Harry and Amelia Potter

6.24

Dumbledore holds the vial in wonderment. The worm hangs in eerie suspension.

"How is he? Horace?" Harry and I shrug. Dumbledore nods, then tips his hand. A long strand hangs suspended like glass. A pearl forms and as it hangs our eyes shift, notice a drawing on Dumbledore's desk, one of Tom Riddle's drawings seen at the orphanage, of the cave and the distinct outcropping. Then the pearl drops.

As before, the crackling embers of the fire. Slughorn, a circle of six. Riddle commanding the room.

"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?"  Slughorn chuckles, wags a sugar-encrusted finger at Riddle.

"Now, Tom, I couldn't tell you if I knew, could I? I must say, m'boy, I'd like to know where you get your information. More knowledgable than half the staff, you are." As the other boys laugh, "By the way, thank you for the pineapple, you're quite right, it is my favorite, how is it you knew?"

"Intuition."

An uneasy chuckle escaped Slughorns lips. "Good gracious, is it that time already? Off you go, boys, or Professor Dippett will have us all in detention. Lestrange, Avery, don't forget your essays..."

The others exit, when Slughorn turns, eyes the hourglass, finds Tom Riddle still there.

"Look sharp, Tom. You don't want to be caught out of bed after hours..."

"I know a secret shortcut or two."

"Yes, I imagine you do. Something on your mind, Tom?"

"Yes, sir. I couldn't think of anyone else to go to. The other Professors, well, they're not like you. They might... misunderstand."

"Go on."

"I was in the library the other night, in the Restricted section, and I read something rather odd, about a bit of rare magic and I thought perhaps you could illuminate me. It's called, as I understand it... a Horcrux."

Slughorn's weak smile evaporates altogether. "Excuse me?"

"Horcrux. I came across the term while reading and I didn't fully understand it."

"I'm not sure what you were reading, Tom, but that's very Dark stuff, very Dark indeed."

"Yes, sir. Which is why I came to you. I mean no disrespect to the rest of the staff, but I thought if anyone could tell me... it would be you." Slughorn frowns, clearly disturbed, then speaks quietly.

"A Horcrux is an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul."

"Yes, I thought it might be something like that. But I don't understand how that works, sir."

"One splits one's soul and hides part of it in an object. By doing so, you are protected should you be attacked and your body destroyed."

"Protected?"

"That part of your soul that was hidden, lives on. In other words, you cannot die." Riddle nods and turns away, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall opposite. A hint of red glints in his eyes.

"How does one split his soul, sir?"

"I think you can guess the answer to that, Tom."

"Murder."

"Yes. Killing rips the soul apart. It is a violation against nature. After, one is never the same."

"Out of curiosity, sir, can you only split your soul once? For instance, isn't seven the most powerfully magical number-"

"Seven! Merlin's beard, Tom! Isn't it bad enough to think of killing one person? To rip the soul into seven pieces..." Slughorn stops, worriedly. "This is all hypothetical, isn't it, Tom? All academic..."

"Of course, sir. And I promise I'll not speak of our conversation. It'll be our little secret..."  Riddle reaches out then and pinches the flame of a candle, killing it. As smoke rises, we dissolve into the surface of the Pensieve.

"Sir-" Harry and I both begin but Dumbledore holds up his withered hand, silencing us, and turns away. We study him, waiting, the hush palpable.

"This is beyond anything I imagined. In my life I have seen things that are unimaginably horrific. I know now... you both will see worse." Dumbledore looks off, his eyes distant. I watch him intently, as do the Headmasters in their frames above. Finally, tentatively, Harry speaks.

"Do you mean to say he succeeded, sir? In making a Horcrux?"

"Oh he succeeded. And not just once. Think. He's just told us."

"Seven. He made seven -- the most powerfully magical number. But... what are they exactly?" I ask.

"They can be anything. The most commonplace of objects. A ring, for example. Or a book..." Dumbledore slides open a drawer, removes the Riddle's battered diary.

"Tom Riddle's diary." Harry says.

"It's a Horcrux, yes. Four years ago, when you saved Ginny Weasley's life in the Chamber of Secrets, when you brought me this..." he holds up the diary, "I knew. This was a different kind of magic. Very dark. Very powerful. But until tonight, I had no idea just how powerful..."

"And the ring...?" I ask.

"Belonged to Voldemort's mother. It was difficult to find and..." raising his damaged hand, "even more difficult to destroy."

"But if you could find them all. If you did destroy each Horcrux..." I trail off.

"One destroys Voldemort." Harry begins to reach out for the ring.

"But how would you find them? They could be hidden anywhere, couldn't they?" He asks.

"True. But magic, especially Dark magic..."

As Dumbledore speaks, Harry touches the ring.

"Harry! No!" I yell, thinking of Dumbledore's cursed hand. I try to grab it from him, but as my fingers touch it, everything goes dark.

Then images flash by in whirling succession: Voldemort's face, twisted in pain. A derelict house, deep in a haunted clearing. An ancient cup, gleaming as it tumbles from an old woman's hand. A snake slithering through damp grass. Dumbledore slipping the ring onto his finger, recoiling as his skin decays...

"...leaves traces." We're brought back to reality. Harry's clenched hand spasms. The ring skitters across Dumbledore's desk and Harry and I bring a hand to out chests, a look of bewilderment on our faces.

Dumbledore watches the ring spin down, then glances at Harry and I, slowly extends his own hand, lightly touching the center of Harry's chest with the tips of ashen fingers, and then mine, as if reading braille, as if he can somehow "see" into our hearts. Trepidation, and recognition, flicker over his face.

"It's where you've been going, isn't it, sir? When you leave the school." I question. My eyes drift once again to the postcard on the desk. Dumbledore withdraws his hand, nodding, still studying us oddly, his voice, when it comes, distant.

"Yes. And I think... perhaps... I may have found another. But this time I cannot hope to destroy it alone." Harry and I peer into Dumbledore's eyes. He nods. "Once again, I shall ask too much of you two."