Hogwarts: This professor is too Muggle.

Chapter 364 Memories
As Ariana and Grindelwald let out piercing roars, the gray mist suddenly expanded and spread throughout the room.

The light from the oil lamps and candles throughout the old house was swallowed up, and the dim flames glowed with an eerie green. Deep within the flames were faintly visible black demonic symbols, and venomous snakes coiled within the skulls.

At the source of this ever-expanding gray fog, a pair of bright black eyes hid behind a small glass window, showing no joy of triumph; fine blood vessels appeared on the outer sclera of the eyes.

A hint of fear mingled with the ferocity of the expression.

Dumbledore gazed at the two phantom figures, one his sister who had died, the other his close friend who was now separated from him. His deep blue eyes seemed to pierce through decades and see them in their true form.

Melvin, who was watching, was no longer in such a hurry. From the beginning until now, Dumbledore had shown no signs of being bewitched and just wanted to see how the Horcruxes worked.

With his mind clear after calming down, Melvin noticed something strange. His gaze pierced through the gray fog, looking directly into those eyes:

"That's the function of the Slytherin locket. You can't actually see the Headmaster's memories, right?"

"Of course I can see it!"

[Ariana] and [Grindelwald] spoke simultaneously, both in Riddle's tone, their voices overlapping, resonating like harmony, yet unable to conceal the underlying bravado:
“Those sordid memories, the deepest fears, the past that the old man dared not face, all the buried secrets—I can see them all!”

"It seems you never even considered trying to understand Slytherin's research."

Melvin shook his head and clicked his tongue in admiration: "Salazar Slytherin may not have been the most powerful dark wizard, but he was definitely a pioneer on the path of dark magic, and the one who went the furthest. He built a sanctuary for later wizards along the way, a rich treasure trove."

The Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts, the basilisk that has slumbered for a thousand years, the snakewood of Ilfamoni, the locket that has been passed down through generations... Of the four founders, Salazar Slytherin's legacy is the most abundant.

Melvin understood this deeply: "Slytherin's research touched the soul earlier than Helbo's. He tried to uncover the true secrets of magic, instead of going astray and begging for death by tearing the soul apart. Your shortsightedness made you ignore the real treasure and run wildly down the wrong path."

“Don’t talk to me like that! You don’t understand at all, this is the magic to conquer death!” Riddle’s voice hissed like a venomous snake.

Melvin continued to rub salt into his wounds: "If I'm not mistaken, the locket may have initially served to guide emotions, but not negative emotions like anger and resentment. It was your soul that polluted the locket."

"This is putting it to its maximum potential!"

"The locket is the key to unlocking the Slytherin treasure. It points the way for future generations, guiding the locket's heirs to discover the relationship between emotions, soul, and magic. The sophisticated alchemy on it completely abandons Legilimency, bypassing Occlumency and drawing out deeply etched memories from the depths of the soul solely through the resonance of magic."

Melvin explained patiently, demonstrating the professional ethics of a professor.

"Truly... incredible magic," Dumbledore murmured in admiration.

Sirius and Kreacher looked somewhat bewildered; they couldn't understand the complex magical theories.

"Tom Riddle, you call yourself the heir of Slytherin, yet you follow that despicable Helpo in crafting Horcruxes, losing the big picture for small gains..."

Melvin looked into those eyes, his expression complex: "He used this key as an ornament."

Melvin's words were merely a casual remark, but Riddle unexpectedly detected a hint of disdain in them. His eyes, blazing with fury, glared at [Grindelwald], who unleashed a furious roar:

"Shut up! Your faces are repulsive, always acting like those high and mighty professors! You're like that, and Dumbledore was like that back in the day!"

[Ariana] cried out in a shrill voice, "Of course I can see it, Dumbledore! I have seen your vulnerability, and just wait, I will use it to torment you, I will use it to end your life!"

The phantom of [Grindelwald] grew as long as a snake, reaching out to tightly grip the phantom of [Ariana] beside him. His eyes gleamed with a cold, scarlet light, his hair swirled like flames, and his face was ferocious.

Riddle is reliving the tragedy of Ariana's death.

The Horcrux completely abandoned its disguise and resorted to any means necessary, all to provoke Dumbledore and make him taste that pain again.

However, Dumbledore simply stared calmly at the locket, expressionless, even though the sudden appearance of the two phantoms had indeed stirred up those distant memories.

