Year Six

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Harry decided not to wait for Dumbledore to send for his next lesson. Instead he decided to go to the Professor and confront him about what he’d learned in the vision regarding Snape and the prophecy. He was angry, and confused, and Hermione had been able to sense it.

“Harry, please,” she’d practically moaned, after hearing his plan to go to Dumbledore. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“You’re the one who told me I should speak to him about it,” Harry said fiercely, eyeing Professor Dumbledore over his goblet of pumpkin juice.

“And I do think you should speak with him, but after he calls for you. If you go to him angry you’ll just end up saying something you’ll regret later.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, but I have to speak to him.”

“Fine. Just try to control yourself, won’t you?”

Harry arrived at Dumbledore’s office as soon as the first break of the morning began and knocked. Dumbledore’s voice bade him to enter, and when he opened the door he found the headmaster studying him over his half-moon glasses.

“I thought I would be seeing you today,” Dumbledore said, “considering the angry glare you cast upon me throughout breakfast. Have a seat.”

Harry sat down in front of Dumbledore, his heart beginning to race with anger. “I had a vision,” Harry said. He remembered Hermione’s advice and reigned in his emotions, opting to speak calmly to Dumbledore rather than raging against him as he had at the end of the previous school year, just after Sirius’ death.

“Concerning what, exactly?”

“Snape was the one who betrayed my parents to Voldemort, wasn’t he?”

Dumbledore said nothing, but instead he gazed at Harry intently. “Have you been studying Occlumency?”

What did that have to do with anything? Harry wondered. “Why are you dodging the question?” he asked in as polite a tone as he could muster. “Sir?”

“I cannot see into your mind, and Professor Snape has told me that you have been breaking into his thoughts as of late. Have you been continuing your Occlumency studies without my permission?”

“No,” he said, truthfully.

“Interesting,” Dumbledore said. For the first time since Harry had known him, Dumbledore seemed to think he was lying. It stung Harry sharply.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

“No. I do not profess to be omniscient, Harry. My knowledge of magic is great, but even I do not understand what is happening to you.”

“What do you mean?”

Dumbledore said nothing, and this time Harry could not reign in his anger.

“You’re holding back! You told me during summer break that you wouldn’t do that anymore, but you are. You let the man who betrayed my parents to Voldemort come to this school. You protected him! You’ve let him teach me and ridicule me all these years knowing what he did to them!”

“Yes, I did!” Dumbledore said. Harry found himself flinching inside at the sudden anger in Dumbledore’s face. The aged headmaster rose to his feet, towering over Harry, who refused to back down out of sheer bullheadedness. “I have told you more often than necessary that I trust Severus Snape, and you will have to trust me to know what I am doing.”

“And if I don’t?”

Several of the portraits voiced angry sentiments, but Harry ignored them. Dumbledore leaned forward, putting his hands on the table, leveling his gaze with Harry.

“Then you and I have a problem.”

Harry didn’t care for the sound of that. He realized he’d done just as Hermione had asked him not to, and allowed his anger to take him too far. He stepped back, speaking in a calmer voice.

“I need to know why you trust him.”

“You will when it is necessary.”

“But you said-”

“I said you would know all in time, and you will. I do not keep secrets from you for the pleasure of bewildering you, Harry. There are things you need to know, and certain times that you should know them. I’m asking you to trust me to know what is best for you.”

Harry didn’t know what to think or feel. He did trust Dumbledore, but he also knew that Dumbledore, as powerful as he was, was a man capable of making mistakes. He could, Harry believed, be fooled. After all, it had happened in the past with Barty Crouch Jr.

“Fine.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Harry?”

Harry told Dumbledore of the conversation he’d overheard between Draco and Snape. “They were meeting, sir, talking about Neville. I think Draco is a Death Eater. I think he’s targeting us, the six that went to the Department of Mysteries, and Snape wants to help him finish us off. How do you know that Snape wasn’t the one who gave Neville the cursed chain? And why…why can I still feel him in the bond?”

Dumbledore sat back down behind his desk and Harry seated himself once more.

