FicWad

The people at Hogwarts had addressed his acceptance letters properly, to his cupboard under the stairs, and so, logically, they must not think that there was anything wrong with making a child live in a space so small that a person would’ve been ticketed for or perhaps even arrested for trying to kennel a dog in. Hagrid had heard how the Dursleys spoke of him and to him and he’d also seen the way that they generally treated him (when they weren’t abusing him outright, that is), and he’d been more angry about the insult the Dursley’s had given the headmaster of Hogwarts in their tirade about wizarding folk and magic in general than about their hatefulness towards and mistreatment of Harry. This boy, though, this Cedric Diggory, seemed genuinely concerned about the fact that Harry had never had any real new clothes just for himself before. In fact, the older boy had looked shocked and more than a little dismayed when Harry had finally gotten out of his half pinned up new robe and so given Cedric a good look at just how small and skinny Harry really was and how ragged and oversized his Muggle clothes were. The more Harry picked at his meal, the darker Cedric’s gaze got and the more obvious his concern became – and the more nervous Harry, in turn, got. He didn’t know what to do or say to this boy – he knew the way the Dursleys treated him was wrong, but those people in the Leaky Cauldron had treated him like a hero or some kind of incarnation of everything good and strong and pure in the world, like a god given flesh, and he understood (even though he thought it was ridiculous of all these people to be adulating him, assuming he was somehow so special that he couldn’t be killed by Voldemort, when it was fairly obvious to him that he was still alive out of either sheer dumb luck alone, because of some kind of mistake on the evil wizard’s part, or else due to some protective spell or charm his parents had managed to cast on him before they were killed) the need for hope and victory, how people could be made over into avatars of luck and safety and hope, in times of trouble, but he wanted to be liked or not liked on his own merit, not because he’d somehow or another managed to survive Voldemort’s attack on his family.

Harry hadn’t told Cedric his last name because he’d wanted to know how the older boy would react to /him/, to just Harry, and not to this larger than life idea of Harry Potter, boy wonder, that the people in the Leaky Cauldron had all had. That didn’t change the fact, though, that, if he was going to really be friends with Cedric, he was going to have to share his full name, especially if he planned on letting Cedric help him get his new wand. And if he was going to be friends with Cedric, then he should tell him about the Dursleys, about how they treated Harry, and trust that, if it could be done, then he would help Harry figure out a way to safely get away from the Dursleys once and for all. He should tell Cedric the truth about himself and his life, no matter how bad it might make the celebrated and iconic Harry Potter look, because it was the truth and friends were honest with each other, weren’t they? They couldn’t very well be very good or very true friends if they were lying to each other or keeping quiet about such important things, after all. Could they? And besides, it was the truth. It was the truth about Harry James Potter, resident of the cupboard under the stairs at number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. What was more, it was a truth that, in combination with the fact that Harry had (thanks to Hagrid’s personal delivery of a copy of his Hogwarts acceptance letter and his persuasive accounting of the wizarding world and the truth about Harry’s nonalcoholic parents) accepted his wizarding background and powers, might very well get him killed, if he should ever return to the Dursleys and the Dursleys should decide that killing him in order to wipe out his freakish unnaturalness was a better solution than continuing to try (and to fail) to beat the magic out of him.

Poking desultorily at his chips one last time, Harry finally sighed, put his fork down, and, taking a deep breath to help screw up his courage, asked, “Cedric, do you know if there are any laws in the wizarding world to help protect minors from unfit guardians?”

Looking at him with such grave seriousness that it might have easily been mistaken for grimness on the part of any curious passers-by, Cedric replied with questions of his own, his voice softly gentle and earnest. “Harry, do you need help out of a bad situation? Did the people you live with react badly to finding out you’re a wizard? My dad works in the Ministry of Magic, and there’s an office for crimes against underage witches and wizards. He doesn’t work there, but I’m sure he can get you an appointment to file a complaint. Just say the word, and I’ll go fetch him or send a house-elf to get him.”

“It’s . . . not quite that simple, Cedric. I mean, yeah, my aunt and uncle and cousin all think that I’m a freak for being a wizard, but they haven’t really started treating me any worse, since I got my Hogwarts acceptance letter, than they already were. It’s that they kept all of this from me, deliberately, and they’ve treated me like – well. Not very well.” Harry flushed under Cedric’s steady, concerned regard, dropping his gaze to this unfinished meal, feeling embarrassed to the point of shame even though he knew, logically, that he had nothing to be ashamed of and that it was the Dursleys who’d been doing wrong, not him. “I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this well. It’s just – it’s hard. I’d pretty much given up on ever finding anyone who’d be willing to help me. The Dursleys did a bang up job of making me an isolated outcast. No one’s ever been willing to really hear me out, before. Or they heard me, but they didn’t really listen. With magic, though, there’s some kind of way to tell when someone’s telling the truth, right? I mean, there must be, or else no one would ever be able to find enough proof to convict a witch or wizard criminal of an actual crime, because they could just use spells to get rid of all of the incriminating evidence and erase or tamper with the memories of the witnesses so that no one could remember what they’d actually seen. With magic, though, there should be a way to make it so that a person can only tell the truth. There would have to be, if magical people have police and prisons and whatnot, right? So I could go to this Ministry office and they’d have to listen to me and know that I was telling the truth, no matter how fantastic or impossible it might seem, right?”

“Pensieves can’t lie – if they’re tampered with at all, then they either won’t work, or the altered memories are so obviously tampered with that they’d just be recollected or confirmed in some other way. Veritassium is a truth serum that can’t be overcome or gotten around once it’s been ingested. Recipients must speak the truth, the whole truth, no matter what they’re asked or what they might or might not have intended to say, before taking the potion. But Harry, it usually doesn’t get that far. It’s the accused who are investigated, not the ones who’ve been hurt. If your guardians have been mistreating you just because you’re a wizard, the Ministry will prosecute them for child abuse and you’ll be placed with a wizarding family,” Cedric earnestly replied, startling Harry by reaching out to place a hand on the hands Harry was twisting together violently on the table, behind his plate. “Harry, do you need me to call my dad here to help you?”

