Chapter Five: Memories and Past Revealed

Special disclaimer: For the artistic purposes of this chapter, I used several direct quotes from J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince." They are taken mostly from the chapter entitled "The House of Gaunt." The page numbers of this chapter are 194-216, but I have by no means quoted everything. I have no intention of profiting from the use of these words, and no copyright infringement was intended.

Author's Note: Okay! One more chapter and then "Seas of Green" will be completely set up on this archive! Or, at least up until the point I'm at on all of the other sites. Hopefully chapter seven will be edited/posted soon, but I'm making no guarantees at this point.

Chapter Five:

Memories and Past Revealed

"A note for Mr. Harry Potter."

Harry swallowed some juice and stared down at the first year girl wearing Slytherin robes. She shifted from foot to foot, gaze wandering over the other younger years at the table, who were pretending not to watch.

"Thank you," Harry mumbled.

She gave him one wary glance as he took the note from her.

Dear Harry,

Please meet me to discuss your Independent project at 8 pm this Saturday. I will be in my office.

Yours sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

PS – I favor Acid Pops.

Harry folded the note and tucked it into his robes. He looked up out of the corner of his eye to check if anyone was watching him. His spine shivered once with that feeling of eyes on his back. He tried to pretend that nothing was unordinary.

The owls had already swooped down, and Harry didn't expect to get anything else this morning. The Weasleys, Ginny, and Hermione were his only correspondents these days, and he should have already gotten a letter if he was going to. In fact, he hadn't heard from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley since that first Saturday, and now it had nearly been two weeks ago. He thought about writing them later.

"But Draco, why won't you tell me what it says?"

Pansy's shrill tone cut through Harry's concentration.

"Because it's none of your business, and besides, you're annoying me," Malfoy said, attempting to butter his toast while wrestling himself from her grasp.

"But Draco," her voice dropped and lost its shrill quality, "I saw who wrote it. It sounds important, and I think it's definitely something you should tell your future wife."

"And can't a father write his son without the Spanish Inquisition banging down the door?" he hissed at her.

Harry stirred the milk into his coffee, wondering if Malfoy knew he could hear him.

"I-I'm sorry, Draco, I didn't realize it meant that much to you."

Harry admired how clear her voice could sound when she was obviously upset.

When Blaise nudged his way into her seat, and Pansy snorted indignantly, Harry knew he'd heard all he would this morning.

He grabbed his bookbag and slung it over his shoulder quickly standing up. He narrowly avoided what could have been a rather painful blow to his ribs as Pansy's elbow flailed dangerously near them. Pansy shoved her way into his chair, shooting him a quick glare. Harry plastered a smirk across his face, his heart racing.

"Morning to you too, Parkinson."

She looked at him as though he'd grown a new head, but gradually a curious look stole into her eyes.

"Morning ... Potter."

Harry allowed himself to laugh as he walked away.

**

The rest of the week went by quickly. The Slytherins kept Harry on his toes, which he was starting to become grateful for. Thursday morning, a vicious seventh year attacked him from behind with a Bat Bogey Hex. Harry had been able to deflect it without thinking. Draco Malfoy had laughed maliciously, and Blaise had gone to help the poor boy fix himself.

When Harry talked to Hermione in Transfiguration, Blaise had spoken to him as he passed.

"You could have made my job easier," he'd griped through the amused smirk.

Harry only laughed.

"No, I couldn't; it was his hex to begin with."

Blaise's lips turned up, and he gave Harry a congratulatory nod.

Hermione had been shell-shocked. She opened her mouth, then got a confused look on her face, and tried again. Thankfully, Harry had put her off asking about it fairly quickly.

When he woke that Saturday, the dorm was nearly empty. Quidditch try-outs were being held again on the pitch, and it looked like he was the only one who hadn't gotten up to audition or watch. Ignoring the growling in his stomach, Harry threw on some clothes and left the dorm.

He climbed the stairs, not really watching where he was going.

"Harry!"

Harry turned in mid-step, and was caught by the sight of Ginny in a pink sundress.

"Morning, Ginny."

"Why aren't you at the Slytherin try-outs?"

Harry made a face.

"I'll still be rooting for Gryffindor this year, and besides, Malfoy's team captain and Seeker."

They stood for a while in silence, Ginny shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Harry searched desperately for a topic of conversation; Ginny looked like she was searching with him, her eyes darting back and forth, and slowly lowering. Ginny raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth to say goodbye, but Harry interrupted her.

"Hang on, then. How did you know about the try-outs?"

