Chapter 2
"Where have you been?" Cried Mrs Weasley, rushing over from the Gryffindor table as they entered the Great Hall. "I've been worried sick!' She pulled Ron into a suffocating hug.
"Sorry, Mum," He mumbled into her shoulder.
Harry looked around at the rest of the family. Bill and Charlie were sitting together, talking in low voices, and Mr Weasley seemed to be trying to persuade a distraught and uncharacteristically silent Percy to go and get some sleep. George was sitting alone, further down the table, staring at his hands. Droplets of water were falling from the end of his nose every few seconds. Each Weasley was distinctly red-eyed. Harry was struck by another pang of guilt. His fault.
"Harry dear, you must be starving," Mrs Weasley said, releasing Ron.
"Err," The truth was, he was ravenous; he had forgotten to call on Kreacher for that sandwich all those hours ago, but he had never felt less like eating.
"Of course you are," Mrs Weasley interrupted. "I'm afraid they've stopped serving dinner, but you can pop down to the kitchens; I'm sure the house elves will be more than willing to whip you up something." Harry nodded.
"Actually, Mrs Weasley, I was just going to call Kreacher."
"Of course, of course. I hope you don't mind, but we'll be staying here until tomorrow evening. There's going to be a memorial service for everyone who died," Her voice broke, "and a funeral for people whose families want them to be buried here."
"That's fine. Will- will he be buried here?"
"Err, no, we don't think so. George won't tell us what he thinks we should do. I think we all want him close to home, though." Her voice had grown very soft, and her eyes sparkled with fresh tears.
"Molly, may I talk to you," came a voice from behind Harry. He turned to see Professor McGonagall.
"Yes, of course, Minerva." Mrs Weasley bustled past the four of them, blinking rapidly. Harry glanced sadly at Hermione, not quite knowing what to do or say.
"Kreacher," he called once they were gone. There was a crack and the elf appeared before him, beaming.
"Master," He said in his bull-frog's voice, bowing deeply.
"Hey, err, could you get us some food. Nothing too big, just sandwiches or something."
"Of course, Master." And he clicked his fingers once more disappeared again.
Kreacher, it would seem, did not understand the concept of 'nothing too serious'. A short time later, steaming bowls of soup, plates of roast dinner, and a large chocolate gateau appeared on the table in front of them. They each looked at the food, but no one made any move to eat it. Slowly, Harry pulled a plate towards him, and began picking at the meal. The others followed suit, but no one ate much. Ginny reached for a bread roll, and began to tear it apart, as if to dip it in her soup, but instead, she just kept pulling it apart, until it was a mere pile of bread crumbs on the table. It was Hermione who spoke first, once they had all pushed their plates away, fed up with pushing their food around their plates, unable to bring themselves to eat anything.
"You need to sleep, Ron. It's been well over a day and a half since you last did, you must be exhausted."
"Yeah, I guess." He admitted.
"I think I'll go to bed, too, though I did sleep earlier. Ginny?" She said.
"I might as well," She yawned, stretching, before standing up. They all trooped off back to Gryffindor tower, Harry slightly unsure as to what to do now; he'd only been awake for a couple of hours. Maybe he'd go and talk to Neville, find out more about what had been going on in the past year.
Harry kissed Ginny goodnight at the foot of the stairs to her dormitory, before collapsing on the sofa by the fire. He hadn't had much time to think about what had happened so far. Once it had, he had been bombarded by people wanting to talk to him, thank him, and comfort them over lost friends and family members. Thinking back to the moment where it actually happened, the images were vague, he couldn't remember what happened exactly; it happened so fast. But it had. It was over! He almost laughed out loud with relief. Lord Voldemort would never hurt another living soul, and at this moment, the remaining followers of his were being rounded up by aurors. But the weight of on his heart meant that he couldn't feel any less like celebrating. Fred, Tonks, Lupin, Colin; it was horrible. He vowed to make it his duty to look after Teddy with Andromeda; he would make sure he knew about his parents, and why they died. Teddy wouldn't grow up like Harry had; he could take comfort in that. He would grow up in the wizarding world, knowing who his parents were, who he was. Though, Harry thought, suppressing a chuckle, it would be hard to hide Teddy in the Muggle world. Until he was old enough to learn that it wasn't normal, it would be a little difficult to hide turquoise hair. If Teddy was anything like his mother, he would certainly enjoy sporting hair of peculiar colours. Imagine Uncle Vernon's expression if he had to look after a child with purple hair and orange eyes. Harry's desire to help with the upbringing of this one child burned like a candle in a black room; a flame of hope, one thing that could keep him going.
