Sean had seen this wizard in the Daily Prophet—Bob Ogden.
He was there on a mission, and Dumbledore and Sean followed him.
As they passed a wooden signpost, Sean glanced up at its two directional arrows.
The one pointing back the way they'd come read: Great Hangleton, 5 miles.
The one pointing in Ogden's direction read: Little Hangleton, 1 mile.
That gave him a rough idea of the location...
Sean noted it silently.
They walked a bit further, with nothing in sight but the tall hedgerows on either side, the clear summer sky overhead like a vast blue canvas, and the swishing figure in the frock coat ahead.
Then the path curved left and sloped steeply downward, suddenly revealing a valley spread out before them like a surprise panorama.
Sean spotted a village—undoubtedly Little Hangleton—nestled between two steep hills, with its church and graveyard clearly visible.
On the opposite hillside stood a grand mansion, surrounded by expansive green lawns.
"The villagers in Little Hangleton call that place the Riddle House," Dumbledore said with a smile.
Sean looked at the house too. Soon enough, Tom Riddle, retrieved by Wormtail, would enter it.
But if Wormtail was locked up, would he still come back to life?
Sean wasn't sure.
Maybe some other wizard would venture into Albania, maybe there'd be a "Wormear" or "Wormnose" or something like that.
Sean didn't like things outside his plans.
So, he made a definite plan.
Now, in the memory. The downhill path was so steep that Ogden broke into a trot against his will.
Dumbledore lengthened his strides, and Sean quickened his pace to keep up.
Suddenly, the path veered right, and as they rounded the bend, Ogden's frock coat tail flashed before he vanished through a gap in the hedge.
Dumbledore and Sean followed him onto a narrow dirt track, with hedgerows even taller and denser than before.
Though the sky was cloudless, the ancient trees overhead cast cool, dark, thick shadows. It took a few seconds for Sean's eyes to adjust, and then he saw a house half-hidden in the tangled undergrowth.
The place looked barely inhabited: moss covered the walls, many roof tiles were missing, exposing rafters here and there.
Nettles grew thickly around it, reaching up to the tiny windows, which were grimy with years of dirt.
"We're here," Dumbledore said.
With a click, one of the house's windows opened, and a thin stream of steam or smoke wafted out, as if someone was cooking inside.
Then came a snap, and a man in ragged clothes jumped down from a nearby tree, landing right in front of Ogden.
Ogden jumped back, stepping on his own coat tail and nearly falling.
"Hiss—"
The man before them had matted hair so filthy and tangled that its original color was impossible to tell.
He was missing several teeth, and his small, beady black eyes pointed in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he didn't—there was something intimidating about him.
"Er—good morning. I'm from the Ministry of Magic—"
"Hiss hiss."
"Er—sorry—I don't understand you," Ogden said uneasily.
"I think we'd have a hard time understanding him too?" Dumbledore, standing behind them, asked Sean with a smile.
"He's saying 'You're not welcome,'" Sean replied.
"Oh? That's interesting," Dumbledore said, a bit surprised.
"The pronunciation of Parseltongue is like a modified version of ancient Futhark runes. There's a section on it in Parseltongue," Sean explained.
"Forgive me, I haven't heard of that book," Dumbledore said thoughtfully.
Sean glanced at his neck—the Book of Wizards was still there, but in the memory, it was hard to open.
The Parseltongue left by Ravenclaw inside probably couldn't be pulled out either.
In fact, in Ravenclaw's memories, Sean preferred to call that book The Observations of Salazar Slytherin Diary.
The memory continued to unfold.
An old man emerged, his presence easing Ogden a little.
"I'm here to see your son, Mr. Gaunt. That was Morfin just now, right?" Ogden said.
"Ah, that was Morfin," the old man said indifferently. "Are you pure-blood?" he asked suddenly, his tone turning aggressive.
"That's not relevant to this conversation," Ogden said coldly.
But Gaunt clearly disagreed. He squinted at Ogden's face and muttered something in a deliberately offensive tone.
"Can we go inside to talk?" Ogden's voice grew colder.
"Inside?"
"Yes, Mr. Gaunt. I've already told you. I'm here about Morfin. We sent an owl—"
"Owls are no use to me," Gaunt said. "I never open letters."
"Then you can't complain about not knowing someone was coming," Ogden said sharply.
"I'm here about a serious breach of wizarding law that occurred this morning—"
"All right, all right, all right!" Gaunt bellowed. "Get in the bloody house, then—that'll make you more comfortable!"
The house had three small rooms: the middle one served as both kitchen and living room, with two doors leading to the others.
Morfin sat in a grimy armchair by the smoky fire, twirling a live viper between his thick fingers, softly hissing a tune in Parseltongue:
"Hissy, hissy, little snakey,
Slither on the floor,
You be good to Morfin
Or he'll nail you to the door."
A girl appeared in the room too, dressed in rags, rummaging through the ash-filled bottles and jars.
"My daughter, Merope," Gaunt said reluctantly when he saw Ogden looking inquiringly at the girl.
"Good morning," Ogden said.
The girl didn't reply; she glanced fearfully at her father, then turned away quickly to fiddle with the pots on the shelf.
"Well, Mr. Gaunt," Ogden said, "let's get straight to the point. We have reason to believe your son Morfin performed magic in front of a Muggle late last night."
There was a deafening clang. Merope had dropped a pot.
"Pick it up!" Gaunt roared at her. "What, grovel on the floor like a filthy Muggle? What's your wand for, you useless sack of garbage?"
Ogden was stunned, but in the end, Gaunt forced Merope to cast Reparo, but she failed, leading to a torrent of curses like a storm.
Dumbledore casually stepped in front of Sean, blocking him from seeing or hearing more.
