How in the name of Merlin’s pants have you managed to get your hands on those Horcrux books?

Only one thing mattered: this was not a Horcrux. Dumbledore had weakened himself by drinking that horrible potion for nothing. Harry crumpled the parchment in his hand and his eyes burned with tears as behind...

I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.

Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would’ve done everyone a favor. . . .