Chapter 23: Horcruxes


Harry could feel the Felix Felicis wearing off as he creeped back into the

castle. The front door had remained un locked for him, but on the third floor

he met Peeves and only narrowly avoided detection by diving sideways

through one of his shortcuts. By the time he got up to the portrait of the Fat

Lady and pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, he was not surprised to find her in

a most unhelpful mood.


"What sort of time do you call this?"


"I'm really sorry -- I had to go out for something important --"


"Well, the password changed at midnight, so you'll just have to sleep in

the corridor, won't you?"


"You're joking!" said Harry. "Why did it have to change at midnight?"


"That's the way it is," said the Fat Lady. "If you're angry, go and take it up

with the headmaster, he's the one who's tightened security."


"Fantastic," said Harry bitterly, looking around at the hard floor. "Really

brilliant. Yeah, I would go and take it up with Dumbledore if he was here,

because he's the one who wanted me to --"


"He is here," said a voice behind Harry. "Professor Dumbledore returned

to the school an hour ago."

Nearly Headless Nick was gliding toward Harry, his head wob-bling as

usual upon his ruff.


"I had it from the Bloody Baron, who saw him arrive," said Nick. "He

appeared, according to the Baron, to be in good spirits, though a little tired,

of course."


"Where is he?" said Harry, his heart leaping,"


"Oh, groaning and clanking up on the Astronomy Tower, it's a, favorite

pastime of his --"


"Not the Bloody Baron -- Dumbledore!"


"Oh -- in his office," said Nick. "I believe, from what the Baron said, that

he had business to attend to before turning in --"


"Yeah, he has," said Harry, excitement blazing in his chest at the prospect

of telling Dumbledore he had secured the memory. He wheeled about and

sprinted off again, ignoring the Fat Lady who was calling after him.


"Come back! All right, I lied! I was annoyed you woke me up! The

password's still 'tapeworm'!"

But Harry was already hurtling back along the corridor and within

minutes, he was saying "toffee eclairs" to Dumbledore's gar-goyle, which

leapt aside, permitting Harry entrance onto the spiral staircase.


"Enter," said Dumbledore when Harry knocked. He sounded exhausted.

Harry pushed open the door. There was Dumbledore's office, looking the

same as ever, but with black, star-strewn skies beyond the windows.


"Good gracious, Harry," said Dumbledore in surprise. "To what do I owe

this very late pleasure?"


"Sir -- I've got it. I've got the memory from Slughorn."


Harry pulled out the tiny glass bottle and showed it to Dumbledore. For a

moment or two, the headmaster looked stunned. Then his face split in a wide

smile.


"Harry, this is spectacular news! Very well done indeed! I knew you

could do it!"


All thought of the lateness of the hour apparently forgotten, he hurried

around his desk, took the bottle with Slughorn's memory in his uninjured

hand, and strode over to the cabinet where he kepi the Pensieve.


"And now," said Dumbledore, placing the stone basin upon the desk and

emptying the contents of the bottle into it. "Now, at last. we shall see. Harry,

quickly . . ."

Harry bowed obediently over the Pensieve and felt his feet leave the

office floor. . . . Once again he fell through darkness and landed in Horace

Slughorn's office many years before. There was the much younger Slughorn,

with his thick, shiny, straw-colored hair and his gingery-blond mustache,

sitting again in the comfortable winged armchair in his office, his feet

resting upon a velvet pouffe, a small glass of wine in one hand, the other

rummaging in a box of crystallized pineapple. And there were the half dozen

teenage boys sitting around Slughorn with Tom Riddle in the midst of them,

Marvolo's gold-and-black ring gleaming on his finger.


Dumbledore landed beside Harry just as Riddle asked, "Sir is it true that

Professor Merrythought is retiring?"


"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wag-ging his

finger reprovingly at Riddle, though winking at the same time. "I must say,

I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable

than half the staff, you are."


Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.


"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your

careful flattery of the people who matter -- thank you for the pineapple, by

the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite --" Several of the boys tittered

again. "-- I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within

twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have ex-cellent

contacts at the Ministry."

