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“But I don't want to die,” said Harry Potter, as if that wasn't obvious.
“I know, Potter. Nobody wants to die,” replied his Potions professor.
“Are you sure about that?” asked Harry again—probably for the hundredth time since they had been sitting in his office.
“Yes,” said Snape, probably for the hundred-and-first time.
Silence fell. Only the crackling of the fireplace could be heard. Harry looked down at his hands resting on his knees. Even in the dim candlelight, he could see that they were shaking.
“But why?” he muttered. “Why? Why did he never tell me?”
“For the same reason you're sitting here telling me that you'd rather let the Dark Lord live than die yourself.”
It sounded like a reproach. Was it? He wasn't sure. Because the way Snape looked at him, it sounded more like pity and regret. And pain?
“Nobody wants to die,” Harry repeated Snape's words and looked up. The professor sat in front of him, behind his dark mahogany desk, staring down at him. His angular face and hooked nose were only emphasized by the glow of the candles and torches. His professor remained silent.
Harry imitated him.
What else could he say? He was at a loss for words. Of course he was. So he repeated himself, because that was all he could manage: “Why?”
Snape's eyebrows drew together, and for a brief moment, it looked as if something like concern was appearing on his face. But maybe it was just the reflection of the light. “Dumbledore,” the man began. “Dumbledore is certain that you and the Dark Lord are connected in a way that has never been seen before.”
Harry remained silent. So Snape continued: “Dumbledore believes that on the night the Dark Lord tried to kill you, a part of his soul was split off. And that part has been living inside you ever since.”
Silence.
“No,” Harry muttered, even though he knew he was wrong. Everything pointed to it being true. The fact that he could speak Parseltongue was proof enough.
Now there was clear regret on Snape's face. “Actually, there are vessels for that. They're called Horcruxes. They keep the wizard alive when the body has been mortally wounded. They keep the wizard in the here and now. So that death cannot reach him. The wizard splits his soul and keeps a part of it in an object.”
An object? Was that what he was? Just an object for Voldemort's immortality. His mouth felt dry, the air tasted bitter.
“Does... does Voldemort know about this?” Harry whispered.
Snape raised an eyebrow and finally, finally looked at him again as he always did: with contempt. “Potter, do you think that if he knew, he would hunt you down and want you dead?”
Harry shook his head.
“The Dark Lord would do anything to get his defenseless Horcrux and protect it from all dangers, especially Dumbledore.”
Now it was Harry’s turn to raise an eyebrow.
As if Voldemort would want to protect him – Harry Potter. Ridiculous. Right?
Harry focused on his counterpart. He searched for any sign of sarcasm or lies. But he found nothing. Snape looked at him with deadly seriousness.
“Is that why you told me this, sir?” he whispered suddenly, before he could stop himself.
Snape gave him a look that Harry couldn't quite interpret. But there was something calculating about it. “I told you, Potter. So you have a choice.”
A choice.
He didn't know whether to hate Snape for it or not.
A choice.
How could he make a decision that would affect not only him, but the entire wizarding world?
After the conversation, Harry had retreated to the Astronomy Tower and stared into the depths below. From everything Snape had told him, it almost sounded as if he, Harry, were immortal. But that couldn't be, could it?
Snape's words echoed in his head: “The only reason, Potter. The only reason you can still be wounded is that the ritual performed when creating a Horcrux has not been performed on you.” And then, after a few moments, he had added quietly, “Not yet.”
However, the two words had sounded more like a question than a statement.
Was Snape so sure? Was he so sure that Harry would rather let Voldemort take over the wizarding world than die?
Harry had said it himself. “I don't want to die,” he muttered again into the silence. No one answered him. No one made the decision for him.
“The decision would have been taken away from you, Potter. Either by Dumbledore or Voldemort,” the words echoed inside him. “Dumbledore has already decided.”
Had the headmaster felt bad when he had condemned Harry Potter to live with his aunt and uncle?
Had the headmaster felt bad when he condemned Harry Potter to participate in the Triwizard Tournament?
Had the headmaster felt bad when he condemned Harry Potter to die?
Harry stared at the empty golden chair in the middle of the teachers' table and kept imagining the man Harry had always looked up to sitting high above the battlements of Hogwarts, moving little chess pieces around. And one of them had a lightning bolt on its forehead. And Harry realized with regret that he was neither a rook, nor a knight, nor a bishop. He was an expendable pawn. Nothing more.
