"Who killed Cock Robin?"
"I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin."

"Who saw him die?"
"I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye,
I saw him die."

"Who caught his blood?"
"I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish,
I caught his blood."

"Who'll make the shroud?"
"I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle,
I'll make the shroud."

"Who'll dig his grave?"
"I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel,
I'll dig his grave."

"Who'll be the parson?"
"I," said the Rook,
"With my little book,
I'll be the parson."

"Who'll be the clerk?"
"I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark,
I'll be the clerk."

"Who'll carry the link?"
"I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute,
I'll carry the link."

"Who'll be chief mourner?"
"I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love,
I'll be chief mourner."

"Who'll carry the coffin?"
"I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night,
I'll carry the coffin."

"Who'll bear the pall?
"We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen,
we'll bear the pall."

"Who'll sing a psalm?"
"I," said the Thrush,
"As she sat on a bush,
I'll sing a psalm."

"Who'll toll the bell?"
"I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull,
I'll toll the bell."

All the birds of the air
fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll
for poor Cock Robin.

~ Eighteenth Century English Nursery Rhyme
A world culture archetype for murder

She couldn't deal with this, with him. He'd been pulling the strings and Harry was so dead that in the comforts of her last moments she'd fabricated his survival. Hands clutching, wand out before her as she scrambled away from the tall figure, her screams died into terrified, panicking breaths and she sobbed, trying desperately to stand. 'No. No. No. NO! You killed him! We trusted you and you let him die! You let them win! NO!'

The shriek split the air, tearing into the fabric of the universe and her wand shook as she struggled to her feet only to collapse as her legs gave way beneath her. 'Child, what –'

She screamed, terror splitting her brain and she scrambled toward the exit. There was no dignity, no pride as she crawled furiously away from that man. Anything to get away. She'd deal with Gryffindor bravery later. Even as she heard footsteps, she continued, head snapping up as she heard a familiar voice, 'Albus! What in the name of Merlin is happening in here? ALBUS?'

The Scottish brogue was the most comforting sound she had ever heard and she threw herself, screaming as broken bones jarred and open wounds scraped at the impact. Clinging to the robes and the familiar smell, she began to babble. 'I'm so sorry. I failed them. I failed. And he killed them! I didn't mean to! Harry! Ron! Oh, god, Ron! I'm so sorry Professor! They're all going to die and he's going to win and it's all my fault! I just wanted Bellatrix to leave Mrs. Weasley alone and now it's all my fault and what if Harry isn't dead! And –'

The words died into a helpless moan followed by a thin, drawn out shriek as she began to shake and sob. Huge in her suddenly-too-pale face, the eyes of Professor Minerva McGonagall lifted to those of Albus Dumbledore and neither found they had any idea what to do. Behind Professor McGonagall a row of fifth year students stared, their own eyes wide and horrified as they took in the bloodied form crumpled on the ground and clinging to their professor's robes as though they signified survival itself.

Kneeling before the young woman, the great Albus Dumbledore spoke gently, 'Come, let's get you to the hospital wing, my dear.'

'NO! You killed them! You knew what this was! You sent us! We're seventeen, and you sent us! You knew this was going to kill him! You let us face him without knowing anything! How the hell were we supposed to defeat Voldemort with a book of fairy tales? How were we supposed to deal with all the horcruces if you never told us anything! You knew and you still sent us! I thought we mattered to you! I thought Harry mattered to you! Why did you try to kill us?'

There was something haunted and broken in that question and Dumbledore stepped back, pain and shock and horror twisted on his features. Her grip on McGonagall tightened and the woman knelt before her as Dumbledore straightened, looking plainly at a loss. 'Come now, dear. It's Professor McGonagall. You're safe, you're at Hogwarts. Now, calm yourself dear, and let us get you to the Hospital Wing.'

The young woman shook her head, sobbing, 'He's at Hogwarts. He killed Harry and he's taking over everything and I let Harry go! I'm so sorry, Professor, so sorry, I let him die! It's my fault! It's never going to be safe again! I'm so sorry Professor! Please, dear god, Professor, I'm sorry!'

'It's okay,' Professor McGonagall soothed, looking absolutely horror-struck and utterly confused by the events that were unfolding before her. 'Come now, dear, let's get you up to the Hospital Hing and get a Calming Draught in you. Then, when you can think a bit, you can tell us everything and we'll start working to fix it. We'll do everything we can to make it better.'

Large brown eyes turned up to the older woman, trust and anguish and a million other emotions shining in them, and Minerva McGonagall felt her heart break. 'Really? You promise, Professor? It's really you?'

'Yes, dear, yes. You're safe now.'

Nodding weakly, she allowed herself to be led up the stairs toward the Hospital Wing. Two hours later, filled to the brim with Calming Draught, Hermione Granger sat on the edge of the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the calendar fastened to the wall opposite her, and as silent tears streamed unchecked over her cheeks.