The Pacifist Necromancer of Hogwarts

Dumbledore looked at the pale young man in the basin: Let's go in, Henry.

Go in?

Dumbledore smiled, placed the pensieve in front of Anthony, and motioned for him to look down into it.

Anthony looked down at Quirrell in confusion, his face spinning and shaking with the silvery memory. Dumbledore used his wand to pound the memories in the basin, and they spun quickly - Quirrell's face quickly disappeared, and the memories became transparent - Anthony saw the room with the huge chessboard again, like a meditation There is a passage under the basin that leads directly to the room that protects the magic stone.

Before he could raise his head and ask anything, he felt a push from behind. His head fell into the pensieve, and then, as if gravity suddenly changed direction, he felt like the world was spinning and his feet left the ground. Anthony dove headfirst into something. He was falling - falling - it was dark and cold - falling -

Suddenly his feet were on the ground again.

He found himself standing at the edge of the room, with the giant white queen standing in front of him. Quirrell was talking about the secret of immortality, and his voice echoed in the empty room.

Anthony carefully poked his head out from the gap between the chess pieces and saw that he was wearing that silly dressing gown. The pocket on one side was bulging with the ghost mouse and its apple.

A chuckle suddenly came from next to him. Anthony turned his head sharply and found Dumbledore standing next to him, looking at the two people on the opposite side of the chessboard with interest.

Did you push me down? Anthony whispered with a hint of complaint.

Yes, but let's focus on the matter at hand, said Dumbledore cheerfully. Gee, nice slippers, Henry.

They stood behind White, listening to Quirrell's speech. As he preached more and more enthusiastically, Dumbledore's expression gradually became serious.

What's the matter, sir? asked Anthony. To his ears the speech sounded as hollow as in his memory.

The mist, said Dumbledore thoughtfully, it's so strange...

He is right. Anthony looked around. Unknowingly, the corner of the room was filled with light white mist, but against the white walls, Anthony didn't notice it at first.

Anthony shook his head: I don't remember any of this at the time... However, it's also possible that I didn't pay attention at the time.

Dumbledore didn't answer him.

Quirrell finished his speech and strode towards Dumbledore. Anthony was startled and stood aside quickly. Dumbledore remained standing, studying Quirrell as he easily crushed the white king.

Quirrell seemed not to have seen Dumbledore's sharp gaze, standing next to the door in Anthony's memory, chattering about showing off his power. The Anthony in the memory also slowly walked over and followed Quirrell into the corridor behind the door.

Anthony noticed that Dumbledore was not looking at him. He followed Dumbledore's gaze - the fog in the corner was billowing.

…

After they entered the room with the troll, white mist seeped in from the crack in the door. I don’t know if it’s Anthony’s illusion, but the fog seems to be getting thicker.

Quirrell showed his power unbridledly on the giant monster. The giant monster fell to the ground in front of them. Dumbledore leaned down and examined the injuries on its body calmly.

This is only a small part of my master's power... Quirrell's voice came, followed by a long series of coughs. Dumbledore straightened up and stared at Quirrell who was close at hand and remembered. In the light of the swaying torch, a trace of sadness seemed to finally appear in his blue eyes.

Quirinas... he whispered, you have the wrong power.

Quirrell continued to solicit Antony, and the troll groaned like a broken bellows beside them. Even in his memory, Anthony still felt like he could smell the breathless stench.

He heard himself say: I don't want to...I think life at Hogwarts is pretty good...

Dumbledore turned his gaze and smiled at Anthony. Anthony was inexplicably embarrassed, but at this moment, a thick fog suddenly filled the room, and the voices of past Quirrell and past Anthony became vague and intermittent, as if they were far away.

Anthony looked around in surprise. Dumbledore was still standing next to him calmly, tilting his head slightly as if trying to distinguish the sounds of conversation in the thick fog.

I guess you guys got into a fight, Henry, he said in a very soft voice.

Anthony recalled: Yes, sir.

Suddenly, they could see Quirrell again. A thick fog still shrouded Anthony's memory, but Quirrell's face emerged clearly.

Quirrell seemed to be only a few feet away from them, his pale face full of disbelief, and his mouth opened and closed to say something. However, it was as if a strong wind had blown away his words, and Anthony still heard nothing except a few meaningless syllables.

After a while, thick fog came over again. Anthony and Dumbledore stood in a white, quiet memory.

I take it you don't know what's going on, Henry? Dumbledore asked, still sounding relaxed.

No... Anthony said confused, I don't know.

Dumbledore nodded. Anthony didn't know why they were still standing here, but after a while the fog cleared again.

The sound of conversation suddenly reached their ears again, like a little boy impatiently kicking the TV set with snowflakes on the screen outside the memory. They saw Anthony and Quirrell standing face to face, the room littered with broken bricks, dust and blood.

It was my mistake... said Quirrell, but now it's all over...

Dumbledore stood behind Quirrell, bending slightly and studying the turban on his head curiously. Anthony followed the probe for a while and then realized that something was seeping out from the depths of the blue turban, dyeing it a deep purple that was almost black.

He struggled to recall for a while, and finally remembered that he had probably hit Quirrell on the back of the head when it was covered in white mist.

