Chapter Twenty-Seven
He lay face down, listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. No one was watching; no one else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.
A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface. Therefore, he had a sense of touch, and the thing against which he lay existed too.
Almost as soon as Harry had reached this conclusion, he became aware that he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude, this did not concern him, but it did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether, as he could feel, he would be able to see. In opening them, he discovered he had eyes.
He lay in a bright mist, though it was not like any mist he had ever experienced before. His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor had not yet formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white, neither warm nor cold, but simply there—a flat blank something on which to be.
He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face and found that he was not wearing glasses anymore.
Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him: the small soft thumpings of something that flapped, flailed, and struggled. It was a pitiful noise, yet also slightly indecent. Harry had the uncomfortable feeling that he was eavesdropping on something furtive, shameful.
For the first time, he wished he were clothed.
Barely had the wish formed in his head than robes appeared a sort distance away. He took them and pulled them on: they were soft, clean, and warm. It was extraordinary how they had appeared, just like that, the moment he had wanted them…
He stood up, looking around. Was he in some great Room of Requirement? The longer he looked, the more there was to see. A great, domed glass roof glittered above him in the sunlight. Perhaps it was a palace. All was hushed and still, except for those odd thumping and whimpering noises coming from somewhere close by in the mist…
Harry turned slowly on the spot, and his surroundings seemed to invent themselves before his eyes. A wide-open space, bright and clean, a hall larger by far than the Great Hall, with that clear, domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the only person there, except for—
Harry recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was making the noises. It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath.
Harry was afraid of it. Small and fragile and wounded though it was, he did not want to approach it. Nevertheless, he drew slowly nearer, ready to jump back at any moment. Soon he stood near enough to touch it, yet he could not bring himself to do it. He felt like a coward; he ought to comfort it, but it repulsed him.
“You cannot help.”
Harry spun around.
Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue.
“Harry,” he said. He spread his arms wide, his eyes were both healed and undamaged, “You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk.”
Stunned, Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away from where the flayed child lay whimpering, leading him to two seats that Harry had not previously noticed, set some distance away under that high, sparkling ceiling.
Dumbledore sat down in one of them, and Harry fell into the other, staring at his old Headmaster’s face. Dumbledore’s long silver hair and beard, the piercing blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, the crooked nose: everything was as he had remembered it. And yet…
“But you’re dead,” Harry said.
“Oh yes,” Dumbledore said matter-of-factly.
“Then…I’m dead too?”
“Ah,” Dumbledore said, smiling still more broadly, “That is the question, isn’t it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not.”
“Not?”
“Not,” Dumbledore said.
“But…” Harry raised his hand instinctively toward the lightning scar and it did not seem to be there, “But I should have died! I didn’t defend myself! I meant to let him kill me!”
“And that,” Dumbledore said, “will, I think, have made all the difference.”
Happiness seemed to radiate off Dumbledore like light, like fire—Harry had never seen him so utterly, so palpably, content.
“Explain,” Harry said.
“But you already know,” Dumbledore said. He twiddled his thumbs together.
“I let him kill me, didn’t I?” Harry said.
“You did,” Dumbledore said, nodding, “Go on!”
“So the part of his soul that was in me…”
Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically, urging Harry onward, a broad smile of encouragement on his face.
“…has it gone?”
“Oh yes!” Dumbledore said, “Yes, he destroyed it. Your soul is whole, and completely your own, Harry.”
“But then…”
Harry glanced over his shoulder to where the small, maimed creature trembled under the chair.
“What is that, Professor?”
“Something that is beyond either of our help.”
“But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse,” Harry started again, “and no one died for me this time, how can I be alive?”
“I think you know how,” Dumbledore said, “Think back. Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty.”
Harry thought, and as he did, he let his gaze drift over his surroundings. If it was indeed a palace in which they sat, it was an odd one, with chairs set in little rows and bits of railing here and there, and still, he and Dumbledore and the stunted creature under the chair were the only ones there. Then the answer rose from his lips easily, without effort.
“He took my blood,” Harry said.
“Precisely!” Dumbledore said, “He took your blood and rebuilt his living body with it! Your blood in his veins, Harry, Lily’s protection inside both of you! He tethered you to life while he lives!”
“I live while he lives? But I thought…I thought it was the other way round! I thought we both had to die? Or is it the same thing?”
Harry was distracted by the whimpering and thumping of the agonized creature behind them and glanced back at it yet again, “Are you sure we can’t do anything?”
“There is no help possible.”
“Then explain…more,” Harry said.
