- Chapter Three -

The Day of Remembrance

Harry tried not to think about the beech tree, but he found himself walking past it every time he went out into the park, watching out of the corner of his eye for the unexplained phenomenon to happen again.

Even though the exams were over, he did not have time to follow up on the vision, because now it was absolutely urgent to memorise the speech for next day's commemoration. Of course, it was impossible to do so in such a short time, so Ron and Harry begged Hermione to let them have the written version of the speech that night, so they could cheat a bit. The girl first called them both lazy, uncaring fools, but then agreed to it, seeing no alternative, but didn't speak to them for the rest of the evening.

The next day, they woke up to a slightly windy but sunny summer morning, not too hot and not too cold, just right for the commemoration. Harry leaned out of the Gryffindor Tower window and watched the preparations while Ron dressed. In the schoolyard, not far from Gryffindor Tower, a not very high podium was set up, with about two thousand chairs in front of it – when it was all finished, it reminded Harry a little of Professor Dumbledore's funeral, except that this time they were not going to bury someone in a white marble tomb, but to inaugurate a white marble statue. Only McGonagall and the sculptor had seen the statue so far. The house-elves did the lion's share of the work, setting up the chairs and the podium. McGonagall supervised them, but insisted on asking Hermione's opinion on every little thing – where the podium should be, how many rows of chairs, in a semicircle or straight.

Surprisingly, Ron was the one who finally got fed up with the fuss and asked her to leave the vicinity of the event at the first opportunity.

'Come on,' Ron said, pointing towards the forest. 'Let's say hello to Hagrid.'

The gamekeeper was hard at work: a large patch of woodland behind the hut had burnt down, and the ground was blackened where Hagrid's famous pumpkin patch used to lie, and where Aragog, the giant acromantula, was buried. Harry was involuntarily reminded of the dead beech tree.

'Hi Hagrid!'

Hagrid looked up from his work and greeted his friends.

'Are yeh ready?' their friend asked. Harry and Ron grunted in disappointment.

'Everybody is bothering us with that!' Ron complained. 'I'm already sick of this entire commemoration!'

Ron was indeed quite pale, his complexion reminding Harry of his pre-Quidditch match state. So he tried to change the subject:

'What happened to the pumpkin patch?' he asked casually.

'Nothin'...', Hagrid growled under his moustache. 'What should've happened ter it?'

'Well, for a start, it's completely black!'

Hagrid stretched out his limbs and pushed the shovel down beside him, then leaned on it.

'Well...' he began, scratching his head, reluctantly, 'Yeh know, in the battle, when the dementors were here... it seems they spent too much time around my hut. It was the same thin' when they were lookin' for old pal Sirius – I remember a bunch of seedlings rottin' out in the orchard then too...' Hagrid shook his head in annoyance and spat on the ground, indicating his disapproval. 'Damn dementors. I've always hated them... and there are more of them with each day. They're wandering around the villages with fewer wizards, even though Kingsley has got rid of them...'

Harry remembered reading in the Daily Prophet that it was only two months ago that the Ministry had officially dismissed the dementors from Azkaban – in fact, it was more like expulsion than dismissal: Aurors had to chase the creatures out of the prison, and they had since dispersed. Many have gone far abroad, joining other dementor groups or going into hiding. Though they could be chased away, there was no way to get rid of them for good; everyone knew there was no way to kill a dementor, no known spell could do that.

'Even the Forbidden Forest is bein' invaded since they have no permanent victims!' Hagrid continued. 'All the beasts are goin' mad around them, I don't know what ter do with them.'

The gamekeeper's monologue was ended by the arrival of a tiny boy, who ran breathlessly down the hillside to the hut, only to come to a stop in front of them, panting.

'What's up, little one?' Hagrid muttered.

'The... the headmistress... would... like to see y-y-you,' the boy panted to the trio, clutching his ribs.

Harry, Ron and Hermione said a reluctant goodbye to Hagrid and went up to the castle, where in the entrance hall McGonagall was already red with anger which was clearly caused by her conversation partner.

Harry froze in the doorway and Hermione and Ron froze with him, as if they had been hit by a petrifying curse. McGonagall was talking to a man with long, greasy black hair, whose ornate black cape was floating by the draught in the hall. The three best friends had a profile view of his face, his unmistakable hooked, crooked nose...

'It's impossible!' groaned Harry, Ron and Hermione at the same time. They slowly walked closer and heard what was being said.

'Professor, you can't think we're going to approve of this!' said the man in an indignant tone, and Harry and his friends breathed a collective sigh of relief. Of course it's not Severus Snape! How could they have thought it?

