Posted 12/3/2013, edited 10/12/2014

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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.


Chapter Nine – The Hidden Truth

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Wednesday afternoon, Summers had returned to the Slytherin Common Room. Most had left him alone after seeing his haunted look, and only some of his closer friends had tried to comfort him. Some of the housemates were still rather disturbed by it, especially the younger years, but starting Monday evening, the whispers had broken out. Theories had been discussed, even if no one had any new information. Some were determined to get to the bottom of it, others simply liked to regain their sense of safety, and knowing what had happened and if there was any danger for them would help them.

Daphne hadn't been in either group. While the teachers had been very considerate, giving hardly any homework, she still had a lot to do. Additionally, doing something for class meant not thinking about what had happened, and any distraction had been welcome for her. She didn't need to think of the death of a girl so close in age. For that reason, she had done an impromptu tutoring session for some third-years on Monday.

Evening came, and with it heavy rain, forcing everyone in the house to stay indoor. Tracey and Millicent were playing some obscure game they had picked up, consisting of a lot of shouting and the occasional switching of places. It had the added bonus of annoying Pansy which was always fun. As a proper pureblood she wouldn't want to admit to it, and watching her fight the urge to lash out was amusing in its own way.

Daphne had offered her help again, this time to a fifth-year who had been struggling with a tricky paper for Defence against the Dark Arts. In all honesty Daphne had found it too complicated herself, but had managed to muddle through. Over the course of the evening, she had found the number of students around her growing. Shortly after half past ten, however, they had finished, and Daphne found herself watching Millicent play.

"Eagle Eye, and Confusion," she announced, placing a card down to groans from the others, who rose to their feet and passed their hands to their opposite players.

"Well, then," Tracey announced, "I'll call Fish, Edgar."

And the boy smiled at her and shook his head. "No. Bad luck."

Grumbling, Tracey threw a few Knuts on the table. "Alright then, Fire." Everyone threw a card on the stack in the middle of the table, and the next turn began. Daphne still hadn't figured out the rules, and only knew the game originated in Ravenclaw house. But then, who else could come up with a ridiculously nonsensical game with more exceptions than rules?

Edgar nodded. "Well, then. Armageddon, everyone." And as one, each player threw their hand with the exception of one card on the table. "Show me what you've got."

Apparently, Tracey had somehow won, as she collected the money on the table. Daphne merely shook her head. And by some weird agreement, most left.

"Well, that was fun," Tracey announced. "Are you in next time?"

"I don't think so," Daphne replied. "I refuse to play a game where I have to hop on one foot while drinking butterbeer."

"Ah, come on, that happens only once every full moon anyway."

"And three times this evening, I counted," Daphne pointed out. Tracey would have answered, but just then, Theodore and Draco joined them. "She is right, you know?" the lanky black-haired boy said. "And I don't care if it is the future of games, I'm out. I'd rather be thought of as grumpy than act like a monkey."

"No one asked you to play," Tracey replied, frowning. It was well known she actually liked the silliness of the game, and had tried to get others to play since she had picked it up.

"You did. But anyway, you won't believe what I have found out. I talked to Summers earlier..."

"Please tell me you didn't," Daphne groaned. Theodore, while relatively decent, did have the occasional bouts of tactlessness. Why, no one had been able to figure out.

"Ah, I just talked to him, don't worry. Anyway, he was there and saw her. Brooks, I mean. When he couldn't find her Sunday evening, probably to sneak off somewhere, he went to search for Professor Snape. Well, one of the ghosts sent him to the Prefects' bathroom. When he arrived, they had already found her. Dumbledore was there, Donovan said, and the Heads and Madam Pomfrey as well. And you know who else?" He waited for a moment, positively bursting to tell. When nobody took the bait, he bent forward with a mad glint in his eyes. "Potter."

That got him the desired reactions. Tracey almost fell from the couch, Millicent gasped loudly and Draco looked shocked. Daphne was speechless. Somehow, her mind had come to a screeching halt. Maybe it was the fact that, for once, she could assign a face to the previously nameless student who had found her dead housemate.

Interpreting their expressions, Theodore nodded. "That's what I thought too. Summers said Potter wasn't wearing his uniform, and Brooks had been lying in a puddle of water, from what I could gather."

"You're thinking of the tub?" Draco threw in. Daphne looked at him. He seemed tired, with rings under his eyes and, what would probably bother him more, tousled hair. The Prefects had had their hands full, she remembered. They had had to keep an eye on the younger years as well as coping with the schoolwork and their usual duties. Was it a wonder Draco looked as if he hadn't slept for days?

"Yes. It makes sense. Granted, we don't know for sure what happened, but I do have a theory."

"You think Potter had something to do with it?" Tracey laughed while Daphne looked between the two of them. "Ah, come on. As if he'd have the guts to do anything, he's just a harmless lion's cub."

For a second and out of the corner of her eye, Daphne saw something flicker across Draco's face. If she hadn't known better, she would have labelled it as... hate. But then, it was probably only a flicker of the light, because it had vanished as quickly as it had come. And, she reasoned, as she looked at her destined husband, didn't he have the right to be angry? Even she felt the helpless rage at the thought of one of their own dying, and Draco's feelings for Potter were well known. So, yes, he had good reason to be angry.

"He might not be that harmless. You heard the stories of his many adventures as well," Theodore replied. "And he did break into the Ministry for some reason and, loath as I am to admit it, managed to escape relatively unharmed. But no, I don't think he killed Brooks, I think he is either being used or involved in the matter."

"And what? He didn't kill her, but just so happened to stumble upon a dead student? I don't think so," Tracey countered. "That's not really likely, is it? And anyway, what was he doing in the Prefects' bathroom anyway? How come he can go in?"

"Well," Draco threw in with an ugly look on his face, "he is the Quidditch Captain of Gryffindor, and they are allowed to use it as well."

"I should have joined the team, then," Millicent joked. Everyone knew just how bad she was on a broom. "Even if I had to put up with all those guys and you, Draco."

Theodore chuckled, and drew everyone's attention back to himself. "Yes, well, the thing is, there are hundreds of students, and dozens who can use the bath and it just so happens to be Potter, Dumbledore's pet, to find her? That's really weird, don't you think so? Well, I do, in any case. It is too unlikely, in my opinion. So here's what I think: Brooks' father, he worked at the Ministry, didn't he?" Receiving nods all around, he continued, "So maybe he heard something, or feared someone might be after him. Well, he died; we all heard it, even if we haven't seen the body. Now his daughter is found dead in school, supposedly found by Potter. Such a sad occasion, her mother might move away from all these memories, potentially dropping off the face of the earth, meaning the whole family is no longer to be found.

"Well, I heard about an idea being proposed to the Wizengamot called witness protection. Basically, if someone fears for their life, they're given a new name and moved somewhere else. It didn't go through, but... Dumbledore might have liked the idea, right? It would be like him to take inspiration from Muggles, because that's what they do. Well, when Summers walked in and saw the body, Dumbledore and the Heads of Houses were present. And I'd say between the Headmaster, McGonagall and Flitwick, they should be able to create a convincing imitation of Brooks."

"What, you think they tricked him?"

"Exactly. Perhaps they placed the body there and inspired Potter to go take a bath. He did so, found what he thought was a dead girl, called for help. Pomfrey would come, confirm the death, the Heads play the anguished teachers and adults. That way, everyone will believe Brooks to be dead. And as soon as all the students are out of the way, Brooks will be free to leave the country or whatever."

