The door of the office opened. 

Hello, Potters," said Moody. "Come in, then."

 Harry and I walked inside. We had been inside Dumbledore's office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently.

 Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore's desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat. 

"Harry! Emma!" said Fudge jovially, moving forward. "How are you?"

 "Fine," we lied. 

"We were just talking about the night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds," said Fudge. "It was you who found him, was it not Harry?"

 "Yes," said Harry. Then, maybe feeling it was pointless to pretend that we hadn't overheard what they had been saying, he added, "I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?"

 Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge's back, his eyes twinkling. 

"Yes, well," said Fudge, looking embarrassed, "we're about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, Emma, if you'll excuse us . . . perhaps if you just go back to your class —"

"we wanted to talk to you, Professor,"I said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave m a swift, searching look."Wait here for me, Harry,Emma" he said. "Our examination of the grounds will not take long."

They trooped out in silence past us and closed the door. After a minute or so, I heard the clunks of Moody's wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below. we looked around.

"Hello, Fawkes," I said.

Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry and me.

Harry and I sat down on chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk. For,several minutes, we sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what we had just heard, and running our fingers over our scar. It had stopped hurting now.

I felt much calmer, somehow, now that I was in Dumbledore's office, knowing we would shortly be telling him about the dream. I looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, which i recognized as the one Harry himself had pulled out of theSorting Hat in his second year. The sword had once belonged toGodric Gryffindor, founder of Harry's House. We noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing andshimmering on the glass case. 

We looked around for the source ofthe light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly fromwithin a black cabinet behind us, whose door had not beenclosed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at Fawkes, I had already begun walking, he then got up,walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door. 

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around theedge: runes and symbols that I did not recognize. The silverylight was coming from the basin's contents, which were like nothing I had ever seen before. He could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it wasmoving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly.It looked like light made liquid — or like wind made solid — I couldn't make up my mind.

 I wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearlyfour years' experience of the magical world told me that sticking my hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a verystupid thing to do. I therefore pulled my wand out of the insideof his robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked back atthe contents of the basin, and prodded them. 

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirlvery fast.Harry and I bent closer, our heads right inside the cabinet. The silverysubstance had become transparent; it looked like glass. We looked down into it, expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin — andsaw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterioussubstance, a room into which we seemed to be looking through acircular window in the ceiling. 

The room was dimly lit; I thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in bracketssuch as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering our faces so that our nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Harry and I saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards wereseated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising inlevels. An empty chair stood in the very center of the room. Therewas something about the chair that gave me an ominous feeling.Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it.

 Where was this place? It surely wasn't Hogwarts; I had neverseen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in themysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised ofadults, and I knew there were not nearly that many teachers atHogwarts. They seemed, I thought, to be waiting for something;even though I could only see the tops of their hats, all of theirfaces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of themwere talking to one another. 

The basin being circular, and the room I was observing square, We could not make out what was going on in the corners of it. We leaned even closer, tilting our heads, trying to see . . . 

The tip of our noses touched the strange substance into which hewas staring. 

Dumbledore's office gave an almighty lurch — Harry and I were thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside thebasin —But our heads did not hit the stone bottom.We were fallingthrough something icy-cold and black; it was like being suckedinto a dark whirlpool — 

And suddenly, Harry and I found ourselves sitting on a bench at the endof the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. I looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which we had just been staring, but there wasnothing there but dark, solid stone. 

Breathing hard and fast, I looked around us. Not one ofthe witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least twohundred of them) was looking at us. Not one of them seemed tohave noticed that two fourteen-year-olds had just dropped fromthe ceiling into their midst. I turned to the wizard next to me on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberatedaround the silent room. 

I was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore. 

"Professor!" I said in a kind of strangled whisper. "we're sorry — we didn't mean to — we were just looking at that basin in yourcabinet — I — where are we?"

 But Dumbledore didn't move or speak. He ignored me completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring intothe far corner of the room, where there was a door.Harry and I gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then around at thesilently watchful crowd, then back at Dumbledore. And then itdawned on me. . . . 

Once before, I had found myself somewhere that nobody could hear, see or feel me. That time,I  had fallen through a page inan enchanted diary, right into somebody else's memory . . . andunless I was very much mistaken, something of the sort had happened again. . . .

 Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in front of Dumbledore's face. Dumbledore did not blink,look around at Harry and me, or indeed move at all. And that, in my opinion, settled the matter. 

Dumbledore wouldn't ignore us likethat. We were inside a memory, and this was not the present-dayDumbledore. Yet it couldn't be that long ago . . . the Dumbledoresitting next to me now was silver-haired, just like the present-dayDumbledore. But what was this place? What were all these wizardswaiting for?