"Oh, Ron's gone to spy. He's really hoping that they don't put you on their team. And he says that since Katie's captain, and she'll be gone next year, he'll have the most seniority on the team."

Harry chuckled.

"Already got it planned out then?"

Ginny shrugged and gave him a half smile.

"You know how he can get."

"Better than anyone."

They exchanged smiles. He rocked slightly on his heels, the thought of discussing Ron making his stomach go queasy. But somehow, that was the only thing he could think to talk about. Or maybe Hermione. Or Quidditch.

"Well, I'll see you later. I've got to go meet Dean."

"Yeah, later," Harry said, sighing with relief.

Harry waved and they gratefully went their separate ways.

**

That evening, Harry waited in the Slytherin Common Room, huddled close to the fire. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and compulsively checked his watch. Blaise and Pansy were sitting across the room, working on schoolwork and laughing every once in a while. As Harry watched, Blaise called a seventh year girl over to sit with them.

The Slytherins were getting ready for a party later tonight.

Harry had no idea why, but they seemed to need to release some stress. Not that he couldn't relate; it was a Saturday night, and the year had already turned out to be extremely difficult. The girl Blaise was talking to laughed loudly. Harry tried not to stare, but now Blaise and the girl were really hitting it off, and Pansy was smirking at them. But they seemed to be holding back, like they were waiting for something, and Harry didn't know what it was. The minutes ticked by, everyone waiting for something. The fireplace was starting to gather heat, it was getting too hot, surely just a few more minutes, and everything would be okay to go ...

When the minute hand finally hit eight, Harry was already on his way through the halls to meet the Headmaster.

The teachers he passed ignored him, and the Prefects turned their heads the other way. Finally, he reached the griffin statue that concealed the stairwell to Dumbledore's office.

"Acid Pops," he whispered to the griffin, and it moved aside. Harry quickly stepped onto the revolving staircase and it carried him up, jerking every once in a while, as though it needed oiling. When the stairs finally jerked to a stop, he reached out a tentative hand and started to knock, but Dumbledore's kind voice rang from the study.

"No need to knock when you are expected, Harry."

Harry hastily opened the door and stepped into the office. He looked about for any sign of what they were about to do, but the room was the way it had always been, not one of Dumbledore's instruments misplaced. A shock of guilt flashed through Harry's gut, but he growled inwardly and it went away as quickly as it had come.

"Sir?" Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm sure you are wondering what will take place tonight."

Harry nodded and took a seat facing the Headmaster.

"I believe, as you have reached your sixth year, you have a certain need to know what most wizards can only dream of."

Harry nodded, his foot twitching against the floor. He tried desperately not to be impatient.

"You need to understand your enemy fully. Voldemort has always been an elusive man, and that makes your task all the more difficult. To know that you are the only one able to really end this war must be a heavy burden, almost impossibly heavy. It is my wish that you understand the man you are expected to kill."

"What are we doing tonight? Spellwork?"

"Hardly."

Harry looked into Dumbledore's eyes, searching for any sign of macabre humor on the man's face.

"Does this have anything to do with the Prophecy?"

"It has a great deal to do with the Prophecy."

That much should have been obvious.

Dumbledore stood and walked past Harry to the cabinet that held the old man's Pensieve. Harry eagerly watched him as he reached into the cabinet, the long sleeves of his robes trailing through the air. He brought out the magical basin. When Dumbledore carefully placed the glittering silver relic onto his desk, the runes flickered at Harry in the candlelight. Another, very different, kind of guilt started to pool in his stomach.

"Don't be worried, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly.

Harry tried to relax, but somehow as the surface of the memories changed and swirled, he could not help but be reminded of his own personal mistakes, of other memories he did not have the permission to see. Over the summer, he had thought over and over his experiences with the Pensieve; first, with Dumbledore's Pensieve, and next with Snape's own painful memory. He had stolen something from them both, gone where he had no right to be.

The amount of trust that one old man was showing him in this simple action was dizzying. He'd already violated this man's right to privacy; there was no reason for this trust. And yet here he was, in front of the Pensieve once again, about to jump into someone's personal memory.

"You must surely know that I am giving you permission to enter the Pensieve this time, Harry."

Harry looked up at the old man, and he wondered again if the man could read minds.

"What are you going to show me, Professor?"

"I'm not entirely sure myself, but I can safely say that I trust Bob Ogden was right to give me one of his memories."

The old professor held up a small vial filled with what Harry could only assume was a memory.

"It is rare," Dumbledore mused, "when a man allows you to see his memory. When he gives you something as precious as an event. To gain trust like that is to gain a true ally."