Millicent frowned. "Sounds rather cruel. To us, I could understand. But I can't see Dumbledore intentionally traumatizing Potter –he is the Headmaster's pet. Making him think he found a body? Doesn't really sound like a caring authority figure."

"Might be a necessary sacrifice, but you are right, it isn't his style," Theodore agreed. "But that doesn't mean it wasn't a deception. Again, between the teachers, they should be able to make it convincing. Having a student find the body is a good idea and gives it some credibility as well as adds another witness. And if I were the Headmaster... well, I'd clean up the trash first, of course. But if I were in his place with such a ploy planned and wanted a student to assist... I'd pick Potter, to be honest. If Dumbledore told him to lie, he'd do it. He might be in on it."

"Needlessly complicated, you know? Why not have Brooks pulled then? Other students were," Tracey pointed out. "Abbott, for example. It is not unheard of."

"But they were pulled because their family wanted to admit to the danger they saw for themselves. My idea was for the Brooks to simply drop out of sight. Currently, both the father and the daughter are thought to be dead. As long as everyone believes it, they can quietly steal away, and no one will ever know. And it isn't complicated; it is fairly easy, really."

Daphne turned to him. "So how would they go about it? There is an awful lot of luck involved in your plan."

But Theodore shook his head. "There isn't, really. Let's go with the idea that Potter was involved. So, the teachers had Brooks go somewhere during dinner, perhaps one of the offices or something, where she had to hide for a few hours. That's easy. Meanwhile, they placed the look-alike in the bathroom and waited. Had a student walked in, they would simply have to act as if someone had found the real Brooks. Again, easy. When one of us, in this case, Summers, noticed Brooks' absence, he went looking for her and later Professor Snape. A ghost sent him to the bathroom, where he stumbled upon the scene. It doesn't really matter who walks in, just as long as someone sees Brooks dead on the ground."

Silence reigned while they thought about it. To Daphne, it sounded far too complicated. But then, Dumbledore wasn't really known to do things half-way. "Well, while that might have happened, and just so you know, I don't think it did, that still leaves the motive. Why go into hiding in such a manner?"

"Well, her father worked at the Ministry and might have learned something he shouldn't have," Theodore reminded her. "There is a lot going on behind the scenes, you know?"

But she shook her head. "He was a guard, Theodore. His job was to sit around, basically. I seriously doubt he would be trusted with anything. And it still doesn't answer an important question –who would be after him? Can you see the Ministry trying to off people, even if they have learned something crucial? And if it's Dumbledore who is hiding them, he can't be who is after them."

The boy smiled mysteriously. "I was thinking of the Dark Lord, actually. He might be interested in the comings and goings at the Ministry, and who better than one of the guards to answer a question like that?"

"The Dark Lord," Tracey deadpanned. "You're joking, right?"

"Well, he did have his Death Eaters in the Ministry last June," Theodore replied with a shrug. "And the Ministry is a reasonable target."

Daphne bit her lip. She didn't want to believe it; she really didn't want to agree with Theodore's absurd theory. But it did fit in a way. Not good enough to be convincing, but it explained some of the holes in the story of the death at Hogwarts. And somewhere in the back of her head, she preferred the idea that somewhere, Brooks and her father were alive and well.

"The Dark Lord?" Draco laughed, drawing all their eyes to him. "Oh, she's as good as dead, then! Trying to hide from him, good luck with that!"

Tracey started to smile, and even Theodore started to nod, thinking about the ridiculous notion. No one could hide from the Dark Lord, hadn't Karkaroff been proof of that?

But Daphne didn't laugh or smile. Perhaps it was because she didn't find the struggle to survive as amusing as her classmates, or perhaps she was simply a bit too tired and slowed down from the tutoring.

However, for some reason, she did pick up on Draco's laugh. She had heard him laugh before, especially at the misfortune of others, one of his favourite amusements. She had heard his sniggers about funny insults or cruel jokes. Each time, it had been the kind of laugh that betrayed his haughty attitude and was, sadly, quite ugly. But as he sat on one of the couches, it sounded positively gleeful. Eyes twinkling with delight at the thought of mortal danger for another human being, his laughter sent shivers down Daphne's spine. Unlike Tracey, he didn't laugh at the absurdity of trying to escape the Dark Lord's grasp, but, it seemed to Daphne, at the consequences of it.

Instantly, Daphne was reminded of another laughter. When she had been five, her mother had to file a complaint at the Ministry. On their way back to the exit, they had seen a woman being dragged away by Aurors, rambling about kittens, showing someone something, and chuckling to herself. When they had passed in the corridor, the woman had gazed at Daphne. It had been very frightening for the young Daphne. She had had seen the insanity shining in the woman's eyes, and perhaps the woman had seen more than Daphne had been aware of at the time. Ever since Daphne had heard about her Grandfather's last years arguing with his mirror image or his death, trying to fire-call someone and forgetting the Floo Powder, Daphne had tried to convince herself it had been an accident. He had been known mostly for odd quirks like complimenting the dashingly dressed image in the mirror and asking its name.

That moment in the Ministry had changed Daphne, had made an impression on her. Seeing it with her own eyes, her mother standing detachedly by her side, Daphne had, for only a brief moment, recognized herself, her worst fear since that day –madness, a mind utterly lost. It was the reason Daphne's Boggart was herself, or rather, what she feared to become. She was just glad she had been able to act in third year's Defence class before her doppelganger had done anything. She had gladly endured the teasing about being afraid to not be unique, as long as no one had learned the truth.

But the woman in the Ministry had been mad, her mind lost. Draco wasn't. His eyes were clear, he was very much in control of himself. She could see it. It wasn't the cackle of insanity. It was the joy at the thought of cruelty, of murder. Whereas before, Draco had been Daddy's Little Boy, mindlessly repeating the words, he was now his own man.

Only minutes before, she had hated the idea of marrying him, expecting to have to endure loveless years watching him waste their wealth. What else would he be capable of, she had reasoned. Now, however, a dreadful feeling settled in her. With the Malfoys as close to the Dark Lord as most suspected, how far would Draco go to get gold for him? Now that she saw him clearly, she wasn't so sure he was only a braggart. He seemed harsh. Could he kill?

No, he couldn't. She had known him for years, and she didn't want to believe Draco Malfoy could be a killer. But he might just stand aside and let others do the dirty work. That was the way of the Malfoys. They kept back, but didn't act themselves.

"You're right," Nott replied with a chuckle, drawing attention to himself. "But then, that is kind of where I was going with this. If everyone believes her dead, then she might have a better chance to survive. Why search for someone who is already dead? Well, the Dark Lord would still be after her, but at least no one can betray them."

"And I think," Draco said, still smiling, "that you are hilariously wrong. A ploy to hide her from the world? I don't think so. It's far more likely that she had an accident or something. The Prefects' bathroom, you said? Well, she might have slipped and broken her neck or something. Accidents do happen. And didn't Professor Snape ask about Firewhiskey? She had a bad year, she might have tried to escape of all that. Maybe she simply got drunk, slipped, and died. Not pretty, yes, but I honestly can't see a conspiracy here in school, much less one that they can keep a secret. Nothing stays secret at Hogwarts." He chuckled. "But feel free to spread your theory, and if you can manage it, preferably among the first two years. They are seriously getting on my nerves; I can hardly get my regular duties done with them constantly annoying me. Speaking of which, Pansy? We're on patrol duty tonight."