As they got over their initial surprise, they noticed the small details: for example, that this man was much older than Snape and had much longer hair, was almost half a head shorter, and had a raspier, older voice.

'This is an insult to the House of Slytherin!' the man continued. 'You cannot erect this statue!'

'Don't overdramatise it, Mr Prince,' McGonagall said irritably. 'Everyone knows who the snake on the statue symbolises.'

'Yes, I'm perfectly aware of that too! But since the Dark Lord was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, the parallel is even more obvious. This statue desecrates one of the houses of Hogwarts, and you, as headmaster, tolerate – nay, support it!'

McGonagall had enough of the conversation, as she turned away from Mr Prince to give instructions to one of the house-elves.

'Each Slytherin must decide for himself,' she said over her shoulder, 'how humiliated he is by the statue. If you ask me, noone who has defied He Who Shall Not Be Named should feel shamed by it. Of course, I understand how deeply offended you are by the statue...'

The man's face was drained of blood.

'You...!'

Mr Prince's words trailed off as a figure very much like himself put a hand on his shoulder in warning. The man in black robes seemed to appear out of nowhere, and Harry and his friends didn't even notice him as he walked past.

'Octavius, you're not trying to hold up Madame McGonagall, are you?' his words had a slight oriental accent. He looked somewhat older than Mr Prince, yet he had the appearance of strength, just like Dumbledore, as Harry remembered him. He was not dressed in elegant, fancy sewn robes, he wore only a simple hooded cloak, and his hair was slowly turning snow white.

'You should see that statue,' Octavius Prince told him, shaking the man's hand off his shoulder. 'Outrageous and unacceptable.'

McGonagall scanned them both, as if examining dirt on the soles of her boots.

'If you have any doubts, ask Professor Slughorn, who is the Head of the Slytherin House. Ask him what he thinks of the statue.'

'I think I will!' Octavius hissed angrily and set off. His ghostly companion followed.

'Who were they, Professor?' Hermione asked McGonagall when they approached her.

The headmistress was still upset, which made the house-elves blink at her a little frightened.

'Mr Prince and his brother,' she replied. Harry and his friends looked at each other.

'Prince? So they were...?'

'Yes, the younger was Severus Snape's grandfather.'

'But what was their problem?' asked Ron. McGonagall's lips were pressed into a single line.

'Some people seem to be unhappy with the statue, Mr Weasley. By the way, that's why I called you: I'd like you to see the memorial...'

Half a minute later, Harry was perfectly aware of why a Slytherin would be upset at the sight of the statue. He found himself in an interesting position, because his more stubborn, hardheaded self told him that the whole Voldemort affair was a disgrace to House Slytherin, so let them bear their shame until the end of time. But his other, more logical, rational self told him that it was not a good idea to erect such a provocative monument on the one-year anniversary, when the events were still so vivid in memory.

'I think it's totally cool!' said Ron. McGonagall raised her eyebrows and almost smiled.

'I'm glad, Mr Weasley. Miss Granger? Mr Potter? You also think the artwork to be "totally cool", or would you rather we just cancel the whole thing?'

Harry and Hermione looked at each other; she was thinking the same thing.

'Professor, um...' said Hermione hesitantly, 'Maybe it's not such a good idea to display this statue. Couldn't it be changed?'

'Unfortunately, that is impossible. Either we put this up or nothing,' the headmistress shook her head. 'By the way, I showed it to the minister and he had no objections.'

Ron snorted.

'Of course, after all, "Minister" Kingsley hates Slytherin just as much as...' Hermione punched his arm. Ron fell silent.

'I fear that more people would be offended if the statue were not erected. Perhaps we really shouldn't have made such a provocative monument, but there's nothing to be done now...' sighed McGonagall, worried. 'The guests will be here shortly. You three, don't worry about anything, just get ready for your speech and wait by the podium.'

Harry, Ron and Hermione went out into the castle grounds, where the first guests had already arrived: Mr and Mrs Weasley had taken their seats in the front row, along with Kingsley Shacklebolt and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. Charlie Weasley arrived with a slender, beautiful, tanned girl, whom he immediately introduced to his parents. Where Harry and his friends stood, they could not hear the name, but Ron grinned broadly when he saw his brother.

Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle were next, followed by the straw-haired Sturgis Podmore, then Hagrid in his horrible brown suit, but he took a back seat next to an equally portly, distinguished witch. The grey-haired, gaunt Elphias Doge, and even the cat-loving old lady Mrs Figg came. Of the surviving members of the Order, only Mundungus Fletcher was missing – Well, no one misses him, Harry corrected himself mentally.