“Professor Snape, Harry, couldn’t have given Neville a cursed object because he was here, in the office with me on the morning of the Hogsmeade visit.”

“The entire time?”

“Yes. As for Draco being a Death Eater, I have seen no evidence that this is the case, but I will look into it. If I find any evidence to support your theory I will notify you.”

Harry nodded. At least Dumbledore wasn’t dismissing him out of hand concerning Draco. Next, Harry told Dumbledore about his latest dream, which interested the headmaster greatly.

“I remember that incident well, Harry,” he said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “It is fascinating to hear you recount a moment from my past as if you had been there, and it is indeed satisfying to know the full story of what happened that morning. I had my suspicions of Tom’s guilt in Ophelia’s injuries but of course, no proof. Tom proved to be a natural Occlumens. He could shut his thoughts off at will, even as a child. This is a rare gift, as is Parseltongue.”

Dumbledore retrieved the Pensieve from the cabinet and set it down on the desk. Harry took out his wand, concentrated on the memory of the dream, and placed the tip of his wand to his temple. When he pulled the wand away, he could see the silver filament of the memory go with it.

Something odd began to happen then. Instead of stopping at the end of the dream he was trying to extract, Harry saw several more images pass through his mind. The filament on the wand became very thick and long.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said in concern. “You’re taking too much. Put the memory back and try again.”

“I can’t, sir,” Harry said, trying to replace the memory, but the filament grew in size until it was as large as his wand. Finally the memory separated from his head and dangled there in mid air, every bit as large as the wand that held it.

“How odd,” Dumbledore said, examining the memory. Black streaks threaded through it, and Harry felt a dull throb behind his eyes that was slowly beginning to fade.

“Place it into the Pensieve. I wish to study it.”

Harry placed the memory into the Pensieve, and Dumbledore began to swirl the basin between his hands. On the surface the images of the dream Harry had had the night before came swirling to the surface. When Dumbledore released the Pensieve, and the images settled, he saw several things that he had not dreamt.

“What are these memories?” Dumbledore asked. Harry shrugged.

“I’ve never seen those.”

“If you haven’t seen them,” Dumbledore said, “then you should not have been able to extract them from your mind.”

Harry gave Dumbledore a blank look. He couldn’t explain how he’d taken the images from his mind, even though he had not seen them himself.

“They must belong to Riddle,” Harry said, and Dumbledore smiled. “What?”

“You called him Riddle, instead of Lord Voldemort. He is becoming a man to you, instead of a myth. This is a good thing. Come, Harry. Let us examine this new memory together.

Harry’s face broke through the cool surface of the memory and, for a few moments, he found himself falling through solid blackness before he opened his eyes. His feet touched down on the cobblestone street which led to the Hog’s Head. The sun was dark and full of clouds that threatened a terrible rain storm, and Harry shivered in a cold breeze.

Tom Riddle, approximately the same age as he had been when Harry had confronted him in his second year, came walking down the street, head held high in his supremely arrogant manner, reminding him irresistibly of Percy Weasley. A prefect badge gleamed on his chest.

Harry and Dumbledore followed him into the Hog’s Head, which was oddly crowded, and looked exactly the same as it did in Harry’s time even though this memory was more than fifty years old. Instead of stopping at a table he went to the bar and retrieved a key from a man Harry had never seen before.

Harry found himself eager to see what was going to happen. He and Dumbledore followed Riddle up the stairs to the rooms above the bar where he approached the last door on the right and entered.

“Strange,” Dumbledore said. “This is the same room in which I met with Sybil Trelawney the night she gave the prophecy.”

Inside the room were two men, neither of whom was remotely familiar to Harry. One man sat in a high back chair in front of a fire, his skin pale and waxy, and his hair was snow white and brittle. He was obviously very ill. The other man in the room gazed upon the ill man with dispassionate eyes before looking up at Tom.

“You must be Tom Riddle,” the healthy man said in a deep voice that seemed to vibrate through the floor. Tom nodded.

“I am.”

“I am Caractacus Burke, co-owner of Borgin and Burke’s in Knocturn Alley.”