The girl nodded half-heartedly, and both left. "Grumpy," Tracey commented, picking a thread off her pants.

"Well, I want to, but I can't really fault him," Theodore answered. "We had five or six of them coming in last night, asking for help. Draco literally had to tuck them in. I'd be surprised if he got more than two hours of sleep, and since he can't lash out at them... and he still has to do these tutoring sessions once in a while."

"Is he any good?" Millicent asked curiously.

"Don't know. Well, he doesn't really have that many, most of them are done by other volunteers, but... an hour here, an hour there... Don't know why he doesn't quit, really, but it looks like he's enjoying it. He got others to help, though, so that might help him share the load. Some Ravenclaws, a Hufflepuff or two. Even that blonde guy from Gryffindor. Tall, that seven-year."

"Something Scottish, right?"

"Yeah Colin Mc-Something. I don't know." Looking up, Theodore smiled as he saw Waters coming into the Common Room. "Now, excuse me, ladies, but I've been meaning to talk to Julianne."

Watching him leave, Tracey shook her head. "Don't know why he's bothering. She'll brush him off like always. Well, I think I'll shower before Pansy comes back. See you later." She too left.

"Theodore, really," Millicent chuckled, as if to fill the awkward silence in the otherwise lively Common Room. "Sometimes I wonder where he gets his ideas."

But Daphne bit her lip, and Millicent fell silent. They locked eyes, and Daphne said in a low voice, "Did you notice?" Her eyes shot to the seat Draco had vacated and snapped back to her heavy friend.

Millicent frowned slightly, but nodded. "It doesn't have to mean anything, you know? Tracey laughed too. It was probably the stress, it is known to happen. And even you have to admit Theodore's theory was ridiculous."

But as Daphne considered it, she still felt a shiver run down her back. Fulfilling the contract had always been a possibility, even if it had been an unlikely one. But now, she was more convinced than ever that she didn't want to marry Draco. She needed an out, and she was willing to give her best chance another try.

"Would you do me a favour again?" she said in the same low voice as before.

Millicent glanced around warily. "It won't work anymore than before."

Daphne smiled faintly. "Well, I've thought about it. Shouldn't... shouldn't he have guardians? True, contracts normally need a member of the family, but couldn't a guardian sign for him? After all, there is no current Head, apparently, so they should be acceptable. Or, now that I think about it, he didn't say he had no one who could sign, but no one who could be convinced to do it. There might still be a distant aunt or something. With enough gold, everyone is far more agreeable, don't you think so? And he could still try his luck with Narcissa Malfoy if all else fails. At least that is what I came up with after reading up on past contracts where no one could sign for one family. So, can you arrange another meeting with him? Preferably soon?"

Millicent nodded slowly, recalling the negotiations. "It should work, yes. It's not spotless and could be challenged, I think. The Guardians are likely not proper since they aren't Blacks, but... As long as no one notices it? I'll ask. Draco still hasn't said anything?"

"No," Daphne replied with a frown. "With each passing day I am more convinced they want to use the contract to their advantage, which is all the more reason not to have him know about my plans."

Millicent chuckled nervously. It was a good act, because the large girl really was still a bit uncomfortable in her skin. "There's more, isn't there?" Millicent added after a moment. "You have a plan."

Daphne nodded curtly. "A shrewd idea."


Harry stepped into the room. Dumbledore smiled sadly at him and gestured to a seat.

"Good evening, Harry. I am sorry I didn't meet with you sooner, but important business required my attention." He paused, before adding in a softer tone, "How are you?"

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. "I'm... better. It's..." But he found no adequate words. Somehow, the girl's death –Brooks, he amended –still refused to make any sense.

"Yes, I can imagine. You did well, though, and have nothing to be ashamed of. You acted responsibly, something not many can do in such a situation."

Normally, he would have blushed at the praise, but Harry's mind was elsewhere. He fidgeted for a moment and found himself wanting to wring his hands like he had seen house-elves do. But then, he couldn't keep silent anymore. "Sir, how did it happen?"

Dumbledore sighed. "You shouldn't think about that. You did well, Harry, and all of your professors were impressed. Yes, even Professor Snape."

"Didn't seem that way," Harry grumbled.

"Ah," Dumbledore sighed, nodding slightly, "Professor Snape had just received a shock, one any educator has trouble dealing with. He might have jumped to conclusions when he saw you there at the scene of a failed rescue."

"At the scene of..." Harry repeated, breaking off as a suspicion came to his mind. "'Potter's son,' Snape said. He thought I was like my dad? He thought... ?"

"It might have reminded Professor Snape of the incident with the Whomping Willow in his time, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Both times, a Potter tried to save another student. You failed, your father succeeded. With the limited information available, Professor Snape might have drawn the wrong conclusions. That attempt on his life is not something to leave behind, and you are..."

But Harry interrupted the Headmaster. "I should have checked the tub first. I thought it strange, but brushed it aside. Maybe if I had, if I had been just a bit more cautious... Constant vigilance and all that. It's been on my mind the last few days. I mean, she... could live had I been... I was an idiot back then, wasn't I? If I had walked faster there... I dawdled, sir." He felt like a small boy again, helpless in the face of the challenges of the world.

"It wouldn't have mattered, Harry. She died when you were at dinner in the Great Hall. I had it confirmed. You couldn't have done anything to stop it, and have nothing to blame yourself for," Dumbledore told him calmly.

Harry tried to process it. Deep down, he had known, of course, but it was still hard to believe it, partly because he refused to accept Brooks had died without any chance of rescue. Maybe if he had skipped dinner, he would have arrived in time. Why had he showered, why hadn't he gone to the Prefects' bathroom in the first place? Even if he hadn't had any reason to do so, he would have been able to keep her from dying. He could have...

"Sir, how... how did she die? Did she..." He wanted to continue, but try as he might, he couldn't force the words out. Instead, he felt tears trickle down his face. Ashamed at his weakness and behaviour, he lowered his head. Another failure of his and another life lost.

The soft voice of Dumbledore filled the room. "No, she didn't suffer, from what we can tell. It seems as if she had drunk a lot of Firewhiskey, which is always bad when going into water. Perhaps she slipped and the alcohol disoriented her. Unfortunately, we don't have any witnesses, living or dead. You might not have noticed, but no paintings are close to the bathroom, which is devoid of paintings like you see around the school. And the mermaid in the bathroom is unable to remember anything for obvious reasons –she was created without the ability to remember anything at all to protect the children's privacy. There was a lot of water in Miss Brooks' lungs, though. There were no signs of harm on her body, and no one saw her with anyone before her death. She drowned, Harry. Not everything has to be some mystery around school."

"But why did she drink? Brooks, I mean? I don't... she was younger than me, wasn't she? Where did she even get it? We were all searched whenever we entered school."

"Where she got it I don't know. But since it is not a dark object, she might have smuggled it in, some students do. Magic allows for a lot of hiding places, like magically extended spaces in the trunks. She had a bad year, however, which might explain the reason she turned to the Firewhiskey for consolation. Her father died and her grades were dropping. It might have been an accident, or perhaps she tried to escape the pain. We do not know. But either way, it is not your fault, Harry. You couldn't have saved her; you had no way of stopping it from happening. Sometimes, Harry, we are simply powerless. You have nothing to blame yourself for. Senseless though it may seem, it is not for us mere mortals to know the ways of the world around us."

