CHAPTER IX: In Secret Lives

Harry expected Dumbledore's body to move. Something, deep in his brain, refused to believe what he had just seen. Even long after Snape had dragged Draco from the office, dispelling the spells keeping Harry in place, he just stood there, staring at the headmaster's body. Waiting. Hoping. Begging.

Please move. Please get up. Please don't be dead.

Dumbledore remained unmoving, and Harry knew this was real.

Sensation eventually returned as Harry's legs lead him to the desk in the middle of the room.

He trod slowly, conscious of every footstep. As he stumbled closer, Harry got a look at the headmaster's face. Dumbledore's eyes were staring outward, seeing nothing. The twinkle in his eyes had been extinguished forever, replaced with an empty, endless gaze. They looked like they were made of glass.

Carefully, as if not to hurt the aged wizard, Harry reached over and closed them. One last dignity for the man that done so much for him. The one he failed to save.

Harry stared at the ancient wand in his hand. It felt far heavier than he expected it to be. Why Dumbledore had given it to him was beyond him, why the headmaster had chosen to bestow his only defence to his failed student. He was the one who got him killed, he didn't deserve to hold Albus Dumbledore's wand.

Harry knew what was to come. It had been discussed many times. Snape and Draco were on their way out of the castle right this second, and he had to chase them, all the way to the edge of the Hogwarts bounds, far enough to where they could apparate away. And, at the same time, put up enough of a fight to convince Malfoy that this was a desperate, hurried escape, and not a pre-meditated attempt to preserve his life.

Draco may never know how much they had sacrificed to save his soul, what had been taken from the world so that he could survive another day. So that could carry on walking down his father's unapologetically twisted path. That thought alone was enough to turn Harry's sorrow into apocalyptic anger.

He left Dumbledore's wand on the oak desk, gathering himself for the chase. He just had to make sure Draco escaped. It didn't mean he had to make it easy.

The teenage wizard, vibrating with righteous fury, stormed out of the headmaster's office and took off after his prey.

His legs carried him faster than he ever thought possible. Corridors and hallways rushed past him as if they were flushing him out of the castle. Soon enough, he was out onto the open grass, and sprinting down the path, ignoring the students gathered in safety far away from the blaze. The sound of gravel under his feet, and heaving of his own breath, drove him faster and faster to the edge of the grounds.

Before long, he spotted two dark figures, hurrying to the gate — one with a billowing cloak, and the other, shorter with a head of blonde hair.

"Malfoy!" Harry roared, throwing a blast of fire flying past them, onto the lawn by their side. "You coward!"

The two jumped, and Draco whirled around, his eyes wide and evident with fear. Immediately he threw curses back at him, but Harry's reflexes - trained by years of Quidditch and honed by Dumbledore himself - were too quick. Every spell that came his way, he deflected with ease. Draco's barrage did nothing to halt, or even falter, Harry's stride.

"Draco, run!"

The Slytherin boy was herded behind Snape's back, and the potion's master threw his own spell.

Harry defected the wand with nary a thought.

And so the duel began. The fight that was already decided, designed to buy time for an escape. An exchange of spell-fire without any real intent. Every spell for show, every movement practised. There was going to be no real winner.

Both of them were bound to protect Draco, not just by vow, but by a promise to Dumbledore himself. Snape had no choice in the matter but to act the part, and neither did Harry. This had to happen, just as Dumbledore had said it would.

The two unspoken allies stared at each other, apprentice and spy. A shared revulsion, and shared respect, rippled between them.

"He trusted you!" Harry cried, putting his all into a convincing performance. "He trusted you, and you killed him!"

Harry wondered if it was the reflection of the fire, or if he could really see something of remorse in Snape's eye. A shadow of a man that wanted more than this, if he thought he had a choice. Or rather, if he hadn't wasted what opportunities he once had. Just like Draco had done - just like Draco was doing right now.

The coward just turned and ran, leaving Snape to face Harry himself. He was heading straight for the boundary, caring only for his escape. He was abandoning the one person who cared for his safety to their own demise, his own ally.

Harry watched as the ferret sprinted away and growled. It was his fault that Dumbledore was dead, it was he who refused to stand up to Voldemort, to accept their help. He, who almost poisoned Ron, almost cursed Katie, kept Rosmerta under Imperius for an entire year. He, who had a family and a mansion to run back to, who would happily side with a murderer and way of life that subjugated innocent people.

He was a bastard, a wretched, spineless parasite. He deserved the worst pain in the world, to be gutted like a pig… the rage was too much to bear.

Harry aimed his wand and let it all out in one explosive cry.

"Sectumsempra!"

The spell flew through the air and hit its mark. Malfoy's back exploded into a fine red mist. Harry's heart stopped as the young man fell to the ground, perfectly still. Shock plunged his body into an icy chill. Blood was soaking the dirt, draining out of Draco's rapidly paling skin.