“I thought I was to meet with Drake Clapsaddle,” Tom said, eyeing Burke suspiciously.

“Clapsaddle and I have had a parting of the ways. I did, however, consent to carry out his mission and located your uncle myself. This is Hylas Gaunt, your great uncle on your mother’s side.”

Riddle conjured a chair and sat down beside Hylas, offering his hand, which Hylas refused.

“You do not wish to touch me, boy,” Hylas said in a weak and wheezy voice. “My skin is rather poisonous.”

“What has happened to you?” Riddle asked, a mild look of disgust for the strong odor coming from Gaunt crossing his face. Harry went to stand behind Riddle, while Dumbledore conjured a chair and sat down.

“I was involved in a rather interesting business venture. I underestimated the competition and he slipped me a rare poison that has no cure. I’m dying, you see, so you can imagine my pleasure when I heard that you were still alive.”

“You knew about me?” Tom asked, frowning.

“Oh yes. You see, I have three brothers and two sisters, born to a noble and proud pureblood family. Your mother’s father was my youngest brother, a Squib unfortunately. We believe he was born without magical ability because my parents had him so late in life.”

Hylas Gaunt broke down into a hacking cough, and Riddle warily inched away until the fit was over.

“Where are the rest of my family? How come none of you came to look for me?”

“They’re all dead,” Hylas said. “The Gaunt family was a proud and noble pureblood clan, very old. Unfortunately, to amass wealth and power one must make enemies. We did so, and over the years we have paid a heavy price for our wealth. Except for good old Marvolo. He was put quietly out of the family once he came of age. You see, when a respectable pureblood family is cursed with a Squib, it is up to the parents to marry them off to the most respectable Muggle they can find, lest they go on to dirty the line with more of their kind.”

Harry snorted indignantly and looked at Dumbledore, who nodded gravely. “Such is their way,” Dumbledore said. Instead of being disgusted or indignant, Tom looked quite pleased with this answer.

“So, my grandfather, Marvolo, was a Squib,” Tom said, and Hylas nodded.

“Now pay attention, boy, I’m about to tell you about your family. I want to get it over with before I die. We found a nice, wealthy Muggle girl for Marvolo to marry, since no witch worth her heritage would dare marry him, but he fell in love with the woman’s maidservant, the fool. He could have been rich in the Muggle world, but he wanted to marry for love. I never did understand him, none of us did. Anyway, we were all shocked when Marvolo and that Muggle wife of his had a witch for a daughter, and a powerful witch at that. They named her Merope.

“At first Marvolo refused to allow her to be educated in our way, wouldn’t send her to Hogwarts or any private institution, so she was home schooled. Merope wanted to learn magic, you see, and talked him into allowing her to be tutored when she was eleven. I hate to admit it, considering she was a mudblood, but she had extraordinary natural power. By the time she was sixteen she was more powerful than anyone else in our family, myself included, and if you knew more of me, you’d know that’s quite a compliment. That is not arrogance, boy, but a simple statement of fact.

“We were going to forgive Merope’s heritage and bring her into the fold, marry her to a pureblood, but when she was seventeen she fell in love with that Muggle her parents worked for, your namesake, Tom Riddle. Well, it turns out that a casual fling wasn’t sufficient for Merope. She brewed up a batch of Amortentia and he whisked her off to be married. From what I understand she grew tired of forcing him to love her with the Amortentia, so she stopped feeding it to him, hoping he had grown to love her on his own. As soon as she stopped giving him the potion, he put her away, and she spent the rest of her pregnancy living on the street, in shame, refusing to use magic. I had given her a family heirloom on her sixteenth birthday, before all of this had happened, but she sold it to buy food.”

“She was a powerful witch!” Tom interrupted angrily. “She had a wand, why would she need to buy anything? Why had she stopped using magic?”

Hylas shrugged. “I don’t know, boy. I never understood the way that girl’s mind worked. I had given her a locket that had been passed down from Salazar Slytherin himself, and she sold it to this man here,” Hylas said, looking sourly at Burke, “who gave her ten Galleons for it.”

