Halfway through the Christmas holidays, the fused version of Voldemort's Horcrux finally stabilized-though its condition was very strange. Brian could tell that its dominant personality was the Diary that had struck a bargain with him. It now refused to respond when he spoke to it, yet showed extraordinary cooperation as he and Dumbledore worked together to set up the tracking ritual.
Setting up a ritual capable of tracking a wizard with powerful magical power should have been extremely difficult, rather like washing a plate that had been soaked in oil without detergent, hot water, or even magic-you had to rub away the greasy stains bit by bit with cold water. It was an intolerably awful experience for a Muggle, something Brian had learned firsthand during an unexpected power outage in his university dormitory. Today, he experienced it again, but this time there was a difference: the plate-that is, Voldemort's Horcrux-not only offered up its dirty parts but rinsed itself a couple of times, making the ritual considerably faster to set up.
Although this was a good thing, Brian was still somewhat puzzled by the comfortable feeling of having a house-elf hand him a pillow just as he grew sleepy.
"Albus, I keep feeling as though this Horcrux is even more eager than we are to pinpoint Voldemort's main body and his remaining Horcruxes," he asked Dumbledore uncertainly.
"Ah-Chet, I'm delighted we feel the same way," Dumbledore said. "I thought I was imagining it just now, or perhaps that I had made further progress in ritual magic-perhaps this is the change a dose of love has brought to Voldemort?"
"Hmm-perhaps. Love, the only additional variable in a pile of Voldemort's Horcruxes." Brian glanced at the compliant Horcrux and turned it around, pointing the baby's head toward the floor. "Nicolas was right.