CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Harry lay there, lost for words. Dumbledore hummed a little
and smiled at the ceiling.
“Sir?” said Harry. “I’ve been thinking . . . Sir — even if the
Stone’s gone, Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who —”
“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for
things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
“Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort’s going to try other ways of coming
back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has he?”
“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps
looking for another body to share . . . not being truly alive, he can-
not be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy
to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may
only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone
else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next
time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never re-
turn to power.”
Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made his head
hurt. Then he said, “Sir, there are some other things I’d like to
know, if you can tell me . . . things I want to know the truth
about. . . .”
“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and terrible
thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. How-
ever, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good rea-
son not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of
course, lie.”
“Well . . . Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because
she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to
kill me in the first place?”
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