"Mum's still with Ben. He's finally awake, but he doesn't recall any of the past day," Annie said, finding comfort leaning into Jerry's shoulder.
"He'll be right as rain soon. Your mum's quite a gifted healer," he reassured her. His fingers ran through her hair as he held her. His gentle touch was more soothing then she realized.
"I think you need to get some rest, too. You've been up for nearly two days," he said softly in her ear.
"Um-hmm," she mumbled, snuggling into his side. A second offer wasn't needed; her slow breathing and relaxed body told Jerry she was almost asleep.
"Rest," he whispered. "I'm glad we're together." He gently kissed the top of her head and kept stroking her hair.
She felt his touch and smiled. Her arms tightened around him, and she knew she was safe. She felt herself drift into sleep. A feeling of calm flowed over her; the troubles of her world seemed to melt away. Distinct images flooded her mind.
She saw Jerry as he spoke. She heard him clearly, but his words were as foreign to her ears as those from another continent.
"Annie, rest. I do love you," he whispered to her.
She stood on the landing in the main staircase of the school. A tall man with long auburn hair stood before her. He stared over his half-moon spectacles up into the stairwell.
"Where have you disappeared to this time, Tom?" the man asked.
"I-I was completing my rounds," a voice above them replied. A young man, more of a boy, with strikingly sharp features, approached them. He had a Prefect's pin on his cloak just above the Slytherin emblem on his chest.
Annie looked at the boy. 'A fellow Slyhterin,' she thought.
"I believe you have been instructed to monitor the hallways between your dormitories and the Great Hall. Please explain why you were on these floors."
"I saw one of the Gryffindors heading here from a chamber in the dungeon to these corridors, but I lost him as he passed the third floor staircases. It was that Hagrid fellow."
"And what did you discover he was doing? I saw Rubius in his own room just ten minutes past."
"Professor, I thought it was him. I may have been in error due to the darkness," the boy replied.
'This professor doesn't believe him, how odd,' Annie thought.
"Tom," the man said as he put an arm over the boy's shoulder. "It is not that I do not believe you, but you have promised me in the past to obey the rules. And as a Prefect, you are looked to for guidance by your younger house members."
"Yes, sir, I do understand that responsibility, and I take that very seriously."
"I have been hearing disturbing remarks from members of your house; some older members told Professor Slughorn about unusual disappearances of personal items. I trust there isn't any involvements I need to know of," the professor said. A gleam in his eye left a doubt that any reply from Tom would be believed.
Annie listened to the conversation with keen interest and stepped closer to hear Tom's reply, but the scene vanished as she slipped into a deep black void in her dream.
A sparkle of light danced in the distance and rapidly opened to her mind. She stood in a different room; that same boy sat on a bed and stared at a ring. He slipped it on his finger and sighed. It was a gold ring with the Peverell coat of arms carved into a black stone.
"This is all I have for my birthright," he mumbled to himself. His trunk sat on the floor, obviously packed and ready to leave. The other beds in the room were empty, and the other boys' possessions were gone.
Annie watched and felt herself drawn closer to this boy. He looked up and smiled.
"Hello, you've returned," he said.
"You can see me?" she asked.
"Of course. I can help you, and you can help me. I know why you were put in Slytherin House, and our destinies are intertwined."
"You said you knew my parents and grandparents? How? You can't be more then a year or so older then I am." She winced when a flash of pain tore through her stomach.
"He has been called the saviour of the wizarding world and the 'chosen one,' but without me he would have been just another wizard seeking his fame. He used me to find that fame. He had been obsessed with power without regard for the consequence of that power."
Sweat broke on her brow. Jerry still held her as she slept. She held her stomach tightly, and he felt her struggle.
"Annie, wake up. You're having a bad dream," he said as he gently shook her.
"Jerry? Where's Tom? I was just talking to him," she called out as her head snapped up.
"Who's 'Tom'?" Jerry asked.
"I've had this dream about him, but I have no idea who he is. He said he knows Mum and Dad."
"There's no one else here, just me. Your mum said Ben was resting, and we could see him in a bit."
"Ben?" she said, a look of confusion flashed on her face.
"Your brother. He was attacked yesterday, remember?"
She shook her head again. "How could I have forgotten him?" she said as she looked into his eyes. His warm, light blue eyes always melted her emotionally.
