The Enemy of my Enemy

The Memory, Part II

"Where are we going?" Harry asked.

"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 met Teddie's gaze and then leaned over the Pensieve. His face broke the cool surface, and then he was jolted forward into the memory.

Teddie looked up at Dumbledore, rounded his desk, and bent at the waist. She cupped the Pensieve gently, her hands brushing against the cold stone as, taking a deep breath, she thrust her face into the silverly liquid.

Then... she was falling.

~X~

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.

Following the younger Dumbledore through wrought iron gates, Teddie looked up at the sign that was mounted on the wall of the dreary grey building before her.

WOOL'S ORPHANAGE

Founded 1900.

The young Dumbledore mounted the steps that led to the front door and knocked twice. After a moment, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.

"Good afternoon. I have an appointment with 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.

A distance voice screeched back a response, and the girl turned back to Dumbledore.

"Come in, she's on 'er way."

Dumbledore smiled and stepped through into a black and white tiled hallway. The whole place was shabby, but surprisingly spotlessly clean. Before the front door even had a chance to click back into place, a harried looking woman with a sharp featured face appeared.

She looked more anxious than anything and talking over her shoulder to another matron as she hurried into the hall.

". . . 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.

The third woman, a plump young Muggle with stringy hair, nodded, and hurried off.

Mrs Cole turned, finally spotted Dumbledore standing beside the door.

"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 office. 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.