The front row was almost full when an elegant lady with long eyelashes hugged Mrs Weasley and sat down next to her. It was then that she noticed Harry standing on the podium and waved. Harry waved back to Andromeda Tonks, wondering why she hadn't brought little Teddy Lupin with her.

The answer just seemed to come on its own: Ginny emerged from the crowd with the baby in her arms, holding out his tiny arms to her. Ginny handed the baby back to Mrs Tonks and took a seat on the other side of her mother.

'Uh-oh, Ginny's maternal instinct was awakened. Watch your back, mate,' Ron whispered in his ear, laughing. Harry blushed from ear to ear and got the old bad feeling that everyone was staring at him. The neck of the dress robe seemed to be getting tighter, too...

After Ginny, Bill and Fleur arrived to the front row, taking the seats next to Andromeda.

'Fleur is getting curvier,' Hermione noted, looking up from her speech. 'At Christmas, you could hardly see anything...'

Indeed, thought Harry. It was already obvious that another baby was soon to be added to the family, and Mrs Weasley would no longer have to begrudgingly visit Mrs Tonks every weekend. Harry then remembered that, now that school was finished, he would have to resume his godfatherly duties and pay his respects to Andromeda. Not that he didn't feel honoured to do so – he had showered little Teddy with gifts, bringing him a new toy every time he visited – but he just could not start to like Andromeda somehow. She never gave Harry any reason for his dislike and Harry was always careful never to show it. He was ashamed of himself, but he could not help it. Andromeda reminded him too much of someone he hated very much, someone who had died here at Hogwarts just a year ago.

The first row received no new guests for a while, though the remaining seats were almost full. The students had only just come out en masse into the courtyard and were seated under the direction of the teachers in charge. Many of them broke out of the orderly queues to run to their parents or older siblings. Harry caught a glimpse of Luna and Dean among the Gryffindors – Luna broke away from the crowd and ran forward. Harry thought she was hurrying to her father, who was sitting among the journalists not far away. The blonde girl, however, ran to Neville, who had just arrived with his grandmother, wearing a brand new dress robe. From the podium Harry could even see the disappointed look on Dean Thomas's face.

He spotted old acquaintances in the crowd arriving from the direction of the big gate: it was then that Percy arrived with Penelope Clearwater, Cho Chang with an old man with a hirsute beard, and the former Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, with his wife.

George Weasley and some of the old Quidditch team were among the last to arrive: Katie Bell – holding hands with George – Oliver Wood, Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinett. George was the most elegant in his black dragon-skin jacket and boots, his shoulder-length hair covering his cropped ear, and he wore black sunglasses. Harry remembered that this had become a habit of his in recent months and he hardly set foot outside the shop without his sunglasses. He grinned at Harry as he passed, but with the eyes hidden behind black lenses, it was a shadow of the old George Weasley smile. Harry followed him with his gaze as he walked over to his parents, hugged them and then sat down between Ginny and Percy.

After a quarter of an hour, the rows were full, everyone had arrived and taken their seats. Harry couldn't help a mocking thought: how many times did it happen that such distinguished Purebloods as the Princes, Bulstrode's and Selwyns were relegated to the back rows at such an event? As he thought about it, it hit him that he couldn't see the Malfoy's anywhere. He knew that Draco as well as Lucius and Narcissa had escaped Azkaban – Harry had partly seen to that and to this day he could not explain why he felt the need to do so. Besides, Ron never forgot to remind him of this fleeting 'mental illness' whenever the subject came up, but Hermione was distinctly proud of it. She felt that such a gesture to the Purebloods might have eased the tension after Voldemort's downfall.

McGonagall whispered something in Hermione's ear and she stood up and walked to the podium. She pointed her wand at her own throat and from then on her every word could be heard clearly even in the very back rows.

'Welcome to this beautiful summer morning,' she began, 'Let's hope the weather stays nice, because Headmistress McGonagall, Harry and Ron and I have a lot to share with you. I think – and I believe many of you will agree – that there are a lot of unclear, vague details about what exactly happened here a year ago.

Hermione now paused for a moment and looked around the crowd.

'One year ago today, a dark era ended at this place. Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters had fallen, their reign of terror ended. Though we look back on this day with joy and comfort, we must never forget the price we paid for this victory. A year ago, nearly sixty people lost their lives in a standoff with Voldemort at Hogwarts' grounds. We owe them a debt of gratitude and remembrance on this day every year forwards.

She paused again and looked down at his paper.

