The Ambitions Of Rebekah Potter

Chapter Ninety Eight

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Saturday came quickly.

"Evening, sir," Rebekah greeted as she walked into the headmaster's office,

Dumbledore smiled as she approached the desk, sitting down before him with Emperor following diligently behind her. "I hope you've had an enjoyable first week back at school?"

"Yeah, thanks, sir,"

"You must have been busy, Slughorn has been singing your praises again," He laughed. "You have a way with Potions teachers."

"Probably more because I know what I'm doing most of the time," She said. "Potions has always been a good class for me."

"But defence moreso,"

"Defense is practical, easier to remember when it's useful,"

"So," Dumbledore began, clasping his hands on the table, showing off the rotten one by accident as the ring reminded her of something she couldn't place. "You have been wondering, I am sure, what I have planned for you during these, for want of a better word, lessons?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I have decided that it is time, now that you know what prompted Lord Voldemort to try and kill you fifteen years ago, for you to be given certain information."

There was a pause.

"You told me most of what you knew last year," She stared at him coldly, nothing too out of the norm for her. "I have a feeling there is more."

He nodded. "From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork. From here on in, Rebekah, I may be as woefully wrong as Humphrey Belcher, who believed the time was ripe for a cheese cauldron."

"But you think you're right?"

"Naturally I do, but as I have already proven to you, I make mistakes like the next man. Being, forgive me, rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."

Rebekah nodded, glancing at his blackened hand again and decided to ask. "Sir, how did you injure your hand?"

"Now is not the moment for that story, Rebekah. Not yet. We have an appointment with Bob Ogden."

Dumbledore tipped the silvery contents of the bottle into the Pensieve, where they swirled and shimmered, neither liquid nor gas.

"After you."

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The house hid between the tree trunks, nettles, mossy and vines covering the sides to help keep it from prying eyes. One of the windows was thrown open with a clatter, and a thin trickle of steam or smoke issued from it, as though somebody was cooking.

Rebekah bared her teeth in anger when she saw the dead snake nailed to the front door, the tattoo on her right thigh burned as Fidele came out of his pocket universe and slithered onto her shoulders. She pet his head as he laid there, wrapped around her neck like a scarf.

Bob Odgen leapt back as a man in rags jumped in front of him, screaming "You're not welcome."

It wasn't in English or any human language, rather it was in Parseltongue.

The man standing before them had thick hair so matted with dirt it could have been any colour. Several of his teeth were missing. His eyes were small and dark and stared in opposite directions. He might have looked comical, but he did not; the effect was frightening, and Rebekah could not blame Ogden for backing away several more paces before he spoke.