(Never) Let Me Go

Chapter 2: Villanelle

villanelle: a poetic form with a strict pattern of repetition and rhyme scheme, often centering on an issue that the poet is trying to work through in a circular or obsessive manner.

“I see,” says the portrait of Albus Dumbledore placidly, after Harry finished recounting what happened.

In the ensuing silence, Harry glances around the headmistress’ office, which has changed little from Dumbledore and Snape’s tenures. Here and there he spots McGonagall’s touches, such as the Quidditch Cup prominently displayed next to the Sorting Hat. Most of the portraits are currently napping, aside from Dumbledore, who looks thoughtful, and Severus Snape, who leers at Harry.

Harry turns away. The man may have saved his life, but in return, he worked to clear Snape’s name and award him a posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class. He didn’t come here for his opinion.

“Well,” Dumbledore says, “this is most curious and unprecedented.”

“But you do believe me, sir?” Harry asks anxiously. Two nights of perusing the Restricted Section has left him none the wiser and fearful for his sanity.

“Certainly. Extraordinary things have always happened where you’re concerned. Nor does it surprise me that Tom Riddle will choose to linger at Hogwarts after his death in some form. Hogwarts was, after all, his first true home.”

“Are you quite sure that you aren’t mistaken about his corporeal nature, Potter?” Snape sneers.

“Perfectly sure,” Harry says, flushing and hoping neither headmaster asks him how he verified Riddle’s solidity.

Fortunately, Dumbledore has his own explanation. “Riddle was an extraordinary wizard who feared death more than anything. He would certainly seek to bend its rules. When we die, you see, we don’t always proceed to the afterlife right away. Sometimes we linger for a few hours, or even a few days, to wander the world we once knew as spirits and accept that we can never return.”

At that, a look passes between the two former headmasters. Snape gives his head a slight shake and Dumbledore nods.

“Of course, spirits are not meant to be seen by the living,” Dumbledore continues. “You are the exception, Harry.”

“Why?”

“You may recall the tale of the three brothers —”

“The Resurrection Stone?” Harry interrupts, unease creeping up his spine. “I considered that possibility, but I don’t have the stone anymore, and even if I did, I wouldn’t summon any spirits.”

“I don’t only mean the Resurrection Stone. I am referring to the Deathly Hallows, and the legends that surround someone who manages to unite all three.”

“The Master of Death.” Harry remembers his fascination with the idea of being invulnerable to death, of besting Horcruxes with Hallows, once upon a time. “With all due respect, sir, you were the one who told me that it doesn’t exist.”

“I’ve never presumed to know everything, and in this case, I cannot because no one has ever managed to unite the Hallows.” Dumbledore peers over his half-moon spectacles. “Not until you, Harry.”

“But you cannot mean —”

“I’m afraid I do. It is highly likely that you have become the Master of Death.”