Fenrir Greyback

So, I was reading book 6 again, and I’ve been wondering for a while. What exactly did Greyback do to Bill? Like, it’s explains that he got savaged, and that he might have some wolfish qualities, but what exactly did he do? Like, did he bite him or something?

First half of book:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003829962

Previous Chapters:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003833123

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003838588

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003840013

Tags:

@SaphireStark @Missy Clara Oswald @CatsAndRoblox @Pervaza972 @Interested.me @Mega.mind.harry.potter

Chapter Twenty-Two: Malfoy Manor

Harry looked around at the other three, now mere outlines in the darkness. He saw Allison point her wand, not toward the outside, but towards his own face, ‘Furnunculus Maxima.’

There was a burst of golden light and he buckled in agony, unable to see, all he could feel was pain and someone forcibly pushing his glasses off his face. He could feel his face swelling rapidly.

‘Get up, vermin.’

Unknown hands dragged Harry roughly off the ground, before he could stop them, someone had rummaged through his pockets and removed the sycamore wand. Harry clutched at his excruciatingly painful face, which now had about a hundred giant boils the size of kumquats and felt unrecognizable beneath his fingers. He was forced to squint, both from the lack of glasses, and because boils were pressing upon both his upper and lower eyelids. As he was bundled out of the tent: all he could make out were the blurred shapes of four or five people wrestling Theodore, Allison, and Tracey outside too.

‘Hey! Let her go!’ Harry shouted as he watched three big Snatchers struggle to forcibly keep Allison still.

If his pain wasn’t already enough, Harry then received a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him and almost making him collapse.

‘Beau! No, stop, please don’t hurt him!’ screamed Allison as she ceased to struggle.

Quickly glancing over, Harry spotted Theodore and Tracey being held tightly by two other Snatchers.

‘Your boyfriend’s going to have worse than that done to him if he’s on my list,’ said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. ‘Deliciousgirl...whatatreat...Idoenjoythesoftnessoftheskin...’

Harry’s stomach continued to turn over. He knew who this was, Fenrir Greyback, the werewolf who traumatized Remus and Canini for life and had developed cannibalistic cravings even when not in werewolf form.

‘Search the tent!’ said another voice, and with Allison no longer struggling one of her captures ran into the tent.

Harry was thrown face down onto the ground. A couple thuds told him that Theodore a Tracey had been cast down beside him. They could hear footsteps and crashes; the man was pushing over chairs inside the tent as he searched.

‘Now, let’s see who we’ve got,’ said Greyback’s gloating voice from overhead, and Harry was rolled over onto his back. A beam of wand light fell onto his face and Greyback laughed.

‘I’ll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?’

Harry did not answer immediately.

‘I said,’ repeated Greyback, and Harry received a blow to the diaphragm that made him double over in pain, ‘what happened to you?’

‘Sensitive skin,’ Harry muttered. ‘There isn’t exactly Bubotuber pus or Ten-Second Pimple Vanisher out here.’

‘You look like a Mimbulus mimbletonia,’ said a second voice.

‘What’s your name?’ snarled Greyback.

‘Dudley,’ said Harry.

‘And your first name?’

‘I—Vernon. Vernon Dudley.’

‘Check the list, Scabior,’ said Greyback, and Harry head him move sideways to look down at Tracey, instead. ‘And what about you, curly?’

‘Bridget Maloney,’ said Tracey.

‘And you?’ Greyback said to Theodore.

‘Luke Avery,’ said Theodore.

‘Like ’ell you are,’ said the man called Scabior. ‘Avery is more than double yer age, an’ has no need running from Death Eaters seein’ that ‘e’s one.’

There was another thud.

‘I’b Maxwell,’ said Theodore, and Harry could tell that his mouth was full of blood. ‘Maxwell Lazenby.’

‘The surname is familiar,’ rasped Greyback. ‘So you better hope it’s a good familiar and not a bad familiar. And lastly, your pretty feisty friend…’ The relish in his voice made Harry’s flesh crawl.

‘Easy, Greyback,’ said Scabior over the jeering of the others.

‘Oh, I’m not going to bite just yet. We’ll see if she’s a bit quicker at remembering her name than Max. Who are you, girly?’

‘Zoe Accrington,’ said Allison. She sounded terrified, but convincing.

‘What’s your blood status?’

‘Half-Blood,’ said Allison.

‘Easy enough to check,’ said Scabior. ‘But the ’ole lot of ’em look like they could still be ’ogwarts age—‘

‘It’z Holeda,’ Theodore tried to say.

‘Out for Easter Holiday, is that what you’re trying to say, sonny?’ said Scabior. ‘Well if you actually had been to Hogwarts recently then you’d know this year’s Easter break was cancelled and almost no students were permitted to go home. Besides, an innocent little Easter camping trip wouldn’t explain one of you using the Dark Lords name?’

‘It was a simple accident,’ said Tracey, even with Harry’s poor vision he could tell she was shaking.

‘Accident?’ There was more jeering laughter.

‘You know who used to like using the Dark Lord’s name?’ growled Greyback, ‘The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?’

‘Doh,’ replied Theodore.

‘Well, they don’t show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name’s been Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked that way. We’ll see. Bind them up with the other two prisoners!’

Someone yanked Harry up by the hair, dragged him a short way, pushed him down into a sitting position, then started binding him back-to-back with other people.

Harry was still almost entirely blind, barely able to see anything through his puffed-up eyes. When at last the man tying them had walked away, Harry whispered to the other prisoners.

‘Anyone still got a wand?’

‘No,’ said his three friends from either side of him.

‘This is all my fault. I said the name. I’m sorry—‘

‘Harry?’

It was a new, but familiar voice, but one he couldn’t quite place. And it came from directly behind Harry, from the person tied to Allison’s left.

‘You’re Dean Thomas, Gryffindor, and D.A. member?’ whispered Theodore.

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ Dean whispered back. ‘Never thought I’d be happy to see a bunch of Slytherin’s. The guy with the boils, is that real him.’

‘You’ll understand that we can’t confirm or deny that. You could be a Death Eater trying to trick us,’ said Allison, dead serious. ‘We competed in Quidditch together and trained together in the D.A., I trust you Dean, but not that much.’

‘That’s fair,’ Dean admitted with a sigh. ‘Still, it’s good to see you four.’

‘Not a bad little haul for one night,’ Greyback was saying, as a pair of hobnailed boots marched close by Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the tent. ‘A Mudblood, a runaway goblin, and these truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?’ he roared.

‘Yeah. There’s no Vernon Dudley un ’ere, Greyback.’

‘Interesting,’ said Greyback. ‘That’s interesting.’

He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through the infinitesimal gap left between his swollen eyelids, a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, with pointed brown teeth and sores in the corners of his mouth. Greyback smelled as he had done at the top of the tower where Dumbledore had died: of dirt, sweat, and blood.

‘So you aren’t wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on that list under a different name? What house were you in at Hogwarts?’

‘Slytherin,’ said Harry automatically. It was both the truth, and the option that would give them the highest chance of surviving the night.

‘Funny ’ow they all thinks we wants to ’ear that,’ leered Scabior out of the shadows. ‘But none of ’em can tell us where the common room is.’

‘It’s in the dungeons,’ said Harry clearly. ‘You enter through the enchanted wall. It’s under the lake, lamps that emit green light, large tapestries, and all the furniture is carved from stone.’

There was a short pause.

‘Well, well, looks like we really ’ave caught a little Slytherin,’ said Scabior. ‘Good for you, Vernon, ’cause there ain’t a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Then again there still are a handful of Slytherin’s on our list. Who’s your father?’

