A/N: I know that this chapter opens up more questions than it answers, but I had to cut it off here. It didn't seem to fit the mood to have a lot of forward action, but there will be plenty in the next chapter. (And the next chapter ought to be quite a bit longer as well!)

Chapter Eleven

There were a lot of people at the funeral. Harry had thought that Dumbledore's sharp drop in popularity would lead to a poor attendance, but he had underestimated the power of hypocrisy. The funeral was held at the school, as they were all certain Dumbledore would have wanted—but Harry noticed that the respect for his supposed wishes only went so far. He was certain that his mentor would have preferred something smaller and less stately, with simple words spoken by someone he was close to.

If we did it that way, it'd be me or Professor Snape up there, he reminded himself, and that wouldn't be the best idea. The chaos surrounding both of them . . . no, better to stay off the stage until things settled a bit. Professor Snape was, tactfully and wisely, not present at the ceremony. There were just enough rumours that he murdered Dumbledore to raise a public outcry, yet not enough evidence to legally condemn him. And Madam Pomfrey's records might all be in order, but she had inexplicably lost all memory of putting them together, as well as all memory of the treatments they detailed, as well as any certainty of whether he had been sick or had been killed. Quite the tangle.

In Harry's case, it was purely political. Was he going to be their next white knight? Already they were out for Cornelius Fudge's blood. It was hilarious to Harry. After all the Minister's bungling inefficiency, they were after him for something that was none of his business and which he could have done nothing to prevent? He had never been more certain of how much he hated politics than he was at Dumbledore's funeral.

Especially with the speculative eyes being cast in Sirius' direction. Harry might be their Galahad, but Sirius was older, more experienced, and they were looking for a leader. Yet Harry didn't worry too much about Sirius getting held up on a pedestal, despite the way he saw them looking at his godfather. Sirius was too much of a fringe candidate. He'd been a rogue for too long—a criminal, an exile, and now too firmly entrenched on the side of the werewolves in the civil rights debate.

He didn't realise how deeply he'd sunk into his thoughts until Hermione touched his shoulder and he nearly threw her on the ground and choked her. He took a quick step back while he got control of his reflexes, and mustered up a dry smile at her stunned look.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," she said gently, but she was frowning. "Can we talk later?"

Harry sighed to make his frustration plain. He hadn't yet told her the story of Dumbledore's death, not his part in it nor why it had happened. She was aware that he knew the truth, but he'd begged for a little time before he had to explain it. In truth, he wasn't sure if he had the right to tell her. It was bad enough for Snape, to know that Harry held the professor's life in his hands, but the added tension of having Sirius and then Hermione take a share of that responsibility might be too much.

"I don't know," Harry answered her. He looked around at all the people clamouring for one another's attention or trying to get to him, while the students and professors that were in attendance were weeping quietly or clinging together in small groups. It was an ugly sight. "I have to get out of here."

Hermione frowned in concern. "Okay. Do you want to go inside?"

"No," he said, turning away with a feeling of sickness in his gut. "I need to get away from all of this. I can't stand it."

"Let's go to your house, then," she suggested, taking hold of his arm.

Harry didn't think that was far enough, but it was the only place he could go. "Fine, I guess."

"Well, where do you want to go?" she asked with admirable patience.

"Away," he whispered. "I want to leave."

"Oh, Harry," she whispered back, her eyes sad. "I wish you could."

They found Sirius and told him they were going. Sirius said okay, but with a longing expression that clearly said he wished he could join them. As teenagers, it seemed, less was expected of them. But for an adult, private retreat into grief was unseemly. Sirius, with Remus and Tonks there to protect him from anyone unwelcome, would have to stay awhile longer. He was mostly sticking with Hagrid, who was absolutely undone, and Hagrid's half-brother, the semi-civilised Grawp, who needed to be watched closely while Hagrid was grieving. Harry wished he'd gotten closer to Hagrid so he could join the others and close ranks against the world to mourn Dumbledore's passing. But he'd been so busy that he'd barely had time to get to know his own roommates. He'd never even met Grawp before, although by the looks of things that was no great loss.

Then he had an idea.