"Did you know Bob Ogden well?" Harry asked.

"Very well. He was a great friend to me while he was still alive. I knew him as a good man who worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Before he died, I had convinced him to hand this memory over to my safekeeping. It is a memory of one of his duties; an assignment he was forced to go on so many years ago."

Dumbledore drew his wand to uncork the vial and tipped the contents into the other memories. They didn't mix. Harry noticed that they seemed to be made of different patterns and materials.

"After you," Dumbledore said, motioning for Harry to duck his head into the bowl.

Harry drew in a deep breath and held it. He slowly touched the water and felt a pull around his middle as he was tipped into the Pensieve.

**

The sounds of the raucous Slytherin party followed him up the stairs to the upper years' dorms, and Harry started to take off his tie. His breathing became slightly easier as he topped the last step. His light jacket hung heavily on his arm as he pushed through the door to his dorm, the light dim and just barely concealing the only other occupant of the room.

A loud screech came from the Upper Classmen's study room down the hall, and Harry winced as it shot through his head, piercing his headache with brutal accuracy. Harry closed the door behind him and lit one of the candles by his bed, its dim light revealing the slight mess around Malfoy's bed. He felt eyes on his back and dropped his shirt to the floor, ignoring the blonde. Harry kicked his shoes off lazily, undoing his belt. He let his trousers fall to the floor and immediately went searching for a clean pair of sleep pants, tripping over his feet as he stumbled through the dorm. He didn't have the energy to button up a sleep shirt.

Clothed in a pair of pajamas, Harry shuffled into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth in slow, weary motions that glanced across his gums every once in a while. Harry spit, washed the sink out, and splashed water on his face. The shadows under his eyes had become pronounced, and his lips were pulled downward by gravity, his jaw slightly slack.

But Harry never cared if he looked like shit.

When he stepped back into the dorm room, Malfoy was still staring at him. He quickly averted his eyes and went back to his work.

Harry collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, and pulled the thick covers over his body. He buried himself deeply in the pillow. His last thought before drifting off to sleep was that Malfoy had closed his curtains without even raising his wand.

**

He flung his long blond hair away from his face, arms deep in the mud and clothes smudged with his work.

Somehow the guards hadn't caught his plan yet, and somehow he had a feeling they weren't going to.

The cells of Azkaban that were meant for the most dangerous of prisoners were buried deep underground. Many of the prisoners had escaped with the Dementors, but Lucius had been in solitary confinement with no way to join their ranks.

The Ministry had taken his wand from him and kept him under the watch of two Dementors constantly. They had hoped that his madness would consume him, that he would not be able to escape because he would become crippled.

Now his guard had been replaced with a human.

As he continued his slow, methodical work, he mused that part of the reason the occupants of Azkaban went mad was listening to the others wail. But in his cell, at this vantage point, he could only sometimes hear their faint screams.

Every evening, at six o' clock, his guard would flip open the little slot on his door, and every evening at six fifteen he would hand the empty plate back. It was only ever once a day, and the food was never anything spectacular, but there was a point months ago when Lucius had stopped caring.

While this would have been crippling to those Ministry minions who had locked him up here, it was a bit of normality. That they had allowed him a watch was their first big mistake. He and his captors had established a relationship based on their routine; the days could be counted by how many times he had vomited into the cell toilet. He even kept a tally in the dirt underneath his cot.

Gradually he had become less human and more a creature of pattern, of logic. It had been a long time since emotion had played across his face, since he had thought of those things that were supposed to tie him to his human life. He no longer masturbated to the memory of Narcissa on their wedding night; he no longer wept for his only son.

All he could think of were those shrieks, those wails, those screams that he could hear, so faintly, through the walls.

He knew he should feel some sense of loss over the whole issue; he knew that he should wish for his own sanity back. But he also knew that it was through this forced loss of emotion that he had accomplished his brilliant plan. Ironic, that it was once this very loss of emotion that had crippled him.

But he needed four different kinds of clay.

And thus, he was digging. Down in the mud, like a servant. Like the servant that he was. Hopefully he would no longer be a simple slave to his master's will, but would rise above his lowly position and become an heir.

Four kinds of clay. That was all he needed.

He had the black clay; he'd scraped that off the walls ages ago. The sludge came from around the pipe that went through his room. And this dirty mud he'd been digging through ... he was covered in it. There was an overabundance. The sand had been difficult, but Draco had obligingly sent it in a letter. Fresh from the shores of Hogwarts.

Finally, he hit the best clay. The red clay. His very own buried treasure.

