"You're going to give every single one of those things back to their owners," Professor Dumbledore said calmly, "and you're going to apologize to them."
"I'll know whether you do it or not," he added, his voice still perfectly even. "And let me be clear: Hogwarts does not tolerate stealing."
Tom Riddle didn't look the least bit ashamed. He just stared at Dumbledore, cold and calculating, like he was weighing exactly how far he could push the old man.
Finally he answered in a flat, dry voice, "Yes, sir."
Right beside Sean, the white-bearded Dumbledore spoke again, just as calm as before. "And then there's the second choice—how you face what you've done."
The memory shifted.
Riddle dumped the little pile of stolen trinkets back into the cardboard box, his face still blank, like he was doing chores he didn't care about. When he finished, he turned around and said straight to Dumbledore's face, without a hint of politeness, "I don't have any money."
"That's easily fixed," Dumbledore replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather money pouch. "Hogwarts has a fund for students who need help buying books and robes. You'll probably have to get second-hand books, but—"
"Where do I buy the magic books?" Riddle cut him off, snatching the pouch without so much as a thank-you and turning one of the thick gold Galleons over in his fingers like he'd never seen real money before.
Both the younger Professor Dumbledore and the older Headmaster Dumbledore wore the same grave expression.
A long moment later, the white-haired Headmaster spoke again. "And finally… how you choose to face temptation."
The memory shattered like soap bubbles.
A few seconds later, Sean felt himself floating through darkness again before landing gently back in the real office.
He blinked, still a little dazed—the Pensieve always left him feeling like that.
"Time's playing tricks on us tonight," Dumbledore said, nodding toward the pitch-black sky outside the window. "Good night, my boy."
Sean just stared for a second. Dumbledore had just shown him Voldemort as a kid… and now he was kicking him out without another word?
When Sean glanced over, the Headmaster was smiling kindly.
"I do hope you weren't too sleepy to miss the last point, Sean. Young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. You saw that box he kept hidden in his room, didn't you? All those things he took from the kids he tormented—little souvenirs of the nastier spells he pulled on them.
"I imagine you've read that book by now. If you had any questions… well, perhaps a few of them just answered themselves.
"As for what I wanted to say… choose your path carefully, my boy. Though I must say, no one's been doing that better than you lately."
The office door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Dumbledore stood at the window, watching the night. Different choices always send a story down a different road.
Deeper strands of silver memory still floated in the Pensieve, holding scenes that had gone very differently indeed: a fourth-floor classroom, the Chamber of Secrets, a vanished undetectable extension bag, and a brand-new orphanage that had risen practically overnight.
The corners of his beard twitched—he looked like a man remembering something that made him quietly very happy.
…
Meanwhile, Sean stepped out into the corridor, still turning everything over in his head.
It looked like Dumbledore already knew about the Horcruxes—and he'd basically given Sean permission to study that super-dark book. The main story hadn't derailed too badly. If anything, the changes were nudging things in the right direction.
Exactly what Sean wanted.
He dodged a couple of overexcited patrolling prefects, his step a little lighter than usual. He was almost at "Proficient" level with soul-shaping; it wouldn't be long before he could finally get that piece of Voldemort's soul out of Harry for good.
But seriously—what were these kids up to now?
Sean focused for a second and instantly spotted the black-cat portraits they were all clutching.
Sean, who'd been about to practice soul-shaping: "…"
Outside, the snow that had started that morning turned into a full-blown blizzard. Thick, gloomy flakes whipped past the windows, sealing the castle in gray darkness darker than usual.
Eventually the black cat found a quiet spot to curl up. His ears twitched at the sound of little wizards racing happily down the corridors below.
At least the deep end of the fourth-floor corridor was pretty empty—most of the kids were crowded around the black-cat statue.
The plinth beneath the statue was now covered in offerings. Sometimes the cat thought this whole thing was getting ridiculous.
He'd tried moving the offerings once; the next day there were twice as many. So he gave up and let them pile up.
Besides the Castle Spirit Cat Club's latest rumors, there was a new piece of gossip sweeping Hogwarts since that morning.
"Oh look, it's silly baby Potter! What's Potter doing? Why's Potter sneaking around—oh, Potter, you little creep, look what you've done, talking to snakes and thinking it's cool—"
The black cat's ears flicked. Peeves.
The poltergeist cackled, bouncing past Harry on the fourth floor and knocking the boy's glasses sideways.
"Get lost, Peeves! The Bloody Baron's coming!" Harry yelled.
Peeves zoomed backward, still sticking his tongue out at Harry as he fled.
"I'm nothing like him! I'd never belong in Slytherin!" Harry shouted once Peeves was gone.
Ever since leaving the Headmaster's office, Harry had been hit with this weird panic he couldn't explain.
"I'm in Gryffindor…" one voice in his head kept saying.
"Yeah, but the Sorting Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin," another voice shot back.
They'd been arguing for hours. Harry was half-tempted to dunk his head in the half-frozen Black Lake just to shut them up.
In the middle of his spiraling, he spotted a familiar black shadow dart past.
"Mr. Black Cat!" he yelled, rubbing his eyes.
It was the castle's spirit cat—the one who even knew about Voldemort's diary! Maybe he could answer the one question eating Harry alive.
But the shadow was already gone. Harry's shoulders slumped.
That night Harry lay awake for hours, staring through the gap in his bed curtains at snowflakes drifting past the tower windows, feeling totally lost.
Eventually he drifted off in the gray-white darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in that familiar misty space. On the sign that read "Children's Home," a black cat was calmly trying to pin its own tail down with one paw.
"Mr. Black Cat!" Harry cried, overjoyed.
The cat gave a very human little nod.
"You know—" Harry started, then suddenly had so much to say that nothing came out.
The black cat didn't rush him. He was still busy wrestling his tail.