A/N: This is the final chapter of the portion of this story that will cover Harry, Ron, and Hermione's fourth year at Hogwarts. The next chapter will be a short epilogue to the events of that year, and the chapter after that will begin the story of Ron and Hermione's fifth school year. Enjoy!

Hermione woke to the sound of birds chirping outside the window. She felt unusually well-rested, and had her memories of the previous night not come back at that moment, it might have been a rather pleasant start to the day.

"Hey," Ron said from the adjacent bed. He was sitting up against the headboard, gingerly moving his still-bandaged arm back and forth.

"Hey."

Hermione sat up slowly, realizing that she was groggier than she had thought.

"Mum told me about what happened," Ron said quietly. "Don't think I slept very well."

His eyes were puffy and red, with heavy bags beneath them.

"Hasn't sunk in yet, really. Always thought he could survive anything, you know?"

She had no response for that. She was trying to think of something to say when Mrs. Weasley pushed through the door to the Hospital Wing, carrying a plate of sausages, eggs, and toast.

"Oh, Hermione, dear, I didn't just wake you, did I?"

She set the plate down on the side-table next to Ron and pulled Hermione into an uncomfortably tight hug. She eventually stepped back, and Hermione shook her head.

"Good. Bill and Ginny are still eating, but they'll come by again soon. Let me fetch you breakfast in the meantime, you must need it."

Mrs. Weasley attempted a smile, but it died halfway to her eyes.

The thought of food wasn't appealing in the least. "Thanks, but I should probably go myself at some point. Once I'm hungry."

Mrs. Weasley frowned, but didn't object.

The three of them sat in silence as Ron began to eat. It was clear just how much they all felt Harry's absence. Ron was missing his best and truest friend. Mrs. Weasley was mourning the boy she loved like one of her own sons. And for Hermione herself, it was the absence of the person who—

No. She couldn't go there. Not now. She couldn't think about what Harry meant to her. She didn't want to crumble in front of Ron and his mother – not because she would be ashamed to, but because she didn't want to ask for comfort from people who were deep in their own grief too.

"I should check on the others," Mrs. Weasley said, standing up suddenly. She turned to leave, but not before fresh tears had formed in her eyes.

"He was like family," Ron said once she had left, putting his fork down. "My favourite brother."

"I know," she said, but she didn't, not really. She'd never had a sibling.

"And now he's gone. Don't even remember the last thing I said to him."

A flicker of annoyance passed through her. Ron was fishing for comfort from her, the one who had had to watch everything happen.

"Can't believe I spent half the year fighting with him. Do you think he knew how bad I felt about that? Do you think he knew I was there in the maze with you, trying to—"

"I have no idea," she snapped, far more sharply than she had intended. Her frustration had come on quickly. "Harry didn't take the time, while we were face-to-face with You-Know-Who, to tell me how much he forgave you. I have enough of my own problems to deal with right now, Ron. I can't just take on all of yours like they're more unfinished Potions essays."

They didn't talk much after that. Hermione eventually remembered that Professor Dumbledore had wanted to see her this morning. She was glad of the excuse to leave.

"Going to see Dumbledore."

She paused with her hand on the door. "I'm sorry," she added, talking quickly before she changed her mind. "I meant some of that, but of course Harry knew how you felt. Of course he understood. He didn't need to say it out loud for me to know it was true."

She ducked out before Ron could respond, and began the long, lonely walk up towards the Headmaster's office. There were still all sorts of questions that she had to ask, but by the time she approached the gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office, there was one question – one idea, really – that stood above the rest.

The gargoyle began to rotate, revealing Professor Snape, who was wiping his hand on his robes. He stepped off of the descending staircase and fixed her with a glare. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Don't you have somewhere to be, Granger?" he said, his voice hoarse.

He swept past her before she could think to ask him for the password, which left her with no choice but to dash onto the staircase before the gargoyle spun closed.

As she climbed the steps, the sound of shouting became clearer and clearer.

