"What did you say, Harry?" asked George, his face twisted with a quickly fading smile.

"Romilda's dead," repeated Harry. A heavy silence fell over the D.A. members who had arrived at the manor first and were celebrating their return. "I thought we were done with the Dawn Breaker following us. . . His bike exploded and he came after us again on a broomstick."

"Harry, are you sure you saw it?" asked Ron in a shaky voice.

"I saw it. The Killing Curse hit her squarely . . . "

Harry hung his head as his throat ran dry and no more words came out. Katie Bell broke down in sobs and Leanne pulled her into a hug, sobbing too. But their grief was nothing compared to the devastation Harry felt. There was blood on his hands again . . . in addition to the blood of innocent young Aurors, the blood of Susan Bones. . . . If he hadn't been there, would Romilda still be alive? If he had admitted his incompetence, accepted the reality of being a Muggle and stayed at number four, Privet Drive. If he hadn't taken on a ridiculously overwhelming amount of responsibility and stayed in the cupboard under the stairs that suited his conditions. . . . Then Romilda Vane would still be —

"I'll go," said Neville abruptly. Harry, interrupted in his dark train of thought, looked up again. Neville looked back at his friends, his eyes narrowed as if to ask why they couldn't see the obvious. "We've got to get her body — we can't just leave her there."

"But Neville, someone might be waiting —"

"I don't care what's waiting for us," Neville cut Hermione off, "you got to do what you got to do. This isn't courage, it's just the right thing to do."

"I'm going, too," said Dean Thomas firmly. "The more people we have, the safer we'll be."

"Me too." Seamus stepped forward, his face full of determination. "Neville's right, we can't leave Romilda on the road."

"It'll take four of us." Ron went forward, brushing aside Hermione's protesting arm, and joined Neville, Dean and Seamus. Harry almost volunteered when he saw his old Gryffindor roommates, who had shared the bedroom with him, banding together. Dean and Seamus looked at Harry expectantly, but then he remembered the big, playful eyes of Romilda, the one who had believed in him until the last moment. . . . Without the ability to use magic, he would be nothing more than a burden to them. Just as Eisenbein had intended, he would now only hurt the people he cared about by giving them false hope. . . .

"If we don't come back, it means it's a trap, so don't send anyone," Ron told Hermione with a stern face.

"What if you don't come back? What about me, Rose and Hugo?" asked Hermione tearfully.

"I'm just saying," Ron added quickly with a faint smile. "We'll be back in one piece, I promise."

The rest of Dumbedore's Army stood in the garden and watched in silence as Ron, Neville, Dean and Seamus flew away on their broomsticks until the night sky swallowed them whole. Then they all trudged wearily into the drawing room, heads bowed low, cheeks streaked with dried tears. Harry couldn't help but recall the eager, excited faces of these same people on the day Dumbledore's Army had been reassembled in this very room.

The cold truth seemed to finally sink in that they were at war, not on an exciting adventure. In the middle of the long table in the room were several bottles of Firewhisky and glasses for everyone. Malfoy sat alone in the corner, apparently having taken some from his hidden stash. With a wave of her wand, Hermione poured the whiskey into glasses and sent them out in front of everyone at the table.

"Romilda," she said.

"Romilda," they all said, draining the contents in one swift motion. It was the same Firewhisky Harry had been desperately searching for weeks ago, but unlike then, the liquid burned down his throat, leaving a bitter aftertaste instead of courage and comfort.

The four who had gone to retrieve the body did not return until well into the night. Around noon, the other members of the D.A. still waited anxiously around the table. Katie Bell and Leanne sat huddled together, sobbing and occasionally wiping their tears with handkerchiefs. Hermione glanced at her watch and tapped her fingers on the table as it grew late for Ron's return.

"Will you please stop that, Granger?" drawled Malfoy from across the room. Hermione glared at him and crossed her arms.

"Come to think of it, Malfoy, you were closest to Romilda when she died," said George with a frown. "It didn't even occur to you to bring her body back, did it?"

"I had a passenger behind me at the time," said Malfoy coolly as he pointed at Harry. "I couldn't afford anyone else; I was on a broomstick, not a Knight Bus."

