Chapter 187. The Truth Rises to the Surface
"I'm very glad you still trust me," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "The door to the Headmaster's office will never bar those who believe in me."
Ah. Wesson nodded thoughtfully and asked, "So the Board of Governors has no objections?"
Dumbledore did not answer; he merely smiled and shook his head.
Clearly, the Board of Governors likely didn't know he'd returned.
Of course, that scarcely mattered.
"Ah, to business," Dumbledore said as he returned to sit behind his desk. "What have you come to see me about?"
"The Pensieve, Professor," Wesson said, succinct and to the point. "I need to borrow it."
"By all means," Dumbledore said kindly. "Would you like me to step out?"
Wesson walked over to the Pensieve in the corner. Its basin lay empty.
He touched his wand to the memory phial and guided Gilderoy Lockhart's memory into the bowl. Silvery threads quickly pooled into the basin.
At that moment, Wesson suddenly stopped, turned to Dumbledore and said, "Professor, perhaps you ought to view this with me."
"Is that so?"
Dumbledore nodded and came to stand by the Pensieve.
Although he would never pry into another's privacy on a whim, Wesson had invited him—there must be a very particular reason.
Both of them bent forward, faces lowered into the swirling, silver memory.
They stood in a dim corridor.
Lockhart was pacing up and down before a stretch of wall.
Wesson recognised the spot at once: it was near the entrance to the Room of Requirement, because the famous tapestry of "Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls" hung on the wall nearby.
So Lockhart actually knew how to enter the Room of Requirement.
Wait!
Wesson suddenly realised something: at the start of term, he had gone to the Room of Requirement.
That very night, not far from there, he had run into Lockhart and Filch.
Perhaps Lockhart had caught a glimpse of him going into the Room of Requirement back then?
He had wondered at the time why Lockhart was loitering on the eighth floor so late.
Now it all made sense.
Lockhart's method of opening the Room was a little clumsy; plainly, he didn't come here often.
That made Wesson even more certain of his guess—when he had opened the door back then, Lockhart had likely been watching from the side.
But how did Lockhart know which room Wesson had entered?
With Lockhart's attempt, the door to the Room of Requirement soon appeared.
Wearing a curious expression, he pushed it open.
However, at that very instant, he let out a terrified scream, scrambled back a few steps on his knees, and fell hard onto the floor.
Wesson looked through the doorway and couldn't help but be amused. No wonder Lockhart had been so frightened—the Fiendfyre Wesson had conjured was still raging in there at the time.
Let's just say that if Lockhart had moved any slower, he would have been off to meet Merlin.
The moment Lockhart collapsed, the door slammed shut.
A ragged scrap of paper fluttered out from within and landed in Lockhart's panic-stricken hands.
And with that, the truth finally rose to the surface.
Back then, Wesson had not completely expelled the soul shard from Riddle's diary. By some means, Voldemort had concealed a portion of himself—even the Tree of Wisdom had failed to notice.
Then, thanks to Lockhart's accidental meddling, that remaining portion had not been wholly destroyed by the Fiendfyre.
On the contrary, it had fallen into his hands.
After sorting through his deductions, Wesson could only be speechless. Was Lockhart unlucky… or fortunate?
That such a coincidence could happen at all.
When Wesson lifted his head from the Pensieve, Dumbledore too had finished observing.
Dumbledore's face was graver than ever; his blue eyes flashed with a sharpness Wesson had never seen.
He straightened slowly, fingers absently rubbing the Elder Wand.
Clearly, he had realised something.
"What is that thing?" Dumbledore fixed Wesson with his gaze and said, very deliberately, "You must know something—mustn't you?"
Wesson frowned and nodded, and uttered two cold words: "A Horcrux."
The air in the office seemed to freeze. On the perch, Fawkes beat his wings uneasily.
"Horcrux… Horcrux…" Dumbledore murmured, pacing the office. All at once he halted, something dawning on him, and looked at Wesson. "That Fiendfyre—was that your doing, Professor Wesson?"
Wesson nodded, his tone coloured by rare regret. "Ah, yes. I burned the Horcrux with Fiendfyre. But I didn't expect… mm. Cunning Voldemort. He must be on Lockhart now, just like Quirrell last year."
Dumbledore stood still, brows knit.
After a long moment, he sighed and said to Wesson, "You have certainly kept a great many things from me, Professor Wesson."
Wesson could only answer with a smile.
He had, more or less, told Dumbledore everything he had done.
Oh—perhaps Dumbledore still didn't know about the diadem of Ravenclaw.
He would tell him when the chance arose.
After all, Ravenclaw's diadem might yet have to be returned to Hogwarts.
Leaning lightly against the desk, Wesson asked, "Professor Dumbledore, what should we do now?"
In truth, the matter was more or less clear. Seizing Lockhart at once would not be impossible.
Lockhart certainly couldn't resist; even with Voldemort riding him, it would be no use.
Dumbledore pondered for a while, then said, "I need to make some preparations. And at present, it is inconvenient for me to act in person. Wesson, in the meantime, may I ask you to keep an eye on Professor Lockhart for me?"
"Of course," Wesson replied with a nod.
In fact, he had no wish to follow Dumbledore's arrangements to the letter.
He had only one goal—the fragment of Voldemort's soul.
He wanted to get hold of Lockhart as soon as possible and prise the soul shard from him.
Because he had lessons to teach in the daytime, Wesson did not rush to act.
Lockhart was here; he couldn't run.
That night, Wesson asked Professor McGonagall to pair him with Lockhart for patrol.
In truth, Lockhart had been patrolling every night lately alongside various other professors.
It might well be for that reason that the Basilisk had remained quiet.
At eight o'clock in the evening, Wesson and Lockhart began their rounds in the castle on the dot.
All the way, Lockhart seemed jumpy; Wesson tried to make conversation, but Lockhart responded perfunctorily.
After two hours of inspection, Lockhart suddenly went pale and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Professor Wesson, I'm feeling rather unwell all of a sudden—perhaps I've been overworking lately… I think I need to return to my office to rest."
Seeing Lockhart trying to leave, Wesson smiled to himself.
"Ah, you do look awful," Wesson said warmly. "Let me go with you. I can take care of you.
"No one understands better than I how to tend a patient."
"N—no need," Lockhart said quickly, waving his hands in refusal, then forced a smile. "The patrol mustn't be interrupted. I can manage on my own."
But Wesson had no intention of letting him go so easily.
"Come along, Professor Lockhart." With every appearance of concern, he took Lockhart by the arm and steered him towards the office. "I'll see you safely back to your office. As for the patrol—there are other professors. We needn't worry."
Lockhart's face went even whiter.
In the end, out of options, he could only let Wesson lead him away.
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