"You swore to me that he would be safe! First it was James and Lily, and now their only son. He looks just like James, you know. Do you have any idea how this feels?"

"James and Lily put their faith in the wrong person."

"And so did Harry, apparently!"

"Sirius, please—"

The wooden door at the very top of the stairs flew open, nearly hitting Hermione. Sirius emerged, his face wild. For an instant she was vividly reminded of his Azkaban mugshot, and then he shrank down into a dog and scampered around her, down the staircase.

She walked slowly into the Headmaster's office, shaking slightly. She hadn't even thought of Sirius. Harry had meant everything to him, but it was still shocking to see him that angry, and at Dumbledore no less. He needed help, he needed support, but for the life of her she didn't know who could provide it right now.

"I am sorry that you had to witness that," Dumbledore said. "Sirius is not at his best. Few of us are, currently."

He gestured, and she took a seat.

"I wanted to meet with you again today because I suspected you would have questions for me."

"Professor," she began, the words rushing from her mouth almost before he had finished the sentence, "It's been less than twelve hours since everything that happened last night. That's well within the range of a Time—"

"Alas," he said, gently interrupting her, "It is not a question of the range. There is a more fundamental limitation. The witch who invented the very first Time-Turner was driven by the very same motivation as your own. But she, like you, was unhappily reminded that no magic can return the dead to us. When a witch or wizard dies, their soul moves On. It rests beyond this world, in a place that no spell or enchantment may reach. Only misfortune has come to those who have tried to bridge that gap."

She fell silent, suddenly feeling rather stupid. She had known all that, of course. But for a few happy minutes, her hope had pushed those facts out of her mind.

"Now that I have answered your first question, I hope that you might permit me to ask one of my own. Is there anything that you wish to tell me? Anything that you might not have wanted to mention last night, in the presence of the Minister for Magic?"

She froze. There was, of course, something that met that description. Part of her wanted to bury what had happened to Mr. Filch forever, to try and conceal not just her crime but also her shame. But she also desperately wanted to come clean and to tell the truth to somebody that she trusted, somebody who could tell her what was right and what was wrong. Here, under Dumbledore's knowing gaze, that latter part of her eventually won out.

She told Dumbledore the part of the previous night's story that she had held back, sparing no details. If he was surprised by any of it, he gave no indication.

"I thought I had no other choice," she concluded quietly. "I thought it would be harmless, too. I thought I would just be freeing Mr. Filch. I never imagined..."

She was expecting to be expelled on the spot. Dumbledore would have to inform the Ministry of what she had done, and one charge of using an Unforgivable Curse would be added to her trial. It wouldn't matter if she was acquitted of killing Harry; she'd get life in Azkaban anyway.

But none of that happened.

"When I was your age," Dumbledore began, looking nearly as stern as Professor McGonagall, "I too had a great deal of respect for the rules. Perhaps a little too much respect, even. But as I grew older, there came a time where I found myself more and more tempted to break them, for reasons that seemed all too compelling. Eventually I did. I thought I knew better, you see. I thought I knew when something was more important than the rules. I thought I knew when the greater good necessitated ignoring them, and the worst part is that quite often I was right. But all it takes is one misstep, one irreversible mistake, to make you realize just what the rules are truly protecting you from. Thus far, only luck has spared you that misstep, Miss Granger. Madam Pomfrey expects Mr. Filch to make a very fortunate and full recovery from his wounds, both physical and otherwise. I hope that I can impress upon you the importance of not pressing that luck further."

"You have," she said, looking down. She was relieved that Mr. Filch was going to recover, but knowing that did little to lessen the guilt she felt. "I'll follow the rules from now on, I swear it, but what happens when following the rules stops you from trying to save someone? What should I have done last night?"

Dumbledore sighed, some of the sternness fading from his face. "What should you have done? Truthfully, I do not know. You nearly destroyed a man's life last night, yet in doing so you nearly saved the life of another. Moreover, you nearly prevented the return of a man responsible for the death of thousands. If you would indulge me in answering another of my questions, I will ask you this: had Harry been saved and Lord Voldemort thwarted, but at the cost of Mr. Filch's sanity, how would you feel?"

