Author note: This chapter contains dialogue from J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (New York: Scholastic, 2003), p. 806.

Chapter 11: Beyond the Veil

In the crowded, lamp-lit infirmary at Hogwarts, in the wee hours of Friday morning, Madam Pomfrey gazed in silent horror at the battle-scarred survivors. Hermione, stony-faced and unconscious, lay where Remus had deposited her, in the first bed. As Madam Pomfrey put two practiced fingers to Hermione's wrist, her gaze flickered over Ron, lacerated, clutching his ribs, and still giggling faintly; Ginny, pallid and tense, both hands closed tightly over her shattered ankle; Luna, breathing heavily, eyes closed and dirty blonde hair streaming over her face; Neville, panting and stroking his misshapen nose; Kingsley Shacklebolt, his long legs spilling over the end of his cot, bruised and bloody and still bravely smiling; Mad-Eye Moody, standing stolidly in a corner and rinsing his magic eyeball in the infirmary sink. Her gaze finally came to rest on Tonks, unconscious and battered from head to toe.

"St. Mungo's!" she screamed, pointing. "Now! I'll have my hands full with this one," she held up Hermione's arm, from which she was still taking a pulse, "and that one—" she indicated Ron's lacerated limbs, "and that one—" she pointed to Luna. "Mr. Shacklebolt can stay if he can stand the pain, it will be a couple hours before—"

"Calm yourself, Madam Pomfrey," said Kingsley in his soft, smooth voice. "I'm in no great pain and I'd like to stay with the youngsters."

Mad-Eye Moody conjured a stretcher, strapped Tonks to it, and departed forthwith for St. Mungo's. Madam Pomfrey seized a jar of ointment from the dressing table and tossed it to Ginny. "Miss Weasley, if you're strong enough to sit up, start rubbing that into your brother's arms. I'm not going to be able to get to him for a while." She shook her head over Hermione, turned back to the potions table, and started mixing ingredients.

Ginny was struggling with the lid of the ointment jar. Her face beneath the curtain of dark red hair was so white Remus feared she was about to faint. I ought to be doing that, he thought numbly. As he stepped forward, the swing doors burst open to admit Professors Sprout and Flitwick, hastily dressed and shaking, bringing with them a whiff of the cold, angry dawn.

Madam Pomfrey breathed a sigh of relief. "Professor Sprout, will you take that jar from Miss Weasley and apply the ointment to her brother's limbs? Brain tentacles," she muttered, under her breath, "I ask you! The scars! Professor Flitwick—owls to the Weasleys, the Grangers, Mr. Lovegood, and Mrs. Longbottom. They'll recover. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are the ones I'm concerned about." Professor Flitwick turned on his heels and scuttled away to the owlery. "Here—" she jammed a goblet of shimmering liquid in Remus's face. "It's a calming draught. You need it. Drink it off, go home, and go straight to bed. Now!" she added. "I do not want anyone fainting in my infirmary. I've got enough to do this morning." She shoved another goblet of calming draught in Ginny's hand and resumed her ministrations to Hermione.

Obediently, Remus sipped the draught and surveyed the scene. Ron was giggling maniacally, almost flirtatiously, as Professor Sprout rubbed lavish quantities of ointment into the deep welts where the tentacles had gripped him. Ginny was holding her hand to her forehead, but the color was seeping back into her face. Kingsley Shacklebolt caught Remus's eye and nodded towards the door.

"Home!" screeched Madam Pomfrey, prying apart Hermione's lips and tipping a goblet of foul-smelling liquid into her mouth. "And take your other potion when you get there!" Remus rose unsteadily and walked slowly through the door and out into the angry purple dawn.

Half-way done the stone corridor, a voice caught him. "Professor Lupin! Professor Lupin!" It was Neville Longbottom, half-running, half-limping toward him. His robes were torn from armpit to ankle and his upper lip bore a moustache of dried blood. "Professor Lupin," panted Neville, reaching him, "Will you—can you—will you teab me to conbure a Patronus?" He paused expectantly, then added, as if by way of explanation, "I need to learn to conbure a Patronus."

For perhaps the forty-seventh time that morning, Remus watched in his mind's eye as Sirius, clever, limber, handsome even in death, sparred with his cousin, taunted her, froze, and fell backwards beyond the veil.

