"Bear your blade and raise it high. Stand your ground, the dawn will come. The night is long and the path is dark, look to the sky for one day soon the dawn will come" - The Dawn Will Come, Dragon Age: Inquisition
All lessons are suspended, all examinations postponed. Some students are hurried away from Hogwarts by their parents over the next few days -- the Patil twins are gone before breakfast on the morning following Dumbledore's death, and Zacharias Smith is escorted from the castle by his haughty-looking father. Seamus Finnigan, on the other hand, refuses point-blank to accompany his mother home; they had a shouting match in the entrance hall which is resolved when she agrees he could remain behind for the funeral. She has difficulty finding a bed in Hogsmeade, Seamus tells us, for wizards and witches are pouring into the village, preparing to pay their last respects to Dumbledore.
Some excitement is caused among the younger students, who have never seen it before when a powder-blue carriage the size of a house, pulled by a dozen giant winged palominos, come soaring out of the sky in the late afternoon before the funeral and land on the edge of the forest. I watch from a window as gigantic and handsome olive-skinned, black-haired woman descends the carriage steps and throws herself into the waiting arms of Hagrid. Meanwhile, a delegation of Ministry officials, including the Minister of Magic himself, are being accommodated within the castle. Harry and I are diligently avoiding contact with any of them; I'm sure that sooner or later, we will be asked again to account for Dumbledore's last excursion from Hogwarts.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and I are spending all of our time together. The beautiful weather seems to mock us; I can imagine how it would be if none of us had happened, and we had had this time together at the very end of the year, Draco still at the school, the pressure of homework lifted...hour by hour I think of him, of how close he had been switching sides before the other Death Eaters arrived. But then I think of all the bad things he did; cursing Katie, poisoning Ron, trying to seduce me to his side...his words from the tower haunt my dreams, "We couldn't rely on the Imperius Curse again -- we knew she'd be able to throw it off. But that Mudblood Granger ruined our chances when she woke Haylee up from that dream." Would he have tried to curse me had he not known I could throw the Imperius Curse off? Worse yet, would he have continued trying to seduce me to his side? All I know is that every warning ever given to me about him turned out to be true, and I only hope that we don't cross paths in this war again, for I don't know what I'd do.
We visit the hospital wing twice a day; Neville has been discharged, but Bill and Riley remain, the latter yet to wake up from his induced slumber. Bill's scars are as bad as ever - in truth, he now bears a distinct resemblance to Mad-Eye Moody, though thankfully with both eyes and legs -- but in personality, he seems just the same as ever. All that appears to have changed is that he now has a great liking for very rare steaks.
"...so eet es lucky 'e is marring me," Fleur says happily, plumping up Bill's pillows, "because ze British overcook their meat, I 'ave always said this."
"I suppose I'm just going to have to accept that he really is going to marry her," Ginny sighs later that evening, as she, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and I sit beside the open window of the Gryffindor common room, looking out over the twilt grounds.
"She's not that bad," says Harry. "Ugly though," he adds hastily, as Ginny raises her eyebrows, and she lets out a reluctant giggle.
"Well, I suppose if Mum can stand it, I can."
"Anyone else we know died?" Ron asks Hermione, who is perusing the Evening Prophet.
Hermione winces at the forced toughness of his voice. "No," she says reprovingly, folding up the newspaper. "They're still looking for Snape but no sign..."
"Of course there isn't," I say, becoming angry whenever the subject crops up. "They won't find Snape till they find Voldemort, and seeing as they've never managed to do that in all this time..."
"I'm going to bed," Ginny yawns. "I haven't been sleeping that well since...well...I could do with some sleep."
She kisses Harry (Ron looks away pointedly), waves at the rest of us, and departs for the girls' dormitory. The moment the door has closed behind her, Hermione leans forward towards Harry and me with the most Hermione-ish look on her face.
"Harry, Haylee, I found something out this morning, in the library."
"R.A.B?" Harry asks as I sit up a little straighter.
I do not feel the way I have so often felt before, excited, curious, burning to get to the bottom of a mystery; I simply know that the task of discovering the truth about the real Horcrux is an essential task in the dark and winding path stretching ahead of us, the path that us and Dumbledore had set out upon together, and which he now know we will have to journey alone. There is as many as four Horcruxes out there somewhere, and each will need to be found and eliminated before there is even a possibility that Voldemort can be killed. I keep reciting their names to myself, as though by listing them I can bring them within reach: the locket...the cup...the snake...something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's...the locket...the cup...the snake...something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's...