"Awful."

"I would be worried if you wouldn't. But would you regret what you had done?"

"Yes," she replied, without hesitation. She certainly regretted it now. As it was, the image of Mr. Filch struggling under competing Imperius Curses might not ever leave her memory. If she had actually irreparably damaged his mind, she would be a monster, no better than Barty Crouch Jr. Harry being alive instead of You-Know-Who wouldn't change any of that. Besides, he would inevitably find out what she had done to save him, and he would never forgive her for it.

It seemed so clear now that she had done wrong, but at the time, even with Ron screaming at her to stop, she hadn't. The strict moral compass that she prided herself on adhering to had vanished, even if only for a few minutes, just because it had been Harry's life at stake. She was starting to feel sick. Was she really that selfish?

Dumbledore nodded. "Good. There is one last facet of the Unforgivable Curses that I wish to stress, though. They give the caster tremendous control over the target's mind, body, or soul, and wielding that sort of total control over another changes people. It erodes morals. It is addictive. And, like all power, it corrupts even the very best of intentions. This is a point that I had expected Alastor to make during, or indeed before, his lessons on the topic. He himself has been greatly changed by his work."

Hermione thought back to the intoxicating feeling of using the Imperius Curse and shivered. She would never experience that again, she promised herself.

"Of course," he continued, sighing, "Alastor did rather less teaching this year than I had anticipated. Remember though, that while Dark wizards have access to these weapons that we should rightfully forsake, we have something that they do not. Something that allows us to overcome them without endangering our own beliefs."

He paused, looking expectantly at her, but she had no idea what answer he was looking for. She barely knew the Headmaster; this was at least ten-fold the longest conversation they'd ever had. She didn't know him like Harry did.

"What's that?"

He smiled ever so slightly. "Friends. The ones from whom I have kept you for too long this morning. Go on now, there is no better time to relearn their importance."

She got up to leave, understanding the dismissal, yet for the second time that day she found herself with one last thing to say.

"Professor, could I ask you a favour? I know it's unlikely, but would you look for Harry in Godric's Hollow? If there's even the slightest chance I was wrong about what I thought I saw, and he's all alone, trying to find some way back..."

"I suspect that Voldemort may expect me to do just that," Dumbledore mused. "I can promise you nothing, unfortunately, but if there is a way to investigate the area safely, I will."

Hermione thanked him and left the office. She hadn't been planning on asking that of Professor Dumbledore. She had wanted to let go, to accept that Harry was gone, but instead she had planted one last seed of hope.

Soon she was standing next to the gargoyle in the hall below, unsure of what to do. She would have followed Dumbledore's advice about friends, but who was there to talk to? She and Ron could fight about the littlest things at the best of times, and either one of them was liable to go off on the other, especially after this morning. She got along fine with the other Gryffindor girls, but not well enough for something like this. Neither Parvati nor, Merlin forbid, Lavender was going to understand what she was going through right now. She was on good terms with a couple of the fourth-year Ravenclaws too, but they'd only ever talked about classes and books and theories, not stuff like this. Not feelings.

She just wanted to go home, she realized. She couldn't, of course, not until the Hogwarts Express left after the official end of term, but she wanted to more than anything. Her parents might not know very much about magic, but they would still do their best to understand all that had happened, and to make her feel safe. They always had.

Hermione did the next best thing, and made her way to the Owlery. Despite only intending to write her parents a short note, she ended up sending one of the school's owls off with two filled sheets of parchment.

Her thoughts flitted about like birds as she walked back to Gryffindor Tower. Everything seemed surreal. So much had changed in the last day, and yet it still felt almost like a dream. She half-expected one of the walls to crumble away at any moment, or turn bright pink, or dance a jig.

It was barely noon when Hermione arrived back at the common-room, but she was already exhausted. Her brain needed a break, and so she settled into her favourite armchair, with the comforting weight of Hogwarts: A History in her hands. She was thumbing through its table of contents, trying to decide which of her favourite sections to re-read, when something caught her eye.