"Hermione?"

"What?"

"Would you be very upset if I wanted to go somewhere without you?"

This was their new policy. If he asked a question like that, he expected an honest answer. And vice versa.

"I don't think I'd be upset, but I would feel a little hurt," she said slowly, drawing herself away from him. "But that's only because I don't understand what is going on in your head right now. I know you have a good reason for not talking to me, but I do feel hurt by it. I don't want you to avoid me."

"It's not that," he said hastily, taking her hand and clutching it hard. "It's just that the place I want to go is one you couldn't follow me to."
She squeezed his hand until it hurt. "How long will you be gone?"

"Just a few hours. I promise. I'll come find you after."

She nodded slowly, but she was crying. "Don't run away, Harry. Please don't run away. At least not from me."

He gave her fingers a soft kiss before releasing them. "I won't."

She nodded, and he left her. She would be okay for a few hours. She, too, was sad about this tragedy, and there would be some in the crowd who might need her comfort almost as much as Harry did. Harry was tired of wizards and funerals, and he needed to go away from it as far as he could for a while.

"Mr. Potter?"

He groaned aloud. He'd almost gotten away. He turned around, and his face softened only a little at seeing the twenty-something brunette again. She was here in a professional capacity, and he knew what she wanted.

"Miss Garnet. What can I do for you?"

She was standing there with a page to take notes on and a quill in her hand, and she'd obviously already taken down quite a few notes, judging by the slightly crumpled papers sticking out the pockets of her robes. She had to be the least organized reporter in the world, although that was one of the reasons Harry had liked her.

"I was hoping to ask you a couple of questions, but . . ." She shook her head, and her face had that look of sympathy she'd worn so often during their first interview. "Let's make a deal, Mr. Potter."

"Okay," he said warily.

"I will leave you alone, as I can see you need it. I will even cover your tracks so no one else will know you've gone for as long as I can. In return, I get an exclusive interview tomorrow."

"You'd really do that?"

"It will have more of an impact if I publish in two days," she said with a little shrug. "Everyone else will have their reports about the funeral tomorrow."

Harry couldn't conjure up a smile, but he tried. "You're not like any reporter I've ever met, Miss Garnet. And I really like having a friend in the press."

"So you'll do it?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to have the time or the inclination for a full interview tomorrow, but I will answer a couple of questions now. Make it quick, Miss Garnet."

Looking surprised, she turned to her notes and muttered to herself for a moment, then abruptly shoved them in her pocket. "I don't know why I write questions ahead of time," she confessed. "I always think of new ones once I get to start asking them."

Harry wished he had enough patience for her today, because he really did like having a friend in the press, but he had to get out of here. "If you have nothing for me . . ."

"I do. Would I be wasting my time to ask you what you know about Dumbledore's death?"

Harry gave her a cold look.

"Thought so. Okay, then, nothing about that. I do want to ask you about Dumbledore, though. I've heard several accounts that the two of you spent a lot of time together. Why?"

"I was there to learn," Harry said slowly. "And he wanted someone to teach."

"What did you learn about?"

"Some of everything. Albus Dumbledore had acquired more information and more wisdom over his life than I could ever hope to, and I was honoured that he chose to share any of it with me. We talked about politics, ethics, history, transfiguration theory, the culture of magical creatures . . . as I said, some of everything. He was a brilliant man, and I am a much better person for having known him."

"Tell me the thing you most admired about him, Harry."

Harry shook his head, stumped. Out of everything, what would he say? But he knew what he really missed about Dumbledore. "He had this ability, as everyone who's ever talked to him would tell you, of making people trust him. As soon as I met him, I wanted to learn this trick. There was something in the way he spoke to you that made you believe he respected you and appreciated you, so that you would feel comfortable and you would tell him anything. I always wanted to know how he pulled that off. It's only been since he died that I finally figured out his trick of making people believe he cared about them and valued their opinion."

He stopped, because he was realising the best thing about Dumbledore only now and it shamed him.

"What was it?" she prompted.

"There was no trick," Harry whispered. "He did." He started walking again. "Good luck with your article, Miss Garnet."

