Chapter 25: The Folly of Fools
Elrond scoffed, the sound dripping with contempt. "The invention of the Horcrux is falsely attributed to the ancient Greek sorcerer, Herpo the Foul. A more accurate statement would be that the method for achieving immortality through a Horcrux was first discovered by him."
He leaned forward, his voice taking on the tone of a lecturer. "In the study of true Dark Arts, there are many curses that target the soul. These soul-curses are notoriously difficult to remove. They latch on like parasites, tormenting the victim and draining their will until they eventually perish.
"Naturally, wizards afflicted with such a curse would not simply wait to die. They would resort to any means to be rid of it. And thus, the Horcrux was devised. Though it is impossible to verify who truly invented the process, the current mainstream theory suggests it was the Peverell family."
Elrond explained that a Horcrux was created by (tearing) a fragment of one's own soul and sealing it within a prepared container. A wizard suffering from a soul-curse would isolate the afflicted portion of their soul and sever it into the Horcrux.
"It is akin to a gecko shedding its tail to escape a predator," he said. "However, a gecko's tail will grow back. A soul, once torn, never truly heals.
"The human body, soul, and consciousness all possess a capacity for self-repair. A broken bone can mend; a deep cut can close. But if you sever an entire arm, it will not regenerate. It is the same with the soul. Minor damage can be recovered from, but the act of creating a Horcrux—tearing away such a significant piece—is a permanent mutilation. And an incomplete soul has… consequences."
He fixed Solim with a piercing gaze. "Generally, a wizard only makes a Horcrux out of utter desperation, as a last resort to survive a terminal affliction. But Tom Riddle created one without any such sickness or curse upon him. In the eyes of knowledgeable wizards, his actions were the height of foolishness. It is like a man with healthy limbs deciding to amputate them simply because he can. What else can you call such a person but a fool?"
It was no wonder, Solim thought, that wizards like his grandfather looked down upon Voldemort. The Gaunt family, for all their boasts of being Slytherin's last descendants, were little more than madmen and fools. Generations of inbreeding had preserved their bloodline at a terrible cost. They were obsessed with pomp and ceremony, yet they possessed no industry and no income, eventually squandering the entirety of their ancestral wealth. In the end, Marvolo and Morfin didn't even own a decent set of wizard's robes.
After this brief history lesson, Elrond's focus returned to the present. "I am curious how you know the location of the Resurrection Stone." Before Solim could formulate an answer, Elrond waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind. I doubt you will tell me, and I cannot be bothered to press the matter. My real question is this: what do you intend to do with the Stone once you have it?"
Solim recounted his promise to Snape. "We both know the shades summoned by the Stone are mere echoes, illusions that serve a purpose. Professor Snape believes he can solve the problem of their nature. I promised I would let him speak with Lily Evans. That is all."
"And after you have fulfilled this promise?" Elrond's question was pointed. "What then?"
The implication was unmistakable. How could Solim not understand the road his grandfather was laying out for him?
"For you, of course," Solim said, a hint of resignation in his voice. "What else would I do with it?"
"Do not look so displeased. It is for your own good. An object of that nature is not something you are ready to possess. The Resurrection Stone does exert an influence on its keeper." A grim smile touched Elrond's lips. "And if my guess is correct, wouldn't its curse ultimately harm you?"
Elrond let out a short, derisive laugh. "Hah! Don't be fooled by those old fools on the Council who cling to their power. When their time comes, every last one of them will die, and not a single one will escape it. I don't care how a man dies." His eyes then gleamed with a sudden, sharp intensity. "But a Horcrux… that is different. Horcruxes are exceedingly rare. Many wish to study one but never get the chance. Now that I have the opportunity, how could I not take it back for thorough examination?"
I should have known, Solim thought. He was well aware of his grandfather's true nature. Curse-Breakers, and those in similar fields, were almost universally driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. It was wizards like these, for better or worse, who pushed the boundaries of the magical world.
"So, grandfather, you're saying I don't need to bother with any of this?" Solim gestured to the mountain of books on his desk. "I was preparing to test my theory."
