ROSMERTA / ALBUS

It seemed as though the whole of Hogsmeade had congregated in the Three Broomsticks that night – no one could remember the pub ever being this crowded. The bar was filled with chinking glasses, pipe smoke, and the undercurrent of boisterous conversation that all portrayed one thing: pure relief.

Madam Rosmerta was pouring Butterbeer after Butterbeer while appeasing the attention of three bright-eyed wizards sitting at the bar, who were laughing loudly at her every comment. She had been so used to having people drink here to mourn rather than celebrate in recent weeks that she forgot she would normally be in bed at this hour – but when business was as good as this, she would stay up all night if necessary.

'I got the news almost immediately,' Rosmerta gabbled proudly, as she filled yet another tankard. 'I 'ad two blokes come in 'ere abou' midnigh', righ', and – That'll be two Sickles, love, fanks very much – anyway, one of them says, 'Oi, you won' believe this, You-Know-Oo's dead!' – told me 'e was pals with old Barnabus Cuffe, y'know, editor of the Daily Prophet. Anyway, it all went quiet, nobody could quite believe it. So 'e ends up buying drinks for everyone in the pub, and I made 'im sit down, righ' where you are now, and tell me everything wha' 'ad 'appened. You know 'ow much I like gossip, Roger.'

'That I do, darling, that I do,' the wizard named Roger chuckled, and the other wizards mimicked him.

'Course, when I heard abou' the Potters. God, how awful … but then people started coming in, singin' and laughin' and I knew then this would be a night to remember. So then – ah, Headmaster! What can I get you?'

The towering figure of Albus Dumbledore had just approached the bar. It had not been difficult, for the witches and wizards had parted graciously for his arrival, calling his name and shaking his hand.

'A small Firewhiskey would be most welcome, my dear Rosmerta, before I return to the school.'

'Busy day?' enquired Rosmerta as casually as she could, but Dumbledore detected the curiosity in her tone, and smiled. The noise level in the pub had noticeably dropped.

'Naturally, naturally …'

As Dumbledore took a mouthful of Firewhiskey, Rosmerta took her chance.

'Is it all true, Headmaster? Most people here didn't want to believe it was until you said so. Is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really gone?'

Dumbledore turned and smiled. The pub had fallen silent now.

'He is indeed,' he said, and a great cheer went up. 'I shan't stay long,' he continued a little louder, now addressing the crowd at large, 'nor do I wish to dampen your long-awaited celebrations – but please, let us take a moment to remember the witch and wizard who lost their lives tonight. A witch and wizard who had been waiting to celebrate this day for as long as you all here tonight. A witch and wizard who gave their lives to save their son. Please, raise your glasses for Lily and James Potter – and, of course, their son, Harry Potter: the Boy Who Lived.'

'The Boy Who Lived' echoed throughout the pub, followed by respectful applause as Dumbledore set his empty glass on the bar and found his way back out the pub.

He was stopped frequently along the village but eventually reached the gates flanked by winged boars. He muttered numerous counter-charms under his breath as he strode towards the great castle, finally undoing the protective spells that had kept Dark magic at bay for the last eleven years … his thoughts, however, remained loyal to all that had transpired in the past twenty-four hours. Black had betrayed the Potters, had outsmarted Dumbledore under his nose. Admittedly, that was not something he could possibly have envisioned.

Through the front doors and across the Entrance Hall, where the muffled sound of celebration issued from the Hufflepuff common room below … Dumbledore thought of the letter he had just delivered, which Petunia would be reading in a matter of hours … he had a feeling she wouldn't be entirely sympathetic, but unfortunately, she didn't have a say in the matter.

'Sherbet lemon,' he told the gargoyle guarding his office, who sprang out the way to reveal the revolving spiral staircase …

Then there was Harry himself. He could have no idea of the role he would play in the wizarding world. That could wait, thought Dumbledore. For now, Harry was better off not knowing anything.

Dumbledore opened the door to his office to find that it was not empty.

Snape leapt from the chair facing Dumbledore's and spun around, his dank hair swinging. His face was ghostly-white, fearful yet determined.

'Well?' he demanded.

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. Once he had hung his purple travelling cloak, he turned to Snape and sighed.

'You can't possibly have been expecting good news, Severus.'

'I – I just want to hear it from you –'

'I'm sorry, Severus,' said Dumbledore, though there was an absence of warmth in his tone. 'She's gone.'

Snape half-opened his mouth, then collapsed back on the chair and slumped on Dumbledore's desk, onto which he began to sob. Dumbledore looked down at the man, still so young, who had been lured into Tom's inner circle, only to come back to Dumbledore for the girl he had loved for his whole childhood, and experienced a surge of pity.

Once Snape had regained enough composure to speak, he raised his head slowly.

'I thought … you were going … to keep her … safe …'