"It doesn't matter what you ride," George snapped, glaring at Malfoy. "But what you're up to surely does. . . . If Pansy Parkinson had fallen off, would you have left her behind?"

"Did you not hear me? I had your precious Potter riding behind me," Malfoy said in a cold, drawling voice as he narrowed his gray eyes. "Or did you lose all sense of hearing when your ear fell off?"

George jumped to his feet and pointed his wand at Malfoy's face, and Lee Jordan followed his friend's lead. George's face was now almost as red as his hair.

"Stop it, both of you!" cried Hermione, standing up after them. "Our friend is dead and we're going to fight about it?"

"Well said, Hermione," George growled, pointing his wand at Malfoy. "Let's make sure who's friend and who's foe for once so we can prevent more of this, shall we?"

Hermione gave Harry a pleading look, but he pretended not to see it. The truth was, even if there were wizards fighting, there was nothing he, a Muggle, could do to stop it. Luckily he didn't have to intervene, because just then footsteps were heard outside and the door to the drawing room swung open. Ron looked in surprise at George and Lee Jordan, who had risen from their seats, and then at Malfoy, who was pointing his wand at them.

"What's going on?"

"The usual, Weasley," drawled Malfoy. "Whenever something doesn't work out, you blame the Slytherins."

"Something doesn't work out?" said George, his voice rising in anger. "My friend is dead! Your lot surely wouldn't care who lives or dies, but we're different!"

"Ron, what happened?" said Hermione, jumping up and running to the door.

"We found Romilda," Neville, who had followed Ron in, said instead. "We just left her in St. Mungo's mortuary."

George, still sulking, slowly lowered his wand as he watched the sullen faces of his friends. Malfoy, however, continued to glare at him, ready to curse him at the slightest provocation. Harry wanted to get out of the room as soon as possible, so he motioned for Neville to join him in the corridor.

"Neville, were you attacked?"

"No. But unfortunately Romilda's body wasn't in a very good condition," said Neville gloomily. "We can only hope the undertakers will clean her up well. . . . We sent an owl to Romilda's family as well."

Harry leaned against the wall, silently shedding tears at the thought of Romilda's parents who had just lost their daughter. One by one, the ancestors of the Malfoy family looked out of the portraits that hung in the darkened hallway and listened, their haggard faces peeking out of their frames. Like the somber mood of the paintings, the people in them seemed drawn to the dark and sad stories.

"I suppose there will be a funeral soon," Harry said, wiping away his tears.

"Probably, but I think it will be a modest funeral for the family only. People are afraid, Harry, just as they were in Voldemort's time. . . . The morgue at St. Mungo's now has many bodies whose burials have been delayed," said Neville quietly. "To tell you the truth, my parents died not too long ago."

"What?" Harry said in shock. He had only seen Neville's parents once before, former Aurors who had been held in St. Mungo's Hospital, driven insane by the extreme torture of the Death Eaters, one of them Bellatrix Lestrange. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"We're already overflowing with bad news, aren't we? There's no need to add another," said Neville with a wry smile.

"Still — "

"My parents were victims of the war. The Death Eaters took everything from them," cut in Neville. "The day you killed Voldemort, I went to visit them and told them that all the tragedy was over, that there was finally peace. Then they smiled at me, as if they understood what I was saying. Well, at least that's what it seemed like to me."

"I'm sorry," murmured Harry, not knowing what else to say.

"I believe in you, Harry. I know you'll get rid of Eisenbein and restore peace, just like you did before," said Neville firmly. "And when you do, I'll give my parents a proper burial so they can leave St. Mungo's Hospital once and for all, and finally be free."

As Harry and Neville faced each other in a moment of silence, a sudden coughing sound made them jump. Turning, they saw Faraday coming toward them.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt," said Faraday, holding up a vial full of silverly substance, "but isn't this what we went through all this trouble to get? Who's going to go into those memories?"

"I will," said Harry firmly. "It should have been me from the start — I'm the one who knows the most about Eisenbein."

"Harry, we should discuss this first!" exclaimed Hermione. Harry turned around and before he knew it, she was out of the room with Ron and standing in the corridor.

