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"Let no man pull you so low as to make you hate him."
Booker T. Washington
A scarred heart, when healed, is a beautiful heart.
The Hollowness of Horcruxes
I had a very warm thought the other day, involving something everyone familiar with Harry Potter probably knows about: the horcrux.
Please bear with me, as it takes a little bit to get to the point.
For those not familiar with the Harry Potter series, a brief explanation: a horcrux is one of the darkest forms of black magic. To create a horcrux, one imparts a piece of one’s own soul into some inanimate object. To get that piece of the soul is the darker part: one has to twist their soul to such a sickening degree that they can literally tear it apart.
The reason for making a horcrux is to grant oneself a limited form of immortality. As long as no one tries to destroy the horcrux, it pretty much lasts forever. If one was devious and dark enough (say, a Lord Voldemort) to scatter pieces of his soul throughout a variety of horcruxes, and they were to be gathered together, one could reform an incomplete form of themselves.
Now, by creating a horcrux, you are destroying yourself (as you are literally tearing your soul to pieces). Do it enough times, and it will show—insanity being a clear sign. While you are ensuring a form of immortality, you are destroying yourself in the process.
Now…for something completely different.
Let’s look at simple Love. And let’s look at a simple example of that in the series, a non-magical example: Dumbledore.
In the Harry Potter series, Dumbledore is one of the world’s greatest wizards ever…who just happens to be killed off in one of the later books by Voldemort (who had been brought back through the use of his horcruxes).
This might seem like a horrible, atrocious thing—evil triumphing over good, even if only temporarily.
But there is one thing we cannot forget: Dumbledore loved. He loved Harry, he loved all his students, he loved Hogwarts…he loved, period. In everything he loved, he left a small piece of himself.
Rather than inanimate objects, he left a small piece of his soul in living hearts and souls. In doing so, he filled the souls of others…and filled his own soul, rather than tearing it apart. Instead of weakening his soul, thrashing it into frothing bits and pieces of insanity with ill-used magic, he strengthened his very being by just loving.
And then he died.
And yet, he was still there. Like the bits of soul in a horcrux, the imprints and pieces of himself that Dumbledore left in others could never completely replace the true original, the true source.
But nevertheless, he lived on—and in a stronger way than a bit of soul in a horcrux ever could. Horcruxes are inanimate, dead, a shred of suffering in the guise of the ordinary. To love, to be remembered, to live on in the heart of another…your thoughts, actions, and memories forever live on in the beating heart of another, whose soul acts with your own life pumping through their lifeforce, is true Magic.
When we watch Voldemort and Co. take on Harry Potter and his lively crew, it may look like a dark time: evil rising once again, escaping even the jaws of mortality itself, only to throw the very symbol of all that is good into the oblivion of death…
But looks are deceiving. In the final showdown, Voldemort stands there with a broken soul, his entirety of existence focusing on a single point: Harry Potter.
Harry, on the other hand, stands not only with his own soul whole, shining out against the darkness, but the strength of every soul who has ever loved him, past and present, deepening the strength of his wholeness, with all of his loved ones on his mind and in his heart.
And he, by loving, will live on in the souls of all he loved.
Expecto Patronum.
(Note: Please forgive any mistakes I make…I’ve only read the first three books so far, and haven’t seen any of the movies…most of the information I lack comes from wiki articles that I’m remembering off the top of my head right now.)
It will take just 37 seconds to read this and change your thinking..
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room.
One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs.
His bed was next to the room’s only window.
The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.
The men talked for hours on end.
They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation..
Every afternoon, when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.
The man in the other bed began to live for those one hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake.
Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite details, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine this picturesque scene.
One warm afternoon, the man by the window described a parade passing by.
Although the other man could not hear the band - he could see it in his mind’s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.
Days, weeks and months passed.
One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep.
She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.
As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside.
He strained to slowly turn to look out the window besides the bed.
It faced a blank wall.
The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window.
The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall.
She said, ‘Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you.’
Epilogue:
There is tremendous happiness in making others happy, despite our own situations.
Shared grief is half the sorrow, but happiness when shared, is doubled.
If you want to feel rich, just count all the things you have that money can’t buy.
‘Today is a gift, that is why it is called The Present .’
The origin of this letter is unknown, but please pass it on.
