I didn’t rush to the headmaster’s office, hoping that by the time I got there, Dumbledore would have already wrung the details out of Hermione and Harry. I needed time to think, to figure out how to spin things the right way. I’d been caught up in too many shady incidents lately, and the last thing I needed was for the wrong people to start getting curious. Drawing the attention of the powerful was never a good idea.

  "Come in, Mr. Weasley," came Snape’s smooth, measured voice the moment I knocked politely on the door. Brilliant. Just who I wanted to see. Though, to be fair, I’d suspected he’d be here.

  My friends sat stiffly at the tea table, exchanging nervous glances, cups clutched in their hands. Dumbledore was hunched over a large stone basin, its rim glowing faintly with runes. Snape loomed beside him like some overprotective vulture, keeping a sharp eye on his precious patron while simultaneously glaring at us lot. He looked more irritated than outright furious, which I supposed was a good sign—at least he wasn’t having a full-blown meltdown, like in the book. But I wasn’t about to relax—his eyes were cold and suspicious, brimming with restrained hostility.

  "I see you didn’t hurry, Weasley," he said icily, flicking a hand towards the table. "Sit with the others. And keep quiet. The headmaster will be with you shortly."

  I slid into the nearest chair next to Hermione, keeping my mouth shut. A cup jumped towards me of its own accord, filling itself with tea. I sighed and reached for the cream. I wanted nothing more than to question my friends, but that wasn’t happening with Snape right there. So instead, we exchanged wary looks, trying to gauge each other’s reactions. Hermione and Harry didn’t seem too rattled, which was reassuring—but I felt a pit of dread settle in my stomach. What if they’d pulled memories from them? What if they found out about… well, everything? The Ministry, for one. That’d be a nightmare to explain.

  In the book, Black had confessed everything to Dumbledore himself. They hadn’t taken anyone’s memories. I clung to that thought as the silence stretched on, thick and suffocating.

  Then, finally, Dumbledore straightened up with a satisfied sigh, smoothing out his robes.

  "You’re in for quite the spectacle, Severus," he said cheerfully, nodding towards the basin. "I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts. Do have a look, but don’t dally. Meanwhile, I shall remember my manners and have some tea with our brave young heroes."

  Snape gave a derisive snort but didn’t argue. Without hesitation, he leaned over the Pensieve and plunged his head inside.

  Dumbledore, smiling benignly, made his way over to us.

  At his approach, Hermione and Harry instantly perked up, as if Snape’s looming presence had been pressing down on them. With the tension momentarily lifted, the atmosphere lightened. And when Dumbledore casually awarded Gryffindor thirty points for "correctly handling a werewolf," things improved even more. There was a clatter of cutlery as we eagerly tucked into the tea and biscuits.

  The headmaster was subtle about his questioning. He coaxed out details in the midst of friendly chatter, seamlessly blending praise with mild reprimands, offering sweets and tea as though this was just a pleasant evening discussion. He kept us on edge, though—never quite confirming what sort of punishment we’d be facing, only making it clear that it wouldn’t be too harsh. I had a feeling he was saving my interrogation for later, once the "bad cop" finished his Pensieve dive and came back swinging the metaphorical sword of justice. Dumbledore liked playing the protector—framing things so we’d see him as the kind, understanding authority figure. The carrot before the stick.

  He really was something else.

  "Excuse me, sir," Harry asked suddenly. "How did you find out about Black? And everything else? And… is there any way to clear his name, now that Pettigrew’s gone? I mean… Sirius said he’s my godfather, and he… he invited me to live with him this summer."

  "Your hopes of having family and a home of your own are quite understandable, Harry," Dumbledore replied kindly. "But I fear not all our wishes can come true. You see, like everyone else, I too believed Black to be guilty. However, a rather fascinating object came into my possession—the Hogwarts Map. And I must say, you three acted with a shocking lack of responsibility, keeping such an artifact to yourselves. Had you trusted a professor with it from the start, Pettigrew could have been captured, and there might have been a chance to clear Sirius Black’s name. But, I’m afraid, that opportunity has passed. It is unlikely that Sirius will be able to take you in this summer."

  Harry visibly deflated, his shoulders sagging.

  "But don’t lose heart," Dumbledore added, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "Once I am able to contact him, I shall do my best to resolve the matter."

  Oh, I bet he would. As soon as Black agreed to let the Order use his house, I thought dryly. Of course, who in their right mind would leave a kid alone in a rundown mansion with a half-mad convict and a deranged house-elf? But Dumbledore was a master at spinning things to his advantage. Frame the man as guilty when convenient, then paint him as a tragic victim when needed. This was how heroes were made—hammered into shape by whatever cause suited.