"Yeah, I was just about to say that," said Faraday. "These memories aren't of the best quality, being forcibly taken, so I had to process them by reading through old books and adding some chemicals."

"But it should still be viewable through a Pensieve, right?" asked Neville desperately. Harry also felt a horrible pang at the mere thought that the memories they had sacrificed so much for might be useless.

"In theory, yes, but given its unstable state, I think only one person would be able to look into it once," said Faraday. Harry suddenly felt extremely nervous that Faraday might drop the vial he was holding and break it.

"I insist, it has to be me who looks into this," said Harry calmly, making eye contact with Neville, Ron and Hermione in turn. "First of all, I've been an Auror the longest among us, so I should have the best sense of intuition and observation. And I'm the only one who's ever faced Eisenbein."

"But Harry, you're — " Ron's words were cut off by Hermione stomping on his foot. Ron closed his mouth and looked at Neville and Faraday, but his intentions were clear; he was about to mention that Harry wasn't a wizard anymore and therefore might have trouble working properly. But this made Harry even more determined.

"I'll see the memories. I deserve this."

Ten minutes later, Harry, Ron and Hermione were in Faraday's workshop with him. Hermione had set up a padded chair and a small table in the middle of the room, and on the table was the Pensieve that looked like a stone basin. When Harry finally sat down in the chair and faced the Pensieve, Faraday approached him and carefully poured a silvery substance from the vial in his hand. It wasn't much, so with a flick of his wrist, the entire contents fell into the basin.

"Be sure to remember, Harry," said Faraday seriously. "You only have one chance, and I want you to be aware of everything that happens around you."

"Of course. I doubt anyone else has spent as much time in a Pensieve as I have," said Harry. As Dumbledore had pointed out long ago, all the keys were in the past, in memory.

As he brought his face close to the Pensieve, it glowed with a seductive silver light, like a full moon in a clear night sky. He leaned further in, and the contents gradually became transparent, like a round window in the ceiling, showing him the landscape of the stolen memory from above. It was not a beautiful place. . . . It was a dingy, steamy factory, with small children huddled next to huge pieces of machinery, their hands busily moving. Yes, it was a factory of some kind, and Harry's heart beat a little faster at the realization. Was this the same Wizarding Factory that Eisenbein and his men used as their headquarters? If he could extract some useful information from these memories, he might be able to help his friends, even as a Muggle.

Harry took a deep breath, his mind a mixture of nervousness and anticipation, and immersed his face in the memory he had stolen from Eisenbein. Suddenly, everything around him — the chair, the desk, the floor — disappeared and he fell, spinning in a dark void. Perhaps because it was such an old memory, the moment of falling through the darkness seemed to last forever. And finally . . . he was standing in the middle of the factory.

Harry knew no one could see or hear him, but the horrible conditions of the place still made him shudder. Long rows of machines were packed tightly together, and at the top of each machine were countless strands of white cotton thread, closely spaced. At the bottom were tiny children clinging to them like ants.

Harry watched them work. As the bobbins spun and the threads wound on them unwound downward, the children grabbed the strands and let them slide down without tangling. Harry watched carefully as he moved from machine to machine, wondering which of the many children was the owner of the memory, the boy who would become Eisenbein after many years. The work seemed so laborious and tedious. The children, all barely into their teens, were bony and stooped. Then one of them looked left and right, peering out from his position, and Harry walked over to him. The boy, with a flat cap pushed down over his messy brown hair, wore the same dull gray overalls as all the other boys and girls his age, and his face was blackened by the dust and soot from the machines. But for some reason, his brown eyes seemed to sparkle.

"Pete, where do you think you're going?" said the other boy working next to him, a round-faced, freckled fellow.

"Relax, Tobey. Just going on patrol," said the boy called Pete, smiling and turning away.

"Isn't that a sign of trouble?" said another boy whose thin jaw and prominent cheekbones made him look like a hungry rat. "The supervisor's already on edge. . . "

"Leave him be, Taylor," Tobey said with a shrug. "Pete's the one natural at getting away."