"Tom Riddle, or rather, Voldemort, if you could really access my memories, you probably wouldn't be bothered with these tricks..." the headmaster said calmly.

Melvin almost burst out laughing; he was the only one present who understood the meaning of those words.

If Horcruxes could truly access all of Dumbledore's memories, he would be far more interested in those related to himself than in his past.

For example, he was rejected twice when he applied for a teaching position at Hogwarts;

For example, at the height of the Death Eaters' power, the Dark Lord was defeated by a one-year-old baby;

For example, the lingering spirit of Voldemort's original form is hiding in the gutter of Albania, barely clinging to life.

And his Horcruxes, which he had hidden for many years, have been unearthed one by one.

"..."

Since Riddle began tearing apart his soul to create Horcruxes, his personality has become increasingly twisted. In his youth, he was shrewd and calculating, but after becoming the Dark Lord, he became unpredictable and volatile.

Judging from the extreme attitude of the soul fragment in the locket, if he could really see the principal's memories, he probably wouldn't have bothered to create illusions and try to provoke Dumbledore.

“That’s enough…” Dumbledore’s eyes turned cold.

Inside the locket, a cluster of orange-red flames burst into flame.

The Fiery Flame instantly ignited the phantom and the gray mist, and the two soap bubble-like figures shattered in an instant. The surging flames engulfed the locket, but did not cause any damage to the box. The exquisite magic technique manipulated the Fiery Flame to shine through the small glass window, reflected deep within those dark, bright pupils.

The next moment, Riddle's eyes were ignited, scalding blood flowing out, and the fragments of his soul within emitted hoarse roars.

"No, no, no... Dumbledore! You will pay for this!"

The noisy roars grew weaker and weaker, gradually dissipating, and the Black mansion became quiet. Melvin looked down at the locket; the thing that lived in the Horcrux had disappeared. There were no traces of burning left on the locket, and the colorful silk lining wasn't even curled.

Only inside the small glass window, faint, dark brown scorch marks remained from the dripping blood.

At a long table not far away, Sirius and Kreacher looked at the small window, their bodies trembling slightly, their noses reddening, and their eyes moist.

……

Albania, a tavern in the woods.

Bertha Jorkins sat in the corner by the window, touched the Ministry of Magic badge pinned to her chest, and looked up at the rotunda on the first floor of the Albanian tavern.

A suitcase sat at her feet, containing all her belongings in the Seamless Stretch spell's spatial storage. A leather bag slung across her shoulder was filled with items she could easily access.
Some Muggle and wizarding currency change, reminders to keep in mind, and documents to prove identity.

As a dedicated employee of the International Cooperation Department, Jorkins has successfully completed the tasks assigned by his superiors in the past few weeks, assisting Bagman in organizing the Quidditch World Cup. He has earned Mr. Crouch's praise and has been granted a long leave to visit his family.

“You’d better find yourself a travel companion, but none of your colleagues in the department have time. There’s a lot to do in the next few months.” Before parting, Mr. Crouch patiently advised, “Write these suggestions on the first page of your memo and follow them 100%. This trip will go smoothly.”

The director was indeed a caring superior who prepared a lot for Jorgins: three Ministry of Magic badges to ensure she could always identify herself during her travels and deter any ill-intentioned wizards; and to carry only a small amount of money to avoid becoming a lamb to the slaughter...

The suggestions were all very practical until Jorkins arrived at the Dinara Mountains in Albania.

"Your aunt lives in a treehouse on the edge of the forest? Never heard of that before... Maybe it's in another forest? I've never heard of any other witch with the name Jorgins..."

This was the reply I received when I asked other wizards for directions on the road.

Bertha Jorkins is forced to confront the harsh reality that she can't find her aunt's address; she's lost.

"The waiters at the Woodland Tavern are well-informed; perhaps you could try asking there... the Ministry of Magic?"

A passing wizard saw the badge on her chest and seemed to find it laughable, offering her advice: "Don't have unrealistic hopes. Albania is not England; the Ministry of Magic has no real power there."

"Which forest is my aunt in?" Jorgins scratched his head in frustration.

Professor Levent, a Muggle studies professor, published a paper suggesting that wizards may suffer from senility, a condition deep within the brain discovered by Muggle doctors. Elderly wizards afflicted with this condition experience memory and cognitive impairment, frequently forgetting recent events, important appointments, or repeatedly asking the same question, only to be completely unable to recall it afterwards.

