Chapter 362: Teaching and Merope Gaunt
After a busy day, the Harry trio returned to the common room.
"This arrangement isn't clever, let alone capable of killing Aiden."
Ron abused his prefect privileges and snatched a first-year student's chair, settling in comfortably.
"You're right."
Seeing this, Hermione went over and kicked him off the chair, returning it to the student.
"It's not a thorough plan."
"But why Aiden? Could Voldemort possibly think he's more threatening than Dumbledore?"
Harry laughed at his own question. Hermione and Ron joined in.
Then a silvery-white tabby cat floated beside Harry. Opening its mouth, Professor McGonagall's voice emerged.
"Mr. Potter, Dumbledore asked me to notify you that Monday's lesson continues. Don't be late."
The tabby cat dissipated.
Harry froze at the voice. When he turned back and realized it was a Patronus, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Coming to his senses, Harry found his two friends looking at him with teasing gazes.
Monday, Harry arrived at the headmaster's office as agreed.
"Harry, you're here. Sit," Dumbledore said, pointing at the floor. A chair floated up from the carpet.
Something about Dumbledore's spellcasting motion felt familiar, but before Harry could think about it carefully, Dumbledore interrupted.
"Professor, isn't Aiden coming?" Harry asked, looking around but not seeing the familiar figure from last time.
"He's already viewed all the memories. The remaining lessons are my one-on-one tutoring for you."
Dumbledore reached for the memory vial on the cabinet while revealing his blackened right hand to Harry.
"Professor, are you really all right?" Harry asked, his concern deepening when he saw Dumbledore's injured hand.
"Quite all right, Harry. It merely requires some rest to heal properly. Let's proceed with your lesson first. The sooner we finish, the sooner I can attend to it properly."
Dumbledore withdrew the memory vial and poured the silvery contents into the Pensieve.
The swirling liquid surged upward, enveloping both Dumbledore and Harry in its ethereal embrace.
They descended through layers of mist, emerging into the shadows of Knockturn Alley.
"This is Knockturn Alley," Harry murmured, recognizing the grim storefronts that seemed frozen in time.
Strange, Harry thought. In just six years, Diagon Alley has barely changed, but Knockturn Alley looks completely different now.
No time for reflection. Harry hurried to keep pace with Dumbledore.
"This is the memory of Caractacus Burke, co-founder of Borgin and Burkes," Dumbledore explained.
As he spoke, a haggard young man appeared, muttering angrily to himself.
"Damn, Prewett, just you wait. One day! One day!" The man seethed as he entered a dilapidated shopfront.
He cast cleaning spells throughout the space, arranged various Dark artifacts on display, and hung a weathered sign outside.
Thus, a Dark Magic antique shop was born. Nearby wizards eyed the establishment with predatory interest.
Two jets of Fiendfyre erupted from within, instantly incinerating an elderly witch and a wizard who'd been raising his wand threateningly.
The hostile onlookers quickly dispersed.
"That year, the Burke family lost a bitter business war against the Prewetts, forfeiting their market dominance in Diagon Alley entirely. They were driven here to Knockturn Alley, forced to rebuild from nothing."
Harry failed to detect the subtle note of satisfaction in Dumbledore's voice as he recounted this history.
"But Professor, why did they fail?"
Thinking of his own Potions business, Harry suddenly became curious about these matters.
"The wizarding market was split between them. Prewett chose protective enchantments, Burke chose offensive artifacts. However, most wizards don't seek to harm others. The market made its choice, and as you saw, Burke was utterly defeated."
Dumbledore gestured subtly. Their surroundings shifted, drawing them into Burke's dim shop.
A pregnant woman appeared before them, plain-featured and worn.
Her clothing was threadbare, every garment stained and filthy. Her face bore the pallor of severe malnutrition during pregnancy.
Harry recognized her immediately: Merope Gaunt, the woman from the previous memory.
"She looks destitute. Why doesn't she use magic to improve her situation?"
Harry voiced his confusion aloud.
"Indeed, why not?" A flash of amber and deep blue flickered in Dumbledore's eyes.
He already knows the answer, Harry realized.
"Years of oppression by her father and brother left her with a deep aversion to magic," Dumbledore explained quietly.
Harry thought of his own years trapped at the Dursleys' and felt a surge of sympathy for this desperate woman.
"Burke, you should recognize this!" A harsh female voice rang out.
Driven to desperation, Merope Gaunt seized a locket hanging from her neck and wrenched it free.
Harry's eyes widened the instant he saw it.
"Ah, Slytherin's locket. Seems the legend that your Gaunt family is his heir is true," Burke said, rubbing his hands.
"I want to sell it. Name your price," Merope said. She couldn't wait to get the money.
"Five Galleons," Burke said without hesitation, lowballing.
"Why don't you just rob me? This is Slytherin's treasure!" Merope's eyes reddened.
Harry couldn't tell if it was anger or sorrow.
"All I see before me is a destitute woman and an artifact of questionable authenticity," Burke said, his tone utterly indifferent.
"Ten Galleons. Any less and I'll take it to Prewett's workshop. I'm certain they'd recognize its true value," Merope said, lifting her chin with a defiant smile.
"Damn it! Don't you dare mention them!" Burke's composure shattered.
He yanked ten Galleons from his pocket and hurled them at the floor. "Take the money and get out!"
Merope gathered the coins, fixed him with a withering stare, and walked out.
She used the money to purchase clean clothing. After her first proper meal in weeks, she began wandering the streets.
The memory shifted forward in time. On a stormy night, Merope huddled beneath various shop awnings, seeking shelter.
Her belly was swollen with pregnancy. The bitter wind seemed to sap what little strength remained in her frail body.
A figure appeared behind her, extending an umbrella over her head.
Merope looked up. In the faint glow of nearby streetlamps, she recognized the visitor's face.
"Darren Prewett!"
"If you have nowhere to go, the Prewett workshop has room for one more worker. Not a Gaunt, mind you, just an ordinary employee."
The Darren before her appeared more mature than when Aiden had encountered him. His keen gaze lent him an air of quiet authority.
"I don't need your condescending charity. Years ago, your ancestors formed an alliance with House Gaunt, but where were you when our family fell?"
Merope knocked the umbrella aside. Her eyes blazed with cold fury.
"We offered counsel, but your family clung to pure-blood supremacy and rejected it," Darren said. He made no move to retrieve the umbrella, allowing the rain to soak through his suit.
"Enough. Spare me your self-righteous pity. I, Merope Gaunt, will always honor my family name!"
Merope fled into the downpour, vanishing into the darkness. The memory's final image showed her giving birth to a baby boy, summoning her last reserves of strength to leave him at Wool's Orphanage.