Game On, Your Move

Chapter 8: Truth

"You're a Potter," Tom said. "A true Potter."

"I'm sure Walburga will be sorely disappointed that I'm not a bastard," Potter said dryly.

"If you're not a bastard, why are you so averse to meeting Charlus?"

Tom would definitely milk a powerful Slytherin relative for all his worth.

Potter frowned. "I'm not sure this is relevant."

"You must've included the Potters in your Vow for a reason," Tom pointed out. "You promised to answer my questions honestly and I'd expect a Gryffindor to live up to his end of the bargain."

His appeal to Potter's Gryffindor pride worked. Potter became contemplative.

"The thing is, I'm not sure where to even begin. There's just so much —" He chewed his bottom lip. "Professor, could we please borrow your Pensieve? I think it's easier if I show Riddle."

Eagerness shot through Tom. A Pensieve was such an excellent idea that he should've thought of it. Seeing Potter's memories firsthand would be far more engaging and revealing than a long sequence of questions and answers.

Dumbledore had misgivings about this plan, judging by his body language as he helped Potter prepare the Pensieve behind a privacy bubble. The two of them kept disagreeing, presumably over which memories to share. Tom drummed his fingers against the armrests of his chair. If he'd known it would take this long, he would've brought a book. Or a snack; breakfast porridge was over an hour ago.

At long last, the privacy bubble burst.

"All set," Potter said. He glanced up from the Pensieve, in which he'd deposited the last strand of memory. "Would you like to start?"

"Yes," Tom said, rising immediately.

"Take the time you need," Dumbledore said, adding with an undertone of warning, "Mr. Potter and I will observe your progress closely."

Tom bent over the Pensieve. The silvery liquid inside swirled, beckoning him closer. "Should I just...?"

"Go on," Potter said. "The memories will guide you."

Tom dove in.

While Tom understood the concept of a Pensieve, he'd never used one. In comparison to Legilimency, it came with a loss of control, giving him the sensation of freefalling from the sky to an unknown destination.

Eventually, he landed on solid ground, and the whir of the wind around him settled into a familiar voice saying, very gravely, "It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows —"

Tom surveyed his new surroundings. He was in a crumbling shack in the middle of the sea, the air imbued with the scent of cooked sausages and putrid seawater. Hagrid and Potter sat talking on a sofa, while three Muggles cowered some distance away, looking upon the duo with a mixture of bale and fear.

Finding the Muggles unworthy of attention, Tom turned to Hagrid and Potter. Something about them was amiss, and it took a moment to realize why. Hagrid looked to be at least three or four decades older, most of his face hidden behind a large beard threaded with gray, whereas Potter looked much younger, his cheeks still round with childhood and the shadows under his eyes much lighter. And he had even worse fashion sense, judging by the oversized shirt and taped-together glasses.

"Voldemort." Tom stiffened and crept closer. "Anyway, this — this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too — some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right..."