Burke didn’t have the good grace to look ashamed. In fact, he looked proud at having snookered a poor pregnant girl out of a valuable heirloom for nothing. Harry thought he saw Riddle’s hand inch toward his wand.

“And the locket? Where is it now?”

“In my possession. We can discuss that later,” Burke said.

“She ended up at an orphanage in where she had you,” Hylas continued. “Apparently she’d gotten word to your father, but he wanted nothing to do with either of you. The rest is history.”

“This doesn’t sound like the same story I heard as a child,” Riddle said, eyeing Hylas suspiciously. “How do you know so much about what happened to her?”

“I found her, shortly before she gave birth to you. She told me everything.”

“And you didn’t offer to help her?”

“Of course I did!” Hylas said, sounding annoyed rather than offended that his grandnephew would question his virtue. “She refused, saying she was no longer a witch. The truth is, boy, I think she believed that if she put magic away that fool of an ex-husband of hers would accept her. She was wrong, obviously.”

Tom became silent, mulling over what he’d learned. Harry once again felt a small twinge of pity, but the urge to comfort Tom had long since gone cold. Finally he asked, “My mother’s parents? Where are they?”

“Dead. Their house caught fire two years ago and they didn’t get out. I had occasion to speak with Marvolo shortly before the incident happened. I learned that Riddle had told them that both you and Merope had died in childbirth. They thought you were dead, or they would have come for you.”

Tom took in a deep breath, looking thoughtful, but Harry thought he saw hurt behind his deceptively calm eyes. “Burke, if you will excuse us.”

Burke looked between Hylas and Tom, seeming to be offended at being excused like a common servant, but he stood and strutted from the room, shutting the door behind him a little harder than necessary. Tom pulled his wand and aimed it at the door.

“Muffliato,” Tom said. He then studied his great uncle.

“Don’t look at me like that, boy,” Hylas said. “You weren’t my responsibility. Besides, you’re better off without me in your life. I do have one gift for you, and some advice.”

Hylas took out a ring and laid it on the table. After scouring it with magic, Tom picked it up. “What is this?”

“It belonged to Salazar Slytherin as well. You see, you are the last in his blood line, which makes you his true heir.”

Greed and delight mixed in Tom’s eyes. “I am the heir of Slytherin?”

“Oh, yes,” Hylas said. “And now, for my advice. Burke tells me you have been attempting to change your identity, that you wish to become the greatest wizard the world has ever seen. He tells me you even have a new name that certain friends call you in private.”

“Yes,” Riddle said fiercely. “Lord Voldemort. The world will bow down to me. My name will be spoken with respect, even fear.”

Hylas laughed, which degenerated into a coughing fit, and Riddle looked insulted and angry that the old man would scoff at his ambitions.

“Take a look at me, Lord Voldemort,” Hylas said. He frowned and reached up into his mouth. One of his front teeth came loose in his fingers. Tom didn’t bother to hide the disgust in his face, or, Harry mused, perhaps he exaggerated the disgust to hide his fear.

“I see you,” Tom said.

“If you intend to succeed in your goal to become the most powerful wizard the world has ever seen, then you will have to delve deep into the Dark Arts. That Burke fellow, he’s a thieving git, to be sure, but you can learn a lot from him.”

“You think I should make him a friend? He robbed my mother!”

“Friends are liabilities. You always end up owing friends, so make sure that you owe no one. You never know when they may come to collect, and when they do, it is always at the most inopportune time. To reach your goal you will have to be alone, and remain alone. Love no one, owe not even the smallest debt, but incur debt from as many as you can. And it doesn’t hurt to live forever to enjoy your power.”

Tom swallowed, and Harry found himself almost sick from what he was hearing. What kind of man would lead an impressionable young man to a path of darkness and despair the way Hylas was doing with Tom Riddle?

What kind of man was Tom to even consider it? What had happened to the boy Harry had seen in his first dream, the good boy who had comforted a frightened young mother with his touch, and had had so much promise before him?

“Immortality is a dream.”

