The grave was still fresh. Was it not odd, that through twelve months of rainy English weather, not a single blade of grass grew over Sirius Black's body, lying in a mahogany coffin that had been covered with a thousand blood-red roses of regret, guilt and love before being shrouded by the dirt? She reached down to touch the soil. Yes, it was moist. Yes since the beginning of the summer, they had come once a week to put seed upon it. She knew it wasn't good for Harry to come so often, but he had insisted so intensely that it didn't seem like a good idea to refuse his request.
So every Sunday, at half past noon, she would get out the bag of grass seed, pluck a flower or two from her mother's garden, and together they would walk the half mile to the small cemetery where Sirius had been buried. It was just the two of them, alone, in silence. However, she knew back at home, the others would sit and think the same thoughts she and Harry did, questions such as Why him? and How? It had been so instantaneous, so sudden. So real.
And Harry had barely lived through the summer after. His thin face became unusually haggard, and his skin took on a gray tone that should not have been seen in a youthful face of sixteen. But he had lost so much. And she knew she was lucky to still have all that she did. It was strange, to see Harry walking around in silence, his mouth not upturned in a smile like normal, but instead drooping low into a sad kind of frown. He slept for unnatural amounts of time and still woke up looking even more lethargic than he had before falling asleep. The old days were over. It would never be like yesterday again, and she knew it. He had lost too much. Everyone had just lost too much.
Their lives were surrounded by magic, protecting them from the best of evils. The worst.. they could only hope to survive. And she knew that if they were to try to capture Harry Potter now, it wouldn't be a matter of if. It would only be a matter of when and how. As she stared upon the grave, almost as if she was looking through it, or not even seeing it at all, she realized that sooner or later Harry had to bulk up, face his fears, do something to make sure he couldn't be taken right away. He had to relearn how to fight.
But she knew in her heart that it wouldn't happen unless he had Sirius with him. It was impossible. It was inevitable. Harry would be taken from them, sooner or later. And now.. now she knew the truth. He wouldn't even bother to fight back anymore. He had no reason to. She felt a hand on her arm, and shook herself mentally as she looked up. Harry held out his hand, a gesture to ask for the bag of seed. She handed it to him, and he reached in and sprinkled a bit on the ground.
She didn't know why he was so adamant to have grass growing on the grave. She supposed it was because right now the bare ground made it look incomplete – like it was of no importance, that the family didn't care about this man who had been buried there. A fact that, she knew, was quite untrue – it was really the opposite. Harry cared too much about this tombstone, the bare ground, the man who lay beneath them.
If only there was a way to go back in time and redo it with the knowledge they had now. If only they had known. If only… if only she could help. He meant so much to her, to them. They would be worse off than he was now if they lost him. They all needed him in some small way. She was determined to find a way to help. She had to.
Looking to Harry, she saw he was done with the seed, and handed him one of the two roses she had picked. His was red, hers yellow. Love, and friendship. They knelt down in unison, as they had for the past few weeks, and laid them in an 'X' shape, with the red one on top. Soon enough a bird would come to eat the seed, and the rest would decay or be eaten by a wandering deer before the next Sunday could come, and Harry knew that, as well as she did. But in some strange way the ritual that they had created comforted him, made the week bearable until he could return. But the next Sunday was September 1, she realized with a start and a gasp as they were walking back home. He wouldn't be able to come. And that, of course, would ruin this fragile existence they had set him up in.
He wouldn't be able to continue. She promised herself she would find a way for him to move on. Otherwise, he wouldn't make it through the year. Anything could happen, she knew. Absolutely anything. If Harry was weak enough, Voldemort would come for him. And then.. then it would be over for good. The world would enter a reign of terror. She cursed herself for having a vivid imagination then, because all she saw was destruction. She imagined Hogwarts crumbling and soldering, burnt to the foundations. She imagined their house decrepit and boarded up, filled with Muggle-borns and then torched. The things she saw were beyond those of a normal lucidity; in fact, it was downright real to her. She shuddered, and Harry looked to her with a strange sort of worrying glance.
She smiled it away, linking her arm in his. They were so close nowadays, she never would have known it was her walking with him, if her fourteen year old self saw them standing there. That was how much things had changed. Harry patted the slim elegant-fingered hand that lay in the crook of his arm, just below his elbow. A feeling of pleasantness arose in her breast, shadowed by the doubts she felt every time she left even one member of her family behind in the house. She was so afraid to go back and see it demolished, and everyone missing, or to come back just in time to see a flash of green light in the parlor window, followed by a high pitched cackle.
