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HRHL# Chapter 141: Sit Down and Listen to Your Senior’s Heartfelt Words {1}
🕑 Added 2025-04-03 22:09:12 +0000 UTCAfter Harry left the map’s secret chamber, he didn’t hesitate for a moment and headed straight to the eighth floor, right in front of the Headmaster’s office.
The entrance to the headmaster’s office was guarded by an utterly grotesque gargoyle. Seeing Harry approach, it mechanically swiveled its head to look at him.
“Password,” it said.
Without a second thought, Harry replied, “Fizzing Whizzbees.”
The gargoyle didn’t react at all. Harry knew this meant the password was wrong.
“Lemon Sherbet,” he tried again.
Still, the gargoyle remained motionless.
Harry rattled off every candy name he knew from the wizarding world, even throwing in Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans for good measure, but the gargoyle didn’t budge an inch.
“You know what? Maybe I should try a different kind of password,” Harry said, losing patience. He reached out and patted the gargoyle’s head, whispering, “Fiendfyre.”
“Password incorrect,” the gargoyle replied, sounding mildly annoyed.
Harry didn’t say anything. Instead, he let a small flicker of black flame dance at his fingertips and brought it close to the gargoyle’s face.
“That’s not the correct password,” the gargoyle said, breaking its usual brevity with an unprecedented string of words.
Just as Harry thought it was some paragon of principle, unyielding and steadfast, it spoke again.
“The correct password is ‘Honeydukes Majority Shareholder,’ sir.”
“Alright, Honeydukes Majority Shareholder,” Harry said, extinguishing the tiny wisp of Fiendfyre.
“Password correct!” The gargoyle hopped aside as if it had been itching to do so all along.
A narrow passage to the headmaster’s office appeared before Harry. He climbed through it and found himself inside the office.
The portraits of past headmasters were, as usual, snoring away, as was Dumbledore’s phoenix. Only the old Sorting Hat kept wriggling about.
Seeing Harry enter, the Hat greeted him in a low voice. “Hey, Harry—how’d you get in?”
Harry walked over and replied just as quietly, “I’ve got something I need to talk to Professor Dumbledore about…”
“Oh, missing your old junior, eh?” the Hat teased in a hushed tone. “Don’t worry, kid, I haven’t spilled your little secrets to Albus. But he’s not in the office right now. I’d suggest you wait here for a bit.”
“Alright.”
Harry nodded, about to turn and find a spot to sit, when he noticed the Hat squirming again.
“What’s wrong with you, old Hat?” Harry asked with concern.
“It’s a bit itchy, you know. Sitting on this shelf all the time, sometimes bugs crawl over me,” the Hat explained. “So, could you do an old friend a favor and give me a scratch?”
“Sure.” Harry reached out, grabbed the Hat by its pointed tip, and lifted it up.
He initially thought about using his wand to cast a quick Scourgify, but decided against it. Instead, he gave the Hat a few gentle pats with his hand.
Contrary to his expectations, no cloud of dust billowed up. The Hat only looked dirty—worn by the passage of time—but it actually had a dust-repelling charm on it.
“Oh! That’s the spot!” the Hat said comfortably. “Put a bit more oomph into it, will you? That barely scratches the itch.”
Harry gave it a couple more firm pats before setting it back on the shelf.
“Getting dusted off feels great, Harry,” the Hat said with a chuckle. “Thanks, old friend.”
“Hope you have a good day,” Harry replied, suddenly feeling the headmaster’s office was unusually quiet. “Where’s Headmaster Black? It’s been a while since I last saw him. I kinda miss him.”
The Hat yawned. “You mean Phineas? He’s gone back to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, the old Black family house. He pops back there to sleep every now and then.”
“I see,” Harry said, turning to sit obediently across from Dumbledore’s desk.
The office wasn’t exactly silent. Dumbledore had littered it with whirring, humming silver gadgets, though Harry had no idea what they were for.
He waited and waited, but Dumbledore didn’t return.
Growing restless, Harry stood up and paced around. That’s when he spotted a Pensieve not too far off.
“What’s this?” Curiosity got the better of him, and he leaned over, plunging his head into the Pensieve.
Harry felt as though he were spinning through endless darkness, falling deeper and deeper.
Before long, he landed on solid ground again—right at the entrance to the headmaster’s office.
“What are you doing, Tom? Wandering around this late?”
A voice rang out. Harry followed it and saw a tall wizard with flowing auburn hair and a long beard, greeting someone from the marble staircase.
It was a younger Albus Dumbledore.
But this middle-aged version of Professor Dumbledore looked stern, exuding a commanding presence far more intense than the Dumbledore Harry knew now.
Greeting me? Harry wondered.
Knowing how Pensieves worked, he realized that wasn’t possible. He was merely inside Dumbledore’s memory.
He turned toward the direction Dumbledore was addressing and saw a strikingly handsome young man.
The youth looked about sixteen or seventeen, with black hair and dark eyes, though his face was a touch pale.
Yet he carried himself with impeccable poise—no trace of arrogance or aggression—and his demeanor was humble.