He heard himself start to giggle as he grabbed fistfuls of it, forcing it out of it's coveted hiding place, and he rocked back and forth, triumph and euphoria the only emotions he had left to feel.

**

The twisting path through Little Hangleton steered them past the Riddle Mansion – proud and haughty in the distance – down the lane, over the hills, all this in the cheery afternoon sunshine.

There was something not quite right about it all ... something that told of darker days, a cheery irony that mocked him. Ogden was rattling down the lane, almost running because the slope was so steep. Harry thought he shouldn't be running that fast; he would trip and fall, and he would never tell the Gaunts that they had to come to court. But somehow, miraculously, the man didn't trip, and it was with a shaky breath that Harry followed him. His entire body was tense, he knew what was about to happen, but Ogden was ignorant. They had almost made it to the little copse, only a few more steps and he would see Ogden stop and wait. Wait for something horrible to jump out of the trees. Harry would be ready this time ... this time, Morfin would pay for his actions ...

When Morfin jumped down from the trees, Harry darted forward, attempting to beat at him, but Morfin only gave him one knock to the head, and he was sent sprawling. Harry got up quickly, but Morfin was already hissing away.

One instant, he was hissing directly at Harry, the next Ogden seemed to reappear beside him, but Ogden never really seemed to be all the way there. He was hazy, and somehow Harry felt his own arms start to fatten, his chest filling out until he was Ogden.

"You're not welcome here."

The sentence rang around the hills, and Harry almost didn't catch what it meant.

"You're not welcome here."

"Er – good morning," Harry felt himself speak, the words rattling around in his throat, but it wasn't his voice.

"You're not welcome here."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

But he did understand! He understood perfectly!

"Morfin!"

An elderly man was speaking, and Harry felt his shoulders start to relax, but as he came closer and the pervasive smell of Firewhiskey violated his space, Harry gagged and tried to back away. He fell back and tripped, his nose suddenly covered in orange goo.

"Got you in the face, did he?"

Harry glared at Gaunt, but he was only smiling, and Morfin was cackling.

"Busybodies, intruders, Muggles and filth."

Defend himself against what?

Hadn't he asked that?

They were inside, and Merope was scrabbling around on the floor after the frying pan. Morfin had not stopped his mad giggle, and Harry felt about ready to slap him. Ogden's body was trapped on the chair as Merope struggled, and Marvolo somehow managed to bellow a hiss.

Harry could feel himself getting more and more frustrated with everything, his body starting to sweat as he palmed the order the Ministry had sent with him.

Marvolo wouldn't listen to him.

"Mend it, you pointless lump, mend it!" He screeched at his daughter.

"Morfin has committed –"

"I heard you the first time!"

"Morfin has broken wizarding law!"

"'Morfin has broken wizarding law.' He taught a filthy Muggle a lesson, that's illegal now, is it?"

Harry pulled the summons out of his coat pocket and attempted to hand it to Marvolo. The other man refused to take it, why exactly he couldn't tell, but he seemed more of a child than anything, his face twisting in the way that a baby's does when it doesn't have everything it wants.

Suddenly they were standing up, and Marvolo was thrusting his ring under Harry's nose.

"Slytherin's! Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants! What do you say to that?"

The locket that was shoved in front of him now was still attached to Merope's sad little neck, and Harry yelled. Her only savior came when they were distracted by the hooves of horses. Everything went quiet as Riddle sidled nearer the house, his arrogant voice carrying through their window like butter melting on a hot summer's day.

"Tom, I might be wrong, but has someone nailed a snake to the door?"

"-Good lord, you're right! That'll be the son, I told you he's not quite right in the head. Don't look at it, Cecelia darling."

"Darling, he called her so he wouldn't want you anyway."

There was more yelling, but it was quiet yelling now, like they were all hissing, but Harry couldn't tell the difference anymore.

"She likes looking at that Muggle," Morfin taunted her.

"Is it true? My daughter – pure-blooded daughter of Salazar Slytherin – hankering after a filthy, dirt-veined Muggle?"

Anger in the room. So much anger that Harry was finally able to hurt Gaunt – flinging him across the room with a deft wave of his wand, but next thing he knew, he was chased out of the room and away, up over the hills, running so fast that he couldn't hear anything but the buzzing of blood in his ears.

**

"Harrry."

The voice purred his name this time, finding him in this jungle of a mind.

"Why are you crying, Harry? You are not hurt. You are still yourself. Don't be so silly."

The wet tears came down his cheeks, and his eyelashes fluttered. His intake of breath was unsteady at best, but when he exhaled, it was calm.

"There. That wasn't so hard."

"Mother..."

He could almost hear her smile.

