She helps Neville into his seat, bracing the weight of him with one (surprisingly sturdy) slender arm. The low buzz of mourning is all around; she is untouched, turning her face up to the bright clear light, squinting into the warmth of it. There was another sunny day, another funeral. She wore a flower in her hair. She was spinning by her mother's grave, making the blue sky swirl and twist into itself until she fell to the ground, exhilarated.

Beside her, Neville's jaw is tight. She pats his arm, lays her head on his shoulder. His hand finds hers.


The air is full of sobs, but beside her Harry is silent. She feels him shift in his seat, restless, detached, as the tears slide down her cheeks, and it crashes into her, horrible and true. He is going to leave. She swallows, hard; squares her shoulders, deep breaths. She rakes her eyes over his face, remembers everything, fights the urge to stroke his hair just once, very gently. The sun is warm on her skin. Her eyes are clear.

He turns to look at her. The words catch in his throat, but she already knows how they will sound.


Ernie spends the funeral trying not to cry. Furious with himself, he watches Neville limp past, sees the blank, uncomprehending look in Harry's eyes. Hannah mutters soothing words, but it's no use. He wasn't there. It repeats, over and over, in time with his heartbeat. He stares so hard at the body that when it bursts into flames he almost thinks he did it himself.

There is a single Galleon clenched in his fist, the knuckles white. He makes a vow: the next time the gold burns, he'll be there with his friends. He'll be ready. And he will fight.


He isn't sure why he came here, why he's standing by this tree, distanced from the crowd. It isn't as if he cares. Nobody notices him as he stands and stares at their grief. He is awkward, unimportant. He sits against the tree for a minute, stands up again, brushes dirt from his robes with clumsy hands. Sweat trickles down his back.

He sees Longbottom limping away; pointing and chuckling, he turns to Malfoy, and the smile dies on his face as he remembers that he's gone. The crowds disperse, and Goyle just stands there, alone by the lake. Uncertain.