*A/N – Hope you can forgive me. Now, be warned – angst ahead. (Italics problem still being a problem. You know where they go).
~
"No he's not," Harry said blankly.
"Yes he is, Harry."
"I don't believe you."
Mrs Weasley dropped her hands and looked at him with such heavy pity that he felt like he'd been physically struck.
"It's true," she said. "Arthur was just at St Mungo's. He saw his body. The doctors say there wasn't much pain. Dumbledore's gone –"
"No he fucking isn't," Harry cut in, forgetting he was talking to Mrs Weasley, filled with a sudden, terrible anger. "He's not. You're wrong. He can't be."
"Harry, mate," Fred said, stepping away from his mother. He looked for a moment as though he might be about to embrace him, but when he saw Harry's face, he stopped immediately.
"Harry," he said again, warily.
Harry barely heard him.
Dumbledore wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He was Dumbledore, for Merlin's sake. He could be hurt, he could be in a coma even, but dead – dead –
"Dead," he said quietly.
Mrs Weasley nodded, descending into sobs again. George sat her down at the kitchen table, making soothing, meaningless noises. Harry could see them, but he felt strangely light-headed. His parents. Sirius. Lupin. Tonks. Percy.
Voldemort.
There was a bright, blinding pain in his scar, and he put a hand to it slowly, wanting to say something, wanting Mrs Weasley to go away so he could pretend he hadn't heard what she'd said.
His scar jolted again. Blackness swept in from the edges of his vision; then he saw nothing; then he knew nothing.
~
"Harry."
Who was that?
"Harry."
He opened his eyes. Ginny was leaning over him, touching his arm. He smiled at her, and she smiled wanly back. Her hair was in a ponytail, and small wisps of it curled out around her ears.
"Hey," he said, and was surprised when his voice was croaky.
"Hey," she replied. Her fingers pressed against the skin of his forearm anxiously. "Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. What happened?"
"You passed out. You were – twitching, Mum said. Like you had a fit."
"A fit?" he repeated blankly, and then was struck with a horrible, clear memory. His face dropped – he felt it drop. Ginny gripped his arm harder. He wanted to ask her, to make sure, but he couldn't get his mouth to work.
"Harry," she said, her red eyes glistening, "do you remember?"
He nodded mutely.
"Merlin," she breathed, and then took his hand, brought it to her mouth, and kissed it. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry."
There was a long silence. She cried.
"That's OK," he said finally. "It's not your fault."
"I know," she choked, "but I'm still sorry."
Another long silence. He didn't know what he thought. He felt empty, and hard.
"Could you open the curtains, please," he said.
"Sure." She leapt up and pulled the curtains, to reveal a cheery, morning-lit yard. Harry saw he was in Ron's room, in Ron's bed. His usual mattress was gone.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"It's about seven o'clock."
"I've been that long?"
She nodded, still looking out the window. "It was – kind of scary. We didn't know what was wrong."
"My scar," Harry muttered, rubbing it. It still throbbed a little, even now. "It hurt."
He knew why, too. It hadn't been a surge of hate from Voldemort this time. It had been hate from Harry's own heart. He'd knocked himself out with it.
Ginny was watching him.
"Have you seen him?" Harry asked impulsively.
"Who?"
"Dumbledore."
She bit her lip. "Harry, Dumbledore's dead."
"I know that," he said loudly, impatiently. "I mean have you seen his body?"
She looked flustered. "Oh. No. I haven't – seen it. The funeral's tomorrow. He didn't want a state one apparently, so there's going to be a ceremony at his house."
Harry turned his head on the pillow. "I'm not going," he said dully.
"What?"
"I'm not going."
She came back and sat beside him on the bed. She touched his hair tentatively. He let her, but he almost wished she'd leave.
"Harry," she said quietly, "you know you'll regret it if you don't come."
"I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Don't know."
"Please, Harry." She tugged gently on his ear, and it was a painful reminder of a different time – just yesterday – when he hadn't known the things he knew now. "I don't want to be by myself," she finished eventually.
"You won't be. Everyone will be there."
"I don't want everybody, I want you. It's what Dumbledore would have wanted too."
"Well we don't know what he would have wanted, do we, because he isn't around to tell us," Harry snapped.
Ginny stood immediately. He could see her trying to understand, trying not to mind, but he'd hurt her and he felt like a bastard. It was one of a number of bad feelings he was having, in fact, but he was too worn out to do anything to fix what he'd said.
"You should sleep," she said softly. "I'll talk to you later."
She left. Perversely, he wished she'd come back again. Not to talk – just to lie there with him. Breathe the same air for a while.
He sank into a fitful doze (potion-induced?) that lasted all day, aware occasionally of people in his room. Ron, Hermione – Ginny again, but only briefly – Mrs Weasley – and once, he thought, Professor McGonagall in her official school robes.
He didn't hear what they said. He didn't want to.
~
Early the next morning – after abandoning an endless, sleepless night – he found a note tucked under his door.
Dumbledore's house is on Merchant Street, outside London. It's the one with the blue door. The thing starts at eleven, and we've gone to help set up. Please come. Love Ginny XXOO
After a moment's hesitation, he put the message in his pocket. He wasn't going – but he couldn't bear to screw up something she'd given him.
But if he wasn't going – what would he do today?
His gaze slid across the room. Books. Quidditch annuals. Too hard. In the corner, his Ascendant gleamed proudly. He'd serviced it a couple of days ago, and when he looked at it, felt a sudden itching in his fingertips.