'And the three of us, Harry, Ron and I owe you... the truth. Just as the heroic dead deserve our gratitude and love, you deserve justice. We want to tell a story about three men who have changed our world. These three men are: Albus Dumbledore, Tom Riddle and Severus Snape.'

Many people looked at each other and started whispering and murmuring. Hermione waited patiently for the noise to die down, then continued in a raised voice.

'Many may have known the story of Albus Dumbledore, have read about it or have learned a piece of the truth. But to know what kind of a man Dumbledore really was, it's not enough to know a fragment of the truth. You need to know the whole story...'

Hermione talked about Dumbledore for almost an hour. She began the story from his childhood, telling all about the three siblings, the tragedy of the youngest, Ariana, their father's conviction, and she didn't hide even the more sensitive details: the influence of Grindelwald, Dumbledore's admiration for the genius of the Durmstrang boy, their two-month friendship and its tragic ending.

There was not a single peep, not a bored yawn, not a sound of dismay – everyone was listening so intently that you could almost feel the tension. Harry scanned the faces, row after row, chair after chair, and saw the same thing everywhere: everyone believed that what they were hearing was true, that there was no more ambiguity, no more secrecy, that everything was laid out before them.

Aberforth also sat in the front row, and was a magnet for the audience's gaze at certain points in the story. Harry was sure that the old innkeeper, used to silence and solitude, was as embarrassed as he was.

Hermione's account ended with the defeat of Grindelwald, as Dumbledore got the Wand of Destiny. No one doubted her words that this special wand does exist and that it was there, in a white marble tomb by the lake, not far from them.

Ron then took the floor and once again jumped back in time to begin to tell the story of Voldemort, starting with the sad fate of the Gaunt family. Harry was pleased to see that his friend could speak very well in front of such a large audience, and the colour returned to his face. Ron spoke of things which the hundreds of guests would never have imagined in their wildest dreams – Tom Riddle's story had truly shocked the audience in several places, with outcries and indignation mixed with horror. The horcruxes, all that Voldemort had done to make himself immortal, was too much for some – some in the back rows got up and left, most of them with small children.

Ron finished his account with the October evening when Voldemort disappeared from sight and he handed the pulpit to Harry.

The story continued and the crowd listened with the same attention as at the beginning, even though the event had been going on for two hours, and yet it still captivated everyone who was there.

The childhood friendship between Severus Snape and Lily, how they were drawn to opposite sides of the war in the wizarding world, how Snape's loyalty to Voldemort had broken – all of it did not elicit silent attention or sounds of dismay from the audience; several older women and young girls wiped their eyes, silently or sniffling tears at the sad story of Voldemort's offer of choice to Lily, inadvertently bringing about his own demise.

Harry went further in the story than Ron or Hermione; he told everything Dumbledore had planned, everything he had intended him, Harry and Snape to do, all the little details of the grand plan. Here was the story of the search for the Horcruxes, and Voldemort's search for the Wand of Destiny, and finally how it all led to the Dark Lord's death.

The existence of the Wand could not be concealed. It would have been pointless to invent any kind of fairy tale instead. Before Voldemort died, a whole crowd had listened to their conversation, it was impossible to conceal, but Harry didn't care. It was no longer about keeping secrets – at least not entirely. As much as he wanted to confess everything, Hermione suggested it was better not to tell about the other two Hallows. The Cloak remained a secret from the public, and the Stone was destroyed when Dumbledore destroyed the Horcrux – that was the agreed plan.

'It's better this way, Harry,' Hermione had convinced him days earlier.

Harry didn't like it at all. It was brought up once when Harry and Ron were going over the freshly written speeches. They were sitting in the common room and it was past midnight, but the issue was still on their minds.

'That wasn't the point, Hermione,' Ron shook his head, 'I thought we agreed to tell everything. Everything!'

'I... I don't think they should know about such things, Ron...' she grumbled, 'Think about it: if-if they knew where the artifacts were, I'm sure a lot of people would try to get their hands on them... try to unite them. It wouldn't be the first time.'

'But we've already told a lot of people – Ginny, Luna, Neville, even Hagrid, and he doesn't have any secrets that are safe!'

Hermione scowled at him.

'That's not true at all!' she snapped. 'Don't talk about Hagrid as if he were some irresponsible nobody! He can keep secrets, too...'

Harry laughed.

'Hagrid?' he asked back doubtfully. 'Hagrid doesn't have any secrets, believe me... But okay, fine, have it your way!' he gave up. 'Let the secrets go on indefinitely! I don't care, I can live with them... I just thought they deserved the whole truth.'

This was considered the end of the debate and neither of them brought it up again, except for the minutes before the commemoration.