The moment passed. Harry came back to himself. His heart shook as he realised what he had done. Even Snape was staring at him in shock, mirroring his own.

Something was singing within him now. There was a piece of him that was glad, now that Dumbledore had been avenged. An animal that had just tasted its first blood, and heartedly enjoyed it.

Then he blinked, and he was somewhere else entirely.

The grass was gone, and Harry was back in the boy's bathroom. The water ran red, blood staining Draco's shirt. His feet were soaked through, send a freezing cold up his body, and Harry could only stand there and stare at his work.

He had killed a man. A boy, no older than he was, lay dead on the tiles. He was a murderer.

"Very good," a snake-like voice sounded from within his ear.

The hairs on Harry's neck stood on end. He glanced around, desperate to find the source of the noise. His eyes caught sight something other than blood in the water. Harry looked down to where his reflection should have been and screamed at the face that met him.

Gleaming red eyes and a pallid, slit-nosed face grinned back.

Harry resurfaced, and the nightmare vanished before his eyes.

He instinctively reached for his glasses and gazed around frantically. The red bannisters; the other boys, sleeping soundly; Ron, just opposite, snoring away. The bathroom was nowhere to be seen.

His shirt was stuck to his heaving, chest with sweat, his lower body strangled in his contorted bedding. His muscles were spasming wildly, clenching and unclenching to the tune of his pounding pulse.

It took several seconds before his brain could finally function as usual and had regained a part of himself. He was safe. It was only a dream, none of it was real, that wasn't what had happened that night. He was not a murderer; Draco was still very much alive, somewhere, as was Snape. Or at least, if he wasn't, it had nothing to do with Harry.

Harry lay back against his pillow, untangling his legs of the duvet and exposing himself to the cold midnight air. He stared up at the rafter as his mind stilled, breathing in and out. In and out. One lungful at a time.

His head was a cocktail of emotion. Shock, fear… and rage.

The rage was still there. Harry wanted to cast that spell. The beast within craved Draco's blood that night, for all that the brat had done not only to him, but to Katie, and Ron and everyone else he had used. And not just Draco, but his father too, and Bellatrix, and Nott, and Fenrir, and Riddle. He wanted them all to suffer.

It was terrifying, to know that piece of him lay just beneath the surface. If any Death Eater found themselves at the end of Harry's wand, they would know it well. Did that make him a bad person? Was it still cruelty if he was hurting evil people? Probably, Harry thought. But this was soon to be war. It's not like they would take mercy on him. He had to be ready to fight like his life depended on it. If that meant using lethal force…

The thought sickened him, but Harry knew it was almost inevitable. He wasn't a murderer; or, at least, he didn't want to be a murderer. Harry wasn't even sure that he had it in him to actively take a life, even a morally decrepit one. If all went to plan, however, he would have one person's blood on his hands. He would eventually have to take the life of a living person.

Maybe if Voldemort didn't exist, if there wasn't a war on the way, he could keep a promise never to kill or maim or injure. Maybe then he could keep his hands clean. But he didn't live in that perfect world, and war was coming.

He would have no choice but to fight.

Harry hoped that people wouldn't forget that part. He hoped that future generations, people who told his story, would remember that detail. That just because he fought, just because he killed, didn't mean he ever wanted any part of it. He didn't want to become a soldier, or an assassin, or a hunter. It was never his dream to hurt anyone. All he ever wanted was to be normal.

The choice was never his. It still wasn't. This was his path, too late to change it now. 17 years too late. He could run away- except, he couldn't even do that. He wouldn't let himself stoop to cowardice, not when people here in Britain needed him. And if he did try to run, fate would find him. No matter how far he ventured, for however long. Prophecy always wins, in the end.

In the end. What if it never ended? What if he and Voldemort were doomed to battle each other forever? Tom would undoubtedly get his immortality then.

Harry sighed, wiping his hands across his face, trying to scrape away the thoughts of Voldemort from his head. He needed to get some sleep. It was going to be an early morning, and he'd need his strength for the funeral.

Dumbledore's funeral.

How he wished the sight of Dumbledore's empty face had just been another trick from his nightmare, just like Draco's death, and Riddle's face looking up at him. Hell, he'd sooner have a wicked nightmare than the morbid reality he was living in now.

It took longer than it should have for Harry to realise that, now, he really was on his own. No more falling back on Dumbledore to pull his arse out of the fire. No more relying on the headmaster to protect him from the powers that be. He had to rely on himself now, he had to be better. If he didn't, the next person he could lose might be far closer than Dumbledore. It may only be a matter of time before he lost someone he couldn't live without.

Who would that be, he wondered. Was there any one person he valued more than anyone else? Who, if they were to die, would take all hope that Harry had left with them?

'Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine today,' Harry thought to himself, the corners of his lips curling as he realised how much like Ron he had just sounded.

Ron… Dumbledore's death hit him surprisingly hard. Ron had always seemed impervious to the world around him (most of the time anyway). He always seemed so blasé about pretty much everything. So seeing his best friend breakdown once he heard the news of the headmaster's passing was quite the shock to almost everyone. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, whether he should have expected it or not, whether it spoke more about Ron or about him.

Hermione's reaction was as he expected - quiet, sullen shock. She had immediately thrown her arms around him, moments after finding him that evening, refusing to let go until she knew he was alright. When he finally got the chance to relay the news, she was visibly shaken, most likely realising the weight of Dumbledore's death quicker than Harry had. He told her all about the cave, of course, and about the extra vial of calming draught. Harry was keen to mention it very well saved his and Dumbledore's lives. That seemed to cheer her up if only a little.

As for the others, it was a mixed bag. Some were stoic, others were distraught, but most were merely in shock. The circumstances surrounding the headmaster's death were never directly explained; no one could be allowed to know the truth, only snippets shared around in rumours. The most anyone had managed to piece together was that Draco Malfoy had a hand in it in some way, and Snape's sudden disappearance was also connected. A few people went so far as to blame Harry for it, scorning him, assuming that he had some part of it, that he didn't do enough to stop it.

He didn't dare tell Hermione how often he agreed with them. She wouldn't ever hear the end of her trying to convince him otherwise, how it was always Dumbledore's plan to die by Snape's hand, how he had done everything he could to stop it, to save his life and Draco's soul. Every time his thoughts threaten to slip into self-hatred, there was an echo of Hermione that held him back. She was always with him in some capacity, whether physically by his side or there in spirit. That girl rarely left his head. Not that Harry wanted her to, quite the contrary. It was nice to have a face other than Voldemort, or Malfoy, or Sirius or Dumbledore in his mind's eye.

And it was a cute face, to be fair - with her large, brown eyes, her wide smile, her small, round nose and bushy hair that framed it like a lion's mane. It was little wonder why Ron used to have a crush on her. He was surprised that others hadn't expressed the same interest when he thought about it. People were always lining up for Ginny's attention, including him, and she was only marginally more beautiful than Hermione. Why didn't have boys just raring to make a move on her?

Maybe it was this boy that Hermione supposedly spent her free time with, the one that Ron had told him about. Amidst the chaos of the last couple of weeks, Harry was still clueless as to who it could be. It seemed like more and more her time was being eaten up by Harry himself, helping him, consoling him, making sure he was alright. It frustrated Harry to no end.

There was someone out there who she really liked, and yet she was forced to dedicate her every waking minute to him. He felt like a parasite, slowly syphoning away her life to keep his should from crumbling under everything, unloading the stress and heartache onto her. She should have a life beyond him, away from his problems. She should be spending time with this boy that she likes while she had the chance.

Because before long, very soon, in fact, she was going to be fighting for her life.

How on Earth was she going to handle this? Even with his and Ron's input, there was a silent understanding that they were going to rely on her and her encyclopaedia of magical knowledge to help them. That was how it had always been. Except now, it was truly life or death. That pressure, that duty… how on Earth was she going to tell her parents? What could she tell them? That was she off to fight in a war and that they might never see her again? Or would she lie, tell them that it was going to be another year of Hogwarts? How was she going to protect them in the meantime? How…

Harry couldn't help the feeling that he was ruining Hermione's life. All that she had given him, and what had he given back? Friendship? A fat lot of good that did anyone. It certainly wasn't any form of protection - he couldn't even protect his family, his mentor, his allies.

It was a wonder she had left him already. Everyone else had, for far less and for good reason, too. He wanted to shout at her, to scream at her to just leave, to run as far as she can not stop until the name 'Harry Potter' was but a distant memory. She didn't deserve to burn herself out on a dead man. Running with him would only end in pain, only Hermione refused to see it. She still thought he could be saved somehow. He wanted to believe her, give in to her optimism, but he couldn't, in the end.

Because even Hermione Granger could be wrong sometimes, especially about him. She didn't know. She could never…

Harry punched his pillow, drawing the covers over his head, forcing his eyes shut, as if to smother the memories in darkness. It wasn't long before sleep retook him, too tired to put up a fight.

He almost expected the following morning to be an oppressively overcast scene, but as if despite the day's events, the sky was empty of cloud and the sun beamed. Then again, Harry could be thankful that Dumbledore's funeral would be a day of peace. He would have wanted that.

Students were allowed to attend, what few that were left anyway. Most parents had taken their kids out early - Seamus' almost had him back on the train the day before, but he refused to go home before the funeral. The honoured guests would be seated on an island in the Black Lake, joined to the shore by a magical jetty, where Dumbledore's body would be laid to rest. Those that chose to attend would be sat towards the back, filling out the sea of chairs on the shore.