Pete moved further and further away, leaving his friends Tobey and Taylor behind; his movements changed the point at which the distant landscape blurred, making it clear that Pete was the subject of this memory. Harry stayed close to him, staring at the boy who would later kill countless people and place a terrible curse on himself. Whistling and pacing with his hands in his pockets, Pete looked mischievous, but nothing sinister. Harry couldn't help but think of Eisenbein's hooded figure, whose real face would briefly appear amidst the swirling smoke. Was it the same face that he saw before him now? Soon Pete stopped as though he had spotted something interesting. There was a tiny little boy wriggling, a boy so small he could barely stand on the platform, being pulled by the threads instead of controlling their descent.

"Hey there, little friend! Need some help?" Pete called out. The boy squealed and was knocked off the ledge. As if he'd been expecting it, Pete grabbed him with surprising agility and stopped him from falling.

"Hey, your name is Tim, right? Watch this," Pete said, stepping up to the strings. He grabbed the threads coming down from the right and left and pulled them taut outward, then let them slacken. After doing this a few times, to Harry's surprise, the descent of the threads slowed noticeably.

The little boy, whose pale face and wide eyes gave him a look of perpetual fear, watched with an open mouth.

"It's a secret only I know — it makes your job easier when the cogs are broken," Pete said with a grin. Tim closed his mouth and made a horrified face.

"Won't I get in trouble then?"

"Well, that depends on your acting skills." Pete winked and handed Tim a loaf of bread wrapped in paper from his pocket. "Here, have some. I'm not in the best shape either, but you look like you need to grow up."

Once Tim was back in his position and working, Pete continued to walk the narrow aisle between the machines, tugging on the braids of a girl his own age and giggling with her, then making a funny face when he spotted a dead mouse and kicked it into the corner. It was at that moment that he heard the sound of squeaky shoes in the distance. With surprising speed, Pete kicked the nearby bucket with his foot, spilling water on the floor, then grabbed a nearby mop and began mopping up the puddle. A man in a white shirt, suspenders, and a bowler hat walked quickly down the aisle between the machines.

"Hey, you there!" the man shouted, pointing at Pete. He had a bristly mustache that curled at the end and looked as intimidating as a bulldog. "What are you doing, boy?"

The man seemed to be an object of great fear among the children who worked in the factory, and the boys and girls hunched their shoulders as he passed, clinging more tightly to their machines. Pete, however, was unperturbed and stopped mopping and turned to face the man calmly.

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins. I've been mopping up this puddle here," Pete said cheerfully, pointing to the spot. "Looks like the rain is coming through. We don't want to damage your valuable machinery, do we?"

"Think you're clever, don't you?" Jenkins narrowed his eyes and glared at Pete, who just gave him a polite smile. "Come to think of it, some parts of the machine broke down in your place before . . . what's your name?"

"Pete."

"Give me your full name!"

"Pete, that's all. I don't have a last name." Pete shrugged. "My parents couldn't be bothered to give me such a trivial detail when they abandoned me and my little sister."

Harry had to admit that Pete had nerves of steel to stand up to such a towering man, whose face he could barely make out without tilting his head. Meanwhile, the eyes of almost every child in the aisle were on them. They kept glancing in their direction as they fiddled with yarn. Jenkins snapped his fingers menacingly and glared at Pete, but when the boy just grinned, he turned away. Then Tim, the little boy from earlier who had been watching them, fell off the scaffolding with a scream.

"You foolish little brat! Can't you even stand up straight?" Jenkins strode over, grabbed Tim by the ear, and pulled him to his feet. That's when his face, hardened with rage, turned toward the machine behind Tim.

The thread on that side was noticeably slower than the others, thanks to Pete's earlier measurement. Jenkins's mouth curled under his mustache in a malicious smile.

"Here, kid," he said, still holding Tim's ear and pointing to the machine. "Looks like you broke a part, explain to me how that happened."

Tim looked back at Pete for a moment, then hung his head. "I don't know, sir," the boy replied. "It's been like this for a while, Mr. Jenkins."

"I've seen symptoms like that before . . . thread coming down slowly," Jenkins chuckled, pointing his thumb at Pete. "And it happened right at his station. Did he tell you how to do it?"

Tim looked over at Pete again and shook his head stubbornly. Jenkins squeezed his shoulder and asked again, "Not him, really? Then you did it yourself?"