Almost before he knew it, he was sailing out the window and up, soaring at break-neck speed away from The Burrow. He sighed. This was better. He didn't need to think on his broom. He could just move on, comfortably, easily.
He flew for a long time before he saw a place by the usual stream, and felt the urge to descend. He did so quickly, stepped off his broom, and then lay down beside it in the grass. There was nobody around. He couldn't even hear any birds. There was just him and the water and a warm, breathy wind.
Slowly, relaxing into the quiet, he allowed himself to consider what had happened.
Dumbledore was dead.
He took a slow, deep breath.
Alright, he told himself. He's dead. He was sick for a long time, and now he's dead. We all knew it could happen.
You just didn't think it would, murmured inner monologue.
He could suppress his thoughts no longer, and they all came rushing forward.
He thought about a Dumbledore-less Hogwarts. The idea did not really make sense in his mind, because the way he saw it, the two were inseparable. They were intricately bound concepts that did not really exist alone
He thought about not being able to say hello to Dumbledore anymore.
He thought about the students starting a school year without his speech.
He thought about all the things he hadn't told him when he should have.
In fact, Harry went through the same, torturing list that he had with every one of the deaths of those closest to him – the agony of the 'what if's and the 'never again's. He waded along in a current of anger and sadness and guilt, and soon found himself covering his face with his hands, unable to look at the world that Dumbledore could no longer see.
And, behind the half-darkness of his closed eyes, there rose a picture.
Harry was eleven. He'd met Voldemort for the first time. He was lying in a hospital bed, and Dumbledore had come to visit. It was strange had clearly he could see his lively, wrinkled face. In Harry's memory, he spoke.
"To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin."
Harry took his hands away from his face, and was abruptly bombarded with remembering – Dumbledore rising at dinner; his face as he fought Voldemort; a half-forgotten wink at the Yule Ball; a tired, old smile. It was astounding. It was humbling.
Dumbledore was right, he thought suddenly, his anger fading rapidly into a certain kind of wonder. It's in my skin. Everything he gave me – everything they all gave me – I've still got.
He could almost see Dumbledore nodding approvingly at the next thought that came to him:
If I remember that – then Voldemort could never win.
Harry sat up so fast that his head hurt. He needed to see Dumbledore. He needed to say goodbye to him. And he bloody hoped it all wasn't over yet.
Fumbling for his broom, he threw himself over it and kicked into the sky, nearly falling as he yanked Gin's note out of his pocket.
~
Harry had never been to Dumbledore's house before, and he'd expected something grander. This was a street full of quiet, old places – and the house was a quiet, old house. It reminded him a little of The Burrow, if less here-and-there. It was an over-sized cottage more than anything – and, as Ginny had pointed out, its most distinguishing feature was a bright blue door, bearing a knocker shaped like a star.
He was about to head up the front path, but then heard a low murmuring of voices from nearby. He swung his gaze to the left. There was a garden gate, half hidden by climbing ivy, and he was fairly sure there were people beyond it, in the yard.
Harry pulled his wand out as he approached the gate, and muttered an Alohomora. It worked, and the latch clicked soundly. He leant his Ascendant up against the garden wall, and then paused.
Did he want to do this?
Yes, insisted inner monologue. You need to, even if you're scared.
He was scared.
He pushed the gate open and walked in.
The yard was larger than he'd expected, and there were perhaps forty people gathered in it. Most of them were standing in small, hushed clumps, and others were scattered about, alone. All were wearing dark robes. Many were tearful.
Several had turned to look at him – he was only wearing jeans and T-shirt – but Harry barely saw them. Beyond the crowd was a low platform, upon which rested a sleek, mahogany coffin. It was surrounded by flowers.
Dumbledore's in there, he thought, and shuddered. As though of their own accord, his feet moved, and then he was pressing forwards, shouldering past people, muttering apologies. Some looked annoyed. Others, who recognised him, were uncertain. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ron and Hermione. Neither had seen him yet – they were wrapped up in a tight hug. He couldn't see Ginny.
Didn't matter. He was nearly there now. He was steps away. The coffin was open, he could tell from where he stood, and he had to look, but now that he was here, he was more afraid than before.
Go, hissed inner monologue, and, in agony, he went. He moved right to the side of the coffin and lowered his eyes.
Dumbledore looked asleep. It was the weirdest thing. He just looked – asleep.
And that was more affecting than anything he could have imagined. It hit him like a blow to the chest. Because he wasn't asleep. Sleep meant you rested, and woke up. This – there would be no waking up from this.
While he was staring at the pale face, a hand slid onto his shoulder. He started and turned. Ginny was behind him. She was wearing second-hand dress-robes, and smiling just a little.
"Hello," she said. "You came."
He nodded wordlessly, and then, to his shame, to his relief, began to cry, terrible deep sobs that made him feel sick. He hung his head – he didn't want her to see him – but he couldn't stop.
Then her arms were around him, holding him upright, and she was muttering in his ear.
"Just cry," she said fiercely. "It doesn't matter. Just cry, OK?"
He stood as he was for a moment, and then, her force irresistible, put his own arms around her. He cried for Dumbledore, for the way he'd been and the things he wouldn't see anymore – for Sirius and the parents he didn't know. For lost youth, for time passing, for the teachers he wished he had back.
He held her tighter. She was shaking, and he touched the side of her face with the back of his hand.
Ginny was crying with him.