Despite having known the headmaster for several years now, Harry was still surprised to find that he was to be sat on the second row. He fully expected to be with the rest of the students, but apparently, it wasn't the case. He wondered whether it was by Dumbledore's request, the staff's acknowledgement, or whether it was the Ministry's decision, assuming that his status as the 'chosen one' warranted him special treatment.

Well, special treatment or not, Harry welcomed it solely for the fact that Ron and Hermione were also allowed to sit with him. They were accompanied by a very select few of the DA, all of the Ministry six in fact, with Luna sat beside Ron, leaving Neville and Ginny to occupy the rest of the row. Harry couldn't help but feel reassured by their company, knowing that whatever happened, he had friends close by.

As for the other guests, he recognised most of them from the Order. Those he didn't recognise were most likely old peers, ministry officials, more celebrated witches and wizards that only Hermione knew by name. The Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, stood in the sidelines, flanked by suits; Cornelius Fudge, with his lime-green bowler hat; Rita Skeeter with her magic quill; he even spied Delores Umbridge, tucked away in the back. Just the sight of her and her porcelain smile made Harry's blood boil. All the people who couldn't be here, and she made it. And she likely wasn't the only one. Harry could only guess how many people attending actual knew Albus Dumbledore. How many of them actually could claim to mourn his passing. Even now he could see a crowd of slimy vultures eyeing the more prestigious members of the party, including him, just waiting for their chance to network with the esteemed partners of the late great headmaster.

It was lucky that he had Hermione. Having his best friend beside him, her soft but firm grip on his arm, kept him grounded throughout the procession. Every time he felt it all becoming too much, he would reach over and find her hand rest against his sleeve. It meant the world to feel her fingers discreetly locking with his and squeeze in reassurance. A few strands of her bushy hair tickle his neck, her legs pressed against his, they were practically attached to the hip. But Harry was grateful for the contact. That was something real, at least.

Harry wondered what Hermione thinking about, in that brain that never seemed to slow down, even for a moment. It was a wonder she could sleep with a mind like that. He hoped to God that she wasn't imagining his funeral; he pleaded that she wasn't doing that to herself. She had been through enough already for his sake. Maybe that explained why she was holding onto him like he would fade away at any moment. He made sure to rub his thumb against her hand, softly reminding her that he was there, that he was still alive, still right there next to her and well. A small comfort, but he knew she needed right now.

Ten o'clock signalled the start of the ceremony, played to a short overture as everyone took their seats. A deathly quiet, save for the birds and the gentle lashing of the waters, fell over the company. In the aisle between the seats, Harry saw Hagrid marching solemnly towards the front, his face gleaming with tears, carrying what could only be Dumbledore's body, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars. Harry had to repress a melancholy smile at the sight of the garish garment - even in death, the man would never tolerate subtlety.

At the end of the aisle lay a small, white, marble altar, gleaming like heaven in the bright sunlight. Hagrid gently placed the body on top of the shrine and retreated back down the aisle. Harry tried sending him a reassuring glance as he went, but his eyes were so swollen with tears that it was a wonder that he could see where he was going.

From the surface of the lake, a chorus of merpeople began singing in a strange language he did not understand, their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. The music made the hair on Harry's neck stand up, and yet it was not unpleasant. It spoke very clearly of loss and of despair. As he looked down into the wild faces of the singers, he had the feeling that they, at least, were sorry for Dumbledore's passing.

That was when he heard sniffling from beside him. Tears were falling like raindrops into Hermione's lap as all composure broke. Harry couldn't blame her. If it weren't for the fact that he was sitting in the sights dozens of strangers, he would likely have broken down too. He carefully readjusted himself, placing an arm around her shoulders in support, and he felt her bury herself into his shoulder.

The merpeople weren't the only unexpected visitors. As Harry surveyed the scene, across the surface of the lake, he spotted centaurs at the edges of the forest, watching silently. He wondered if Firenze was amongst, thinking back to his first time in the forest, how this stranger had chosen to intervene, to save his life even if it meant estrangement from his kin. Why did they not want him to help, Harry wondered. Was it because they too knew that he was bound to a terrible fate, either way? The centaurs could read the stars, Harry remembered, it was their way of divining the fates. If he asked, what would they say about his future? Could they even see that far? Did they know this was going to happen? Did they care?

Then several people screamed, and he jumped. Harry whirled around in time to see bright, white flames had erupted around Dumbledore's body and the table upon which it lay: higher and higher they rose, obscuring the body. White smoke spiralled into the air and made strange shapes: Harry thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that he saw a phoenix fly joyfully into the blue, but next second the fire had vanished. In its place was a white marble tomb, encasing Dumbledore's body and the table on which he had rested.