"It was a bad dream, that's all," he replied. She lowered her head back to his shoulder.
"Annie, I want you to know that I've always lo---"
"So, here you are," a voice shouted.
"Arty?" Annie replied to her friend's sudden outburst.
"I've been looking for you ever since you had the nerve to blow off my party for you, and I thought you were my friend."
"We've been here with Ben…"
"Don't bloody lie to me. You've been off snogging your brains out like a couple eels since you two got together. My father's gone missing, and you don't even care!"
"Come off it. You've hardly said a word to him in the four years we've been here. You can't say that now you've become concerned?" Annie screamed, while pushing off Jerry. She stood and faced her friend; one hand still cradled her stomach.
"He may be a worthless lot, and what he did to Mum was wrong, but he's still my father."
"And he's being sought for my brother's injuries," Annie shouted. The cramps now became stronger, and she held her middle with both hands.
Tears streamed down Arty's cheeks. "If you were any sort of friend, you would have been there for me, just
as I've always been around when you needed a shoulder. Or am I no longer needed as a friend because you have
him?"
"Arty, that's not fair," Jerry yelled back. "Her family's been attacked, and we all
need to stay together."
"You mind your own, Jerry Weasley. Your father's just as big a failure as his father was in the Ministry, and he's never been able to solve the murder of that Minister fifteen years ago."
Annie swallowed hard. She fought the knot in her stomach. "Arty, that was uncalled for," she said coldly. A trickle of crimson leaked from the corner of her mouth.
Arty looked at Annie, her oldest and best friend. "How could I ever have trusted you? You're just a Slytherin after all."
The one insult that hurt most froze Annie to the spot. Her mind raced as it replayed the memories of the past few days. Her single reply came in an uncontrolled action. She doubled over, retched and collapsed in her bloody bile.
Harry returned to the hospital wing after his detour to find his wife and mother of his children gently stoking their son's hair. The boy was sleeping soundly, thanks to a Dreamless Sleep potion.
The Headmistress also stood by to offer comfort to the parents of an injured child in her care. Harry's agitated state led the elder witch to think she was to fault for Ben's condition.
"Mr. Potter, I'm terribly sorry for what happened to your son. I wish…"
"Professor, I appreciate your concern, but I have to talk to my wife. If you'll excuse us for a moment…" he said, interrupting the school's matriarch.
Hermione joined him in an isolated corner of the hospital wing and was about to ask about his behavior when he began his story.
"We reviewed all the artifacts, just as Firenze suggested, and we found several items." He removed his rucksack and held it open. "There were a number of old text books, all Potions books. They weren't available that day you had to research them."
"Why…"
"Let me finish, please. I think I've found another of those books - the kind that only we can read." His voice quivered as he spoke. "It was hidden inside another volume, and I think you'd best read it. I've only read the first bits, but if my suspicions are correct, Tom Riddle is the least of our concerns."
"Let's have it then," she said taking the small book out of the pack. The bottle of silvery fluid remained with the other items Harry obtained. As Hermione read the first page, she turned as white and pale as Nearly Headless Nick. Her legs wobbled where she stood, and she would have collapsed if Harry hadn't held her steady.
Professor McGonagall watched from a distance and noticed her favorite pupil's momentary lapse. "Please, if you need a place to converse in private, my office is at your disposal. I shall watch over young Benjamin until you return."
"Thanks, Professor," Harry started, "but I think we…"
Hermione grabbed his arm; the look on her face was all he needed.
"I think we'll accept your offer. Can you let us know if there's any change?" Harry asked.
"Of course. I believe your daughter is waiting outside with Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall replied.
"Please keep her informed as well. She needs to know how her brother is doing," Hermione said.
"Do you remember the password to my office?" Professor McGonagall asked.
Hermione nodded, slid the book into his backpack, and took Harry's arm for support. Once in the hall they noticed that Annie was fast asleep with Jerry's arm around her for comfort. As they passed, Harry patted Jerry's free shoulder and gave the boy a smile and nod.
The couple walked quickly through the corridors they'd passed through as children. Out of remembrance for a lost friend, the phoenix statue that protected the Headmistress' office remained.
"Horntail," Harry said to the statue, and they watched the stairs appear behind the stone figure. They took the all-too-familiar route up to stand before the large oak doors to the headmistress's office. Harry opened the door and held it as Hermione walked through.