Perched over the front edge of the fireplace grate, as if someone had tried to throw it into the fire and missed, was a singed copy of the Daily Prophet. For once she had been in no hurry to read the morning edition, but she knew that she couldn't put it off forever. Most people would consider whatever was in there to be the definitive account of last night's events, at least for now, and she had to know just how bad it was.

She retrieved the paper, blowing soot off of the front page, and took in the headline.

HARRY POTTER KILLED IN TRIWIZARD TRAGEDY

Below it was a picture of Harry sitting astride his Firebolt, hair whipping wildly in the wind as he searched for the Snitch in the pouring rain. Cedric was flying through the background, doing the same.

She hadn't thought of how it would feel to see him, even like this. A flood of memories rushed past her: a lesson on Nifflers, a conversation with Viktor, finally admitting everything to him in this very room, that evening spent in the Room of Requirement. Tears were in her eyes before she knew it. She huddled in her reading chair, praying nobody would walk in.

Thump.

She spun around, panicked, sure that the sound had come from the stairs to the dormitories. Then Crookshanks came flying into view, leaping down the steps three at a time.

"Oh, it's just you," she said, relieved.

He replied with a "Mrrow", hopping up onto her lap and nestling himself between her and the Prophet. She put it down, petting him with both hands. It was rare for him to sit with her like this, at least willingly. But today he had nothing but purrs, and they slowly dried her tears.

Eventually she picked up the Prophet again, scanning the front page as she scratched behind Crookshanks' ears. For the most part the article seemed light on specifics, but the third paragraph caught her eye.

After entering the Triwizard maze, Mr. Potter is known to have been seen only by his long-time friend and confidant Miss Hermione Granger, 15. Previous reporting by the Prophet has linked Miss Granger and Mr. Potter in a contentious love triangle, alongside the famed Bulgarian Seeker Mr. Viktor Krum.

Hermione scoffed. 'Reporting' was a rather generous way to describe Rita's espionage, trespassing, and inventive exaggerations.

Miss Granger, alongside their mutual friend Mr. Ronald Weasley and his sister Ginevra, are all believed to have surreptitiously entered the Triwizard maze, for an unknown purpose. The news of Mr. Potter's death was first broken by Miss Granger, who appeared by Portkey outside of the maze, claiming to have witnessed it. While much of the night's tragic events remains a mystery, anonymous sources within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have confirmed that Miss Granger is considered the chief person of interest in their ongoing investigation.

She sighed. It could have been a lot worse. If Professor Dumbledore hadn't talked Fudge down, the Prophet would have been reporting on her arrest, instead of just starting rumours. It was easy to imagine the rumours spreading quickly, but she could handle that. Her life before Hogwarts – her life before befriending Harry and Ron, really – had seemed to give her classmates plenty of cause to disparage her when they thought she wasn't around. That sort of thing hurt less, now.

The second half of the article transitioned into a rather flowery obituary, written (of course) by Rita herself. Now that Harry was gone, she was just full of kind platitudes, the manipulative cow.

Hermione tossed the Prophet into the fire, where it was quickly consumed. She spent the next half-hour trying to relax, and reading about various small renovations that Hogwarts had undergone since it was originally built: the installation of modern plumbing, the refurbishment of the seventh floor, and the construction of the Quidditch pitch, among others. She hadn't yet finished the latter chapter when Crookshanks squirmed suddenly out of her lap, startling her.

"Mrrow!" He prowled over to the portrait-hole, nudging the back of the frame with the top of his head.

"You want to go for a stroll?" she asked, walking over to him and opening the exit. He was usually content to spend his time sleeping in the sunbeams that came through the windows of her dormitory, but once or twice a day he would insist on going out to explore the grounds.

She returned to her reading, but before she could even finish the next chapter she was interrupted by another miaow, this time coming from outside the common-room. Sighing, she got up and opened the portrait-door to let Crookshanks back in.