Dumbledore smiled, “You were the seventh Horcrux, Harry. The Horcrux he never meant to make. He had rendered his soul so unstable that it broke apart when he committed those acts of unspeakable evil—the murder of your parents, the attempted killing of a child. But what escaped from that room was even less than he knew. He left more than his body behind. He left part of himself latched to you; the would-be victim who had survived.
And his knowledge remained woefully incomplete, Harry! That which Voldemort does not value, he takes no trouble to comprehend. Of love and children’s takes, of loyalty, friendship, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing. Nothing. That they all have a power beyond his own, a power beyond the reach of magic, is a truth that he has never grasped.
He took your blood believing it would strengthen him. He took into his body a tiny part of the enchantment your mother laid upon you when she died for you. His body keeps her sacrifice alive, and while that enchantment survives, so do you and so does Voldemort’s one last hope for himself.”
Dumbledore smiled at Harry and Harry stared up at him.
“And you knew this? You knew all along?”
“I guessed. But my guesses have usually been good,” Dumbledore said happily and they sat in silence for what seemed like a long time, while the creature behind them continued to whimper and tremble.
“He killed me with your wand,” Harry said.
“He failed to kill you with my wand,” Dumbledore corrected, “I think we can agree that you are not dead—though, of course,” he added, “I do not minimize your sufferings, which I am sure were severe.”
Harry blinked and it took a moment for him to turn the feelings that welled up inside him into words, “I thought it was all over. I spoke to Death—or I tried to, at least. I meant to die, and I asked for Death just to let everyone live. Everyone I love…” Dumbledore was looking at him quietly and Harry glanced up at him, “Where are we exactly?”
“Well, I was going to ask you that,” Dumbledore said, looking around, “Where would you say we are?”
“It looks,” Harry said slowly, “like King’s Cross Station. Except a lot cleaner and empty, and there are no trains as far as I can see.”
“King’s Cross station!” Dumbledore chuckled, “Good gracious, really?”
“Well, where do you think we are?” Harry said a trifle defensively.
“My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say, your party.”
Harry glared up at Dumbledore. And then he remembered a much more pressing question than that of their current location.
“The Deathly Hallows,” Harry said and he was glad to see the words wiped the smile from Dumbledore’s face.
“Ah, yes,” he said. He even looked a little worried.
“Well?”
Dumbledore suddenly looked to Harry like a small schoolboy caught in a wrongdoing, “Can you forgive me?” He said, “Can you forgive me for not trusting you? For not telling you? Harry, I only feared that you would fail as I failed. I only dreaded that you would make my mistakes. I crave your pardon, Harry. I have known for some time now that you are the better man.”
“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, startled by Dumbledore’s tone, and by the sudden appearance of tears in his eyes.
“The Hallows, the Hallows,” Dumbledore murmured, “A lure for fools. And I was such a fool. But you know, don’t you? I have no secrets from you anymore. You know.”
“What do I know?”
Dumbledore turned his whole body to face Harry and tears still sparkled in those brilliant blue eyes, “Master of Death, Harry. Was I better, ultimately, than Voldemort?”
“Of course, you were!” Harry insisted.
“Yet I too sought a way to conquer Death, Harry.”
“So did my Mum. So did Remus when he saved Sirius in the Death Chamber. So did I when I walked into the forest. Just matters what exactly you mean by Mastering Death, doesn’t it?” Harry said, finding himself thinking hard, “But…if we’re discussing immortality …you didn’t go about it the way Voldemort did. Hallows not Horcruxes.”
“Hallows not Horcruxes,” Dumbledore murmured, “Precisely.”
Dumbledore trailed off and there was a pause. The creature behind them whimpered, but Harry no longer looked around.
“Grindelwald was looking for the Hallows too,” Harry said, “You never told anyone you loved him, did you?”
Dumbledore sighed heavily, closing his eyes and shaking his head, “No I did not.”
“Why?”
Dumbledore opened his eyes slowly, “It mattered not, in the end. Ariana lay dead on the floor and Gindelwald…”
“It’s not about your fight or the final duel. You being who you are, that matters to those who knew you,” Harry said sternly, “It would have mattered a great deal for people to know that Albus Dumbledore was gay.”
Dumbledore bowed his head and after a moment he smiled softly and said, “You are right, Harry. But there is certainly a Wizarding gay couple alive today who are the best role model for our society to see, to understand, to know.”
Harry smiled and there was another pause. Then Dumbledore said, “You have guessed, I know, why the Cloak was in my possession that night your parents died. The Cloak traveled down through the ages, father to son, mother to daughter, right down to Ignotus’ last living descendent, who was born, as Ignotus was, in the village of Godric’s Hollow.”