He turned his head and stared into the flickering flames, remembering conversations he'd had with Sirius. Where was he supposed to go from here? Did he want to come back in September, to take his seventh year? Ginny would be coming back, of course. And he could become an Auror if he got the grades. But somehow, coming back didn't seem right. His time at Hogwarts was probably over, he thought, sadly. Maybe he might just take a year out, maybe do the studying for N.E., and ask Professor McGonagall if he could sit the exams next summer. But after, well, the past seven years, having a year of relaxing and having a normal life sounded... boring. He made a mental note to talk to Ron and Hermione about this. He'd go where they decide go, probably. What about Quidditch? He had never really thought about what he would do once he was out of school, it had never really come up.
Harry thought over all of his options until, eventually, he fell asleep where he lay on the sofa, only this time, he didn't sleep so peacefully. The faces of Remus, Tonks, Fred and Colin loomed out of the darkness at him; he dreamt of an unearthly sound, like worlds being wrenched apart, and being catapulted backwards, followed by screams of "Fred! FRED!"; and he saw a shockingly distorted face -with slits for nostrils- that was glowing bright red, as though surrounded by flames cast upon it by a high window, through which could be a seen a burning sunrise.
He was awoken by something tickling his face. His raised a hand to try and bat it away.
"Harry!" Ginny hissed. He opened his eyes. Ginny was leaning over him, her long red hair breaking free from behind one ear, hanging into his face.
"What's up?" Harry yawned.
"You need to pack, and then we're going down to breakfast before the memorial service at ten."
"Ok," He said, stretching, joints twinging, and pulled himself into a sitting position. Ginny disappeared up the stairs, and after a moment to collect his thoughts, Harry followed.
Ron was pulling on a pair of plain black robes; the singed and grubby ones he'd worn in the battle lay in a bundle near the bin.
"Do we actually have anything to pack?" Harry asked him.
"Not really, Hermione's got everything in that bag of hers already, and I don't think we'll need to keep these robes," Ron said, jerking his head in the direction of the discarded robes. "She left you some clean ones, by the way,"
Harry wandered into the bathroom and began to remove his tattered clothes, wincing as his joints popped and his injuries throbbed. He dropped them on the tiled floor and glanced in the mirror over the chipped sink. His hair now reached to his chin, which was covered with a dark shadow, interrupted by a deep slash that crossed his cheek. Harry was surprised Mrs Weasley hadn't insisted he go see Madame Pomfrey as soon as she saw him. The skin of his torso was mottled and scratched, but it was nothing in comparison to the enormous black bruise that blossomed over the centre of his chest. A couple of ribs seemed to be pushing outwards, pressing against his skin. At the top of the bruise sat a smudge of white: the scar from where the locket had been severed from his chest. He pulled his glasses off, leaving them by the sink, and stepped into a waiting shower, flicking on the faucet and allowing the water to cascade over him.
The pounding of the shower acted like white noise from a radio: blocking everything out with its steady beat, drumming on his back. Once he had finished washing, he stepped out of the shower, wincing slightly from the blast of cold air, and the frigid stone beneath his feet. He quickly dried off, avoiding putting pressure on the worst of his abrasions. He pulled on the new robes, and looked back at the mirror. Harry frowned at his reflection, and pulled out his wand, muttering a spell. The dark stubble vanished, and he turned the wand to his hair, speaking a different incantation, and chunks of black hair fell into the sink. It was an extremely rough job, but it was better than having chin length hair; Mrs Weasley would have pounced on him the minute they got back to the Burrow. Picking up the old clothes, he strode back into the dormitory, running a hand through his shorn hair as he did so. Ron glanced over from where he lay draped over his bed.
"How are the injuries?"
"Not great," Harry admitted, "I'll probably go and see Madame Pomfrey later. Got a couple of broken ribs."
"That bad? The worst I've got is some nasty scrapes from the wall that exploded..." Ron trailed off, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling.
