***
SHE WAS STANDING IN front of a dome-like building: a cupola.
The building looked old and ancient and somehow not a part of this world, even though it was. Secluded from the rest of the world and a peaceful haven for someone but at the same time a nightmare for another, this place stood on the Cliffside near the ocean. The blue waves clashed with the jagged rocks and sand and left behind a small blanket of foamy bubbles.
Her hair whipped in the whistling wind, making her eyes water and causing goose bumps to appear on her thin forearms. She was in a dress, a beautiful full length gown which was pale blue from above and darkened as it went down. The neckline, the waist and the length were adorned with gems and crystals with the shades of blue. She looked like a sea goddess and her dress gave the appearance of sea waves originating from her.
She turned toward the magnificent structure which was at a little distance from her. There was something there, she knew it. She could feel powerful magic emanating from this architecture and at the same time she could hear it calling her. She needed to get in there.
As if caught in a trance, her feet started to move on their own accord, her gown trailing the sand behind her, but miraculously, the fabric was untouched by any element. No sand clung to it, no stone got stuck in it. It was peculiarly perfect. Too perfect.
When she was only a few steps away from the ancient building, her surrounding changed suddenly.
Now she stood inside a large dome-like room; she was inside the building. The arched ceiling were covered renaissance-like-art lining on the walls like wallpaper. The longer she looked at it, the more she understood it. It was telling a story, an old legend.
"You need to die."
A voice pierced behind her through the calm silence of the dome. Normally it would've startled her, but she was not. She was expecting it. The voice had no malice, no emotion whatsoever. She recognised the voice. Grace turned slowly, her unblemished gown turning with her.
There, standing before her, was herself. An obsidian black gown, only accessorized with single emerald on the high collar. The dress looked old and symbolised a relic of time long unknown by anyone living. Most like centuries old. She didn't know why she thought it could be so ancient, seeing as it was perfectly intact and looked as if it had never been worn before, but something deep in the crevices of her darkened mind told her that this dress holds the kind of memories someone old and wise enough could know. She was wearing the same rose pendant that Grace wore everyday, the relic of her mother, the necklace gifted to her by her father on last year Christmas. The figure of herself staring at her now was barefoot, her feet scratched and bloodied, maybe walking from a sharp wooded area of rocks.
One thing that caught Grace's eye, though, was the dagger that her clone was holding in her hand, like she had used it many times before. It was the size of her wand, its handle was of ivory and it was decorated with small gems and crystal and it's blade was thin, sharp and double-edged. It gave the appearance of feminine ornate but at the same time was a deadly jeweled dagger which could easily cut through bones.
"You need to die." she repeated, in the same voice and tone she had used before.
Before Grace could say or do anything, the clone marched toward her and stabbed her with the dagger in the stomach. She gasped in pain as the clone pulled out the dagger before stabbing her again.
"Die. Die. Die." she said as she continued to plunge the dagger in her stomach. The red blood flowed out of her wound, staining the dress.
Grace fell down, her blood-tainted hands covering the wound as the blood gushed out forming crimson flowers on the white marble floor. Her eyes slowly looked up to see herself holding the now blood-stained dagger.
"Grace, wake up!"
She woke up startled to see Hermione sitting on the edge of her bed.
"Wake up." Hermione repeated. "It's time to go to Dumbledore's office. Harry's waiting for you downstairs.
"It's time already?" her voice came out hoarse. Grace cleared her throat and got out of the bed. "Tell him to wait, I'm coming."
Hermione nodded and rushed downstairs. turning left Grace went in the bathroom. She opened the tap and splashed a handful of water on her face. She couldn't understand the dream, it was weird. It was the first time she dreamt of something like this. And what was more peculiar was that she could remember the dream very clearly like it was a memory. She neither recognised the place and nor the location.
Shaking her head, she tried to get rid of the thoughts, and rushed down. Hermione, Harry and Ron were waiting for her.
"You okay?" Harry asked her noticing how tired she looked.
"I'm fine." Grace answered with a smile. "Let's go."
Both Harry and Grace left the common room and hurried off until they reached the spot in the seventh-floor corridor where a single gargoyle stood against the wall.