 I looked around more carefully. The room, as I had suspected when observing it from above, was almost certainly underground — more of a dungeon than a room, I thought. There wasa bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictureson the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows ofbenches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so thatthey had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms. 

Before I could reach any conclusions about the place inwhich we were, we heard footsteps. The door in the corner of thedungeon opened and three people entered — or at least one man,flanked by two dementors. 

My insides went cold. The dementors — tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed — were gliding slowly towardthe chair in the center of the room, each grasping one of the man'sarms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man betweenthem looked as though he was about to faint, and I couldn't blame him . . . I knew the dementors could not touch me insidea memory, but I remembered their power only too well. Thewatching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the manin the chained chair and glided back out of the room. The doorswung shut behind them. 

I looked down at the man now sitting in the chair and sawthat it was Karkaroff. 

Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hairand goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs, but in thinand ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as I watched, thechains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snakedtheir way up Karkaroff's arms, binding him there. 

"Igor Karkaroff," said a curt voice to Harry's left. Harry and I lookedaround and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle of thebench beside him. Crouch's hair was dark, his face was much lesslined, he looked fit and alert. "You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have givenus to understand that you have important information for us."

 Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound tothe chair.

 "I have, sir," he said, and although his voice was very scared, I could still hear the familiar unctuous note in it. "I wish to beof use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I — I know that the Ministryis trying to — to round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters. Iam eager to assist in any way I can. . . ." 

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizardsand witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others withpronounced mistrust. Then I heard, quite distinctly, fromDumbledore's other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, "Filth."

Harry and I leaned forward so that we could see past Dumbledore.Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there — except that there was a verynoticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down uponKarkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike. 

"Crouch is going to let him out," Moody breathed quietly toDumbledore. "He's done a deal with him. Took me six months totrack him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he's gotenough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throwhim straight back to the dementors." 

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long,crooked nose.

 "Ah, I was forgetting . . . you don't like the dementors, do you,Albus?" said Moody with a sardonic smile. 

"No," said Dumbledore calmly, "I'm afraid I don't. I have longfelt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures." 

"But for filth like this . . ." Moody said softly.

 "You say you have names for us, Karkaroff," said Mr. Crouch."Let us hear them, please."

 "You must understand," said Karkaroff hurriedly, "that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy. . . .He preferred that we — I mean to say, his supporters — and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them —" 

"Get on with it," sneered Moody.

 "— we never knew the names of every one of our fellows — Healone knew exactly who we all were —" 

"Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented someone likeyou, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in," muttered Moody. 

"Yet you say you have some names for us?" said Mr. Crouch. 

"I — I do," said Karkaroff breathlessly. "And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing hisbidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely —" 

"These names are?" said Mr. Crouch sharply. 

Karkaroff drew a deep breath."There was Antonin Dolohov," he said. "I — I saw him torturecountless Muggles and — and non-supporters of the Dark Lord."

 "And helped him do it," murmured Moody. 

"We have already apprehended Dolohov," said Crouch. "He wascaught shortly after yourself." 

"Indeed?" said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. "I — I am delighted to hear it!"

 But he didn't look it. I could tell that this news had comeas a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.

 "Any others?" said Crouch coldly.

 "Why, yes . . . there was Rosier," said Karkaroff hurriedly. "EvanRosier.""Rosier is dead," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after youwere too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and waskilled in the struggle." 

"Took a bit of me with him, though," whispered Moody to my right. Harry and I looked around at him once more, and saw himindicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore. 

"No — no more than Rosier deserved!" said Karkaroff, a realnote of panic in his voice now. I could see that he was startingto worry that none of his information would be of any use to theMinistry. Karkaroff's eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting. 

"Any more?" said Crouch.

 "Yes!" said Karkaroff. "There was Travers — he helped murderthe McKinnons! Mulciber — he specialized in the Imperius Curse,forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who wasa spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!" I could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. Thewatching crowd was all murmuring together. 

"Rookwood?" said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting infront of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment."Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?"

 "The very same," said Karkaroff eagerly. "I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, tocollect information —"

 "But Travers and Mulciber we have," said Mr. Crouch. "Verywell, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban whilewe decide —" 

"Not yet!" cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. "Wait, I havemore!" 

I could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skincontrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard. 

"Snape!" he shouted. "Severus Snape!" 

"Snape has been cleared by this council," said Crouch disdainfully. "He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore."

 "No!" shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound himto the chair. "I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!" 