But rather than coming back in, he miaowed at her again, walking in a tight circle around the center of the corridor.

"What is it now, Crookshanks? Is something wrong?"

She stepped outside the common-room, and Crookshanks immediately took off down the hallway. He stopped after maybe twenty feet, and miaowed at her once more. She took another step towards him, and he took three away from her.

"Alright, alright, I'll come with you. But this had better not be another dead bird, you know you're supposed to leave them alone!"

Crookshanks led her down to the ground floor of the castle, and then out into the blinding afternoon sun. She had almost been enjoying her solitary time inside, but now she was weaving a path in and out of a crowd of first-years as Crookshanks scampered around their feet. The warm weather had drawn almost everyone outside, as it had for the last week, but as she passed more and more people it became clear that today was different. For one, the 'Potter Stinks' badges that had been so prevalent all year had nearly vanished overnight. Even most of the Slytherins weren't wearing theirs. Also, rather than running or laughing or throwing Fanged Frisbees, most people were just walking or sitting in small packs, talking quietly. She heard her name mentioned more than once, mostly by groups that moved to give her a needlessly wide berth as she passed by. It felt almost unwelcoming, but at least there were a few familiar faces out, too. Seamus, Dean, and Michael Corner were sitting on a rock ledge, legs swinging freely. Cedric and Cho were walking slowly around the perimeter of the lake, arm in arm. Lavender was shrilly complaining about something to Katie Bell and the Patil twins, who were nodding sympathetically. Nobody was going it alone, she realized. Nobody except her.

For an awful moment she thought Crookshanks was leading her towards Cedric and Cho, but then he veered off to the side, eventually coming to a stop just in front of the door to Hagrid's hut. She could hear tea being poured from within, and something heavy being set on a table.

"Known him since he was this big," Hagrid said. "Brough' him safe ter his aunt an' uncle. I never thought – not with Dumbledore here. He's still jus' a boy!"

"Everything feels wrong without him." Ron's voice carried, raspy, through the wooden door. "It's just… not the same. He was the first friend I made here, you remember?"

"The two o' ya were no taller 'an my knee that firs' time you came for tea," Hagrid blubbered. "He was so happy though. Couldn' believe how bad the Dursleys had been treatin' him. Seein' him happy like that at Hogwarts, and seeing him growin' up so fast…"

Hagrid broke off into a series of loud sobs.

"You meant a lot to him too, Hagrid," Ron said, his voice faltering.

"Yeh were such mischievous little tykes back then," Hagrid continued, pausing to blow his nose loudly. "It's a good thing yeh met Hermione, and she straightened yeh both out. Well, as much as she could, I s'pose. Still troublemakers, the lot of ya."

A smile slipped onto her face, but it quickly faded. Even now, there was no way she could go in there. She just didn't have the capacity. Not for Ron, not for Hagrid, not for anybody. Not now.

She took a step away from the door, but Crookshanks ran up and scratched at it, miaowing.

"Bad Crookshanks!" she hissed as quietly as she could.

But it was no use. Hagrid opened the door. His cheeks were red and he had a large flagon of ale in one hand, but his face lit up when he saw her.

"Thank the stars yer safe," he rumbled, hugging her with his free arm. "Yeh had me in a righ' state of worry, yeh shouldn't be off on yer own like that after what's happen'd!"

"Sorry," she said quietly. "I think I needed some time to myself."

Having no other choice, she sat down next to Ron, who gave her a half-hearted nod.

"Anyways, we were jus' talkin' about ya," Hagrid said as he poured her a cup of tea.

"I might have heard," she admitted sheepishly.

"Well, I meant it. The two of 'em would be in detention ev'ry weekend if not for yeh. Course, if not for Ron, yeh and Harry'd always be too serious to have any fun. An' yeh and Ron'd probably never stop fightin' without Har…"

Hagrid trailed off, but it was clear what he had almost accidentally said, and just like that the spectre of last night was looming over them again. Hermione was suddenly very glad that she had tea to sip, so she didn't have to look at either of them.