“Me?”
“You. When James showed me the Cloak just a few day’s previously to Halloween night, I could hardly believe what I was seeing. I asked to borrow it, examine it. I had long since giving up my ream of uniting the Hallows, but I could not resist, could not helping taking a look…” Dumbledore’s tone was unbearably bitter.
“The Cloak would not helped them survive,” Harry said softly, “Voldemort knew where my mum and dad were. The Cloak couldn’t have made them curse-proof.”
“True,” Dumbledore sighed, “True.”
Harry waited and then said, “You tried to use the Resurrection Stone.”
Dumbledore nodded, “When I discovered it, after all those years, buried in the abandoned home of the Gaunts—the Hallow I craved most of all, though in my youth I wanted it for very different reasons—I lost my head, Harry. I quite forgot it was now a Horcrux, that the ring was sure to carry a curse. I was such a fool, Harry. After all those years I had learned nothing. I was unworthy to unite the Deathly Hallows, I had proved it time and again, and here was the final proof. Maybe a man in a million could unite the Hallows, Harry. I was fit only to possess the meanest of them, the least extraordinary. I was fit to own the Elder Wand, and not to boast of it, and not to kill with it. I was permitted to tame and to use it, because I took it not for gain, but to save others from it. But the Cloak I took out of vain curiosity, and so it could never have worked for me as it works for you, its true owner. The stone I would have used to drag back those who are at peace, rather than to enable my self-sacrifice, as you did. You are the worthy possessor of the Hallows, Harry. And not merely for this reason are you the true Master of Death. The true master does not seek to run away from Death, but accepts that they must die, and understands that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying.”
Dumbledore patted Harry’s hand and Harry looked up at the old man. It was hard to remain angry with Dumbledore—what was the point?—but Harry could not just let it all go.
“Why did you have to make it so difficult?”
Dumbledore smiled tremulously, “I am afraid I counted on Miss Granger and Mr. Lupin to slow you up, Harry. I was afraid that you—and please, I mean no offense, your godfather’s—hot heads might dominate your good hearts. I was scared that, if presented outright with the facts about those tempting objects, you might seize the Hallows as I did, at the wrong time, for the wrong reasons. I worried Sirius would bate you. If you laid hands on them, Harry, I wanted you to possess them safely.”
“And Voldemort never knew about the Hallows?”
“I do not think so, because he did not recognize the Resurrection Stone he turned into a Horcrux.”
“But you expected him to go after the wand?”
“I have been sure that he would try, ever since your wand beat his in the graveyard in Little Hangleton.”
“If you planned your death with Snape, you meant for him to end up with the Elder Wand, didn’t you?”
“I admit that was intention,” Dumbledore said, “but it did not work as I intended, did it?”
“No,” Harry said, “that bit didn’t work out.”
The creature behind them jerked and moaned, and Harry and Dumbledore sayt without talking for the longest time yet. The realization of what would happen next settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes, like softy falling snow.
“I’ve got to go back, haven’t I?”
“That is up to you.”
“I’ve got a choice?” This startled Harry.
“Oh yes,” Dumbledore smiled at him, “We are in King’s Cross, you say? I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to…let’s say…board a train.”
“And where would it take me?”
“On,” Dumbledore said simply.
Silence again.
“Voldemort’s got the Elder Wand.”
“True. Voldemort has the Elder Wand.”
“But you want me to go back?”
But did Harry want to?
He saw a swarm of faces in his mind’s eye. Heard bells and shouts of laughter. Felt warm hugs and clasped hands and wind in his hair as he soared over the Quidditch Pitch and tasted chocolate on his tongue…
“I think,” Dumbledore said, “that if you choose to return, there is a chance Voldemort might be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this, Harry, that you have less to fear from returning here than he does.”
Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair.
“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and above all, pity those who live without love. By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. You can rejoin your own family, and make it bigger and more full of love in the years to come. If that seems to you like a worthy goal, then we say good-bye for the present.”
Harry nodded and sighed. Leaving this place would not be nearly as hard as walking into the forest had been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here, and he knew he was heading up to pain and the fear of more loss.
But also, so much love. And the hope of more time. Of more and more—until the very end. And it was not the end just yet.
Harry stood up and Dumbledore did the same and they looked for a long moment into each other’s faces.
“Tell me one last thing,” Harry said, “Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?”
Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure.
“Of course this has been happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean it’s not real?”