“I – I – It’s more complicated than that,” Harry finally managed to reply, not bothered to hide his rising misery or anxiety. “You see, I didn’t even know about magic before today, when Hagrid tracked me down to personally hand me a copy of my Hogwarts acceptance letter, since the Dursleys had intercepted and destroyed all the others and were so determined that I’d never find out the truth that they packed us up and tried to run away where they thought no one would be able to find me to deliver a copy of the letter. I always knew I was different, because I heal so much faster than normal people do and I’m never really sick and I can survive off so little food and water and, well, other things, too, but I’d been told my parents were drunken degenerates who died in a car crash I’d somehow caused, not that they died in a war against an evil wizard. I didn’t really know who or what I was, before today. But the wizarding world seems to have this really unrealistic idea of who and what I am, because of something that happened when I was a baby that no one really understands, and I’m afraid people will react badly if they know how the Dursleys have treated me not because the Dursleys are wrong and bad but because they won’t understand how their wonderful baby savior could grow up to be just another neglected, abused child, but Cedric, please! I really do need to get away from these people! They only reason I’m still alive is because my power has apparently been picking up the slack, helping me and healing me and making sure I didn’t die of starvation or dehydration some night when I was locked up in my cupboard under the stairs. I have to get away fro them before they manage to do something to me that’s too serious for my power to heal or find some way to balance out. The Ministry can investigate me all it wants to, if it’ll help keep other people from reacting badly, I just – I just need to get away from these people. /Please. /They think they can beat the magic out of me, but I don’t think I could live without it. I just – I don’t – I – ”

“Harry – Harry ! It’s all right. It’ll be all right. I’ll get my dad and we’ll take care of everything. I promise. Okay? Just – look up here a moment, okay? Can I – ?” Cedric gestured slightly with his right hand – the left one still tucked securely under Harry’s chin, tilting it up so that Harry had to look at him – and then waited, calmly and patiently, until Harry finally gave a jerk to his head in acquiescence. Cedric then slowly but steadily reached out (that right hand trembling ever so slightly) and brushed Harry’s unruly black hair back away from his forehead. As the lightning bolt scar across the right half of Harry’s forehead came into view, he breathed out a sound like sounded half like a gasp and half like a sigh. “Ah, damn/. Harry Potter? Bloody hell! Harry, I am /so sorry. Will you – no, wait, it’s probably not a good idea to leave you sitting out here all by yourself. Even I wouldn’t be here by myself if Scott hadn’t gotten his days crossed and my mom hadn’t been called away on business. I have a house-elf trailing me, to make sure I’m alright until Dad gets off work and can come join me, but I don’t want to leave you out here by yourself. Come on, Harry. We’ll leave a note for Hagrid at Flourish and Blotts with our house-elf, and then I’ll take you to my dad, okay? Unless you’d rather do it another way?”

The quietly heartfelt cry, Ah, damn! nearly broke Harry’s resolve to remain calm. He found himself having to blink rapidly (especially as Cedric carefully smoothed the fringe of his hair back down over his forehead, hiding the telltale scar again) to keep back the moisture in his eyes that automatically wanted to spill over into tears. Suddenly much more hesitant and nervous, Harry found himself blushing and stammering as he tried to answer, his voice little louder than a whisper as he replied, “I – I think I might feel better if I had my wand, first. A – a wizard’s supposed to have a wand for proper magic, right?”

“Unless it’s accidental magic, wandless magic is supposed to be very hard to do, difficult to control, and extremely draining. If the wand will make you feel safer, we’ll go there first. I’m sure Mr. Ollivander will let us borrow his fireplace, if we ask,” Cedric immediately replied, his voice soothingly reassuring.

“Alright. Should we – ?” Harry trailed off, gesturing slightly towards the table.

“No, just leave the leftovers and such. There are charms on the utensils and cups to return them to the right café, and the rest will sort itself out into the proper bins, so that things that can be recycled will end up at the right places instead of just in the trash. Come on. Ollivanders is way down at the other end of Diagon Alley, away from the Leaky Cauldron entrance.”

“Alright. Lead on, and I’ll follow.”

Harry found himself following Cedric (who kept a careful but loose hand on his right shoulder at all times) to a shop that seemed surprisingly narrow and shabby, at least from the street. Peeling gold letters over the door facing out onto the street read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., though, and a single polished wooden wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window, so it was definitely the right shop. A high, tinkling, old fashioned bell rang over the doorway and triggered a second ringing somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It seemed like a tiny place, with just one, oddly delicate looking chair (in front of the counter) to sit in and wait, but only until Harry got a closer look over the counter and saw how rows upon rows of shelves piled high with boxes (filled with wands, he assumed and would soon be proven correct in thinking so) dwindled before vanishing away in the gloom of the cavernous depths of the back of the store. He felt almost as if he’d entered some kind of highly specialized, very strict library, and was oddly comforted by the notion, even though it made him have to bite back quite a few questions that occurred to him only just then. Relaxing a little, he looked around the shop, gazing at the thousands of narrow, slim boxes piled high on shelves that went from the floor all the way up to the high ceiling. After awhile, for some reason, even though (as far as he knew) no one could have come up behind him without coming through the door and setting off the bell, the back of his neck began to prickle, and he found himself swallowing against a sudden sense of nervousness. Perhaps it was because the very dust and silence of the shop seemed to tingle with some secret magic. Or perhaps it was just because it had been a nerve-wracking day and promised to become even more so before it was over with. But whatever the reason, Harry found himself having to purposefully hold himself still, to keep from twitching.

“Good afternoon,” a soft voice eventually announced into the heavy silence, right around the time Harry was about to give up and ask Cedric if they needed to call back another time. Harry flinched violently at the suddenness of the noise but didn’t manage to do more than jump before Cedric reached out and placed both of his hands – lightly but reassuringly – on Harry’s shoulders, urging him to stillness and away from flight.