The mantra seems to pulse through my mind as I fall asleep at night, and my dreams are thick with cups, lockets, and mysterious objects that I can't quite reach, though Dumbledore helpfully offers me a rope ladder that turns to snakes the moment I begin to climb...
Ever since I showed Hermione the note inside the locket she has been rushing off the library a little more often than is strictly necessary for someone with no homework to complete.
"No," she says sadly. "I've been trying, but I haven't' found anything...There are a couple of reasonably well-known wizards with those initials --Rosalind Antigone Bungs...Rupert 'Axebanger' Brookstanton...but they don't seem to fit at all. Judging by that note, the person who stole the Horcrux knew Voldemort, and I can't find a shred of evidence that Bungs or Axebanger ever has anything to do with him...No actually, it's about...well, Snape."
She looks nervous even saying the name again.
"Well, it's just that I was sort of right about the Half-Blood Prince business," she says tentatively.
"D'you have to rub it in, Hermione? How d'you think I feel about that now?"
"No -- no -- Harry, I didn't mean that!" she says hastily, looking around to check that we're not being overheard. "It's just that I was right about Eileen Prince owning the book. You see...she was Snape's mother!"
"I thought she wasn't much of a looker," says Ron. Hermione ignores him.
"I was going through the rest of the old Prophets and there was a tiny announcement about Eileen Prince marrying a man called Tobias Snape, and then later an announcement saying that she'd given birth to a --"
"-- murderer," Harry spits.
"Traitor?" I add though I could have used much more colourful words.
"Well...yes," says Hermione. "So...I was sort of right. Snape must have been proud of being 'half a Prince,' you see? Tobias Snape was a Muggle."
"Yeah, that fits," I say scathingly. "He'd play up the pureblood side of it all so he could get in with Lucius Malfoy and the rest of them...He's just like Voldemort. Pureblood mother, Muggle father...ashamed of his parentage, trying to make himself feared using the Dark Arts, gave himself an impressive new name -- Lord Voldemort -- the Half-Blood Prince -- how could Dumbledore have missed --?"
I break off, looking out the window. I can't stop myself from dwelling upon Dumbledore's inexcusable trust in Snape...but as Hermione has just inadvertently reminded us, Harry himself was taken in just the same...In spite of the increasing nastiness of those scribbled spells, he had refused to believe ill of the boy who had been so clever, who had helped him so much...
"I still don't get why he didn't turn you in for using that book," says Ron. "He must have known where you were getting it all from."
"He knew," Harry says bitterly. "He knew when I used Sectumsempra. He didn't really need Legilimency...He might even have known before then, with Slughorn talking about how brilliant I was at Potions...Shouldn't have left his old book in the bottom of that cupboard, should he?"
"But why didn't he turn you in?"
"I don't think he wanted to associate himself with that book," says Hermione. "I don't think Dumbledore would have liked it very much if he'd known. And even if Snape pretended it hadn't been his, Slughorn would have recognized his writing at once. Anyway, the book was left in Snape's old classroom, and I'll bet Dumbledore knew his mother was called 'Prince'."
"I should've shown the book to Dumbledore," says Harry. "All that time he was showing us how Voldemort was evil even when he was at school, and I had proof Snape was too--"
"'Evil' is a strong word," says Hermione quietly.
I scoff. "Evil seems right to me. We all knew the book was dangerous, it makes sense now."
"I'm trying to say that Harry is putting too much blame on himself. I thought the Prince seemed to have a nasty sense of humour, but I would never have guessed he was a potential killer..."
"None of us could've guessed Snape would...you know," says Ron. "Same with Malfoy and Tessa..."
Silence falls between us, and my face must betray my broken heart.
"Sorry, Haylee," Ron adds quietly.
"No, don't apologise," I say quickly. "I can't help but feel like I should have seen it coming. He used to take me to the Room of Requirement, I remember seeing the cabinet, I just didn't think anything of it. I feel like an idiot. All these years of Death Eaters and dark magic and I had no clue."
"You're not an idiot!" Hermione says, reaching across the table and grabbing my hand. "If his plan was to seduce you to his side, then he was being careful around you. Careful not to make it too obvious, but still gradually inducting you; like taking you right to the cabinet. It was maliciously genius -- I don't think it would have ever worked on you, of course," she adds quickly, "but if he hadn't have slipped up with the dream, he probably would have been able to keep you blind to it all until the end."
"It wouldn't have mattered anyway," Harry says, grabbing my other hand, "He never would have done it. You and Dumbledore had basically convinced him to stand down when the other Death Eater's got there."
