"He's furious!"
Harry's eyes flew open, wrenching himself back to the present. He was sitting in an armchair in Dumbledore's office, with Dumbledore leaning over him.
"Voldemort's had a frustrating night."
Dumbledore waved his wand, conjured a glass of Butterbeer, and handed it to Harry. "After all, you ruined a plan he'd spent more than half a year preparing. I imagine he's furious. Still, Harry, I hope you'll learn to close your mind."
"That isn't easy. Albert was right—I have no talent for Occlumency." Harry didn't think sensing Voldemort's emotions was such a bad thing. He could learn quite a lot from them.
"He simply didn't want to teach you and made up an excuse," Dumbledore said reassuringly. "If you apply yourself, you can learn it. It depends on your attitude."
"Maybe. But he rarely lies."
Harry had long since realized he had little talent for Occlumency.
"Perhaps it's time," Dumbledore said suddenly. "Perhaps I should tell you what you need to know."
"The prophecy?"
Harry took a sip of Butterbeer and looked at him curiously.
He had guessed correctly. Dumbledore knew what the Prophecy Orb contained.
"Yes, it concerns that prophecy," Dumbledore said with a nod. "As you suspected, I know the whole thing."
"Is that really wise?" Harry asked. "If Voldemort keeps looking into my mind, he might find that memory."
"Possibly. But he won't."
"Why not?"
"Do you remember Quirrell?" Dumbledore said. "Your soul is too painful for Voldemort to touch, like putting his hand on a red-hot iron."
"But he was still watching you through my eyes earlier," Harry pointed out.
"Yes. He hoped I would give up and sacrifice you. But you overcame his influence." Dumbledore spoke calmly. "I can no longer feel him watching. Voldemort has evidently given up."
"That was the Liquid Luck."