Chapter 20 Assassinations and Revelations

"Mordsmorde!" a voice screamed.

All hell broke loose as the sky overhead darkened. The clouds, twisted by magic formed the screaming skull with its black snake tongue. Voldemort's mark emblazoned across the skies. The medal pinned to Cedric's chest glowed a deep purple for an instant and the three were pulled from Hogwarts.

Pandemonium ensured.

"Avada Kedevra!" screamed Igor Karkaroff. The spell lanced from his wand, and streaked towards its intended target.

"Avada Kedevra!" roared Alastor Moody. His own spell split seconds behind Karkaroff's.

Both spells streaked towards their target: Albus Dumbledore.

Not for nothing however, was the one hundred and fifty something year old considered one of the greatest wizards of the age. The killing curse cannot be countered or blocked with a shield or another form of magic, it is possible to block it with an object. The judges table splintered in half and the headmaster banished the halves in opposite directions, intercepting both spells.

War axe in hand, Griphook leapt at Karkaroff, and very nearly decapitated the Durmstrang headmaster. The bludgeoning hex slammed Griphook backwards, but the Goblin dug in his heels and stayed vertical, grunting in pain as several of his ribs cracked, despite his armor. "Goblin filth!" snarled Karkaraoff.

The Honor Guard, paralyzed in the first moments of the unfolding tableau reacted with blasting hexes, cutting charms, and stunners that swept Igor off his feet, tumbled him head over heels before he crashed to the ground with multiple broken bones and all manner of internal injury. Griphook saluted with his axe and ducked as a killing curse swept over his head.

Dumbledore turned his wrath upon the Auror turned traitor, who proved to be surprisingly nimble, even if he was missing one real leg. The headmaster conjured a whip of fire and sought to snare his opponent. The whip cracked through the air as the traitor ducked low and fired a curse that screamed as it hurtled its way across the grass. The headmaster showed none of his age, nimbly sidestepping, "You, are not Alastor Moody - even though he studied the Dark Arts extensively, he would never fall to actually using them!"

Dumbledore only received a growl in reply in as the shards of the judges table were banished at him. The headmaster swatted the shards aside, and suddenly, seemed to lose interest in the duel, soft lobbing a string of minor jinxes and hexes. Moody laughed, the same dark gravelly laugh he'd always had, "Is this the best you can do Dumbledore?" the traitor projected a simple shield, "The greatest wizard of the age weakened so soon?"

Dumbledore stayed silent at the taunt, "Accio!" The imposter toppled as if he had been pole-axed by the killing curse, wand flying from his hand as he landed ass first. Scrambling backwards, minus his wooden leg, the imposter made a desperate lunge for his wand, lying a few feet away on the grass. "Pertrificus Totalus! Stupefy! Incarcerous!"

Both incapacitated attackers were chained and locked in a windowless unused room on the fifth floor of the astronomy tower. Two professors and Hagrid stood guard.

There was no way to know where two of the four champions and Hermione Granger were. There was nothing to do, but wait. By any mortal means of reckoning, it was only three hours later that the wards flickered. Albus Dumbledore, hurried in to the grounds, only to find Potter's retinue had never even left the site of the award ceremony.

There was a brief, sudden pulse of light. Nine wands and twelve bladed weapons rose in caution. Moments later, they were lowered as Griphook hurried towards the Gringotts Champions sprawled on his face across the grass.

For the second time Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground; his face pressed into grass; the smell of it filled his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath seemed to have been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him was swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching: the smooth, cold medal even if it did drive the pin deeper in to his palm… and Hermione's body. He debated whether or not to stand and face what was coming or to just let himself go in to the darkness that danced and teased him with its numbing blackness. Shock and exhaustion kept him on the ground, breathing in the smell of the grass. Could he just stay here, where it was wonderfully quiet and peaceful?

Then a pair of hands seized him and turned him over, "Ursh-Khai?" the voice was gentle, like that of a concerned parent. "Harry?" he opened his eyes and saw the starry sky overhead, Griphook crouched over him. There was a wave of dark shadows, and then the sharp voice ordering them to maintain a defensive perimeter. Harry felt the ground beneath his head reverberating with their footsteps. He had come back to the edge of the maze. He could see the stands rising above him, the shapes of people moving in them, the stars above. Harry let go of the medal, but he tightened his hold on Hermione even more. He raised his free hand and seized Griphook's wrist, the goblin's face swimming in and out of focus the entire time, "He's back." Harry whispered. "He's back. Voldemort."