"So... that's it? She died, tough luck?" Harry asked, glaring at his hands. At least his tears had stopped. "No use crying over spilt..." He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Dumbledore stayed silent for a moment. "How are you doing with your project, Harry?"

"I made progress," he replied dejectedly. "Christmas, maybe? I'm working on a few... are we really not talking about the...? I mean, sir, it's..."

"Yes, Harry, I think it might be good if you got a bit of distance. I can see just how stressed you are, and I have seen similar in the past."

"Yeah, sure," Harry laughed bitterly. "Lost many students in your time?"

"I took it upon myself," the Headmaster said, colder than expected and with a glint in his eye, "to look after students in similar situations and redoubled my efforts after the loss of Miss MacDonald in 1943. I grieve as well and believe it to be best if you gained the distance to refocus and continue on your path. Now then, your Charms project is continuing? Good. I found it to be a difficult discipline and struggled learning it. An old friend taught me in the end."

"Flamel?" Harry guessed.

"Indeed," Dumbledore replied. "But you are thinking of the wrong Flamel. Perenelle was more accomplished and took it upon herself to teach me. Nicolas had always had a lot of interests and projects, but little patience. Now then, shall we begin our lesson?"

"Yes, sir," Harry began, but then he remembered something. "Why aren't students told we can take O.W.L.s after we're finished with school? Hermione mentioned it."

Dumbledore frowned. "I thought it was common knowledge? In my time everyone who passed through the halls of the school was told." He shook his head. "Well, it should be easily rectified in any case. Yes, you can take exams, either during the holidays or after you are finished with school. For every subject, the Ministry gives one exam every two years –very few people actually sit them outside of Hogwarts, and it would be a waste of time to offer them each year. Additionally, depending on the O.W.L.s you earned, the Ministry also awards honorary O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s under certain circumstances, the most important being an outstanding in two or more subjects, and a sponsor with some renown in the field backing the candidate. Naturally, having ties in the Wizarding world helps with the latter somewhat. Was there a specific subject you were interested in?"

"Well, I picked up a Runes book on Monday. That's how Hermione found me and she explained the discipline to me. It sounded interesting, but I don't think I'll have the time to read up on it. Maybe later, but not right now, which is what she would want. Oh, and she wants to drag me to Muggle Studies as well, but that one doesn't really count since, you know, I already know a lot about Muggles from growing up among them."

"Indeed. Well, Runes is a very interesting discipline, yes, and rather peculiar in our curriculum."

This caused Harry to raise an eyebrow. "Peculiar? It's, well, not exactly like the others, but there are too many differences to lump all the other classes together."

"Runes are different, Harry, because it is actual magic, unlike Care of Magical Creatures, Herbology and Potions, to name some that belong to the handling of elements with magical properties. Transfiguration, Charms and Defence against the Dark Arts are also actual magic, but rely on the strength of the caster. Runes draw their strength..."

"... from elsewhere, yes," Harry said. "Hermione told me. Something about some runes collecting power, whatever that was supposed to mean. Don't get me wrong, I like talking to her, but... it's better to let some things rest with her. So that power for runes, does that really make that much of a difference?"

"It does, Harry. Even very weak wizards or witches can create very advanced runic layouts since the power of the creator does not influence the result. Miss Granger seems to have forgotten that titbit. She probably thought it self-explanatory which, in her defence, it is."

"Yeah, I know, Hermione's really smart," Harry sighed, "and she did say something along those lines, I think. But then, she spent more time explaining why Runes is complicated as a subject, what with all these possibilities to consider."

Dumbledore smiled. "I can imagine those would intrigue her. With a mind like hers, closing the loopholes and creating a long-lasting enchantment is the logical conclusion. Runes addresses a field of magic with its rules literally written in stone. Miss Granger is also fairly adept at Arithmancy, I heard, which is another subject dealing with rules of magic, Her skill, therefore, comes as no surprise in her case."

"Well, she is, yes. She said something about logic and combination. And that it's the most important subject in the world, helping with the understanding of other stuff. It sounded important and useful, but..."

"I found it very enlightening, but it is not for everyone," Dumbledore replied with a nod. "People with an ordered mind have an easier time with it while chaotic minds tend to struggle with it. The brightest minds of time have often been talented at Arithmancy, from Charms to Potions masters."

"Wait, what? Hermione didn't say anything about Potions. Isn't Arithmancy just, you know, numbers and stuff? Or thinking stuff through? She said it was about a deeper understanding of magic. Potions is more like 'Do this, do that.' There's not a lot to understand."

"Potions and in extension Alchemy rely on the magical properties one wants to combine," Dumbledore explained with a raised eyebrow. "I would have expected you to reach that realization by now. For example, adding a bezoar to a potion will usually lead to an antidote. By adding a bezoar to certain potions, it is possible to extend this property to poisons the stone itself is unable to help with. Asphodel is an interesting plant; it is connected to some of the most dangerous poisons, but requires very specific other ingredients to bring out the deadly nature.

"Without Arithmancy, people can only guess and experiment, trying to find something that will work. Some potioneers gain an instinctive understanding of the possibilities that allows them to cut down the number of attempts. But with Arithmancy, it is possible to drastically lower the number of tries and in extension the workload.

"Furthermore, Arithmancy allows the thorough examination of a poison or potion. That, of course, leads to a faster development of an antidote. To get a satisfactory result in Potions, some instructions have to be followed closely, otherwise, the potion will not work –another matter with which Arithmancy can help."

"It's following orders, then. Potions, I mean. Doing exactly what the directions say, with better results the closer one sticks to the instructions?" Harry asked, comprehension dawning on him.

"It is indeed. That is why most Potions books are collections of recipes, not explanations of how or why something works," Dumbledore agreed. "Some are more difficult, others are rather straight-forward, but ultimately, every potion you will ever brew works because of the activation or transfer of magical properties from ingredients to the finished product. The Mandrake Restorative Draught for example works because the deadly nature of the plant that is used for it. It creates an imprint, so to speak, allowing the finished draught to heal exactly what the Mandrake would normally cause. Should one make a mistake, however, the draught itself would become deadly poisonous."

"Err, that can't be right, though, sir," Harry replied. He remembered the changes made by the Half-blood Prince. They worked just fine, didn't they? "I know not every direction has to be followed to the letter, and in fact altering them can lead to improved results when brewing something."

Dumbledore peered at him, pursing his lips slightly. "I should have been more careful in my phrasing. Potions and Alchemy rely on the handling of magical properties, which means that steps dealing with them –critical parts of the process –are limited to an exceptionally small number of possibilities to achieve the intended result. Often, there is exactly one way.

"At the same time, however, not all steps are critical, and some can be altered. It usually doesn't matter if the water is heated over a fire or spelled hot, but some potions react very violently if a heating charm is used. Some plants simply need to be cut, but there are cases in which more than the basic act of cutting is involved. That is why some ingredients need to be cut with a silver knife for example, or picked at a specific time, or a specific course of action, let's say a number of stirs, is required. Some potions require water from natural sources, others allow for conjured water. So, yes, there are steps that could be altered, but also some that never should be tampered with. The difficulty is recognizing where the instructions can be interpreted more freely."

"Err, well," Harry began, "if you say so. How would one know that leeway?"

"Experience helps. Reference materials may offer further insights. Some authors are more thorough in their directions."

