Godric's Hollow

Hermione
I brace my back against a sturdy tree and look out on the soft hush of twilight; the fiery sun has gone down, and night has all but fallen. In the distance, I can just see Harry's silhouette. He is very still, staring out at a distant horizon, unmoving. I'm not sure if he is thinking, or if, maybe, he is just waiting. All I know is that even in his rigid silhouette, I can see the pain that is filling him. I pray that there is some small spark of hope underneath his pain, though – pray that he will find strength in this visit, pray that he will draw power from his parents' graves.

Suddenly, tears well in my eyes as I realize the extent of his loss: his parents, when he was a mere year old, then his godfather, and now Albus Dumbledore. "Dumbledore," I whisper aloud, brushing away a single tear that has streaked down my cheek. I know that, to Harry, this may be the deepest loss of all, the wound that recquires the most nursing to heal. It may never heal, I realize. It truly may never heal.

All because of Voldemort.

Rage rises up inside me, and I beat it down. Voldemort, who has hurt all of us so much, never bats an eyelash, never cares about the damage he's doing. Of course, Harry has explained it all to Ron and I, how the man is not actually a man anymore, how he's divided his soul by killing, and killing, and killing again, over and over until he was in pieces. Harry has told us, although it is hard to describe, how swiftly Tom Riddle, the handsome teenager, turned to something that was no longer a man, no longer recognizable by his good looks. I remember what Ginny told me, about Tom Riddle's diary, and about him, after that night when he almost killed her; "He was handsome, you know," she said, shaking her head, her red hair drifting like sand dunes over her shoulders. "But you could just tell he was heartless. It was in his eyes."

I know it's true, that Voldemort cannot be saved. After all, wasn't he the only one that Dumbledore ever gave up on?

I sense movement off to my right, and turn to see Ron's form leaning against a tree a few yards away, looking at his best friend with the struggle of pain on his face, the struggle of fear a mere shadow in his warm brown eyes that have suddenly turned so solemn. I know that he is thinking about his family, and the near-deaths that they have all suffered at the hand of Voldemort; I know he is worrying about his mother, who is undoubtedly still carrying around her clock, where Ron's hand will certainly be quivering at "Mortal Peril" with a bit more intensity than the rest; I know that he is pondering what he can possibly do or say to cheer Harry up again.

As I look back at Harry's silhouette, his head bows, and on a drift of cool, autumn wind, I catch the whispered phrase, "Dad…Prongs." My eyes fill with tears again as I hear his voice murmur, "Sirius…" His hand restlessly gropes for something to do, and finds a small pile of leaves; he picks them up, and they scurry away on the wind, precious few fluttering down to rest beside him again. "Dumbledore…"

Finally, I can contain the tears no longer. They spill, unbidden, over my cheeks, and I make no move to delay them as they drop softly to the ground, their water not enough to revive the red, golden, dead leaves that cover the soil of autumn.