"Acid Pops," said Harry, and the gargoyle leapt aside; the wall behind it slid apart, and a moving spiral stone staircase was revealed, onto which Harry and Grace stepped, so that they were carried in smooth circles up to the door with the brass knocker that led to Dumbledore's office.
Grace knocked.
"Come in," said Dumbledore's voice.
"Good evening, sir," The two said together, walking into the headmaster's office.
"Ah, good evening, Harry and Grace. Sit down," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I hope you two have had an enjoyable first week back at school?"
"Yes, thanks, sir," said Harry.
"I wouldn't say enjoyable, sir. It was fine." said Grace honestly.
"I quite understand." said Dumbledore smiling at her. "Not many like the first week of the school."
Grace smiled.
"You must have been busy, Harry, a detention under your belt already!"
"Er," began Harry awkwardly, but Dumbledore did not look too stern.
"I have arranged with Professor Snape that you will do your detention next Saturday instead."
"Right," said Harry.
The circular office looked just as it always did; the delicate silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, puffing smoke and whirring; portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames, and Dumbledore's magnificent phoenix, Fawkes, stood on his perch behind the door, watching both Grace and Harry with bright interest. It did not even look as though Dumbledore had cleared a space for dueling practice.
"So," said Dumbledore, in a businesslike voice. "You two have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these — for want of a better word — lessons?"
"Yes, sir." the two chorused.
"Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, Harry, and for you Grace, to understand how to bring him down."
There was a pause.
"You said, at the end of last term, you were going to tell me everything," said Harry. It was hard to keep a note of accusation from his voice. "Sir," he added.
"And so I did," said Dumbledore placidly. "I told you two everything I know. From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Harry, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."
"But you think you're right?" said Harry.
"Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you both, I make mistakes like the next man. In fact, being — forgive me — rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."
"Sir," said Harry tentatively, "does what you're going to tell us have anything to do with the prophecy? Will it help Grace . . . survive?"
Grace didn't look at Harry, her eyes were fixed at Dumbledore. She could feel Harry's fleeting gae on her.
"It has a very great deal to do with the prophecy," said Dumbledore, as casually as if Harry had asked him about the next day's weather, "and I certainly hope that it will help both of you to survive."
"How can you sure that both of us will survive?" Grace asked bluntly. "The prophecy clearly stated that only one will stay alive out of three. "
"It was in the prophecy doesn't mean that it has to be true." said Dumbledore his eyes peering at Grace through his half-moon spectacles. "More than half of the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries doesn't get fulfilled. So surviving, it solely matters on you and the circumstances."
Dumbledore got to his feet and walked around the desk, past Grace, who turned in her seat to watch Dumbledore bending over the cabinet beside the door. When Dumbledore straightened up, he was holding a familiar shallow stone basin etched with odd markings around its rim. He placed the Pensieve on the desk in front of Harry and Grace.
"You look worried." He said to Harry.
Harry had indeed been eyeing the Pensieve with some apprehension.
"This time, you enter the Pensieve with me . . . and, even more unusually, with permission."
"Where are we going, sir?" Harry asked.
"For a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane," said Dumbledore, pulling from his pocket a crystal bottle containing a swirling silvery-white substance.
"Who was Bob Ogden?" both Grace and Harry asked at the same time.
"He was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," said Dumbledore. "He died some time ago, but not before I had tracked him down and persuaded him to confide these recollections to me. We are about to accompany him on a visit he made in the course of his duties. If you both will stand . . ."
They both stood, and Grace tentatively asked, "Sir — how did you injure your hand?"
"Now is not the moment for that story, Grace. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden."
The three of them dove into the murky blackness, falling freely until the three landed on their feet atop a country lane. They were standing in a country lane bordered by high, tangled hedgerows, beneath a summer sky as bright and blue as a forget-me-not. A man, whom Grace assumed to be Bob Ogden, trotted ahead of them dressed in an odd and mismatched assortment of Muggle clothing, including but not limited to a one piece bathing suit and and very large trousers. He had thick, round glasses, which made his eyes appear significantly magnified. They followed Bob Ogden briskly in the direction of a town called "Little Hangleton," courtesy of the handy signed post with labeled arrows pointing in opposite directions.