"Yes, Harry. Mother."

"Mother?"

"You're alright. All you need to do is remember. Don't forget me, Harry, don't forget me. But that must be hard. You never knew me."

Mother ...

"Remember who you are."

A vision of a snake crawling across the floor towards Arthur Weasley.

Remember who you are.

Ogden running away from the House of Gaunt.

Remember who you are ...

The Riddle mansion as it stands now, towering in the distance and one Muggle, Frank, about to die.

... remember who you are ...

Lucius Malfoy, digging frantically deeper into the mud.

Remember ...

Draco Malfoy standing up, his knuckles bloody and a sneer in place.

... who ...

A doorway, at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

... you ...

Ron Weasley staring at him in horror after the re-sorting.

... ARE.

Himself after the fight, watching Draco Malfoy stalk away and feeling more alive than he had all year.

Harry woke up.

He rolled over, the dreams playing through his mind, ghostly images of his subconscious. Malfoy had only closed the curtains on one side of the bed; the side that faced the bathroom was open, and Harry could see the haunting candlelight coming from it. There was no telling who was in the bathroom, but somehow he just knew that it was Malfoy, that he wasn't able to sleep either.

Harry got up on his knees and drew the curtains facing the bathroom shut, giving Malfoy what little privacy he deserved.

When Draco came back into the dorm and Harry was asleep, he faintly noticed that the curtains were drawn and smiled to himself.

**

Lucius Malfoy Escapes Azkaban!

Late last night, Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour made a surprise trip to the wizarding prison Azkaban. He was summoned in the middle of the night by a man who claimed he saw Lucius Malfoy in the alley outside of his apartment. When Scrimgeour reached Azkaban prison, he found that half of the guards had fled and that the high-security cells were ransacked.

The most conspicuous and dangerous missing prisoner was one Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy was arrested last spring after being found with a troop of Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic. He was, according to the Veritaserum testimony of other Death Eaters found on the premises, the leader of the mission. He had been entrusted by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with an important task still unknown to us.

Lucius Malfoy was suspect of Death Eater activity during the first war, but pled the Imperius Curse. It was his father Ignatius Malfoy's service in the legislature that passed the law that the true pure-blood families would not be candidates for "such underhanded means of investigation as Veritaserum, Imperius, or psychological torture." (Rights Protection Act VIII, Title XII) At the time that this law was established, Barty Crouch Sr. was turning to more and more dangerous means of interrogation, even if the suspect had little evidence to warrant an in-depth investigation. His work was seen, in the mid 1970's, as being a standard of basic human rights. Myra Prynne's book on blood research had not yet been printed, and most wizards, while not agreeing with You-Know-Who, still allowed a caste system based on blood purity to rule our society. His efforts were seen as championing our wizarding rights, the fact that he quickly edited out any mention of protection for those with less than pure-blood was not mentioned the day the bill was voted on.

There is now speculation that perhaps this bill was meant to rescue his only son, Lucius Malfoy, from punishment when he was inevitably tried of Death Eater activity late in the war. Ignatius Malfoy himself is now thought of as a man who belonged to the higher circle of Death Eaters, his legislation holding true to the ideal He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named strives always to achieve. It is impossible to reveal how deep the Malfoy ties in You-Know-Who's circle reach, as Ignatius is now dead, and the bills he helped bring into law have affected the Malfoy trial this previous spring. It is safe to say, however, that Lucius Malfoy is most probably an important Death Eater in the workings of You-Know-Who's cult.

Over the years the Malfoy family generously donated to the Ministry, and Lucius Malfoy had earned himself a place as a school governor on the board of Hogwarts. He also held several low-responsibility but high-profile jobs around the Ministry. It is the main theory of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that Lucius was attempting to continue his father's legacy.

Lucius was arrested last spring for his break-in at the Ministry of Magic. When the lesser Death Eaters were questioned, they refused to disclose any information. When put under Veritaserum, they revealed that they had been searching for a prophecy in the Department of Mysteries. Whether they were aware of the meaning of the prophecy or not, we may never know. The prophecy itself was lost.

The crimes committed under the Malfoy name that night are more than excuse enough to keep a closer watch over your homes; it is known that he will be able to acquire a wand easily. His wife, Narcissa Malfoy, has never been a Death Eater and walks free, not to mention their only son, Draco. Hell-bent on his mission, Malfoy may be more dangerous now than ever.

There is no telling what will happen next in this epic battle of the age, but we can only hope that the escape of Lucius Malfoy and the seeming betrayal of several Dementors isn't an omen for darker times ahead. – Marsha Owens