Ballad For Dead Friends

Harry Potter, names, characters and related indicia are copyright of JK Rowling and Warner Bros ™

The title of this fiction, as well as the lyrics it contains, are the property of Dashboard Prophets. (Words: Dye/Music: Dashboard Prophets – Meyer, Bocci, Evanski, Dye). Published by Bent Halo Music/Weird Water Music/Garg Music/Here Comes Treble Music (ASCAP). Property of 1996 Dashboard Prophets.

In short, I claim nothing as my own except the plot… and even that is doubtful.

1. The Letter

Harry stood by the tower window in the new headmistress's office; his back turned firmly from the, as yet unawakened, portrait of Albus Dumbledore. Three months had passed since the last, crumbling foundations of protection for the wizarding world had been lain to rest. Two months since the last of the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had returned to their homes, Hermione and Ron included. Harry had insisted - best for them to explain the situation to their parents in person, rationally and logically. Harry knew for sure Mrs Weasley would be devastated at the youngest of her sons, and a prefect at that, following in the steps of his elder and more irresponsible brothers and leaving school before completing his final year. Then she would have to contemplate the dangers Ron would be facing, now multiplied tenfold.

Harry gazed out over the now quiet grounds of Hogwarts, at Hagrid's hut where he could see the half-giant's shadow moving through the window, and the lake where the giant squid was all but completely submerged, savoring their beauty, realising that this might well be the last time he would see them in this tranquil state. The last time that his home would be free of the devastation of the war that was now so far upon them, fleeing was no longer an option. And besides, where was there to run? Hogwarts had only been safe so long as Albus Dumbledore had resided within its walls, whilst his strength and protection had kept them safe.

How are you feeling?

Do you feel okay?

'Cause I don't.

The rustling of paper startled Harry out of his reverie as the letter he had written to the new head of Hogwarts was placed on his desk.

'And this is your final decision, Potter?'

The usual hard, clipped tones were softer – sadder. There was a subtle hopelessness in them that Harry had seldom heard before. An element that Minerva McGonagall could not afford to reveal to any but himself, lest the school suffer the consequences of a Headmistress lacking in strength.

'Yes, it is.'

"I understand that you feel badly, Potter, we all feel it too. However, Albus would not have wished for you to be making such crucial decisions during a time of grief. Especially when the dangers of what you suggest far outweigh anything you have faced before, and you seek to undertake them without even completing your education. Whilst I do not doubt that you have the ability to defeat the Dark Lord; to attempt to do so without even completing your basic education, let alone vigorous auror training – which has failed to save even the best aurors England has ever seen from harm – is ludicrous to the point of insanity. Look at the Longbottoms, look at Amelia Bones, and look at your own parents for heavens sake! These were people who had completed years and years of intensive training - the cream of the proverbial crop.

'Do not let this silly propaganda about you being the 'chosen one' go to your head. You are but a schoolboy. A schoolboy who has endured more than many of the finest wizards could endure, yes, but nevertheless a schoolboy.'

Harry remained unturned from the window, his eyes staring unseeingly into the Forbidden Forest.

'I may be just a schoolboy, professor, but I am the chosen one, and it was Voldemort who chose me. What Dumbledore may or may not have wanted for me is irrelevant now. He prided himself in seeing the best in people, of the redemption of the wicked. It was this mistaken pride that made him refuse to listen to what many others tried to tell him.

'Oh, he may have been a great man, but in the end that's all he was: a man. A man with weakness, and a man who made mistakes. However, a man in his position cannot afford to make mistakes, and his have cost the Order severely. They are now in more danger than ever from the Death Eaters and we no longer have a spy within their ranks. He taught me more than he thought he had; and whether or not you believe it, I am ready and I am going.'

Minerva McGonagall surveyed the tall raven-haired man who stood by the window, silhouetted in the evening light. For he was a man now, Dumbledore's death had robbed him of the last remnants of the boy who had lingered after the death of Sirius. His tone rang with resolution and he reminded her greatly of another dark-haired young man with whom she had had a similar conversation nearly 18 years before.

She sighed, a sound that Harry gratefully took for reluctant acquiescence. The immense guilt he felt for critisising, to the point of degrading, Dumbledore's last actions was almost more than he could bear. He now felt no more 'Dumbledore's man' than Rufus Scrimgeour; and if, at that moment, he were suddenly to find himself doing battle with a Basilisk once again, he knew that there would be no Fawkes flying in to save him.

'I suppose that you will be once again accompanied by Mr Weasley and Miss Granger?'

Harry nodded, forcing away his thoughts of shame. 'I did try to reason with them, professor, but they are stubborn.'

'A pity. I had been looking forward to instructing the three of you in preparation for your NEWT's. However, if this is the way it must be…'

Harry smiled slightly, 'I'm sure Hermione will feel the loss more keenly than even you.'

Chuckling, the ex-transfiguration professor rose from her chair. 'I shall have to inform the necessary persons of your choice.'

Harry nodded and reluctantly turned from the window.