They walked a short way with nothing to see but the hedgerows, the wide blue sky overhead and the swishing, frock-coated figure ahead. Then the lane curved to the left and fell away, sloping steeply down a hillside, so that they had a sudden, unexpected view of a whole valley laid out in front of them. Grace could see a village, undoubtedly Little Hangleton, nestled between two steep hills, its church and graveyard clearly visible. Across the valley, set on the opposite hillside, was a handsome manor house surrounded by a wide expanse of velvety green lawn.
Ogden had broken into a reluctant trot due to the steep downward slope. Dumbledore lengthened his stride, and Grace and Harry hurried to keep up. The lane curved to the right and when they rounded the corner, it was to see the very edge of Ogden's frock coat vanishing through a gap in the hedge.
Dumbledore, Grace and Harry followed him onto a narrow dirt track bordered by higher and wilder hedgerows than those they had left behind. The path was crooked, rocky, and potholed, sloping downhill like the last one, and it seemed to be heading for a patch of dark trees a little below them. Sure enough, the track soon opened up at the copse, and the three came to a halt behind Ogden, who had stopped and drawn his wand.
Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it was a few seconds before Grace's eyes discerned the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. Its walls were mossy and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime. Just then one of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking.
Ogden moved forward quietly and rather cautiously. As the dark shadows of the trees slid over him, he stopped again, staring at the front door, to which somebody had nailed a dead snake.
Then there was a rustle and a crack, and a man in rags dropped from the nearest tree, landing on his feet right in front of Ogden, who leapt backward so fast he stood on the tails of his frock coat and stumbled.
The man made a weird hissing noise; it was parseltongue.
The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any color. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. Ogden backed away several more paces before he spoke.
"Er — good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic —"
The man spoke again in parseltongue.
"Er — I'm sorry — I don't understand you," said Ogden nervously.
"You understand him, I'm sure, Harry?" said Dumbledore quietly.
"Yes, of course," said Harry, slightly nonplussed. "Why can't Ogden — ?"
"Because the man's speaking parseltongue." said Grace.
"Very good," said Dumbledore, nodding and smiling.
The man in rags was now advancing on Ogden, knife in one hand, wand in the other.
"Now, look —" Ogden began, but too late: There was a bang, and Ogden was on the ground, clutching his nose, while a nasty yellowish goo squirted from between his fingers.
"Morfin!" said a loud voice.
An elderly man had come hurrying out of the cottage, banging the door behind him so that the dead snake swung pathetically. This man was shorter than the first, and oddly proportioned; his shoulders were very broad and his arms overlong, which, with his bright brown eyes, short scrubby hair, and wrinkled face, gave him the look of a powerful, aged monkey. He came to a halt beside the man with the knife, who was now cackling with laughter at the sight of Ogden on the ground.
"Ministry, is it?" said the older man, looking down at Ogden.
"Correct!" said Ogden angrily, dabbing his face. "And you, I take it, are Mr. Gaunt?"
"S'right," said Gaunt. "Got you in the face, did he?"
"Yes, he did!" snapped Ogden.
"Should've made your presence known, shouldn't you?" said Gaunt aggressively. "This is private property. Can't just walk in here and not expect my son to defend himself."
"Defend himself against what, man?" said Ogden, clambering back to his feet.
"Busybodies. Intruders. Muggles and filth."
Ogden pointed his wand at his own nose, which was still issuing large amounts of what looked like yellow pus, and the flow stopped at once. Mr. Gaunt spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Morfin in Parseltongue.
Morfin seemed to be on the point of disagreeing, but when his father cast him a threatening look he changed his mind, lumbering away to the cottage with an odd rolling gait and slamming the front door behind him, so that the snake swung sadly again.
"It's your son I'm here to see, Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, as he mopped the last of the pus from the front of his coat. "That was Morfin, wasn't it?"
"Ar, that was Morfin," said the old man indifferently. "Are you pure-blood?" he asked, suddenly aggressive.
"That's neither here nor there," said Ogden coldly, and Grace felt her respect for Ogden rise. Apparently Gaunt felt rather differently. He squinted into Ogden's face and muttered, in what was clearly supposed to be an offensive tone, "Now I come to think about it, I've seen noses like yours down in the village."
"I don't doubt it, if your son's been let loose on them," said Ogden. "Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?"
"Inside?"
"Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl —"
"I've no use for owls," said Gaunt. "I don't open letters."