"What's going on? What's happened?" The face of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore appeared upside down over Harry, pale and worried, "Hermione…" he whispered, shaking his head "She's…" the last word made Harry cringe, and a fresh tear trailed down his cheek. "Harry, let go of her," he heard Dumbledore say. Fingers tried to pry open his hand, but his grip tightened further and the boy-who-lived surged to his feet, eyes blazing in to Dumbledore's face from a distance of several inches.

"Do. Not. Touch. Me." He ground out, "Do not touch her!" he roared, rising with his wand outstretched. He drew several gasps at his appearance, but he barely noticed them. And no wonder: His wrists, ankles and the base of his neck were red, raw and bleeding. Scratches and bruises covered his chest and back. The dagger wound on his forearm bleed freely, blood drooling down his arm with a ghastly slowness. His right arm and side of his chest were covered in scabbed puncture wounds.

Dumbledore had not moved, "You cannot help her, Harry." He said quietly.

"You never helped her when she was alive," snapped Harry uncaring of the headmaster's feelings, "Griphook, please see to it, that her… remains…"

"It will be as you instruct," replied Griphook with a shallow bow, he barked a string of orders and the Axe Masters Honor Guard snapped to attention. Harry swayed and the Goblin grabbed his shoulder and steadied him, leaning in close, "She was a good friend," Griphook struggled to find the right words, "to me. I can only offer you my condolences, Harry." The goblin slipped a number of small vials in to his hand, "I know that it has been a… a terrible evening for you but Dumbledore has the two instigators in custody. Shall I have them remanded in to Goblin custody?"

Harry pulled the corks and downed them: Bruise reducer, headache remover, blood-replenishing potion, and a dose of pepper up potion. Though it helped make his body feel better, it also cleared his mind of most of the physical pain but the emotional pain, the anguish of loss ripped through his consciousness, again. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was the truth. Cedric Diggory and Hermione Jane Granger would only be the first of many more, "No. Veritaserum. Let's get the truth."

"Harry," said Blake, "You need to rest first… you've been through hell…"

The teenager shook his head; "I won't be able to rest, not until, I know…" he turned to his gathered friends, "Thank you for what you've done. Get some sleep… one of us, will fill you in on the details tomorrow." They filed past, each of them passing to offer some token of comfort, a gesture of support: A handshake from Colin, a hug from Ginny, a squeeze of the shoulder from Neville. All seven teenagers did what they could, and moved on, "Blake, Griphook, Moony," he was beyond exhausted, but determined as he stalked towards the headmaster. There was ice in Harry's voice, "Where are they?"

"I'm sorry Harry, but you do not have the right to interrogate them," said the headmaster, "I have already contacted the Ministry. A team of Aurors and the Minister of Magic will be conducting the…"

Griphook cut him off, "An attack upon any champion is an attack against the school he represents, per the rules of the tournament." Griphook smiled nastily, "Veritaserum would be letting the pair of them off lightly. Goblins have far more, destructive methods of extracting information that we would be well within our rights to employ."

Dumbledore sighed, he had been afraid of this. The advisors that Harry had surrounded himself with were not only fonts of sage advice but were also potential threats that could lead Harry down some very dark paths. He surreptitiously drew his wand, "Harry, can I speak to you for a moment in private?" The grim smile should have been a warning as they ducked in to the deserted Champions tent, "Now Harry…"

The punches took the headmaster in the gut, doubling him over, "Confundus Charm!" snarled Harry, "Compulsion hex!" another blow took the headmaster square underneath the chin rocking his head back, almost standing him upright, "Befuddlement Charm!" and landed a telegraphed roundhouse punch that knocked the headmaster to his knees, "Obliviate!" Harry bent over and whispered in to his stunned headmaster's ear, "Imperious Curse," he hissed, "Voldemort, tortured my 'Mione, and found your handiwork. I was in a full body bind, and forced to watch as Voldemort ripped through your spellwork while my love," his voice shook with barely suppressed rage, "screamed in agony and then confirmed what you did in the Hospital Wing! Before the First Task!" Harry picked up the wand that had rolled to a halt at his feet, "I should snap this and leave it to you to explain how your wand got broken."

