Douglas Holmes cleared his throat, gently interrupting Dumbledore.
"Professor, I actually have a Pensieve of my own…"
This time, it was Dumbledore's turn to be genuinely surprised. While Pensieves weren't exactly one of a kind, they were far from common—especially for a wizard of Muggle heritage. Unless you had access to the black market or dabbled in grave-robbing, acquiring one was nearly impossible.
After all, a Pensieve is enchanted to faithfully replay any detail buried in the subconscious. Anyone, not just the memory's owner, could enter and wander through those recollections—a dangerous prospect for most. Only powerful wizards tended to keep such an artifact, and usually as a deeply private possession.
Most Pensieves, like wands, were buried with their owners. Some, though, were passed down through wizarding families along with precious memories.
Even Dumbledore's own Pensieve was a legacy of the Hogwarts Headmasters.
Douglas, of course, understood how risky a Pensieve could be. After purchasing his from the System Shop, he'd only ever tested it with trivial memories—never anything private. After all, with a certain little troublemaker visiting daily, it would be a disaster if the wrong memory were discovered by accident.
He didn't much care to revisit his own memories, but viewing others'—now that was another story.
So, eager to please, he fetched the Pensieve from his study and set it before Dumbledore.
"So, Professor, did you bring Bob Ogden's memory with you?"
Dumbledore, eyeing the spotless Pensieve, arched a brow.
"Douglas, you haven't been using this for… cooking, have you?"
Douglas coughed again, a bit sheepish.
"I wouldn't say I've deliberately used it for culinary experiments—it's far too precious for that…
But, well, when I poured memories into it, it did look a bit like a bowl of soup. I just wondered if you could brew a soup with memories.
I once read about something called the 'Eight Tears Soup'—one drop of birth tears, two coins of aged tears, three parts of bitter tears, four cups of regret, five inches of longing, six bowls of illness, seven feet of parting, and finally, heartbreak. Brew them together and you get a soup that helps you forget, supposedly sweeter and more fragrant than any Forgetfulness Potion made from Lethe water.
So I thought, what if I used seven kinds of memories—joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, hate, and desire—and combined them with the Pensieve's properties? Maybe I could create a 'Soup of Life's Flavors,' and a single sip would let you taste all of life's emotions."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with curiosity.
"And? Did it work?"
Douglas sighed, regretful.
"Turns out, if you heat a Pensieve, it ruins the built-in runes. I suppose, when I have time, I'll research a heating rune that could be safely added…"
Dumbledore let out a silent sigh of relief. For a moment, he'd seriously worried that someone might one day try to view a memory in his Pensieve, only to find themselves diving into a pot of hot soup.
No wonder Snape always said Douglas's approach to Potions was… unconventional. Dumbledore shook his head.
"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you—I didn't bring Ogden's memory today. Instead, I'd like you to come with me in person.
With your abilities, you might notice clues I've missed."
Douglas considered for a moment. Dumbledore must have found the location of a Horcrux, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall which one at this point in the story.
He scribbled a quick note for Dobby and Sirius, then set off with Dumbledore.
With a crack of Apparition, they appeared on a hillside cloaked in towering shrubs. Unless you looked closely, you'd never spot the faint remains of a footpath.
Behind them lay the village of Little Hangleton. From this vantage point, the village cemetery was clearly visible. Douglas mused that Voldemort's father was likely buried there.
Dumbledore cleared a path with his wand, sighing,
"There used to be a fence here, keeping Muggles out. But time wears everything away… Time crushes all things—everything ages and is forgotten in its wake."
Douglas replied,
"Time itself doesn't flow. It's only us who move forward. Perhaps Voldemort's obsession with Horcruxes was his attempt to stop his own life from slipping away."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, then fixed Douglas with a serious look.
"The price of defying life's passage is more than any mortal can bear—even the greatest of wizards."
Douglas's lips twitched. What's that supposed to mean? I'm not Voldemort. Any resource in my pocket is ten times more advanced than a Horcrux…
As they pressed on, Douglas got a real taste of what it meant to be a descendant of Slytherin. The Gaunt family had been gone for decades, yet the snakes here remained astonishingly lively.
Unfortunately, they were all ordinary breeds. No surprise—after the Ministry arrested Morfin Gaunt, they'd probably cleared out any magical snake species.
Whenever a particularly foolish snake tried to attack, Douglas displayed his masterful snake-catching skills, bagging each one with practiced ease.
Years of neglect had left the place overgrown, shrubs and brambles tangled together. Even Dumbledore had to rely on memory to find a way forward.
At last, they halted at the edge of a pitch-black forest, its ancient trees shrouding the path in darkness.
Douglas could tell at a glance—these trees were centuries old.
Dumbledore motioned for Douglas to draw his wand. They were close to the old Gaunt house now, and who knew what traps those madmen might have left behind?
They moved cautiously through the forest, branches above crawling with snakes.
Soon, Douglas glimpsed a half-collapsed house through a gap in the trees.
With no one to care for it, the house and its walls had crumbled. The roof, stripped of tiles, had rotted through, and the entire structure was sagging in on itself.
Dense nettles choked the ground around the house. Perhaps sensing strangers, a flood of venomous snakes poured from the ruins, flicking their tongues menacingly.
Douglas glanced at Dumbledore, who was watching him with a knowing, amused smile. Douglas immediately understood.
He gently pulled Dumbledore back. As they retreated, the snakes surged after them—even more dropping their heads from the trees above.
Douglas cast a Protego around them both. Dumbledore simply stood by, letting Douglas take the lead.
Then Douglas drew his wand and unleashed his modified Lightning Strike spell. After months of research into otherworldly lightning magic, he'd managed to summon lightning from thin air, no weather charm required—and he could control the intensity at will.
Lightning crackled and roared for three whole minutes, engulfing the entire Gaunt homestead.
Dumbledore watched, impressed, as the snakes were stunned rather than killed. The snakes in the trees behind had already retreated.
Even more intriguing, Dumbledore noticed traces of Dark magic leaking from several spots around the old house—the protective spells that once masked them had been shattered by Douglas's lightning.
"Incredible lightning magic," Dumbledore remarked. "I can sense a powerful positive energy in it.
This is the same magic you used to destroy Tom Riddle's diary, isn't it?"
Douglas gazed at the snakes covering the ground and nodded—perhaps in answer to Dumbledore, or maybe just admiring his own handiwork.
Then Dumbledore watched as Douglas produced a small, intricate cage—originally meant for Peter Pettigrew, but apparently repurposed for the occasion.
Opening the cage, Douglas called out,
"Come on, snakes—into the cage!"
One by one, the snakes slithered (and some seemed to fly) into the enchanted container. Clearly, it had been hit with an Extension Charm—otherwise, there was no way it could hold hundreds of snakes.
Dumbledore, curious, asked,
"Douglas, didn't you already catch quite a few snakes earlier? Why so many? Don't you get tired of eating them?"
Douglas beamed at the writhing mass inside the cage.
"These aren't for eating. I heard from Hagrid that the snake population in the Forbidden Forest has plummeted, and it's throwing the whole ecosystem out of balance. So, I'm planning to release this lot into the forest."
If Dumbledore hadn't seen the gleam in Douglas's eyes, he might almost have believed him.
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