"Then you can hardly complain that you get no warning of visitors," said Ogden tartly. "I am here following a serious breach of Wizarding law, which occurred here in the early hours of this morning —"
"All right, all right, all right!" bellowed Gaunt. "Come in the bleeding house, then, and much good it'll do you!"
The house seemed to contain three tiny rooms. Two doors led off the main room, which served as kitchen and living room combined. Morfin was sitting in a filthy armchair beside the smoking fire, twisting a live adder between his thick fingers and crooning softly at it in Parseltongue.
There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window, a girl whose ragged gray dress was the exact color of the dirty stone wall behind her stood there. She was standing beside a steaming pot on a grimy black stove, and was fiddling around with the shelf of squalid looking pots and pans above it. Her hair was lank and dull and she had a plain, pale, rather heavy face. Her eyes, like her brother's, stared in opposite directions. She looked a little cleaner than the two men, but Grace thought she had never seen a more defeated looking person. It made Grace wince in pain for her.
"M'daughter, Merope," said Gaunt grudgingly, as Ogden looked inquiringly toward her.
"Good morning," said Ogden.
She did not answer, but with a frightened glance at her father turned her back on the room and continued shifting the pots on the shelf behind her.
"Well, Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, "to get straight to the point, we have reason to believe that your son, Morfin, performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night."
There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped one of the pots.
"Pick it up!" Gaunt bellowed at her. "That's it, grub on the floor like some filthy Muggle, what's your wand for, you useless sack of muck?"
"Mr. Gaunt, please!" said Ogden in a shocked voice, as Merope, who had already picked up the pot, flushed blotchily scarlet, lost her grip on the pot again, drew her wand shakily from her pocket, pointed it at the pot, and muttered a hasty, inaudible spell that caused the pot to shoot across the floor away from her, hit the opposite wall, and crack in two.
Morfin let out a mad cackle of laughter. Gaunt screamed, "Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!"
Merope stumbled across the room, but before she had time to raise her wand, Ogden had lifted his own and said firmly, "Reparo." The pot mended itself instantly.
Gaunt looked for a moment as though he was going to shout at Ogden, but seemed to think better of it: Instead, he jeered at his daughter, "Lucky the nice man from the Ministry's here, isn't it? Perhaps he'll take you off my hands, perhaps he doesn't mind dirty Squibs. . . ."
"Fuckin' bastard." Grace cursed loudly in anger, before realising that she stood next to Dumbledore. But he looked only looked amused.
"Mr. Gaunt," Ogden began again, "as I've said: the reason for my visit —"
"I heard you the first time!" snapped Gaunt. "And so what? Morfin gave a Muggle a bit of what was coming to him — what about it, then?"
"Morfin has broken Wizarding law," said Ogden sternly.
"'Morfin has broken Wizarding law.'" Gaunt imitated Ogden's voice, making it pompous and singsong. Morfin cackled again. "He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?"
"Yes," said Ogden. "I'm afraid it is."
He pulled from an inside pocket a small scroll of parchment and unrolled it.
"What's that, then, his sentence?" said Gaunt, his voice rising angrily.
"It is a summons to the Ministry for a hearing —"
"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?"
"I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," said Ogden.
"And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger pointing at his chest. "Scum who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?
"I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, looking wary, but standing his ground.
"That's right!" roared Gaunt. He showed Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden's eyes. "See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"
"I've really no idea," said Ogden, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, "and it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed —"
With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Grace thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.
"See this?" he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath. "I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily.
"Slytherin's!" yelled Gaunt. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"
"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!" said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air.
"So!" said Gaunt triumphantly, as though he had just proved a complicated point beyond all possible dispute. "Don't you go talking to us as if we're dirt on your shoes! Generations of purebloods, wizards all — more than you can say, I don't doubt!"
And he spat on the floor at Ogden's feet. Morfin cackled again. Merope, huddled beside the window, her head bowed and her face hidden by her lank hair, said nothing.
"Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden doggedly, "I am afraid that neither your ancestors nor mine have anything to do with the matter in hand. I am here because of Morfin, Morfin and the Muggle he accosted late last night. Our information" — he glanced down at his scroll of parchment — "is that Morfin performed a jinx or hex on the said Muggle, causing him to erupt in highly painful hives." Morfin giggled.
Gaunt snarled in Parseltongue, and Morfin fell silent again.