"It was always going to be Snape..." I say scornfully.
Silence falls between us, each of us lost in our own thoughts, but I'm sure that they, like me, are thinking about the tomorrow morning, when Dumbledore's body will be laid to rest. I've never attended a funeral before; Harry and I were unable to attend Tay's. I don't know what to expect, and I'm worried about what I might see, about how I'll feel. I wonder whether Dumbledore's death will be more real to me once it's over. Though I have moments when the horrible fact of it threatens to overwhelm me, there are blank stretches of numbness where, despite the fact that nobody is talking about anything else in the whole castle, I find it hard to believe that he's really gone. It reminds me horribly of the end of the last term after Tay, though this time I don't have Draco to turn to for comfort. I feel against my chest the cold chain of the fake Horcrux, which I carry with me everywhere, not as a talisman or an accessory, but as a reminder of what it's cost, and what remains still do.
I rise early the next day; the Hogwarts Express will be leaving an hour after the funeral. Downstairs, I find the mood in the Great Hall subdued. Everyone is wearing their dress robes and no one seems hungry. McGonagall has left the thronelike chair in the middle of the staff table empty. Hagrid's chair is empty, too; I think that perhaps he has not been able to face breakfast, but Snape's place has unceremoniously filled by Rufus Scrimgeour. I avoid his yellowish eyes as they scan the Hall; I have the uncomfortable feeling that Scrimgeour is looking for me. Among his entourage, I spit the red hair and horn-rimmed glasses of Percy; Ron gives no sign that he is aware of Percy, apart from stabbing pieces of kipper with unwonted venom.
Over at the Slytherin table, Crabbe and Goyle are muttering together. Hulking boys they are, they look oddly lonely with Draco between them, bossing them around. Blaise looks lost, also, and spots me across the room, sending me a sad nod. I feel bad for it given the circumstances, but I can't stop thinking about him. I know he would never have been able to kill Dumbledore.
My animosity is all for Snape, but I have not forgotten the fear in Draco's voice, nor the fact that he had lowered his wand before the other Death Eater's arrived; a few more minutes, and he might have taken my hand, and everything could have been different. Still, I can't help but resent him for his actions, for his infatuation with the Dark Arts, and most importantly his efforts to turn me to Voldemort's side, but then I remember how scared he was, how his voice shook when he asked me, "You promise?" I wonder desperately, where Draco is now, and what is Voldemort making him do under threat of killing him and his parents? Maybe if I had listened to Harry all those months ago, I might have been able to give Draco a choice before it was too late.
My thoughts are interrupted by a nudge in the ribs from Hermione. Professor McGonagall has risen to her feet, and the mournful hum of the Hall died away at once.
"It is nearly time," she says. "Please follow your Heads of Houses out into the grounds. Gryffindors, after me."
We file out from behind our benches in silence. I glimpse Slughorn at the head of the Slughorn column, wearing a magnificent, long, emerald green robes embroidered with silver. I've never seen Sprout, Head of the Hufflepuffs, looking so clean; there is not a single patch on her hat, and when we reach the entrance hall, we find Madam Prince standing behind Filch, she in a thick black veil that falls to her knees, he in a an ancient black suit and tie reeking of mothballs.
We are heading, I realize, towards the lake. The warmth of the sun caresses my face as we follow McGonagall in silence to the place where hundreds of chairs have been set out in rows. An aisle runs down the centre of them: There is a marble table standing at the front, all chairs facing it. It is the most beautiful summer's day.
An extraordinary assortment of people has already settled into half of the chairs; shabby and smart, old and young. Most I do not recognize, but a few I do, including members of the Order of the Phoenix: Dad; Sirius; Kingsley Shacklebolt; Mad-Eye Moody; Tonks, her hair miraculously returned to most vivid pink; Remus Lupin, with whom she seems to be holding hands; Mr and Mrs Weasley; Bill, supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who are wearing jackets of black dragon skin; Mr and Mrs Gordon, wordless, but gripping each other's hands tightly. Then there is Madame Maxime, who takes up two and a half chairs on her own; Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron in London; Arabella Figg, our Squib neighbour; the hairy bass player from the Weird Sisters; Ernie Prang, driver of the Knight Bus; Madam Malkin, of the robe shop in Diagon Alley; and some people who I know merely by sights, such as the barman of the Hog's Head and the witch who pushes the trolley on the Hogwarts Express. The castle ghosts are here too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they move, shimmering substantially on the gleaming air.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and I file into seats beside Dad, who grabs my hand immediately. People are whispering to each other; it sounds like a breeze in the grass, but the birdsong is louder by far. The crowd continues to swell; with a great rush of affection for both of them, I see Neville being helped into a seat by Luna. Neville and Luna alone of the D.A had responded to Hermione's summons the night that Dumbledore died, and I know why: They're the ones who missed the D.A most...probably the ones who had checked their coins regularly in the hope that there would be another meeting.
