HP/LOTM: Visionary - 383

Chapter 383: The Power of Love and the Final Piece

After extracting the memory, Slughorn slumped over and fell asleep just like Hagrid.

Harry tucked the memory close to his chest as if it were a treasure.

"Come on, let’s go find Professor Dumbledore. He’s been waiting in the Headmaster’s office for a while," Aiden said with a smile, clearly satisfied with his student’s success.

Aiden led Harry along; the patrolling professors and ghosts noticed nothing of them. Harry followed, weighed down by thoughts.

"Ask," said the Discerner without turning—he didn’t need to look to sense Harry’s question.

"Aiden, there’s something odd about my magic lately," Harry said, raising his hand. The Felix Felicis hadn’t worn off yet, so he could still stir that power. A thin filament of gold rose from his palm—the very thread he’d used moments ago to sway Slughorn.

"That is the power of love," Aiden replied, stopping short so that Harry bumped into him and fell on his backside.

"It’s born from the purest force of a human heart combined with magic," Aiden continued, opening his own hand as silvery threads hung from his palm. Harry sensed instinctively that the feeling they carried wasn’t quite the same as his.

"The power you used against Draco in the bathroom—the way you grasped Sectumsempra in an instant and left wounds that refused to heal—that was this," Aiden said. He swept his hand. Grey mist wrapped the corridor, and images formed upon it.

There was the bathroom duel. Harry saw himself turn translucent. A red spiritual glow coiled around his heart, flaring outward and surging into his magic.

"The first time you used it, you were driven by rage," Aiden said, expression grave. "But now, remember this."

Harry swallowed, caught by Aiden’s intensity.

"The power of love should not be driven by anger. To draw out its greatest strength, look inward. True love hides in ordinary moments. That honest human feeling will be your best weapon against the Deep Realm."

The mist dissolved. Harry found himself at the Headmaster’s office door.

"Good evening, Harry," Dumbledore said inside, drinking at his customary late hour.

"Professor, I got Professor Slughorn’s final memory," Harry said, holding up the vial.

Dumbledore sobered at once. With a flick, the Pensieve floated from the cabinet. He decanted the memory into it.

Black ink welled up and formed Slughorn’s office before them.

A younger Slughorn sat in his chair, nibbling candied pineapple Tom had brought him, six Slytherin boys arrayed around. A black ring—the Resurrection Stone—turned between Tom’s fingers.

They chatted about Professor Merrythought’s retirement.

"I expect you’ll be Minister within twenty years—or perhaps fifteen—provided you continue bringing me candied pineapple. I do have excellent connections at the Ministry," Slughorn joked, and Tom and the others laughed along.

"The Ministry doesn’t suit me, sir," Tom said when the laughter faded. "My background isn’t the right sort."

"No, no, Tom—your forebears must have been a powerful wizarding family, merely fallen on hard times. Besides, you have me—and all of us," Slughorn said, glancing at the Slytherins, who nodded in approving chorus.

As in the earlier memory, Tom asked about Horcruxes.

Slughorn’s face froze. "Was that in Defence Against the Dark Arts—er, well, the professor really shouldn’t cover that in class…"

He excused his favourite pupil, but Tom wouldn’t accept a brush-off.

"No, sir. I read about it," Tom said. "But clearly you know—don’t you, sir? I mean, a wizard like you—sorry—I mean, perhaps you can’t say, I understand—but if anyone could tell me it would be you, so I thought… I’d ask…"

Tom’s patter was far more refined than Harry’s. His hunger could never be hidden from an old Slytherin—but Slughorn’s fondness blinded him. The old serpent stepped willingly into the young snake’s trap.

"A Horcrux is magic that tears your soul and hides a piece of it in an external object. If your body dies, you remain tethered to the world because a portion of the soul endures. Of course, few would choose to exist like that… I mean, very few. It’s worse than death," Slughorn said with a weak joke. In his mind, Tom was merely curious.

Tom’s handsome face was tight with desire, hunger shining through as he pressed on about splitting the soul.

Slughorn buckled under the questioning and said, "With another spell as a precursor—you know it—Avada Kedavra. A curse born to slay the soul. In the interplay of magic, it shreds your own soul as well. The wizard who wants to create a Horcrux fractures himself this way, then seals the split-off piece into an object."

His face twisted with distaste.

"And how does one bind the soul into the object?" Tom asked again.

This time, Slughorn drew back, refusing to answer. Tom feared pushing too far and soothed him, coaxing him back from the edge.

At last, Tom asked the question he wanted most: "I don’t understand, Professor—just from curiosity—does one Horcrux do much? Can the soul be split more than once? Wouldn’t multiple divisions be better—make one more powerful? For example… seven is a magical number. Perhaps… seven?"

As he spoke, his left fingers rubbed the Resurrection Stone upon the right-hand ring.

"Merlin’s beard!" Slughorn cried. "Killing once with the Killing Curse is evil enough—and then six more? Seven splits…"

"Yes, well," Slughorn lowered his voice, "we’re only discussing—purely academic, you understand…"

He was reassessing his beloved pupil now. Certain traits were surfacing.

"Of course, Professor. Just a normal discussion. Evil Dark Magic is abhorrent. I’ll certainly keep my distance," Tom said smoothly, easing Slughorn’s mind. How could such a charming boy possibly…

"I’ve enjoyed tonight’s talk. You’ll keep this between us?" Tom asked.

"Of course," Slughorn nodded.

Tom bowed and left the office. Through the dimming lamplight, Harry could still make out the savage joy distorting Tom’s handsome face.