The air in the hospital wing grew still and silent as Dumbledore carefully tipped the silvery, gossamer threads of Harry's memory into the wide stone basin of the Pensieve. The surface of the liquid swirled, turning from a silver mirror to a dark, churning vortex.
"I will go first, with Harry, to guide him through the memory," Dumbledore said softly. "The rest of you may follow. It is best to enter one at a time. The experience can be… disorienting."
He and Harry touched the surface, and their forms seemed to stretch and distort before being pulled down into the basin. One by one, the others followed. Sirius and Remus went next, their faces set with grim determination. Then McGonagall, then Amelia Bones. Finally, Daphne, Hermione, and Ariana stepped forward together, touching the swirling memory as one.
The world dissolved into a dizzying fall, and then solidified. They were standing, unseen, in the dark, misty entrance to the Triwizard maze. They watched as the spectral form of Harry, followed by the real Harry and Dumbledore, took his first tentative steps inside.
The memory was a chaotic blur of high hedges, strange magical creatures, and wrong turns. But Ariana was not watching Harry's progress. Her senses were extended, analyzing the background, the periphery, the data that Harry himself would have missed in his fear.
They witnessed the encounters: the Boggart, the Golden Mist, the Blast-Ended Skrewt. They saw the red sparks that signaled Fleur's defeat. Then came the duel between Cedric and the
Imperiused Krum. As the memory-Harry watched from a distance, Ariana's own focus sharpened.
"There," she said, her voice a sharp, clear note in the shared mental space of the Pensieve. The others, startled, turned their attention to where she was indicating.
In the deep, shifting shadows of the hedges behind Krum, almost perfectly concealed, was another figure. It was a woman, cloaked and hooded, but as she moved to watch the curse that had tripped Krum, her hood fell back for a single, fleeting second. Her face was gaunt, with wild, dark hair and the manic, crazed eyes of a fanatic.
"Bellatrix," Sirius snarled, his voice a low growl of pure hatred.
"Lestrange," Remus breathed, his face pale.
"She's in the maze," Amelia Bones said, her voice a horrified whisper. "How did she get past the perimeter?"
"She wasn't a spectator. She was part of the task," Ariana stated, her mind processing the new information with terrifying speed. "She was the one who stunned Fleur after casting Cruciatus on her. She was the one controlling Krum using Imperius. She wasn't just an intruder; she was an active agent, clearing the path."
They watched as memory-Harry pressed on, Cedric leaving the stunned Krum with red sparks marking his location. They followed him as he navigated the final turns. And then they saw it again. As Cedric reached the clearing first, the jet of red light that stunned him shot out from the hedge. And for a split second, before the spell was cast, Ariana pointed again. "Look. To the left of the yew tree."
There she was again. The spectral, memory-faded form of Bellatrix Lestrange, her wand raised, her face contorted in a triumphant sneer, before she melted back into the shadows.
"She was clearing the path for Harry," Dumbledore murmured, a look of dawning horror on his face. "She was clearing the path to him. She was ensuring Harry would be the one to reach the Cup alone."
The rest of the memory unfolded with a sickening, predestined speed. They watched Harry grab the cup, felt the violent wrench of the Portkey, and landed with him in the dark, terrifying graveyard. The scene was exactly as Harry had described it. The great cauldron, the hissing snake, the dark headstones. And the short, cloaked figure of Peter Pettigrew, carrying the grotesque, bundled form of the infant-like Voldemort.
They heard Pettigrew's high, whining voice. They saw him raise his wand to cast the curse.
And then they felt the violent, tearing sensation as Harry, following Ariana's protocol to the letter, forced the Portkey's activation. The graveyard vanished in a nauseating swirl, and they were back, standing in the quiet, sterile calm of the hospital wing.
The silence in the room was absolute, heavy with the weight of what they had just witnessed.
"It's true," Amelia Bones said, her voice a strained, hollow whisper. "All of it. He's back."
Sirius was shaking with a silent, murderous rage. "Pettigrew… and Bellatrix. She was there. She was helping him."
"It was a coordinated plot," Dumbledore said, his face looking a hundred years older. "Bellatrix cleared the way for Harry within the maze, ensuring he would be the one to touch the Portkey. Pettigrew was waiting on the other side to perform the ritual." He looked at Harry. "Your blood, Harry. He has your blood."
The reality of Voldemort's return was no longer a theory; it was a witnessed, undeniable fact. But Ariana's mind was focused on the other, more immediate implication.
"The imposter Moody plan failed," she said, piecing it together. "So Bellatrix became their agent on the outside. She has been at large, operating freely, this entire time. Her escape from Azkaban, was probably orchestrated by Pettigrew for this."
"This was their endgame," Remus murmured. "Operating in the shadows while the Ministry was focused on Pettigrew."
Amelia Bones's face was a mask of cold fury. "We have been played for fools. The entire Auror department." She turned to Dumbledore, her voice hard as steel. "Albus, this changes everything. This isn't just about Pettigrew anymore. We have two high-level, extremely dangerous Death Eaters at large, successful in restoring their master. I must return to the Ministry at once. We need to mobilize."
As Amelia and the professors began a frantic, low-voiced discussion of strategy and security, Harry sat on his bed, a profound exhaustion settling over him. He had survived. He had followed the plan. But he had still served as the unwilling key to Voldemort's return.
He looked at his friends. Hermione, pale but resolute. Daphne, her face a mask of cold Slytherin fury. And Ariana, who was watching the strategizing professors with a calm, calculating expression. She was not panicking. She was observing, analyzing, already moving on to the next phase of the war.
They had seen the truth. The war was no longer a distant shadow. It had arrived. And as Harry looked at the determined faces of his friends, he knew that whatever came next, he would not be facing it alone.