Harry finished the story as written and was surprised to find that he only had to look at it a few times. It was all there in his head, it was his whole life, it was all that had filled the last seven years, and now he was finally letting it out. Harry had to admit that it felt very good to share all this; as if the burden that the prophecy had placed on his shoulders was only now being lifted.

After almost three hours of tense silence, Harry thanked them for their attention and sat back down. Many people began to talk and whisper about, and it was only when Ron stepped up to the podium that the crowd quieted down again.

'Thank you for your patience in listening to our story,' he said, his voice amplified again. 'We would like to inaugurate a statue as part of the commemoration...' he pointed back to the black velvet-covered monument behind the podium. 'Not to remember the victory, but the price of victory. We are grateful to the monument's creator, Mrs Augusta Rhoten, and headmistress Minerva McGonagall.'

Ron flicked his wand and a slight gust of wind blew the black velvet off the statue. Cameras clicked and everyone started talking again, some clapping. The beautifully carved marble statue depicted a faceless wizard with dead snakes at his feet. The figure was holding a tablet with names inscribed on it – the names of those who had died fighting Voldemort in the final battle of Hogwarts.

'This statue is a symbol that the defeat of Voldemort is not the work of one person, not three, but of all of us. The prophecy would never have been fulfilled if you had not stood behind us, fought and given your lives. We fought for victory together!'

Harry watched as some of the Slytherins from the back rows got up and left, including the two old Princes. No one paid them any attention.

It was a good half an hour before the crowd that had broken out of the rows of benches formed a long, snaking queue in front of the statue. They all conjured up a red rose and laid it at the pedestal. By the time the last rose was in place, not much of the pedestal was visible. After that, Harry and his friends had to take their turn to receive congratulations and thanks, shaking hands with everyone, some hugging them, kissing Hermione's hand, patting them on the shoulder.

Many went into the Great Hall, where the long tables had been pushed up against the walls to make room for people. Not everyone could fit, so the entrance hall was als full and some people went home after the memorial service, but there were still plenty of people left.

'Congratulations Mr Weasley, great speech, congratulations to all three of you! Congratulations Mr Potter!' shook their hands the short wizard with a top-hat, Dedalus Diggle.

'Thank you. How are the Dursleys?' the question slipped out of Harry's mouth.

Mr Diggle was apparently greatly honoured that Harry was willing to talk to him, and he began a detailed account of the Dursleys' "hiding" and their move home after Voldemort's downfall. According to Dedalus, Uncle Vernon experienced living with wizards as a real terror and never failed to make them understand the things he had to endure because of his nephew. Dudley, on the other hand, tolerated the exile well, even willing to help with some of the chores, which Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon abhorred.

Almost everyone wanted to talk to Harry, but he only wanted to talk to one person. He was disappointed to find that Ginny was pushed into a crowded corner across the room and there were at least two hundred people between them – it would be an eternity before he could get through them. He shook hands with a few more people as he walked towards the girl, who could see him approaching from a distance.

He walked slower than he thought, because almost everyone was shouting at him and wanting to talk to him. Rita Skeeter wanted to interview him, and Eldred Worple, after a hundred letters, was now trying to persuade him personally to agree to a biography. Only Professor Eakle seemed to be ignoring Harry, which made the brusque teacher Harry's favourite. Eakle was talking to an old witch of almost the same height, wearing a red robe and a Russian-necked shirt underneath – Harry recognised her as wearing a Durmstrang uniform. Before the old lady could speak to her, he quickly changed direction and dodged between two stalwarts, now only a few people separating her from Ginny.

'Hi Harry,' Cho Chang came out of nowhere with two glasses of champagne in her hand. 'Do you want a...?'

'What?' wondered Harry.

'Well, champagne!' she held out a glass to him and laughed in embarrassment.

'Oh, sure, thanks!' laughed Harry and took the glass.

Still laughing, they clinked glasses. The smile melted off Ginny's face.

'It was a very nice speech, I'm really... really proud of you.' Cho's voice was so muffled by the end that Harry could barely understand her. You could tell she was a little embarrassed.

Harry was saved from giving an answer by a rattle – someone dropped a glass not far away and a woman was annoyed about her robe. The house-elves ran over to clean up the spill and that's when Harry spotted the old man Cho had arrived with.

'No-no problem, I'm fine, everything's fine...' the old man muttered to the elves.

Mr Weasley supported a old man with the hirsute beard, holding a bottle of whisky and reeking of alcohol for metres. It was only after a long delay that Harry realised who the man was from his slurred speech and glazed look.