There were a few more cries of shock as a shower of arrows soared through the air, but they fell far short of the crowd. It was, Harry knew, the centaurs' tribute: he saw them turn tail and disappear back into the cool trees. Likewise, the merpeople sank slowly back into the green water and were lost from view.

The white tomb sat still against the horizon, and the funeral was over.

As the guests began to depart, each made their way up the aisle to the tomb. One by one, witches and wizards of all sort spoke their peace to the late Albus Dumbledore, and Harry made sure to do the same, once his turn came. He chose not to say any words. Instead, Harry decided to lay a single hand on the marble and promised to do his best. He hoped, wherever Dumbledore was, he heard it. Hermione and Ron too chose to pay their respects, nothing too extravagant, just a few words in remembrance for their mentor. They were probably as eager as he was to get it over with just so they could get away from the crowd.

As Harry escorted Hermione back to the shore, passing the long line of guests and students waiting for their turn, he saw Ginny glancing at him expectantly from the corner of her eye. She probably wanted a few words with him alone, but today of all days, that was the last thing Harry wanted. There was far too much to think about without adding Ginny to the list, and though the day was still relatively young, Harry felt emotionally drained.

He couldn't help but regret how he had treated the girl the last time he spoke to her. She had poured her heart out to him, and his only response was to run away. Ever since then, she had tried repeatedly to talk to him, but every time he had avoided her. Harry tried to argue that he was protecting her by staying away, but he knew that was a lie. The only person he was protecting was himself, running away from the shame treating on his friends, someone he thought he loved, like a leper.

What were they now? They were hardly boyfriend and girlfriend, as he assumed they could be for the longest time. Like how a part of him still wanted to be. Despite knowing it could never happen - not after what she said to him - but it was still there, deep down. He had harboured a crush on Ginny for a while, one that he couldn't throw away at the drop of a hat just because he should. He liked Ginny, she was fun and fiery and full of life. He wanted to be around her, he wanted her as a part of his life. Maybe they could be like brother and sister instead, not that he would ever know what that was like. He had never had any siblings, the closest he had was probably Ron. And Ginny was Ron's sister…

Harry decided not to think too hard about what that said about him.

Eventually, the crowd began to die down, as the guests were escorted out of the Hogwarts grounds, and the students back to the castle. A handful of people had the nerve to speak to Harry directly, either to give their condolences or just lick his boots. It should have been no surprise that Rufus Scrimgeour made himself known, asking - or instead interrogating- him about where he was with Dumbledore the night he died. Of course, Harry refused to say anything that might have even remotely pointed to the word 'Horcrux'. Scrimgeour then had the gall to ask if Harry had reconsidered his offer for publically supporting the Ministry, which would basically amount to singing their praises for the sake of it. Harry told him to sod off - in a diplomatic fashion, of course, though he was sure the Minister could read between the lines, judging by how he stormed away.

The company had almost dispersed now, the stragglers giving the monumental figure of Grawp a wide berth as he cuddled Hagrid, whose howls of grief were still echoing across the water. Harry reminded himself to visit the gamekeeper that evening, realising that he had been to see him since Aragog's funeral. He should've been a better friend to him, the man who rescued him the muggle world all those years ago. Hagrid was one of the few people Harry trusted absolutely. He was like an uncle he never had, maybe even a father. It broke Harry's heart that fact that he couldn't tell Hagrid about the Horcruxes, or that he was going to die. He would know exactly what to say to make him feel better.

It was coming up to midday when the last of the guests had departed, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione, and a few other students, alone on the lawn looking out on the island. There was a long silence between them that only Hermione dared to break.

"Are you alright?" she asked. Harry turned to her, coming face to face with her concerned features once again. He tried to smile but gave up once he realised he couldn't get his lips to turn the right way.

"…No," Harry eventually replied. "I just… I didn't want this to happen. I never wanted this. Any of this."

A pair of arms reached around his shoulder, pulling him into a tight hug, and Harry realised just how much he had missed Hermione's hugs.

"I know," she whispered softly. "But he didn't die for nothing. We've still got the Order, and his notes, and the Shrieking Shack. We're ready for this. We're going to win, Harry."

"Don't you go anywhere," he whispered back, far more sincerely than he intended. Hermione only smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hermione's right," he heard Ron say, "as always. We'll be there, Harry. We're with you whatever happens. Although, I'm almost dreading having you two at the Burrow this summer."

"Why?"

"Bill and Fleur's wedding, remember? It's gonna absolute mayhem, and Mum's gonna have us working day and night getting it ready."

Harry looked at him, startled; the idea that anything as ordinary as a wedding could still exist seemed incredible and yet wonderful.

"Yeah, but we shouldn't miss it," he said finally.

