Dumbledore looked oddly pleased with himself. He popped a Lemon Sherbet into his mouth and offered one to Sean.
"The Muggles came up with these, but they're a hit in the wizarding world too."
Sean took the candy. Crunchy lemon shell on the outside, soft white center, and that little fizz when it hits your tongue.
While he sucked on it, his eyes drifted over the long desk: silver dishes piled high with Cockroach Clusters, Acid Pops, raspberry jam, the works.
"Minerva pretends she doesn't like sweets," Dumbledore said with a twinkle, "but she still buys them."
He stood up. "Come along, Mr. Green."
…
The Chamber of Secrets.
They passed row after row of stone pillars carved with coiled serpents until Slytherin's gigantic stone face loomed ahead.
And there was the basilisk, curled up inside the statue's mouth… wearing a pair of thick glasses like it was just taking a nap.
Then Sean heard Parseltongue.
He whipped around. Dumbledore had spoken it.
"Surprised?" Sean asked quietly. "You thought that would be difficult for me?"
Dumbledore just smiled serenely. Apparently the headmaster didn't just understand Parseltongue—he was fluent.
The huge stone mouth yawned open wider and wider until it became a cavernous tunnel. The basilisk slid out eagerly.
"Salazar Slytherin created it to protect the school," Dumbledore said calmly. "For centuries, it did exactly that. Then something went wrong. Do you know what?"
"Voldemort used it to murder Myrtle."
The basilisk slithered over and coiled affectionately around Sean's feet, rearing up until its head towered over him like a living green skyscraper.
"It's a tool, my boy. No denying it was made for ugly purposes. But does being born decide everything? I don't believe so."
His voice echoed softly through the damp darkness.
"Still, back to tools. In some hands it's a weapon. In yours… well, you've done right by it. Glasses are a nice touch. I suspect if we added earmuffs, it might hear the world a little more clearly without all that Parseltongue whispering in its ear."
He winked.
Sean had to admit: deaf to Parseltongue commands, the basilisk really could just be the castle's very overqualified guard dog.
With a gentle hiss from Dumbledore, the serpent settled back into the statue and went to sleep.
They left the Chamber. A gaggle of excited first-years rushed past them in the corridor and didn't even glance their way. Sean looked down—yep, completely invisible. Dumbledore had cast a Disillusionment Charm without him noticing.
They climbed all the way to the headmaster's office. Dumbledore gave Fawkes a fond stroke, then said a name that made Sean pause.
"Tom Riddle…
Very few people know that was the young Voldemort.
What I didn't expect is how many times you've gone toe-to-toe with him—and never once lost. That's… remarkable."
He tapped his wand. A shallow stone basin rose from the desk, runes and symbols carved around the rim, filled with a swirling silvery substance that was somehow both liquid and gas.
"We're going into my memories. I think you'll find them detailed and accurate. After you, Mr. Green… just lower your face…"
Sean leaned over the Pensieve. His nose touched the cold memory and he fell through darkness…
A moment later his feet hit solid ground.
He opened his eyes. He and Dumbledore were standing on a busy, old-fashioned London street. Dumbledore took his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and led him into a grim orphanage.
"There I am," Dumbledore said cheerfully, pointing at a much younger, auburn-haired version of himself.
Sean couldn't help grinning—Professor Dumbledore pointing at Professor Dumbledore.
Young Dumbledore was talking to a dark-haired, handsome boy.
"I'm here to take you to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"Magic?" the boy repeated softly.
"That's right."
"So all the things I can do… that's magic?"
"What sort of things can you do?"
"All sorts," Riddle whispered, excitement creeping up his neck and into his hollow cheeks. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can hurt them if I want to."
His legs were shaking. He stumbled forward, sat on the bed, and stared at his hands like he was praying.
"I knew I was different," he said to his own trembling fingers. "I knew I was special. I always knew there was something."
"Quite right," Dumbledore said, smile fading, eyes sharp. "You are a wizard."
Riddle looked up. His face transformed—wild, feverish joy, almost feral.
Beside Sean, the older Dumbledore's expression turned complicated.
"When a wizard discovers extraordinary power, there's always a choice. And falling toward evil… that part's easy."
The memory blurred and shifted.
Now they were back in the same room, years later.
"Open it," Dumbledore said, nodding at a wardrobe.
Riddle hesitated, then yanked the door open.
On the rail hung a few ragged coats. On the top shelf sat a small cardboard box rattling like it was full of frantic mice.
"Take it down."
Riddle obeyed, looking uneasy.
"Is there something in there that doesn't belong to you?"
Riddle met Dumbledore's eyes for a long, careful moment.
"Yes, sir. I believe there is."
"Open it."
Riddle lifted the lid and dumped the contents onto his bed without looking.
A yo-yo. A silver thimble. A tarnished harmonica.
The second they left the box they stopped trembling and lay still on the blanket.
Stolen.