She let him go, probably happy enough that she was the only reporter he'd spoken to. Or, from the way she was standing there, maybe she was just as impressed by Harry's realization as he was.

Harry was relieved beyond words that there was no one near the lake that he needed to hide from. He and Reed had cultivated a tiny patch of gillyweed just a few feet from the shore's edge, by the tree where they used to meet, and Harry went there and downed a mouthful of the nasty stuff as quickly as possible. While he chewed, he took off his dark robes and set them in a fork of the tree's branches. He set his shoes atop the robes, swallowed the gillyweed, and dove into the lake.

It was a bright, sunny day on the surface, and the light managed to penetrate fairly deep. Harry didn't have his arm holster for his wand, so he simply carried it in one hand while he swam. The water was warm enough for the grindylows to be lively, and he'd rather not get attacked by them. He was a little worried about his reception at the bottom of the lake. This was the first time he'd shown up on his own, without invitation or appointment. The serious ways and commitment to tradition of the merfolk might mean he got sent on his way.

But Pesca saw him coming and had already fetched Reed by the time Harry arrived in the village.

"Harry," Reed said soberly. "We have heard of Dumbledore's death. We do not mourn the loss of this friend to our people, because he gifted us with another friend before he moved to the next world. Yet we will sing for a unique character who will no longer be shared with our people. Have you come to sing with us, Harry?"

He was safe here, among this tiny community that accepted him. And they were inviting him to express his grief, with no fear of creating the wrong public image. He could have kissed Reed.

"I have come to sing with you," Harry answered. "Though I do not know your song."

Reed smiled a bit, a brief flash of mossy teeth. "We have sung it together, Harry."

The only song Harry could remember singing down here was a beautiful little chant, almost a hymn, that was an expression of joy for their gifts of good water and bounty here in the lake, and their desire to pass the gifts to a new generation. He frowned questioningly.

"We do not mourn the dead, Harry. We invite them to sing their thanks with us, as they move ahead and leave the gifts of our people to the next generation."

So Harry joined them as they gathered in their meeting place, and as Reed invited whatever remained of Dumbledore's spirit to sing with them. Then he sang with them, expressing joy at their good life and his acceptance that someday he would pass this joy along and leave it behind for another. There were no reporters, and no one cried. Harry much preferred Dumbledore's second funeral.

The crowds had gone, although there were still a few mourners who had stayed to pay their last respects in privacy. It was beginning to get dark, and a grayness had fallen over the sky, and the day was becoming cool.

Neville was in a cold, dark place of his own, as the sky slowly changed to match it. He stood in front of the white tomb, numb with disbelief more than with grief. Albus had told him that he was ill and that he was getting old. He'd said that he didn't have much time left in the world. But he'd made Neville believe (or maybe Neville had chosen to believe) that this was still years away, not a mere few months.

It had come without warning. One day, Neville had his adopted grandfather in his life, there to listen to him or give him advice and to inspire him. The next day, he was not there. It was like waking up one morning and finding out your home had been robbed. That while you slept, someone had crept in and taken your most valuable possessions from your bedside table, right there by your head. Neville felt that sense of violation on top of his loss.

His problem was that he didn't know who the thief was. It might be Professor Snape, despite the mess caused by lack of evidence and his public denial of doing any such thing. Or it might have been some creeping illness who had stolen Albus from him. But the real feeling of violation came when he looked at Harry Potter. Because Harry knew something. He said he didn't, but he lied. People who didn't know him might not be able to tell, but Neville could tell that he lied.

He wasn't sure if he was angry with Harry. He wasn't quite sure of anything concerning his emotions, at the moment. As best he could tell, he didn't have any. He just felt so awfully cold and alone. Like he was floating in a strange cold pool, insulated from all attempts to reach him. Even the sounds of voices were oddly muffled and came to him from a greater distance than they should. He was alone, here in the cold place. He'd finally started calling the headmaster Albus because they needed something personal and calling him Grandpa wasn't right at all, and after such a brief time of sharing that new familial closeness, he was gone.