That was when Harry spotted something. A man was standing on the shore of the lake, one that Harry certainly didn't recognise from the funeral. He didn't look like a wizard, in fact, he dressed in clothes that screamed 'muggle', and he wasn't moving, just standing and staring, as if he were waiting for something.

For some reason - whether it was just the image of someone alone at a funeral that resonated with the young man or just some mild curiosity - Harry felt compelled to go to him. No one should have to mourn alone. Harry knew that pain all too well.

He excused himself from Hermione's grasp and began walking over to the stranger. He walked carefully, not wanting to disturb the quiet contemplation. Harry was about to introduce himself when the stranger spoke.

"Good afternoon, young man."

Harry was almost taken aback, wondering how on Earth he could have known he was coming. He didn't look like a wizard, dressed in a raven overcoat and black trousers and suit. Then again, he had known Mad-Eye-Moody long enough to know that some people didn't need magic to be hyper-aware of their surroundings, although it certainly helped. Shaking it off, Harry returned the greeting.

"Good afternoon, sir."

The teenager took the last few steps, joining the old man in standing by the shore. Harry subtly studied the man beside him. He was old, probably in his eighties, with silver hair and a face that drooped in a way that reminded Harry of a Bassett Hound. Despite the walking cane in between his hands, he stood taller than even Harry, barely moving against the breeze. His eyes were staring out onto the island, toward's Dumbledore's grave, his face set in a stoic but despondent expression.

"Did you know him?" Harry eventually asked. The old man sighed.

"Yes," he replied thickly, "Yes, I did."

"Were you two friends?"

The old man merely glanced at him, a thin smile crinkling his lips. His eyes twinkled in a way that instantly reminded Harry of the late headmaster.

"He told me a lot about you, Mr Potter, but I suspect he told you very little of me."

He reached out his hand, which Harry immediately took. His grip was surprisingly firm, shaking his hand vigorously.

"My name is Gareth Dalton," the man introduced, his hand returning to his cane. "I've known Albus for many years."

"You were close then?"

"I should hope so," Mr Dalton grinned, "considering he was my partner."

It took all of Harry's restraint to not let his mouth gape open, and his eyes widen in shock. It must not have worked, because the old man - Mr Dalton - guffawed loudly.

"I can see how he got the taste for it now. What with his flair for the dramatic. That should have been your first clue."

First clue? Was he supposed to be judging that sort of thing? Was it really that obvious?

Even amongst wizards, Dumbledore stood out with his flamboyant pink robes and endless energy. Harry always took it as just some of the old sorcerer's developed eccentricities. A side effect of being unparalleled in his field, growing past the point of caring what others thought. He didn't know why the thought of Dumbledore having a partner was so odd - in hindsight, it would have hardly been the weirdest thing about the old man. Still, there was a naive, childish side to him that always assumed Dumbledore just lived at the school, that his role as headmaster was just his whole life.

Unable to think of any sort of dignified response, Harry wisely chose to shut his mouth and nod.

"Don't worry, Mr Potter," Mr Dalton eventually said, deciding to take pity on the boy, "you weren't to know."

"I didn't even think he was married," Harry marvelled, staring out at the lake.

"Married, no." Mr Dalton shook his head, his face souring. The grip on his cane tightened and readjusted as if he were attempting to strangle it. "I don't need to tell you that wizards aren't exactly, shall we say, enamoured by people who are different."

Harry couldn't help but think back to Hermione, having to hear slur after slur against her, consistent judgement and derivation from people who couldn't fathom the brilliance of someone of her birth. Or the humiliation that Ron had to put up with, just for being less of pocket. Harry wondered after he had put Riddle in the dirt, whether the Wizarding world would actually learn from the oncoming war. Or whether they would just carry on as they always did, allowing their ignorance to blindly breed another would-be dark lord.

"We debated whether or not to go public," Mr Dalton continued, "but we never did, evidently. My choice. I didn't want to be his weakness - what with his status and the enemies that came with it - though, he never saw it that way. Can't say it didn't suit me, though. I was very used to keeping secrets already. What was one more, eh?"

"Secrets?"

He saw Mr Dalton grin once again.

"You really do ask the right questions, don't you?"

"It's more of a recent habit," Harry shrugged.

Mr Dalton cleared his throat, settling in for a long tale, and Harry, realising this might take a while, adjusted to a more comfortable stance.

"Before I met Albus," the elderly gentleman began, "I served under the Royal Airforce, during the Second World War. Confidentiality was second nature to us, back then, as it should have it been to most people. We were all on the lookout for anything suspicious. All for Mr Churchill, for Queen and Country, you see. Couldn't let any German spies break through the ranks. Well, you know very well keeping magic hushed up is a task in itself, but trying to do it during a war? With everyone and their grandmother on the lookout? It was only inevitable that some muggles slipped through the cracks. I was one of them.