'You don't s...?' he looked at Cho with wide eyes.

'Yes, it is Mr Diggory,' she said, 'I haven't seen him since the tournament ended. We met at Hogsmeade. He's not so well, poor him.'

Forgetting his destination, Harry immediately started towards the two men.

'Harry, I don't think that's a very good...' Cho tried to warn him, but the boy was out of earshot by then '... idea.'

'Mr Diggory!' said Harry. The man turned slowly towards him.

'Harry Potter!' Mr Diggory twinkled at him. 'Congratulations on that wonderful speech! It was really interesting to listen to...'

Harry could detect the mockery in his voice, but it was only beginning to come together for him as Mr Weasley gently grabbed Mr Diggory's shoulder.

'Amos, I think you'd better come out with me,' said Mr Weasley, gently but firmly.

'Maybe I'm not good enough for this party, huh?' Mr Diggory said back, a little louder, as a few people turned towards them. He stepped back and spread his arms, addressing everyone: 'Maybe I don't have the right to be here? Didn't I pay for my... entry ticket? Because I have to, don't I? For admission, one or two dead children... or a brother...'

The alarm bell went off in Harry's head – he'd only come to say hello, he hadn't expected such a hostile reaction. Mr Weasley now grabbed his former colleague with both hands to turn him towards him.

'Amos. Amos, listen to me! You'd better...' But Mr Diggory refused to listen.

'My son was the first victim, doesn't anyone remember? DOES NO ONE REMEMBER CEDRIC DIGGORY? NOBODY?!' Mr Diggory shouted at the top of his voice.

Harry didn't get a chance to speak, he just looked back at Cho. She was standing where he had left her, not crying, but the champagne glass shaking in her hand.

'Amos, come... Come on,' Mr Weasley said quietly, and then he took his arm again and began to drag him gently towards the door. Mr Diggory stumbled for a few moments, then wrenched himself out of the red-haired man's grasp and pushed him away.

'You just don't push me around! You think you're allowed to do everything now, huh?!' he snorted towards Mr Weasley. 'Of course, now it's Weasley rule... you're in charge everywhere... you and your kin. And I've lost everything... everything...' as he shouted, he staggered backwards with a great momentum and leaned against a table. Meanwhile he continued his bickering. 'What have you lost? Huh? What? You have no idea what it's like! You Weasleys are now just rolling in the dough... Catching up, eh?! What do we do, we who have lost everything? Worship you because you have everything?'

Mr Weasley gave up his futile attempt to placate the man. Harry could see the understanding kindness had gone from his eyes.

'I would like to remind you that my son died, too.'

'There's plenty left,' the bearded man growled vile. Harry could clearly hear Ginny huffing like a cat and with his mind's eye he could almost see her pulling out her wand. The blood was draining from Mr Weasley's face and Harry decided it was time to intervene, for the mood was becoming very unpleasant; all around him was a fearful too, men and women voiced their indignation that this "gnarled drunkard" should not speak in such a tone to the venerable Mr Weasley.

'How dare you?'

'Have you no shame?!'

'What a cheek!'

Mr Diggory's buttocks slipped on the table top he had been leaning on and he slumped down on the bench, the whisky bottle out of his hand. Harry took this moment to draw his wand unnoticed and, as if to help, held it to the side of Mr Diggory's robe.

'Stupify,' Harry whispered as quietly as he could and Mr Diggory relaxed in his arms. He heard Cho scream up behind him.

'George!' yelled Mr Weasley immediately to his son, who promptly ran to help Harry support the helpless man. 'Get him out of here!'

Mr Weasley tried to keep a calm face and reassure everyone around them that nothing was going to happen, they were just taking Mr Diggory home. Mr Weasley led the way, the trio of Harry, George and the unconscious man slowly following him out into the castle grounds, accompanied by glances from onlookers. They headed for the gates with their winged boar statues.

'Old fool...' grumbled George, taking off his sunglasses with his free hand.

As he reached for his face, Harry noticed that where the boy's injury should have been, a new, intact ear had grown.

'What's that?' he asked, surprised.

'An Extendable Ear!' the boy clarified. 'Handy, isn't it? I might as well be a spy.'

'With these glasses, I'm sure...' growled Harry, before he could contain himself. George said nothing in reply, only continued to growl at their alcohol-smelling burden.

'Come on, we're almost at the gate and we can apparate,' turned back Mr Weasley, 'Harry, shall I take over for a bit?'

'Not necessary, Mr Weasley,' the boy declined, 'but it would be better if you were to apparate with him...'