Neville leaned against the white stone. It was warm from soaking up the sun's rays, and Neville tried to let the warmth get into him, but it wouldn't come. At least not right away. But after a moment, it came to him from a new source. Fawkes came and alighted on his shoulder. The phoenix was not a true pet, and it did not allow itself to be pampered or stroked, but he settled on Neville shoulder and rubbed his head against Neville's cheek. He hooted softly.

Neville reached up and carefully put a hand on the bird's side, feeling the heavy weight of Fawkes' warm body and welcoming it. "He left you alone, too, didn't he?"

Phoenix tears could not heal all wounds, so the two of them sat without trying to heal anything for a few minutes. Then Neville heard footsteps approaching him. Thinking it would be one of the professors coming to tell him to go inside, he didn't look up. He wasn't ready to leave yet. Instead, someone sat down beside him, and he turned to see that it was Luna Lovegood.

"Hello, Luna," he said cautiously.

"Hello, Neville," she replied. She didn't say anything else.

"Did you want something?"

"I had come over to tell you something, actually."

"Okay. Go ahead."

"Well, it seems silly now. I came to tell you that the people we love never leave us, not entirely. But now you already know," she said, gesturing to Fawkes. "So I decided not to say anything. But I was already here, so I sat down. I thought you might like to sit by someone who wasn't going to bother you."

Neville made himself smile. "Thank you, Luna."

They sat in silence for several minutes. Neville didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable. He knew Luna well enough by now, after so long in the DL together, and for all his grief, he did appreciate her gesture. He hadn't thought he would have anybody to talk to, nobody who would understand what he was feeling—except maybe Harry, and Harry was obviously not planning on talking to him. But Neville found he didn't need someone who could understand, not really.

"I miss him already," Neville said softly.

"It will get better. It will take a long time, though."

Now Neville recalled that Luna had lost her mother when she was a child. Maybe she knew how he felt better than he'd thought.

"It's more than just how close we were," Neville said. "He was a good headmaster. I don't know who will take his place, but they won't do it like he did."

"That doesn't have to be a bad thing."

"Maybe not. But now we don't have a leader for this war."

Luna blinked at him, long pale lashes sweeping over her huge eyes and making her look strangely innocent. "We don't?"

"Not like him."

"But we have Harry, and we have you."

"I'm not the Boy-Who-Lived."

"But I thought you both were," she said, seeming to be genuinely confused.

Neville shook his head, ready to explain, then thought the better of it. If she didn't already know, he wasn't sure she ever would. He'd known she was odd, but he hadn't expected her to miss the point so completely.

"Is there some kind of rule that says you can't both be that?" Luna asked. "I thought you were both going to fight You-Know-Who."

"We are."

"Well, then," she said, as though she had made some point and was satisfied.

"But nobody is looking at me to be the leader now."

"That's not true," she said softly. "You're the leader of the DL. You aren't going to quit, are you? We still want you to be our leader."

Neville hadn't thought about that. "We're just students. How much of a difference are we going to make?"

"I don't know, of course. Would you like me to ask a Seer?"

Neville almost had to laugh, mostly because she seemed to be entirely serious. "No, I don't think they'd be able to tell us. But you're right, I guess. I do still have a lot to do. Who knows what the DL might be able to do? And our side needs everyone it can get, anyway. No, Luna, I'm not going to quit."

"Good," she said, and got to her feet. "You see? Dumbledore will never leave you entirely."

Neville watched her walk away, feeling amazed. He hadn't known she had so much depth behind all her eccentricities. It seemed like she'd come over here to give him some hope. Neville thought of his roommates and his fellow prefects, who had come to him throughout the day to offer him a brief word or embrace, and how nothing had made a difference, nothing had broken through the fog he was in. Luna had somehow done it.

He pulled something out of his pocket, something that never left his pocket no matter how many other items had gone missing from his person over the years. Pens, coins, trinkets—they all tended to disappear from his robes and trousers. But not this. He tapped his wand to the Galleon and set the time for the next meeting. Half an hour, and the DL would gather in the Room of Requirement. He had to speak to them.

He stood up, causing Fawkes to take flight briefly to avoid losing balance. The phoenix hooted questioningly.

