory, with his power and rage. "Omniscient as ever, I see."

"Oh no, merely friendly with local barmen," said Dumbledore lightly. He too set his wine glass down, now, and drew his hands together, tips of fingers held together in a characteristic gesture. "Let us speak openly, Tom. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?"

Voldemort looked coldly surprised. "On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much.”

"I do not doubt that you want to return to Hogwarts—nor even that you seek the position of professor—but teaching, the work of it—" Dumbledore shook his head.

Jules, watching, snorted: yeah, he couldn't imagine Voldemort standing in front of a class and explaining basic concepts patiently, or staying up late to grade badly written essays. He'd be more likely to show off, praise the smart kids, and then laugh at the ones who couldn't get it on the first try, which was most of them. Voldemort did not, in Jules's experience, have the temperament to explain how to use a bloody Floo, let alone teach Defense.

"Lie to me if you wish," past-Dumbledore went on, "but I am quite sure you would find that demeaning drudgery. What is it you're after, Tom? Access to the library? To wizarding Britain's finest young minds? Perhaps… to a certain Chamber rumored to hide in the bowels of this school?" He studied Voldemort's hardening face. "Or merely as a pretext to enter the grounds this once—? Why not try an open request for once?"

"If you will not give me the job—"

"Of course I will not give you the job," said Dumbledore, for the first time showing contempt on par with Voldemort's, for the idea of letting Voldemort teach if not for the man himself. "And I do not believe you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked—you must have had a purpose. You and I both know you do nothing without cause."

Voldemort rose. His eyes burned; his face was a mask. "This is your final word?"

"It is," said Dumbledore, who remained in his seat, as though unbothered by the—frankly—scary as hell figure looming over him.

"Then we have nothing more to say to one another."

"No," said Dumbledore. A sadness filled his face. "I do not believe we do… The time is long gone that I believed any alteration of your path remained possible. I fear, Tom, that you are past the point of no return—the road you walk now leads to only one end."

Voldemort's hand made the tiniest of gestures—a prelude only, not even a twitch—Jules couldn't have said, really, what he even saw—but in an instant Jules's body came alive with renewed tension, his wand arm jerked up, two curses and a shield charm hovered in his throat and his feet twisted in an instant, ready to dodge.

But—nothing. No violence. Voldemort turned—stalked from the room—the door closed on his heels, leaving Jules nearly vibrating in a room with two Dumbledores separated by decades but eerily similar, just then, in their matching expressions of sorrow and fatigue.

"That will do," said the Dumbledore of Jules's time, and his hand closed gently over Jules's rigid arm, and in a moment they were back in their bodies in the present. The world outside the windows was dark now with sunset, not dusky blue; no snow covered the windowsill. Fawkes, on his perch, stirred, lost his balance, and nearly fell, recovering with a squawk and a shuffle of ungainly half-fledged wings.

"Did you ever find out why?" Jules asked at once. He went to sit down, and at the last second switched to take the chair Selwyn had used—the memory of Voldemort sitting in the other was way too fresh.

"Why he returned? No. I have theories only… of which we will speak more once you have obtained the final memory from Professor Slughorn." Dumbledore gave Jules a meaningful look over the tops of his spectacles.

Point taken. "Yes, sir," said Jules. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and considered what he'd seen today… "Do you think… Was there ever a time when he could have… gone back? Been anything… other than Voldemort?"

"I believe… that there were opportunities. Points where he could have… chosen a different path. But at a certain point—the only redemption lies in remorse, Julian—in understanding the harm one has wrought," a look of terrible grief and guilt crossed the Headmaster's aging face, so concentrated Jules felt it like a knife, "and in resolving to make amends where possible, and to refuse, at any cost, to walk that road again. True remorse… I am unsure if Tom Riddle ever was capable of such a thing. By the time he came to this office for the last time he was, I think, beyond that point; and he had long since grown too powerful for fear, however poor a substitute for sincere regret it may be, to deter him from his course."

Dumbledore looked down at his hands—one healthy, if lined, its skin paper-thin; the other blackened and dead, stiffly resistant to movement. "You will one day stand alone," he said, voice dropping to an almost-whisper, "and face choices that no one can make for you. You will make mistakes. You will miscalculate—you will err. When you do… remember that when there are no right choices… someone must pick the least undesireable one—someone must have the courage to carry the guilt."

"You shouldn't have to carry all of it," said Jules.

"And yet," said Dumbledore, "if I put down that which is rightfully mine—what does that make me? If I cannot bear the weight of it—who does it help if I retreat into inaction? Do not be so afraid of mistakes that you refuse to act at all."

Slowly, Jules nodded. Unease tightened his stomach and throat; words crowded in his mind but none shook out into a useful order, nothing made sense to say. On the one hand he—was honored, flattered even, that Dumbledore might confide in him like this—but on the other—

Maybe a braver person would have asked.

Maybe it was okay to let himself have one moment of weakness.

Jules wished the Headmaster a good night, and left, and walked back to Gryffindor Tower, and couldn't help but wonder… In this world where Jules stood alone, with only bad choices and no one to make them for him—

Try as he might—Jules couldn't shake the sense that Dumbledore was preparing him for a world in which Dumbledore himself was gone.