When he’d recovered enough from his shock to look, Harry saw that an old man was standing before them, just behind the counter, his wide, pale eyes shining like twinned lamps or moons through the deep gloom of the shop. He had long, frazzled looking, grayish-white hair, pulled back by a ribbon into a loose tail, and was wearing what looked like an ancient, old-fashioned frock coat, complete with fragile lace discolored with age at the sleeves and neck. The old man looked like an extra from some kind of period piece play or costume drama, and was startling enough (he wasn’t even wearing robes, which Harry had finally talked himself expecting to see on the people in Diagon Alley) that Harry found himself blinking at the man, bemused, and then staring at him until Cedric’s hands tightened fractionally, reassuringly, on his shoulders and reminded him why they were in the shop in the first place. He was pretty sure that a wand wouldn’t do him any good without some instruction and practice in actually using it, but just the idea of having it was calming. So Harry made himself take a deep breath and then replied, only a little bit awkwardly, “Hello.”

“Ah, yes,” the man merely nodded. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter.” The slight smile made it clear that it wasn’t a question, and for a moment Harry was violently relieved that he’d had the courage to tell Cedric who he really was, because he rather imagined that the alternative wouldn’t have been very pretty or pleasant at all. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday that she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.” Mr. Ollivander stepped around the counter to move closer to Harry, and Harry had to steel himself to keep from flinching again. He really wished that the man would blink; the steady bright silvery orbs of his eyes was a bit unnerving, not to mention creepy. Apparently not noticing Harry’s discomfort, though, Mr. Ollivander continued to slowly but steadily advance, telling him, “Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.” By the end of that proclamation, Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were practically nose to nose, since the man had leaned down so he could hold Harry’s gaze. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes, and only the reassuring bulk of Cedric’s body behind him kept him calm enough to remain in place as the man drew even closer. “And that’s where . . . ” Mr. Ollivander sighed as he reached out, flicking aside Harry’s messy hair to touch the lightning bolt scar on Harry’s forehead with one long, white, bony finger. Only Cedric’s presence behind him and his hands on Harry’s shoulders kept Harry from trying to fling himself away. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” the wand-maker admitted, his voice suddenly oddly soft. “Thirteen and one half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands . . . well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do . . . ” He shook his head and then, to Harry’s relief, finally seemed to notice Cedric. “Cedric! Cedric Diggory! How nice to see you again . . . Twelve and a quarter inches, ash, pleasantly springy, with a core of unicorn hair, wasn’t it?”

“It was and it is, sir, yes,” Cedric good naturedly replied.

“Good wand, that one. You treat it regularly?” Mr. Ollivander asked with much more enthusiasm, his voice gaining some volume and losing its solemn hush.

“Polished it last night, sir. I’ve no complaints about it. I’m just here to help Harry find his first wand,” Cedric explained, nodding slightly in Harry’s direction.

“Ah, yes, yes, of course, Mr. Potter. Let me see!” Mr. Ollivander pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his jacket’s right pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er – well, I’m right-handed, sir,” Harry somewhat hesitantly replied.

“Hold out that arm, then. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around his head. As he measured, he told Harry, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. For example, customarily, we use unicorn hairs, phoenix feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are ever quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

Harry started to nod and realized that the tape measure, which had begun to move on its own like the one at Madam Malkin’s, was measuring between his nostrils, and so held very still, instead. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down various boxes, and didn’t seem to notice his lack of response at all.

“That will do,” he ordered when he eventually turned back around, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Harry took the wand and (feeling somewhat foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it back out of his hand almost at once.

“Apparently not. Here. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try – ”

Harry tried, but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back.

“No, no – here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for and, if Cedric had ever said what that might be, then Harry hadn’t heard him. The pile of tried and discarded wands quickly mounted higher and higher on the counter, eventually spilling over into the empty (and somewhat spindly) chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves for Harry to try, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere . . . I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden inexplicable warmth in his fingers as he raised the wand above his head and, as he brought it swishing down through the (increasingly) dusty air, a stream of bright sparks – gold and silver, red and green, blue and bronze and pale yellow – shot from the far end of the wand like a fountain of fireworks, throwing off twisting curls of sparkles and dancing spots of multicolored light up onto the walls. Cedric, clearly pleased, let go of his shoulders so that he could whoop and clap for his friend, and his cheering made Harry grin like a loon, even though he wasn’t at all sure what had just really happened.

Mr. Ollivander happily cried out, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well . . . how curious, how very curious . . . ” He put Harry’s newly chosen wand carefully back into its box and began to wrap it up in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious . . . curious . . . ”

“Sorry,” Harry finally asked (a little impatiently and not quite sure he wanted to know, but too curious himself now not to inquire), “but what’s curious?”

Mr. Ollivander rapidly snapped his gaze upwards from the box to fix Harry with his pale stare, nearly shocking him into jumping backwards.
As if sensing his sudden unease, Cedric moved to curl his hands soothingly over Harry’s shoulders again.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, it’s brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed hard, convulsively, so shocked that he was completely unable to think of anything at all appropriate to say in response to such a bombshell.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen,” the wand-maker continued, apparently quite blithely. “The wand chooses the wizard, remember . . . I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter . . . After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”

Though the day was not particularly cold, Harry shivered, suddenly not at all sure that he either liked or trusted Mr. Ollivander very much, if at all. Cedric must have sensed his anxiety, because he made no effort to ask Mr. Ollivander about anything as Harry paid seven gold Galleons for his wand. Soon enough, Mr. Ollivander was bowing them out of his shop.

Cedric immediately started to steer Harry back up Diagon Alley. “That took long enough that it occurred to me that Hagrid might already be at Flourish and Blotts. If he’s there, we can ask him to come to the Ministry with us, instead of having to leave a note for him with the house-elf following me, so we won’t have to worry about him being able to track us down so he can get in contact with us wherever we end up at in the Ministry. Coming along with us would make things much easier, for him.”

“Sounds good,” Harry nodded, following Cedric quickly and clutching the box with his new wand tightly in his arms. “Whatever’s easier is probably the safest bet.”

