Sagres then turned his gaze to Harry. "Mr. Potter, come here for a moment."
Harry, bewildered, nervously followed the professor to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, away from the others.
Sagres looked at the scrawny boy before him—the one the world called "the Savior"—and saw the innocence still lingering in his emerald eyes.
Sigh.. A complex, inexpressible emotion stirred within him.
He lifted his wand slightly, and a Silence Domain instantly enveloped the two of them. The soundless barrier cut off all conversation, leaving the others able to hear only the mournful wail of the wind through the treetops.
"Regarding the scar on your forehead—do you know its true nature?" Sagres's voice was low and steady.
Harry touched the lightning-shaped scar in confusion. "It… it was left by Lord Voldemort, Professor."
He hesitated, then added uncertainly, "Um… of course, that's just what I've been told. Everyone says so."
Sagres nodded slightly, his gaze calmly fixed on Harry. "Do you know? Twelve years ago, on that fateful night, when Lord Voldemort's power collapsed upon you… a fragment of his soul was torn away and accidentally attached itself to you."
He paused, as though choosing his words with care. "I believe it was nothing more than an extremely unfortunate coincidence—not his intention."
Harry froze, stunned. He staggered back half a step, his emerald eyes wide.
So that was it!
In an instant, countless fragmented clues connected wildly in Harry's mind: the searing pain of his scar whenever he was near Voldemort… the Sorting Hat's whisper, "Slytherin will help you achieve greatness"… his inexplicable ability to speak Parseltongue… everything—everything originated from this! A part of that monster resided within him!
So.. that was it…
A chilling coldness shot up his spine to the crown of his head, and an overwhelming wave of absurdity and self-loathing crashed over him.
He stared blankly at Sagres, his voice hoarse. "Professor… you… you mean… I—"
"I mean nothing more," Sagres interrupted, his tone calm and steady. "I am only telling you a confirmed truth."
"Then… then it can't be a mistake?"
Harry's voice trembled, urgent, almost pleading. "He and I are mortal enemies! He killed my parents! How could I… how could I…"
The words choked off in his throat, his stomach twisting violently.
"Dumbledore and I both believe this assessment is correct," Sagres said flatly. "Of course, I have no doubt about your hatred for him. As I told you, this is merely a cruel joke of fate—an accident."
"Then… is there a way to get it out?"
Harry looked up, a faint, desperate spark flaring in his eyes. He clutched Sagres's sleeve, his voice raw with revulsion. "The thought that… the soul of my parents' murderer is inside me… makes me want to vomit!"
"A way, huh...?"
For the first time, a faint sigh slipped from Sagres's lips. He lowered his gaze, then lifted it again, his deep eyes fixed on Harry's desperate, hopeful face.
"There is, at present, only one method." He paused, the air itself seeming to harden. "But it is… somewhat cruel."
"What method?!" Harry pressed urgently, leaning forward.
Sagres said nothing more. He simply looked at Harry—eyes that seemed to know everything, yet offered no answer—only a bottomless, unnerving silence.
And in that silence, Harry understood. The unsaid truth struck colder than any words, carried in the professor's gaze that held something close to pity.
The flicker of hope in his chest was extinguished at once—Nox—leaving only boundless cold.
"Is it to kill me, Professor?" Harry asked faintly, his voice hollow. "Is it to kill me… isn't it?"
"Yes, Potter." Sagres did not evade. He nodded, unflinching. "As far as we know, this is the only way to remove it completely."
Then his tone shifted, offering the faintest spark of hope. "But that may not always be the case. Magic is wondrous, and perhaps one day we will discover a method that can achieve both ends…"
But Harry had heard only the affirmative answer.
He stood rooted to the spot, his face pale as a fresh coat of paint, his mind blank—haunted by a single word, echoing endlessly.
Death.
Suddenly, as though seized by a desperate impulse, Harry lifted his head, his emerald eyes burning with calm resolve.
"Then kill me, Professor!"
The sudden, childish declaration of readiness to die left Sagres truly stunned for the first time.
He turned in surprise, his deep gaze scrutinizing the twelve-year-old boy before him as though seeing him anew.
This pure, reckless courage was startling—shocking, even a little absurd.
"Commendable courage," he nodded slightly to Harry. "But killing you would be useless."
His composure quickly returned as he locked eyes with the boy. "Lord Voldemort himself will not die from the loss of this fragment. And most importantly…"
Sagres paused, then delivered the cruel truth in the calmest of tones.
"He cannot control you. This soul fragment is nothing more than a helpless prisoner inside you. It will remain forever confined within your body—forced to watch as you make every choice that grates against its will, every step toward the future it dreads most."
"This—will be its eternal prison." Sagres finished in a cold tone tinged with slight anger and a hint of mockery towards Voldemort.
Harry opened his mouth, but no sound came. Merlin knew how much courage it had taken him to say those words just now.
Images of his parents flashed through his mind, Voldemort's cold voice describing their murders… and a blazing anger surged through him, scorching away fear, threatening to consume him whole.
Yet the picture painted by Professor Greengrass—that his own body would become the prison of Voldemort's soul fragment..?
He, Harry Potter, could not only live but might one day defeat Lord Voldemort himself—while that demon's fragment would remain trapped, forced to watch helplessly from within..?
Was that not the most bitter, most complete revenge? A punishment more fitting than death?
But as soon as the thought arose, a deeper fear clawed its way into his mind.
"But Professor… will I… because of it… become another Lord Voldemort?"
His voice trembled with worry and self-doubt. "I can speak Parseltongue… the Sorting Hat said I should go to Slytherin… will I… eventually become like him?"
"But you are in Gryffindor now," Sagres said calmly.
"Yes…" Harry's voice dropped, tinged with helpless bitterness. "But that was only because I begged the Sorting Hat not to send me to Slytherin…"
"That is enough, Mr. Potter." Sagres gave him a slight nod, his voice steady and firm. "The most important thing is not others' opinions or imposed definitions, but your own choices. No one, and nothing, can prevent you from becoming the person you wish to be."
He paused a moment, then added calmly, "The most they can do… is take your life."
Harry froze.
Take his life… wasn't that the very request he had made to the Professor only moments ago?
That worst outcome, that seemingly insurmountable abyss of fear—turned out to be nothing more than that.
A surge of strength welled up in Harry's chest.
He lifted his head, a determined light blazing in his emerald eyes, his voice carrying inexpressible resolve. "I understand, Professor. I will live well—a soul fragment cannot decide who I am!"
Sagres regarded him calmly, a faint glimmer of approval flickering in his eyes.
"I'm glad you understand that."
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