‘He works at the Ministry,’ Harry lied. He knew that his whole story would collapse with the smallest investigation, but on the other hand, he only had until his face regained its usual appearance before the game was up in any case. ‘Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.’

‘You know what, Greyback,’ said Scabior. ‘I think there is a Dudley in there.’

Harry could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, get them safely out of this?

‘Well, well,’ said Greyback, and Harry could hear the tiniest note of trepidation in that callous voice, and knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had just indeed just attacked and bound the son of a Ministry Official. Harry’s heart was pounding against the ropes around his ribs; he would not have been surprised to know that Greyback could see it. ‘If you’re telling the truth, ugly, you’ve got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father’ll reward us just for picking you up.’

‘But,’ said Harry, his mouth bone dry, ‘if you just let us—‘

‘Hey! Look at this. Greyback!’ a dark figure came bustling toward them from the tent. ‘Look at this, in the Prophet!’

As the Snatcher said it, Harry’s scar, which was stretched tight across his distended forehead, burned savagely. More clearly than he could make out anything around him, he saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet-black and forbidding: Voldemort’s thoughts had suddenly become Razor-Sharp again; he was gliding toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly euphoric purpose…So close...So close...

With a huge effort of will Harry closed his mind to Voldemort’s thoughts, pulling himself back to where he sat, tied to Allison, Theodore, Tracey, Dean, and Griphook in the darkness, listening to Greyback and Scabior. ‘“Allison Runcorn”,’ said Scabior as he read the paper he was handed, ‘“the traitorous daughter of Chief Investigator of Magic Thieving Muggles Albert Runcorn, is known to be traveling with er suspected boyfriend Harry Potter.”’

Harry’s scar burned in the silence, but he made a supreme effort to keep himself present, not to slip into Voldemort’s mind. He heard the creak of Greyback’s boots as he crouched down, in front of Allison.

‘You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you.’

‘I’m Zoe Accrington, I’m not her!’

Allison was a good actress, but despite her hair being longer her face was still the same as it was in the photo. Greyback ignored her protests.

‘…known to be traveling with her suspected boyfriend Harry Potter,’ repeated Greyback quietly. ‘Didn’t you call the ugly one “beau” earlier?’

A stillness had settled over the scene. Harry’s scar was exquisitely painful, but he struggled with all his strength against the pull of Voldemort’s thoughts. It had never been so important to remain in his own right mind.

‘Well, this changed things, doesn’t it?’ whispered Greyback. Nobody spoke: Harry sensed the gang of Snatchers watching, frozen, and felt Allison’s arm trembling against his.

Greyback got up and took a couple of steps to where Harry sat, crouching down again to stare closely at his misshapen features.

‘What’s that on your forehead, Vernon?’ he asked softly, his breath foul in Harry’s nostrils as he pressed a filthy finger to the taught scar.

‘Don’t touch me!’ Harry yelled; he could not stop himself, he thought he might be sick from the pain of Greyback touching his scar.

‘I thought you wore glasses, Potter?’ breathed Greyback.

‘I found glasses!’ yelped one of the Snatchers skulking in the background. ‘There was glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait—‘

And seconds later Harry’s glasses had been rammed back onto his face. The Snatchers were closing in now, peering at him.

‘It is!’ rasped Greyback. ‘We’ve caught Potter!’

They all took several steps backward, stunned by what they had done. Harry, still fighting to remain present in his own splitting head, could think of nothing to say. Fragmented visions were breaking across the surface of his mind—

—He was gliding around the high walls of the black fortress—

—No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave danger—

—looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest tower—

—He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in low voices—

—Time to fly...

‘…To the Ministry?’

‘To hell with the Ministry,’ growled Greyback. ‘They’ll take the credit, and we won’t get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who.’

‘Will you summon ’im? ’ere?’ said Scabior, sounding awed, terrified.

‘No,’ snarled Greyback, ‘I haven’t got—they say he’s using the Malfoy’s place as a base. We’ll take the boy there.’

Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but only Voldemort’s inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback, in their minds a Half-breed, had not been granted this highest honour.

Harry’s scar seared again—

—and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the windows at the very top of the tower—

‘…completely sure it’s him? ’Cause if it ain’t, Greyback, we’re dead.’

‘Who’s in charge here?’ roared Greyback, covering his moment of inadequacy. ‘I say that’s Potter, and him plus his wand, that’s two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you’re too gutless to come along, any of you, it’s all for me, and with any luck, I’ll get the girl thrown in!’

—The window was the merest slit in the black rock, not big enough for a man to enter...A skeletal figure was just visible through it, curled beneath a blanket…Dead, or sleeping..?

‘All right!’ said Scabior. ‘All right, we’re in! And what about the rest of ’em, Greyback, what’ll we do with ’em?’

‘Might as well take the lot. We’ve got at least one Mudblood, that’s another five Galleons. I’m also sure Runcorn would be willing to pay yet another small fortune for the return of his daughter…after I’m done with her.’

The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Harry could hear Tracey’s breathing, fast and terrified.

‘Grab hold and make it tight. I’ll do Potter!’ said Greyback, seizing a fistful of Harry’s hair; Harry could feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. ‘On three! One—two—three—‘

They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them. Harry struggled, trying to throw off Greyback’s hand, but it was hopeless: Tracey, Allison, and Theodore were squeezed tightly against him on either side; he could not separate from the group, and as the breath was squeezed out of him his scar seared more painfully still—

—as he forced himself through the slit of a window like a snake and landed, lightly as vapor inside the cell-like room—

The prisoners lurched into one another as they landed in a country lane. Harry’s eyes, still puffy, took a moment to acclimatize, then he saw a pair of wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looked like a long drive. He experienced the tiniest trickle of relief. The worst had not happened yet: Voldemort was not here. He was, Harry knew, for he was fighting to resist the vision, in some strange, fortress-like place, at the top of a tower. How long it would take Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that Harry was here, was another matter…

One of the Snatchers strode to the gates and shook them.

‘How do we get in? They’re locked, Greyback, I can’t—blimey!’

He whipped his hands away in fright. The iron was contorting, twisting itself out of the abstract furls and coils into a frightening face, which spoke in a clanging, echoing voice. ‘State your purpose!’

‘We’ve got Potter!’ Greyback roared triumphantly. ‘We’ve captured Harry Potter!’

The gates swung open.

‘Come on!’ said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, tied back-to-back to the four other prisoner. Closing his swollen eyes, he allowed the pain in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, whether he knew yet that Harry was caught…

The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face...The frail man sat up, great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of his teeth were gone...

‘So, you have come. I thought you would…one day. But your journey was pointless. I never had it.’

‘You lie!’

As Voldemort’s anger throbbed inside him, Harry’s scar threatened to burst with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.

Light spilled out over all of them.

‘What is this?’ said a woman’s cold voice.

‘We’re here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!’ rasped Greyback.

‘Who are you?’

‘You know me!’ There was resentment in the werewolf’s voice. ‘Fenrir Greyback! We’ve caught Harry Potter!’

Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing the other prisoners to shuffle around too.

‘I know ’es disfigured, ma’am, but it’s ’im!’ piped up Scabior. ‘If you look a bit closer, you’ll see ’is scar. And this ’ere, see the girl? His sweetheart who’s been traveling around with ’im, ma’am. There’s no doubt it’s ’im, and we’ve got ’is wand as well! ’Ere, ma’am—‘

Through his swollen eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his swollen face. Scabior thrust the sycamore wand at her. She raised her eyebrows.