“That’s what I figured. Here – there’s Flourish and Blotts, just up the street, past Madam Malkin’s. See it?” Cedric asked, gesturing towards a shop with an elaborately painted, enormous sign shaped like an open book.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, despite the situation feeling a slight pang of regret over the fact that they weren’t going to spending enough time in the bookshop to really look at anything.

“Harry, when this is all over with, I promise you I’m going to bring you back here so you can get your first proper look at a wizarding bookstore, alright? I can think of at least twenty books, easily, that would really help you learn more about our world and a lot of the basic spells and charms and just knowledge in general that the wizard-born grow up learning about or seeing all the time, just from being around wizarding folk. You could borrow them from me or my mom or dad, but I know it’s nice, sometimes, to have your own books, if only for notes and things.”

“Careful. Take me in there with an eye towards finding books to buy that aren’t required for school, and it’ll doubtlessly be hours before we see the sun again,” Harry nervously half joked and half seriously warned Cedric in reply.

“Ah, a man after my own heart! Don’t worry, mate, it’ll take a lot more than a measly handful of hours of browsing to make me tired of looking at books,” Cedric only grinned back at him. “Just because the Ravenclaws who’re known for their obsession with books and verifiable data, that doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who’re allowed to love books, you know? Ah, here we are, then. Sir? May I ask you if you’ve see Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper at Hogwarts, enter this store, today?”

The young wizard in dark bronze robes behind the counter of the bookshop blinked at them, apparently startled by the question, before absentmindedly flipping a slightly overlong curl of honey-blond hair out of his brown eyes and frowning at them thoughtfully. “I don’t believe so, no, though I did see him walk by the store once, about an hour ago. Can I help you? Have you young gentlemen lost one of your party?”

“Sir, my friend and I were supposed to meet up with Mr. Hagrid here no later than another twenty minutes or so from now, and we were hoping he’d be here already. We’ve had a bit of an emergency come up and need to go to the Ministry as quickly as possible. If I leave a message here with a house-elf, would you be so kind as to see to it that Mr. Hagrid gets that message whenever he shows up, please?” Cedric politely asked back.

“I’m sure I can arrange that, Mr. – ?”

“Diggory, sir. Cedric Diggory.”

“Arnold Abbott. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the clerk instantly offered his hand for Cedric to shake. When he’d done that, the young man then asked, “Will you be needing to use the fireplace to place a call, Mr. Diggory?”

“Yes, please, and to Floo, as well. I can pay you for the Floo powder, of course – ”

“Oh, no, not at all! I don’t believe that will be necessary. The Diggorys are good customers, as I recall. In fact, I believe we have a special order here for your mother that just came in today,” Arnold insisted.

“Our house-elf, Blinky, should be able to take care of that, if you’d like. She’s authorized to place and to receive orders for the house,” Cedric helpfully offered.

“That would be most helpful, Mr. Diggory. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go and see that the fire is ready and that the order is all together while you prepare your note for Mr. Hagrid,” the young clerk diplomatically replied, smiling before he turned to head back into the backrooms of the store.

“Harry, have you ever seen a house-elf?” Cedric asked when the other man was gone.

“No. But are they something like brownies, by any chance?”

“Erhm, no, not exactly. See, this is where one of those books I was talking about earlier would come in handy. There’s a very accurate and unbiased single-volume history of the various subspecies of elves that would help you out here immensely. Just – don’t freak out when I call for her, okay? I know they can be a bit . . . startling . . . for those who’ve been Muggle-raised, at least at first. I promise I’ll get you a copy of that book and I’ll tell you all about house-elves myself, later on, when we have more time, alright?”

Harry shrugged and nodded, a bit bewildered by Cedric’s concern about house-elves but trusting that he had a reason and would eventually explain it all properly. “Alright.”

“Good chap! Alright now, Blinky! Could you come here a moment?” Cedric called out, snapping his fingers as if to get someone’s attention.

There was a cracking sound, and then a little creature appeared, standing right in front of Cedric. Harry managed not to yell, but it was a near thing. The house-elf had rather large, bat-like, extremely mobile ears, bulging gray-green eyes the size of tennis balls fringed with long curls of extremely dark green eyelashes, a long, thin nose (which, oddly enough, made Harry think of Pinocchio), and skin that was a medium-light and surprisingly pretty shade of seafoam green. Harry couldn’t see if the creature had any proper hair because she (or at least he thought it was a she) was wearing a frilly tea cozy (white, with a pattern of shamrocks and daisies, edged in two layers of lace) for a hat that was large enough that it effective covered all of where her hair logically should’ve been. She was wearing what looked like a shin-length chemise fashioned out of two luxurious, butter-yellow velvet hand towels, tied at the waist with what looked like a bit of green tassel or tie-back from a curtain, and dainty little slippers fashioned from some kind of chintz that matched the pattern of shamrocks and daisies in her tea cozy hat. She swept Cedric a short bow, smiling up at him with obvious affection, and announced, in a high, almost squeaky sort of voice, “Master Cedric! Blinky is here! What is Master Cedric wanting of Blinky?”

Kneeling down so that he was closer to being on a level with the little creature (who was perhaps half Harry’s height), Cedric asked her, “Blinky, can you put up a screen for us, first, so that no one will be able to overhear anything they shouldn’t?”

Blinky snapped her fingers, and then nodded. “It is being done, Master Cedric!”

Cedric nodded his thanks. “Good. Thank you, Blinky. This is a private conversation, so it needs to stay in the family. Harry and Mr. Hagrid is the only exception to that rule, as of right now. The reason I asked you here is because there’s been change of plans. You know how Harry and I were supposed to be meeting up with Mr. Hagrid here at Flourish and Blotts?”

“Oh, yes, Master Cedric, Blinky is hearing all about that!”

“Well, Harry and I need to go to the Ministry of Magic and see Dad, and it’s extremely important, so I’m afraid we can’t stay here and wait around for Hagrid. Blinky, Harry has to go see the office attached to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that deals with crimes against underage witches and wizards. It’s for his own protection,” Cedric told the house-elf, his voice growing quieter and much more serious at the end of the explanation.