"Your eye looks a little better," Dad whispers, gently touching the bruised area around my left eye, from where Riley struck me. "Some things take time, see. The pain goes away eventually."
I appreciate what he's trying to do, but the pain and heartbreak of it all is still too fresh for me to pretend. "You don't really believe that, do you?" I say, looking him. "Is there a day that goes by that you don't miss our mum?"
He says nothing, but gives a sad smile and draws me in, arm around my shoulders. "I'm proud of you."
Cornelius Fudge walks past towards the front rows; his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual; next, I recognize Rita Skeeter, who I'm infuriated to see, and then, with a worse jolt of fury, I see Delores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon her toadlike face. At the sight of the centaur Firenze, standing like a sentinel near the water's edge, she gives a start and scurries hastily into a seat a good distance away.
The staff is seated at last. I can see Scrimgeour looking grave and dignified in the front row with Professor McGonagall. I wonder whether he or any of these important people are really sorry that Dumbledore is dead. But then I hear music, strange, otherworldly music, and I forget my dislike of the Ministry in looking around for the source of it. I'm not the only one: Many heads are turning, searching, a little alarmed.
"In there," Dad whispers.
And I see them in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface, reminding me horribly of the Inferi; a chorus of merpeople singing in a strange language I do not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music makes the air on my neck stand up, and yet it is not unpleasant. It speaks very clearly of loss and despair. As I look down into the wild faces of the singers, I have the feeling that they, at least, are sorry for Dumbledore's passing.
I look around to see Hagrid walking slowly up the aisle between the chairs. He is crying quite silently, his face gleaming with tears and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars, is what I know to be Dumbledore's body. A sharp pain rises in my throat at the sight of this: for a moment, the strange music and the knowledge that Dumbledore's body is so close seems to take all the warmth from the day. Ron looks white and shocked. Tears are falling thick and fast into both Ginny and Hermione's laps.
We can't see clearly what is happening at the front. Hagrid seems to have placed the body carefully upon the table. Now he retreats down the aisle, blowing his nose with loud trumpeting noises which draws scandalized looks from some, including, I see, Umbridge...but I know that Dumbledore would not care. I try to make a friendly gesture to Hagrid as he passed, but his eyes are so swollen that its a wonder Hagrid can see where's he's going. But then the music stops, and I turn to face the front again.
A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes has gotten to his feet and stands now in front of Dumbledore's body. I can not hear what he's saying. Odd words float back to us over hundreds of heads. "Nobility of spirit"..."intellectual contribution"..."greatness of heart"...It does not mean very much. It has little to do with Dumbledore as I had known him. I suddenly remember Dumbledore's ideas of a few words, "nitwit", "oddment", "blubber," and "tweak," and have to suppress a grin...What's wrong with me?
There is a soft splashing noise to my left and I see that the merpeople have broken the surface to listen too. I remember Dumbledore crouching at the water's edge two years ago, very close to where we are now, and conversing in Mermish with the Merchieftainess. I wonder where he learned Mermish. There is so much I never asked him, so much I should have said...
And then, without warning, it sweeps over me, the dreadful truth, more completely and undeniably than it has until now. Dumbledore is dead, gone...I clutch the locket around my neck so tightly that it hurts, but I can't prevent the hot tears from spilling from my eyes; I look away from the others and stare out over the lake, towards the forest, as the little man in black drones on...There is a movement among the trees. The centaurs have come to pay their respects too. They do not move into the open, but I see them standing quite still, half-hidden in shadow, watching us, their bows hanging at their sides. And I remember our first nightmarish trip into the forest, and the first time Harry and I ever encountered the thing that was then Voldemort, and how we had faced him, and how we and Dumbledore had discussed fighting a losing battle not long thereafter. It was important, Dumbledore said, to fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then could evil be kept at bay, though never quite eradicated...