‘Bring them in,’ she said.

Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a hallway lined with portraits.

‘Follow me,’ said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. ‘My son, Draco, is home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know.’

The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.

‘What is this?’

The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry’s ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his fear mounted, to block out Voldemort’s thoughts, though his scar was still burning.

‘They say they’ve got Potter,’ said Narcissa’s cold voice. ‘Draco, come here.’

Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair. He looked almost sick, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was because a full moon had just passed, or if it was that the monster who had infected him stood right behind Harry.

Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly beneath the chandelier.

‘Well, boy?’ rasped the werewolf.

Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.

His face was huge, lumpy, and pink, every feature distorted by Allison’s powerful jinx. His black hair nearly reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the latter approached. They had shared a dorm for six years, and nearly all their classes, and while Harry’s face may currently be nearly unrecognizable, he feared Draco would recognize his mannerisms or regular robes, and of course Draco had to have recognized Theodore, Allison, and Tracey.

‘Well, Draco?’ said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. ‘Is it? Is it Harry Potter?’

This was it, Harry thought. There was a brief time between the end of their third and fifth year that Harry had considered his relationship with Draco neutral, even on one or two occasions he thought of him as an ally, but ever since Harry’s actions resulted in Lucius getting caught at the Ministry Draco had hated his guts. Harry wasn’t even sure if he could blame him, Lucius’ capture had resulted in Draco being forcibly infected with lycanthropy and placed in a soul crushing year long mission under the threat of the death of his parents and himself. All that combined with Harry accidentally nearly torturing him to death Harry was certain that any second now Draco would—‘

‘I can’t—I can’t be sure,’ said Draco.

Harry almost let a sound out in shock.

Draco was understandably keeping his distance from Greyback, but also seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.

‘But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!’

Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.

‘Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv—‘

‘Now, we won’t be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr Malfoy?’ said Greyback menacingly.

‘Of course not, of course not!’ said Lucius impatiently. He approached Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a boily mask, Harry felt as though he was peering out from between the bars of a cage.

‘What did you do to him?’ Lucius asked Greyback. ‘How did he get into this state?’

‘That wasn’t us.’

‘Looks more like a modified Pimple Jinx to me,’ said Lucius.

His gray eyes raked Harry’s forehead.

‘There’s something there,’ he whispered, ‘it could be the scar, stretched tight…Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?’

Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, fear, and even possibly regret.

‘I don’t know,’ he said more vocally, and he walked away toward the fire-place where his mother stood watching.

‘We had better be certain, Lucius,’ Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. ‘Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord...They say this is his’—she was looking closely at the sycamore wand—‘but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description…If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing…Remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?’

‘What about the brute, she’s his girlfriend?’ growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the light fell on Allison instead.

‘Wait,’ said Narcissa sharply. ‘Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! Look, Draco, isn’t it the Runcorn girl?’

‘I...maybe...yeah.’

‘And I can confirm this one is Nott’s son, he’s been living with Potter and his family for years!’ shouted Lucius, striding around the bound prisoners to face Theodore. ‘It’s them, Potter’s friends—I’ll let your true father deal with you later, you blood betraying cur.’

‘And the other girl, isn’t that the Davis’ daughter, I saw her picture in the Prophet!’ cheered Narcissa nearly in joy.

‘Yeah,’ said Draco again, his back to the prisoners. ‘It could be.’

The drawing room door opened behind Harry. A woman spoke, and the sound of the voice wound Harry’s fear to an even higher pitch.

‘What is this? What’s happened, Cissy?’

Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly around the prisoners, and stopped on Harry’s right, staring at Allison through her heavily lidded eyes.

‘But surely,’ she said quietly, ‘this is the Runcorn girl?’

‘Yes, yes, it’s Runcorn!’ cried Lucius, ‘And beside her, we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!’

‘Potter?’ shrieked Bellatrix, and she backed away, the better to take in Harry. ‘Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!’

She dragged back her left sleeve: Harry saw the Dark Mark burned into the flesh of her arm, and knew that she was about to touch it, to summon her beloved master—

‘I was about to call him!’ said Lucius, and his hand actually closed upon Bellatrix’s wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark. ‘I shall summon him, Bella. Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority—‘

‘Your authority!’ she sneered, attempting to wrench her hand from his grasp. ‘You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!’

‘This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy—‘

‘Begging your pardon, Mr Malfoy,’ interjected Greyback, ‘but it’s us that caught Potter, and it’s us that’ll be claiming the gold—‘

‘Gold!’ laughed Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off her

brother-in-law, her free hand groping in her pocket for her wand. ‘Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I want with gold? I seek only the honour of his—of—‘

She stopped struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon something Harry could not see. Jubilant at her capitulation, Lucius threw her hand from him and ripped up his own sleeve—

‘STOP!’ shrieked Bellatrix, ‘Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!’

Lucius froze, his index finger hovering over his own Mark. Bellatrix strode out of Harry’s limited line of vision.

‘What is that?’ he heard her say.

(Second chapter of today, this was a really exciting chapter to write as I have snuck in several important little changes that will become important really soon. If you read this chapter PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT ON YOUR THOUGHTS, I want to know what you think and if you have noticed the little changes.)

Previous Chapters:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003768423

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003769317

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003770117

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003771789

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003772695

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003774876

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003775746

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003776170

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003776958

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003777821

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003778655

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003779874

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003781975

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003784137

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003786670

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003788477

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003788958

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003789922

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003790766

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003792515

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003794298

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003794299

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003795416

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003796242

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003796873

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003797451

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003798336

Tags:

@Teddy.J.B @Pervaza972 @CatsAndRoblox @Missy Clara Oswald

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Lightning-Struck Tower

Once back under the starry sky, Harry heaved Dumbledore onto the top of the nearest boulder and then to his feet. Sodden and shivering, Dumbledore’s weight still upon him, Harry concentrated harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes, gripping Dumbledore’s arm as tightly as he could, he stepped forward into that feeling of horrible compression.

He knew it had worked before he opened his eyes: The smell of salt, the sea breeze had gone. He and Dumbledore were shivering and dripping in the middle of the dark High Street in Hogsmeade. For one horrible moment Harry’s imagination showed him more Inferi creeping toward him around the sides of shops, but he blinked and saw that nothing was stirring; all was still, the darkness complete but for a few streetlamps and lit upper windows.

'We did it, Professor!' Harry whispered with difficulty; he suddenly realized that he had a searing stitch in his chest. 'We did it! We got the Horcrux!'

Dumbledore staggered against him. For a moment, Harry thought that his inexpert Apparition had thrown Dumbledore off balance; then he saw his face, paler and damper than ever in the distant light of a streetlamp.

'Sir, are you all right?'

'I’ve been better,' said Dumbledore weakly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. 'That potion...was no health drink...'

And to Harry’s horror, Dumbledore sank onto the ground.

'Sir—it’s okay, sir, you’re going to be all right, don’t worry—' He looked around desperately for help, but there was nobody to be seen and all he could think was that he must somehow get Dumbledore quickly to the hospital wing.

'We need to get you up to the school, sir...Madam Pomfrey...'

'No,' said Dumbledore. 'It is...Professor Snape whom I need...But I do not think...I can walk very far just yet...'

'Right—sir, listen—I’m going to knock on a door, find a place you can stay—then I can run and get Madam—'

'Severus,' said Dumbledore clearly. 'I need Severus...'