"You may look if you wish! It is your own time to spend. Research is like that. You have a hypothesis, you prove it right or wrong. The process itself is the point." Elrond made it clear he had no strong opinion on the matter. "We will visit the Orvis family tomorrow afternoon, and depart for Little Hangleton the following morning. As for the family dinner…" He waved a hand dismissively. "Who cares about such tedious affairs."
The family dinner… Solim didn't need to be told he wouldn't be attending. As an illegitimate child, he had no place at a formal Selwyn family gathering. That he was permitted to live in Selwyn Castle at all was solely due to his grandfather's influence.
After Elrond left, Solim returned to his books, driven by a desperate need to know if his suspicion was correct. Did the Deathly Hallows hold a deeper secret? Could they truly determine a person's manner of death?
He flipped through pages, using a copying charm to scribble relevant information onto a fresh piece of parchment. He found mentions of the Gaunt family in The Vanishing Families of Great Britain and a manuscript titled Memorabilia of the Nineteenth-Century Pure-Blood Families. Both recorded the deaths of Marvolo and Morfin, but the information was frustratingly vague: Marvolo had "died at home," and Morfin was "buried in Azkaban."
If this is a dead end, I could always ask grandfather to find the memories of the wizards who dealt with their deaths, Solim mused. There was, of course, a more direct source: Albus Dumbledore, who had investigated Morfin himself. But that was a last resort. Solim had no desire to deal with the Headmaster. He knew the kindly, white-bearded facade concealed a shrewd and powerful wizard with a history he preferred not to delve into. The man was also far too fond of using Legilimency to rifle through people's minds without their consent.
Frustrated, Solim looked down at the three interlocking circles he had drawn on the parchment—a crude representation of the Deathly Hallows symbol.
If each Hallow represented one manner of death, or perhaps excluded the other two, then the combination of the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone made a grim sort of sense for Dumbledore: it excluded natural death, leaving only a death that was, in its own way, voluntary.
But the combinations involving the Cloak of Invisibility created logical contradictions. To die naturally, yet also by suicide or homicide? The ideas were mutually exclusive.
He tried a different approach. Instead of focusing on the means of death each Hallow represented, he considered the two methods of death each one was said to preclude. The Wand and the Stone together ruled out natural death. The Wand and the Cloak ruled out suicide. The Stone and the Cloak ruled out homicide.
His quill hovered over the blank space in the center of the three intersecting circles. He pressed the point down firmly. What existed in that void? What state was left when suicide, homicide, and natural death were all excluded? Immortality? Or something else entirely?
A wave of irritation washed over him. He drew his wand and incinerated the parchment and the quill with a sharp, wordless spell. Elrond was right. Knowing this changed nothing. It was a distraction, sapping his time and energy. He decided then that he would set this puzzle aside for now. Any serious study of the Deathly Hallows would have to wait until both Dumbledore and Voldemort were gone. The only thing that mattered was ensuring Harry Potter didn't somehow end up with the Elder Wand.
His primary goal, Solim resolved, was to improve his own strength. Everything else was secondary. His reason for attending Hogwarts, aside from a healthy sense of self-preservation, was to avoid trouble. Staying under Dumbledore's nose meant many of his enemies would be reluctant to move against him openly. As long as he didn't interfere with the Headmaster's grand plans and didn't step too far out of line at school, Dumbledore largely left him alone.
But he knew the peace was fragile. The moment he had publicly humbled that detestable witch in the Duelling Club, the trouble had begun. He had no doubt she would seize any chance for retaliation.
"When will it end?" Solim muttered, glancing at the towering stack of books. With a flick of his wand, he neatly sorted them and levitated the pile to return to the archives.
Meanwhile, in stark contrast to Solim's simmering frustration, Harry Potter's Christmas at Hogwarts was a far happier affair. That morning, he had received his first ever hand-knitted sweater, a gift from Mrs. Weasley. And then there was the invisibility cloak, left to him by an anonymous benefactor. He and Ron had already tested it, marveling at its flawless, peerless magic. Harry was already planning a nighttime excursion under its cover, a thrilling prospect that pushed all darker thoughts from his mind.