Professor Snape hurried in, his steps quick and purposeful.
He gave a curt nod to Hagrid, who was standing guard at the door, then strode into the hut. His eyes widened in shock as they landed on Amycus Carrow's familiar face. Lips pursed, he handed a vial of Veritaserum to Dumbledore without a word.
Dumbledore took the potion and approached the chair, his gaze heavy as he looked down at the Death Eater.
Amycus was tightly bound to a massive wooden chair in Hagrid's hut, his face twisted in defiance. He let out a strange, eerie chuckle, muffled by a Tongue-Tying Curse that McGonagall had cast after his vile insults became too much to bear.
Dumbledore lifted the curse, gripped Amycus's jaw, and poured the Veritaserum into his mouth.
Then he stepped back, his expression grim, waiting for the potion to take effect.
In the corner, Lockhart nudged Snape with his elbow, whispering, "Hey, why are we using Veritaserum?"
Realizing how foolish the question might sound, he quickly added, "I mean, if we want answers, why not just pull his memories and check them in a Pensieve?"
Snape, who'd been staring off, lost in thought with a brooding expression, twitched at the question. He turned to Lockhart, seeing the curious look on his face, and sighed.
"The human mind is a mess," Snape explained. "Thoughts are constantly firing, tangled up, impossible to sort out. Memories of the past shift depending on your state of mind, sometimes splitting into multiple versions. It's chaotic, like an ocean. You can't pinpoint the exact memory you need unless the person willingly offers it up."
Lockhart blinked, stunned. "It's that hard?"
Snape gave a dry chuckle. As someone who could effortlessly use Occlumency to shield his mind from Voldemort without being detected, he was confident in his answer. It was the definitive truth, no debate needed.
Lockhart, though, wasn't so sure. He had his own confidence.
He glanced at Dumbledore, wondering if the headmaster—who often used a Pensieve to sort through memories—might have a different take. Maybe Snape was just selling himself short?
To his surprise, Dumbledore overheard their conversation and turned, his eyes wide with astonishment. "Are you saying you can do it?"
He knew Lockhart's secret—how he'd stolen the knowledge of so many. But he hadn't realized Lockhart's skill went this far.
That's the thing about the wizarding world: you never know when something extraordinary will pop up. Never underestimate anyone.
McGonagall and Snape turned to look at Lockhart, equally intrigued.
Lockhart blinked, shrinking back a bit under their stares. "Uh… maybe I could give it a try?"
It wasn't a bad idea.
But Dumbledore gestured to the empty Veritaserum vial in his hand. With the strength of Snape's potion, it should already be working.
He had one question burning in his mind. "Tell me, Amycus—where is Tom right now?"
Amycus's state was odd. He swayed slightly in the chair, his face dazed and dreamy, murmuring, "Tom? Who's that?"
Dumbledore realized his mistake. In his urgency, he'd forgotten that many didn't know Tom Riddle was Voldemort.
He lowered his voice. "Voldemort. Where is Voldemort?"
"My master…" Amycus mumbled. "He's not doing well. He needs someone to care for him. My sister, Alecto, took him to the safety of our family manor…"
Alecto Carrow—Amycus's sister. In the future, after Voldemort's return, she'd become Hogwarts' Muggle Studies professor and deputy headmistress.
A staunch pure-blood supremacist, she'd use the Cruciatus Curse to punish students during her tenure.
"The Carrow family manor…" Dumbledore murmured.
Snape stepped forward, his voice tinged with urgency. "Dumbledore, this is our chance. They haven't realized Amycus has been exposed. We should strike now, while he's at his weakest!"
If anyone had once revered the Dark Lord, it was Snape. And if anyone now despised him, it was also Snape.
For him, there was no "one of" when it came to his hatred.
The visionary he'd sworn to follow had killed the woman he loved most—a pain Dumbledore, too, had endured once before.
Dumbledore understood Snape's fervor, but war couldn't be fought on passion alone. He knew how cunning and dangerous Tom Riddle was.
He glanced at Lockhart, who was fidgeting with his wand, looking eager to jump into action.
Lockhart was anxious, too.
Bloody hell, he'd captured Amycus. Whether or not Voldemort would hold a grudge didn't matter right now. Even if Amycus wasn't executed, a life sentence in Azkaban was inevitable.
That meant Alecto Carrow, his sister, would become the person in this world most determined to see Lockhart dead.
Who has time to live like they're constantly dodging a thief?
He was itching to go after Alecto and take her out right now.
"Let me check his memories," Lockhart offered.
Dumbledore nodded, stepping aside with Snape and McGonagall to watch as Lockhart approached.
What followed made them all gasp.
As Lockhart waved his wand, Amycus's body stiffened abruptly, every muscle taut, his fingers splayed upward. His stocky frame, which normally seemed neckless, now looked like a rooster with its neck stretched impossibly long.
Silver threads began pouring from his head.
The scene was chilling, like Lockhart was forcibly ripping Amycus's soul from his body.
Countless shimmering strands writhed in the air, stretching from Amycus's head like some unspeakable, monstrous creature.
Under the silver glow, Lockhart's glowing wand moved like the tentacle of a dark deity, slowly delving into the torn fragments of Amycus's soul.
Even Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape—veterans of a long and brutal war—felt a primal, bone-deep unease.
It was the kind of dread that comes from seeing a life toyed with so carelessly, the instinctive horror of one creature watching another being tormented before death, like a mouse in the claws of a cat.
"Something's wrong!" Lockhart muttered, his voice low and intense, like a dark god tasting a soul and spitting it out in disgust. "This doesn't taste right!"
He spun around, noticing the three legendary wizards had instinctively stepped back. He froze for a moment but didn't dwell on it, too caught up in his urgency. "The memory about him and his sister taking Voldemort to their manor—it's off!"
"I don't have solid proof, but it feels so… unnatural."
"I think this memory might've been tampered with."
Memory modification was common in the wizarding world. It's why Veritaserum, despite its power, wasn't used as a standard tool in court—memories were unreliable.
The Ministries of Magic, especially their Aurors, knew this well. They often altered Muggle memories without a second thought, sometimes dozens of times a day to cover up wizarding events or secure supplies from Muggle vendors.
Voldemort was a master at this. He'd altered his uncle's memories to frame him for the murder of his father and grandfather. He'd done the same to a wealthy witch's house-elf, pinning the theft of Hufflepuff's Cup and Slytherin's Locket on the poor creature.
Both times, even with the Ministry's top investigators—including Dumbledore on the Wizengamot—no one had spotted the tampering.
"Can I take a look?" Dumbledore asked, drawing his wand, which resembled a stick of candied hawthorn. "If you'll allow it, I'd like to cast a spell to assist."
Lockhart nodded.
The spell had no flashy effects. Dumbledore waved his wand, and Lockhart suddenly felt a tightness in his throat. He opened his mouth, and a thick cloud of smoke poured out.
The smoke was so dense it seemed to blanket the ceiling of the hut.
Within the haze, a vision emerged: a brother and sister, wary and alert, guarding a blood-soaked, eerie bundle as they moved through a shadowy street. Their destination, not far off, was the Carrow family manor.