It was a while before Hagrid spoke next. "Nearly forgot yeh were here," he said softly to Crookshanks, who was rubbing against his leg and purring steadily. "Have somethin' special for yeh today, if yeh want. Roast pheasant, see?"

"You— do you feed him often, Hagrid?" she asked, too shocked to keep the question to herself. "I've been trying to keep him on a diet!"

Ron chuckled, and Hagrid suddenly looked extremely guilty. "Jus' a little. Leftovers, y'know. Venison, pheasant, beef, whatever I've got. Only the smallest pieces!" he added, but he was holding his fingers a good three inches apart.

Hermione sighed. "Well no wonder he's still so— so..."

"Fat?" Ron offered.

It was the stupidest thing, and not even fair to poor Crookshanks, who was merely well-rounded, but somehow it started all three of them laughing. It didn't last, of course, but it did shatter their anxious silence, and it got them talking. They talked about other things, at first, but after a while, perhaps once they all felt ready, they talked about the friend they had lost. They talked about the shock, the despair, the very weirdness of him not being here with them. Eventually Hagrid set down the flagon for good, and made them all stoat sandwiches as the sun trailed towards the horizon. Everything still felt wrong, but they were all experiencing that wrongness together – in different ways, perhaps, but together. She had probably been right that she couldn't do things like this on her own, but… maybe she didn't have to.

When Hermione got back to her dormitory that evening, she pulled out a quill and parchment and began scratching out a note to Ginny. She knew that talking with her directly would have been better, but she still didn't feel ready for that. Hermione probably wasn't exactly the first person that Ginny wanted to see right now, anyway.

I'm so sorry, Ginny. For everything that's happened, even the parts I couldn't control. If you ever want to talk about anything, I'm always here.

- Hermione

Ginny and her dorm-mates weren't back yet, so Hermione left the note on Ginny's side-table, where she couldn't miss it.

Maybe the note was overly conciliatory, but that didn't bother her. What mattered most was just resolving the tension between them before it could fester over the summer.

It felt like some of the pressure on Hermione had lifted, but she still tossed and turned all night, never sleeping more than a half-hour at a time. She couldn't help but see Harry's final moments every time she closed her eyes. But beyond the horror of those visions there was, at the very least, the knowledge that she was not alone.

The next several days passed in a blur of good times and bad alike. Ron and Lavender had apparently had some sort of falling-out, and so Hermione talked with him quite a bit for the first day or two. She was almost starting to get good at Wizard's Chess when he and Lavender eventually made up (rather more publicly than anyone else in the common-room would have liked), and after that he was rarely free. Of the other Gryffindors she talked most to Neville, who could always be counted on for commiseration, and Parvati, who seemed to be growing increasingly irked by Lavender's frequent absences.

It was her encounters with the rest of the castle that were the most difficult. Viktor, Cedric, and Fleur had all separately offered their condolences, and Viktor had made her promise to write him over the summer any time she needed, but the three of them were the exception. The Slytherins weren't above jeering at her in the hallways, and she couldn't deny that people whispering behind her back was tiresome, but worst of all were the students who would back away if they saw her, or quickly turn to avoid crossing her path. How could they actually believe that she was a murderer, and of Harry, no less? She desperately wanted to tell them all the truth and try to clear her name, but she knew that was a bad idea. Yelling at everyone she passed about You-Know-Who wasn't going to convince anyone. She needed more evidence, and she would need a platform, too.

And so Hermione was glad when the week finally came to an end, and with it the term. The Leaving Feast was even grander than usual, as the departure of the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students was also being honoured, but the banners and tapestries that hung in the Great Hall were black. The atmosphere wasn't jovial, like in past years, but nor was it somber, exactly. It was only fair, she supposed. For most people, it was an appropriate time to begin moving on. Just not for those who truly knew him.

Dumbledore rose from his seat at the head of the hall. "Today," he began, his voice carrying easily despite its low volume, "I wish to congratulate, as always, those who have finished their final year at Hogwarts. To our graduates: may you find happiness in the years that lie ahead of you, and may you make all of us proud."