“Oh. Oh!” The house-elf’s eyes grew so round and huge that for a moment it seemed as if they might actually pop out of her head. Instead, she blinked rapidly several times in a row as those eyes became watery, and tugged anxiously on her ears, lips trembling, as she cried out (in her small and piping and yet wholly vehement and somehow oddly powerful voice), “Oh, poor Master Harry! That’s awful, that is! Horrible people who mistreat poor Master Harry should be carted away to Azkaban, the wizard prison, or to Tullianum, the Muggle prison, and never let back out ever again! Then Master Harry can come and stay with the Diggorys and Blinky will take good, good care of him, and see to it that he eats much more!” Blinky declared, stamping her small right foot and then nodding almost violently to show here determination.

Blushing slightly, Harry knelt down next to Cedric, so that he could more easily look the little creature in the eyes, and gravely told her, “Thank you for saying that, Blinky, but I think it’ll probably be up to the Ministry officials. I really do appreciate the support, though. And I promise I’ll eat more, if I can, whatever happens, alright?”

The house-elf burst into tear, bounded forward, and threw her small arms around Harry’s neck, crying out, “Oh, Master Harry, good Master Harry, sir! Master Cedric and Master Amos will be taking good care of you! They is being very good wizards, the very best of all wizards, you’ll soon be seeing that it’s so! And Mistress Ama, she is kind and loving and wonderfully clever witch, and she will be opening her arms to you and taking you in and then giving you over to Blinky’s care so that Blinky can be making sure you eat /much/, much more!”

“Ah. Well. If you say so, Blinky. From your lips to the ears of the Ministry employees,” Harry finally replied, carefully patting the distraught little house-elf’s back and looking helplessly over at Cedric.

“Blinky, can you see to it that Mr. Hagrid knows where we’ve gone to and why?” Cedric asked, coming to Harry’s rescue.

“Oh, yes, young Master Cedric, Blinky will be doing so! Blinky is making sure that no one but Mr. Hagrid is knowing where you is gone to and why. Blinky will even tell Mr. Hagrid the password for firecalling Master Amos at work, if young Master Cedric thinks it is being necessary,” Blinky replied, nodding stoutly as she released Harry from her desperate hug.

“Thank you, Blinky. I knew I could count on you,” Cedric grinned down at the house-elf affectionately, making the little creature hop in place with happiness.

“Young Master Cedric is wonderful boy, is kind and good and ever so clever to be saving good Master Harry from nasty evil Muggle relatives and trusting Blinky to be telling Mr. Hagrid about how the wonderful Diggory family is to be saving good Master Harry,” Blinky avowed, nodding deeply several times in rapid succession to show her firm opinion on the subject.

“Can the wonderful and clever house-elf Blinky also pick up a special order of books here at Flourish and Blots for her clever Mistress Ama?” Cedric only good naturedly asked.

“Blinky be seeing to everything, Master Cedric! Go, go! To the Ministry with yous both, and find good Master Amos, to help good Master Harry!” Blinky insisted, making shooing motions at the boys, waving them off towards the back of the store.

“Yes, ma’am!” Cedric grinned, reaching out to pull Harry back up to his feet.
Harry echoed the sentiment, and the house-elf smiled at him widely, snapped her fingers, and promptly vanished again, with another muted cracking noise. When Harry was sure she was really gone, he turned to Cedric and asked, “Mistress Ama?”

“Amabelle. My mother. The house-elves think she is exceedingly clever to have a name so like her husband’s – they like to brag about how they serve Ama and Amos, the very best of all the wizarding folk,” Cedric replied, blushing a little even as he grinned and shrugged. “Ah! And here’s Arnold Abbott, again.”

Arnold Abbott had, indeed, just come back out of the backrooms, and the young wizard smiled and motioned to them, waving open a gate hidden in the counter with a lazy looking flick and swish of his wand and then beckoning them over to join him. Harry and Cedric hurried to join him, and the young man (probably no older than the frazzled assistant in Madam Malkin’s) led them back through a series of rooms packed so full of books and boxes that their pathway resembled a trail winding through a maze. Eventually, they came to a large, mostly empty room with a huge roaring fireplace, and the young wizard handed Cedric a dark blue jar that looked about four times the size of a normal sugar pot in a tea set. “Here you go, Mr. Diggory. Just place the jar of Floo powder safely back up on the mantle before you go, if you will. I’m going to go see about fetching that order of your mother’s, for your house-elf.”

“Thank you, Mr. Abbott, I will. My friend and I appreciate all of your kind help,” Cedric replied, smiling up at the helpful wizard earnestly.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. Just you young gentlemen come back to the store when you’re finished with your business. We’ve had several new shipments of books recently, in addition to the regular orders of required texts for Hogwarts students, and I’m sure there are several volumes that will interest you both,” Arnold cheerfully replied before nodding politely at each of them in turn and then heading back out towards the front of the store, closing the door firmly behind him.

When they were alone in the room, Harry finally got a chance to ask a question that had been bothering him for several minutes, “Can I ask what Floo powder is, or is that another book I’m going to need to get?”