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Harry noticed that

he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed

to look to him as their leader.


"I don't know that politics would suit me, sir," he said when the laughter

had died away. "I don't have the right kind of background, for one thing."


A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Harry was sure

they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or

suspected, regarding their gang leader's famous ancestor.


"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from

decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've

never been wrong about a student yet."


The small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven

o'clock behind him and he looked around.


"Good gracious, is it that time already? You'd better get going boys, or

we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by in morrow or it's

detention. Same goes for you, Avery."


One by one, the boys filed out of the room. Slughorn heaved himself out

of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk. A movement

behind him made him look around; Riddle was still standing there.

"Look shar


p, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a

prefect.. ."


"Sir, I wanted to ask you something." -' "Ask away, then, m'boy, ask

away. . . ."


"Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?'


Slughorn stared at him, his thick ringers absentmindedly clawing the stem

of his wine glass.


"Project for Defense Against the Dark Arts, is it?"


But Harry could tell that Slughorn knew perfectly well that this was not

schoolwork.


"Not exactly, sir," said Riddle. "I came across the term while reading and

I didn't fully understand it."


"No . . . well. . . you'd be hard-pushed to find a book at Hogwarts that'll

give you details on Horcruxes, Tom, that's very Dark stuff, very Dark

indeed," said Slughorn.

"But you obviously know all about them, sir? I mean, a wizard like you

-- sorry, I mean, if you can't tell me, obviously -- I just knew if anyone

could tell me, you could -- so I just thought I'd ­"


It was very well done, thought Harry, the hesitancy, the casual tone, the

careful flattery, none of it overdone. He, Harry, had had too much

experience of trying to wheedle information out of re-luctant people not to

recognize a master at work. He could tell that Riddle wanted the information

very, very much; perhaps had been working toward this moment for weeks.


"Well," said Slughorn, not looking at Riddle, but fiddling with the ribbon

on top of his box of crystallized pineapple, "well, it can't hurt to give you an

overview, of course. Just so that you understand t he term. A Horcrux is the

word used for an object in which a per-son has concealed part of their soul."


"I don't quite understand how that works, though, sir," said Riddle.


His voice was carefully controlled, but Harry could sense his excitement.


"Well, you split your soul, you see," said Slughorn, "and hide part of it in

an object outside the body. Then, even if one's body is attacked or destroyed,

one cannot die, for part of the soul remains earthbound and undamaged. But

of course, existence in such a form ..."


Slughorn's face crumpled and Harry found himself remember-ing words

he had heard nearly two years before: "I was ripped from my body, I was

less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost. . . but still, I was alive."

"... few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable."


But Riddle's hunger was now apparent; his expression was greedy, he

could no longer hide his longing.


"How do you split your soul?"


"Well," said Slughorn uncomfortably, "you must understand that the soul

is supposed to remain intact and whole. Splitting n it I an act of violation, it

is against nature."


"But how do you do it?"


"By an act of evil -- the supreme act of evil. By commiting murder.

Killing rips the soul apart. The wizard intent upon creating a Horcrux would

use the damage to his advantage: He would encase the torn portion --"


"Encase? But how -- ?"


"There is a spell, do not ask me, I don't know!" said Slughoin shaking his

head like an old elephant bothered by mosquitoes. " Do I look as though I

have tried it -- do I look like a killer?"


"No, sir, of course not," said Riddle quickly. "I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to

offend . . ."

"Not at all, not at all, not offended," said Slughorn gruffly, "It is natural to

feel some curiosity about these things. . . . Wizards of a certain caliber have

always been drawn to that aspect of magic. . . ."


"Yes, sir," said Riddle. "What I don't understand, though -- just out of

curiosity -- I mean, would one Horcrux be much use? Can you only split

your soul once? Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul

in more pieces, I mean, for instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical

number, wouldn't seven -- ?"


"Merlin's beard, Tom!" yelped Slughorn. "Seven! Isn't it bad enough to

think of killing one person? And in any case . . . bad enough to divide the

soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . ."