  "Thank you, sir," Harry said, brightening slightly as he accepted a biscuit.

  "S-Sir, are we going to be expelled?" Hermione finally blurted, clearly the most anxious about our potential punishment. Harry, meanwhile, lounged like he was having a casual chat with a distant uncle.

  "I do not believe your recklessness warrants such extreme measures," Dumbledore mused, sipping his tea before flashing one of his knowing smiles. "However, there will, of course, be consequences for breaking school rules. A jelly bean, Miss Granger? Don’t be shy—they’re quite delicious."

  Hermione blushed but took a sweet from the dish, murmuring her thanks.

  "Now, then," Dumbledore continued, making sure everyone was well-fed before proceeding. "Given that everyone present is now aware of Professor Lupin’s… condition… Professor Snape delivered his Wolfsbane Potion this evening, only to find the professor absent. In his search, he stumbled upon an intriguing map. The full moon had not yet risen, but Remus needed to be found—Wolfsbane must be consumed while hot, and its timing is crucial. The map, naturally, piqued my interest, but I decided to examine its properties later. At that moment, my priority was locating Professor Lupin—and activating a very particular artifact to do so. Surely, you do not think I would neglect my responsibilities as headmaster?" His eyes twinkled with amusement as he observed our startled expressions.

  "So, you were spying on him?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with innocence.

  "Keeping an eye on him," Dumbledore corrected with a sly smile, clearly amused by Harry’s reaction. "And Professor Lupin was well aware of it. Besides, I never abused his trust. The artifact wasn’t necessary on a daily basis—it was meant for emergencies, like this one. It’s hardly the same as the Marauder’s Map, which reveals everyone in the castle at the whim of its holder. You must understand, Harry, that I bear responsibility for all who reside within these walls. Could I truly afford to leave such a serious matter unattended?"

  Harry ducked his head, looking sheepish. Dumbledore’s not-so-subtle hint had made it painfully clear—we had, in fact, been spying on people.

  "The enchantments showed me that Remus was in the Shrieking Shack," the headmaster continued smoothly, ignoring the awkward silence. "I sent Severus to retrieve his potion and turned my attention to the map. I got distracted for a moment, but when I looked again, I saw all of you—along with Sirius Black—gathered near the Whomping Willow."

  "And you didn’t think to rush in and save us?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

  "I didn’t see the need, Ron," Dumbledore replied, pausing to study me with an unsettling intensity. "Your markers and Black’s had only been together for a brief time, and then they started to move apart. That meant he hadn’t harmed you and had left peacefully. And, if I may say so, I do not believe the servant is stronger or more dangerous than the master. Harry faced Voldemort in his first year and did remarkably well, all things considered. I hardly think Black, even as a crimin—"

  But he never finished. Snape emerged from the Pensieve, interrupting the conversation.

  "Headmaster, if I may?" he said without preamble, striding over to the table. Dumbledore nodded, and Snape immediately turned his piercing gaze on me. "Weasley, I need your memories. The ones involving the rat."

  "Alright, sir," I agreed easily, rising from my seat and stepping up to the basin.

  "Focus on the relevant memory," Snape instructed, waving his wand in an intricate motion.

  I concentrated, picturing myself walking by the castle with the rat in my hand. Then, the moment Black devoured him. I cut the memory off just as I reached the Whomping Willow, where I’d seen the others and Lupin. It had to be precise. If the books I’d read were right, Pensieve memories could be examined from multiple angles. Which didn’t entirely make sense—how could you see what was behind you if you hadn’t actually witnessed it? But apparently, the mind fills in gaps, reconstructing details based on voice tones, atmosphere, and gut feelings. That’s why memories aren’t always reliable—they contain a bit of personal bias. You could only trust what the person had actually seen with their own eyes.

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  Brains really were a weird thing.

  Snape pulled the swirling, silvery strand from my temple, lowering it into the basin. He leaned in, immersing himself in the memory.

  He resurfaced almost immediately.

  "The recollections are too fragmented," he declared, flicking a glance toward Dumbledore. "You failed to concentrate properly, Weasley."

  "Forgive me, Professor," I shot back. "It’s been a rather eventful evening. What with nearly being mauled by a werewolf and watching a supposed mass murderer devour a man—who, as it turns out, was actually a rat in disguise."

  A heavy silence followed. I’d bet anything that it had only just properly sunk in for Harry and Hermione—no matter how you looked at it, the rat had still been a person.

  "Ahem… I believe we have covered enough for tonight," Dumbledore said at last, breaking the tension. "Severus, would you be so kind as to escort our young guests back to their tower?"

  Chairs scraped against the floor as we all stood, murmuring our goodbyes before trailing after our ever-pleasant escort.