He paused, leading a brief round of applause.

"Unfortunately, there is another student whose time at Hogwarts has ended. There is a student who is missing from us today. I speak, as you all know, of Harry Potter. Harry was possessed of uncommon courage, of uncanny determination, and the truly rare desire to protect others before himself. In short, he embodied every quality of a true Gryffindor."

Dumbledore raised his glass. "To Harry."

The tribute was repeated quietly throughout the hall.

"However, it is my belief that the best way we can honour Harry is not to praise his virtues, of which there are many, but to have the courage to face the truth about his death with open eyes. That truth is this: Harry was murdered by Lord Voldemort."

Ripples of shock coursed through the students, eventually settling into a mix of disbelief and fear.

"The Ministry of Magic does not wish for you to know this," Dumbledore continued. Even the resumption of his speech couldn't completely quiet the whispers. "But I believe that to conceal this truth, frightening though it may be, would be an insult, not only to Harry's bravery but to your own. Our world has enjoyed fourteen years of peace – the entirety of many of your lives – and now that may very well come to an end. That prospect is frightening, there is no denying it. Equally frightening is the magnitude of Lord Voldemort's lust for power and his desire for supremacy. He would have our society return to its very darkest state, in which it gorged upon fear and uplifted prejudice and hate."

"In this difficult time, I encourage you all to remember not only the friend we have lost, but also the friends we have found. Over the course of this year, we have forged new bonds of cooperation and unity between classmates, between Houses, between schools, and indeed between nations. If we maintain those ties and stand together with our friends, new and old alike, then we will have the strength that we need to resist those who would divide us."

"Finally, as I speak now of friendship and cooperation, there are four people I must mention. Last week, through exemplifying those two virtues, they very nearly averted this tragedy. They are Neville Longbottom, Ginevra Weasley, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger."

Dumbledore raised his glass once more, looking distinctly at the Gryffindor table.

"May we all be as good to our friends as they were to Harry."

For most of the Gryffindors, the next morning was an all out sprint to pack and say their goodbyes before the train departed at 11 o'clock. Hermione had packed the afternoon prior, after the Leaving Feast, but at half past 10, a very panicked Ron asked her to help with Harry's things.

"It's all going to Snuffles," he muttered to her as they packed Harry's trunk, which had been repaired after the break-in. "But Mum thinks it's best we let him pick it up from the Burrow when he's ready."

Harry's belongings weren't numerous. His Firebolt. A photo album with his parents smiling and laughing on the cover. The Marauder's Map. The Invisibility Cloak. A set of Omnioculars. The Broomstick Servicing Kit she had gotten him for his birthday last year. And last of all, standing silently in her cage, was Hedwig.

"She only just came back," Ron said, stacking her cage on top of the trunk. "I let her out one night like Harry would... she was gone for ages."

They carried their bags down to the common-room, where Lavender was waiting.

"Train leaves in ten minutes, you know!" Sir Cadogan reminded the three of them as they hauled their bags through the portrait-hole. They raced down staircase after staircase, but just as they reached the ground floor, yet another voice called out to them.

"Miss! Miss!"

It was Tilly, the house-elf that Hermione had met in the kitchens. That seemed a world away, now. Tilly pressed a tightly folded piece of parchment into Hermione's hand.

"For you," she said, and ran off without any further explanation.

Hermione clumsily unfolded the parchment with one hand, trying not to fall behind the others. Inside was a single line of elegant, neat handwriting.

Checked Godric's Hollow. Nothing left of his body but bloodstains and fragments of bone. There wasn't any doubt.

It shouldn't have made any difference to her. She had known that she had been clinging to false hope, and in some ways she had begun to come to terms with what had happened, but in other ways she hadn't. For days the world had seemed uncertain, nebulous, almost dreamlike, and the idea of him suddenly walking into the common-room hadn't felt that far-fetched. Now that fuzziness was gone, and from it had crystallized a singular, inescapable truth. Harry had died that night. He wouldn't be in their compartment on the train, not today and not ever again. She owed so much to him, but spending any more time trying to hold on to his shadow would just make it harder for her to repay him.