"And Arithmancy, I'm guessing?" Harry asked shrewdly.

Dumbledore smiled genially at him. "Yes, Arithmancy reveals these possibilities. With it, some steps can be sped up, usually at the price of simplicity."

"Ha, and Hermione was always trying to shame us with her perfect work! She cheated!"

"I'm not sure if she did, Harry," Dumbledore replied with a shake of his head, "or at least not intentionally. She might not have thought about it much. For people with a talent for Arithmancy, it borders on instinct. Furthermore, it is possible to speed up the process, but only if the potioneer can handle the increased difficulty. Believe it or not, even the authors of the books do not intentionally slow you down." He paused for a moment. "Of course, those who already work very accurately can cope with it quite well. But it is not cheating, as you claimed. Rather, think of it as using their ingenuity. Doesn't Arithmancy sound tempting as well now, Harry?"

"Hermione can have it, if she wants to. I have enough on my plate as it is," Harry grumbled. "But the next time she bothers me, I'll have a reply for her deal with."

"Ah, to be young again," Dumbledore sighed, and shifted the Pensieve on the desk. "But then, time does not stand still. Which, I believe is the reason we should begin our lesson of today. I have, as I told you last time we met, two memories to show you. But first, let me continue the story of Tom Riddle. You remember, of course, how he took the news of being special, how he preferred to go to Diagon Alley without my company and his tendency to collect trophies of his crimes.

"He was almost instantly sorted into Slytherin House, whether because of his personality or ancestry, I do not know. I can only guess when he learned about his ancestor's talent, Parseltounge. I imagine it pleased him to find such a connection. Whether he tried to impress or threaten other students with it, I was never able to find out, but he seemed to have turned a new leaf. I was willing to give him the benefit of doubt."

"But you didn't trust him," Harry interrupted. "Riddle, the one from the diary, he said so."

"Yes. I may be called foolish by some, but I am not oblivious. I kept my eye on him. His talents and looks enamoured him to the other staff members. He seemed polite, intelligent. Riddle managed to gather a group of supporters, and although they believed themselves to be his friends, he mostly likely saw them as nothing more than pawns. Many of them became Death Eaters.

"During his time at Hogwarts, he looked into his ancestry. You remember how he believed his mother to be nonmagical? He searched for his father, a Tom Riddle, in school records, newspapers, and history books. Of course, he found no wizard of that name. He was forced to accept the truth. It was at that time that he probably began to think of himself as Voldemort. He searched for his mother's family with the only clue he had: his middle name, Marvolo, and found him in the end. In the summer before his sixth year, he went to visit the Gaunts. Now then, Harry, let me show you this memory." He emptied a phial he had pulled from his robes into the Pensieve, and together they entered.

The ripples on the surface hadn't disappeared yet, when both reappeared in the room.

"That's it?" Harry asked. "Why did it go dark all of a sudden?"

"Riddle stunned his uncle. The next morning, Marvolo's ring was gone. Meanwhile in the village, Tom Riddle Senior and his parents were found dead. The Muggle authorities didn't understand it, but the Ministry of Magic already had a suspect. They visited the known Muggle attacker Morfin Gaunt who gave them a full and detailed confession. His wand was proven to have been the one used for the murder. The Ministry officials arrested him for the slaughter of the Riddle family. He died in Azkaban, and his only concern was of the lost ring of his father."

"So... Riddle stunned his uncle, took his wand and the ring, killed the Riddles, returned the wand and fled? He blamed his uncle?"

"He erased the unworthy Riddle line, yes, and implanted the false memories in Morfin's head –a very difficult piece of magic, but not impossible. It does show Riddle's skill. And since Morfin had confessed and the victims had been Muggles, no one investigated too thoroughly."

"So Voldemort took a trophy –the ring. The one you... found? Stole back? But wait, shouldn't the Ministry have noticed Riddle using magic? He was still underage, right?"

"He stunned his uncle, but since he had been in the presence of a fully-grown wizard, they couldn't pin it on him. Magic is recorded by location, not perpetrator, remember?"

"Ah, yes. Which is why magical families have to watch their children. Better not tell Hermione that."

"Or anyone else, yes, lest people become aware of the loophole and abuse it. But I still have another memory to show you. It is a short one." And again they entered the Pensieve, only to return before the surface had become still.

"That's it?" Harry asked disbelievingly as soon as they had reappeared.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed, sitting down. "That memory is very important, maybe the most important of all. And it has been altered, as you have undoubtedly noticed. Professor Slughorn didn't want me to learn about what he told young Tom. He tried to hide it. I want you, Harry, to get a new copy of that memory, an unaltered one. I think it is crucial to learn what Riddle managed to get out of his old teacher."

"Surely you could..." Harry began, but stopped.

"No. Professor Slughorn didn't give me the truth the last time, and he will not do so this time, I'm sure. But he likes you, and he wants you for his collection which is why you might be able to convince him easier than you might think."

"How did you even know where to look? I doubt either one of them told you about it?" Harry asked.

"Indeed they didn't, but I was told nonetheless," Dumbledore replied. "The paintings can be quite talkative when they want to be. They hear a lot and sometimes relay it to the staff. In this case, the painting in question only remembered a talk happening, but nothing more. Professor Slughorn tried to hide as much evidence as possible."

"So the paintings spy for you, sir? Wait, do all paintings do that?" Harry jumped to his feet. "There are many paintings close to the Gryffindor Common Room. Do they inform you too?"

"The paintings occasionally notice the comings and goings, but you blow it out of proportion. Not all paintings can learn, and quite a few refuse to tattle. They are loyal to the school, not the teachers. Why would they tell the teachers about silly pranks or students sneaking off somewhere private? They would lose valuable gossip if they did." Dumbledore smiled gently. "So, do you know what you have to do?"

"Avoid all paintings, yes. Oh, and get a new copy of the memory. I have a question about that, however." Harry said. "Who or what are Horcruxes, sir?"

Dumbledore sighed, looking away evasively. "Ah, that is something for another time, I think. You should..."

"I don't agree," Harry interrupted, taking a step towards the desk. "Riddle said it in the memory, the only thing I didn't understand. And as the ring can't be the reason you want me to get an unaltered copy, we have seen it already... And you said we have to learn what Riddle got out of Slughorn, not the other way around. Horcruxes, they are important, I think, which is why I want to know now. I refuse to believe you don't know the answer. Do you honestly expect me to think Professor Slughorn knows something you can't find out? No, I'm sure you know who or what Horcruxes are."

"Harry..."

"You picked the memories to show me. You chose them because you think they are important to understand Voldemort. You showed me the Gaunt family so I saw his parents," Harry continued, before pointing at the Headmaster. "And the ring, of course. Yes, so I'd see the trophy Voldemort would later take with him. You told me about the marriage of Merope so I knew where Voldemort came from. Then you showed me your meeting with the boy so I learned of his personality, of his traits. Independence. Secrecy. Thievery. You wanted me to see them for myself as part of these lessons, didn't you?

"And today, you showed me Riddle's family reunion so I knew he was a killer back then. Also, he has others take the blame. Morfin. Hagrid. He had the ring in the second memory so he had been to the Gaunts already. But that isn't it. You showed me that memory because you think it was important, maybe the most important of them all. Professor Slughorn altered it, tried to hide evidence of it ever happening so he too believes it to be very important. He doesn't want us to know what he talked about; he tried to hide the evidence. You said so yourself. Well, he mentioned Horcruxes, something I haven't heard of before, the only thing I didn't understand, and the only thing that would catch your attention about the memory apart from the alterations."