  "Weasley, you will report to me for detention after dinner tomorrow," Snape announced curtly, a malicious twist to his lips as we reached the Gryffindor entrance. "As for you two, your Head of House will inform you of your punishment. In the meantime, I am deducting ten points from each of you for breaching school rules."

  "What?" Harry protested. "But we made it back before curfew, sir!"

  "There is currently an emergency situation in this school, Potter," Snape spat. "Leaving the castle after dinner is strictly forbidden for all students, no exceptions. And traipsing around with a werewolf on the brink of transformation—alongside a fugitive, no less—is hardly acceptable behavior. Had you an ounce of common sense, you might have realized that. Perhaps you should have paid more attention to the headmaster’s welcome speech. And for your cheek and insolence, I am removing an additional five points and assigning you detention with Filch. Wednesday evening. You are dismissed."

  Harry looked ready to argue, but Hermione tugged urgently at his sleeve, silently pleading with him to let it go.

  Once inside the common room, Harry was still fuming, eager to rant about Snape and dissect everything that had happened. But Hermione looked exhausted, and honestly, I just wanted to be alone. Without much discussion, we headed straight for our dorms.

  By the next morning, Harry seemed to view our adventure in a new light—exciting, even beneficial. He had a godfather now, after all, and that outweighed detention, Snape’s nastiness, and the lost house points.

  Even Hermione wasn’t too upset. Yes, it had been reckless and dangerous, but the end result—saving an innocent man—was worth it. She and Harry bounced off each other, discussing it with something close to glee.

  I, however, kept quiet, nodding along while inwardly worrying about my meeting with Snape. He’d seen something in those memories, something that had put him on edge. I wasn’t looking forward to whatever interrogation he had planned.

  The day carried on as usual. The new school week had begun, meaning Hermione had us all working through study schedules for upcoming exams. The usual grind—running between classrooms, taking notes, revising.

  That evening, just before I left for my detention, I spotted my friends huddled in a corner of the common room with a group of our dormmates. They glanced at me, whispering, before quickly scattering. Judging by the guilty looks, they were plotting something for my birthday next Sunday.

  For most people, life went on as normal.

  As for Pettigrew… well, I hoped he had a pleasant afterlife.

  To my surprise, when I arrived at Snape’s office, I found a small tea table set up—clearly, this wasn’t going to be the usual "scrub cauldrons until your fingers fall off" type of detention.

  "Sit, Weasley," Snape ordered, pushing a cup toward me while fussing with the teapot.

  Behind him, the Pensieve still glowed faintly. The silver strands inside shimmered softly.

  So, he’d been studying my memories in his own time.

  I smirked, deciding to take a gamble.

  "Sir, these are our memories, aren't they? Would you allow me to take a look?" I asked, nodding toward the Pensieve. "I've heard about them, but I've never actually seen one in action."

  Snape studied me for a long moment before answering. "Very well. But do not linger."

  With that, he returned his attention to his teapot, as if this was all just another tedious interruption to his evening.

  I hesitated, then took a deep breath and leaned into the swirling blue substance. A second later, I was sucked inside, landing in the common room, where Harry had been searching for me on the Marauder’s Map. It was fascinating—strange and a bit unsettling, like I'd suddenly become a ghost, unseen and free to follow people without them noticing.

  I walked through the events as they had unfolded for Harry and Hermione, even coming across my own past self. Watching myself from an outside perspective was an odd experience, almost like seeing a stranger. And honestly, I didn’t like what I saw—tall, scrawny, and awkward. I really needed to bulk up, or I was going to be stuck as a gangly loser forever.

  Satisfied that the memories taken from Harry contained nothing incriminating, I skimmed through my own, stopping at the part with the rat. Then, I surfaced from the Pensieve, completely at ease. Our secrets were safe. For now.

  But I needed to get Snape on my side before he started digging too deep. I couldn’t handle this alone.

  "Thank you, sir," I said sincerely as I settled into the chair he'd offered. "That was… unusual, but enlightening. When will you return our memories? And why can I still remember what I gave you?"

  "As soon as I deem it appropriate," Snape replied sharply, though he sounded more irritated than hostile. He sighed and deigned to elaborate. "Memories can only be extracted entirely or altered through Legilimency. The spell I used merely creates a copy—a duplicate, if you will. The original memory remains in your mind, but it becomes static, much like words written in a book rather than a living thought. It loses its emotional weight and stops replaying itself over and over in your head. Are you familiar with the way certain memories can haunt the mind, looping endlessly and preventing you from concentrating on anything else?"

  I nodded and took a sip of my tea.

  "Then you understand the concept."

  "Can a copy be copied again?" I asked.