"Harry, she has a reading table set in the alcove we can use," she said quietly as they passed through the outer office and walked by the portraits of past headmasters who were snoring loudly on the wall.
Harry set his pack on the table while Hermione pulled two chairs next to each other. They stared at the bag and then nervously opened it. He carefully removed all the objects and set them on the table. He placed the book between them.
"I think we both know the meaning of this, and as much as I want to know why, we need to determine how these other things fit," Harry said, putting a hand on the book to prevent Hermione from reading further.
"Harry, this is the most disturbing information we've seen. I don't see how these other things compare. A list, a vial, and some jewelry; no, that book is the key," she argued.
"If I may make a suggestion, that vial may well be the key you're looking for. If I'm not mistaken, it contains a memory. I would recommend using my old Pensieve to view that memory," a voice from the wall offered.
Harry turned around at the familiar voice, expecting to see a familiar form standing behind them. "Professor!" he called out, only to find the space empty.
Hermione simply rolled her eyes and walked to the portrait on the wall. "Professor Dumbledore, why do you believe it's a memory?" she asked.
The image pointed to the vial, "It is a simple conclusion. First, all memories may be stored in a vial of this nature. Second, I personally have stored several in this manner myself. And third, that happens to be one of my personal vials. Unfortunately, I have no way to determine which memory you have in your possession."
Harry picked up the scrap of parchment, and re-read the message, "It's a special m… Use a Pe... AD'," he said.
"It's a special memory. Use a Pensieve," Hermione corrected.
"…to learn its secrets," the portrait added.
"But, whose memory? There's nothing here to indicate who it's from - or when, for that matter," Harry said.
"There is one way to determine the identity. You can view it; there's bound to be a reason it was left for you," the portrait added.
"He's right, Harry, we could use his Pensieve. It's still in the cupboard in the outer office. We both could see it, and between us we should be able to get to the bottom of this mystery," Hermione said, turning with the vial in her hand and walking directly to the resting place containing the stone basin. Once exposed, they looked into it together, but it was empty.
"I am sorry. I had removed my thoughts from the Pensieve when I left the school," they heard from the distance. "But if you just pour the memory from the vial into the Pensieve, there shouldn't be any preparation required."
"Thanks, Professor, we can manage," Harry called back. "Hermione, I'll go first and you follow if everything seems safe."
"Ok, just please be careful. We have no idea who this may be."
Hermione took the vial and removed the stopper, then poured the contents into the shallow stone basin. The odd carvings of runes and symbols around the edge reminded Harry of the first time he encountered this object.
The bright, whitish, and silvery light from the basin's contents moved ceaselessly, beckoning him. Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. Hermione stood at his side, watching his every move, her wand out ready for anything. The moment before his face touched, he distinctly heard someone enter the office, but he was already committed to this endeavor.
Once he touched the liquid in the Pensieve, he felt his feet leave the floor, and he fell through darkness before he landed in an office. It was obviously many years earlier because the conveniences of the modern wizarding world, some borrowed from the Muggle world, were missing. Magically illuminated lamps were still being used instead of electric lights.
Sitting in a comfortable winged armchair in the office was a man with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and a gingery-blond mustache. His name appeared on several awards that hung on the wall: Horace Slughorn. His were feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, and he held a small glass of wine in one hand while the other rummaged through in a box of crystallized pineapple. A half-dozen teenage boys were sitting around Slughorn; Tom Riddle was in the midst of them, and Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleamed on his finger.
Harry listened just as Riddle asked, "Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"
"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging his finger reprovingly at Riddle, though winking at the same time. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are."
Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.
"I have to return to see Ben," a quiet voice said in Harry's ear.
"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't and your careful flattery of the people who matter - thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite -" Several of the boys tittered again. "- I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple. I have excellent contacts at the Ministry."
Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader.
"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."
A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor.
"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom. I've never been wrong about a student yet."
The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock behind him, and he looked around.
"Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going boys, or we'll all be in trouble. LeStrange, I want your essay by in tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."
One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement behind him made him look around; Riddle was still standing there.
"Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a Prefect."
"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."
"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away..."
"Sir, I wondered what you know about... about Horcruxes?"
Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem of his wine glass.
"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?"
Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not schoolwork.
"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle. "I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."
"No... well. . . you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll give you details on Horcruxes, Tom. That's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed," said Slughorn.
"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you - sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously - I just knew if anyone could tell me, you could, so I just thought I'd..."
It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Harry, had had too much experience of trying to wheedle information out of reluctant people not to recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information very, very much; perhaps he had been working toward this moment for weeks.
"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an overview, of course. Just so that you understand the term. A Horcrux is the word used for an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."
"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Riddle. His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.
"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed, one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But of course, existence in such a form..."
Slughorn's face crumpled, and Harry found himself remembering words he had heard nearly three decades before: "I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost… but still, I was alive."
"... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."
But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, and he could no longer hide his longing.
"How do you split your soul?"
"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting it is an act of violation; it is against nature."
"But how do you do it?"
"By an act of evil - the supreme act of evil; by committing murder. Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion -"
"Encase? But how -?"
"There is a spell. Do not ask me - I don't know!" said Slughorn, shaking his head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. "Do I look as though I have tried it - do I look like a killer?"
"No, sir, of course not," said Riddle quickly. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to offend..."
"Not at all, not at all, not offended," said Slughorn gruffly. "It is natural to feel some curiosity about these things... Wizards of a certain caliber have always been drawn to that aspect of magic...."
"Yes, sir," said Riddle. "What I don't understand, though - just out of curiosity - I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in more pieces. I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number, wouldn't seven -?"
"Merlin's beard, Tom!" yelped Slughorn. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case... bad enough to divide the soul... but to rip it into seven pieces..."
Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Riddle as though he had never seen him plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was regretting entering into the conversation at all.
"Of course," he muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing, isn't it? All academic..."
"Yes, sir, of course," said Riddle quickly.
"But all the same, Tom… keep it quiet, what I've told - that's to say, what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know.... Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it."
"I won't say a word, sir," said Riddle, and he left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild happiness it had worn when he had first found out that he was a wizard, the sort of happiness that did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less human…
"Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" - J.K. Rowling ; page 494-499, U.S. Hardcover edition.
He looked one last time at the room where Horace Slughorn now paced. He looked up to the ceiling and felt himself rise into the blackness. He lightly landed flat on his feet back in the headmistress's office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, but the room was now empty; his pack and all the evidence they brought were missing.
"She had to leave. There appears to have been an altercation with your daughter," Dumbledore's portrait said when Harry began searching the room.
"Did Hermione say where she was going, Professor?"
"Yes, I believe to the hospital wing, and she wanted me to tell you she gathered your things for safe keeping. Out of curiosity, which memory did you see?"
"It was one of Tom Riddle and Professor Slughorn. Riddle asked about a device, or spell, that the good professor was kind enough to explain," Harry replied, not wanting to reveal too much in the open.
"Slughorn? Horace Slughorn?" he asked in amazement.
"Yes, sir, the very same."
"Quick, retrieve that memory and destroy it as soon as possible. I believe I know the one in question, and if it is, then you must seek..."
"The objects on that list, yes, I determined that myself," Harry replied.
"No, talk to Professor McGonagall for advice. Ask her to help you contact an old mutual friend. Tell her you need to speak to Gnome."
Hermione sat between the hospital beds of both her children. Ben was still asleep, but Annie was restless. Her retching had stopped, but the effect remained. She was terrified: Her nausea never produced these results, and she had turned on her best friend.
Hermione managed to calm and comfort the girl as only a mother can.
"Mum, what's wrong with me? Why is all this happening?" Annie whimpered between silent sobs.
"Your father and I are looking into a possible reason, but it's nothing you need to be concerned about yet."
"But… the… blood…" she stammered.
"Yes, that's a sigh there's something wrong, a conflict we think. Firenze mentioned the other night that an old friend is helping; that may have something to do with your stomach cramps. I'm surprised I hadn't worked that possibility out before," Hermione said.
Annie thought for a few moments and then looked at her sleeping brother.
"Mum, why is all this happening to us? Why our family?" she asked.
"The answer to that would take a lifetime to answer, but the simple answer is that your father is the chosen one predestined to balance the evil of the world. It's been my good fortune to be his friend when he desperately needed one, and it is my honor to be the one he wanted to spend his life with. You know my fears of that time; he wasn't concerned for anything else except how I felt. And all I wanted was to give him what he needed. In that, we both realized we needed each other.
