“But she could do magic!” said Harry impatiently. “She could have got food and everything for herself by magic, couldn’t she?”
“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “perhaps she could. But it is my belief — I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right — that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic. I do not think that she wanted to be a witch any longer. Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen. In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.”
“She wouldn’t even stay alive for her son?”
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?”
“No,” said Harry quickly, “but she had a choice, didn’t she, not like my mother —”
“Your mother had a choice too,” said Dumbledore gently. “Yes, Merope Riddle chose death in spite of a son who needed her, but do not judge her too harshly, Harry. She was greatly weakened by long suffering and she never had your mother’s courage. And now, if you will stand . . .”
“Where are we going?” Harry asked, as Dumbledore joined him at the front of the desk.
“This time,” said Dumbledore, “we are going to enter my memory. I think you will find it both rich in detail and satisfyingly accurate. After you, Harry . . .”
Harry bent over the Pensieve; his face broke the cool surface of the memory and then he was falling through darkness again. . . . Seconds later, his feet hit firm ground; he opened his eyes and found that he and Dumbledore were standing in a bustling, old-fashioned London street.
“There I am,” said Dumbledore brightly, pointing ahead of them to a tall figure crossing the road in front of a horse-drawn milk cart.
This younger Albus Dumbledore’s long hair and beard were auburn. Having reached their side of the street, he strode off along the pavement, drawing many curious glances due to the flamboyantly cut suit of plum velvet that he was wearing.
“Nice suit, sir,” said Harry, before he could stop himself, but Dumbledore merely chuckled as they followed his younger self a short distance, finally passing through a set of iron gates into a bare courtyard that fronted a rather grim, square building surrounded by high railings. He mounted the few steps leading to the front door and knocked once. After a moment or two, the door was opened by a scruffy girl wearing an apron.
“Good afternoon. I have an appointment with a Mrs. Cole, who, I believe, is the matron here?”
“Oh,” said the bewildered-looking girl, taking in Dumbledore’s eccentric appearance. “Um . . . just a mo’ . . . MRS. COLE!” she bellowed over her shoulder.
Harry heard a distant voice shouting something in response. The girl turned back to Dumbledore. “Come in, she’s on ’er way.”
Dumbledore stepped into a hallway tiled in black and white; the whole place was shabby but spotlessly clean. Harry and the older Dumbledore followed. Before the front door had closed behind them, a skinny, harassed-looking woman came scurrying toward them. She had a sharp-featured face that appeared more anxious than unkind, and she was talking over her shoulder to another aproned helper as she walked toward Dumbledore.
“. . . and take the iodine upstairs to Martha, Billy Stubbs has been picking his scabs and Eric Whalley’s oozing all over his sheets — chicken pox on top of everything else,” she said to nobody in particular, and then her eyes fell upon Dumbledore and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking as astonished as if a giraffe had just crossed her threshold.
“Good afternoon,” said Dumbledore, holding out his hand.
Mrs. Cole simply gaped.
“My name is Albus Dumbledore. I sent you a letter requesting an appointment and you very kindly invited me here today.”
Mrs. Cole blinked. Apparently deciding that Dumbledore was not a hallucination, she said feebly, “Oh yes. Well — well then — you’d better come into my room. Yes.”
She led Dumbledore into a small room that seemed part sitting room, part office. It was as shabby as the hallway and the furniture was old and mismatched. She invited Dumbledore to sit on a rickety chair and seated herself behind a cluttered desk, eyeing him nervously.
“I am here, as I told you in my letter, to discuss Tom Riddle and arrangements for his future,” said Dumbledore.
“Are you family?” asked Mrs. Cole.
“No, I am a teacher,” said Dumbledore. “I have come to offer Tom a place at my school.”
“What school’s this, then?”
“It is called Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.
“And how come you’re interested in Tom?”
“We believe he has qualities we are looking for.”
“You mean he’s won a scholarship? How can he have done? He’s never been entered for one.”
“Well, his name has been down for our school since birth —”
“Who registered him? His parents?”
There was no doubt that Mrs. Cole was an inconveniently sharp woman. Apparently Dumbledore thought so too, for Harry now saw him slip his wand out of the pocket of his velvet suit, at the same time picking up a piece of perfectly blank paper from Mrs. Cole’s desktop.
“Here,” said Dumbledore, waving his wand once as he passed her the piece of paper, “I think this will make everything clear.”
Mrs. Cole’s eyes slid out of focus and back again as she gazed intently at the blank paper for a moment.
“That seems perfectly in order,” she said placidly, handing it back. Then her eyes fell upon a bottle of gin and two glasses that had certainly not been present a few seconds before.
“Er — may I offer you a glass of gin?” she said in an extra-refined voice.
“Thank you very much,” said Dumbledore, beaming.