'All right then, Snape—but I’m going to have to leave you for a moment so I can—'

Before Harry could make a move, however, he heard running footsteps. His heart leapt: Somebody had seen, somebody knew they needed help—and looking around he saw Madam Rosmerta scurrying down the dark street toward them on fluffy slippers, wearing a silk dressing gown embroidered with dragons.

'I saw you Apparate as I was pulling my bedroom curtains! Thank goodness, thank goodness, I couldn’t think what to—but what’s wrong with Albus?'

She came to a halt, panting, and stared down, wide-eyed, at Dumbledore.

'He’s hurt,' said Harry. 'Madam Rosmerta, can he come into the Three Broomsticks while I go up to the school and get help for him?'

'You can’t go up there alone! Don’t you realize—haven’t you seen—?'

'If you help me support him,' said Harry, not listening to her, 'I think we can get him inside—'

'What has happened?' asked Dumbledore. 'Rosmerta, what’s wrong?'

'The—the Dark Mark, Albus.'

And she pointed into the sky, in the direction of Hogwarts. Dread flooded Harry at the sound of the words...He turned and looked.

There it was, hanging in the sky above the school: the blazing green skull with a serpent tongue, the mark Death Eaters left behind whenever they had entered a building...wherever they had murdered...

'When did it appear?' asked Dumbledore, and his hand clenched painfully upon Harry’s shoulder as he struggled to his feet.

'Must have been minutes ago, it wasn’t there when I put the cat out, but when I got upstairs—'

'We need to return to the castle at once,' said Dumbledore. 'Rosmerta'—and though he staggered a little, he seemed wholly in command of the situation—we need transport—brooms—'

'I’ve got a couple behind the bar,' she said, looking very frightened. 'Shall I run and fetch—?'

'No, Harry can do it.'

Harry raised his wand at once.

'Accio Rosmerta’s Brooms!'

A second later they heard a loud bang as the front door of the pub burst open; two brooms had shot out into the street and were racing each other to Harry’s side, where they stopped dead, quivering slightly at waist height.

'Rosmerta, please send a message to the Ministry,' said Dumbledore, as he mounted the broom nearest him. 'It might be that nobody within Hogwarts has yet realized anything is wrong...Harry, put on your Invisibility Cloak.'

Harry pulled his Cloak out of his pocket and threw it over himself before mounting his broom: Madam Rosmerta was already tottering back toward her pub as Harry and Dumbledore kicked off from the ground and rose up into the air. As they sped toward the castle, Harry glanced sideways at Dumbledore, ready to grab him should he fall, but the sight of the Dark Mark seemed to have acted upon Dumbledore like a stimulant: He was bent low over his broom, his eyes fixed upon the Mark, his long silver hair and beard flying behind him on the night air. And Harry too looked ahead at the skull, and fear swelled inside him like a venomous bubble, compressing his lungs, driving all other discomfort from his mind...

How long had they been away? Had his friends and sibling’s luck run out by now? Was it one of them who had caused the Mark to be set over the school, or was it Ron, Neville, Ginny, or Luna, or some other member of the D.A.? And if it was...he was the one who had told them to patrol the corridors, he had asked them to leave the safety of their beds...Would he be responsible, again, for the death of a friend?

As they flew over the dark, twisting lane down which they had walked earlier, Harry heard, over the whistling of the night air in his ears, Dumbledore muttering in some strange language again. He thought he understood why as he felt his broom shudder when they flew over the boundary wall into the grounds: Dumbledore was undoing the enchantments he himself had set around the castle so they could enter at speed. The Dark Mark was glittering directly above the Astronomy Tower, the highest of the castle. Did that mean the death had occurred there?

Dumbledore had already crossed the crenellated ramparts and was dismounting; Harry landed next to him seconds later and looked around.

The ramparts were deserted. The door to the spiral staircase that led back into the castle was closed. There was no sign of a struggle, of a fight to the death, of a body.

'What does it mean?' Harry asked Dumbledore, looking up at the green skull with its serpent’s tongue glinting evilly above them. 'Is it the real Mark? Has someone definitely been—Professor?'

In the dim green glow from the Mark, Harry saw Dumbledore clutching at his chest with his blackened hand.

'Go and wake Severus,' said Dumbledore faintly but clearly. 'Tell him what has happened and bring him to me. Do nothing else, speak to nobody else, and do not remove your cloak. I shall wait here.'

'But—'

'You swore to obey me, Harry—go!'

Harry hurried over to the door leading to the spiral staircase, but his hand had only just closed upon the iron ring of the door when he heard running footsteps on the other side. He looked around at Dumbledore, who gestured him to retreat. Harry backed away, drawing his wand as he did so.

The door burst open and somebody erupted through it and shouted, 'Expelliarmus!'

Harry’s body became instantly rigid and immobile, and he felt himself fall back against the tower wall, propped like an unsteady statue, unable to move or speak. He could not understand how it had happened—Expelliarmus was not a Freezing Charm—

Then, by the light of the Mark, he saw Dumbledore’s wand flying in an arc over the edge of the ramparts and understood...Dumbledore had wordlessly immobilized Harry, and the second he had taken to perform the spell had cost him the chance of defending himself.

Standing against the ramparts, very white in the face, Dumbledore still showed no sign of panic or distress. He merely looked across at his disarmer and said, 'Good evening, Draco.'

Malfoy stepped forward, glancing around quickly to check that he and Dumbledore were alone. His eyes fell upon the second broom.

'Who else is here?'

'A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?'

Harry saw Malfoy’s pale eyes shift back to Dumbledore in the greenish glare of the Mark.

'No,' he said. 'I’ve got backup. There are Death Eaters here in your school tonight.'

'Well, well,' said Dumbledore, as though Malfoy was showing him an ambitious homework project. 'Very good indeed. You found a way to let them in, did you?'

'Yeah,' said Malfoy, who was panting. 'Right under your nose and you never realized!'

'Ingenious,' said Dumbledore. 'Yet...forgive me...where are they now? You seem unsupported.'

'They met some of your guards. They’re having a fight down below. They won’t be long...I came on ahead. I—I’ve got a job to do.'

'Well, then, you must get on and do it, my dear boy,' said Dumbledore softly.

There was silence. Harry stood imprisoned within his own invisible, paralyzed body, staring at the two of them, his ears straining to hear sounds of the Death Eaters’ distant fight, and in front of him, Draco Malfoy did nothing but stare at Albus Dumbledore, who, incredibly, smiled.

'Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.'

'How do you know?' said Malfoy at once.

He seemed to realize how childish the words had sounded; Harry saw him flush in the Mark’s greenish light.

'You don’t know what I’m capable of,' said Malfoy more forcefully. 'You don’t know what I’ve done!'

'Oh yes, I do,' said Dumbledore mildly. 'You almost killed Katie Bell and Tracey Davis. You have been trying, with increasing desperation, to kill me all year. Forgive me, Draco, but they have been feeble attempts...So feeble, to be honest, that I wonder whether your heart has been really in it.'

'It has been in it!' said Malfoy vehemently. 'I’ve been working on it all year, and tonight—'

Somewhere in the depths of the castle below Harry heard a muffled yell. Malfoy stiffened and glanced over his shoulder.

'Somebody is putting up a good fight,' said Dumbledore conversationally. 'But you were saying...yes, you have managed to introduce Death Eaters into my school, which, I admit, I thought impossible...How did you do it?'

But Malfoy said nothing: He was still listening to whatever was happening below and seemed almost as paralyzed as Harry was.

'Perhaps you ought to get on with the job alone,' suggested Dumbledore. 'What if your backup has been thwarted by my guard? As you have perhaps realized, there are members of the Order of the Phoenix here tonight too. And after all, you don’t really need help...I have no wand at the moment...I cannot defend myself.'