The next few days passed like a dream. Everything seemed unreal. Pale. Dull. Intangible. Hermione and Ron exchanged glances from time to time, spoke to him, but Harry just shook his head. It was obvious that they were worried.
But it wasn't their glances that burned. Snape's gaze burned more. It almost pinned him to the stone wall of the Potions classroom. His teacher was waiting for an answer.
But Harry didn't have one.
He looked at Hermione's face, reddened by the steam from the cauldron. Ron, chatting casually with Seamus. His stomach tightened.
“Sir, do you think there is a way to end the coming war without bloodshed? Do you think Voldemort could see that he is wrong? That Muggle-borns are not less valuable?”
Snape looked at him. Long. Very long.
“Potter,” he began suddenly, and his voice suddenly sounded... full of pain. A pain so deep that even Harry could almost feel it. “If anyone could convince the Dark Lord, it's you. Because I couldn't.”
Learning that Snape had loved his mother was... shocking, to say the least. It felt like being told that humans could actually breathe underwater, that gravity was just a fantasy, and that magic was all an illusion.
But what bothered him even more were Snape's words after that: “You heard the prophecy, didn't you? He wanted to bring your parents over to his side. Three times. And three times they rejected him.”
Yes. Yes, and the prophecy also says that neither of them could live while the other survived.
Snape had an answer for that too: “I've thought about this a lot,” he said to Harry after the students had left the classroom. “Prophecies aren't always clear in their meaning. Sometimes they have several.”
Harry remained silent, because divination had never been his strong suit.
“Survival,” Snape repeated. “Neither can live while the other survives. Would you say you have survived rather than lived these past years?”
Harry nodded, confused.
Snape sighed.
“While you were with the Dursleys...” said his counterpart, and it seemed as if it was even more uncomfortable for him to talk about it than it was for Harry. “You didn't live. You didn't survive either. You just clung to life. Just like the Dark Lord did. In the woods. As nothing more than a ghost.”
He didn't understand what the other man was getting at.
"And when you came to Hogwarts, would you say it was no longer a matter of clinging to life? It wasn't exactly ‘living’ either, because after all, you were constantly running from death there too."
Harry nodded. Snape continued.
“Then came the second year. Same thing. And then came the third year.” Snape's expression changed imperceptibly, and Harry knew why. Sirius. His expression changed too, but for a different reason.
His potions master continued: "In the following two years, three and four, your life felt most like a life. You had... (Snape paused, as if he had difficulty saying the word)... a family. And during that time, Voldemort also grew. He grew strong. And then came the ritual. Both of you alive. Both in a state that could best be described as alive."
Harry swallowed.
“Potter. I believe the prophecy says exactly the opposite of what Dumbledore believes. Neither of you can live while the other... just... survives. However, if you were both to ‘live’ and not survive...”
Snape left the words unspoken.
That didn't make it any better.
It really didn't.
Because that meant all the more that for Voldemort to suffer, Harry had to suffer too. And vice versa.
He felt sick to his stomach.
The looks from Ron, Hermione, and Snape grew stronger. Until the moment when Snape took Harry aside again. “Harry. Dumbledore wants to destroy the ring. It is not yet destroyed. But he has figured out how to destroy it.”
His heart sank.
Today or never.
“What do I have to do?
“Contact the Dark Lord.”
Harry Potter had hidden in the Room of Requirement when the pain overwhelmed him. Glaring. Punishing. Immeasurable.
“You dare,” hissed the voice, inflaming his thoughts as if they were nothing more than annoying flies. “You dare to invade my mind, Potter?”
Harry knew he had only this one chance. Only this one chance before Voldemort would try to possess him again. To torture him into madness. To tear him apart from the inside out.
So he chose the words that would stop him the quickest: “I am your Horcrux!”
Silence.
For a few moments, Harry wondered if he was alone with his thoughts again. If Voldemort, in his rage and shock, had retreated into his own mind. He hadn't.
“How do you know about my Horcruxes?”
Harry knew there was no point in lying, and he prayed that Snape would survive the next few days: “Snape.”
Pain again. Harry groaned and collapsed on the floor. He had only put a sofa and a simple table in the Room of Requirement and now crouched between them.