  "It can," Snape acknowledged, drinking his own tea. "However, the second copy, or a copy of someone else’s memory, would not be fully immersive—it would be more like viewing events strictly from the perspective of the original person. This is why a memory can only be properly extracted once."

  "In that case, if memories can be viewed and stored, why aren’t they used in trials? Couldn’t they be used to prove Black’s innocence?" I pressed.

  "They can be forged," Snape said darkly, curling his lip in distaste. The mere idea of clearing Black’s name clearly didn’t sit well with him, even now, when he knew the truth. Old grudges die hard. "And believe me, Weasley, no one in the Wizengamot would take the word of three children and a werewolf."

  I nodded in understanding and reached for a biscuit.

  "Speaking of Black," Snape continued, watching me closely. "I’d like to clarify a few things. Why, exactly, did you distrust Lupin? You disliked him long before my class revealed that he was a werewolf. Your reasoning when debating Miss Granger was… surprisingly sound. I want to know what led you to those conclusions. You didn’t seem particularly shocked in your memories, unlike the others. And do not lie to me, Weasley—I can spot deceit with ease."

  "Alright, sir," I agreed easily, crunching on my biscuit in a way that made Snape grimace. "I’ve got nothing to hide."

  "We shall see," Snape said skeptically, setting down his cup and preparing to listen.

  "I knew from the start that Black and Lupin were friends," I admitted, meeting his intrigued gaze. "When I got to Hogwarts, I read every newspaper I could get my hands on—everything in the library. School newsletters, the Prophet, anything. The school papers had notes about Quidditch players, top students, and inter-house tournament results. Did you know Pettigrew was once the Gobstones captain? His team only lost twice and won the school championship five years in a row. And Lupin? He was a Prefect, and his academic record was ridiculous.

  "Then, just before Christmas, I got detention—you remember, after that scrap with Linson from Ravenclaw? McGonagall sent me to Filch, and he made me sort old disciplinary records. I found Black, Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew in there constantly. Turns out they were, well… quite the creative bunch. Enlarging people’s heads, giving them extra limbs, sprouting dragonfly wings on first-years and chucking them off staircases. I mean, sure, the castle’s got safety charms in place, but I doubt some poor twelve-year-old Muggle-born, only just learning magic, was thinking about that as they were sent tumbling down the stairs.

  "So when Lupin turned up as our professor, I didn’t trust him. Why wouldn’t he help his old mate? And then Black kept sneaking into the castle, into our dormitory, which only confirmed my suspicions. That’s why I kept an eye on Harry—just like we agreed—so Lupin wouldn’t pull the wool over his eyes and lure him straight to Black."

  "Interesting," Snape murmured, leaning back in his chair and regarding me with newfound curiosity. "You are full of surprises, Weasley."

  "Oh, that’s not the half of it, sir," I said seriously, straightening in my chair. "But I’ll only tell you the rest if you swear a magical oath. No offense, but I don’t trust you, sir. And I certainly don’t trust Dumbledore, even if I do admire him as a wizard."

  "Well, well," Snape drawled, arching a brow. "A snot-nosed schoolboy refusing to trust the great Albus Dumbledore. The irony is almost amusing."

  "Never underestimate people, sir," I replied evenly. "You haven't even heard me out yet. What if I told you I've known for quite a while that Black wasn’t the traitor? And that I wasn’t just out for a casual evening stroll with my rat near the Whomping Willow?"

  "You were too hasty, Weasley," Snape sneered, his expression carefully controlled, though I could sense the tension in him—like a predator poised to strike. "You failed to take an oath from me at the start, and now I’m free to relay all your delusions to the Headmaster. Let him deal with a cocky little pup who fancies himself some great wizard and master strategist. Foolishness must be contagious—you've clearly caught it from Potter. And believe me, one 'special' child is quite enough."

  "Seems I misjudged you just as much as you misjudged me," I shrugged and rose from my chair. "With all due respect, sir, you've been a disappointment. The Headmaster has no real power over me—there’s nothing he can do except bore me with long-winded speeches. Legilimency on underage wizards is illegal, and Dumbledore's far too righteous to break the law when it doesn’t serve him any real advantage, especially over a so-called delusional teenager desperate for attention. Farewell, and thanks for the tea."

  I’d barely taken two steps toward the door when a quiet, cold voice stopped me dead in my tracks. It was smooth, even—but utterly terrifying, like the edge of a knife pressing against my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  "I don't recall giving you permission to leave, Weasley," Snape said icily. "Sit back down. Unless, of course, you'd like to experience my darker side. I am not the Headmaster, and I do not suffer from an excessive fondness for moralistic speeches."

  I swallowed and forced a nervous chuckle. "Didn’t know you had a lighter side, sir." Under his piercing, unreadable gaze, I slowly sank back into my chair.