At the end of the day, she was just downright afraid. They turned the bend in the road, and she could see the house, still in tact. It didn't look any different than normal. A great wave of relief washed over her, and she glanced up at Harry. He had a look on his face that seemed that he felt the same way she did. He felt her eyes searching his face, and turned to her. The smallest hint of a smile curved his lips, but it did not reach his eyes and make them dance with mischief like his smiles used to. It almost made his face look younger- maybe not sixteen, but younger than it usually appeared these days.. But then it disappeared without a trace, and she remembered that things were different now. It would never be like the old days again. The peace she had felt while they had walked home had disappeared as Harry's almost-smile had vanished.
She took her hand from his arm, returning to the small world of her own, still not a word spoken between them. Just as they reached the door, she glanced one more time at his face, knowing full well that he wouldn't allow it inside. He had taken on a well-worn look of lethargy, exhaustion, wariness, and caution. He was so careful not to let them in. He couldn't, or else, they all knew, they'd be taken as Sirius had been. It was a fact of life. And it hurt. It hurt just as it had for her to realize the true depth of their relationship at the beginning of the summer. It hurt for her to know that she still wanted more. And it hurt knowing that he would never succumb to that which she hoped he wanted as desperately as she.
He opened the door; she walked in. The kitchen was empty, not a soul in sight. It was a good thing; the hurt was almost too much to bear. Feeling the tears coming on, she quickly left the room without a backward glance to Harry. She ran up the stairs and to her shared room, and shut the door as quietly and quickly as possible. Leaning up against it, the first tear fell, coursing its way down her right cheek, leaving a streak of wetness behind; she closed her eyes and another fell, and yet another. She sniffed lightly, knowing full well that if she couldn't control her emotions, soon enough she'd be in the throes of an all out cry. That was something she couldn't do anymore. She was old enough to be able to handle it, yet she couldn't. She slid down the door, the tears still falling, until she was sitting on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest and her head buried in her arms, and still the tears fell. It hurt to know that Harry couldn't give even give her a single wanting glance, it hurt to know that never he would touch her face with a soft caress..
She thought these thoughts to block out the odd ones obscured in her subconscious. Hearing a knock on the door, she started, and looked up. Whoever it was knocked again, softly, and she had to get out. She couldn't be found tearing up over this! She had to be strong. She had to be ready. Knowing that her bedroom window was located over the roof of the front porch, she easily climbed out, then crept over to the edge. Lying on her stomach, she dangled her legs down until her toes barely touched the rail, and jumped down. They would think her not prepared to help teach the classes if she couldn't hold her own and control her feelings.
And teach was what she wanted to do. So many teachers had left; so many were secretly – well, not so secretly now – in the Order. Even Dumbledore was not going to be at the school from day to day. He would be leaving on a regular basis to help oversee the operations. The older, wiser students had been asked to assist in teaching their peers, and, even though not one of the oldest, she had easily accepted. She could help, for sure. She had brains, and a fondness for the younger ones.. and a need to feel like she was helping. But helping the school wasn't her first priority anymore.
She bitterly wiped away a tear. Helping Harry was more important. If only she knew how. If only he would notice if she did. She crept across the front yard, silently, silently, knowing that if she tried, no one would notice her leaving. Notice they didn't, and soon she was back on the dirt track leading towards the cemetery and Sirius Black's grave. Oddly, she found herself going there some days during the week when Harry was preoccupied, and no one else needed her assistance. It was almost comforting to sit there on the small stone bench right next to the tombstone, and trace her finger over the lovingly etched carvings of dogs and stars.
If only the grass would grow. Then she knew Harry would be able to move on. Then she wouldn't have to worry so much. Then, maybe, the hurt would be less. She sighed as she approached the small cemetery, glad that it was only nearly half past one and the sun wouldn't be setting for hours to come. She walked through the rows of headstones, seeing huge ones of marble, small plain crosses of wood, medium-sized ones of shale, figurines of quartz. Sirius' gravestone was polished granite, a dark charcoal gray with a pink tinted lighter ribbon running through it. There was a brilliant quote from some Muggle author upon it, a sweet epitaph, his name and his dates. The carving at the top was of a huge burly dog, with a star behind its head giving out rays of light. Ginny sat down the small stone bench, and held out the tip of her finger to touch the top point of the starburst.