Tim grimaced in pain and finally nodded.

"You're a bad boy. . . . You need to be punished!" Jekins pushed Tim hard, knocking him to the floor. As the poor boy writhed on the dirty floor, the man fumbled in his overalls pocket and pulled out what looked like a long jump rope. Harry leaned closer to see what it was, then gasped: the tool was barbed wire with handles at each end.

"Please, sir, forgive me!" Tim cried out in horror.

"Too late. Someone has to take responsibility." Jenkins glanced in Pete's direction and forced Tim to his feet. He swiftly wrapped the barbed wire around the boy's slender arms and began pulling on the handles on either side.

"AAAAAAARGH!"

Tim's sharp scream echoed through the factory. Droplets of blood dripped to the floor as the barbs tore into his pale, tender flesh. Harry shuddered at the gruesome sight, and the other children watching either burst into tears or turned away. Pete watched Tim's punishment with a stony, bloodless face. For a moment, Harry saw Pete take half a step forward, as if to turn himself in. But the next moment he was frozen in place, his head bowed low. When Jenkins finally released the bloody torture device from the boy's arm, Tim collapsed in a heap, the blood from his arm beginning to form a small puddle. . . .

Darkness grew around them and before he knew it, Harry found himself in a new place. They were now on a narrow and dirty street in what was clearly the town of Mould-on-the-Wold, not a factory, but the bleakness of the surrounding landscape was not diminished in the least. Pete was staggering along with his two friends, Tobey and Taylor, his head bowed low and the collar of his ashen coat wrapped around his neck. There was an aura of defeat about their helpless gait and somber expressions. Finally, the path curved and they emerged beside a meandering stream of dirty water with black oil floating on the surface.

"I had no choice, you know that," Pete said ruefully, looking down at his hands with remorse. They were callused and greasy, but they looked so healthy and intact compared to the little boy whose flesh had been torn apart by barbed wire earlier. "I don't care if I get hurt," said Pete, "but if I can't work, then Sophie —"

"We know your circumstances, mate," Tobey grimaced his freckled face and squeezed Pete's shoulder. "I know the church teaches us all to be good people, but honestly, even priests change their sermons when there's money on the line, right?"

"You're right, Pete. It's not your fault," Taylor chimed in, his squeaky voice matching his mousy, pointy face. "That kid just had bad luck. To tell you the truth, he wasn't very bright either."

Pete's shoulders were still slumped, and it looked like he hadn't gotten much comfort from his friends. The three boys walked along the brook in silence for a while. Harry looked around and spotted the huge factory behind them that must have been where they had been earlier. It stood on a hill, slightly higher than the surrounding area, and spewed smoke from two huge chimneys, blackening the sky with its imposing presence. It wasn't until the sun was setting that the three friends said goodbye and went their separate ways.

After walking along the river for a while, Pete turned into a narrow alley and quickened his pace when he noticed something ahead. It wasn't until the space around them opened slightly to reveal a small clearing that Harry realized where they were: the same desolate clearing where he and his friends had stolen the memories from Eisenbein, though in the memories it was smooth and flat with neatly laid stones, unlike its present state, which was overgrown with lush foliage and had a gnarled tree in the corner. Pete hesitated for a moment, then approached the old tree. Only then did Harry see the small figure leaning against it, hidden in the shadows cast by its branches. The figure lifted its head, revealing the pale face of a slender girl hidden behind a mass of tangled brown hair.

"Sophie!" said Pete, running to her. "It's cold outside, why did you come out here?"

"Just, I thought you might get bored if you came alone," Sophie said with a smile. The girl would have been pretty if she had put on a little weight and had a healthy complexion, but malnutrition and infirmity cast an indelible shadow of death over her face. Pete would have been handsome, too, had he been raised in better circumstances, and the boy and girl, smiling at each other, looked exactly alike now. As far as Harry could tell, they were brother and sister. Pete quickly took off his ragged coat and put it on his sister, then took her small hand and they walked across the clearing together.