“Oh, no, it is not,” Hylas said. “I sense that you fear death, as you well should. Have you never heard of the Horcrux?”

Tom tilted his head to the side. “No. What is that?”

“It is something I wish I had had the courage to do. I would not be facing my death now, if I had made a few when I was strong. I gave Burke a family possession, written by Slytherin himself, to hold for you. It tells of the Horcrux and the road to immortality. Death can be defeated, Tom, by those brave enough, and strong enough, to duel with it. I sense that you are. Now leave me. I have not long left, and I don’t want anyone to watch me die.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth of my family, and for the ring and book,” Tom said, standing and going to the door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Hylas said. “Have Burke give you the address to your father’s house. You’ll need it once you learn of the Horcrux. And remember the number seven. It is the most powerful, the most magical.”

Tom left the room, and it faded to gray around Harry and Dumbledore. To Harry’s horror, it did not stay gray.

They were suddenly transported to the common room on the night Harry had confessed his feelings to Hermione. He and Dumbledore found themselves staring at another version of Harry with Hermione, wrapped in quite a passionate embrace. Harry’s face burned red.

“Shall we take our leave then, Harry?” Dumbledore asked in amusement, looking away from the kissing couple.

“Yes sir,” Harry said. Dumbledore gripped Harry by the shoulder and they soon found themselves back in the office.

“I take it you wish to keep that last bit in your mind,” Dumbledore said. He waited while Harry retrieved the memory with Hermione, and then he sat down.

“Do you think I can take out more of Riddle’s memories?”

“That was an accident,” Dumbledore said, “and as you saw, you removed some of your own memory on the process. No, we will not attempt to extract buried memories by force. Let them come to you naturally.

Harry glanced at the clock. He had missed Defense Against the Dark Arts completely. “I have to get to Charms, but I want to know, what’s a Horcrux? I remember Wormtail telling Voldemort about a Horcrux, and it was mentioned again just now. What is it?”

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I did promise that I would not hold back from you, and I feel that the time has come to tell you a few things that I normally would not tell someone your age. This involves some of the Darkest magic known to Wizardkind, Harry, you need to understand that.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

“A Horcrux is an object that is used to house a piece of a person’s soul.”

Harry frowned, trying to understand what Dumbledore was telling him. “A piece of soul? How is that possible?”

Dumbledore looked reluctant to tell Harry more about Horcruxes, but Harry also knew that Dumbledore was aware that the time for keeping things from him for the benefit of ignorant bliss had come and gone. He waited patiently for the headmaster to speak.

“You must promise me that what you are about to learn concerning Horcruxes will not leave your lips. You can tell no one, not even Hermione, or Ron. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, excited. Finally, he was going to learn something.

“When a person is born their soul is intact; however, it is possible to rend the soul into pieces.”

“How?”

“You must commit a supreme act of evil,” Dumbledore said. “Something unnatural and vile: Murder. Once you have done this your soul is torn. From there you can take one portion of the torn soul and encase it in an object to keep it safe. Then, even if your body is destroyed, you cannot die because part of your soul is still earthbound and completely undamaged.”

Harry absorbed this information. He remembered what Voldemort had told him 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.”

So Voldemort had found a way to rip his soul and put part of it inside a physical object. That’s why he hadn’t died the night he’d attacked his parents. Voldemort’s existence had been pitiable, but he’d survived. He was impossible to kill.

“So, he killed someone and put half his soul into something, a Horcrux,” Harry said, thinking hard about what he’d learned. “The night of the attack one half of his soul was destroyed when his body died. That means the other half of his soul is now inside his new body. If he’s killed now he’ll die, but this time it will be forever!”

Harry was satisfied with his conclusion, but Dumbledore shook his head. “No, Harry, it’s not as simple as that. I have believed for quite some time that Voldemort has been using Horcruxes to ensure his immortality. The vision we just saw confirms that. Remember what Hylas told Tom: Remember the number seven.”

Harry’s heart sank. “Seven Horcruxes? What are they?”