Slughorn looked deeply troubled now: He was gazing at Riddle as though

he had never seen him plainly before, and Harry could tell that he was

regretting entering into the conversation at all.


"Of course," he muttered, "this is all hypothetical, what we're discussing,

isn't it? All academic . . ."


"Yes, sir, of course," said Riddle quickly.


"But all the same, Tom . . . keep it quiet, what I've told -- that's to say,

what we've discussed. People wouldn't like to think we've been chatting

about Horcruxes. It's a banned subject at Hogwarts, you know. . . .

Dumbledore's particularly fierce about it. ..."

"I won't say a word, sir," said Riddle, and he left, but not before Harry had

glimpsed his face, which was full of that same wild hap-piness it had worn

when he had first found out that he was a wiz-ard, the sort of happiness that

did not enhance his handsome features, but made them, somehow, less

human. . . .


"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Let us go. . . ."


When Harry landed back on the office floor Dumbledore was ; already

sitting down behind his desk. Harry sat too and waited for Dumbledore to

speak.


"I have been hoping for this piece of evidence for a very long time," said

Dumbledore at last. "It confirms the theory on which I have been working, it

tells me that I am right, and also how very far there is still to go. ..."


Harry suddenly noticed that every single one of the old head-masters and

headmistresses in the portraits around the walls was awake and listening in

on their conversation. A corpulent, red nosed wizard had actually taken out

an ear trumpet.


"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, "I am sure you understood the

significance of what we just heard. At the same age as you are now, give or

take a few months, Tom Riddle was doing all he could to find out how to

make himself immortal."

"You think he succeeded then, sir?" asked Harry. "He made a Horcrux?

And that's why he didn't die when he attacked me? He had a Horcrux hidden

somewhere? A bit of his soul was safe?"


"A bit... or more," said Dumbledore. "You heard Voldemort, what he

particularly wanted from Horace was an opinion on what would happen to

the wizard who created more than one Horcrux, what would happen to the

wizard so determined to evade death that he would be prepared to murder

many times, rip his soul repeatedly, so as to store it in many, separately

concealed Horcruxc. No book would have given him that information. As far

as I know -- as far, I am sure, as Voldemort knew -- no wizard had ever

done more than tear his soul in two."


Dumbledore paused for a moment, marshaling his thought, and then said,

"Four years ago, I received what I considered certain proof that Voldemort

had split his soul."


"Where?" asked Harry. "How?"


"You handed it to me, Harry," said Dumbledore. "The diary, Riddles

diary, the one giving instructions on how to reopen the Chamber of Secrets."


"I don't understand, sir," said Harry.


"Well, although I did not see the Riddle who came out of the di-ary, what

you described to me was a phenomenon I had never wit-nessed. A mere

memory starting to act and think for itself? A mere memory, sapping the life

out of the girl into whose hands it had fallen? No, something much more

sinister had lived inside that book. ... a fragment of soul, I was almost sure of

it. The diary had been a Horcrux. But this raised as many questions as it

answered. What intrigued and alarmed me most was that that diary had been

intended as a weapon as much as a safeguard."


"1 still don't understand," said Harry.


"Well, it worked as a Horcrux is supposed to work -- in other words, the

fragment of soul concealed inside it was kept safe and had undoubtedly

played its part in preventing the death of its owner. But there could be no

doubt that Riddle really wanted that diary read, wanted the piece of his soul

to inhabit or possess some-body else, so that Slytherin's monster would be

unleashed again."


"Well, he didn't want his hard work to be wasted," said Harry. "He wanted

people to know he was Slytherin's heir, because he couldn't take credit at the

time."


"Quite correct," said Dumbledore, nodding. "But don't you see, Harry,

that if he intended the diary to be passed to, or planted on, some future

Hogwarts student, he was being remarkably blase about that precious

fragment of his soul concealed within it. The point of a Horcrux is, as

Professor Slughorn explained, to keep part of the self hidden and safe, not to

fling it into somebody else's path and run the risk that they might destroy it

-- as indeed happened: That particular fragment of soul is no more; you saw

to that.