She laid her forefinger on it, but quickly jumped and drew it back, with a strangled cry. It had hurt, that one little touch, and as she looked down at her finger in amazement, she noted that it had drawn blood, and the cut was deep. Why, she had made that exact same motion at least five times before, and she had never pricked her finger. She stood up and hunkered down over the tombstone to take a closer look. The tip looked.. well, rounded. Like normal. Carefully, she raised her other hand and touched the point with her right forefinger. It was white-hot pain. Startled, she stood straight up and took a good look at her finger. Again, there was a cut, very deep but only the size of a pinhead. It was strange, and strange was not good. She had dealt with strange in the past, and she didn't like it. Slowly backing away, she promised herself to never come alone to the cemetery again, turned and fled.
She slowed down once she was on the earthen road again, but still her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, beating ever so steadily. The pricks in her fingers were still trickling blood, so she pressed her thumbs against them to try and stop the flow. She couldn't stop thinking about it. Trying to clear her mind of the strange occurrence, she turned her thoughts to Harry. The despondent look in his eyes today was the worst she had ever seen it. It hadn't been so bad a year ago.
Then again, a year ago he had still retained the smallest bit of hope that he would wake up from his nightmarish hell of a life and find at least someone of the parental persuasion still standing over him. He had lost his parents when he was a mere babe, and he had lost his godfather at fifteen; not much could be expected form him now. But a year ago he had thought that maybe Dumbledore and the Order were wrong, that maybe Sirius was not dead. She remembered the moment well.
They had just returned home from Hogwarts, had brought in the trunks and such and were beginning to put them away. She had been upstairs in her shared bedroom, slowly, slowly unpacking. She had seen Harry leave with those horrible relative of his, although she had nearly laughed when the uncle had seen Mad Eye Moody's eye. It was a humorous moment, to see the big man (who must have easily weighed at least 95 kilos) jump back in fright and come close to knocking over his tub-of-lard son. (Who was probably closer to 125 kilos.) It was so soon to know.
The owl flew in through the propped open kitchen door, flew straight to her father, dropped the letter in his lap – he was sitting in a favourite easy chair in the parlour, reading the paper – and flew back out the front parlour window. The letter had the official Hogwarts seal upon it, but Her father had frowned when he noted it wasn't addressed in green ink, but red. Curious, he opened it, and out fell two slips of paper, one sealed again and the other merely folded over. He unfolded the one sheet of thick parchment and read, 'The remains may be found at number twelve Grimmauld Place, London.' Automatically, he knew it was from the Order, and immediately set fire to the parchment, the cracked the seal on the other letter.
It was addressed to the family, and held the deepest regrets to inform them of the death of one of the Order; it was an official statement of Sirius Black's death. It asked that all parties who wished to attend the mass should continue to the aforementioned area, and they, too would be informed of the situation. The letter continued to say that the only known, non-estranged blood relation to Black would be present, and all details of Mr. Black's death would be discussed on the premises. Of course, Sirius had had no non-estranged blood relations, but the man caught on to what it said, and gathered his family round, and informed them of a dismal summer holiday that they would be taking to London.
Hollow but understanding eyes knew what he said, and their heads nodded in unison. They had to be in London by the next morning. Each went their separate way to get ready; she managed to hold back the tears until she reached her room. They fell slowly, knowing the horror that Harry must have been feeling at that point; she wanted to be there to comfort him, but knew he would accept no comfort in knowing that Sirius was completely gone. It would only make it worse, to know that there was no reason to hold out hope. But it was for the best.
The next morning they had journeyed to number twelve Grimmauld Place, to find Harry was already there, after being dropped off by his aunt, uncle and cousin, who were spending the day shopping for the cousin's school wardrobe. (They had to find a tailor who would make the uniforms big enough, was the problem, as the Smeltings seamstress did not.) He was dressed, as far as she could see in the dimly lit hall, in a pair of dark jeans and a deep green shirt. The look on his face was desperately grim, his eyes dark and a bit red-rimmed. His face was deathly pale, approximately the color of a white under t-shirt that had just been bleached. He looked as though if he could, he would fall over dead right there and not think a second thought about it; and just as she thought that he swayed violently, near falling against one of her family members.
