“I'd want him finished,”

“I'd want him finished,” said Harry quietly. “And I'd want to do it.”

“Of course you would!” cried Dumbledore. “You see, the prophecy does not mean you have to do anything! But the prophecy caused Lord Voldemort to mark you as his

equal... In other words, you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy! But Voldemort continues to set store by the prophecy. He will

continue to hunt you... which makes it certain, really, that —”

“That one of us is going to end up killing the other,” said Harry.

“Yes.”

But he understood at last what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him. It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the

death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew—

and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents—that there was all the difference in the world.