After almost ten minutes of difficult walking, they reached the gate, which was wide open, with two Aurors standing guard at the entrance. The red-haired man rushed forward to clarify it with them, so when Harry and George arrived, the guards said nothing, giving them way. Mr Weasley took his former colleague from the boys and held out one hand. Harry and George clung to it and apparated together. There came the unpleasant squeezing, the suffocating feeling that made them feel tight, like iron straps clamping to their chests – and then it passed as soon as it came.

'Here we are,' said Mr Weasley unnecessarily. They arrived in the garden of the Diggory House, which Harry knew was not far from the Burrow, and as he looked around he could make out the surrounding hills. He guessed they might be two or three kilometres east of the Weasley's family home.

'Come on, let's take him inside... Wait! I'll wake him up first.'

Harry and George took back the sleeping Mr Diggory and Mr Weasley cast the wake-up spell. The bearded man blinked at them, but said nothing – Harry was glad. He didn't feel like listening to that monologue any longer.

Mr Weasley climbed the stairs to the entrance and knocked on the door. While they waited, Harry quickly ran his eyes around the house. It was a tidy home, well kept, clean, but you could tell it was made for a small family. It was a one-story brick house and the walls were completely overgrown with runner plants, carefully pruned around the windows and door. Harry was surprised, for he had expected to see a much more neglected, giz-grimy, dingy house at the sight of the collapsed Mr Diggory.

The door opened to reveal Mrs Diggory, Cedric's mother, whom Harry had only seen once before, when they had come to see him in the hospital wing after Voldemort's return.

'A-Arthur? What brings you...?' she began kindly, but a little shyly, and then she caught sight of the three. 'Oh, no, he didn't? What has that foolish old scoundrel done?'

Mr Weasley tried to smooth things over.

'Nothing, nothing, Mimosa, don't worry, it's just that old Amos has got a bit much to drink...'

'Merlin's beard,' she said, sighing. 'Old fool... stupid old fool...'

'Boys, come and help Amos in,' said Mr Weasley, trying not to hear her cursing. Mr Diggory didn't resist, but he abandoned himself completely, leaning on the shoulders of his helpers, and Harry got the impression that the man was almost enjoying being carried.

'What have you done, you wretch?' hissed Mrs Diggory between her teeth as they passed her. 'I told you not to go there! But I can talk as much as I want! You stupid old man...'

Her husband said nothing, just stared at her with glassy eyes and his head bowed. George and Harry, led by Mrs Diggory, carried him into one of the rooms and laid him on the bed. His horn-rimmed glasses were placed on the bedside table, on which was a crumpled photograph of a brown-haired boy of about ten. Mr Diggory caught Harry's eye as he stared at the picture.

'I told him..." he muttered huskily, 'I told him not to... dangerous...' Harry felt only pity and regret as he looked down at him.

'He won't listen to me...', he continued to mutter half asleep, 'He hates me...'

George patted Harry's arm and they followed the grumbling woman back into the living room. Mrs Diggory has aged a lot since Harry last saw her. Four years ago she had been a youthful woman in her forties, but now they were looking at an old woman. Harry was not the least bit surprised. He himself had felt years older himself as he tried to come to terms with the deaths of Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin, Tonks and Fred.

'Oh, Arthur, thank you for bringing him home, I...'

'No problem at all,' smiled Mr Weasley kindly.

'I'm so sorry,' she shook her head, 'he didn't... He didn't do anything stupid, did he?'

'Of course not,' he replied with the most sincerity he was able to act. 'Nothing happened.'

Mrs Diggory sighed deeply, but when she saw that her guests were about to leave, she quickly intervened, 'You haven't been here so long, and your son hasn't even been here, and Mr Potter! This is indeed a great honour! Sit down, I'll bring you some cakes and tea...' Mrs Diggory invited them, while Mr Weasley tried to politely decline.

Harry was inexpressibly embarrassed. Not that someone would consider it an honour to host him, but that the very person to whom he had broken the news of his son's death should speak to him in this way. Mr Weasley gave him a look to show that he, too, had noticed Harry's embarrassment.

'Oh, Mimosa, thank you, but we really don't want to be a burden...'

'I insist!' said the woman kindly. 'Please, have a seat, I'll be right back.'

Mr Weasley did not want to offend her, so he said no more, just smiled politely. George didn't bother, put on his sunglasses and threw himself down in one of the armchairs. Mrs Diggory went into the kitchen and Mr Weasley sighed deeply.

'We'll be right out of here, guys, just a few minutes...' the man whispered apologetically.