"Come on," said Harry, quietly. Ron pulled himself off the bed, still not looking at him, and together they turned towards the door, just as Hermione and Ginny appeared.
"Oh good, you're ready," Hermione gave Ron a lingering look, "The service doesn't start for a couple of hours, so we're in no rush. Have you got everything?"
"The question is, have you? You're the one with all our stuff," said Ron.
"True, and yes, I have, I was just making sure. Shall we go?" She turned and headed back down the spiral staircase. Ron followed her, and Ginny slipped her hand into Harry's and together they headed down for breakfast. F4s
They joined a rather subdued group of Weasleys in the Great Hall. Bill glanced up and smiled at them as they approached, but otherwise nobody made any sign of noticing their presence.
Breakfast was a solemn affair; hardly anything was said other than a few enquiries of "Sleep well?" and "Would you mind passing the milk?". George excused himself the moment he had finished. Harry soon followed, saying he needed to go and do something, while giving Ron and Hermione a significant look.
He strolled across the lawn towards Dumbledore's tomb, heart thumping in his chest. The top was still cracked; a jagged line that ran straight down the middle of it.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry whispered, watching one half of the slab of marble rise into the air, wavering slightly under its own weight. He guided it to the ground, and reached for the elder wand.
"Sorry, Professor," He mumbled, as he pulled back side of the cloth draped over the frail body. Carefully, he placed the wand in the Headmaster's hand, before levitating the marble back into place, and casting the strongest sealing charm he knew over the split in the rock. He then proceeded to cast protection charms all over it; no one would disturb Albus Dumbledore's resting place again.
An hour before the memorial saw Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny sitting by the edge of the lake, just chatting amongst themselves about nothing in particular, trying to keep the mood light, ignoring the subject that was pressing down on them like a dead weight. A hundred metres away, rows of spindly white chairs sat, facing a platform that had been erected to the right of Dumbledore's tomb, which shone brightly in the May morning sun.
"Hey, Harry, it's Kingsley," said Ginny, looking in the direction of the front steps. Sure enough, Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly appointed Minister for Magic was striding across the lawn towards them.
"Good morning, Harry, Ron, Hermione," He addressed them each in turn. Ginny made a slight sound of annoyance when her name wasn't mentioned. "Harry, I was wondering, would you mind saying something at the memorial service? I'm sorry it's such short notice; it doesn't have to be anything long, just a few words. I think it would mean a lot to everyone."
"Err, okay? I don't know what I would say though..." He trailed off.
"Whatever comes to mind and seems appropriate will be perfect. I'm sorry, I've got to go, I'm on a rather tight schedule."
"That's fine, minister," Harry said, a grin playing on his lips. Kingsley laughed.
"That's going to take some getting used to, I have to say. Mind you, I may not get the chance to, I'm only the temporary minister, remember?"
"Well, compared to the last three ministers we've had, they'd be mad to get rid of you," Ron piped up. "Let's see, who have we had? Fudge, tosser; Scrimgeour, git; and Thicknesse, Imperiused Death Eater." They all laughed, and some of the tension in the atmosphere seemed to dissipate.
"Yes, well, I'd better be off. I'll see you lot in an hour." A shadow seemed to flit across his face, and his smile slackened. Kingsley turned, and strode off back towards the school. Ron and Hermione turned back to look at Harry.
"What do you think you'll say?" Hermione asked.
"No idea," He admitted. "I think I'll just have to wing it."
There was a slight murmur between people as they started to file into their seats, but otherwise, everything was quiet, but for the sound of birds singing nearby. Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys sat near the front, with Kingsley and McGonagall. Once everyone was seated, the small, wispy man that had spoken at Dumbledore's funeral climbed the steps at the side of the platform, and stood before the lectern. He cleared his throat, and began.