The careless way in which Voldemort regarded this Horcrux seemed most

ominous to me. It suggested that he must have made -- or had been planning

to make -- more Horcruxes, so that the loss of his first would not be so

detrimental. I did not wish to be-lieve it, but nothing else seemed to make

sense. Then you told me, two years later, that on the night that Volde-mort

returned to his body, he made a most illuminating and alarm-ing statement to

his Death Eaters. `I who have gone further than anybody along the path that

leads to immortality.' That was what you told me he said. 'Further than

anybody!' And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters

did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry,

which I don't believe any other wizard has ever had. Yet it fitted: Lord

Voldomort has seemed to grow less human with the passing years, and the

transformation he had undergone seemed to me to be only explainable if his

soul was mutilated beyond the realms of what we might call 'usual evil' . . ."


"So he's made himself impossible to kill by murdering other people?" said

Harry. "Why couldn't he make a Sorcerer's Stone, or steal one, if he was so

interested in immortality?"


"Well, we know that he tried to do just that, five years ago," s;n«l

Dumbledore. "But there are several reasons why, I think, a Sorcerer's Stone

would appeal less than Horcruxes to Lord Voldemort,


"While the Elixir of Life does indeed extend life, it must lie drunk

regularly, for all eternity, if the drinker is to maintain the immortality.

Therefore, Voldemort would be entirely dependant on the Elixir, and if it ran

out, or was contaminated, or if the Stone was stolen, he would die just like

any other man. Voldemort likes to operate alone, remember. I believe that he

would have found the thought of being dependent, even on the Elixir,

intolerable. Of course he was prepared to drink it if it would take him out of

the horrible part-life to which he was condemned after attacking you, but

only to regain a body. Thereafter, I am convinced, he intended to continue to

rely on his Horcruxes. He would need nothing more, if only he could regain

a human form. He was already im-mortal, you see ... or as close to immortal

as any man can be. But now, Harry, armed with this information, the crucial

memory you have succeeded in procuring for us, we are closer to the se-cret

of finishing Lord Voldemort than anyone has ever been before. You heard

him, Harry: 'Wouldn't it be better, make you stronger, to have your soul in

more pieces . . . isn't seven the most powerfully magical number . . .' Isn't

seven the most powerfully magical number. Yes, I think the idea of a seven-

part soul would greatly appeal to Lord Voldemort."


"He made seven Horcruxes?" said Harry, horror-struck, while several of

the portraits on the walls made similar noises of shock mid outrage. "But

they could be anywhere in the world -- hidden -- buried or invisible --"


"I am glad to see you appreciate the magnitude of the problem," said

Dumbledore calmly. "But firstly, no, Harry, not seven Hor-cruxes: six. The

seventh part of his soul, however maimed, resides inside his regenerated

body. That was the part of him that lived a spectral existence for so many

years during his exile; without that, he has no self at all. That seventh piece

of soul will be the last that anybody wishing to kill Voldemort must attack

-- the piece that lives in his body."

"But the six Horcruxes, then," said Harry, a little desperately, "how are we

supposed to find them?"


"You are forgetting . . . you have already destroyed one of them. And I

have destroyed another."


"You have?" said Harry eagerly.


"Yes indeed," said Dumbledore, and he raised his blackened, burned-

looking hand. "The ring, Harry. Marvolo's ring. And a ter-rible curse there

was upon it too. Had it not been -- forgive me the lack of seemly modesty

-- for my own prodigious skill, and for Professor Snape's timely action

when I returned to Hogwarts, des-perately injured, I might not have lived to

tell the tale. However, a withered hand does not seem an unreasonable

exchange for a sev-enth of Voldemort's soul. The ring is no longer a

Horcrux."


"But how did you find it?"


"Well, as you now know, for many years I have made it my business to

discover as much as I can about Voldemort's past life. I have traveled

widely, visiting those places he once knew. I stumbled across the ring

hidden in the ruin of the Gaunt's house. It seem that once Voldemort had

succeeded in sealing a piece of his soul in side it, he did not want to wear it

anymore. He hid it, protected by many powerful enchantments, in the shack

where his ancestors had once lived (Morfin having been carted off to

Azkaban, of course), never guessing that I might one day take the trouble to

visit the ruin, or that I might be keeping an eye open for traces of magical

concealment.