Dumbledore had walked in the next moment and had ushered them into the Black's small, cramped kitchen. Once they were all seated around the table, bleakly awaiting his explanations, Harry closed his eyes and just let the images flow over the inside of his eyelids like a picture show. Sirius rushing into the Department of Mysteries. Sirius and Bellatrix dueling. Sirius.. Sirius falling. And vanishing. How could his corpse indeed be returned to the mourners when he had seen the man vanish through a thin veil right before his very own eyes? It made no sense whatsoever.
She watched Harry, making sure he didn't collapse; but it seemed that there would be no repeat of his near mishap in the foyer. He seemed to be struggling to pull himself together, but winning the battle, if not the war. Even in her heart, she who had not known the man as well as he, she felt the tortuous pain of Dumbledore's agonizing wait. She was glad, for just an instant, that she was not Harry.. that she didn't have to go through what he was now. She wasn't positive she could do it and come out so well as him; she wasn't positive that if it were her in his place, that she would come out of it at all. But now she had to be there for Harry, just like the rest of them, as a person to turn to, even though they knew he wouldn't. But just in case, they all had to be there with welcoming arms, a listening ear, and a soft shoulder to cry on. She would easily and gladly volunteer all three.
Dumbledore had told them that when a person passed through the veil, their body vanished from that place and time and returned to that which it called home; In Sirius's case, he'd not really had a home since before Azkaban, and his body had therefore returned to the default position – the home of his parents. Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London. Harry had asked how a body – literally, a body, a corpse – could do so, but for once Dumbledore had no answer. He only knew that that was how the veil worked. As she looked upon his face, she saw an odd glint in those clear, blue eyes of old, as though the old man was holding back information. But she kept her tongue, not wanting to cause a rise. And anyway, she very well knew that if Dumbledore withheld information from a body it was usually for their own good, and it would not bode well if one was to interfere with his decision.
Dumbledore led Harry, who went reluctantly, to a bedroom upstairs where the body was being held. Her father left the house with her mother, to go to Diagon Alley to the Harmon Brothers' Funeral Home, a highly respected home run by a set of rogue wood-elves who had decided that city life was much more to their tastes. Twenty minutes of agony she went through, just sitting in the kitchen, waiting. Finally Dumbledore came back down the stairs and told her she should go up; Harry was distraught and would want someone with him now besides Dumbledore. Someone, he had informed her, who could easily comfort him. So she bounded up the stairs and followed the Professor's directions to the fifth door on the left; she remembered cleaning this room. It was a bedroom, decorated like a young boys', which had always led her to believe it was Sirius's. She knocked lightly, and crept in to see a cloth-shrouded body lying on the bed, and Harry in a desk chair pulled up close. He looked up quickly as she entered, and then back down just as suddenly, but she had seen enough. There were tears in his eyes, great huge drops that refused to fall. They made his emerald irises almost crystalline in fact, hidden behind the twin panes of glass that were his spectacles.
She walked over to stand next to his chair, and placed a hand on his shoulder, a soft, gentle touch to invoke comfort. His shoulders involuntarily shuddered as he let out more emotion, enough to make her tear up herself. She asked herself, the gods, anyone she could think of, why they had separated this hero from the only thing he had ever fought to save – his family. No reply came. A tear streaked down her face. It was unfair for this boy. She might be thought too young to understand it, but she had sympathy.
She gave into a deep desire then and looked down upon the corpse. Her mouth opened in surprise and she nearly gasped aloud, yet managed to contain herself. It did not look like he was dead. He wore a set of black robes, simply cut, yet exuding elegance. They fit well, tailored just for him – broader in the shoulders, tapering down to a slimmer waist, longish in the legs. His hair, black as a raven was down and settled around his face and shoulders, long enough to be tucked back into a ponytail. It set off the colour of his face – a healthy, fair complexion.
His strong jaw led to a slightly cleft chin, set beneath a full, finely shaped mouth. His strong lips were beneath a Romanesque nose, his high cheekbones were swept with his long lashes, down over closed eyes. She remembered his eyes from what seemed like ages ago when she last saw him in Grimmauld Place; they were a beautiful, clear, deep blue, so deep that in the dark his pupils and irises blended together and his eyes nearly looked black. Strong, stubborn brows were above his eyes, reflecting his personality. The hands were set in the usual way, clasped over his chest. She remembered admiring his hands, big and strong workingman's hands with calluses on the palms and surprisingly clean fingernails.
