"Armando, I meant no blame."
Turning toward the portrait of former Headmaster Dippet, whose expression carried a mingling of hurt pride and mild grievance, Dumbledore spoke with a warmth that made even Sherlock and Harry feel at ease simply watching from the side.
"At the time, nearly every teacher shared your opinion, I was very nearly alone in mine. After all, he had not only obtained twelve O.W.L. certificates, but had received 'Outstanding' marks in every single subject. It was a situation none of us had ever encountered before. No one could have believed, then, that behind that gifted, mild-mannered boy lurked such dark intentions. Even I had no concrete proof of my suspicions."
Though Dippet's portrait said nothing more, it issued a pointed harrumph, clearly not entirely appeased.
"But... he was turned down in the end, wasn't he?" Harry ventured.
"He was," said Dumbledore, with a nod.
"Professor Dippet's stated reason was subtly framed, he said Voldemort was only eighteen and far too young. No matter how talented he might be, he lacked the experience necessary to teach at Hogwarts."
"And so, you should thank me." Dippet's portrait interjected promptly, with more than a hint of self-satisfaction.
"Yes, I am deeply grateful to you, Armando."
A faint, fond smile crossed Dumbledore's face as the old memories surfaced.
"But Professor Dippet also left a door ajar. He told Voldemort he was welcome to apply again in a few years, if he still wished to teach by then."
Dippet's portrait gave another faint harrumph and turned its head away.
"Fortunately," Dumbledore continued, his tone sharpening slightly, "two years later, he did not return.
Though I had never intended to allow Voldemort back into this school from the very beginning especially not for a position of power. That was not an outcome I was willing to accept."
"A position of power..."
Harry repeated the phrase quietly, brow furrowed, his mind working quickly. Within moments, without needing to ask Sherlock or Dumbledore, the answer arrived on its own.
There was only one position Voldemort would ever have wanted.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts!"
"Precisely." Dumbledore inclined his head, a glint of approval in his eyes.
"The Defense Against the Dark Arts position was held at the time by an elderly professor named Galatea Merrythought, who had been teaching at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years and was enormously experienced. Even she was prepared to have Voldemort come and take over her classes..."
He let the sentence hang, then shifted course.
"After being refused, Voldemort went to work at Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley. Every faculty member who had admired him was sorry to see it. Such a brilliantly gifted young wizard, reduced to working in a common shop?
What they did not know was that Voldemort was no ordinary shop assistant or rather, he was far more than that."
Dumbledore's fingertips moved slowly along the surface of the crystal vial, the warmth of his touch enough to send faint ripples through the silver threads of memory within.
He paused, then continued.
"The recently-graduated Tom Riddle was handsome, sharp, and unfailingly courteous in his manner. He wore a smile that was always precisely calibrated never obsequious, never cold. With these natural advantages, he quickly earned a particular kind of assignment from Borgin and Burkes.
As you both know, the shop specializes in magical objects with unusual properties."
Both Sherlock and Harry nodded in wordless acknowledgment. Dumbledore sighed quietly.
"And so, Voldemort was sent to persuade those who owned such treasures to sell their collections to the shop. He was, by all accounts, extraordinarily good at it always finding exactly the right words to move people, to make them surrender their prized possessions quite willingly."
Here Dumbledore glanced at Sherlock, a gentle warmth in his expression.
"That quality, Sherlock, rather reminds me of you."
"In what way?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow lifted, his tone even.
"You are both gifted at persuasion, at bringing people around to your way of thinking," Dumbledore replied simply.
"He really is!" Harry agreed at once, entirely certain of it.
Sherlock accepted the observation with a mild smile and no further comment. He knew perfectly well that there was a fundamental difference between one kind of persuasion and another.
Voldemort's relied on a carefully performed warmth and precise calculation on the exploitation of human weakness, on manipulation. That was something Sherlock had no interest in. What he relied upon was rigorous logic, irrefutable evidence, and an unwavering pursuit of truth.
Seeing that Sherlock had not risen to the remark, Dumbledore moved on without ceremony.
"The memory I wish to share with you comes from a very old house-elf named Hokey."
He lifted the crystal vial, tapped it gently with his wand, and the stopper leapt free with a soft pop. He tilted the vial slowly over the Pensieve, and the spinning silver memory poured out into the basin, spreading across its surface like liquid, shimmering with a soft, diffuse light.
"Her mistress was a very wealthy, very elderly witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith.
Now then, which of you would like to go in first?"
Seeing Sherlock nod in his direction, Harry rose at once.
He crossed quickly to the Pensieve and leaned over the swirling silver surface until the warmth of it touched his face.
The next instant, the ground dropped away beneath him, and he tumbled through black emptiness.
He had barely found his footing when Sherlock and Dumbledore appeared beside him, the three of them landing steadily in the middle of a vivid, breathing scene.
The moment he touched down, Sherlock raised his head and swept his gaze across their surroundings, taking in every detail with characteristic precision.
They were in an extremely crowded sitting room.
Cabinets along the wall displayed gilt-lacquered boxes studded with small gemstones that caught the dim light and scattered it in faint glimmers. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were packed with gold-spined volumes, their lettering worn and blurred with age clearly antiques.
In one corner, a collection of celestial spheres and brass orreries stood on a tiered rack, their pointers still moving in slow increments as though calculating the paths of stars. Several large potted plants with broad, trailing leaves grew from intricately carved brass urns, their foliage spilling so low it nearly covered the windows.
The overall impression was something like a magical antique shop and a greenhouse forced into uncomfortable cohabitation cluttered, yet brimming with the unmistakable evidence of wealth. Ancient, yet steeped in a kind of opulence that refused to be ignored. Even through the medium of memory, one could almost feel the air, a layered blend of old ink, damp soil, and expensive incense.