"And so what if he did, then?" Gaunt said defiantly to Ogden. "I expect you've wiped the Muggle's filthy face clean for him, and his memory to boot —"
"That's hardly the point, is it, Mr. Gaunt?" said Ogden. "This was an unprovoked attack on a defenseless —"
"Ar, I had you marked out as a Muggle-lover the moment I saw you," sneered Gaunt, and he spat on the floor again.
"This discussion is getting us nowhere," said Ogden firmly. "It is clear from your son's attitude that he feels no remorse for his actions." He glanced down at his scroll of parchment again. "Morfin will attend a hearing on the fourteenth of September to answer the charges of using magic in front of a Muggle and causing harm and distress to that same Mugg —"
Ogden broke off. The jingling, clopping sounds of horses and loud, laughing voices were drifting in through the open window. Apparently the winding lane to the village passed very close to the copse where the house stood. Gaunt froze, listening, his eyes wide. Morfin hissed and turned his face toward the sounds, his expression hungry. Merope raised her head. Her face, Grace saw, was starkly white.
"My God, what an eyesore!" rang out a girl's voice, as clearly audible through the open window as if she had stood in the room beside them. "Couldn't your father have that hovel cleared away, Tom?"
"It's not ours," said a young man's voice. "Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son's quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village —"
The girl laughed. The jingling, clopping noises were growing louder and louder. Morfin made to get out of his armchair.
His father hissed again in parseltongue.
"Tom," said the girl's voice again, now so close they were clearly right beside the house, "I might be wrong — but has somebody nailed a snake to that door?"
"Good lord, you're right!" said the man's voice. "That'll be the son, I told you he's not right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecilia, darling."
The jingling and clopping sounds were now growing fainter again.
This time Morfin whispered to his sister in parseltongue. Then the father joined their conversation too. Both the son and father seemed to be glaring at the girl, while Merope looked utterly terrified.
"What's going on?" Grace asked Harry.
"It seems like Merope likes that 'Tom' person." said Harry.
"Oh god." whispered Grace.
All three of the Gaunts seemed to have forgotten Ogden, who was looking both bewildered and irritated at this renewed outbreak of incomprehensible hissing and rasping. Gaunt seemed to loose all control, and his hands closed around his daughter's throat.
Both Harry and Ogden yelled "No!" at the same time; Ogden raised his wand and cried, "Relashio!" Gaunt was thrown backward, away from his daughter; he tripped over a chair and fell flat on his back. With a roar of rage, Morfin leapt out of his chair and ran at Ogden, brandishing his bloody knife and firing hexes indiscriminately from his wand.
Ogden ran for his life. Dumbledore indicated that they ought to follow and both Grace and Harry obeyed, Merope's screams echoing in their ears.
Ogden hurtled up the path and erupted onto the main lane, his arms over his head, where he collided with the glossy chestnut horse ridden by a very handsome, dark-haired young man. Both he and the pretty girl riding beside him on a gray horse roared with laughter at the sight of Ogden, who bounced off the horse's flank and set off again, his frock coat flying, covered from head to foot in dust, running pell-mell up the lane.
"I think that will do," said Dumbledore. He took Grace and Harry by the elbow and tugged. Next moment, they were both soaring weightlessly through darkness, until they landed squarely on their feet, back in Dumbledore's now twilit office.
"What happened to the girl in the cottage?" said Grace at once, as Dumbledore lit extra lamps with a flick of his wand. "Merope, or whatever her name was?"
"Oh, she survived," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk and indicating that Harry and Grace should sit down too. "Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned with reinforcements within fifteen minutes. Morfin and his father attempted to fight, but both were overpowered, removed from the cottage, and subsequently convicted by the Wizengamot. Morfin, who already had a record of Muggle attacks, was sentenced to three years in Azkaban. Marvolo, who had injured several Ministry employees in addition to Ogden, received six months."
"Wait a second," said Grace suddenly. "Marvolo?"
"That's right," said Dumbledore, smiling in approval. "I am glad to see you're keeping up."
"That old man was — ?"