“Another book, if you want to understand the mechanics of it all. But the short version is that Flood powder is sort of combination potion and charm that activates when it hits a fire that’s hooked up to the Floo network. Flooing is a wizarding way of traveling that’s faster than broom, less chancy than Portkey, and takes less knowledge than Apparation. It’s a bit, ah, bumpy, and it tends to get a bit of soot on your face, but it’s quick and fairly safe. What you do is to take about a handful of Floo powder, say the name of the place you want to go, throw the Floo Powder on the fire, wait for the fire to flash green, and then step into the fire and let it take you on through to wherever it is that you’re going. It’s possible to Side-Along Floo, if the two who’re going are careful to say the name of the place they’re going together and to step into the fire together, and that’s what we’re going to be doing. See, there are Floos at the Ministry, but they have passwords to keep people who don’t have proper access out. My dad, Amos Diggory, he’s the second-in-command at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so I’m going to firecall him first, to make sure he’s in and get the Floo cleared for us, so we can get through. Firecalling is like Flooing, only with a lot less powder, and you don’t really travel anywhere – you just let your head kind of temporarily hitch a ride on the Floo connection over to the fire of the person you need to speak to. I know this will probably sound really odd to you, but believe me, Harry, the fire is safe to use once it turns green. It can’t burn you or hurt you in any way once the Floo connection opens. And they always stay open as long as part of a person is in the actual fire, plus a safety window of ten seconds after withdrawal. It’s perfectly safe. I promise you that,” Cedric vowed, looking him directly in the eyes until finally Harry nodded his acceptance and understanding of Cedric’s explanation and promise of safety. “You won’t be able to hear what I’m saying, during the firecall, but it’ll only take a little while. When I come back out, I want you to grip my left hand firmly, take the Floo powder I’ll pour into your left hand, and then wait for me to get a handful and put the jar back up on the mantle. I’ll count down from three. After I say one, I want you to throw your handful of Floo powder onto the fire, along with me. Wait one second exactly after you throw the powder on, for the fire to flame green. Then say, with me, Amos Diggory’s office, fourth level, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry of Magic Headquarters. Can you remember all of that?” Cedric asked.

“Floo powder, countdown from three, throw the handful onto the fire after /one/, wait one second, then say Amos Diggory’s office, fourth level, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry of Magic Headquarters,” Harry carefully recited back.

“Very good, yes, exactly! Alright, then. I’m going to firecall Dad. Just wait here, okay?”

“I will,” Harry promised, nodding again in reply to the solemn look in Cedric’s eyes.

“Good. Alright then, let’s see here.” Cedric popped the lid off of the glazed ceramic jar, and scooped up what looked like about a tablespoon of what looked like extremely dark green and glittery (almost metallic) sand or coarsely grained salt. Bending down until he was kneeling in front of the enormous fireplace (which probably could have fit a whole ox, standing sideways, easily), he tossed the Floo powder onto the fire, waited a heartbeat while, with a loud roar, the flames turned a dark emerald color and leapt up to a height higher than Harry’s head where he was standing behind Cedric, and then clearly and loudly announced, “Firecall to Amos Diggory’s office, fourth level, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry of Magic Headquarters, password /fiat lux/.”

Then Cedric leaned forward and plunged into the fire up to a point around his shoulders, and Harry was left to wait. And wait. And wait some more. Finally, about fifteen or so minutes later, Cedric finally pulled back. He uncurled smoothly, backing away from the fire, and waited until, with another, slightly more muted roar, the green of the flames subsided and the Floo powder apparently stopped working. Then he turned around to face Harry.

“Sorry about that. I honestly didn’t think it would take that long. Dad was talking to Cuthbert Mockridge, though, and he had to get rid of him before he could talk to me. He’s ready for us now, though. Do you still remember what to do?”

Harry nodded and then carefully replied, “Take the Floo powder, wait through the countdown from three, throw the handful onto the fire after one, wait one second, then say Amos Diggory’s office, fourth level, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry of Magic Headquarters.”

“Exactly. Good. Alright, then, here’s your Floo powder,” Cedric told him, carefully pouring out what looked, to Harry, like about an eighth or so (maybe a bit less) of a cup of Floo Powder into Harry’s left hand. “And here’s mine,” he added, using his left hand to put the lid back on the jar and then place it up on the mantle over the fireplace. He held out his empty left hand to Harry, waited until Harry had a firm grip, and then counted out, “Three, two, one.”

After one, the two boys threw their respected handfuls of Floo powder onto the fire, waited a second while the fire roared nosily and belched up green flame to a height that would have easily let Hagrid pass through the fire with them, if he’d only been there, and then recited their destination together. “Amos Diggory’s office, fourth level, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Ministry of Magic Headquarters.”

The actual trip through the Floo was . . . a bit more violent than Harry was expecting. It felt as if he were being rapidly, inexorably, and violently sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast – the roaring in his ears was deafening – and he tried to keep his eyes open, but the alternation of the whirl of the green flames and the smear of Cedric’s face as he rotated past him made Harry feel violently sick – something hard knocked his left elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning like an insane top – then it felt as though icy cold hands were being slapped up against his face – squinting through his glasses, he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond – what little food he’d managed to eat at lunch churned nauseously in his stomach – he closed his eyes again, wishing it would stop, and then –

He fell forward, too weak to keep himself from falling, Cedric’s sudden grip around his shoulders anchoring him long enough for a pair of strong arms to pick him up bodily and carry him away from the fireplace. Dizzy and bruised, covered in soot, and feeling rather as if he were going to be sick, it took him a few moments to realize they were actually there. He mechanically accepted the mug that was thrust into his hands, raised it and drank – and was surprised to taste something foaming and warm and wonderfully sweet that instantly seemed to warm him all the way through and settle his stomach down to the point where he immediately stopped feeling cold and dizzy and weak with nausea. Quickly draining the entire mug (and feeling stronger, steadier, and more energetically healthy with each swallow), Harry peeled his eyes open again, and looked up to find a ruddy-faced wizard who was ever so slightly on the stout side (if nowhere near as big around as, say, Dudley Dursley already was), somewhere in between being average and tall in height, with slightly wavy hair well on the way to growing down to his shoulders that was a color rather like dusty, stained oak (a sort of medium-light brown that reminded Harry of Cedric’s hair, only without the golden layer on top bleached lighter by the sun and with a sort of fadedness to it that hinted at a greater age than the smoothness of his face would seem to indicate), a face a little rounder than Cedric’s and possessed of a less obviously squared jaw but otherwise shaped rather like his, and concerned and very kind looking dark brown eyes behind a pair of small, rectangular spectacles. He was wearing a plain black robe (though it was lined in a color somewhere between dark gold and light bronze – a shade that perfectly matched his neatly knotted tie) open over what looked, surprisingly enough, like a fairly normal tweed suit, and he reached out a hand to take the empty mug, smiling as he offered Harry a clean handkerchief for his sooty glasses and face.