And I see very clearly as I sit here under the hot sun how people who cared for us have stood in front of us, one by one, our mother, our father, Taylor, and finally Dumbledore, all determined to protect us: but that's over now. I can't let anybody else stand between us and Voldemort; I must abandon forever the illusion I ought to have lost at the age of one, that the shelter of a parent's arms meant nothing could hurt us. There is no waking from this nightmare, no comforting whisper in the dark that we're safe really, that it was all in our imagination; one of our greatest protectors have died, and I refuse to let Dad, Sirius, or anyone else who might stand between us and Voldemort suffer the same fate. Only Harry and I can end this, and there's no point in pretending that everything is fine while the world is crumbling around us; no point in pretending that we're safe anywhere in the world until Voldemort is dead.
The little man in black has stopped speaking at last and resumed his seat. I wait for somebody else to stand; I expected speeches, probably from the Minister, but no one moves.
Then several people scream. Bright, white flames have erupted around Dumbledore's body and the table upon it which it lays; Higher and higher they rise, obscuring the body. White smoke spirals into the air and makes strange shapes; I think for one heart-stopped moment that I see a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire has vanished. In its place is a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he is resting.
There are a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soar through the air, but they fall far short of the crowd. It is, I know, the centaur's tribute: I see them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees. Likewise, the merpeople sink slowly back into the green water and are lost from view.
I look at Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione; Ron's face is screwed up as though the sunlight is blinding him. Hermione's face is glazed with tears. Harry and Ginny are looking at each other, his expression matching mine. I know he's come to the same conclusion as me. I'm only grateful that unlike him, I have no one to worry about anymore, no one to leave behind. Voldemort likes to use people his enemies are close to; I've already seen him use Draco, and I won't see it happen again.
Beside me, I see that Ron is now holding Hermione and stroking her hair while she sobs into her shoulder, tears dropping from the end of his own long nose. On the other side, Dad and Sirius are crying silently.
"Come for a walk?" Harry whispers, tapping my hand. I nod tearfully, standing up and following him away from our friends, family, and Dumbledore's tomb, and we walk away together around the lake, his arm around my shoulders. Moving feels much more bearable than sitting still, just as setting out as soon as possible to track down the Horcruxes and kill Voldemort would feel better without waiting to do it...
"I just broke up with Ginny," he says heavily, his voice strained. "And the worst part is, she wasn't angry, or sad, she wasn't even surprised." He seems to be fighting off more tears. "I know I did the right thing..."
"You did," I say quietly. "It sucks, and it hurts like hell, but trust me: Voldemort's used somebody I love against me before, and it's worse. I wish I'd have ended things with Draco years ago, lose all the good memories if it meant Voldemort couldn't torment me with him, or him with me." I'm silent for a moment, overlooking the lake. "It's a lonely road, I suppose."
"At least we have each other."
"'Till the end," I say. "Together or not at all, right? We're in the endgame now." I look across the lake once more. "We can't come back next year."
"I know. Voldemort isn't wasting any time."
"Harry! Haylee!"
We turn. Rufus Scrimgeour is limping rapidly towards us around the bank, leaning on his walking stick.
"I've been hoping to have a word...do you mind if I walk a little way with you?"
"No," Harry says indifferently, and we set off again.
"Harry, Haylee, this was a terrible tragedy," says Scrimgeour quietly. "I cannot tell you how appalled I was to hear of it. Dumbledore was a very great wizard. We had our disagreements, as you know, but no one knows better than I --"
"What do you want?" I ask flatly.
Scrimgeour looks annoyed, but as before, hastily modified his expression to one of sorrowful understanding.
"You are, of course, devastated," he says. "I know that you were very close to Dumbledore. I think you may have been his favourite pupils ever. The bond between the three of you --"
"What do you want?" I repeat, coming to a halt.
Scrimgeour stops too, leans on his stick, and stares at us, his expression shrewd now.
"The word is that you were with him when he left the school the night that he died."
"Whose words?" asks Harry.
"Somebody Stupefied a Death Eater on top of the tower after Dumbledore died. There were also three broomsticks up there. The Ministry can add two and two, Harry and Haylee."
"Glad to hear it," I say. "Well, where we went with Dumbledore and what we did is our business. He didn't want people to know."
"Such loyalty is admirable, of course," says Scrimgeour, who seems to be restraining his irritation with difficulty, "but Dumbledore is gone, Haylee. He's gone."
"He will only be gone from this school when none here are loyal to him," Harry says, and I can't help but smile.
"My dear boy...even Dumbledore cannot return fro the --"
"I am not saying he can. You wouldn't understand. But I've got nothing to tell you."