If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was merely sleeping, if it was not for the fact that his chest did not rise and fall with the slow, steady, deep breaths that he should have taken. Turning back to Harry, she massaged his shoulder slightly, and he started. Looking up, she saw those haunted eyes again, filled with tears once more. Finding a chair in the corner of the room, she dragged it over next to him and sat down.
He looked at her, and closed his eyes causing some of his tears to finally break free and course down his face. It was such a heart-wrenching moment to see Harry cry finally that she couldn't help herself. She reached out, and took his hand in her own, not at all surprised to find it deathly cold, the approximate temperature of a glacier in the Arctic Circle. Harry slowly cracked his eyes open to look at her, startled that she held his hand so easily. It was difficult to see him like this. Just then her father came up; she dropped his hand quickly and turned to hear his say that the Harmon Brothers were coming themselves with a Muggle hearse for the body and a coffin that had been ordered a year before by Dumbledore for the Order, just in case of a sudden death.
The knowledge that Dumbledore had known that this was possible, that Sirius or one of the other members could have died just broke Harry. He let go, let the tears fall freely, didn't even bother trying to swallow them down. If only he had known, he wouldn't have made so many rash decisions in such a short amount of time. Her father asked if Harry wanted something different for his godfather, but Harry shook his head. He told her father that it would suit him, to be buried in a coffin of the Order, that it was an honour that Dumbledore had offered to provide it. He then excused himself, before he broke down completely. She and her father watched him hurry down the hall to the bathroom, where he went in and shut the door vehemently. She looked to her father, and they silently agreed that it was a trying time, and they would not smother him with attentions. He would hate it, just as he did when followers did it because of his fame.
They walked down the stairs together, and rejoined the family, in wait in the kitchen. When Harry came down, his cheeks were red as though he had been scrubbing them with soap and cold water; his eyes were bright as though he was still tearing up. But he was composed and that was the most to be expected of him. Not a single emotion crossed his face, although she took note of a slight tic in his temple and his clenched jaw. No one else appeared to notice, or else they chose to ignore it as they welcomed him back and offered him a seat. He didn't have the chance to accept, however, for the Harmon Brothers arrived just then, and were ushered into the hall by Dumbledore. They carried with them a long cloth, to place Sirius's body on, so they didn't have to take the coffin in and out of the house; they doubted it would even fit through the front door.
Dumbledore took the liberty of showing them where the body was, and she and her mother ushered Harry out the door. The hearse would meet them near the cemetery where Harry wished to bury him, close to where many of his colleagues were. Close, in fact, to where his parents had plots that were never used. Their corpses had never made it out of the rubble of their house in Godric's Hollow. There were gravestones, of course, but no bodies, no nothing. Just cold hard stone with their names engraved upon it. The Harmon Brothers had also made an honorary headstone for Sirius, intricately carved with the dog and starburst that Dumbledore had requested.
The epitaph read: " Sirius Black – Born October 1, 1960 ; Died May 31, 1995 ; A man's best friend, he will be with us always in spirit. " But Harry had known that he would never be there in spirit, because he had asked Nearly Headless Nick about such things. She learned this as they approached the cemetery the next day, walking the half-mile from the house to plot. The hearse was already there, sitting at the bottom of the hill the plot was on; it was hard to see through the thin mist that was covering everything. Her black robes clung to her legs, and her hair drooped beneath the black veil she wore attached to a small black cap atop her head.
She wanted to tell him that it was a good sign that it was raining, even slightly; for rain on a funeral meant that the deceased had gone straight to heaven, and had skipped hell and purgatory. There was already a cluster of people standing in wait; mostly the other members of the Order, and a few teachers from Hogwarts. None came forward to offer regrets or consolation as Harry joined them; they all knew he knew they felt for him. The only one who even made any move towards him was Professor Lupin, who touched his shoulder softly before moving forward to the coffin. The professor had produced a blood-red rose from a pocket in his black woolen cloak, and he set it gently on the casket with a murmured goodbye, then moved back to the short line of mourners. She looked around, and saw a red rosebush standing only feet away, and turned to pluck one herself. As she snapped the stem, she was amazed to see another rose instantaneously grow and bloom before her eyes.