At this time, the white fog came again, thicker than ever before. It surged towards Anthony and Dumbledore like a wave - Anthony suddenly remembered that this was probably where his memory extraction had suddenly stopped - and then he floated up.

Anthony opened his eyes and found that he was still standing in the principal's office. Fox was bending his neck on the top of the cabinet and looking at himself and Dumbledore.

Anthony felt like a stranded fish that had just been washed onto the beach by a huge wave.

Dumbledore also opened his eyes.

What's going on, sir? asked Anthony.

Dumbledore nodded: Usually, fog means that the memory has been tampered with.

Tampering? Anthony asked. He tilted his head at Dumbledore's instructions, used his wand to stir up his memories, and poured them back into his mind.

If someone wants to cover up something in their memory, generally speaking, we can only see a large thick fog. Dumbledore mused, But they usually come very suddenly and disperse very suddenly... I I’ve never seen this kind of fog before.”

Anthony shook his head, feeling the cold touch of memory still lingering on his temples. This memory seemed to suddenly become clear, and he once again regained the shock, helplessness and anger he had experienced at that time.

Every time the fog comes, I'm doing necromancy, Anthony told Dumbledore. They were not a blur in his mind.

Ah, that does explain a lot, said Dumbledore. He was silent for a while and shook his head: Let's not pursue the part that I shouldn't know. Your undead magic, Henry... please make good use of it.

Anthony replied: I'm working on it.

…

I'm sorry, I guess I wasn't of much help, Anthony said. Everything that shows Voldemort's power is covered in mist.

To his surprise, Dumbledore shook his head seriously.

No, on the contrary, I saw many very important clues. Dumbledore said. You may not understand how important this memory is, Henry. But Quirrell's state...his trembling, his expression, And what he said... they already say a lot.

Anthony recalled it again. Even though the memory was as clear as yesterday, he still found no revelation.

Besides that, I also noticed that Quirrell said something very interesting. Dumbledore repeated, 'If you noticed, I also hold the secret of the soul.' I remember him saying this of.

Anthony nodded: Professor Quirrell - Quirrell - has very deep knowledge in soul-related magic. He thought of the error-ridden paper that Snape shared with him, and added, I will say that his The understanding is more accurate than most published papers in academia.”

Are you sure, Henry? Dumbledore asked, staring at Anthony with a sharp light in his eyes.

Anthony was a little surprised. He recalled it and said with certainty: At least in the part that I can determine, his understanding is very accurate and very profound.

Very well, said Dumbledore, his calm expression an odd mixture of pity, coldness and satisfaction. This is also very useful information, Henry. It confirms certain rumors.

What rumors?

No matter how keen your intuition and talent are, an accurate and profound understanding of a certain subject must be supported by experiments. Dumbledore said softly, When Voldemort first rose...there were rumors that he was pursuing immortality. On this road, he has gone farther than anyone else. I met him later, and I knew then that he must have done some very dangerous experiments...

He experimented with his own soul? Anthony asked in surprise.

Dumbledore lowered his gaze and looked at the memories spinning in the pensieve. After a while, he said: I'm not sure, Henry, I'm not sure. It could be someone else's soul... Regarding the soul, there are things people can do. It’s just too much.”

Anthony couldn't help but say: If there weren't those fogs...

Dumbledore smiled: You have provided us with a lot of help, Henry. No, I do not recommend that you try again.

Anthony withdrew his gaze from sizing up his memory: What?

Pensieve, said Dumbledore, Of course, I have always thought it was a very interesting thing, as long as you are not addicted to it... I know several very smart wizards who have too many things in their minds and rely too much on meditation. Basin, eventually lost the ability to put memories back into the brain.”

I won't, Anthony promised. In fact, I don't think I have any memories that I want to see clearly.

Dumbledore smiled and shook his head: You are very humble, Henry. I would say there are many very precious pictures in your memory.

Anthony said seriously: That's right, sir. It's precisely because I cherish them so much that I don't want to look back at them.

Interesting theory, Henry. Dumbledore said with interest. Can I know a more specific reason? The inventor of the Pensieve would argue that it was made precisely for precious memories, to preserve and Replay them.”

Anthony hesitated, not knowing where to start.

My memory is very important to me, sir. He thought about crawling out of the grave, and finally woke up from that hazy and disintegrated state until he remembered who he was. I am basically made up of memories. constituted. But I don’t think all these memories are true and accurate, and I don’t need them to be true and accurate...

He smiled as he recalled fragments of his grandparents' lives.

I don't need those details, that information, Anthony said. They're of no use to me. What I need is myself made of these memories.

He wants to keep his memory to himself, polishing and coloring it repeatedly with his rough memories, like a clam rubbing against a grain of sand, until perhaps he can no longer see what it originally looked like. But he knew it was there, in the center of a pearl.

He didn't want to see his life become a micro-documentary. He didn't need to know when the candle was lit, whether the cupboard door was opened or closed, or whether a snail climbed up the window sill.

He just needs to remember the firelight and the warmth - even if it is just polished by the imperfect brain in memories - maybe in reality, the thin and shriveled candle is shaking precariously, pitifully and ridiculously. , but he doesn't care. He didn't care, because in his heart it burned steadily and peacefully.

He doesn't care that much about details. When the past fades away, the real him emerges.