Dumbledore went to his cabinet and brought back a piece of leather. He opened it and revealed Riddle’s diary with the deep hole in the center from the basilisk fang. “In order to make seven Horcruxes one must kill seven times. His first victim, I believe, was the girl you know as Moaning Myrtle. I suspect, but have never been able to prove, that Tom’s father and grandparents were his second, third, and fourth victims. The others, we do not know.”

“Does it matter?” Harry asked. “He’s killed more than seven people.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “The identities of his victims are not as important as the Horcruxes. Unfortunately, we’ve never been able to determine with any certainty the objects he used to make his Horcruxes.”

“He could have used an old tin cup for all we know, or a door knocker from an abandoned house,” Harry said, frustrated. “It’ll be impossible to find them.”

Dumbledore surprised Harry with a chuckle. “Tom Riddle is much too arrogant to have used something as common as a tin cup or an old knocker, Harry. No, he would use special objects, things of great value to him. Take this diary, for instance. When you told me of your encounter with Riddle’s memory I became suspicious. How could a memory feed off the soul of an innocent girl? It was then that I realized that the diary contained something darker than a memory. It must have contained a sliver of soul.”

“That,” Harry said, eyeing the diary with awe, “was one of Riddle’s Horcruxes?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, and you destroyed it, Harry.”

“How come he didn’t mention it on the occasions I’ve had to face him since?”

“He may not be aware.”

Harry shook his head, unconvinced. “How can I destroy a piece of his soul without him being aware of it?”

“Tom took his great uncle’s advice to heart, Harry. He allows people to believe they mean something to him, that he feels for them, when in fact he does not. He does not allow himself the luxury of friendship and love. What little bit of soul resides in this new body of his is incapable of loving, Harry. He would not be aware that the other bits of his soul are being destroyed, and that is your second advantage over him.”

“What’s the first?”

Dumbledore looked almost frustrated, and Harry felt embarrassed and foolish. “Your ability to love, Harry! That is your greatest advantage over him. It will be his undoing, and the thing that will save you. What we must focus on now,” the headmaster said, taking the Pensieve back to the cabinet, where he bottled the memories Harry had extracted earlier, “is identifying the other five Horcruxes.”

“Don’t you mean six?” Harry said. “I destroyed one, but we don’t know the other six.”

“I have located another, Slytherin’s ring. Do you remember the four Aurors who were found dead with their hands burned off?”

Harry shivered at the memory of the newspaper article and nodded. “Yes, sir. They died trying to destroy the Horcrux?”

“Do not be too quick to pity or admire them, Harry. Their foolish actions, all taken in the search for glory, have alerted Lord Voldemort that we know of his use of Horcruxes. He most likely has the remaining five under guard. Tom’s ring is safely hidden by the Order, and no one else will be allowed to try to destroy it before it can be studied extensively. In the meantime, we will wait for the knowledge buried in your mind to reveal the identity of the remaining five Horcruxes. As soon as you have a dream, regardless of whether or not it seems important, come to me and tell me. Understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now, you may return to class, Harry. I’m sure you are anxious to speak with your friends, but remember, no talk of Horcruxes. I will send a note to your instructors excusing you for the lessons you missed today.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, standing.

Harry mulled over the information as he made his way to the Great Hall to meet with Ron and Hermione, for he’d missed Charms during his talks with Dumbledore. Riddle had torn his soul into bits and put it into seven objects, one of which had been destroyed, and another that had been captured. He was torn between varying emotions, satisfaction that he was finally doing something to fight Voldemort, relief that his greatest enemy could indeed be destroyed, and fear that he would not be equal to the challenge.

Then he remembered Dumbledore’s words on how love was his advantage over Voldemort, and a sense of peace settled over him. He’d been unable to imagine love as being a weapon before he’d learned of the Horcruxes. Now, as he thought of Hermione and Ron, Ginny, and Luna, and even Neville, who was now forever gone but still part of him, Harry knew that he had a weapon that even Lord Voldemort could not overcome…love. His soul was whole and intact, and strong, and those he loved, and loved him in return, would be his shield in the battle to come.