Malfoy merely stared at him.

'I see,' said Dumbledore kindly, when Malfoy neither moved nor spoke. 'You are afraid to act until they join you.'

'I’m not afraid!' snarled Malfoy, though he still made no move to hurt Dumbledore. 'It’s you who should be scared!'

'But why? I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe...So tell me, while we wait for your friends...how did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you a long time to work out how to do it.'

Malfoy looked as though he was fighting down the urge to shout, or to vomit. He gulped and took several deep breaths, glaring at Dumbledore, his wand pointing directly at the latter’s heart. Then, as though he could not help himself, he said, 'I had to mend that broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one’s used for years. The one Montague got lost in last year.'

'Aaaah.' Dumbledore’s sigh was half a groan. He closed his eyes for a moment. 'That was clever...There is a pair, I take it?'

'In Borgin and Burkes,' said Malfoy, 'and they make a kind of passage between them. Montague told me that when he was stuck in the Hogwarts one, he was trapped in limbo but sometimes he could hear what was going on at school, and sometimes what was going on in the shop, as if the cabinet was traveling between them, but he couldn’t make anyone hear him...In the end, he managed to Apparate out, even though he’d never passed his test. He nearly died doing it. Everyone thought it was a really good story, but I was the only one who realized what it meant—even Borgin didn’t know—I was the one who realized there could be a way into Hogwarts through the cabinets if I fixed the broken one.'

'Very good,' murmured Dumbledore. 'So the Death Eaters were able to pass from Borgin and Burkes into the school to help you...A clever plan, a very clever plan...and, as you say, right under my nose.'

'Yeah,' said Malfoy, who bizarrely seemed to draw courage and comfort from Dumbledore’s praise. “Yeah, it was!'

Previous Chapters:

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003768423

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003769317

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003770117

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003771789

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003772695

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003774876

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003775746

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003776170

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003776958

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003777821

https://harrypotter.fandom.com/f/p/4400000000003778655

Tags: @Teddy.J.B @Pervaza972 @CatsAndRoblox @Missy Clara Oswald

Chapter Twelve: The Secret Riddle

(Similar to chapter 9, there are a few big changes at the beginning of this chapter, but the rest is pretty much identical to canon as this is a fixed memory, still I highly recommend reading the first half)

Katie was removed to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries the following day, by which time the news that she had been cursed had spread all over the school, though the details were confused and nobody other than Harry, Tracey, Allison, Theodore, Canini, and Leanne seemed to know that Katie herself had not been the intended target.

‘Oh, and Malfoy knows, of course,’ said Harry to his friends, who continued their new policy of feigning deafness whenever Harry mentioned his Malfoy-Is-a-Death-Eater theory.

Tracey did not end up receiving a letter from the Ministry for using underaged magic, which was a bit of a relief for her as she had been worried about being expelled for doing the right thing.

Then when Katie was transferred to St. Mungo’s Harry learned from Ron that the Gryffindor Quidditch team had to host an emergency election to determine their temporary Captain. Ron and Ginny had been the only members who had been on the team the previous year, and so when voted between them Ginny ended up becoming Captain despite technically joining the team later than Ron. Ron was a little downhearted with not getting picked but admitted to Harry that he was already under enough stress from Quidditch that being Captain probably wouldn’t have helped with that. In an odd turn of events instead of holding a second mini tryout to find a temporary Chaser to replace Katie, Ginny took on Dean Thomas, and while a skilled player this brought on some controversy considering he happened to be her boyfriend.

Harry had wondered whether Dumbledore would return from wherever he had been in time for Monday night’s lesson, but having had no word to the contrary, he presented himself outside Dumbledore’s office at eight o’clock, knocked, and was told to enter. There sat Dumbledore looking unusually tired; his hand was as black and burned as ever, but he smiled when he gestured to Harry to sit down. The Pensieve was sitting on the desk again, casting silvery specks of light over the ceiling.

‘You have had a busy time while I have been away,’ Dumbledore said. ‘I believe you witnessed Katie’s accident.’

‘Yes, sir. How is she?’

‘Still very unwell, although she was relatively lucky. She appears to have brushed the necklace with the smallest possible amount of skin: There was a tiny hole in her glove. Had she put it on, had she even held it in her ungloved hand, she would have died, perhaps instantly. Luckily Professor Snape was able to do enough to prevent a rapid spread of the curse—‘

‘Why him?’ asked Harry quickly. ‘Why not Madam Pomfrey?’

‘Impertinent,’ said a soft voice from one of the portraits on the wall, and Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius’s great-great-grandfather, raised his head from his arms where he had appeared to be sleeping. ‘I would not have permitted a student to question the way Hogwarts operated in my day.’

‘Yes, thank you, Phineas,’ said Dumbledore quellingly. ‘Professor Snape knows much more about the Dark Arts than Madam Pomfrey, Harry. Anyway, the St. Mungo’s staff are sending me hourly reports, and I am hopeful that Katie will make a full recovery in time. Oh and they wanted me to let the student who cast the Reparifors Incantation know that while the spell did not heal her, it did not worsen her condition either, but you can tell Miss Davis that for me if you’d like.’

‘Where were you this weekend, sir?’ Harry asked, disregarding a strong feeling that he might be pushing his luck, a feeling apparently shared by Phineas Nigellus, who hissed softly.

‘I would rather not say just now,’ said Dumbledore. ‘However, I shall tell you in due course.’

‘You will?’ said Harry, startled.

‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Dumbledore, withdrawing a fresh bottle of silver memories from inside his robes and uncorking it with a prod of his wand.

‘Sir,’ said Harry tentatively, ‘I met Mundungus in Hogsmeade.’

‘Ah yes, I am already aware that Mundungus has been treating your inheritance with light-fingered contempt,’ said Dumbledore, frowning a little. ‘He has gone under ground since you accosted him outside the Three Broomsticks; I rather think he dreads facing me. However, rest assured that he will not be making away with any more of Sirius’s old possessions.’

‘That mangy old half-blood has been stealing Black heirlooms?’ said Phineas Nigellus, incensed; and he stalked out of his frame, undoubtedly to visit his portrait in number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

‘Professor,’ said Harry, after a short pause, ‘did Professor McGonagall tell you what I told her after Katie got hurt? About Draco Malfoy?’

‘She told me of your suspicions, yes,’ said Dumbledore.

‘And do you—?’

‘I shall take all appropriate measures to investigate anyone who might have had a hand in Katie’s accident,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But what concerns me now, Harry, is our lesson.’

Harry felt slightly resentful at this: If their lessons were so very important, why had there been such a long gap between the first and second? However, he said no more about Draco Malfoy, but watched as Dumbledore poured the fresh memories into the Pensieve and began swirling the stone basin once more between his long-fingered hands.

‘You will remember, I am sure, that we left the tale of Lord Voldemort’s beginnings at the point where the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle, had abandoned his witch wife, Merope, and returned to his family home in Little Hangleton. Merope was left alone in London, expecting the baby who would one day become Lord Voldemort.’

‘How do you know she was in London, sir?’

‘Because of the evidence of one Caractacus Burke,’ said Dumbledore.

‘Canini’s great-great-great grandfather?’ asked Harry, who was fairly sure but hadn’t actually heard the first name before.

‘Correct,’ said Dumbledore, ‘and who, by an odd coincidence, helped found the very shop whence came the necklace we have just been discussing.’

