Dumbledore seemed rather pleased. He popped a Lemon Sherbet into his mouth and offered one to Sean.
"Muggles invented this sweet, but it's far from unpopular in our world as well."
Sean took the Lemon Sherbet. The outer shell was hard, lemon-flavored candy, with a white creamy center that fizzed pleasantly as it melted on his tongue.
Eating the Lemon Sherbet, Sean's gaze drifted unconsciously over the long table before him: the silver plates piled high with sweets—Lemon Sherbets, Cockroach Clusters, Fizzing Whizbees, raspberry jam tarts, and more.
"Minerva isn't overly fond of sweets,"
Dumbledore said with a squinting smile,
"but she still buys some from time to time."
"Come along, Mr. Green. Walk with me."
…
The Chamber of Secrets.
Past rank upon rank of stone pillars carved with coiling serpents, Slytherin's statue loomed ahead.
And the basilisk, still wearing its little spectacles, was curled up inside the maw of the statue.
Then Sean heard a hiss of Parseltongue that surprised him. He turned—only to realize it had come from Professor Dumbledore.
"Unexpected?" Dumbledore asked mildly. "You thought that would be difficult?"
Sean quickly looked away again. It seemed the Headmaster could not only understand Parseltongue, but produce it as well.
At his words, Slytherin's massive stone face shifted. Its mouth opened—wider and wider—until it formed a vast, shadowy tunnel, and a huge creature slid eagerly out.
"Salazar Slytherin used it to protect the school. As far as I know, for a very long time it did nothing more than perform its duty."
Dumbledore's voice echoed throughout the dim chamber.
"Then something went wrong. Do you know what?"
"Voldemort used it to kill Moaning Myrtle."
Sean answered.
By then, the basilisk had glided right up to Sean's feet. Standing at full height, it was a hundred times his size, but it only circled him affectionately.
"It is a tool, my boy. And we can't deny it wasn't created from any noble intention.
"But does being born for a purpose decide everything? I think not."
Dumbledore's voice carried lightly in the gloom.
"Let's return to the matter of tools," he went on. "In some hands, it is lethal. In yours, I find you've put it to rather decent use.
"It's wearing glasses already. I imagine when it puts on earmuffs as well, the voices it hears may become even clearer."
Dumbledore gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Sean blinked, surprised. If it truly wore earmuffs and could no longer hear Parseltongue commands, perhaps the basilisk really could serve as a sort of castle guardian.
Though, in practice, Sean suspected its actual usefulness might be limited.
In the end, the basilisk sank back down and fell into slumber.
Dumbledore led Sean out of the Chamber.
As they walked, a group of excited students bustled past, but none of them seemed to see either Sean or the Headmaster, as if the two were completely invisible.
Sean glanced down at himself and realized he was, indeed, transparent. At some point, Dumbledore had cast a Disillusionment Charm on them without him noticing.
They walked all the way back to the Headmaster's office. There, Dumbledore reached over to stroke Fawkes and said a name that made Sean pause:
"Tom Riddle…
"Very few people know that name belongs to a younger Voldemort.
"What I did not expect was that you have crossed paths with him so many times—and each time, you have not lost. That is… extraordinary."
Dumbledore tapped his wand lightly.
A shallow stone basin rose to the surface of the desk. Its rim was carved with runes and symbols, and at its center lay a silvery substance, somewhere between liquid and cloud.
"We're going to enter my memory. I believe you'll find it not only vivid in its details, but entirely accurate.
"After you, Mr. Green… lower your head…"
Thoughtfully, Sean bent over the Pensieve. His face plunged into the cold swirl of memory, and then he felt himself falling through darkness…
A few seconds later, his feet touched solid ground. When he opened his eyes, he and Dumbledore were standing on a busy, old-fashioned London street.
Dumbledore, as natural as ever, took his arm and led him into an orphanage along the street.
"That's me."
He pointed cheerfully at a tall figure in the corridor ahead.
Sean found it strangely amusing: Professor Dumbledore pointing at… Professor Dumbledore.
In the memory, Dumbledore was talking to a handsome young boy.
"I've come to take you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,"
Dumbledore said.
"Magic?"
The orphan named Riddle repeated softly.
"Indeed."
Dumbledore nodded.
"My… my abilities… they're magic?"
"What sort of abilities do you have?"
"All sorts."
Riddle spoke in a low voice. Excitement flushed from his neck up into his hollow cheeks. He looked almost feverish.
"I can make things move without touching them. Animals do what I want without my training them. When people upset me… I can make bad things happen to them. I can hurt them if I want to."
His legs were trembling. He half-stumbled back to his bed, sat down, and lowered his head, staring at his hands as if in prayer.
"I always knew I was different,"
he murmured to his own shaking fingers.
"I always knew I was special. I always knew there was something inside me."
"You were not wrong,"
Dumbledore replied, his smile fading as he watched the boy carefully.
"You are a wizard."
Riddle looked up. His whole face changed:
A wild, fervent joy flashed across it, almost bestial in its intensity.
Beside Sean, the present Dumbledore's expression grew very complicated.
"When one possesses unusual power, my boy, there is always a choice to be made—and it is very easy, at that moment, to lean toward evil."
That memory slipped away, and another rose up in its place—
"Open the door."
Dumbledore gestured to a wardrobe.
Riddle hesitated, then strode over and yanked it open.
On the hanging rail were a few shabby coats. On the top shelf sat a small cardboard box, shaking and rattling, as if something inside were trying to escape.
"Bring it down,"
Dumbledore said.
Riddle lifted down the trembling box, looking suddenly unsure of himself.
"I imagine there are things in that box that ought not to be there?"
Dumbledore asked calmly.
Riddle gave him a long, sharp, measuring look.
"Yes, I suppose so, sir."
He finally answered in a dry little voice.
"Open it."
Dumbledore said.
Riddle flipped open the lid and dumped the contents on the bed without even glancing at them.
Out tumbled a yo-yo, a silver thimble, and a tarnished harmonica. Once freed from the box, they stopped trembling and lay still and obedient on the thin blanket.
It was obvious these things had been stolen.
~~~
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