"Grindelwald was desperate to destabilise the British Air force, you see; he saw it as the greatest threat to his forces. I was working at my post one day when I managed to intercept a fight in my hanger. Made quick work of them."

"You killed wizards?" Harry gasped, to which Mister Dalton eyed him mischievously. Something between a twinkle and a glint fell across his pair of blue irises.

"When you have an aim as good as mine," he explained, "it's easy work. Albus just happened to be one of the wizards fighting to protect the base. Afterwards, we got talking, and he managed to recruit me to the cause."

"I didn't think they'd let muggles join in on that sort of thing."

"Nowadays, definitely not, but back then, they were desperate for anyone who could put up a fight. Besides, my military connections proved quite useful in the end, but maybe that's a tale for another day.

"After it was all over, we few muggles had done enough for the right side that we were quietly classified under 'squibs' and told to keep our heads down."

"Doesn't sound like much of a reward," Harry said.

"We certainly weren't granted any honours," Mr Dalton bristled, "but I suppose we were just glad that we got to keep our memories. Eventually, we were even allowed into the Wizarding world. It's how I was able to come here today."

"I'm glad you could be here, for his sake. He would have wanted you here… if you really are who you say you are."

"Oh, you want proof, do you?" Mr Dalton chuckled, to which Harry shrugged.

"You can't blame me for being cautious."

"No, I suppose not, what with a murderer on your tail. I could belong to anyone. You'd be a fool to trust me outright, however-" He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a blackened lump perched in the palm of his hand, "-perhaps you'd be a greater fool to not trust him."

Harry looked closer at the pile of charred, dirty feathers, nothing for the first time a pair of beady eyes blinking up at him. His eyes followed its body downwards, to its tiny wings, tipped with specs of scarlet and gold, and he gasped.

"Is that-?"

Mr Dalton smiled and Fawkes the phoenix chirped happily as if saying 'hello' to a familiar face.

"I've known this one for as long as I've known Albus," he explained, gazing down fondly at the chick in his palm. "He's quite the personality. Always brought Albus to me in times of crisis. He'll be perfectly alright with me for now, Mr Potter. Let the rest of them believe he's gone off to the next great adventure."

Harry carefully stroked Fawkes' tiny head, before Mr Dalton returned him to his pocket.

"Whilst we're on the subject of Albus' effects," Mr Dalton continued, "where's his wand?"

Harry gestured towards the island, where the white tomb still stood, gleaming in the midday sun.

"With him."

Mr Dalton glanced at the teenager by his side, fixing him with a strange look.

"He told me that it was your's."

"Doesn't matter," Harry shrugged. "I don't want it."

"Hmm, quite right," Mr Dalton nodded dutifully, deciding that was the correct answer. "Let it rest, I say. He was an astute man, and I admired him greatly, but the Hallows were always Albus' one failing. Don't believe everything he told you, they have been his obsession ever since he was a young man, and believe me that's been a very long time indeed."

"The Hallows?" Harry asked, suddenly bewildered. "What are those?"

Mr Dalton looks at him for a few seconds, before he rolled his eyes and sighed irritably. Harry frowned what he had done wrong before he heard the old man mumbling to himself.

"Useless, that man. Utterly useless."

"Are they important?" Harry asked, causing the elderly gentleman to scoff.

"They might very well be." Mr Dalton straightened up. "Albus always did want to see them buried, but I never did think it was his tale to close."

"Is his wand one of them?"

"He was certainly convinced of it. As was Grindelwald. He bargained his empire on that wand. You can guess how that turned out."

"Grindelwald believed in the Hallows as well?"

"Oh, he was more than a believer," Mr Dalton growled. "Went so far as to take their symbol as his own. You'd be hard-pressed to ask about the Hallows without Grindelwald's name eventually showing up. He thought they were the key to absolute power."

Harry's eyes widened as another thought popped into his head.

"Do you think Voldemort might try and find them too?" he asked.

"He wouldn't be the first," Mr Dalton murmured, "he certainly wouldn't be the last. The history of the Hallows is one steeped in blood. For every bit of good they've caused, they dwell in a dozen tragedies. Greater men than Albus have lost themselves to the search, Mr Potter." Mr Dalton gave him a look from the corner of his eye, and a sudden chill gripped Harry's body. It was safe to say Harry no longer harboured any doubt that this man had taken a life. "So, take my advice and don't go looking for them. If it is truly to be, they will find you."

Harry quickly nodded, desperate not to get on the wrong side of his temper.

"Yes, sir."

In the blink of an eye, the elderly man's ominous demeanour was gone, and the lifelong companion of Albus Dumbledore was back. He smiled enigmatically.

"He spoke very highly of you, Mr Potter. You may, in fact, have been his favourite student." He reached into his jacket pocket and offered Harry a black card between his fingers. "Should you ever need any help of the muggle variety, don't be afraid to call."