"Harry... it's..."

"Either it is unimportant for the war. Then you can simply tell me, and I'll leave. Or it is important, and since you're both avoiding having to answer and my eye, I think it is important –then you have to tell me."

"I don't have to, Harry. You are my student," Dumbledore replied sternly, gazing at Harry.

"The way I remember it, you said we would investigate together, try to discover the truth. That we would delve into the unknown together, or something like that. If you are keeping secrets from me, how is that a joint effort?"

"What impudence!" Phineas Nigellus yelled. "Never have I heard a student talk like that! Dumbledore, you really shouldn't allow him..."

"Yes, Phineas, I can imagine what you are thinking," Dumbledore said wearily, but his eyes were on Harry.

"I thought," the boy continued, "these lessons were meant to teach me something for the ongoing war?" Dumbledore nodded slowly, but didn't reply. "So if Horcruxes are important for the war, not telling me is intentionally slowing us down. How can I be a useful ally if you keep crucial knowledge from me? You are hindering our preparations, sir." His voice grew cold. "You've kept secrets in the past, and it led to people dying. This is no harmless game of yours, sir, you are gambling with lives again."

Dumbledore jumped to his feet, his eyes glinting furiously, and at once Harry knew he had overstepped his boundaries by far. In fact, for a moment, he feared the Headmaster would draw his wand. But then, among the protests from the paintings, Dumbledore shrunk, and soon all that remained was a deathly pale, old man sinking back into his chair.

Harry felt horrible for his attack. Hadn't Dumbledore proven his trustworthiness in the past? Wasn't he the leader of the one, steadfast group opposing Voldemort?

... Hadn't he intentionally kept the prophecy from Harry? The Headmaster certainly had good intentions most of the time, but what if he made a mistake? He did have a history of repeatedly keeping critical information from Harry.

"Sir, I'm sorry for lashing out. But you told me yourself you are not infallible, and that your mistakes tend to be bigger. You try to teach me how to win the war, are you not? To prepare me for the fight against Voldemort, for our victory and my role in it. Learn his weaknesses? That's what these lessons are about, from what you told me. Why not trust me with this?" He wanted to continue, but Dumbledore raised his healthy hand.

"I want to protect you, Harry, from the knowledge, if only for a few weeks."

"You tried to protect me with the prophecy as well, but you admitted you had waited too long, that you should have told me after my third or fourth year. It cost me Sirius. It made me vulnerable. Walking blindly, I can be lead astray more easily, sir. Your protests just prove to me that I was correct –that Horcruxes are important somehow."

Sighing heavily, Dumbledore looked out of the window. Finally, he spoke again, but in a surprisingly strong voice. "You have grown into an exceptional man, Harry. Your mother would have been... very proud of you. In personality, you are growing up to resemble her quite a bit. She too had this talent; she too could alternate between kind words and harsh treatment. It was perhaps one of her more endearing traits." He turned back to Harry, and looked far older than before. "I will tell you. Take a seat, please."

Harry did, far too stunned by the compliment.

"Horcruxes are one of the foulest pieces of magic known," Dumbledore began. "They violate the laws of morality and nature. By splitting their soul and storing a part of it away from the body, a magical tethers themselves to this side of life. A wizard with a Horcrux may lose his body, yes, but the part of him still stored somewhere will keep him in this world, and as long as that fragment of his soul is still in this world, so long the wizard cannot truly die."

"That's what Voldemort did? He... how does one store a soul?"

"Well, one has to commit murder to split the soul. Killing for personal, selfish reasons rips it apart, and with the knowledge of how to do it, one can place a piece of the then divided soul into a container. That part will be frozen in its development, but still incomplete, which just makes them more dangerous. As long as the container exists, so does the part of the soul. And as long as a witch or wizard has a Horcrux somewhere, he or she will stay in this world. It is a foul route to immortality, but one that Voldemort would find to his liking. And since I know you will ask anyway, a Horcrux can be destroyed, and if it is, the piece of the split soul will leave this plane of existence; however, Horcruxes are very resilient. They have to be put beyond magical repair, or else the part of the soul in it will restore the damage. The container keeps it safe, the fragment in it repairs the damage to the container. This cycle has to be interrupted."

Harry blinked. "Alright, so we have to find this Horcrux... destroy it... and then finish Voldemort? But if you already know how he is still alive, why have me get that memory? You know how he did it, right? Or... do you think he told Professor Slughorn what he used? What can be used, sir?"

"Well, almost anything can be used as a Horcrux, but reasonably speaking, it should be something that is not regularly destroyed. A newspaper that doesn't burn is suspicious, for example. As to why I want that memory... no, I don't think Riddle would have told anyone of his plans or his... intended container. I know he used that method, yes, for, as you know, I received evidence of it even if I didn't see it immediately as such." Seeing Harry's blank stare, he elaborated, "The diary, Harry. It was without a doubt a Horcrux. You destroyed it. Basilisk venom is one of the possible means to do so.

"But then, it was not Voldemort's only Horcrux. Can you imagine him only having one safety? No, he thinks himself to be too important to limit himself like that. And keep in mind, the diary was far more than an anchor to this world. It could be read, no doubt due to Voldemort's tinkering. He made it such that it could be used, read, written in even, as much a Horcrux as a weapon, a means to release the Basilisk once more. No, it was likely his first, but not last. And so, when I left the castle earlier this year, I started searching for them. And I found another one."

"The ring," Harry concluded. "You've been showing me memories with it in them because it is a Horcrux."

"Because it was one, Harry. I put it beyond magical repair. That part of Voldemort is no more. But that just proves what we are facing: If he made two, why not three or four? That is why I want the memory from Professor Slughorn, Harry. Voldemort obviously knew about Horcruxes by that time, yet he still asked a professor. Why? My best guess would be his hope to get a second opinion, and Professor Slughorn just might be the right man for it. While to my knowledge he never tried creating a Horcrux himself, Horace has always been rather good at figuring out the rules of magic."

"Arithmancy again?" Harry asked with a wry smile.

"Arithmancy again, this time with extensive knowledge of both dark magic and –harder to get access to –dark rituals. You see, rituals are not usually taught outside of old pureblood cycles where it is considered secret knowledge. That is why I believe Voldemort approached Professor Slughorn –to get his opinion on creating numerous Horcruxes. I want to know whether he mentioned a specific number."

"But even if he did, that doesn't mean Voldemort has created as many. He might have decided to be extra careful and have a few more. Or he's still a few short."

"True, but it would give me an idea of his goal."

Harry thought it over. "How did you know the ring was one? How can one recognize it as one? Or find them?"

"Well," Dumbledore smiled, "as I've told you, it's dark magic. While a Horcrux will not draw attention to its nature, thorough investigations can uncover the truth. In this case, it requires about three dozen spells of varying complexity and power to be reasonably sure."

"Wouldn't that revealing spell work? Homemun Revelio? Wait. Does a Horcrux even have a magical core?"

"Homenum Revelio does not work, Harry," the headmaster replied with a sigh. "To my knowledge, no spell exists to accomplish what you have in mind, so identifying a Horcrux consists of a suspicion, followed by tests to be reasonably sure. The final proof is only given with the Horcrux's destruction, I think. No detailed reports seem to exist, however, so it is mostly guesswork."