"Yesterday, in the very early hours of the morning, Hogwarts witnessed what was probably the worst battle that has ever been held on its grounds. It witnessed a fight against Lord Voldemort." The name rang out through the grounds, but nobody flinched. "In its own way, it took part in this battle, as its suits of armour, gargoyles, and students were called to fight. Yesterday was a day when young wizards and witches stood up, and took arms to fight for what they knew was right, and good. Yesterday was a great and terrible day. Great, because the good and true were victorious, but many lost their lives. Fifty four people gave up their lives last night to stop the evil that had taken rule of our world for the past year." As the man continued to speak, Harry watched reflections play over the surface of the lake, blocking out the impersonal words of a man who wasn't there when it happened, didn't experience it, didn't know those who died. The man finished his speech, and Kingsley rose from his seat to speak. The atmosphere changed considerably. It seemed to relax slightly, and everyone who knew him personally seemed happier to have someone more appropriate speak. Kingsley had known what it had been like.
"We have won a vicious battle, one against a side that both outnumbered us, and fought with sheer ruthlessness. We showed them that those two things alone are not enough. We had something they did not: something worth fighting for. In fact, we had a lot to fight for: the world we had before, after the first war; our rightful place in this world, whether pure blood or muggleborn; and those we had lost through the movements of the other side. Those who died will not have died without cause, and it is terrible that they were lost, but every single one of them went into battle knowing full well what might happen, yet they still went forth, and fought with strength and bravery, and played their part in our victory. This is how we should remember them, not as people who died at the hands of Lord Voldemort, but people who died in beating him. Thank you." Kingsley stepped away from the stand, and nodded slightly at Harry, who suddenly felt as though his stomach had dropped through his feet. Ginny gave his hand a light squeeze as he stood up and walked forwards. Once behind the stand, he looked out over the rows of people before him, over the grounds, and up at Hogwarts itself.
Taking a deep breath, he said, "I think Kingsley pretty much covered it there. I came here late at night, a few hours before the battle began, because I needed to continue with what I'd been doing over the past year, under Dumbledore's orders. I had intended to do what I needed to do, and leave again, but that was easier said than done. One thing led to another, and two hours later, we had a full blown war on our hands. We were given the option of handing me over, or fighting, and I was never actually given the opportunity to voice my own opinion on this matter. Voldemort thought he knew me, thought I would come to him, rather than letting others fight for me. He was right. But instead, people stood up and fought. I didn't ask them to; I didn't want them to, but if they hadn't, it probably wouldn't have ended as it did. And what pains me is that so many people died rather than turning me over, that I didn't even know! The losses we suffered should not, will not, be forgotten. I only hope that they are proud of what they achieved in fighting yesterday, proud that they have made a happier place for their friends and family, and I hope that they are at peace now. Thanks." Harry bowed his head, and walked back off the platform. He couldn't remember most of what he had said, and hoped it had been okay.
The little man reappeared, and asked everyone to stand. They rose as one body. Out of the ground behind Dumbledore's tomb rose a marble pillar, like a war memorial. It was blank, but then the man lifted his wand, and started reading names aloud. And as he spoke, the names started carving themselves into the marble in shining, gold letters, sparkling in the sunlight. Colin Creevey, Nymphadora Lupin, and Remus Lupin appeared on the monument as they were called, and finally, Fred Weasley. Harry heard Ginny draw a long, shuddering breath, and wrapped an arm around her waist. A tear slid down her face. Ron was staring as the ground, fists clenched, and Hermione was biting her lip, brow furrowed, her eyes glistening.
A sound behind them made them all look over their shoulders. Two dozen or so mahogany coffins, each supported between two thestrals, came down the aisle. A few people gasped at the sight of the skeletal horses. Once they had reached the platform, the procession turned left, and the thestrals filed into rows before the tomb and monument. The man started talking again, naming those who would be buried at Hogwarts. When he was finished, he waved his wand, and the harnesses between the horses vanished, and the coffins sank to the ground. The man started speaking a rapid incantation, his wand raised high above his head, issuing streams of gold and silver that curled through the air and split apart, before plunging through the lid of each coffin, which glowed bright gold, with silver runes looping across the surface. Then, the monument began to glow the same colour, and a stream of gold shot out the top of it, shooting up into the sky, before exploding like a firework, expanding into a blanket that seemed to fill the sky. If anybody had been looking at the ground, the wound have seen the rows of coffins sink into it, and marble headstones inscribed with the names and birth to death dates of each person rise from it. The thestrals stretched their huge, leathery wings and took off, soaring upwards until they were mere black specks, and the web of magic fell from the sky, showering them all with golden sparks.