"Voldemort's grandfather, yes," said Dumbledore. "Marvolo, his son, Morfin, and his daughter, Merope, were the last of the Gaunts, a very ancient Wizarding family noted for a vein of instability and violence that flourished through the generations due to their habit of marrying their own cousins. Lack of sense coupled with a great liking for grandeur meant that the family gold was squandered several generations before Marvolo was born. He, as you saw, was left in squalor and poverty, with a very nasty temper, a fantastic amount of arrogance and pride, and a couple of family heirlooms that he treasured just as much as his son, and rather more than his daughter."
"So Merope," said Harry, leaning forward in his chair and staring at Dumbledore, "so Merope was . . . Sir, does that mean she was . . . Voldemort's mother?"
"It does," said Dumbledore. "And it so happens that we also had a glimpse of Voldemort's father. I wonder whether you noticed?"
"That 'Tom' person?" said Grace.
"The Muggle Morfin attacked? The man on the horse?" Harry said at the same time.
"Very good indeed," said Dumbledore, beaming. "Yes, that was Tom Riddle senior, the handsome Muggle who used to go riding past the Gaunt cottage and for whom Merope Gaunt cherished a secret, burning passion."
"And they ended up married?" Harry said in disbelief.
"How's that possible?" Grace asked, unable to imagine two people less likely to fall in love.
"I think you are forgetting," said Dumbledore, "that Merope was a witch. I do not believe that her magical powers appeared to their best advantage when she was being terrorized by her father. Once Marvolo and Morfin were safely in Azkaban, once she was alone and free for the first time in her life, then, I am sure, she was able to give full rein to her abilities and to plot her escape from the desperate life she had led for eighteen years. Can you not think of any measure Merope could have taken to make Tom Riddle forget his Muggle companion, and fall in love with her instead?"
"A love potion." said Grace remembering what she studied in her Potions class.
"Or an Imperius curse." Harry added.
"Very good. Personally, I am inclined to think that she used a love potion. I am sure it would have seemed more romantic to her, and I do not think it would have been very difficult, some hot day, when Riddle was riding alone, to persuade him to take a drink of water. In any case, within a few months of the scene we have just witnessed, the village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal. You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire's son ran off with the tramp's daughter, Merope."
"But the villagers' shock was nothing to Marvolo's. He returned from Azkaban, expecting to find his daughter dutifully awaiting his return with a hot meal ready on his table. Instead, he found a clear inch of dust and her note of farewell, explaining what she had done. From all that I have been able to discover, he never mentioned her name or existence from that time forth. The shock of her desertion may have contributed to his early death — or perhaps he had simply never learned to feed himself. Azkaban had greatly weakened Marvolo, and he did not live to see Morfin return to the cottage."
"And Merope? She died, didn't she?" said Grace. "Wasn't Voldemort brought up in an orphanage?"
"Yes, indeed," said Dumbledore. "We must do a certain amount of guessing here, although I do not think it is difficult to deduce what happened. You see, within a few months of their runaway marriage, Tom Riddle reappeared at the manor house in Little Hangleton without his wife. The rumor flew around the neighborhood that he was talking of being 'hoodwinked' and 'taken in.' What he meant, I am sure, is that he had been under an enchantment that had now lifted, though I daresay he did not dare use those precise words for fear of being thought insane. When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason."
"But she did have his baby." said Harry.
"But not until a year after they were married. Tom Riddle left her while she was still pregnant."
"What went wrong?" asked Harry. "Why did the love potion stop working?"
"Again, this is guesswork," said Dumbledore, "but I believe that Merope, who was deeply in love with her husband, could not bear to continue enslaving him by magical means. I believe that she made the choice to stop giving him the potion. Perhaps, besotted as she was, she had convinced herself that he would by now have fallen in love with her in return. Perhaps she thought he would stay for the baby's sake. If so, she was wrong on both counts. He left her, never saw her again, and never troubled to discover what became of his son."
The sky outside was inky black and the lamps in Dumbledore's office seemed to glow more brightly than before.
"I think that will do for tonight," said Dumbledore after a moment or two.
"Yes, sir," said Harry.
"Thanks, Professor." said Grace, who had gotten on her feet.
"Sir . . . is it important to know all this about Voldemort's past?" Harry asked.
"Very important, I think," said Dumbledore.
"And it's got something to do with the prophecy?" said Grace.
"It has everything to do with the prophecy."
"Right," said Harry.
Grace nodded, feeling a little confused, but reassured all the same.