When Sherlock had taken in the surroundings, he turned his attention to the center of the room.
An old woman sat ensconced in a velvet-cushioned armchair. This, plainly, was Hepzibah Smith.
She was a large woman, draped in a lavish, vivid pink silk robe whose skirts fanned out around the chair like an enormous flower in bloom. Atop her head sat a carefully arranged ginger wig, its curls immaculate and adorned with a few round pearl ornaments.
Her figure, set against the already-cluttered room, created a striking contrast threading one's way past her without upsetting some ornament or other seemed less a matter of skill than of luck.
At that moment, she was peering into a small ruby-framed mirror, applying more rouge to cheeks that were already an emphatic shade of red, using a large powder puff embroidered with gold thread. With each pat, a fine pink mist drifted into the air and settled on her collar like crushed rose petals.
A small, wizened house-elf knelt at her feet, carefully fastening the last clasp on her tight satin shoes with trembling fingers. The elf stood no taller than the cushion of Hepzibah's chair.
Her skin, pale as paper, hung loose on her frame as though it might tear at the slightest pull. She wore a faded grey linen robe several sizes too large, which pooled around her fragile body and made her look all the more forlorn.
"Hurry up, Hokey!" Hepzibah's voice was shrill and arrogant deeply unpleasant to the ear. "He said he'd be here at four, and there's only two minutes left and he has never been late!"
Under her mistress's urging, the house-elf Hokey scrambled upright. Her tiny fingers trembled so much from nerves that she could barely grip the clasp, but she managed to fasten the last one at last.
Hepzibah set aside her powder puff, surveyed herself in the mirror from side to side, patted her wig to confirm not a curl was out of place, and at last asked with satisfaction:
"How do I look? Don't I seem at least ten years younger?"
"Very beautiful, Mistress like a rose in full bloom," Hokey piped in a reedy voice, its performed flattery doing nothing to conceal an underlying exhaustion. She was clearly a creature worked to the bone.
Sherlock drew his gaze back from the thick rouge on Hepzibah's face, a faint, cool amusement passing through his expression. He had his assessment: wealthy, vain, constitutionally shallow, and thoroughly lacking in self-awareness blinded by her own gilded surface, still chasing the illusion of youth through the medium of money.
Harry, meanwhile, supposed privately that Hokey's contract must require her to answer this particular question with a lie. He was fairly confident his own aesthetic judgment remained intact. As far as he could see, there was nothing in Hepzibah's stout figure and exaggerated cosmetics that had the faintest connection to the word beautiful.
At that moment, the doorbell chimed, a clear, bright sound that shattered the room's stagnant air. Both mistress and elf started at once. The pink silk robe swayed so violently with Hepzibah's sudden movement that it nearly swept a nearby rack of orreries off its feet.
She grabbed the armrest to steady herself and called out urgently: "Quickly, quickly, he's here, Hokey! Go and let him in at once!"
Her hands flew about, smoothing every last fold and crease of her robes, while her eyes lit with a happiness she could not have hidden even if she had tried.
Hokey did not dawdle. She set off in a quick shuffle, her slight figure vanishing down the corridor in an instant.
A moment later, she returned followed by a tall young man.
Sherlock recognized him immediately.
It was Voldemort, as a young man.
His black hair was slightly longer than in the last memory they had entered together, falling softly across his forehead, which only deepened the intensity of his features.
His cheeks were faintly hollowed, but that hollowness served only to sharpen his face into something more striking, lending him the kind of maturity that carries a certain magnetic quality. His dark grey suit was precisely cut and made him appear composed and handsome beyond his years.
He moved through the crowded room with careful, nearly soundless steps, his feet were finding the gaps between the accumulated antiques and sprawling plants with ease. Watching this, Sherlock noted with certainty that he had been here many times, and knew the layout as well as his own home.
Voldemort stopped before Hepzibah, bent slightly, and pressed his lips with elegant formality to the back of her pudgy hand, his voice smooth as still water:
"Mrs Smith, good afternoon. I brought you flowers."
He raised his hand with a slight flourish, and a vivid bunch of deep red roses appeared from nowhere, petals still jeweled with water drops, carrying a light, clean fragrance. They had clearly been chosen with care.
Sherlock looked on with a barely audible sound of contempt, his expression one of cool disdain. This kind of planned flattery struck him as transparently crude, full of holes. And yet there were always people who fell for it.
"You dreadful, wonderful boy!" Hepzibah's cheeks flushed an even deeper pink with excitement. She managed an expression of playful reproach, though the sweetness she was trying to hide was evident in every syllable.
And yet on the small lace-draped table beside her, a delicate crystal vase had already been arranged as though it had been waiting all day for exactly this purpose.
Both Sherlock and Voldemort saw through it at a glance.
Hepzibah did not notice, and remained oblivious.
She gestured for Hokey to take the roses and arrange them in the vase, then turned back to Voldemort with an air of warm familiarity:
"You'll spoil me absolutely rotten, Tom... Come now, sit down, sit down! Hokey bring out those pastries I had ready, oh, but look at my memory."
The house-elf had already darted back in carrying a silver tray, which she set carefully on the small side table by her mistress's elbow. On it were several elegant little cakes layered with thick cream and fresh fruit, fragrant and bright.
"Help yourself, Tom, please, eat something!"
From the moment Voldemort had entered the room, Hepzibah's eyes had not left his face for an instant.
One more second, Harry thought with a trace of dark humor, and she might just lean over and kiss him.
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