She swallowed, feeling a lump rapidly swelling in her throat. "Dumbledore checked," she said quietly, not meeting Ron and Lavender's inquisitive glances. "There wasn't… there wasn't much of him left. But enough to be sure. He's gone."

"I'm sorry," Lavender said. Ron just sighed. Neither of them looked surprised.

By the time they jogged up to the carriage station, only a single carriage remained. Hermione had just sat down, exhausted from the running, when she saw something impossible. Tethered to the carriage, which everybody knew pulled itself, was a large, black winged horse. Its skin seemed to be stretched paper-thin, and bones burst through it at the beast's joints. It looked so like a corpse that she initially doubted if it was even alive, until it began shuffling its hooves in the dirt.

"Do you two see that?" she asked, still gawking.

Ron and Lavender, who were now taking their own seats, looked tremendously confused.

"I can see them too," a girl's voice said from Hermione's other side, startling her. "They can be unsettling, the first time. But most people get used to them, eventually."

"Hi Luna," Lavender said, sliding over to make room. Luna climbed into the carriage and flashed them all a smile.

Luna, or as a number of the Ravenclaws referred to her, 'Loony', Lovegood was not someone that Hermione had the patience for right now. Hermione had never talked to her, but by all accounts she was a raving conspiracy theorist, and the sort of person that even the most kind-hearted friend would refer to as 'rather eccentric'. How she had ended up in Ravenclaw was a mystery to everyone, most of all her housemates.

"And what exactly are they?" Hermione inquired, hating that she had to ask.

"They're Thestrals, of course," the silver-haired girl replied airily. "Only those who have seen death can see them. I'm very sorry for your loss, by the way. A lot of people have had very nice things to say about Harry."

Hermione nodded. "Alright then. Thanks."

The carriage began to roll, pulled by a pair of the Thestrals. Lavender and Luna set to talking about some particularly ridiculous form of Divination that they were planning to practice over the summer, and Hermione quickly tuned them out. She focused instead on the Thestrals in front of her. It was rather unsettling that the only other person who could see them was practically insane. She desperately wanted to read more about them when she got home, if only to verify that she wasn't going crazy, too.

They boarded the Hogwarts Express with not more than a minute to spare, and after a long (if rather boring) journey, they arrived at King's Cross, where Luna and Lavender said their goodbyes. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there to greet Hermione and Ron, and made a point of telling Hermione that she was welcome at the Burrow any time, no matter what. It was very kind of them, and normally she would have stayed to talk for a moment, but right then she had just wanted to be home.

Her parents were standing on the other side of the barrier leading to the Muggle platforms, looking relieved to see her. They had quite a few concerned questions for her, and the long drive home afforded her the chance to tell them what had happened since she had sent her letter. Much of it they couldn't understand, but for once it wasn't understanding that mattered. By the time they pulled into their driveway, she felt safe and she felt loved, and that was what she had needed most.

As she was unpacking later that night, she found the picture that she had borrowed from Colin at the very bottom of her bookbag. She must have forgotten to return it, amidst everything that had happened. It showed her and Harry together, laughing as they gazed up at a cushion that Harry's errant Banishing Charm had wedged between two ceiling beams. For once she was grateful that Colin had taken so many photos over the years. This picture had captured more than just a moment with Harry, though. It was a reminder of how much her life had changed over the last four years. At Hogwarts she had found true friends, a wealth of new knowledge to explore, and above all the sense that she was part of something greater than herself. In all likelihood there was a war coming, and she was going to do everything she could to protect those she loved. Maybe it was true that she couldn't fill Harry's shoes, but she could still prove herself worthy of his sacrifice.

Hermione set down the picture, yawning. Tomorrow she'd find a frame for it, and then she'd start on her reading. The term might have ended, but she had a lot of work to do.

She wouldn't have wanted it any other way.