You may stay here a while longer, if you wish, but then you must return to your dormitory and pack. I am afraid the school board will no longer allow any minors to remain within these walls, regardless of whether or not they still hold student status, and it would be unwise to disobey any of their requests whilst the fate of this school still rests in their hands. Unfortunately you will have to return to your muggle relatives until your seventeenth birthday.'

Harry nodded, and for a moment the two of them stood, each gazing somewhere about the others' ear. Neither wanting the connection of eye contact, which would cement the reality of their conversation. The silence in the room became palpable until the tension no longer bearable by either. Their eyes met, and Harry saw McGonagall's flicker with some untold emotion. She gave him a small, curt nod of her head, though something of a bitter smile seemed to haunt her face. Then, without another word, she turned and left the room closing the door gently behind her.

Harry stood for a long time, gazing out over the grounds. The quidditch pitch, where he had spent some of his happiest hours looked peaceful in the darkening light. He could hear an echo of the crowd screaming cheers and catcalls; Luna's ridiculous hat; Lee Jordan's colourful commentary and a few strains of 'Weasley is our King'.

A flicker from the top of the stands caught the edge of his vision, but Harry's eyes did not dart eagerly to the uppermost seats, as they once had, desperately seeking the shaggy dog who had once sat in the highest row staring back at him with those huge eyes.

Sirius was dead.

Harry swung from the window, blocking out the thoughts, his sudden movement startling many of the portraits decorating the walls of the office. Dumbledore's painting looked as if it were stirring. The oil replica of the great man was shifting in his chair and muttering unintelligibly. He began to stretch, the folds of his robes flowing against the canvas skin and his brushstroke beard began to twitch.

Swiftly Harry moved to the door and slipped out before the fraud – masquerading in costume of paint and canvas – could open his eyes; for it wasn't Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was dead.

It keeps me reeling;

Will I ever be the same?

No, I won't

Slowly, Harry made his way to the Gryffindor common room. The fat lady swung aside for his as he clambered through the hole. The common room was empty as it had never been during the school year. There were no gobstones lying in corners, no half-finished chess games sitting forgotten on tables as the pieces yelled tireless insults at each other for hours upon end. The chairs hadn't been dragged around the room to suit each group of students, chattering to each other before bed. Instead, they were all arranged perfectly around the fire or the small tables as they usually were placed by the house-elves during the holidays; the tidy order never lasting more than a few minutes after the first students entered at the start of a new term. A single fire still burned in one stone fireplace, the only indication that someone still resided within the tower.

As Harry collapsed into a chair he felt a piece of parchment rustling in his pocket. Sighing he reached into his robes and pulled the offending epistle into his lap. It had been sitting there nigh on three months and bore the marks of having being constantly removed and rolled out before being crumpled into an angry fist and shoved unceremoniously back into his pocket. Despite this, the seal still remained unbroken and as Harry traced the imprint of a phoenix feather in the wax he could almost hear the long quavering note of the birds' song as it had sounded when the letter had been delivered. He could still smell the sulphur as the air had burst into flame above his head while he sat forlornly on his bed in the early hours of the morning before Dumbledore's funeral.

The phoenix feather that had appeared with the rolled parchment still sat on his dresser. Harry was considering making it into a quill, though that did not seem to be a fitting end for the feather that accompanied the last correspondence between Harry and his mentor.

Hands trembling Harry broke the seal and carefully unfolded the crushed missive.

Harry,

If this has reached you then, alas, I did not survive our journey to the caves. I am writing this letter, in the probability of this trip resulting in my death, that I might still have a chance to convey some last thoughts to you. Things that I should have said whilst I lived, and that I fully intended on saying, should we have returned successfully, but things that may have seemed slightly melodramatic in lieu of what we were preparing to undertake. And, to be frank Harry things that, should I impart to you before we leave, would have given you an indication that I do not really believe I shall survive. Then you would have taken risks in order to prevent harm befalling me which would have in turn harmed you, and I will not risk our world's hope of surviving Voldemort simply so that you may satisfy any heroic urge you may feel. No matter how necessary you may feel it to be.

Remember, that any choice that I made or will make on this trip is my own, that you are not responsible for it and that you could in no way have done anything to prevent it had you wanted to try.

Know, Harry, that I have complete faith in you and in your ability to complete the tasks that you have yet you face.

Also, Harry, a word of warning, Voldemort does underestimate you, you and I both know this. But he is also shrewd, and will try to bait you at every turn. Whilst your impetuousness can often be to your credit, exercise it with some caution. Remember Sirius. We both made mistakes there; mistakes that we cannot afford to repeat.

Ah, I fear time is pressing, and there are a few more letters of valediction that I must compose before you arrive here tonight.

I am proud of you. Had I a grandson, I could want no better than you.

Please forgive an old man for any offence or grief he may have caused. Everything that I have done was well intentioned, however it has turned out.

Farewell Harry Potter

Albus Dumbledore

Harry sat for a moment, the hand holding the note shaking even more pronouncedly. Then, with a howl of pain, he viciously crumpled it and threw in into the fire, falling to his knees, screaming his grief to the room

It's a cold day in a cold world.