Sean only knew that after a while, Gaunt furiously said to Ogden:
"So what? Morfin gave a filthy Muggle a bit of what he deserved—so what if it's illegal now?"
"Morfin has broken wizarding law," Ogden said sternly.
"Morfin has broken wizarding law," Gaunt mimicked Ogden's voice in a pompous drawl. Morfin cackled again.
"He taught a dirty Muggle a lesson, and now that's illegal?"
"Yes," Ogden said. "I'm afraid so."
He pulled a small scroll of parchment from an inside pocket and unrolled it.
"What's this, his sentence?" Gaunt said angrily, raising his voice.
"It's a summons to the Ministry for a hearing—"
"Summons! Summons? Who do you think you are, summoning my son anywhere?"
"I'm Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad," Ogden said.
"And you think we're scum, do you?" screamed Gaunt, advancing on Ogden now, with a dirty yellow-nailed finger jabbing again at his chest. "Scum who'll come running when the Ministry tells 'em to? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy little Mudblood, do you?"
"I was under the impression that I was speaking to Mr. Gaunt," said Ogden, looking wary, but standing his ground.
"That's right!" roared Gaunt. For a moment, Sean thought Gaunt was making an obscene hand gesture, but then realized that he was showing Ogden the ugly, black-stoned ring he was wearing on his middle finger, waving it before Ogden's eyes. "See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"
"I've really no idea," said Ogden, blinking as the ring sailed within an inch of his nose, "and it's quite beside the point, Mr. Gaunt. Your son has committed—"
With a howl of rage, Gaunt ran toward his daughter. For a split second, Sean thought he was going to throttle her as his hand flew to her throat; next moment, he was dragging her toward Ogden by a gold chain around her neck.
"See this?" he bellowed at Ogden, shaking a heavy gold locket at him, while Merope spluttered and gasped for breath.
"I see it, I see it!" said Ogden hastily.
"Slytherin's!" yelled Gaunt. "Salazar Slytherin's! We're his last living descendants, what do you say to that, eh?"
"Mr. Gaunt, your daughter!" said Ogden in alarm, but Gaunt had already released Merope; she staggered away from him, back to her corner, massaging her neck and gulping for air.
Sean watched them, feeling like something was stuck in his throat.
Finally, he blurted out: "Should I mourn for your foolish brain, Salazar?"
That made Dumbledore turn around, his tone playful: "Ravenclaw, is it Ravenclaw?"
"It's just a memory, Headmaster."
Sean's voice was low.
Ravenclaw's memories didn't just bring long-buried recollections; when too many memory points were triggered, it seemed to overwhelm Sean temporarily, making him act on Ravenclaw's experiences.
Like now—he was in a great mood, and it'd be even better if he could find a Salazar Slytherin to mock.
"I think that's enough, child," Dumbledore said. He gripped Sean's elbow and gave a gentle tug.
In an instant, they were weightlessly soaring upward through darkness, landing steadily back in Dumbledore's office, where night had fallen outside.
"What did you notice?" Dumbledore asked.
"A locket and a... ring," Sean replied.
"That's sufficient," Dumbledore said, pleased.
The young wizard before him always caught the key points—not just from intelligence.
"My old ears are always eager for young wisdom. On one thing, I'm certain: if you've gained any insights from the stars, would I have the honor of being your first to share with?"
Dumbledore said.
"I will," Sean replied.
But not this time.
The sky outside was pitch black, and the lights in Dumbledore's office seemed brighter than before.
"Thank you for sharing, Headmaster Dumbledore."
As he left, Sean said.
"No, thank you, Green."
Dumbledore's gaze was profound.
The door to the Headmaster's office closed behind him.
The downside of using the Pensieve was here: maybe only an hour passed in the memory, but in reality, a whole day had gone by.
Sean had entered the office in the morning; now it was evening.
"Will," he called.
"Esteemed Mr. Green."
The Pukwudgie butler Apparated out from the Book of Wizards.
"To Diagon Alley," Sean said.
"As you wish!"
Will snapped his fingers.
...
Diagon Alley.
Fairy Tale Shop.
Even in the evening, young wizards lingered reluctantly in front of the dazzling display windows.
This was the most mysterious and fun store in Diagon Alley, selling magical items that drove the whole wizarding world wild.
Even more fun, the Fairy Tale Shop hid invitation letters in Chocolate Frog cards sold at the door.
They'd seen several beaming young wizards—and their families—go in!
Everyone who entered the shop came out smiling. If only they could bring smiles to others like that too.
The young wizards thought happily.
At that moment, a young wizard appeared at the door.
No one knew how he got there, but a chubby-cheeked young wizard kindly warned: "Hey! You can't get in!"
The boy turned around, and the speaking girl realized he was an exceptionally handsome young boy.
"Oh, I mean, lots of people try to get in, but the grumpy old owner inside is scary!" the girl stammered.
"Thanks."
As he said that, the girl had just started to beam—then watched as he pushed the door open and went in.
"He got in!" the girl squealed.
The Fairy Tale Shop was as it always was, glowing with warm orange light.
"Professor Quirrell," Sean said.
"How did you..."
From afar, Quirrell waved his wand quickly, appearing respectfully before Sean the next second.
"You know you don't have to," Sean said, a bit helpless.
"Mm."
Quirrell just nodded.
"We're going somewhere extremely dangerous, Professor," Sean said.
"Must you go? If you trust me, of course, I-I could handle it for you..." Quirrell stammered, flustered.
"Professor, I need you," Sean said softly.
Quirrell's face flushed red instantly; he stuttered but couldn't get a word out.
Outside, the night had deepened, and most wizards were gathered around fireplaces, resting and chatting.
Sean gazed at every warm window in Diagon Alley. He'd always followed his plans—maybe faster, maybe slower—but he never liked to stop.
And he couldn't.