"You don't have to stay," Neville said quietly. "I know you don't have a reason to anymore. I'll be okay without you."

Fawkes let loose a high, keening cry that made Neville's heart ache for something he couldn't explain. Then he was gone.

Neville hurried to the seventh floor. His friends were already arriving, looking confused, and Neville felt a burst of gratitude. He wasn't alone, not at all.

"Neville, what's going on?" Hannah asked him anxiously, grabbing hold of his arm.

"I'll tell you when everyone gets here."

"You've got us pretty worried, mate," Ron said, putting his arm protectively around Parvati, whose eyes were still red from crying.

"Hope you aren't going to do anything stupid," Ernie remarked. "I would hate to have to stop you."

Neville shook his head. "Nothing like that. Thanks for coming, guys."

"We knew it had to be important, for you to be calling a meeting right now."

They were good friends, all of them. Ginny and Dean were there in only moments, and Seamus arrived with all the younger students from Gryffindor after only a few minutes. Luna came in on her own, beaming a smile at Neville as though she were proud of him. Most of the Ravenclaw students showed up shortly thereafter. Cho was absent, but since Cedric Diggory had come to the funeral with her they didn't wonder where she was. Neville was amazed at how many members of the DL had come.

Hermione came in alone, and Neville hurried over to her before anyone else could.

"Is he coming?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "I'm not sure where he went."

Neville felt annoyed and angry with Harry again. He was acting like he'd lost more than Neville had, or something. He wasn't dealing with this very well, retreating more than ever and acting like things didn't still need to be done.

"Neville, we're all about to bloody lose our minds," Ginny said loudly.

The milling students immediately became quieter and looked at Neville.

"Okay. I just called you here to say one thing, that's all. I don't mean to waste your time or anything, but it needs to be said."

"We're all here, aren't we?" Seamus said. "Let's have it."

Neville took a deep breath. "We're getting very close to the end of the school year. I'm sure that this year will be finished as normally as possible, but I don't think any of us are expecting it to be the same next year. We're going to have a new headmaster. I don't know who that will be—maybe Professor McGonagall, but maybe not. We all know the Board of Directors is in Lucius Malfoy's pocket, so anything could happen. If that worries you, it's not because you're paranoid. It worries me, as well. The only thing we can know for certain is that Hogwarts will be different this autumn."

"We know that, Neville," Hannah said quietly.

He nodded. "So this is my point: we have to be ready for it. All of us. We need to stick together. We've been working together for this long already, and I don't want that to change. I know that not having Dumbledore is pretty scary, when we think about the war, and what the real goal of the DL has always been. But I say that means the DL is more important now than it ever was. We can't—" He was getting choked up. "We can't stop fighting." He paused, taking a deep breath.

Hannah put a hand on his shoulder. "We know that you and the headmaster were very close, Neville. No one is expecting you to be ready for this right now."

"Thanks," he whispered, but he stood up straight and addressed the group again. "What we've lost is more than just our headmaster, obviously. But we won't let that destroy what we've been working for. I don't know what the DL can do, but we're going to find out. Even if the resistance falls apart without Voldemort, even if the DL is all that's left, we're going to keep fighting. I, for one, will be here every week next year, preparing myself to do whatever is necessary to put a stop to You-Know-Who. Who is going to be here with me?"

Everyone stared at him.

"I will," said one voice, bold and loud. It was Kimberly Kearney. She took a step forward to look Neville in the eyes. She looked beautiful, standing there with her fists clenched and her face shining with determination, like some sort of warrior queen. Colin Creevey stepped up beside her, his cherubic blond curls glowing like a halo and making him look like an avenging angel-in-training rather than a child.

"And me."

The two of them smiled at one another and Colin put his hand around Kimberly's, and then suddenly the whole DL was clamouring their agreement and shouting that they would be here and that they would fight. Ernie and Ron and Ginny and Parvati and Hannah were standing around him, patting his shoulders and pledging their support. There were people thumping their comrades on the back, and gripping their wands, and the power of the feelings in the room was so thick that it set Neville's heart to pounding.