He swilled the contents of the Pensieve as Harry had seen him swill them before, much as a gold prospector sifts for gold. Up out of the swirling, silvery mass rose a little old man revolving slowly in the Pensieve, silver as a ghost but much more solid, with a thatch of hair that completely covered his eyes.

‘Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. It was brought in by a young witch just before Christmas, oh, many years ago now. She said she needed the gold badly, well, that much was obvious. Covered in rags and pretty far along…Going to have a baby, see. She said the locket had been Slytherin’s. Well, we hear that sort of story all the time, “Oh, this was Merlin’s, this was, his favorite teapot,” but when I looked at it, it had his mark all right, and a few simple spells were enough to tell me the truth. Of course, that made it near enough priceless. She didn’t seem to have any idea how much it was worth. Happy to get ten Galleons for it. Best bargain we ever made!’

Dumbledore gave the Pensieve an extra-vigorous shake and Caractacus Burke descended back into the swirling mass of memory from whence he had come.

‘He only gave her ten Galleons?’ said Harry indignantly.

‘Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity, nor was Nathaniel Borgin,’ said Dumbledore.

‘Canini told me at the end of summer holiday that Borgin is obsessed with her family, why is that, sir?’

‘We should really be discussing this memory, but if it will grant you further context for the mental workings of Borgin and Burke I will grant you as best of an explanation as I can,’ said Dumbledore. ‘When founding the shop Nathaniel Borgin and Caractacus Burke made a binding agreement that nothing permanet can be done to the shop without both their permission. When Caractacus Burke died, Nathaniel Borgin thought the shop was solely his, but the Wizengamot ruled that the shop remained co-owned and that the next eldest Burke retained half the ownership of the shop. Nathaniel Borgin did not fight the ruling as Caractacus’ son Herbert Burke did not plan to be actively involved in the shop and Nathaniel Borgin had a son who did show interested, Gothrum Borgin, who is the current owner and has been for sometime. However after Nathaniel Borgin died, Gothrum Borgin never married and never had any children of his own, but Herbert Burke had three children, then a grandson, then two great-grand children, then finally a great-great-grandchild which is Canini. By Nineteen-eighty-five Eustace Burke, his sister Eli, Eli's husband Cicero Howling, and Eli and Cicero's child Canini were all still young, healthy, and very much alive and Gothrun still had no children, but by the end of Nineteen-ninety-one only Canini remained.’

Harry didn’t fully understand what Dumbledore was saying, until it hit him so hard he felt like he was going to be sick.

‘Are you saying Borgin hired Greyback to kill Canini’s parents?,’ Harry couldn’t believe those words were coming out of his mouth. ‘Th-that can’t be true, when I was at Borgin and Burkes Malfoy mentioned Greyback to Borgin in a threatening manner and it seemed to terrify Borgin which wouldn’t make sense if they work together. Also like you just said, Canini’s uncle didn’t die until five years ago, if Greyback was hired to kill all Burkes why didn’t he kill him, or Canini for that matter?’

‘As you know from both your sister and your guardian Remus, Fenrir Greyback has a monstrous urge to transfer Lycanthropy to as many children as he has the ability to, he probably was meant to kill Canini too but the urge to infect rather than maim likely took hold. As for why Eustace Burke was left alive for six years, as I have already explained Nathaniel Borgin was quite a penny-pincher and his son is no different. I believe Gothrum Borgin agreed to pay Greyback a cert sum of gold, but when he received his payment for the first round of killings it was far less than Borgin had promised and so Greyback refused to finish Eustace off, nor did he tell him that Canini survived, and this left the two men on very bad terms. As I believe Canini told you Eustace was eventually sentenced to Azkaban for unrelated crimes and eventually faded away as many incarcerated there do.’

‘But-but why hasn’t Borgin been arrested, why doesn’t Canini know half of this?’ Harry demanded.

‘This is why I was hesitant to tell you this story, if you have not picked up on all my uses of “probably’s” and “believe’s” this is solely my speculation based off the little facts I have. Borgin remains in his shop and not behind bars in Azkaban because there remains no proof that the deaths of Eli and Cicero Howling and the attack on their child was an assassination and not just a random murder by a deranged killer,’ said Dumbledore with a sigh. ‘Because there is no proof I do not wish you to tell my theory to your younger sister as I believe it is already detrimental to her mental health that two killers remain at large for the murder of three of her parents, adding a third responsible for the first two deaths would likely be catastrophic. Now, if you are feeling up to it we must return to the topic of Voldemort.’

Shakily, Harry nodded.

‘So we know that, near the end of her pregnancy, Merope was alone in London and in desperate need of gold, desperate enough to sell her one and only valuable possession, the locket that was one of Marvolo’s treasured family heirlooms.’

'But she could do magic!' said Harry impatiently. 'She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn’t she?'

'Ah,' said Dumbledore, 'perhaps she could. But it is my belief—I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right—that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.'

'She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?'

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. 'Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?'

'No,' said Harry quickly, 'but she had a choice, didn’t she, not like my mother—'

'Your mother had a choice too,' said Dumbledore gently. 'Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother’s courage. And now, if you will stand...'

'Where are we going?' Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.

'This time,' said Dumbledore, 'we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry...'

Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again...Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.

'There I am,' said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.

This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.

'Nice suit, sir,' said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

'Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?'

'Oh,' said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. 'Um...just a mo’...MRS COLE!' she bellowed over her shoulder.

Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. 'Come in, she’s on ’er way.'

Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.

'...and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s oozing all over his sheets—chicken pox on top of everything else,' she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.

'Good afternoon,' said Dumbledore, holding out his hand. Mrs Cole simply gaped.

'My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.'

Mrs Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, 'Oh yes. Well—well then—you’d better come into my room. Yes.'

She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.

'I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,' said Dumbledore.

'Are you family?' asked Mrs Cole.

'No, I am a teacher,' said Dumbledore. 'I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.'

'What school’s this, then?'

'It is called Hogwarts,' said Dumbledore.

'And how come you’re interested in Tom?'

'We believe he has qualities we are looking for.'

'You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have done? He’s never been entered for one.'

'Well, his name has been down for our school since birth—'

'Who registered him? His parents?'

There was no doubt that Mrs Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs Cole’s desktop.

'Here,' said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, 'I think this will make everything clear.'

Mrs Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.

'That seems perfectly in order,' she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before.

'Er—may I offer you a glass of gin?' she said in an extra-refined voice.

'Thank you very much,' said Dumbledore, beaming.

It soon became clear that Mrs Cole was no novice when it came to gin drinking. Pouring both of them a generous measure, she drained her own glass in one gulp. Smacking her lips frankly, she smiled at Dumbledore for the first time, and he didn’t hesitate to press his advantage.

'I was wondering whether you could tell me anything of Tom Riddle’s history? I think he was born here in the orphanage?'

'That’s right,' said Mrs Cole, helping herself to more gin. 'I remember it clear as anything, because I’d just started here myself. New Year’s Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn’t the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.'

Mrs Cole nodded impressively and took another generous gulp of gin.

'Did she say anything before she died?' asked Dumbledore. 'Anything about the boy’s father, for instance?'

'Now, as it happens, she did,' said Mrs Cole, who seemed to be rather enjoying herself now, with the gin in her hand and an eager audience for her story. 'I remember she said to me, "I hope he looks like his papa," and I won’t lie, she was right to hope it, because she was no beauty—and then she told me he was to be named Tom, for his father, and Marvolo, for her father—yes, I know, funny name, isn’t it? We wondered whether she came from a circus—and she said the boy’s surname was to be Riddle. And she died soon after that without another word. Well, we named him just as she’d said, it seemed so important to the poor girl, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came looking for him, nor any family at all, so he stayed in the orphanage and he’s been here ever since.'

