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Dumbledore
raised
his
eyebrows
.
"
Could
you
possibly
be
feeling
sorry
for
Lord
Voldemort
?
"
"
No
,
"
said
Harry
quickly
,
"
but
she
had
a
choice
,
did
n't
she
,
not
like
my
mother
--
"
"
Your
mother
had
a
choice
too
,
"
said
Dumbledore
gently
.
"
Yes
,
Merope
Riddle
chose
death
in
spite
of
a
son
who
needed
her
,
but
do
not
judge
her
too
harshly
,
Harry
.
She
was
greatly
weakened
by
long
suffering
and
she
never
had
your
mother
's
courage
.
And
now
,
if
you
will
stand
...
"
"
Where
are
we
going
?
"
Harry
asked
,
as
Dumbledore
joined
him
at
the
front
of
the
desk
.
"
This
time
,
"
said
Dumbledore
,
"
we
are
going
to
enter
my
memory
.
I
think
you
will
find
it
both
rich
in
detail
and
satisfyingly
accurate
.
After
you
,
Harry
...
"
Harry
bent
over
the
Pensieve
;
his
face
broke
the
cool
surface
of
the
memory
and
then
he
was
falling
through
darkness
again
...
Seconds
later
,
his
feet
hit
firm
ground
;
he
opened
his
eyes
and
found
that
he
and
Dumbledore
were
standing
in
a
bustling
,
old-fashioned
London
street
.
"
There
I
am
,
"
said
Dumbledore
brightly
,
pointing
ahead
of
them
to
a
tall
figure
crossing
the
road
in
front
of
a
horse-drawn
milk
cart
.
This
younger
Albus
Dumbledore
's
long
hair
and
beard
were
auburn
.
Having
reached
their
side
of
the
street
,
he
strode
off
along
the
pavement
,
drawing
many
curious
glances
due
to
the
flamboyantly
cut
suit
of
plum
velvet
that
he
was
wearing
.
"
Nice
suit
,
sir
,
"
said
Harry
,
before
he
could
stop
himself
,
but
Dumbledore
merely
chuckled
as
they
followed
his
younger
self
a
short
distance
,
finally
passing
through
a
set
of
iron
gates
into
a
bare
courtyard
that
fronted
a
rather
grim
,
square
building
surrounded
by
high
railings
.
He
mounted
the
few
steps
leading
to
the
front
door
and
knocked
once
.
After
a
moment
or
two
,
the
door
was
opened
by
a
scruffy
girl
wearing
an
apron
.