He looked at Neville.

He felt Harry struggling in his arms. "Sirius!" Harry had cried. "SIRIUS!"

"There's nothing you can do, Harry—"

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

"It's too late, Harry—"

"We can still reach him—"

"There's nothing you can do, Harry . . . nothing . . . He's gone."

"Lily is dead," Mad-Eye Moody was saying, months ago, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, "Sorry boys . . . We'll make do with what we've got."

Remus pulled his wand from his pocket and flicked it at Neville. "Tergeo." Neville flinched and brushed his now-clean upper lip. Remus took a deep breath. "As soon as you're out of the infirmary—and I may be sick for a few days—as soon as I can get back to Hogwarts, I will teach you to conjure a Patronus."

Grimmauld Place had never been so silent. Wearily, Remus climbed the stairs to his fourth-floor bedroom, remembered his other potion—thank goodness Madam Pomfrey had reminded him—and returned to the basement. He mixed the components with shaking hands, missing Tonks desperately, and drank it off.

In the echoing mansion, a thin male voice called, "Sirius! Sirius!"

Remus started apprehensively. He didn't recognize the voice. Who of the Order could be here so soon?

"Sirius!"

On the third-floor landing, Phineas Nigellus Black was bellowing from a muddy landscape of goblins and trolls. Remus opened his mouth, couldn't find the words, and gently shook his head.

"I don't believe it!" retorted the portrait indignantly, but without conviction. After a minute, he resumed calling, "Sirius! Sirius!"

In his attic bedroom, now glazed with eastern sunlight, Remus stripped off his robes but did not pull back the covers of his bed. He changed into Muggle slacks and a tattered corduroy jacket, bundled his robes and wand into a scruffy blue backpack, and left by the front door. For six hours he walked the streets of Muggle London. At last, famished and footsore, he bought a bun and a cup of coffee at a kiosk in Regent's Park, seated himself on a bench, and stared into space.

"You look like you've seen better days, man." Remus looked up to find that a Muggle had taken possession of the other half of his bench. Curiously, the Muggle faintly resembled Remus: a lanky fellow in a long-sleeved T-shirt and washed-out jeans, turning the corner from youth to middle age.

"My best friend died last night," said Remus, after a moment.

"Sorry, man. No wonder you look like a death hound. Were it sudden?"

"Very."

"Were he sick, or were he killed?"

"He was killed in a fight."

"Man, I'm sorry. Did the police get him what did it?"

"The police—" Remus bit his lip. He was not sure how to explain the Ministry's attitude to a Muggle in Muggle language. In fact, he had no idea what the Ministry's present attitude towards Sirius would be. Had Sirius been cleared? "I don't trust the police," he said at last, rather lamely.

"Not much, neither do I."

Remus expected the Muggle to leave him to his grief, but he didn't go. After a few minutes, Remus said blankly, "He was the last."

"Your friend was the last?"

"There were four of us, when we were teenagers. I was sick and my friends were healthy. Now I'm alive and my friends are dead." He paused, struggling with a sense of déjà vu. Two dead and one a traitor. This has happened before. "Except Peter."

"Peter?"

"He was one of the gang. The dumbest, the blandest, the sneakiest. He's alive." Remus added bitterly, "He's been keeping very bad company."

To his surprise, the Muggle seemed to understand. "Has he been inside?"

"Inside?"

"Prison."

"Oh. No, actually, he hasn't. Though he certainly deserved it." Remus took a deep breath. "My friend who died last night had been in prison. Twelve years. A third of his life, for a murder he didn't commit. He was supposed to have murdered Peter."

"And Peter is alive?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

The Muggle looked at Remus with deep concern. "Well, that's a bum rap. Ain't you got no one to cheer you up—no wife and kids?"

Remus shook his head.

"No girlfriend?"

Without thinking what he was saying, Remus replied, "She's in hospital."

"What, hospital? What's wrong with her?"

"Concussion."

The Muggle whistled sharply. "She weren't in a fight too, were she?"

Remus nodded.

"Man, what exciting lives you and your friends lead!" exclaimed the Muggle.

Remus supposed that was one way to look at it.