Mrs Cole helped herself, almost absentmindedly, to another healthy measure of gin. Two pink spots had appeared high on her cheekbones. Then she said, 'He’s a funny boy.'

'Yes,' said Dumbledore. 'I thought he might be.'

'He was a funny baby too. He hardly ever cried, you know. And then, when he got a little older, he was...odd.'

'Odd in what way?' asked Dumbledore gently.

'Well, he—'

But Mrs Cole pulled up short, and there was nothing blurry or vague about the inquisitorial glance she shot Dumbledore over her gin glass.

'He’s definitely got a place at your school, you say?'

'Definitely,' said Dumbledore.

'And nothing I say can change that?'

'Nothing,' said Dumbledore.

'You’ll be taking him away, whatever?'

'Whatever,' repeated Dumbledore gravely.

She squinted at him as though deciding whether or not to trust him. Apparently she decided she could, because she said in a sudden rush, 'He scares the other children.'

'You mean he is a bully?' asked Dumbledore.

'I think he must be,' said Mrs Cole, frowning slightly, 'but it’s very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents...Nasty things...'

Dumbledore did not press her, though Harry could tell that he was interested. She took yet another gulp of gin and her rosy cheeks grew rosier still.

‘Billy Stubbs’s rabbit…well, Tom said he didn’t do it and I don’t see how he could have done, but even so, it didn’t hang itself from the rafters, did it?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, no,’ said Dumbledore quietly.

‘But I’m jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy had argued the day before. And then’—Mrs Cole took another swig of gin, slopping a little over her chin this time—‘on the summer outing—we take them out, you know, once a year, to the countryside or to the seaside—well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop were never quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they’d gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He swore they’d just gone exploring, but something happened in there, I’m sure of it. And, well, there have been a lot of things, funny things…’

She looked around at Dumbledore again, and though her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was steady.

‘I don’t think many people will be sorry to see the back of him.’

‘You understand, I’m sure, that we will not be keeping him permanently?’ said Dumbledore. ‘He will have to return here, at the very least, every summer.’

‘Oh, well, that’s better than a whack on the nose with a rusty poker,’ said Mrs Cole with a slight hiccup. She got to her feet, and Harry was impressed to see that she was quite steady, even though two-thirds of the gin was now gone. ‘I suppose you’d like to see him?’

‘Very much,’ said Dumbledore, rising too.

She led him out of her office and up the stone stairs, calling out instructions and admonitions to helpers and children as she passed. The orphans, Harry saw, were all wearing the same kind of grayish tunic. They looked reasonably well-cared for, but there was no denying that this was a grim place in which to grow up.

‘Here we are,’ said Mrs Cole, as they turned off the second landing and stopped outside the first door in a long corridor. She knocked twice and entered.

‘Tom? You’ve got a visitor. This is Mr Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you—well, I’ll let him do it.’

Harry and the two Dumbledores entered the room, and Mrs Cole closed the door on them. It was a small bare room with nothing in it except an old wardrobe, a wooden chair, and an iron bedstead. A boy was sitting on top of the gray blankets, his legs stretched out in front of him, holding a book.

There was no trace of the Gaunts in Tom Riddle’s face. Merope had got her dying wish: He was his handsome father in miniature, tall for eleven years old, dark-haired, and pale. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. There was a moment’s silence.

‘How do you do, Tom?’ said Dumbledore, walking forward and holding out his hand.

The boy hesitated, then took it, and they shook hands. Dumbledore drew up the hard wooden chair beside Riddle, so that the pair of them looked rather like a hospital patient and visitor.

‘I am Professor Dumbledore.’

‘“Professor”?’ repeated Riddle. He looked wary. ‘Is that like “doctor”? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?’

He was pointing at the door through which Mrs Cole had just left.

‘No, no,’ said Dumbledore, smiling.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Riddle. ‘She wants me looked at, doesn’t she? Tell the truth!’

He spoke the last three words with a ringing force that was almost shocking. It was a command, and it sounded as though he had given it many times before. His eyes had widened and he was glaring at Dumbledore, who made no response except to continue smiling pleasantly. After a few seconds Riddle stopped glaring, though he looked, if anything, warier still.

‘Who are you?’

‘I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school—your new school, if you would like to come.’

Riddle’s reaction to this was most surprising. He leapt from the bed and backed away from Dumbledore, looking furious.

‘You can’t kid me! The asylum, that’s where you’re from, isn’t it? “Professor,” yes, of course—well, I’m not going, see? That old cat’s the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they’ll tell you!’

‘I am not from an asylum,’ said Dumbledore patiently. ‘I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you—‘

‘I’d like to see them try,’ sneered Riddle.

‘Hogwarts,’ Dumbledore went on, as though he had not heard Riddle’s last words, ‘is a school for people with special abilities—‘

‘I’m not mad!’

‘I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.’

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying to catch one of them lying.

‘Magic?’ he repeated in a whisper.

‘That’s right,’ said Dumbledore.

‘It’s…it’s magic, what I can do?’

‘What is it that you can do?’

‘All sorts,’ breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. ‘I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.’

His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.

‘I knew I was different,’ he whispered to his own quivering fingers. ‘I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.’

‘Well, you were quite right,’ said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching Riddle intently. ‘You are a wizard.’

Riddle lifted his head. His face was transfigured: There was a wild happiness upon it, yet for some reason it did not make him better looking; on the contrary, his finely carved features seemed somehow rougher, his expression almost bestial.

‘Are you a wizard too?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Prove it,’ said Riddle at once, in the same commanding tone he had used when he had said, ‘Tell the truth.’

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. ‘If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—‘

‘Of course I am!’

‘Then you will address me as “Professor” or “sir.”’

Riddle’s expression hardened for the most fleeting moment before he said, in an unrecognizably polite voice, ‘I’m sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?’

Harry was sure that Dumbledore was going to refuse, that he would tell Riddle there would be plenty of time for practical demonstrations at Hogwarts, that they were currently in a building full of Muggles and must therefore be cautious. To his great surprise, however, Dumbledore drew his wand from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, pointed it at the shabby wardrobe in the corner, and gave the wand a casual flick.

The wardrobe burst into flames.

Riddle jumped to his feet; Harry could hardly blame him for howling in shock and rage; all his worldly possessions must be in there. But even as Riddle rounded on Dumbledore, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore; then, his expression greedy, he pointed at the wand.

‘Where can I get one of them?’

‘All in good time,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.’

And sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from inside it. For the first time, Riddle looked frightened.

‘Open the door,’ said Dumbledore.

Riddle hesitated, then crossed the room and threw open the wardrobe door. On the topmost shelf, above a rail of threadbare clothes, a small cardboard box was shaking and rattling as though there were several frantic mice trapped inside it.

‘Take it out,’ said Dumbledore.

Riddle took down the quaking box. He looked unnerved.

‘Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?’ asked Dumbledore.

Riddle threw Dumbledore a long, clear, calculating look.

‘Yes, I suppose so, sir,’ he said finally, in an expressionless voice.

‘Open it,’ said Dumbledore.

Riddle took off the lid and tipped the contents onto his bed without looking at them. Harry, who had expected something much more exciting, saw a mess of small, everyday objects: a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished mouth organ among them. Once free of the box, they stopped quivering and lay quite still upon the thin blankets.