"The diary bled ink," Harry remembered.

"A peculiar behaviour indeed," Dumbledore nodded. "When I destroyed the ring, something foul emanated from it before dissipating. If I had to guess, then the diary would have done the same if Riddle's soul fragment had still been in it."

"Riddle had already left the diary, yeah," Harry answered. "So no fancy spell? Ah, too bad. And how does one destroy a Horcrux? Apart from Basilisk venom?"

"Fiendfyre, cursed fire –very difficult to control –is one of the possible ways to destroy a Horcrux. Furthermore, feeling repentance by its creator also works, but I don't consider it an option for us. Voldemort will not do us that favour, and the books are very sparse about that method in particular. Some theories include Dementors as being able to tear the soul out, but they wouldn't, I think. They are dark creatures, revelling in the destruction of humans and life. To them, a Horcrux would be like week-old soup."

"Alright. So, first splitting the soul, then putting a part of it in a container... anything at all?... and what did you mean about that frozen part, about them being more dangerous?" Harry wondered.

"Well, yes, Harry, anything at all. And Horcruxes contain, if you remember, only parts of the soul. Imagine a sheet of parchment with a circle on it. This circle represents the core of the soul, the awareness, if you will. This is the part that remains in the body, while the parchment is the soul. Now then, the wizard creates his first Horcrux, so let us say we rip a part of the parchment off and place it in a chest or perhaps a book. This part is parchment, is part of a soul, but it lacks certain elements which would have been on the rest of the parchment. The wizard continues, and the next part of the parchment is torn off and put away. Not only will the original piece become more ripped and damaged, but the Horcruxes the wizard creates become more and more torn as well.

"Well, Horcruxes lack consciousness to the extent of humans, and each one will be more incomplete, more... basic in its thinking, of simpler mind and thus more harmless in that respect. What has already been split off into a Horcrux cannot be used for another. But each Horcrux has a pull, trying to replace what is lost and become whole once more. That is what makes them more dangerous because the Horcrux, already damaged as it is, will try to heal itself by feasting on those who are close to it. Think about the diary, for example. The stronger it grew, the weaker Miss Weasley became because more and more of her were taken by the Horcrux."

"Wait a moment! So, you're saying, these Horcruxes... what?"

"They, for the lack of a better word, feast. The more basic the Horcrux, the stronger its hunger will be. The diary is probably the first Voldemort ever made. It contained a lot of his original personality and took months to gain any significant control, but it was also cunning and able to think and reason. They grow stronger by replacing the parts they lost in their creation, somewhere between copying elements and stealing them. If my theory is correct, later Horcruxes will follow more basic impulses and rely on aggression rather than cunning to achieve this. The diary tried to lure you into the Chamber, remember? That required planning, not mindless bloodlust."

"So, the Riddle from the diary took parts of Ginny..."

"... and incorporated them in himself, which might have altered his behaviour slightly," Dumbledore finished.

"Wait, you never said that before! It changed him?" Harry yelled.

"I can only theorize, but the Riddle from the diary, longing to be complete, had to draw strength from Miss Weasley. Naturally, those aspects of the host the Horcrux could best relate to would have had the strongest draw. Elements of Miss Weasley the soul fragment could relate to would be more interesting and easier to adapt and include. Think of rebuilding a house by searching for boulders of just the right shape and size to fit into the gaps."

"So..." Harry began, "... if, say, Riddle and Ginny had a longing for something, the diary would have felt a draw to that aspect? If both had been obsessed with the Boy-Who-Lived, someone who dared stand up against Voldemort and win..."

Dumbledore sighed and peered at Harry. "Riddle would have found a kindred spirit and used it to strengthen himself with it, yes."

Harry pursed his lips. If he understood it correctly, then Ginny's obsession with him had made the diary's Riddle change priorities to going after him, Harry. Trying not to think about the implications or resent her, he returned to his original thoughts. Horcruxes sounded strangely familiar. "Alright. Horcruxes then. We have to find and destroy them. Then we get to Voldemort. Any idea what he may have used?"

"I do, Harry, but until I know how many he aimed for, I can only guess. I think he used his trophies for it. The ring, for example."

"The diary wasn't one," Harry pointed out.

"True, but it was proof of his heritage. In it and with it, he documented his relation to Salazar Slytherin, a prominent member of Wizarding Britain as well as a well-known historical person. He might stress this relation, for example, and have created three." Dumbledore nodded towards the Pensieve. "The locket, you see? But then, he could very well have decided to let it be with just the two we have already finished. Or perhaps he tried another trio: the ring as his ancestor's, an award or prize Riddle won as his own accomplishment and the diary connecting them. Or perhaps something representing his goal in life: the ring as the past, the diary as Riddle's struggle into power and something for his future. Or he might have chosen another number entirely. Perhaps he created Horcruxes for as long as he could, with dozens hidden somewhere."

"So you have no idea," Harry concluded.

"Perhaps now you see why I want that memory. It may shed some light on Voldemort's intentions."

Harry began to nod. Yes, it made sense. But still something was bothering him. In the back of his mind, something lingered, waiting to be connected. These Horcruxes sounded not as unfamiliar as he would have guessed. "I see. Yes, sir, I understand. Thank you for confiding in me."

"Well, let us hope I don't regret it later," Dumbledore replied. "And now you really should return to your Common Room, it is far beyond curfew. It might be best if you were not seen, Harry. We wouldn't want any trouble coming your way, would we?"

"No, sir. Good night."

Harry left, and on the stairs, pulled out his Invisibility Cloak. So, he mused, Voldemort was perhaps immortal, or close to it? That explained why Dumbledore hadn't obliterated him in the Ministry. And, yes, it also explained the secrecy. If Voldemort ever learned about Dumbledore's research and knowledge, he would... what? Create more? Hide the Horcruxes he already had?

So it hadn't been just an attempt at keeping him, Harry, in the dark, but also to protect their side of the war. Harry had half a mind to return to the Headmaster and apologize for his earlier rudeness and doubts. It wasn't some simple game and Dumbledore had known it and acted accordingly. It wasn't like the prophecy, the contents of which had been important, but ultimately protected by their side. These Horcruxes were firmly under Voldemort's control, probably hidden somewhere. Harry understood Dumbledore's reluctance to tell him about them. The more people knew about the Horcruxes, the more likely was a leak. He half considered not telling Ron or Hermione, in fact. It wasn't fair and highly hypocritical, of course, to withhold information from them, the same information he had demanded only moments ago. But not knowing might protect them. Tell them? They deserved it. Not tell them? They deserved their peace of mind.

But why had Dumbledore thought he couldn't deal with it? True, an immortal Voldemort was bad news, perhaps the worst in a long time. But hadn't he shown himself to be brave? Hadn't he faced Voldemort, duelled him even, and escaped? He wasn't some child anymore if he had ever truly been one after growing up at the Dursley's. In his first year, he had already faced Voldemort, had been alone even. And he had defeated the dark wizard. So why should knowledge of these Horcruxes be so troubling to him? Even if they were foul, even if they were next to impossible to destroy, hidden somewhere, could possess people and could strengthen themselves by feasting on their hosts, they were still only objects. Although, now that he had summarized them, they sounded like a lot of trouble, Harry had to admit. Still, objects, nothing more. And they had a dead Basilisk just lying around in the basement. Literally! It wasn't as if they lacked proper counter-measures against Horcruxes.