Then Hermione slipped in close to him. While everyone was shouting, she put her face close to his and whispered.

"I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know if Harry or I will be here for the DL. But I know that Dumbledore would be proud of you if he could see you now. Don't give up, Neville."

She slipped away from him. Neville didn't see her leave, but he didn't see her at all after that, so he supposed she must have left to find Harry. He was a little bit lost at the idea. Harry provided so much strength to their group with his own hard work and with his ideals, while Hermione was their most brilliant witch and the one who could find the answer when no one else could. Neville didn't know how to fill in that gap, so he could only hope that they would still be around.

"The confusion you have created suits me perfectly."

The silken voice came to him from far away, and the split second it took him to respond could get him killed. He had to focus.

"I had hoped you would be pleased, my lord," he answered. His face was implacable, with only a small, humble smile to the dark-robed figure seated across from him.

"You have given us many more options than I had planned for," the Dark Lord continued, his eyes displaying a mad glee. "Our attempts to gain control in the Ministry are not going as well as I had hoped, so I would not have been able to cover up your murder if you had been more obvious."

He bowed his head. "I have tried my best to ensure that it cannot be proven. I have given you my wand to ensure that it does not fall to those who would use it to discover the murder."

The long, bony fingers stroked that wand, which sat on the table beside him. He had taken great pleasure in causing the wand to reveal its last spell over and over, watching Dumbledore die as many times as he wished. Severus had acquired a second wand over a year ago and used it in his classroom and brewing experiments many times so that he had one to present to the Ministry. He would be using that one from now on, but he missed the one the Dark Lord held. It was his true wand.

"You have done me a great service," the Dark Lord smiled. "I will not forget your loyalty to me."

"You are generous, my lord," he murmured.

"I know that you must go, to cover your tracks, but first I will tell you my plan."

"Yes, master."

"You will replace him."

"Whom?"

"Do not pretend ignorance, Severus, it does not become you. You will be headmaster of Hogwarts next term."

"Do you believe we have the power for that already?"

The Dark Lord smiled again, his little burst of temper already forgotten. "The school's board of directors will do as I wish them to do, and I wish them to place you in that role. Under your guidance, the school will become what it should be. We will eradicate the Mudblood vermin that currently scurry in its halls, and make it pure. You will do this for me, Severus."

"I will be proud to serve you, master. I am eager to begin."

"I know you are," he nearly purred. "Now go. You have work to do to ensure that your peers cannot try to take your place, and I know that you must take steps toward pretending that you had nothing to do with the death of Albus Dumbledore. I know you are anxious to help Lucius locate his family, but rest assured that we are giving proper attention to that."

"Of course. You have only to tell me if help is needed and I will be glad to give it my attention. Until then, I have other work to attend in your service."

"Then you are dismissed."

"Thank you, my lord."

He left quickly. It did not do to linger in the Dark Lord's presence, not even for those who served him. Bellatrix Lestrange was the only person he knew who truly relished the company. Everyone served him and his ideals, but Severus could easily pick out in their minds their moments of distaste for their master. He pointed it out when it would bring him more favour and kept silent when it would not. He was a good servant to the Dark Lord, and he could only become a better servant from now on. It was as Dumbledore had said—he had taken the final step in their plan. Dumbledore was gone and his own loyalty was demanded by only one master now. Yet it was, if anything, even more difficult now. He did not have Dumbledore to remind him of his true path. He would have to remember it on his own.

Of course, it was hard to forget that the person he currently served had killed the only woman he had ever loved. And that the same person had demanded he kill the only man who had ever believed in him. He burned with the desire to have his vengeance for that. But it would have to wait, for a while. He would know when it was time. Dumbledore had been very clear. Harry Potter was the one who would tell him when it was time.

He had just begun the darkest part of his life, and he found himself lacking the belief that he would see the end of it. He could recite his plan, but somehow he didn't know what would happen. It was time to give up hope, he admitted, if he'd ever had any to begin with. He had nothing left to hope for, except his revenge. Potter had better do his part quickly. Severus was ready for this to be over. He wanted to end this, and he wanted to leave. Once this was over, he would never come back.