“He... he warned me,” Harry managed. “He... he warned me that Dumbledore wanted to kill me.”
The pain disappeared as quickly as it had come. Harry felt a dull throbbing between his temples.
Voldemort remained silent, so he tried again: “Snape knows that I am a Horcrux, and he warned me. He warned me that Dumbledore knows. And that Dumbledore wants to kill me so that... so that you become mortal. ”Snape—Snape didn't betray you."
Still silence. He was slowly becoming uneasy.
Harry pulled himself up on the sofa. Unsure about the whole situation. He just hoped he wasn't the only one. “Dumbledore wants to kill me because I'm... your Horcrux,” Harry whispered, the words heavy in his head. “...And I don't want to die.”
The last word lingered for a long time.
He almost believed that the Dark Lord would just laugh at him. Tell him that he was out of luck. After all, he was Harry Potter. And Harry Potter had to die.
Harry made one last attempt: “Snape also believes that the prophecy was misinterpreted.”
With those last words, he pushed the memories of the conversation through the mental connection, hoping that Voldemort would look at them.
Silence again.
He didn't know what else to do.
Harry had already opened his mouth, ready to speak into the empty room himself. Ready... ready to beg for him and Snape to be spared. To spare them both.
But before he could do so, the next words hit him like a blow: “Come to Hogsmeade. I'll come and get you.”
Not: We'll meet there to talk. Not: We'll meet and sort this out there. Not: We'll meet and then I'll let you go back to school.
No. The order had been clear.
Voldemort was coming to Hogwarts to collect Harry, his Horcrux.
“The Dark Lord will do anything to protect his Horcrux,” Snape's words echoed in his head.
As if by itself, Harry moved back to the Gryffindor Tower. As if by itself, he packed his things. As if by itself, the invisibility cloak slipped over his shoulders. And as if by themselves, his feet carried him to the Whomping Willow and through the secret passage to the Shrieking Shack.
He hadn't even said goodbye to his friends. How would that have sounded? It was the middle of the school year, and there wouldn't be another goodbye until the summer holidays. But now it was winter. The winter holidays were coming soon. But even then, they never said goodbye.
Even in the tunnel, the air was freezing. Freezing and dark. But Harry didn't dare to light his wand and cast a Lumos spell.
Voldemort had only said Hogsmeade.
Did he know about the Whomping Willow?
He wouldn't just stand in the middle of the street, would he? Out in the open, visible to everyone?
Harry climbed the last few meters. His heart was pounding and his lungs were burning. Not because he wasn't used to physical exertion. But because the anxiety inside him was eating through him like a forest fire, taking his breath away.
Was this the right decision?
Was this an ambush?
Was he going to die now?
He froze.
Unable to go on.
But even if he did, would it make any difference? On the other side of the corridor, they wanted him dead too. He couldn't stay where he was. Trapped in the middle.
With one last rattling breath, he pushed against the trapdoor and pushed it open.
Voldemort knew where the howling hut was.
As soon as Harry pressed his fingers against the rotten wood, it opened almost by itself. And above him, dressed in long, dark robes, stood the Dark Lord, holding out his hand.
Harry stared at him with his mouth open.
Red eyes, white face, high cheekbones. And a mouth without lips.
Which was curved into a thin smile.
“Harry Potter,” a cold but gentle voice wafted down to him, “how nice that you accepted my request.
Harry took Voldemort’s hand and let him pull him out of the hatch. The Dark Lord handled him as if he weighed as much as a goblin.
When his fingers first touched, he flinched, expecting pain. But the pain did not come. What remained was a pleasant warm feeling that spread from his hand up his arm and through his body.
And then the Dark Lord let him go and the feeling subsided.
“You came,” Voldemort stated, eyeing Harry with curiosity as if he were an experiment in a potions lab.
Not trusting his voice, the Gryffindor simply nodded.
Voldemort's smile widened.
“Harry,” his counterpart suddenly murmured, raising his milky-white, spider-like hand. “You do know what this means, do you?” Suddenly, the smile seemed almost gentle. Thin fingers wrapped around his chin. The gentle smile faded. And what remained was something that gleamed only in the red eyes. Possession. Obsession. Desire. “It means,” murmured the Dark Lord, leaning down toward Harry Potter, “that I will never let you go again. You belong to me.”