Harry dove into an alcove and waited as one of the patrolling Aurors passed him.

So the tricky part, he continued his train of thought, would be finding them. What did he know about them? Harry tried to count all the facts he had about them. If he wanted to explain them to his friends, he needed to know what to tell them. So, parts of a soul, locked in containers. To fulfil their purpose, they needed to be safe from harm lest their nature be recognized. They grew stronger by feeding off of their victims. The soul fragment could leave the container, he remembered. Dumbledore hadn't said anything about that? But it had to be true; the Riddle from the diary had done it. Oh, Harry realized, and they could do magic. Or couldn't they? Well, the Riddle in the chamber had done so, he had spoken Parseltounge. Or didn't that count as magic? He'd have to ask Hermione. But Riddle had also used Harry's wand to write in the air, so, yes, Horcruxes could do magic. Harry idly wondered where the power for it came from; runes or maybe a magical core of its own? Or perhaps the Horcrux had used Ginny's magic to cast the spells. So, the fragment of the soul retained certain abilities, even if it was separated from the rest and put into a container.

And suddenly, on the fifth step of a staircase, realization hit Harry. He knew why Horcruxes sounded strangely familiar, why the concept of splitting something off of a wizard and storing it somewhere outside the body wasn't far-fetched to him. He had heard about it years ago. He could hear Dumbledore speaking as if he was still standing in Professor McGonagall's office after the excursion into the Chamber of Secrets. 'Unless I'm much mistaken, he transferred some of his own powers to you the night he gave you that scar,' the Headmaster had said. And when Harry had asked whether Voldemort put a part of himself in Harry, Dumbledore had answered, 'It certainly seems so.'

And now, Harry fully understood it. Yes, it would explain everything. He could speak Parseltongue just like the diary's Riddle had been able to, just like the possessed Ginny had been able to, because he was a Horcrux. It hadn't been powers Voldemort had transferred, but a part of his soul, which then granted Harry Parseltongue. For most of his life, he had been carrying that fragment around, and it had given him the power to speak to snakes... why? The diary's Riddle had lent Ginny that ability for his own goals. Was the fragment in Harry the same? Was that the reason why Harry couldn't use it freely, but had to concentrate on it as if trying to prove the urgency to the Horcrux? Why would the piece of Voldemort's soul let Harry chat with a boa, though?

Or had Harry taken control of the ability? Stolen it somehow, like Horcruxes stole parts of their victims to strengthen themselves? But then, Dumbledore had always said he, Harry, was protected by his mother's sacrifice. And although Harry had next to no knowledge of Arithmancy, his senses told him that was the explanation. If love had stopped the possession in the Ministry last June, why should it not keep the fragment in Harry's head at bay?

And as he stood there on the staircase in mid-step, Harry finally understood the implications of his discovery. If he was a Horcrux... no, since he was a Horcrux, and of that he had no doubt, for that was probably, no, surely the knowledge Dumbledore had tried to protect Harry from, then Voldemort couldn't die until Harry wasn't a Horcrux anymore. It wasn't that Harry would die in the war against Voldemort, he realized with a jolt. He had to. Only if he died would Riddle be mortal, only then could the light side win.

Oh! How poetic!, Harry thought, a desperate chuckle threatening to escape him, the Boy-Who-Lived sacrificing himself for the cause. The two champions dying side-by-side if the poets had their way, impaled upon each other's spears like a Greek tragedy, balancing the losses out not because neither side would budge, but because Fate demanded as such. Really, there was no other way to finish the tale of the Boy-Who-Lived. He had to die, or otherwise the stories would be lame and uninspiring. What kind of hero survived, perhaps spawning children and growing old? The boring one. And looking back on his life, what kind of hero lost his family, slept in a cupboard, was constantly bullied, grew up to be an underfed runt? What kind of hero had to face challenges far too big for him? The inspiring hero, struggling to stay afloat. What else could top a life of hardships than the ultimate, cruel sacrifice –to do what was right and be punished for it instead of rewarded.

Yes, Harry could see it in his mind's eye. Books would be written about his heroic nature, retelling the tales as thrilling adventures, potentially even children's books to read the little ones. 'Please, Dad, tell us about how Harry bravely challenged the evil wizard to a duel!' He could picture it in his mind, the shining eyes and everything. Oh, they would make him out to be a splendid hero, an inspiration to all. See, Harry persevered, and so should you, because in the end, it will all be worth it! If he was lucky, he'd even get a good quip for his dying breath. Oh yes, it would all make perfect sense, wouldn't it? But of course, they would all ignore the truth. He was nothing more than a young man doomed to die for the rest of the world. He had no special knowledge, and he wasn't born to fulfil the role the universe had given him.

So he had to die. Figures. Was that his lot in life? Be an inspirational tale? Why did all this misfortune have to be focused on him? Was it simply easier for the universe to have one target instead of many? Perhaps it was a sick game for Fate to see how much he could take until he crumbled. Yes, that would be his luck, wouldn't it? Being a cosmic plaything? Nothing more than entertainment? Perhaps it wasn't Fate, but some conspiracy? It would certainly be par for the course and not really that unusual. He had been entertainment in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, after all.

And his survival had been the source of stories already. He had seen glimpses of the book series they had written about his alleged adventures fighting everything from dragons to giants head-on, rescuing priceless artefacts from dark wizards. Trash, of course, but people still read the rubbish. Even his private life hadn't been safe from the vultures and bugs. What national newspaper bothered to write about the rumours of a school, about the love life of a fourteen-year-old? Who had to deal with stuff like that? It would be fitting, therefore, if his life had been nothing more than silly entertainment for someone.

Or perhaps misfortune had to happen? Maybe it was also a case of balance? For every fortune someone had, someone else had to suffer? If so, Harry would have very much liked to have met his counterpart. What a life that must have been!

So, he had to die for the war to end, Harry thought with an aching heart. Hadn't he suspected something like that already? He had. Perhaps, deep down, he had long before noticed the pattern and recognized the course his life would take. From the crib to the slaughter block. Raised to willingly go to his end, perhaps? Once again abandoned by the world, at least. Feeling oddly weak, he steadied himself on the banister.

But then, what had changed, really? He had suspected he would die. He had prepared for it, hadn't he, had planned ahead? And now he had certainty. He had to die. Maybe he should prepare for it as well? Since he knew he would die, and soon, probably, to bring an end to this madness, maybe he should do it. Voldemort wanted to do it himself, Malfoy had said so in the Department of Mysteries. It fit, and with his obsession for the Boy-Who-Lived, Voldemort wouldn't rescind that order.

So Harry would very likely come face to face with him before his end. What should he say? 'I'm one nose-length ahead of you?' Or perhaps 'I'll tell them you're on your way, alright?' A veiled threat couldn't hurt. Of course, why not stick to the classics? 'If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine,' and in a way, his legend would do just that. And all that would remain of them would be the stories, after all. Or perhaps he could taunt the man with his knowledge about the prophecy? Or maybe an intentionally vague comment about his plans already failing? He needed to come up with witty remarks, Harry decided, as he started moving again. It wouldn't do to leave the world without a last quip for the history books. He didn't feel very witty at the moment.

... maybe he should put Hermione and Ron on it?


Well, there you go, one boring info dump and an angst-fest. Also, some explanation about Brooks' death.

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Following the suggestion of a reader, I expanded the discussion about Horcruxes to include Harry asking about how to find and identify them.