This Thanksgiving marks the thirteenth anniversary of finishing my first Harry Potter book. I remember spending that whole holiday transfixed by the book, reading it in the kitchen while my mom was cooking, and in the car with my dad when he was sent to the store to get something my mom forgot. When I finished the book that day, even in the midst of the chaos that ensues during holidays, I felt that something big had happened in my life.
Lately I’ve been nostalgic thinking about Thanksgiving and holidays and home and Harry Potter and the big things that happen in life.
In the Harry Potter series, Voldemort divides his soul into seven pieces in order to achieve immortality. He splits his soul each time by killing another, and he hides the pieces of his soul, or “horcruxes” in various locations so they won’t be destroyed. Of course, you can imagine what Harry Potter’s job is for 7 books:
cry about his dead parents DESTROY THE HORCRUXES!!!!!
But here is the thing that always struck me about Voldemort and his horcruxes: he never went back to check on them. I mean, when I hide pieces of my soul in spell-encapsulated caves and/or snakes, I generally try to keep an eye on them. But Voldy doesn’t. I could go on a diatribe about how Regulus Black had been dead for years before Voldemort figured out part of his soul was dead, but I won’t. I will merely state that once Voldemort created his horcruxes and placed them where he wanted them, he left them alone.
And for the first time, I think I understand it. Continue reading