She turned to go, but Harry asked another question. "Sir, are we allowed to tell Ron and Hermione everything you've told us?"
Dumbledore considered him for a moment, then said, "Yes, I think Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have proved themselves trustworthy. But I am going to ask you two to ask them not to repeat any of this to anybody else. It would not be a good idea if word got around how much I know, or suspect, about Lord Voldemort's secrets."
"No, sir, I'll make sure it's just Ron and Hermione." said Harry. "Good night."
He turned away again, but Grace noticed something. Sitting on one of the little spindle-legged tables that supported so many frail-looking silver instruments, was an ugly gold ring set with a large, cracked, black stone.
"Sir," said Grace, staring at it. Harry stopped and turned to look at the ring. "That ring —"
"Yes?" said Dumbledore.
"You were wearing it when we visited Professor Slughorn that night." said Grace.
"So I was," Dumbledore agreed.
"But isn't it . . . sir, isn't it the same ring Marvolo Gaunt showed Ogden?" Harry asked as realization hit him.
Dumbledore bowed his head. "The very same."
"But how come — ?" Grace got cut off by Harry.
"Have you always had it?"
"No, I acquired it very recently," said Dumbledore. "A few days before I came to fetch you from your aunt and uncle's, in fact."
"That would be around the time you injured your hand, then, sir?" Harry asked.
"Around that time, yes."
Harry hesitated. Dumbledore was smiling.
"Sir, how exactly — ?"
"Too late, Harry! You shall hear the story another time. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
They turned around to leave but stopped at Dumbledore's voice.
"Grace, I would like to talk to you, alone." said Dumbledore looking at her.
Harry looked from her to Dumbledore confused and curious. He nodded before leaving the office.
"I believe you have something to tell me?" He asked.
She wasn't surprised knowing that he noticed, and sat down again and looked up at him. "Yes, sir. You see just before I came here, I had a dream. It was weird."
"What was in that dream?" He asked curiously.
"I was inside a dome-shaped structure." said Grace. "It looked ancient and I could feel powerful magic from it. The walls were covered in painting like renaissance."
"And was it near an ocean?" Dumbledore asked.
"Yes." Grace nodded feeling a little surprised. "But how do you know it?"
"It's a place on Faroe Islands. The dome-like building you saw is called 'goðahús af Auðhelga' in Old Norse which if translated in english is, 'the Temple of Audhelga'. It's a place owned by your mother's side of family."
Grace was stunned by the news that the place of her dreams existed. It meant it wasn't just any dream.
"What happened next?" He asked.
"Then I saw myself, but it didn't felt like me, more like a clone. It said 'I need to die' and then it stabbed me with a dagger."
Dumbledore was silent for a few seconds. As Grace contemplated his face, she noticed that he looked concerned about her dream, it wasn't seen on his face, but in his eyes.
"Do I need to worry about it, professor?" Grace asked.
"No, you do not." said Dumbledore, but Grace wasn't sure whether to believe him or not. "I believe that you had that dream because the place is connected deeply with your family. And about that clone, I think it was only because you are worried about the prophecy."
Grace nodded, feeling a little reassured.
"But if you have that kind of dreams again, you have to tell me." said Dumbledore. "You can go now."
"Good night, sir."
When Grace appeared out of Dumbledore office, she saw Harry waiting for her on the side. As soon as he saw, he dashed toward her.
"What did Dumbledore wanted to talk about?" He asked, his face full of concern.
For a moment Grace wondered whether to tell him or not, but seeing his concerned eyes, she opted against it.
"Nothing serious." Grace lied with a smile. "He just wanted to make sure I was okay. He told me not to be worried because of the prophecy."
"You should not worried about it, because I'm sure you're going to live." said Harry believing her lie. "Like Dumbledore said, ore than half of the prophecies don't come true."
Grace merely smiled.
***
'Auðhelga' is an Old Norse name.
Pronunciation:
1. Auðhelga :
a as in 'land'
u as 'yew'
ð as 'th'
h as h
l as l
g as g
a as 'aa'
a-yew-th-ee-l-g-aa
2. Goðahús :
g like in normal english
o as in 'nose'
ð as 'th'
a as in 'land'
h as in 'ech'
ú as the 'oo' in droop
s as in 'blast'
go-tha-oo-s