Jorgins suspects that he also has the disease.

She doesn't know when it started, but she began to experience forgetfulness. She couldn't remember the date or time, couldn't recall what she ate for breakfast, and sometimes she would suddenly freeze in place.

She prepared a diary as a memo book, but every time she opened the notes in it, even though it was her own handwriting, it always felt unfamiliar.

Why are you going to visit your aunt?

Suddenly, a question popped into Jorkins' mind, and he flipped through his memo to find the reason.

There were no answers on the parchment, so the witch, traveling alone, could only sit and ponder, intending to leave a message on the latest page of her memo to answer her future questions.

How old is my aunt this year?

Was it because her aunt was getting old that she was invited over for a final farewell?
Maybe she wanted to go herself?
Her memory is getting worse and worse, and it may not be long before she completely forgets her aunt.

"A glass of sherry, on the ice..." A witch was ordering at the bar.

In the only tavern in the Albanian forest, it was normal for customers to order food, but the witch's shrill voice was so penetrating that everyone in the tavern could hear it.

"No problem, ma'am, here's your drink." The waiter moved swiftly, the ice cube falling into the glass with a crisp sound.

Jorgins felt a sense of familiarity. He glanced at the witch behind the bar, her face veiled. She was short and stout, hidden under a cloak, with a few strands of curly short hair peeking out. A velvet bow adorned her cloak.

It's strange to see a witch like this in Albania. Other witches would cover their faces and keep a low profile to avoid attracting attention.

"From England?"

The waiter noticed the witch's accent and left in fluent London: "Is there anything else I can help you with, madam? Our Woodland Tavern offers the best service; you won't find better in Albania."

It feels familiar, but I just can't remember it.

Jorkins stared intently at the witch, then poked his head in frustration.

“Jane Selwyn, a pure-blood saint from Devonshire, I’d like to inquire about her.” Umbridge spoke in a high-pitched voice, taking a sip of sherry wine with an air of nonchalance; no one here knew anything about her.

"For gathering information and buying and selling goods, there is no one more suitable than us." The waiter immediately added, his expression almost obsequious.

Albania is a mixed bag, but it's well-informed. The pure-blooded British families are renowned for their wealth and generosity—in other words, they're rich and gullible, and you'd be doing yourself a disservice if you didn't take advantage of them.

People from the Selwyn family?

Jorgins felt a strange unease; she had a feeling that this witch's name wasn't Selwyn.

“I’m looking for a male wizard… who came not long ago,” Umbridge asked in a low voice.

She took a portrait out of her pocket, a clipping from a newspaper, of a short, fat, bald middle-aged wizard with cunning eyes like a rat.

"So it's the escaped fugitive, Peter Pettigrew."

The waiter recognized Albania immediately. As the preferred escape route for British wizards, Albania kept a close eye on news from the British Isles, and this tavern was also a loyal reader of the Daily Prophet.

"You really have news about him?" Umbridge asked, her face lighting up with surprise.

"It's my pleasure to help you, ma'am." The waiter gave a knowing smile and gestured to indicate the price.

"90 Galleons! Why don't you just rob someone?" Umbridge's voice was barely audible, but the waiter still had that damned smile on his face, clearly knowing she was going to buy it and leaving no room for negotiation.

Umbridge gritted his teeth: "Deal. Tell me the news."

"The Albanian rule is to pay first... but I'm willing to show my sincerity because of your surname."

The waiter's smile grew even brighter: "Mr. Peter had dinner at our tavern two days ago. It was quite late then, and he was still wearing a hood, but I have a very keen nose, and I could smell the rat on him."

"This clue isn't worth 90 Galleons."

"Don't worry, Ms. Selwyn, our business has a very good reputation."

The waiter lowered his voice, very professionally: "He bought a batch of food and water from our store. I casually asked him a few questions, and he let slip that he was going to Lake Ohrid, as if he was looking for something."

"what?"

The waiter shrugged and spread his hands: "I don't know, that's the guest's privacy."

Umbridge nodded thoughtfully, downed his sherry in one gulp, slammed his glass on the table, paid a few silver coins as payment and a tip, and turned to leave.

"Hey, ma'am, you haven't paid yet?"

"I only had one glass of sherry, and I paid for it all."

Umbridge proudly raised his chin and walked out of the tavern with light steps, ignoring the waiter's astonished gaze.

(End of this chapter)