‘You will return them to their owners with your apologies,’ said Dumbledore calmly, putting his wand back into his jacket. ‘I shall know whether it has been done. And be warned: Thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts.’

Riddle did not look remotely abashed; he was still staring coldly and appraisingly at Dumbledore. At last he said in a colorless voice, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘At Hogwarts,’ Dumbledore went on, ‘we teach you not only to use magic, but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your powers in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic—yes, there is a Ministry—will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they abide by our laws.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Riddle again.

It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his face remained quite blank as he put the little cache of stolen objects back into the cardboard box. When he had finished, he turned to Dumbledore and said baldly, ‘I haven’t got any money.’

‘That is easily remedied,’ said Dumbledore, drawing a leather money-pouch from his pocket. ‘There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some of your spellbooks and so on secondhand, but—‘

‘Where do you buy spellbooks?’ interrupted Riddle, who had taken the heavy money bag without thanking Dumbledore, and was now examining a fat gold Galleon.

‘In Diagon Alley,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I have your list of books and school equipment with me. I can help you find everything—‘

‘You’re coming with me?’ asked Riddle, looking up.

‘Certainly, if you—‘

‘I don’t need you,’ said Riddle. ‘I’m used to doing things for myself, I go round London on my own all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?’ he added, catching Dumbledore’s eye.

Harry thought that Dumbledore would insist upon accompanying Riddle, but once again he was surprised. Dumbledore handed Riddle the envelope containing his list of equipment, and after telling Riddle exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage, he said, ‘You will be able to see it, although Muggles around you—non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—‘

Riddle gave an irritable twitch, as though trying to displace an irksome fly.

‘You dislike the name “Tom”?’

‘There are a lot of Toms,’ muttered Riddle. Then, as though he could not suppress the question, as though it burst from him in spite of himself, he asked, ‘Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Dumbledore, his voice gentle.

‘My mother can’t have been magic, or she wouldn’t have died,’ said Riddle, more to himself than Dumbledore. ‘It must’ve been him. So—when I’ve got all my stuff—when do I come to this Hogwarts?’

‘All the details are on the second piece of parchment in your envelope,’ said Dumbledore. ‘You will leave from King’s Cross Station on the first of September. There is a train ticket in there too.’

Riddle nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Taking it, Riddle said, ‘I can speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?’

Harry could tell that he had withheld mention of this strangest power until that moment, determined to impress.

‘It is unusual,’ said Dumbledore, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘but not unheard of.’

His tone was casual but his eyes moved curiously over Riddle’s face. They stood for a moment, man and boy, staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

‘Good-bye, Tom. I shall see you at Hogwarts.’

‘I think that will do,’ said the white-haired Dumbledore at Harry’s side, and seconds later, they were soaring weightlessly through darkness once more, before landing squarely in the present-day office.

‘Sit down,’ said Dumbledore, landing beside Harry.

Harry obeyed, his mind still full of what he had just seen.

‘He took it very well, didn’t need much convincing—I mean, Colin told me about when he was told he was a wizard and how it took over an hour for him and and his family to be convinced,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, Riddle was perfectly ready to believe that he was—to use his word—“special,”’ said Dumbledore.

‘Did you know—then?’ asked Harry.

‘Did I know that I had just met the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time?’ said Dumbledore. ‘No, I had no idea that he was to grow up to be what he is. However, I was certainly intrigued by him. I returned to Hogwarts intending to keep an eye upon him, something I should have done in any case, given that he was alone and friendless, but which, already, I felt I ought to do for others’ sake as much as his. His powers, as you heard, were surprisingly well-developed for such a young wizard and—most interestingly and ominously of all—he had already discovered that he had some measure of control over them, and begun to use them consciously. And as you saw, they were not the random experiments typical of young wizards: He was already using magic against other people, to frighten, to punish, to control. The little stories of the strangled rabbit and the young boy and girl he lured into a cave were most suggestive…”I can make them hurt if I want to…”’

‘And he was a Parselmouth,’ interjected Harry.

‘Yes, indeed; a rare ability, and one supposedly connected with the Dark Arts, although as we know, there are Parselmouths among the great and the good too. In fact, his ability to speak to serpents did not make me nearly as uneasy as his obvious instincts for cruelty, secrecy, and domination. Time is making fools of us again,’ said Dumbledore, indicating the dark sky beyond the windows. ‘But before we part, I want to draw your attention to certain features of the scene we have just witnessed, for they have a great bearing on the matters we shall be discussing in future meetings. Firstly, I hope you noticed Riddle’s reaction when I mentioned that another shared his first name, “Tom”?’

Harry nodded.

“There he showed his contempt for anything that tied him to other people, anything that made him ordinary. Even then, he wished to be different, separate, notorious. He shed his name, as you know, within a few short years of that conversation and created the mask of “Lord Voldemort” behind which he has been hidden for so long. I trust that you also noticed that Tom Riddle was already highly self-sufficient, secretive, and, apparently, friendless? He did not want help or companionship on his trip to Diagon Alley. He preferred to operate alone. The adult Voldemort is the same. You will hear many of his Death Eaters claiming that they are in his confidence, that they alone are close to him, even understand him. They are deluded. Lord Voldemort has never had a friend, nor do I believe that he has ever wanted one. And lastly—I hope you are not too sleepy to pay attention to this, Harry—the young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw the box of stolen articles he had hidden in his room. These were taken from victims of his bullying behavior, souvenirs, if you will, of particularly unpleasant bits of magic. Bear in mind this magpie-like tendency, for this, particularly, will be important later. And now, it really is time for bed.’

Harry got to his feet. As he walked across the room, his eyes fell upon the little table on which Marvolo Gaunt’s ring had rested last time, but the ring was no longer there.

‘Yes, Harry?’ said Dumbledore, for Harry had come to a halt.

‘The ring’s gone,’ said Harry, looking around. ‘But I thought you might have the mouth organ or something.’

Dumbledore beamed at him, peering over the top of his half- moon spectacles.

‘Very astute, Harry, but the mouth organ was only ever a mouth organ.’

And on that enigmatic note he waved to Harry, who understood himself to be dismissed.

{The following is Pro-Slytherin and anti-JK Rowling. If this is something you don't think you can emotionally handle, now, is your time to get out.}

Fenrir Greyback is a name that would make any logical person think werewolf. So, what? A wizard had a kid and chose to name it after perhaps the first known werewolf in history (son of the Trickster so I'm choosing to believe werewolf over giant wolf) and that same kid just miraculously happened to get bit by and transformed into a werewolf? Did she even think about this before writing it? How is this even close to realistic? Oh, and let me guess, he's Slytherin too, huh? Because all bad people are Slytherin, right? First of all, just because he's a werewolf and can't control his animal form, doesn't necessarily make him a bad person (hello, Remus Lupin?). Neither does working for Voldemort. He's a werewolf and the wizarding world doesn't seem overly fond of them. That being said, who knows what he was offered (like, for instance, protection) that would gain his loyalty. Also, there was plenty of indecent people who weren't even Slytherin. Is she seriously going to say that every single one of them she had thought about putting in Slytherin or the hat had debated on putting them in my House? Honestly, I've about had my fill of that woman.

{There may be additional rants about JKR's nonsense in the future. Just a warning. I may not remember much about Greyback but this drives me up the wall.}

This is something i have wondered about for years since i started reading harry potter in 4th grade

What would happen if a werewolf bit a muggle? would it be the same as if they bit a witch/wizard? who would explain that they are a werewolf? or would it just not take effect? would the muggle die? i’m truly invested in hearing everyone’s theory’s about this