"However, we should not congratulate ourselves too heartily. You

destroyed the diary and I the ring, but if we are right in our theory of a

seven-part soul, four Horcruxes remain."


"And they could be anything?" said Harry. "They could be oh, in tin cans

or, I dunno, empty potion bottles. . . ."


"You are thinking of Portkeys, Harry, which must be ordinary objects,

easy to overlook. But would Lord Voldemort use tin cans or old potion

bottles to guard his own precious soul? You are forgetting what I have

showed you. Lord Voldemort liked to collect trophies, and he preferred

objects with a powerful magical history His pride, his belief in his own

superiority, his determination to carve for himself a startling place in

magical history; these things, suggest to me that Voldemort would have

chosen his Horcruxr with some care, favoring objects worthy of the honor."


"The diary wasn't that special."


"The diary, as you have said yourself, was proof that he was the Hire of

Slytherin. I am sure that Voldemort considered it of stu-pendous

importance."

"So, the other Horcruxes?" said Harry. "Do you think you know what they

are, sir?"


"I can only guess," said Dumbledore. "For the reasons I have al-ready

given, I believe that Lord Voldemort would prefer objects that, in

themselves, have a certain grandeur. I have therefore trawled back through

Voldemort's past to see if I can find evidence that such artifacts have

disappeared around him."


"The locket!" said Harry loudly, "Hufflepuff's cup!"


"Yes," said Dumbledore, smiling, "I would be prepared to bet -- perhaps

not my other hand -- but a couple of fingers, that they be-came Horcruxes

three and four. The remaining two, assuming again that he created a total of

six, are more of a problem, but I will hazard a guess that, having secured

objects from Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he set out to track down objects

owned by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Four objects from the four founders

would, I am sure, have exerted a powerful pull over Voldemort's

imagination. I can-not answer for whether he ever managed to find anything

of Ravenclaw's. I am confident, however, that the only known relic of

Gryffindor remains safe."


Dumbledore pointed his blackened fingers to the wall behind him, where

a ruby-encrusted sword reposed within a glass case.

"Do you think that's why he really wanted to come back to Hogwarts,

sir?" said Harry. "To try and find something from one of the other

founders?"


"My thoughts precisely," said Dumbledore. "But unfortunately, that does

not advance us much further, for he was turned away, or so I believe,

without the chance to search the school. I am forced to conclude that he

never fulfilled his ambition of collecting four founders' objects. He

definitely had two -- he may have found three -- that is the best we can do

for now."


"Even if he got something of Ravenclaw's or of Gryffindor's, that leaves a

sixth Horcrux," said Harry, counting on his fingers. "Unless he's got both?"


"I don't think so," said Dumbledore. "I think I know what the sixth

Horcrux is. I wonder what you will say when I confess that I have been

curious for a while about the behavior of the snake, Nagini?'


"The snake?" said Harry, startled. "You can use animals as Horcruxes?"


"Well, it is inadvisable to do so," said Dumbledore, "because to confide a

part of your soul to something that can think and move for itself is obviously

a very risky business. However, if my calculations are correct, Voldemort

was still at least one Horcrux short of his goal of six when he entered your

parents' house with the inten-tion of killing you. He seems to have reserved

the process of making Horcruxes for particularly significant deaths. You

would certainly have been that. He believed that in killing you, he was

destroying the danger the prophecy had outlined. He believed he was

making himself invin-cible. I am sure that he was intending to make his final

Horcrux with your death. As we know, he failed. After an interval of some

years, however, he used Nagini to kill an old Muggle man, and it might then

have occurred to him to turn her into his last Horcrux. She underlines the

Slytherin connection, which enhances Lord Voldemorts mys-tique; I think

he is perhaps as fond of her as he can be of anything; he certainly likes to

keep her close, and he seems to have an un-usual amount of control over her,

even for a Parselmouth."