That's when something magical happened: a bright, soft, golden light suddenly began to pour from the opaque glass windows of the large building they were facing. The siblings stopped, wide-eyed and surprised at first, but curiosity drove them toward the building the next moment. Pete, who was taller, put his hand over his eyes like a telescope and pressed his face against the glass to peer inside.

"Sophie, this must be the new ballroom they built!" exclaimed Pete. "There are so many people, young men and women. They're all in tails and dresses and fancy clothes . . . "

"What are they doing?" said Sophie, squirming to get a look inside. "Are they dancing?"

"No, not yet. The band is coming up. They're about to play."

Pete didn't need to explain; soon the strains of a slow, beautiful waltz drifted into the clearing, filling the dark, empty space.

"Wow, I love this music!" said Sophie. She clasped her hands together and gazed enviously at the ballroom. Through the glass windows, they could faintly see the red, blue, and white of the people waltzing gracefully in a circle, holding hands, two by two. Pete watched his sister out of the corner of his eye, then suddenly grinned, grabbed Sophie's hand, and led her to the center of the clearing. Sophie squealed, but giggled and followed her brother's lead. Soon Pete was waltzing with her to the tune of the music.

"You know how to dance?" said Sophie, looking surprised.

"I know the theory," Pete replied with a wink.

What began as a playful dance became more serious as the music picked up. When Pete grabbed one of Sophie's arms and spun her around, she squealed, then smiled brightly when her brother caught her again. Harry noticed that Pete was glancing sideways at the ballroom, watching the couples there, watching how they moved. Their waltz was awkward, but it had a youthful exuberance to it, as if a bright future was taking shape and shining around them like the golden candlelight of the chandeliers above the ballroom.

The waltz became faster and faster until they came full circle and returned to their original positions, and the music stopped. Facing each other and smiling broadly, the brother and sister seemed to have returned, not as a shabbily dressed boy and girl weathered by time, but as carefree young children who had regained their lost innocence. Sophie gasped for breath but couldn't take her eyes off the golden light surrounding her.

"Pete, it's like . . . it's like magic!"

"I promise you, Sophie," Pete said earnestly, holding out his little finger. "If I ever make a lot of money, I'll let you dance in the ballroom, not here."

"Really, Pete?" Sophie smiled and linked her little finger with his.

"Hey, you two! What are you doing?" came a growl from the entrance to the ballroom, and out of the darkness stepped a tall man with a limp and a gruff voice that reminded Harry of Argus Filch, Hogwarts's former caretaker. "You beggars, don't spoil the mood! Get outta here! This is private property!"

Pete quickly grabbed his frightened sister's hand and ran down the alley. The place changed again and now Harry found himself in a much larger rectangular square. Pete and Sophie giggled together, twirling their bodies back and forth remembering the wonderful moment they had just waltzed together.

Harry tried to take in the view of the square, bathed in moonlight and lit by gas lamps lined up at regular intervals. On the left side of the square were large and luxurious stone houses, surrounded by rose bushes, while on the right side were small, dilapidated wooden houses, huddled together at close intervals. And as if to mediate this extreme disparity between rich and poor, an imposing tree stood in the middle of the square on the other side, flaunting its majesty. It was a willow tree, with densely leafed branches proudly spreading in all directions, reminiscent of the Whomping Willow at Hogwarts. Of course, being in the Muggle world, it was unlikely that it would flap its branches at pesky passersby.

As the siblings approached the willow, Sophie, who had been giggling again, suddenly leaned forward and began to cough. Pete wiped away his smile and held her arm in concern. The coughing did not subside, and when she finally unfolded the hand she had covered her mouth, it was covered in blood. Without hesitation, Pete took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his sister's hand, but the happiness of the magical moment had already vanished from Sophie's somber face. Pete supported his staggering sister and leaned her against the willow tree, then sat down beside her.

"I'm just a burden to you," Sophie said, her words punctuated by lingering coughs."Leave me, Pete, and go to London . . . there'll be plenty of opportunities for you there."

Pete stared at his sister's face, pale as a corpse, drained of any remaining vitality.

"Sophie, our parents abandoned us. They left us on the street without even telling us our last name. . . . But I'm not like them!" cried Pete. He put the blood-stained handkerchief back in his pocket and squeezed his sister's small hand. "I promise — I'll always be with you."