Harry didn't sit down, but looked around the tidy little living room, every inch of it gleaming with cleanliness, the curtains snow-white, the furniture lacking even the faint dust that normally settles back on the furniture minutes after a clean. Harry had the impression that Mrs Diggory had been cleaning before they arrived.

'Hm, nothing's changed,' Mr Weasley remarked as he looked around the living room, as Harry had done. 'Perhaps a bit even cleaner than it used to. It wasn't exactly a neglected house in the old days either... Especially when compared to the good old Burrow, am I right, boys?' Mr Weasley laughed softly, then stopped as soon as his eyes caught something at the far end of the living room.

Next to the window was a beautiful carved chest of drawers, with an embroidered tablecloth and countless photographs. Harry felt a little sick to his stomach when he saw that the same young, handsome, brown-haired boy was smiling at him from each picture. There was at least one photo from all seventeen years of Cedric Diggory's short life – his first birthday with a huge cake; his first flight on a child's broom; smiling happily as he held up McGonagall's letter. His childhood pictures indicated they must have been uniformly happy years, as was the last day of his life – there was only one picture in which Cedric was serious and perhaps a little gruff, even irritated, as he waved his hand away from the camera.

His school pictures already showed the Cedric, whom Harry knew and considered a friend... My friend...? asked himself Harry, frowning as he picked up one of the yellow and black frames, slightly different from the others, which held a picture of Cedric playing Quidditch. Harry wondered as he stared at the picture, trying to remember what the Hufflepuff seeker, the Triwizard Champion, had been like. It dawned on him that Cedric was anything but his friend. He had met him in his third year and had beaten Harry in their only match together – though he always claimed it was only because of dementors. When he was in his fourth year, he was almost consumed with jealousy because Cho chose Cedric as a partner for the Yule Ball, it was him she chose to go with to Madam Puddifoot's café... He never really liked Cedric. He was jealous and envious of him, and during the Tournament he was trying with all his might to defeat the boy, to show everyone that he was the real champion... Probably the tragedy that had occurred and the time that had passed had made him think of Cedric as a very close friend, taken from him by Voldemort and Pettigrew.

Mr Weasley continued to feel sorry for the Diggories:

'Not only did they lose Cedric, but two years ago Amos' brother also died. Haven't you heard? Vol... Voldemort had had his wife and child killed.'

'Yeah that's sad,' Harry murmured.

'Yeah, I'm nearly about to cry,' George said coldly, just before Mrs Diggory returned to the living room.

Harry quickly put the picture back in its place, next to a photo of Cedric with Cho, in which Cedric was pressing a kiss to her cheek, laughing happily into the camera. There were no pictures of the Triwizard Tournament, though if Harry's memory was correct, Mr Diggory took countless photos of his son before the tasks and the champions were in the paper a lot.

Mrs Diggory brought a large tray of tea and cakes and put it on the coffee table. Without further persuasion, the three of them took a piece each. Harry didn't like the cake, especially as he was used to Mrs Weasley's tasty sweets lately, plus to the professionalism of the house-elves at Hogwarts, so he would've called the jam tea cake merely edible.

'How do you like it? I baked it this morning.'

'Very tasty, Mrs Diggory,' Harry muttered, his mouth full. As he glared at George, he could tell that he wasn't thrilled either, but the sunglasses were just the thing.

Mr Weasley and Mrs Diggory talked for another half an hour, mostly about ministerial colleagues, who was doing well, who got married, who had children. Harry paid no attention to the conversation, just glancing occasionally at George, wondering when it would be over and they could go back to Hogwarts. Harry was ashamed to admit it, but he felt very uncomfortable here.

Then, as Mr Weasley began to say goodbye and they went to the cloakroom to pick up their coats, Harry slipped the contents of his pouch into Mr Diggory's coat pocket without being noticed. The red-haired man saw what he had done, but said nothing, only smiled under-standingly.

With that, Harry was done with the matter and wanted to think no more of the Diggories. He had lost a lot of friends and relatives, too and he didn't want a couple who were grieving over the death of their son in the middle of his life.

He didn't think about them for the rest of the day. The commemorative guests left late in the afternoon, and Harry and his friends packed up before the end-of-year feast to leave the next morning. At the closing ceremony, the final results of the inter-house points competition were announced and McGonagall gave the valedictory address. A group photo of the graduating students was taken for the Daily Prophet and they had a tearful farewell at the banquet which lasted until late in the night. It was only when Harry collapsed onto his bed at dawn and tried to sleep through Ron's snoring that he realised that a phase of his life had come to an end. That he would never again dine in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, that he would never again lie down under the beech tree by the lake, or sleep in this bed. He said goodbye to Hogwarts for good.