"So," said Harry, "the diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket,

and the snake are still intact, and you think there might be a Horcrux that

was once Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's?"


"An admirably succinct and accurate summary, yes," said Dum-bledore,

bowing his head.


"So . . . are you still looking for them, sir? Is that where you've been going

when you've been leaving the school?"


"Correct," said Dumbledore. "I have been looking for a very long time. I

think. . . perhaps ... I may be close to finding an-other one. There are hopeful

signs."


"And if you do," said Harry quickly, "can I come with you and help get

rid of it?"

Dumbledore looked at Harry very intently for a moment before saying,

"Yes, I think so."


"I can?" said Harry, thoroughly taken aback.


"Oh yes," said Dumbledore, smiling slightly. "I think you have earned

that right."


Harry felt his heart lift. It was very good not to hear words of caution and

protection for once. The headmasters and head-mistresses around the walls

seemed less impressed by Dumbledore's decision; Harry saw a few of them

shaking their heads and Phineas Nigellus actually snorted.


"Does Voldemort know when a Horcrux is destroyed, sir? Can he feel it?"

Harry asked, ignoring the portraits.


"A very interesting question, Harry. I believe not. I believe that

Voldemort is now so immersed in evil, and these crucial parts of himself

have been detached for so long, he does not feel as we do. Perhaps, at the

point of death, he might be aware of his loss . . . but he was not aware, for

instance, that the diary had been destroyed until he forced the truth out of

Lucius Malfoy. When Voldemort discovered that the diary had been

mutilated and robbed of all its powers, I am told that his anger was terrible

to behold."


"But I thought he meant Lucius Malfoy to smuggle it into Hogwarts?"

"Yes, he did, years ago, when he was sure he would be able to create

more Horcruxes, but still Lucius was supposed to wait for Voldemorts say-

so, and he never received it, for Voldemort van-ished shortly after giving

him the diary. No doubt he thought that Lucius would not dare do anything

with the Horcrux other than guard it carefully, but he was counting too much

upon Lucius's fear of a master who had been gone for years and whom

Lucius believed dead. Of course, Lucius did not know what the diary really

was. I understand that Voldemort had told him the diary would cause the

Chamber of Secrets to reopen because it was cleverly enchanted. Had Lucius

known he held a portion of his mas-ters soul in his hands, he would

undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence -- but instead he went

ahead and carried out the old plan for his own ends. By planting the diary

upon Arthur Weasleys daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a

highly incrim-inating magical object in one stroke. Ah, poor Lucius . . . what

with Voldemorts fury about the fact that he threw away the Horcrux for his

own gain, and the fiasco at the Ministry last year, I would not be sur-prised

if he is not secretly glad to be safe in Azkaban at the moment."


Harry sat in thought for a moment, then asked, "So if all of his Horcruxes

are destroyed, Voldemort couldbe killed?"


"Yes, I think so," said Dumbledore. "Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort

will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget,

though, that while his soul may be damaged be-yond repair, his brain and his

magical powers remain intact. It will take uncommon skill and power to kill

a wizard like Voldemort even without his Horcruxes."

"But I haven't got uncommon skill and power," said Harry, be-fore he

could stop himself.


"Yes, you have," said Dumbledore firmly. "You have a power that

Voldemort has never had. You can --"


"I know!" said Harry impatiently. "I can love!" It was only with difficulty

that he stopped himself adding, "Big deal!"


"Yes, Harry, you can love," said Dumbledore, who looked as though he

knew perfectly well what Harry had just refrained from saying. "Which,

given everything that has happened to you, is a great and remarkable thing.

You are still too young to understand how unusual you are, Harry."


"So, when the prophecy says that I'll have 'power the Dark Lord knows

not,' it just means -- love?" asked Harry, feeling a little let down.


"Yes -- just love," said Dumbledore. "But Harry, never forget that what

the prophecy says is only significant because Voldemort made it so. I told

you this at the end of last year. Voldemort singled you out as the person who

would be most dangerous to him -- and in doing so, he made you the person

who would be most dan-gerous to him!"