Dumbledore stared up at Harry and felt panic shoot through his veins, jolting him back to full awareness, in complete ignorance of the aches and pain. Harry allowed the headmaster to stand, staring down the tip of his own wand. "You and I will have a reckoning, and soon. Know this old man. You so much as look at me wrong and I will bury you!" Harry held the headmaster at wand point, "I could kill you right now, with your own fucking wand an no one would ever know. But I know that would do the Light no good. I let you live because it serves the Greater Good." Harry spat the words, "But I will not be denied my rights!" he threw the wand across the tent, letting it thump against the cloth wall before it slid in to the grass. Dumbledore could not help but breath a sigh of relief as his wand came to rest otherwise unharmed. The same could not be said for himself as foot collided with the side of his head and left him sprawled out on the floor. Turning his back, Harry stalked out of the tent, "Griphook," said Harry, "Take custody of the prisoners. Veritaserum. Get the truth from them." Harry did not have to say anything more: An attack upon a Goblin Champion repenting Gringotts is an attack against Gringotts and the Goblins. "Get, persuasive if you have to."

The Goblin could only grin. It did not take long. In fact, Karkaroff confessed to his involvement. The verbal summary of the interrogation from Griphook was direct and to the point, "Igor Karkaroff, Death Eater, avoided imprisonment by cooperating with the Ministry during the first war. He had only one purpose: Assassinate Dumbledore. He knew nothing else of pertinence."

The tale of Alastor Moody however, read more like a movie script: Alastor Moody was actually a polyjuiced Barty Crouch Junior, convicted Death Eater who had allegedly died in Azkaban some thirteen years before. He explained everything, unable to do otherwise as the truth serum worked its magic. He explained his escape from Azkaban with his mother's help, the casting of the dark mark at the Quidditch World Cup, and then his "liberation" at the hands of Wormtail and how he had replaced the real Alastor Moody with Polyjuice Potion. The imprisoned Auror was rescued and recovering in the hospital wing.

It went on for several more pages, detailing how Barty Crouch Senior had been under the Imperius curse, escaped and attempted to warn Dumbledore. An insane smile lit the young man's features for a moment as he recounted killing his father and transfiguring him in to a bone now buried somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. "I offered to carry the Triwizard Cup in to the maze before dinner and when I collected it," read Harry, "I transformed the medal in to a portkey, activated by the spell to conjure the Dark Mark," the maniacal smile lit Barty's face once again, "The plan succeeded, and my master has been restored. He is returned to power and I will be honored by him beyond the dreams of wizards."

"Harry?" Blake said gently, "You have the truth, the ministry will have them, and Azkaban is where he's going… it's where these animals belong. You need to rest for a while."

Harry nodded. A kind of numbness and a sense of complete unreality were upon him, but he did not care; he was even glad of it. He did not want to have to think about anything that had happened since he had first touched the Triwizard Cup. He did not want to have to examine the memories, fresh and sharp as photographs, which kept flashing across his mind. The word "mordsmorde," Hermione tortured and dead, Wormtail, slumped on the ground, cradling his stump of an arm. Voldemort rising from the cauldron. Cedric… dead…Hermione… Cedric, giving advice from beyond the grave…. Hermione…Cedric, "Griphook," Harry mumbled, "Where are Mr. and Mrs. Diggory?"

"They are with Professor Sprout," he answered, "She was Head of Cedric's house, and knew him best." Harry was only half listening. So tired every bone in his body was aching, he wanted nothing more than to sit here, undisturbed, for hours and hours, until he fell asleep and didn't have to think or feel anymore.

There was a flash of flame and Fawkes seemed to hover over the table at which the circle of friends sat. He landed on on Harry's shoulder, "Fawkes," said Harry quietly. He stroked the phoenix's beautiful scarlet-and gold plumage. Fawkes blinked peacefully up at him. There was something comforting about his warm weight. "What can you tell us after you arrived at your destination?" asked Griphook quietly.

"We can leave that till morning, can't we?" said Blake harshly. He had put a hand on Harrys shoulder. "Let him have a sleep. Let him rest." Harry felt a rush of gratitude

Griphook, disagreed, "Postponing the moment, will not make it easier… Numbing the pain for a short while will make it infinitely worse when you have to feel it." He grasped Harry's shoulder, sparing Blake an apologetic glance, "Courage and Honor," said Griphook, "Always before profit."