“There you go, lad, a nice butterbeer’s just the thing for settling the stomach after one’s first couple of Floo trips. My Cedric always says that a butterbeer’s the first thing a Floo traveler should be handed, on emerging. And you’ll feel better when you can see again properly. I’m going to cast a charm on you, to get the soot off your clothes and such, but glasses are fickle things and they tend to cling to their grime,” Amos cheerfully opined.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll just – I’ll hold still, then,” Harry replied, accepting the handkerchief and then waiting for Mr. Diggory to cast the cleaning charm. He didn’t quite catch what the man murmured – it sounded like Latin, though, or perhaps French, to Harry’s (admittedly untrained, though he’d taught himself how to read nine languages, including both French and Latin) ears – but a moment later he felt like he’d been the recipient of a long, hot shower and a new change of fresh clothes, so he carefully plucked his battered glasses off and wiped them as clean as he could with the handkerchief, determinedly not flinching as the white linen square grew darker and grungier with each careful wipe. “Thank you, Mr. Diggory.”

“It’s Amos, son, please. And it’s no trouble at all, really. My Cedric’s convinced you’re in danger of your life, if you return to your Muggle relatives, and I for one am appalled to find out Dumbledore allowed you to be placed with Muggles, instead of with a wizarding family, so this is the very least I can do, lad,” the older wizard insisted. “Now, then. You should know that the man who’s going to be coming down here to see you normally doesn’t take part in cases like this. However, Rufus Scrimgeour is Head of the Auror Office of the Ministry of Magic, and he’s a man who understands the need for action and isn’t afraid to take action, when it’s needed, so I decided he’d be the best person to handle your case. He’ll be coming along in about twenty minutes or so with two witnesses – at least one of them trained in what we wizards generally call mind and soul healing, and what I believe the Muggles tend to call psychology and psychiatry – and take your complaint. Has my boy explained to you what a Pensieve is yet, by any chance?”

“A little bit, sir. Mr. Diggory. Amos. Sorry,” Harry stammered back. “Cedric told me that you can’t tamper with memories in a Pensieve without it being obvious that they’d been messed with, and I assume that they’re used to gather or present evidence.”

“Both actually. Here, lad, come sit down. Cedric, my boy, why don’t you get your friend here another butterbeer?” Amos turned to ask his son as he gently guided Harry over to one of a pair of comfortable looking brown leather armchairs flanking the room’s fireplace.

“On it, Dad,” Cedric nodded, and purposefully ducked through a door off to the side of the enormous desk that took pride of position in the center of the room.

“Right-o, then! Basically, lad, a Pensieve is a magical object that’s charmed to gather, hold or store, and allow others to have access to held or stored memories. What will happen is that one of the Aurors will ask you to focus your mind on memories of the way your Muggle relatives abuse you, and then that Auror will use his or her wand to draw all of those memories out and transfer them to a Pensieve. The Auror will then copy the contents of that Pensieve into another Pensieve – this one to be kept indefinitely as evidence in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, down on level two – and the original memories will then be returned to you,” Mr. Diggory explained, somehow managing to sound both calm and cheerful at the same time.

“I don’t suppose they could just keep the original memories, could they?” Harry asked, wincing internally at the quaver in his voice.

“Sorry, Harry, but it wouldn’t help even if they did. The memories might be gone, but your knowledge of the memories would still be there, in your head,” Cedric startled him slightly by replying as he ducked back into the room with his hands full of three mugs of butterbeer. “Pensieves are devices made primarily for the sharing of memories, not the shedding of them. You might not be able to remember things well enough to be able to essentially relive the actual memories in your mind, but the taking of the actual memories doesn’t and can’t remove the knowledge of the contents of the memories or the knowledge and memories that you associate with those memories.”

“That’s alright. I figured that would be too easy,” Harry made himself shrug and smile as he reached up to accept the mug of butterbeer Cedric was offering him, but it didn’t particularly look like either one of the Diggorys bought his nonchalant attitude.

“Lad, there are ways to help block off particularly nasty memories – “ Amos Diggory hesitantly began to offer.

Harry laughed a little then, in spite of himself. “If they started doing that, they’d have to block off the better part of the past ten years. And then I’d panic because I wouldn’t be able to remember anything. Bad things tend to happen around me when I get panicked. So I think I’ll have to say thanks but no thanks, to that offer. I’d rather not accidentally cause any damage to the building,” Harry replied, wincing a little as he remember the fiasco early on in his fourth year of schooling, when he’d accidentally made the boiler explode because Dudley was trying to drown him in one of the school toilets. Luckily, no one had been in the boiler room, so no one was hurt, but the explosion had ripped through most of that level of the basement, tearing gaping holes in the walls and ceiling, and causing thousands upon thousands of pounds worth of damage. It had made the entire school shake as if in the midst of an earthquake, and there were still some who thought that the boiler explosion was the result of inept terrorists – a fact that had led to increased security at the school, which had made it next to impossible for Dudley and his gang to bully anyone they couldn’t catch either in the gym or out on the playground and shifted away the bulk of Dudley’s professed favorite game – Harry Hunting – away from school and over to Privet Drive and the surrounding neighborhood.

Cedric and Amos traded a significant look over Harry’s head. Hesitantly, gently, Cedric started to ask him, “Harry, you do know that the Aurors are going to view these memories, right? You’re alright with that, aren’t you?”

“Better they should be able to see it all themselves than that I should have to describe them to them,” Harry shrugged.

“Harry, if you want, my dad could act as the second witness, for Rufus. That would be one less person you don’t know viewing your memories,” Cedric offered, crouching down by the chair so that he was on an eye level with Harry.

“I don’t supposed this Rufus fellow would let you be one of the witnesses, would he?” Harry asked back, only half jokingly.