"When we decided to marry, we expected to be able to put all this behind us and just live our lives together. Over the years, there have been only a few isolated events. But things are beginning to happen now that seem to point to a return of the forces we fought in our youth. So why are you involved? Because you are our daughter, just as I am his wife. It's our destiny to be the 'good guys,'" Hermione said as she held Annie's hand.
"So whether we want to or not, Ben and I are forced into this 'superhero' fight of Daddy's?"
Hermione nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so."
The conversation helped draw Annie's attention from her personal problems, allowing her to focus on the larger picture. "So that's why Ben was hurt - because we're the good guys?"
"I know that's an overly simple explanation, and there had been times I couldn't understand either. Now, try to rest. If my suspicions are correct, your stress might be because you weren't aware of what has happened and so you weren't able to cope for yourself."
Hermione stoked her daughter's hair and smiled weakly when she felt a presence she assumed was long gone. She closed her eyes to concentrate and hoped to glimpse an old friend. Her hands began to glow as she felt a familiar hand press on her shoulder.
"Love, we have to go. The kids are safe for the moment," Harry whispered in her ear.
She nodded lightly, breaking her trance. Harry left her side and quickly crossed the room to where the headmistress was grading essays. Hermione watched as he asked the elder witch a question only to be answered with a blank stare and a nod.
Harry waved Hermione over and the three left the hospital ward for a small conference chamber.
"Mr. Potter, I have no idea how you know about Abraham - that is his true name - but I haven't heard his name in some time, before your parents attended this school."
"Professor Dumbledore's portrait suggested I seek his advice. I'm afraid there's little else I can tell you at this time," Harry replied.
Professor McGonagall nodded her understanding, "If he told you to seek out Abraham, this must be a grave matter. The poor man has asked to be left to his own devices. As I understand it, no one has seen him in all that time, more then fifty years I imagine."
"What do you know of him?" Hermione asked.
"He is reclusive; he prefers to live as a monk. He was horribly disfigured and physically twisted in his youth. Albus knew him better then most."
"What caused him to abandon contact with others? There's something more, isn't there?" Harry asked, his tone flat and close to his interrogation voice.
"Please, Harry. I will tell you what I know of him," the Professor said with a tinge of annoyance.
"I'm sorry, but this may involve the children. I hope you can see that," he apologized.
The school's matriarch nodded and continued. "Legend has it that he had a brother who died under mysterious circumstances. As I understand it, he was advanced in his research on all levels of magic, including the Dark Arts. His early research is still used as the foundation for current curriculums throughout our world."
"Abraham Kristiansen? He was reported to have died nearly a hundred years ago. This research you mentioned took place in the Middle Ages, in the mid-sixteenth century," Hermione added.
"That would put him at more then five hundred years old," Harry said in slight disbelief.
"Five hundred and forty-nine, I believe," McGonagall added. "He had isolated himself from all outside contact except for school officials and has asked the world to believe him dead. I came to know him through, and now I send him occasional owls with news. The last note I sent was to inform him of Albus's death."
"How can we contact him? This is of the utmost importance," Harry said.
"All I can offer is to send him an owl. There's one that is used here to deliver messages, and I do keep him stocked candy - the one habit he shared with Albus. Lemon drops are one of his weaknesses."
Harry pulled a sheet of parchment from his pack and quickly scribbled a message. He folded it and pressed his thumb to the opening; a raised seal bearing his name appeared on the sheet.
"Send him this message. Only he could open it," Harry said, handing the note to the professor. "We'll remain at the school with our children until he replies."
"If he replies, Harry. It has been more than fifty years since he has returned a message."
"He'll reply; he has no option but to," Harry said. "For now, can you make arrangements for Annie and Ben to stay with us in one of the private guest chambers in the school?"
"Of course. You may use your usual rooms," McGonagall replied. She stood and nodded her head, understanding the gravity of Harry's request, and set off to personally see to the delivery of the message.
The Potters retired to their prearranged suite of rooms on the third floor. The lateness of the hour left them both emotionally and physically drained, but Harry needed to relate all the details of the memory to his wife.
Neither of them managed to sleep that night as they waited for a reply. Hermione, however, spent that night reading.