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet."I have given evidence already on this matter," he said calmly."Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, atgreat personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am." 

I turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a lookof deep skepticism behind Dumbledore's back. 

"Very well, Karkaroff," Crouch said coldly, "you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in themeantime. . . ."Mr. Crouch's voice faded.

 Harry and I looked around; the dungeonwas dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything wasfading; I could see only my own body — all else was swirlingdarkness. . . . 

And then, the dungeon returned. I was sitting in a differentseat, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr.Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different: relaxed, evencheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talkingto one another, almost as though they were at some sort of sportingevent. I noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite. She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, andwas sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, ayounger Rita Skeeter. I looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different robes. Mr. Crouch lookedmore tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter. . . . I understood. Itwas a different memory, a different day . . . a different trial.

 The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked intothe room.

 This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a LudoBagman who was clearly at the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn't broken now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, but it did not bind him there as it had bound Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile. 

"Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front of theCouncil of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activitiesof the Death Eaters," said Mr. Crouch. "We have heard the evidenceagainst you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgment?" 

I couldn't believe my ears. Ludo Bagman, a Death Eater? I looked at Harry out of the corner of my eye. He looked just as shocked as I do 

"Only," said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, "well — I know I'vebeen a bit of an idiot —"

 One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiledindulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear to share their feelings. Hewas staring down at Ludo Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike. 

"You never spoke a truer word, boy," someone muttered dryly toDumbledore behind Harry. We looked around and saw Moodysitting there again. "If I didn't know he'd always been dim, I'd havesaid some of those Bludgers had permanently affected hisbrain. . . ." 

"Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to LordVoldemort's supporters," said Mr. Crouch. "For this, I suggest aterm of imprisonment in Azkaban lasting no less than —"

 But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding benches.Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr. Crouch. 

"But I've told you, I had no idea!" Bagman called earnestly overthe crowd's babble, his round blue eyes widening. "None at all! OldRookwood was a friend of my dad's . . . never crossed my mind he was  in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting me ajob in the Ministry later on . . . once my Quidditch days are over,you know . . . I mean, I can't keep getting hit by Bludgers for therest of my life, can I?" 

There were titters from the crowd.

 "It will be put to the vote," said Mr. Crouch coldly. He turnedto the right-hand side of the dungeon. "The jury will please raisetheir hands . . . those in favor of imprisonment . . ." I looked toward the right-hand side of the dungeon. Notone person raised their hand. Many of the witches and wizardsaround the walls began to clap. One of the witches on the jurystood up. 

"Yes?" barked Crouch. 

"We'd just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the Quidditch match against Turkey lastSaturday," the witch said breathlessly. 

Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and bowed, beaming. 

"Despicable," Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting down asBagman walked out of the dungeon. "Rookwood get him a job indeed. . . . The day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeedfor the Ministry. . . ."

 And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had returned, I looked around. Harry, I and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr.Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different.There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail,wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. Crouch. She wasclutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands. I looked up at Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter andgrayer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple. 

"Bring them in," he said, and his voice echoed through the silentdungeon.

 The door in the corner opened yet again. Six dementors enteredthis time, flanking a group of four people. I saw the people inthe crowd turn to look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whisperedto one another. 

The dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairswith chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There wasa thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner andmore nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around thecrowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hoodedeyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were athrone; and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short ofpetrified. He was shivering, his straw-colored hair all over his face,his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouchbegan to rock backward and forward in her seat, whimpering intoher handkerchief.

 Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front ofhim, and there was pure hatred in his face. 

"You have been brought here before the Council of MagicalLaw," he said clearly, "so that we may pass judgment on you, for acrime so heinous —" 

"Father," said the boy with the straw-colored hair. "Father . . .please . . ." 

"— that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,"said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son's voice. 

"We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you standaccused of capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — andsubjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to haveknowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —" 

"Father, I didn't!" shrieked the boy in chains below. "I didn't, Iswear it, Father, don't send me back to the dementors —"

 "You are further accused," bellowed Mr. Crouch, "of using theCruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would notgive you information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury —" 

"Mother!" screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witchbeside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward."Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!"

 "I now ask the jury," shouted Mr. Crouch, "to raise their handsif they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence inAzkaban!"

 In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side ofthe dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls beganto clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. Theboy began to scream. 

"No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't know!Don't send me there, don't let him!"The dementors were gliding back into the room. 

The boys' threecompanions rose quietly from their seats; the woman with theheavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, "The Dark Lordwill rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond anyof his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried tofind him!"

 But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though I could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him.The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the womanswept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle. 