Harry took it, reading 'Mr Gareth Dalton' and a phone number. He was about to ask what kind of business he was in when he noticed the elderly gentleman looking out towards the island, in quiet contemplation. Deciding not to disturb the scene, Harry slipped the card safely in his back pocket and joined him in gazing at the tomb.

"I just wish I could have done more," Harry eventually admitted.

"We loved him," Mr Dalton replied, his voice croaking at the seams. "That's all we could do."

Despite the years having slowly stripped it from him, Harry could still see the essence of a soldier within the old man. An air of dignity worn thin over time, but still pervasive. It reminded Harry of an ageing lion, its mane more grey than gold, but still majestic in its own way.

"I'm sorry," was all the teen could say.

"It's alright," Mr Dalton replied robotically. "I've had a year to come to terms with this. Yet, here I am. Still not quite…"

"Would you like to be alone?" Harry asked in of more prescient moments. Mr Dalton nodded.

"Yes, I think I would." He turned to Harry and offered him once final shake of the hand, before gently batting him away with his cane. "Now, off with you. Go to your girl. She's been watching us like a hawk ever since you came to talk to me."

My girl?

Harry turned around, expecting to see Ginny in the distance, her distinctive shade of red hair, ready to explain how they weren't really boyfriend and girlfriend - except his eyes met Hermione's face instead.

Even amongst the small crowd of students, he found her as if she were the only one. She was indeed staring at him, a peculiar expression on her face. She looked perfectly at peace, proud and awed and happy, but somehow morose at the same time. It was only there for a quick second before she quickly glanced away and continued talking to Professor McGonagall, one of the few remaining guests. However, even that tiny exchange was enough to swell his heart through his ribcage.

It felt nothing like one of Ginny's pervasive stares - that awkward, overbearing presence the made him feel uncomfortable in his own body. Hermione's gaze felt warm and inviting, like sunlight. He was always happy to see it, whenever he was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it, and it always made him stand just a little bit taller, made him feel like he was doing something right only by existing.

Hermione trusted him, understood him, completely. And she knew him - the real him - better than anyone. Compared to Ron… Ron was his best friend, and Harry loved him, but he didn't need Ron, not in the way that he needed Hermione. The possibility of Ron being buried under the tomb saddened him, but it didn't make him physically ill like it did to imagine Hermione's cold, lifeless body in Dumbledore's place. It didn't grip Harry's stomach in terror and rip his heart in two and sour his every waking moment, because he'd been without Ron before. Harry had gone weeks without Ron in his life, acting like a stranger, and he had managed it because he had Hermione by his side. Just as she had been since the moment he met her.

Harry couldn't imagine his life without Hermione. It simply didn't compute.

Because he loved her.

And all of a sudden it was like seeing his favourite photograph in colour for the first time. Like remembering the name of a song stuck in his head. Like realising why he had clung to the scent of lavender in his darkest moments to carry him through.

I love Hermione. My Hermione. My girl…

Harry refused to believe it. Not because he wouldn't want Hermione - no, he realised, he wanted her more than anything in the world. But he… he didn't deserve her. He was a broken toy. She was the whole world. She needed someone who could give her everything, someone who at least had a life to live. Harry knew he didn't have that. All he could hope for was a good death.

He couldn't tell her, not now. Telling her, knowing that he only had so much time left, would only be cruelty. Having something with her, loving her, only to have to say goodbye, would break her. He knew that pain of having to let go of something he loved, and any future he might have shared with them. To have that hope torn away.

Harry could the end of that road in the man beside him. Even having all those years with Dumbledore, all that time to live and love each other, it still wasn't enough. No amount of time could temper that kind of loss.

He and Hermione wouldn't have years. Every day that he was alive was another day Riddle was allowed to torment all that was good in the world. His death was coming sooner rather than later. That was a sacrifice he had to make, a burden he would carry with him. Letting her in, tying her to a dead man… He couldn't do that to Hermione. Not her.

How could hurt her that deeply and claim to love her?

So, he would let it die with him. He loved Hermione, he knew that now more than ever, but she didn't love him back. At least, not in the same way. At least that was what he had to believe. How could she ever truly love him, in that way? Him, the one without a future. She didn't know what his home life had done to him, the humiliation he was forced to endure. All she saw was the person he was trying to be, not the wretched thing that crawled out of the cupboard and onto the Hogwarts Express. Harry could never ask her to love that because he struggled to either.

Noticing that he had actually yet to move, Harry momentarily shook himself out of his crisis. Hermione had gone to rejoin Ron, and the two looked eager to head up back to the castle. And so Harry began the slow walk back, returning up to the castle for a spot of lunch. His last day at Hogwarts as a free student.

He left Mr Dalton to mourn in peace, and all the while pretended not to notice the tears trailing down his time-weathered face.