"But it comes to the same --"

"No, it doesn't!" said Dumbledore, sounding impatient now. Pointing at

Harry with his black, withered hand, he said, "You are setting too much

store by the prophecy!"


"But," spluttered Harry, "but you said the prophecy means --"


"If Voldemort had never heard of the prophecy, would it have been

fulfilled? Would it have meant anything? Of course not! Ho you think every

prophecy in the Hall of Prophecy has been fulfilled?"


"But," said Harry, bewildered, "but last year, you said one of us would

have to kill the other --"


"Harry, Harry, only because Voldemort made a grave error, and acted on

Professor Trelawney's words! If Voldemort had never murdered your father,

would he have imparted in you a furious desire for revenge? Of course not!

If he had not forced your mother to die for you, would he have given you a

magical protection he could not penetrate? Of course not, Harry! Don't you

see? Voldemort himself created his worst enemy, just as tyrants everywhere

do! Have you any idea how much tyrants fear the people they oppress? All

of them realize that, one day, amongst their many victims, there is sure to be

one who rises against them and strikes back! Voldemort is no different!

Always he was on the lookout for the one who would challenge him. He

heard the prophecy and he leapt into ac-tion, with the result that he not only

handpicked the man most likely to finish him, he handed him uniquely

deadly weapons!"

"But --"


"It is essential that you understand this!" said Dumbledore, standing up

and striding about the room, his glittering robes swooshing in his wake;

Harry had never seen him so agitated. "By attempting to kill you, Voldemort

himself singled out the remark-able person who sits here in front of me, and

gave him the tools for the job! It is Voldemort's fault that you were able to

see into his thoughts, his ambitions, that you even understand the snakelike

language in which he gives orders, and yet, Harry, despite your privileged

insight into Voldemort's world (which, incidentally, is a gift any Death Eater

would kill to have), you have never been se-duced by the Dark Arts, never,

even for a second, shown the slight-est desire to become one of Voldemort's

followers!"


"Of course I haven't!" said Harry indignantly. "He killed my mum and

dad!"


"You are protected, in short, by your ability to love!" said Dum-bledore

loudly. "The only protection that can possibly work against the lure of power

like Voldemort's! In spite of all the temptation you have endured, all the

suffering, you remain pure of heart, just as pure as you were at the age of

eleven, when you stared into a mir-ror that reflected your heart's desire, and

it showed you only the way to thwart Lord Voldemort, and not immortality

or riches. Harry, have you any idea how few wizards could have seen what

you saw in that mirror? Voldemort should have known then what he was

dealing with, but he did not! But he knows it now. You have flitted into Lord

Voldemort's mind without damage to yourself, but he cannot possess you

with-out enduring mortal agony, as he discovered in the Ministry. I do not

think he understands why, Harry, but then, he was in such a hurry to mutilate

his own soul, he never paused to understand the incomparable power of a

soul that is untarnished and whole."


"But, sir," said Harry, making valiant efforts not to sound argu-mentative,

"it all comes to the same thing, doesn't it? I've got to try and kill him, or --"


"Got to?" said Dumbledore. "Of course you've got to! But not because of

the prophecy! Because you, yourself, will never rest until you've tried! We

both know it! Imagine, please, just for a moment,


that you had never heard that prophecy! How would you feel about

Voldemort now? Think!"


Harry watched Dumbledore striding up and down in front ol him, and

thought. He thought of his mother, his father, and Sinus. He thought of

Cedric Diggory. He thought of all the terrible deeds he knew Lord

Voldemort had done. A flame seemed to leap inside his chest, searing his

throat.


"I'd want him finished," said Harry quietly. "And I'd want to do it."


"Of course you would!" cried Dumbledore. "You see, the prophecy does

not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort

to mark you as his equal. ... In other words, you are free to choose your way,

quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set

store by the prophecy. He will continue to hunt you . . . which makes it

certain, really, that --"


"That one of us is going to end up killing the other," said Harry. "Yes."


But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It

was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face

a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high.

Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the

two ways, but Dumble-dore knew -- and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush

of fierce pride, and so did my parents -- that there was all the difference in

the world.