Resorted

chapter forty-seven

Dumbledore sat alone at his desk. His draw was open that previously held a book. In the middle was a circular hole. The deep lines on his face being illuminated by the shimmer of his pensive also shone brightly against the silver ring balanced on the book. Briefly, he curiously picked up the ring with the tips of his ashen fingers. Slowly, he turned a page of the battered diary, remembering what happened in the boy’s second year. A knock at the door snapped Dumbledore back, putting the ring and diary back in the draw. It swings open, revealing Harry on the other side.

“Good evening, Harry. You got my message, I see. Come, come. Sit.” He said, waiting for Harry to edge closer. Harry took a step forward, eyes drawn to the pensive out in the open- which it rarely was. “So, how are you?” He politely asked.
“Fine, sir.” Replied Harry who straightened in his seat, subconsciously adjusting to sit properly.

The man got that annoying shine in his eye, “Enjoying your classes? Professor Slughorn, for one, is most impressed with you.”
“I think he overestimates my abilities, sir.” Harry fiddled with the end of his sleeve.
“Do you?”
“Definitely” Replied Harry and Dumbledore smiled affectionately and nodded.

“And what of your activities outside the classroom? Do they bring you satisfaction?” Questioned Dumbledore conversationally.
Harry spluttered, cheeks going red, “Sir?”

“You seemed to have misunderstood me: Are you enjoying the Slytherin Quidditch team? What about your relationship with Mister Black?”
Composing himself, Harry’s cheeks still flamed red, “Oh, Oh! I-erm… Amazingly, actually. I just- I can’t wait for this war to end, because- well I. I mean us- Draco and I…” Harry didn’t have a way of finishing the sentence, because his mind was still on Dumbledore’s previous question.

“Forgive me, Harry, I was merely curious.” He rose from his seat, continuing to talk, “In any event, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve summoned you here tonight. The answer lies here.” He walked over to his pensive, the boy following shortly after.

Dumbledore swung open the cabinets above the pensive, revealing dozens upon dozens of glittering vials with a very light pastel blue colour, standing like soldiers. “What you see before you are memories. In this case pertaining to one individual: Voldemort. Or as he was known then... Tom Riddle.” Dumbledore reached with his injured hand, flesh just as black as before and removes a vial, dusty and veined with age. “This vial contains a most particular memory- of the day I first met him. I’d like you to see it. If you would...” Dumbledore extended his damaged hand again and Harry moved gingerly closer.

He took the vial, removing the cork. Cautious, curious, nervous, he tipped the contents into the pensive. Harry turned to Dumbledore who nodded and Harry leant in, his face breaking the iridescent surface.

A horse-drawn milk cart trotted across the rain-swept cobbled streets of London. People walked down the and up the paths with an umbrella, the women having a parasol style. It’s stormed, cloudy like it is now. If the people were removed, it would look the spitting image of London in present time. A man with grey hair, curling to his shoulders stood at the entrance of a building. WOOL’S ORPHANAGE is written in big letters on an iron gate to a grim, factory-style building. The man Harry just realised was Dumbledore had a coat and hat in one hand, but had two layers on underneath that coat. A plain scarf hung around his neck like a Snake, not moving as he walked because the material was caught on other pieces of fabric.

Suddenly, the image changes to Dumbledore walking up spiralled steps with a woman. She was skinny with sharp features: glasses lay on the bridge of her pointy nose and on her cardigan was the nametag Mrs Cole. It was a drab corridor after that, black bricks lined with white cement and cream door. Noise of the kids happily giggling and playing outside carried through the bared windows.