The snake was hissing laughter, strange sharp laughter, almost hysterical. “You tell me of that sspell? Me? You musst learn more caution in the future, boy. But it matterss not. I learned of the horcrux sspell ssince long ago. It iss meaninglesss.”
“Meaningless?” Harry said aloud in surprise. “Would be pointlesss sspell from beginning, if ssoulss exissted. Tear piece of ssoul? That iss lie. Missdirection to hide true ssecret. Only one who doess not believe in common liess will reasson further, ssee beneath obsscuration, realisse how to casst sspell. Required murder iss not ssacrificial ritual at all. Ssudden death ssometimes makess ghosst, if magic burssts and imprintss on nearby thing. Horcrux sspell channelss death-bursst through casster, createss your own ghosst insstead of victim'ss, imprintss ghosst in sspecial device. Ssecond victim pickss up horcrux device, device imprintss your memoriess into them. But only memoriess from time horcrux device wass made. You ssee flaw?”
The burning sensation was back in Harry’s throat. “No continuity of—” there wasn’t a snake word for consciousness “—sself, you would go on thinking after making the horcrux, then sself with new memoriess diess and iss not resstored—”
“Yess, you do ssee. Alsso Merlin'ss Interdict preventss powerful sspells from passing through ssuch a device, ssince it iss not truly alive. Dark Wizardss who think to return thuss are weaker, eassily disspatched. None have perssissted long by ssuch meanss. Perssonalitiess change, mix with victim'ss. Death iss not truly gainssaid. Real sself is losst, as you ssay. Not to my pressent tasste. Admit I conssidered it, long ago.”
A man was lying in the infirmary bed once more. The Defense Professor breathed, then made a wretched coughing sound.
“Can you give me a full recipe for the spell?” Harry said, after a moment’s deliberation. “There might be some way to improve on the flaws, with enough research. Some way to do it ethically and have it work.” Like doing the transfer into a clone body with a blank brain, instead of an innocent victim, which might also improve the fidelity of the personality transfer… though that still left the other problems.
Professor Quirrell made a short sound, under his breath, that might have been laughter. “You know, boy,” Professor Quirrell whispered, “I had thought… to teach you everything… the seeds of all the secrets I knew… from one living mind to another… so that later, when you found the right books, you would be able to understand… I would have passed on my knowledge to you, my heir… we would have begun as soon as you asked me… but you never asked.”
Even the grief surrounding by Harry like thick water gave way to that, to the sheer magnitude of the missed opportunity. “I was supposed to—? I didn’t know I was supposed to—!”
Another coughing chuckle. “Ah yes… the unknowing Muggleborn… in heritage if not in blood… that is you. But I thought… better of it… that you should not walk my path… it was not a good path, in the end.”
“It’s not too late, Professor!” Harry said. A part of Harry yelled that he was being selfish, and then another part shouted that down; there would be other people to help.
“Yes, it is too late… and you shall not… persuade me otherwise… I have… thought better of it… as I said… I am too full… of secrets better left unknown… look at me.”
Harry looked, almost despite himself.
He saw a still-unwrinkled face, looking old and pained, beneath a head rapidly losing its hair, even the sides looking wispy now; Harry saw a face he’d always thought was sharp, now revealed as thin, muscle and fat fading away from the face, as from the arms beneath it, like the
skeletal form of Bellatrix Black he’d seen in Azkaban— Harry’s head wrenched aside, unthinkingly.
“You see,” whispered the Professor. “I dislike to sound cliched… Mr. Potter… but the truth is… the Arts called Dark… really are not good for a person… in the end.”
Professor Quirrell breathed in, breathed out. There was quiet for a time in the infirmary, the two of them watched only by the elaborately ornamented stone of the walls.
“Is there anything left… unsaid between us?” said Professor Quirrell. “I am not dying today… mind you… not right now… but I do not know how long… I shall be able to converse.”
“There’s,” Harry said, swallowed again. “There’s a lot of things, way too many things, but… it might be the wrong thing to ask, but I don’t
want—this one question unanswered—snake?” A snake lay on the bed.
“I learned how the Killing Cursse workss. Requiress true hate to casst, not much hate, but musst want target dead, they ssay. In prisson with life-eaterss, you casst Killing Cursse at guard—ssaid you did not want him dead—wass that lie? Here, now, at thiss disstance—you may sspeak truth—even if you fear it reflectss poorly on you—it sshould not matter now, teacher. I wissh to know. Musst know. Will not abandon you, either way.”
A man lay on the bed.
“Listen carefully,” Professor Quirrell whispered. “I will tell you a conundrum… a riddle of a dangerous spell… when you know the answer to that puzzle… you will also know… the answer to your question… are you listening?”
Harry nodded.
“There is a limitation… to the Killing Curse. To cast it once… in a fight… you must hate enough… to want the other dead. To cast Avada… Kedavra twice… you must hate enough… to kill twice… to cut their throat with your own hands… to watch them die… then do it again. Very few… can hate enough… to kill someone… five times… they would… get bored.” The Defense Professor breathed several times, before continuing. “But if you look at history… you will find some Dark Wizards… who could cast the Killing Curse… over and over. A nineteenth-century witch… who called herself Dark Evangel… the Aurors called her A. K. McDowell. She could cast the Killing Curse… a dozen times… in one fight. Ask yourself… as I asked myself… what is the secret… that she knew? What is deadlier than hate… and flows without limit?”
A second level to the Avada Kedavra spell, just like with the Patronus Charm… “I don’t really care,” Harry answered.
The Defense Professor chuckled wetly. “Good. You are… learning. So you see…” A pause of transformation. “I did not wissh guard dead, after all.
Casst Killing Cursse, but not with hate.” And then a man.
Harry swallowed hard. It was both better, and worse, than what Harry had suspected; and characteristic enough of Professor Quirrell. A cracked soul, for certain; but Professor Quirrell had never claimed to be
whole.
“Any else… to say?” said the man in the bed.
“Are you absolutely sure,” Harry said, “that there is nothing you’ve ever heard of that might save you, Professor? In all your lore? Finding and uniting all three Deathly Hallows, an ancient artifact that Merlin sealed behind a riddle nobody’s ever figured out? You’ve seen some of what I can do. That I’m good at solving riddles. You know I can figure things out, sometimes, that other wizards can’t. I—” Harry’s voice broke. “I have a strong preference for your life, over your death, Professor Quirrell.” There was a long pause.