Strange, she thought, but she turned back, and handed it to Harry, then got ones for her herself and her family. The other grievers caught on, and took their own roses in stride, taking it up to the coffin when they felt ready to leave Sirius with a final goodbye. Finally, she and Harry were the only ones left. She made herself move, forced herself to step forward and place the rose on the pile of others, and as she did so, murmuring a soft goodbye, Harry moved up too. He touched the rose to his heart and whispered a phrase that she didn't quite catch, then dropped it on the mound, and turned away quickly.
She followed him to where he went, the small stone bench next to the grave, and he told her to tell the Harmons to bury him and get it over with. Nodding slightly, hearing the bitter tone of guilt and regret in is voice, she did as he requested. And that was the end.
Even though it was the middle of the day, the sun was shining bright and there wasn't even a hint of wind, she shivered wildly as she reached the front porch. It was terrifying to think about how horrid that day had been. Harry.. poor Harry had cried. Walking through the kitchen door, she saw Harry at the table, sitting. Just sitting. He was staring at nothing, a glazed over look in his eyes. She stepped in his line of vision, shaking him from his thoughts.
He looked up and beckoned for her to sit at the table. That day had been over a year ago, when he had buried Sirius, yet she could tell Harry relived it every single day. As she sat, laying her hands on the table, Harry's brow furrowed. Her fingertips, she noticed, were stained with blood. She shrugged it off and explained to him that it was nothing, but she got up then, even though she had just sat, and went quickly to her room. Luckily it was empty; walking in she closed the door and sighed. It was only nearing half past two, but she was so tired. She felt as though she was as tired as Harry looked these days, with the huge purple bags beneath his eyes, so vivid against the deathly pallor of his bleached out skin. Combined with his ebony hair, the boy looked like a walking disease.
She sat down lethargically, and closed her eyes slowly. It felt so good, just to sit down. She let herself fall backwards onto the bed, her eyes still closed. She heard a voice, and looked up and around. It was calling her name, but she couldn't see the source. Getting back up, she opened the door and walked back down the stairs to the kitchen. Harry was no longer there; the whole house was empty, for some odd reason. Hearing the voice again, it sounded like it came from the back yard. She walked out into the grass, barefooted, loving the soft feeling beneath her toes.
Finally she saw her caller; it was a man sitting on the stone bench in their back garden. He was all alone. Strangely he was the only soul in the back. Where was her family? The thought coursed through her mind, but it was quickly dissipated by her recognition of the man sitting on her stone bench. She looked into his eyes, eyes the colour of the ocean after a storm cleans the water; the colour of the sky during sunrise. They were a beautiful crystalline blue, framed by thick, luxurious black lashed, set in a beautiful face with full lips and high cheekbones, and a slightly cleft chin.
Sirius Black was the man sitting upon her bench. She could not remember where he had been for the whole of the summer, why he had not written to Harry, not even once. Surely he would have told her about a letter from Sirius.. and if not her, one of the others, from whom she would have found out. She remembered him disappearing after the melee at the Ministry of Magic, but her memory went a bit fuzzy after that. She asked him as much, and he just frowned slightly and replied that he'd been right there in the house the whole time. She didn't believe it. She would have known. Her mother would have had plenty to say about it, and to him, as well. Oh, he told her, he knew that he wasn't really there, that it wasn't really him. She asked him what he meant by that, and he explained that it was all related to the veil.
Realization dawned. He knew the truth. He smiled lightly and told her that in due time she would understand it even more. Just give it time, he advised her. His voice was rough and gravelly as he spoke, and as he continued, it became more hoarse. Just.. don't tell Harry, he pleaded. He'd never be able to handle this. You're the only one who can know. The only one who can help. Just remember, give it time.
He stood, and she realized he was going. No! she cried. Don't leave, not yet.. I need to know more! I need to know how to help!
Give it time.
The words echoed in her head. The room was dark, the only light coming from a small oil lamp on the shared dresser in her shared room. She sat up, her thoughts swirling around inside her head like they would in a Pensieve. She heard the rough-edged voice.
Just give it time.
The only one who can help.
And as she heard the words again, she understood some more. She could help Harry. She would bring back Sirius Black.