"You're to put those things back where they came from and apologize to their owners."
Professor Dumbledore said calmly.
"I shall know whether you have done so. And I must warn you: Hogwarts does not tolerate theft."
There wasn't a hint of shame on Riddle's face. He stared coldly at Dumbledore, as if weighing him.
At last, in a dry little voice, he said:
"Understood, sir."
Beside Sean, the white-haired Dumbledore spoke in an even tone:
"Then comes the second choice: how one chooses to face one's own actions."
The scene shifted again—
Riddle tipped the stolen loot back into the cardboard box, his expression as blank as ever.
When he'd finished packing it away, he turned back without a trace of courtesy and said to Dumbledore:
"I don't have any money."
"That is easily remedied."
Dumbledore replied, fishing a leather purse from his pocket.
"Hogwarts keeps a fund specifically for those who need help buying their books and robes. Some of your textbooks will likely have to be second-hand, but—"
"Where do I buy spellbooks?"
Riddle cut across him, took the purse without a word of thanks, and held a thick gold Galleon up to the light, turning it in his fingers.
Both the Dumbledore in the memory and the one in the office wore equally grave expressions.
After a long pause, the white-haired Dumbledore in the present said:
"Lastly, there is the choice of how to face gain."
The image shattered like a bubble.
A moment later, Sean again felt weightless, drifting through darkness until he landed solidly in the real office.
The sudden break left him a little dazed; the Pensieve always did that.
"Time is playing tricks on us,"
Dumbledore said, nodding toward the pitch-black sky outside the window.
"Good night, my boy."
Sean blinked. The Headmaster had just shown him Voldemort's childhood, and now… nothing more?
As he glanced over, Dumbledore was still smiling kindly.
"Ah yes— I hope you were not too sleepy to notice the last part, Sean.
"You saw the box of trophies hidden in his room, didn't you? All those trinkets he stole from children he bullied. You might call them souvenirs of particularly nasty bits of magic.
"I imagine you've read that book by now. If you had questions, perhaps you have a few answers now.
"As for what I wish to say, my boy… it is simply: choose your life carefully. Though I must admit, there are few who have done this better than you."
The door of the Headmaster's office closed with a soft thud.
Dumbledore went to stand by the window. Different choices always sent stories off in different directions.
The deeper silver threads stored in the Pensieve held entirely different scenes:
The fourth-floor classroom, the underground Chamber, a missing beaded bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and a newly risen "Children's Home."
His beard curled up at the ends, as if some pleasant memory had drifted through his mind.
…
When Sean stepped out of the office, he was still turning things over in his head.
It seemed the Headmaster had already pieced together the secret of Voldemort's Horcruxes—and The Moste Potente Potions was likely something Dumbledore had quietly allowed him to study.
That meant the "plot" hadn't changed very much. And where it had, it was drifting in the right direction.
Exactly what he wanted.
Skirting past over-excited patrols of students, Sean's pace grew a touch lighter. He didn't have far to go before his soul-transfiguration skill reached Skilled; then he'd be able to deal with the fragment of Voldemort inside Harry.
Still… what were the others all up to?
A quick focus of attention, and he could see quite clearly what they were holding:
Little moving images of a black cat.
Just as he was about to go practice soul-transfiguration, Sean: "…"
By night, the snow that had started that morning turned into a full blizzard. Heavy, gray flakes whirled outside, sealing every window; the castle was darker than usual.
A black cat finally found itself a quiet corner to curl up in. Its ears twitched; it could still hear students dashing cheerfully along the corridors below.
Fortunately, no one ever came to the far end of the fourth-floor corridor. Most of the noise was centered around the black cat statue.
Someone had piled offerings at the statue's base. The real black cat sometimes thought this was all getting very strange.
The first time it quietly stole the offerings away, the next time, there were even more offerings.
So it had given up trying to stop them.
On top of the Castle Familiar Club's latest rumor, another story had been making the rounds since morning, buzzing through Hogwarts like a swarm of doxies.
"Ah, if it isn't silly baby Potter! What's Potter doing, skulking around—oh, Potter, you nasty little toad, look at what you've done, sending snakes around like that, thinking it's ever so funny—"
The black cat's ears pricked. That awful voice was unmistakable.
Peeves.
He cackled as he bounced past Harry on the fourth floor, knocking Harry's glasses crooked.
"Shoo, Peeves! The Bloody Baron's coming!"
Harry shouted. Peeves skittered backward in a panic, but still stuck his tongue out at Harry as he fled.
"I'm not like him, and I'd never belong in Slytherin!"
When Peeves was gone, Harry said loudly.
Ever since he'd left the Headmaster's office, a fear he couldn't quite name had been gnawing at him.
"I'm in Gryffindor…"
One voice in his head insisted.
"But the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin first,"
another retorted.
The two had been arguing for so long that Harry felt ready to throw himself into the half-frozen lake just to quiet them.
Lost in thought, he saw a black shape flicker past—familiar, somehow. He rubbed his eyes hard.
"Mr. Black Cat!"
he called out.
The Hogwarts Castle Familiar, the same one that had known about Voldemort's diary—it might answer his questions!
But the shadow was already gone.
Harry could only stand there, head drooping, feeling suddenly very small.
That night, he spent hours staring sleeplessly through the gap in his bed curtains, watching flakes of snow drift past the castle windows, his heart full of confusion.
In that gray-white world, he finally dozed off.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in that hazy world he knew now—the strange space, the familiar "Children's Home" sign—where a black cat was neatly tucking its tail under its paw.
"Mr. Black Cat!"
Harry cried out, delighted.
The black cat gave the smallest, human-like nod.
"You know—"
There was so much he wanted to say that, for a moment, no words would come at all.
The black cat was in no hurry. It seemed far more concerned with getting its tail to behave.