"I'm your son!" he screamed up at Crouch. "I'm your son!"

 "You are no son of mine!" bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyesbulging suddenly. "I have no son!"The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped inher seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed. 

"Take them away!" Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flyingfrom his mouth. "Take them away, and may they rot there!" 

"Father! Father, I wasn't involved! No! No! Father, please!"

 "I think, Harry, Emma it is time to return to my office," said a quietvoice in my ear.Harry and I started. We looked around. Then I looked on my otherside.There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on my right, watchingCrouch's son being dragged away by the dementors — and therewas an Albus Dumbledore on my left, looking right at us. 

"Come," said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put his hands under each of Harry's and my elbows. I felt myself rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him; for a moment, all was blackness, andthen I felt as though I had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on my feet, in what seemed like the dazzling lightof Dumbledore's sunlit office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, and Albus Dumbledore was standingbeside me. 

"Professor," Harry gasped, "we know we shouldn't've —we didn'tmean — the cabinet door was sort of open and —" 

"I quite understand," said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and satdown in the chair behind it. He motioned for Harry and me to sit downopposite him. We did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery-white state, swirling and ripplingbeneath his gaze. 

"What is it?" I asked shakily. 

"This? It is called a Pensieve," said Dumbledore. "I sometimesfind, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have toomany thoughts and memories crammed into my mind."

 "Er," said Harry, who I knew couldn't truthfully say that he had ever feltanything of the sort. 

"At these times," said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin,"I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts fromone's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one'sleisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form."

 "You mean . . . that stuff's your thoughts?" I said, staring atthe swirling white substance in the basin. 

"Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Let me show you."

 Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his robes andplaced the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple. When hetook the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it — but then I saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strangesilvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore addedthis fresh thought to the basin, and Harry and I, astonished, saw our ownfaces swimming around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placedhis long hands on either side of the Pensieve and swirled it, ratheras a gold prospector would pan for fragments of gold . . . and I saw my own face change smoothly into Snape's, who openedhis mouth and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly. 

"It's coming back . . . Karkaroff's too . . . stronger and clearerthan ever . . ."

 "A connection I could have made without assistance," Dumbledore sighed, "but never mind." He peered over the top of his halfmoon spectacles at Harry and me, we were gaping at Snape's face, whichwas continuing to swirl around the bowl. "I was using the Pensievewhen Mr. Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away ratherhastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly.Naturally, it would have attracted your attention."

 "we're sorry," I mumbled.

 Dumbledore shook his head. "Curiosity is not a sin," he said."But we should exercise caution with our curiosity . . . yes, indeed . . ."

 Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the basinwith the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose out of it, a plump,scowling girl of about sixteen, who began to revolve slowly, withher feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Me or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed asSnape's had done, as though it were coming from the depths of thestone basin. "He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir. I only said I'd seen him kissing Florencebehind the greenhouses last Thursday. . . ."

 "But why, Bertha," said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at thenow silently revolving girl, "why did you have to follow him in thefirst place?"

 "Bertha?" I whispered, looking up at her. "Is that — wasthat Bertha Jorkins?" 

"Yes," said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basinagain; Bertha sank back into them, and they became silvery andopaque once more. "That was Bertha as I remember her at school." 

The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore'sface, and it struck me suddenly how very old he was looking. I knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years,but somehow I never really thought of Dumbledore as an oldman. 

"So, Harry, Emma" said Dumbledore quietly. "Before you got lost inmy thoughts, you wanted to tell me something."

 "Yes," said Harry. "Professor — I was in Divination just now, and Emma in Athrimancy and — er — we fell asleep."He hesitated here,perhaps wondering if a reprimand was coming, butDumbledore merely said, "Quite understandable. Continue."

 "Well, I had a dream,"I said. "A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail . . . you know who Wormtail —" 

"I do know," said Dumbledore promptly. "Please continue."

 "Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like,Wormtail's blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead.Then he said, Wormtail wouldn't be fed to the snake — there wasa snake beside his chair. He said — he said he'd be feeding Harry to it, me too. . .if he managed to get close enough.  Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail — and our scars hurt," I said. "It woke us up, it hurt so badly." 

Dumbledore merely looked at me. 

"Er — that's all," said Harry. 

"I see," said Dumbledore quietly. "I see. Now, has your scar hurtat any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up overthe summer?" 

"No, I — how did you know it woke me up over the summer?"said Harry, astonished. 

"You both are not Sirius's only correspondents," said Dumbledore. "Ihave also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts lastyear. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safestplace for him to stay." 

Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down behind hisdesk. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that I couldn'tmake out anything clearly: It was merely a blur of color.

 "Professor?" I said quietly, after a couple of minutes.Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry and me. 

"My apologies," he said quietly. He sat back down at his desk. 

"D'you — d'you know why our scars are hurting us?" 

Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry and me for a moment, andthen said, "I have a theory, no more than that. . . . It is my beliefthat your scars hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, andwhen he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred." 

"But . . . why?" 

"Because you both and he are connected by the curse that failed," saidDumbledore. "Those are no ordinary scars." 

 "So you think . . . that dream . . . did it really happen?"

 "It is possible," said Dumbledore. "I would say — probable.Harry, Emma — did you see Voldemort?" 

"No," said Harry. "Just the back of his chair. But — therewouldn't have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn'tgot a body, has he? But . . . but then how could he have held thewand?" Harry said slowly. 

"How indeed?" muttered Dumbledore. "How indeed . . ." 

Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledorewas gazing across the room, and, every now and then, placing hiswand tip to his temple and adding another shining silver thought tothe seething mass within the Pensieve.

 "Professor," I said at last, "do you think he's gettingstronger?"

 "Voldemort?" said Dumbledore, looking at Harry and me over the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore hadgiven me on other occasions, and always made me feel asthough Dumbledore were seeing right through me in a way thateven Moody's magical eye could not.

 "Once again, Emma, I can onlygive you my suspicions."Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier,than ever."The years of Voldemort's ascent to power," he said, "weremarked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished withouta trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last.Mr. Crouch too has disappeared . . . within these very grounds.And there was a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any importance, for it concerns aMuggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort's father grew up, and he has not been seen since lastAugust. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike most of myMinistry friends."Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry and me.

 "These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The Ministrydisagrees — as you may have heard, while waiting outside myoffice."Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again, Dumbledoreextracting thoughts every now and then. Harry felt as though heought to go, but his curiosity held him in his chair.

 "Professor?" I said again.

 "Yes, Emma?" said Dumbledore. 

"Er . . . could I ask you about . . . that court thing we were in . . .in the Pensieve?"

 "You could," said Dumbledore heavily. "I attended it manytimes, but some trials come back to me more clearly than others . . . particularly now. . . ." 

"You know — you know the trial you found us in? The onewith Crouch's son? Well . . . were they talking about Neville'sparents?"

 Dumbledore gave me a very sharp look.

 "Has Neville nevertold you why he has been brought up by his grandmother?" hesaid. 

Harry and I shook our heads.

 "Yes, they were talking about Neville's parents," said Dumbledore. "His father, Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody.He and his wife were tortured for information about Voldemort'swhereabouts after he lost his powers, as you heard."

"So they're dead?" said Harry quietly. 

"No," said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness I hadnever heard there before. "They are insane. They are both in St.Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I believeNeville visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays.They do not recognize him."

 I sat there, horror-struck.

"The Longbottoms were very popular," said Dumbledore."The attacks on them came after Voldemort's fall from power, justwhen everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused awave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was undergreat pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, theLongbottoms' evidence was — given their condition — none tooreliable."

 "Then Mr. Crouch's son might not have been involved?" saidHarry slowly.

 Dumbledore shook his head."As to that, I have no idea." 

We sat in silence once more, watching the contents of thePensieve swirl. There were two more questions he was burning toask . . . but they concerned the guilt of living people. . . . 

"Er," I said, "Mr. Bagman . . ." 

". . . has never been accused of any Dark activity since," saidDumbledore calmly.

 "Right,"I said hastily, staring at the contents of the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts. "And . . . er . . ." 

But the Pensieve seemed to be asking my question for me. Snape's face was swimming on the surface again. Dumbledoreglanced down into it, and then up at me. 

"No more has Professor Snape," he said. 

I looked into Dumbledore's light blue eyes, and the thing I really wanted to know spilled out of my mouth before I couldstop it. 

"What made you think he'd really stopped supporting Voldemort, Professor?" 

Dumbledore held my gaze for a few seconds, and then said,"That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself."

 Harry and I knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore did notlook angry, yet there was a finality in his tone that told us it wastime to go. We stood up, and so did Dumbledore. 

"Harry," he said as Harry and I reached the door. "Please do not speakabout Neville's parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people know, when he is ready." 

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, turning to go. 

"And —"Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over the Pensieve,his face lit from beneath by its silvery spots of light, looking olderthan ever. He stared at Harry for a moment, and then said, "Goodluck with the third task." 

I needed it too. I was following my brother into that task if it's the last thing I do, no one threatens to kill my brother or me before getting through us both.