Sure you have guessed, because of the grave of Ignotus Peverell. He wanted to explore

the place the third brother had died.”

“So it’s true?” asked Harry. “All of it? The Peverell brothers –”

“—were the three brothers of the tale,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “Oh yes, I

Think so. Whether they met Death on a lonely road . . . I think it more likely that the

Peverell brothers were simply gifted, dangerous wizards who succeeded in creating those

powerful objects. The story of them being Death’s own Hallows seems to me the sort of

Legend that might have sprung up around such creations.

“The Cloak, as you know now, traveled down through the ages, father to son,

mother to daughter, right down to Ignotus’s last living descendant, who was born, as

Ignotus was, in the village of Godric’s Hollow.”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry.

“Me?”

“You. You have guessed,, I know, why the Cloak was in my possession on the

Night your parents died. James had showed it to me just a few days previously. It

explained much of his undetected wrongdoing at school! I could hardly believe what I

Was seeing. I asked to borrow it, to examine it. I had long since given up my dream of

Uniting the Hallows, but I could not resist, could not help taking a closer look. . . . It was

A Cloak the likes of which I had never seen, immensely old, perfect in every respect . . .

and then your father died, and I had two Hallows at last, all to myself!”

His tone was unbearably bitter.

“The Cloak wouldn’t have helped them survive, though,” Harry said quickly.

“Voldemort knew where my mum and dad were. The Cloak couldn’t have made them

curse-proof.”

“true,” sighed Dumbledore. “True.”

Harry waited, but Dumbledore did not speak, so he prompted him.

“So you’d given up looking for the Hallows when you saw the Cloak?”

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore faintly. It seemed that he forced himself to meet

Harry’s eyes. “You know what happened. You know. You cannot despise me more than I

despise myself.”

“But I don’t despise you –”

“Then you should,” said Dumbledore. He drew a deep breath. “You know the

secret of my sister’s ill health, what those Muggles did, what she became. You know how

My poor father sought revenge, and paid the price, died In Azkaban. You know how my

Mother gave up her own life to care for Ariana.

“I resented it, Harry.”

Dumbledore stated it baldly, coldly. He was looking now over the top of Harry’s

Head, into the distance.

“I was gifted, I was brilliant. I wanted to escape. I wanted to shine. I wanted glory.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said, and pain crossed the face so that he looked

ancient again. “I loved them, I loved my parents, I loved my brother and my sister, but I

Was selfish, Harry, more selfish than you, who are a remarkably selfless person, could

Possibly imagine.

“So that, when my mother died, and I was left the responsibility of a damaged

Sister and a wayward brother, I returned to my village in anger and bitterness. Trapped

and wasted, I thought! And then of course, he came. . . .”

Dumbledore looked directly into Harry’s eyes again.

“Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me, Harry, inflamed me.

Muggles forced into subservience. We wizards triumphant. Grindelwald and I, the

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 654