He wore Slytherin robes, a silver Prefect badge gleaming on his chest.
His name’s Tom?
“I was just on my way to see the headmaster, sir,” Tom said, his tone cautious, head lowered as if he didn’t dare meet Dumbledore’s eyes.
Harry could understand Tom’s reaction. This Dumbledore radiated authority, far more intimidating than the twinkly-eyed, white-bearded version who reminded him of a kindly Santa Claus. Hardly any Hogwarts student would have the guts to look this Dumbledore in the eye—especially with that piercing gaze Harry knew so well.
“Alright, off to bed” Dumbledore said, studying Riddle. “These days, it’s best not to loiter in the corridors, now that…”
He trailed off with a heavy sigh.
“Good night, Tom.” With that, Dumbledore strode away.
Harry wasn’t particularly interested in this Tom fellow and chose to follow Dumbledore instead.
Soon, he trailed the professor into the Transfiguration office.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Dumbledore said, rubbing his forehead with a sigh.
The door opened, and in walked a red-haired beauty.
(A young Professor McGonagall!)
Harry was floored. If not for the uncanny resemblance in her features and demeanor, he’d never have connected this stunning woman with the stern, elderly McGonagall he knew.
“Albus,” McGonagall said, crossing to Dumbledore’s desk and sitting across from him.
“So—it’s true? We’re closing Hogwarts?”
“Perhaps, Minerva,” Dumbledore replied, massaging the bridge of his nose as if to ease his exhaustion. “You know a student has died, and we haven’t caught the culprit. The Board of Governors leaked it to the Daily Prophet, and now the Ministry has no choice but to take it seriously.”
McGonagall clutched her collar, wiping tears from the corner of her eye. “Merlin’s beard… poor Myrtle.”
“Yes, poor child,” Dumbledore sighed. “I still remember her. I was the one who went to fetch her when she first came to Hogwarts. I can’t imagine how devastated her parents will be.”
McGonagall sobbed for a moment, then wiped her eyes. “Do you have any idea who might be responsible, Albus?”
“I don’t know,” Dumbledore said.
But his eyes flickered, as if he were holding back a suspicion.
McGonagall didn’t notice the shift in his expression. She’d just stood up when another knock came at the door.
“Albus,” an aged, feeble voice called from outside.
“Come in, Headmaster Dippet,” Dumbledore said.
Dippet pushed the door open but didn’t step inside. “Albus, Mr. Riddle has found the culprit. He’s accused Rubeus Hagrid from Gryffindor, claiming the Acromantula he’s been keeping attacked Elizabeth Warren.”
“Impossible!” McGonagall snapped instantly. “That’s absurd. I can vouch for Hagrid—he’s not capable of this!”
“I agree, Headmaster Dippet,” Dumbledore said gravely. “If Myrtle had been bitten by an Acromantula, there’d be signs of poisoning. We all know what Acromantula venom does to a body.”
“But Mr. Riddle has already written to the Ministry, naming Hagrid,” Dippet sighed. “You know how the Ministry operates—better one scapegoat than a mess to clean up. They’re not interested in the truth. They just want this pinned on Hagrid so it’s settled. That way, they avoid closing Hogwarts and calming panicked parents—the ‘culprit’ will have been caught.”
Harry’s fists clenched.
Even without knowing about the Basilisk, he’d never believe Hagrid did it.
Merlin’s sake, Hagrid’s so kind—so bloody kind.
He’d actually thought Tom seemed decent at first…
Though, to be fair, Hagrid keeping an Acromantula at school was a bit out there.
Talk about guts—raising that thing in a school.
Good thing he wasn’t a Gryffindor now, or Ron might’ve assassinated him—and his bedmate—one night in a fit of terror.
“What do we do?” McGonagall whimpered. “No, I can’t let Hagrid be taken like this. I should—”
“Minerva!” Dumbledore cut in with a sigh. “We can’t prove Hagrid’s innocence either way. An Acromantula can kill, and right now, the best we can do is ensure Hagrid doesn’t end up in Azkaban.”
“Merlin… Merlin…” McGonagall slumped back into her chair, sobbing quietly.
“However,” Dippet added, “Mr. Riddle came to me earlier. He asked if he could stay at school over the holidays because he doesn’t want to return to that orphanage. He told me his father was a Muggle and his mother a witch, but she died after giving birth to him.”
“Yes,” Dumbledore said, lost in recollection. “I remember that. When I went to fetch Tom, he told me his name came from his father.”
“Mr. Riddle…” McGonagall sighed. “How could he do this? I can’t fathom why he’d frame Hagrid.”
“Who knows?” Dumbledore tapped the desk thoughtfully.
The memory ended there, and Harry plunged back into darkness.
He pulled his head out of the Pensieve, only to meet Dumbledore’s calm, expectant gaze.
Harry squirmed, embarrassed at being caught snooping through someone’s memories.
“Professor Dumbledore, I—”
He opened his mouth, but what came out was, “I looked on purpose…”
