Harry Potter and the Secret Treasures

“Anyway, Armando rejected Voldemort’s application to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Dumbledore. “After his application was rejected, he went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you both know, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this.”

“I’ll bet he was,” said Harry.

“I’ll bet too, but this is where we should be careful, sir,” Evan followed. It was because he knew too well what Voldemort was good at and how terrifying he was that he had never trusted the guy in the ring. If Dumbledore planned to work with the fifteen-year-old Riddle to do something, he’d better be careful.

The Voldemort of today had gained immense magical power but lost his ability to disguise himself and deceive others.

The fifteen-year-old Riddle inside the ring did not have that. He was very weak, but he was highly skilled at deceiving people.

“Yes, yes, I will pay attention,” said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. “And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith.”

As he spoke, Dumbledore tipped the swirling memory from the crystal bottle into the Pensieve.

“After you, Evan, and pay attention to the golden cup we are about to see.”

Golden Cup? Helga Hufflepuff’s Golden Cup?! Another of Voldemort’s Horcruxes?!

Could it be that the specific location of the homeland of the house-elves had something to do with the Golden Cup?

With all these questions in mind, Evan entered the Pensieve.

He tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake.

She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while probably the tiniest and oldest house-elf in the world laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers. This must be Hokey.

“Hurry up, Hokey!” said Hepzibah imperiously. “He said he’d come at four, it’s only a couple of minutes to and he’s never been late yet!”

She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf’s head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah’s chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga.

“How do I look?” said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror.

“Lovely, madam,” squeaked Hokey.

The poor house-elf was truly in a difficult position. She had to lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely, but she obviously would not tolerate any other answer from her house-elf.

Evan guessed that this kind of torment might be the main reason Hokey looked so tiny and old.

House-elves were not good at lying, especially to their masters. Yet, at this moment, Hokey had no choice but to lie…

It was said that in ancient times, there was a witch who was highly confident in her appearance but was, in reality, quite ugly. She created a magic mirror and asked it every day, “Mirror, mirror, who is the most beautiful woman in the world?” Though it was posed as a question, there was only one acceptable answer: the mirror had to say that she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Because the witch asked this question morning, noon, and night, the mirror, unable to endure the torment any longer, eventually shattered…

One could imagine, then, just how much pressure Hokey must have been under.

Just then a tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.

“Quick, quick, he’s here, Hokey!” cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: There were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.

The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man. It was Voldemort!

To be more precise, it was Voldemort after he became an adult, about twenty years old.

He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but Evan had to admit that all of this suited him. This outfit made him look more handsome than ever. Just like when he was at Slughorn’s private party a few years ago, he seemed to radiate a glow that made him impossible to ignore.

Voldemort picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah’s fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.

“I brought you flowers, madam,” he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere.

“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” squealed old Hepzibah, though she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. “You do spoil this old lady, Tom. … Sit down, sit down. … Where’s Hokey? Ah …”

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress’s elbow.

“Help yourself, Tom,” said Hepzibah fondly. “I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale, perhaps a little thin. They overwork you at that shop. I’ve told Borgin a hundred times!”

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered.

“Well, what’s your excuse for visiting this time?” she asked, batting her lashes.

“Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor,” said Voldemort. “Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —”

“Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you’re only here for my trinkets!” pouted Hepzibah.

“I am ordered here because of them,” said Voldemort quietly, interrupting Hepzibah gracefully. “I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire —”

“Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!” said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. “Don’t pay attention to him. I’ve something to show you that I’ve never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won’t tell Mr. Burke I’ve got it? He’d never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it…”

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