“I’m too young to legally act as a witness, Harry, but if you want me to act as your personal witness – ”

“Cedric, son, you may want to rethink that offer before you finish making it. Harry fears for his life, with those Muggles. His memories aren’t going to be pleasant ones,” Amos Diggory cut in, his voice finally losing its good humor.

“I know that, dad. But I’m not afraid to see what these people have done to Harry. I’m Harry’s friend. It’ll be easier on him if I know what’s happened to him without him having to tell me about it. I/ want/ to do this. Please,” Cedric replied, his voice at once so gravely serious and yet so matter of fact that it nearly made Harry want to cry, even though he hadn’t cried, willingly – not when he could stop himself from doing it, not when the tears weren’t an uncontrollable reflex that he had as little power over stopping as he would have had over the beating of his heart or the circulation of oxygen within his blood – since he was quite small (his fourth birthday, as a matter of fact), at an utter loss at to what he could have ever possibly done to deserve such a loyal friend and brave protector as Cedric Diggory.

“Hmm. Well. That’s going to be up to Auror Scrimgeour. But if you’re convinced, then I’ll ask him. You boys stay there, and drink your butterbeers. I’m going to firecall Rufus before he can head up, and ask about this,” Amos replied, moving to place his own butterbeer on his desk before heading purposefully to the fireplace.

Fifteen minutes later, Rufus Scrimgeour – a tall, solidly built man with a certain rangy, loping grace who nonetheless walked with a slight limp and looked rather like an old lion, with grey streaks in his long mane of tawny hair and bushy eyebrows over keen, yellowish eyes that looked disturbingly like predator’s eyes behind a pair of incongruously normal wire-rimmed spectacles – knocked on the door, and Amos let him and the Head of the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement – a slender, square-jawed witch by the name of Amelia Susan Bones, who had a prominent, sharply pointed chin and nose, close-cropped grey hair (which, on careful examination, proved to still have a couple of strands of brilliantly bright red scattered here and there throughout it), warm brown eyes that reminded Harry of good, expensive dark chocolate, and a monocle that she slid down into a pocket of her plain black robe after she’d gotten a good look at him – into the room. Auror Scrimgeour and Madam Bones each had what looked like an oversized stone bowl (carefully carved with mystic runes and polished to a dull sheen) floating along in front of them, at the direction of their wands, and these they directed to Amos Diggory’s desk, which had been cleared off expressly for the purpose of holding those Pensieves. Rufus Scrimgeour was also carrying a sheaf of papers with him, which he made sure to carefully read through to Harry, explaining to him his rights, how a complaint of abuse and neglect against an underage wizard was handled by the Ministry, how the Pensieves worked, what the outcome of a viewing of those memories would likely be, given demonstrable abuse and neglect on the part of Harry’s Muggle relatives, and so on and so on. It doubtlessly would have taken longer, but Harry understood the legalize enough to comprehend most of what the Auror was explaining to him. The only questions he really had to ask were about things involving magic. Mostly, he sat and listened and reacted as directed.

Over the next hour and a half, Harry signed twenty-seven separate documents and swore half a dozen different binding oaths. He wondered, part of the way through, where Hagrid could possibly be, but when he glanced questioningly over at the room’s fireplace, Cedric leaned in and whispered to him that proceedings like this were closed. Since Hagrid hadn’t managed to firecall them before they got started, he would’ve found himself barred from Amos’ office whenever he did finally try to get through and redirected to a waiting room where he could either sit and wait to hear word from them or leave for the minimum three hours that it took to file a complaint and then come back to check and see if there was any word yet on when they might be done. When the paperwork was done, Auror Scrimgeour, Madam Bones, and Mr. Diggory all recited careful vows of witness and set about signing their names to the twenty-seven different scrolls Harry had already signed. Since Cedric was underage but acting as Harry’s personal witness, he got to swear a slightly modified oath of witness and write in his name on a special line that became visible on those same twenty-seven scrolls only after he’d sworn his oath, too. After that, it was finally time for the Pensieves to be put to use. Auror Scrimgeour explained, carefully, that all Harry needed to do was to concentrate on all the memories he had of instances of neglect and abuse he’d suffered while growing up with the Dursleys, and Scrimgeour’s spellwork would do the rest. Madam Bones explained, when asked, that Pensieves had time manipulation charms on them, so that the more memories the Pensieve held, the more the manipulation charms would be called on to make it possible for them to view the memories in half an hour or less. All Ministry Pensieves, she told him, were specifically charmed so that no matter how great a period of time was represented by the memories held within a specific Pensieve, it would be possible to view those memories with no more than half an hour’s worth of time passing outside of that Pensieve. It sounded like a clever trick to Harry, and Cedric murmured something to him about another book he’d be sure to help Harry find at Flourish and Blotts, on the subject of time manipulation.

The actual removal of Harry’s memories into the Pensieve ended up taking longer than Auror Scrimgeour, Madam Bones, and Mr. Diggory seemed to think that it should have, and the Pensieve ended up being filled all the way up to its very brim with the silvery, misty, quicksilver semi-liquid of his recollections, even after Madam Bones had enchanted the Pensieve three times so that its capacity would expand again by a factor of ten. The adults all traded grim looks over that, while Cedric looked rather as if he were seriously considering either snatching Harry up and running with him or else bursting into tears over him, but Harry couldn’t find it within himself to be too surprised. After all, the Pensieve was, in the end, holding the memories of what amounted to probably two-thirds or more of his waking, conscious hours for most of the past decade of his eleven years of life. The sickly look on Cedric’s face bothered him a lot more than the reality of the number of hours of memories most likely present in the Pensieve (although, given a decade with two leap, years minus three months, that’d be three thousand five hundred and fifty-eight days. Given roughly two-thirds of each day in memories, that would translate to approximately fifty-six thousand nine hundred and twenty-eight hours of memories). Harry was grateful for the charms on the Pensieve that would compress or otherwise manipulate the time it took to view the memories, but by the time the Pensieve was actually full, he had long since begun to have some serious second thoughts and regrets about having asked Cedric to be a witness to them.





To Be Continued in the next part . . .