CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lockhart ambled out. Ron cast a curious look back at Dumble-
dore and Harry as he closed the door.
Dumbledore crossed to one of the chairs by the fire.
“Sit down, Harry,” he said, and Harry sat, feeling unaccountably
nervous.
“First of all, Harry, I want to thank you,” said Dumbledore, eyes
twinkling again. “You must have shown me real loyalty down in
the Chamber. Nothing but that could have called Fawkes to you.”
He stroked the phoenix, which had fluttered down onto his
knee. Harry grinned awkwardly as Dumbledore watched him.
“And so you met Tom Riddle,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully.
“I imagine he was most interested in you. . . .”
Suddenly, something that was nagging at Harry came tumbling
out of his mouth.
“Professor Dumbledore . . . Riddle said I’m like him. Strange
likenesses, he said. . . .”
“Did he, now?” said Dumbledore, looking thoughtfully at Harry
from under his thick silver eyebrows. “And what do you think,
Harry?”
“I don’t think I’m like him!” said Harry, more loudly than he’d
intended. “I mean, I’m — I’m in Gryffindor, I’m . . .”
But he fell silent, a lurking doubt resurfacing in his mind.
“Professor,” he started again after a moment. “The Sorting Hat
told me I’d — I’d have done well in Slytherin. Everyone thought I
was Slytherin’s heir for a while . . . because I can speak Parsel -
tongue. . . .”
“You can speak Parseltongue, Harry,” said Dumbledore calmly,
“because Lord Voldemort — who is the last remaining descendant
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