Scrimgeour hesitates, then says, in what is evidently supposed to be a tone of delicacy, "The Ministry can offer you all sorts of protection, you know, Harry and Haylee. I would be delighted to place a couple of my Aurors at your service.
I laugh. "Voldemort wants to kill us himself, and Aurors won't stop him. So thanks for the offer, Minister, but no thanks. We can protect ourselves."
"So," Scrimgeour says, his voice cold now, "the request I made of you at Christmas --"
"What request? Oh yeah...the one where we tell the world what a great job you're doing in exchange for --"
"-- for raising everyone's moral!" Scrimgeour snaps.
I consider it for a moment. "Released Stan Shunpike yet?"
Scrimgeour turns a nasty purple colour highly reminiscent of Uncle Vernon.
"I see you are --"
"Dumbledore's man and woman through and through," says Harry. "That's right."
Scrimgeour glares at us for a moment, then turns and limps away without another word. I can see Percy and the rest of the Ministry delegation waiting for him. Ron and Hermione are hurrying toward us, passing Scrimgeour going in the opposite direction. Harry and I turn and keep walking slowly, waiting for them to catch up, which they finally do in the shade of a beech tree under which we have sat in happier times.
"What did Scrimgeour want?" Hermione whispers.
"Same as Christmas," I shrug. "Wanted us to give him inside information on Dumbledore and be the Ministry's new mascots."
Ron seems to struggle with himself for a moment and then he says loudly to Hermione, "Look, let me go back and hit Percy!"
"No," she says firmly, grabbing his arm.
"It'll make me feel better!"
Harry and I laugh. Even Hermione grins a little, though her smile fades as she looks up at the castle.
"I can't bear the idea that we might never come back," she says softly. "How can Hogwarts close?"
"Maybe it won't," says Ron. "We're not in any more danger here than we are at home, are we? Everywhere's the same now. I'd even say Hogwarts is safer, there are more wizards inside to defend the place. What d'you reckon?"
"We're not coming back even if it does reopen," I say.
Ron gapes at us, but Hermione says sadly, "I knew you were going to say that. But the what will you do?"
"We're going back to the Dursleys' once more because Dumbledore wanted us to," Harry says. "But it'll be a short visit, and then we'll be gone for good."
"But where will you go if you don't come back to school?"
"I thought we might go back to Godric's Hollow," Harry mutters, bringing a faint smile to my face. "For us, it started there, all of it. I've just got a feeling we need to go there. Dad and Sirius can come for a bit, we can visit Mum's grave, I'd like that."
"So would I."
"And then what?" asks Ron.
"Then we've got to track down the rest of the Horcruxes, haven't we?" I say, my eyes upon Dumbledore's white tomb upon the lake. "That's what he wanted us to do, that's why he told us about them. If Dumbledore was right -- and I'm sure he was -- there's still four of them out there, we've got to find them and destroy them, and then we've got to go after the seventh bit of Voldemort's soul, the bit that's still in his body, and we're going to be the ones who kill him. And if we meet Severus Snape along the way," I add, "so much better for us, so much the worse for him."
There is a long silence. The crowd has almost dispersed now.
"We'll be there, Harry and Haylee," says Ron.
"What?"
"At your aunt and uncle's house," says Ron. "And then we'll go with you wherever you're going."
"Us, too."
I jump slightly, turning to see Dad and Sirius approaching us, faint smiles on their faces. "You can tell us Dumbledore told you in those lessons, or you can keep us in the dark," Sirius says, as they sit down with us, "but we're gonna be by your side either way."
"Every step of the way," Dad adds. "There's no way in hell I'm letting you fight this fight alone. I came back for a reason, and it's to help you, I'm sure of it."
"No --" Harry says quickly; we had not counted on this, we just wanted them to understand that we're undertaking this journey alone.
"You said to us once before," says Hermione quietly, "that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't?"
"We're with you whatever happens," says Ron. "But, listen, you're going to have to come round my mum and dad's house before we do anything else, even Godric's Hollow."
"Why?"
"Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember?"
I look at him; startled; the idea that anything as normal as a wedding could still exist seems incredible and yet wonderful.
"Yeah, we couldn't miss that," I say finally, sharing a nod with Harry.
My hand closes automatically around the fake Horcrux, but in spite of everything ahead for us, in spite of the dark and twisting path I see stretching ahead for Harry and I, in spite of the final meeting with Voldemort I know must come, whether in a month, in a year, or in ten, I feel my heart lift at the thought that there is still one last golden day of peace left to enjoy with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dad, and Sirius.