(Gilderoy Lockhart)
About an hour later, it was time for the funeral.
None of us had much to say as we prepared to leave the Three Broomsticks.
The usual bustle that accompanied any gathering of my family was completely absent.
No teasing, arguments, or even complaints about someone taking too long to get ready.
Just heavy, uncomfortable quiet.
Even the children seemed subdued, sensing that something was different.
I adjusted my robes before looking toward the others.
Aurora was holding Gienah, who had her tiny face buried against her shoulder.
Rosmerta carried little Gilderoy, who was unusually silent.
Tonks stood beside them, her expression hard. She had barely spoken since reading the Prophet.
I understood. There wasn't much to say.
Harry Potter was dead.
And now we were going to bury him.
...
Originally, Dumbledore had suggested holding the funeral at Hogwarts.
It would have been convenient.
Harry had spent his happiest moments within those walls, and Hogwarts had become more of a home to him than Privet Drive ever could.
But Sirius had immediately rejected the idea.
"No." He had said it with such certainty that even Dumbledore hadn't argued.
"He belongs with his parents."
That had settled it.
Harry would be buried in Godric's Hollow, beside James and Lily.
It was where he belonged.
So we travelled there together.
The journey was quiet.
Even Tonks, who normally couldn't go ten minutes without making some joke, remained almost completely silent.
When we finally arrived in Godric's Hollow, the village seemed strangely peaceful.
The summer sun hung low enough to cast long shadows across the narrow streets, while flowers grew along the edges of the paths.
It was beautiful.
Almost painfully so.
We followed the others toward the small cemetery.
The first thing I noticed was Sirius, who stood near the front.
He appeared so lonely.
There were people around him, including Remus, but Sirius seemed separated from all of them by an invisible wall.
His shoulders were stiff, his hands were clasped behind his back, and his expression was completely blank.
That was somehow worse than seeing him cry.
I'd seen Sirius Black furious.
I'd seen him laughing.
I'd even seen him drunk enough to start dancing on a table.
But I'd rarely seen him like this.
So empty.
As we approached him quietly, he looked toward us, and for a moment, his eyes met mine.
Neither of us said anything.
Then Sirius glanced down at the small coffin, his jaw tightened.
I placed a hand on his shoulder.
He didn't move.
"He's with James and Lily now," I said quietly.
Sirius swallowed. "That's what I wanted."
His voice cracked slightly. "But I wanted to see him grow up."
I had no answer to that, so I simply squeezed his shoulder.
Fortunately, the funeral was relatively private.
Dumbledore and Sirius had used their influence to keep the affair from becoming a media spectacle.
There were no crowds of curious witches and wizards.
No reporters pushing their way through the gathering or photographers attempting to capture grieving faces for tomorrow's newspapers.
Only people who had genuinely known Harry.
His professors, his Gryffindor classmates, members of the Quidditch team, the Weasley family, a handful of Ministry officials who couldn't be refused, and his girlfriend, Hermione.
My eyes settled on her.
She stood near the front beside the Weasleys.
She looked exhausted.
Her hair, which has been quite neat since she started using sleekeasy, was back to its dishevelled state, and her eyes were red from crying.
Every few minutes, another tear escaped despite her best efforts.
She would quickly wipe it away, straighten her shoulders, and take a breath.
Trying to compose herself again.
But grief wasn't something that could simply be organised away.
Ron stood beside her, pale and silent.
Ginny had her arms wrapped around Molly.
Arthur stood nearby with a hand resting on Ron's shoulder.
Even the twins were unusually quiet.
That sight alone told me how much Harry had meant to the family.
I looked around the cemetery.
Professor McGonagall stood rigidly a short distance away, her face unusually drawn.
Flitwick was quietly speaking with Sprout.
Hagrid stood near the back, looking absolutely devastated. His enormous hands repeatedly wiped at his eyes.
I glanced toward Aurora, who was now holding Gienah closer.
Tonks stood beside me, staring toward Hermione.
"Poor girl," she whispered.
I nodded. "She really loved him."
Tonks' expression tightened. "I know, Sirius wouldn't shut up about how they were exactly like James and Lily."
There was something heartbreaking about watching someone so young try desperately to remain composed at a funeral.
Hermione suddenly lowered her head as another tear landed on the front of her robes.
She wiped it away quickly, but then another followed.
She didn't bother wiping that one.
I looked away, some moments simply weren't meant to be watched.
The cemetery gradually fell silent as everyone took their places.
The Potter family grave stood ahead of us.
James and Lily's names were already carved into the stone.
And now...
There would be another.
Harry James Potter.
The Boy-Who-Lived.
The Boy-Who-Died.
I stared at the empty space beside his parents.
For all the fame surrounding him, for all the stories people had told about him...
He had been only fourteen.
A normal boy.
A student.
Someone who should have had decades ahead of him.
Friends to make, places to visit, arguments to have, mistakes to make. Perhaps children of his own one day.
But instead, we were here, to bury him.
My hand tightened around Tonks's.
She looked at me, but I didn't say anything.
Neither did she.
We simply stood together as the ceremony began.
And for once in my life, I had no desire whatsoever to be the centre of attention.
This wasn't my story.
It was Harry's.
And he deserved to be remembered as more than a headline.
…
Later that afternoon, I found myself sitting across from Dumbledore in his office.
A cup of tea sat untouched in front of me.
Normally, I would have complained about its temperature, the quality of the leaves, or simply requested for more sugar.
But today, I couldn't have cared less.
"Have you found anything?" I asked.
Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I fear he has taken complete control of Durmstrang."
My jaw tightened. "Complete control?"
"From what we have been able to determine, yes." He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "His influence over the school appears to have been far greater than we initially realised."
I stared at him. "And where is Durmstrang?"
Dumbledore was silent for several seconds. "I don't remember."
That answer stunned me.
For once, the Headmaster looked every bit of his one hundred and fourteen years.
Deep shadows rested beneath his eyes, his usually immaculate beard was slightly dishevelled, and there was a weariness in his expression that I had rarely seen before.
"You don't remember?" I repeated.
"No."
I leaned back slowly. "Fidelius Charm?"
Dumbledore nodded grimly. "I fear so."
I stared at the fireplace.
"What about Eastern Europe?"
"Chaos." His voice was quiet.
"Several governments are demanding answers. Durmstrang has stopped responding to outside communication, and those who have attempted to investigate have found themselves completely unable to contact anyone inside the school."
My fingers tightened around the armrest. "So what do we do?"
Dumbledore looked at me.
"Wait for him to appear again?" My voice rose with frustration.
"Sit around twiddling our thumbs while he builds an army and prepares to take over the world?"
"No." Dumbledore's expression hardened.
For the first time since I had entered the office, the exhaustion seemed to disappear from his eyes.
"We prepare." He slowly put his glasses back on. "For war."
The words hung heavily between us.
I stared at him for several seconds, then I nodded.
"Then we'd better start preparing properly."
Dumbledore's mouth curved into the faintest smile. "I was hoping you would say that."
I reached for my untouched tea, which had gone cold.
And for once, I didn't complain.
…