Harry had partially tuned them out, the persistent knocking sound, like somebody using a doorknocker. Then he realized where it was, and why only he could hear it, "My Lady?" he thought.

"Harry," she replied evenly, "I know that many have expressed their sorrow, and I would be remiss, if I did not offer mine as well." Fawkes let out one soft, quavering note. It shivered in the air, and Harry felt as though a drop of hot liquid had slipped down his throat into his stomach, warming him, and strengthening him. "If I may offer some advice on your current situation?"

Though he was cautious and paranoid, the Lady of the Castle was a myth that Hermione had traced back to the founding of the school. Who or more exactly, what she was another puzzle entirely. However, Hermione had confirmed - with Luna's help -was that the Lady emerged during times of great crisis for wizarding and muggle kind. There were records of her assistance being leant to a number of wizards during Grindenwald's reign of terror and even during the first wizarding war. "Albus Dumbledore has spent his life fighting for the Light, and in his old age, he has made mistakes. Some honest, others not so much, but for the moment you must trust him, with the truth of Voldemort's rebirth. He has been headmaster for so many years that he has educated and touched the lives of almost the entire wizarding community. He can rally the Light, to your cause…"

The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had just punched out the very wizard he now needed. Harry sighed and gestured to the three adults he trusted, "I…only want to do this once: Get Dumbledore."

In the Headmaster's Office, his godfather stood on one side, Griphook was seated on the other as Harry took a deep breath and began to tell them, visions of all he had seen passing in front of his eyes. Blake watched the "Thousand-Yard-Stare" of his godson with mounting concern. Dumbledore however raised his hand to forestall interruption. For Harry it was cathartic release, letting the poison of the evening flow from him, but it was costing him every ounce of will and determination to continue telling the tale, "He said my blood would make him stronger than if he'd used someone else's," Harry told Dumbledore. "He said the protection my - my mother left in me - he'd have it too. And he was right - he could touch me without hurting himself, he touched my face."

Harry went on; he explained how Voldemort had emerged from the cauldron, and told them all he could remember of Voldemort's speech to the Death Eaters. The worst part of it, he hesitated, he was not sure if he could or even wanted to share that. It was a raw wound, and he glossed over it, saying only that Hermione died at Volemort's hand. He was surprised for a moment how easy it was to lie. When he reached the part where the golden beam of light had connected his and Voldemort's wands, he found his throat obstructed. He tried to keep talking, but the memories of what had come out of Voldemort's wand were flooding into his mind. He could see Hermione, then Cedric emerging, see the muggle, Bertha Jorkins… his father… his mother…

He was glad when Blake broke the silence. "The wands connected?" he said, looking from Harry to Dumbledore. "Why?"

Harry looked up at Dumbledore again, on whose face there was an arrested look. "Priori Incantatem," he muttered.

"The Reverse Spell effect?" said Blake sharply.

"Exactly," said Dumbledore. "Harry's wand and Voldemorts wand share cores. Each of them contains a feather from the tail of the same phoenix. This phoenix, in fact," he added, and he pointed at the scarlet-and-gold bird, perching peacefully on Harry's knee.

"My wand's feather came from Fawkes?" Harry said, quietly.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Mr. Ollivander wrote to tell me you had bought the second wand, the moment you left his shop four years ago."

"So what happens when a wand meets its brother?" asked the disguised Sirius Black.

"They will not work properly against each other," said Dumbledore. "If, however, the owners of the wands force the wands to do battle… a very rare effect will take place. One of the wands will force the other to regurgitate spells it has performed - in reverse. The most recent first… and then those which preceded it…" He looked interrogatively at Harry, and Harry nodded. "Which means," said Dumbledore slowly, his eyes upon Harry's face, "that some form of Hermione, and Cedric must have reappeared."

Harry nodded again.

"They came back to life?" said Moony sharply.

"No spell can reawaken the dead," said Dumbledore heavily. "All that would have happened is a kind of reverse echo. A shadow of them living… am I correct, Harry?"

"They spoke to me," Harry said. He was suddenly shaking again. "Th… the ghost Cedric, or whatever he was, spoke."

"An echo," said Dumbledore, "which retained Cedric's appearance and character. I am guessing other such forms appeared… less recent victims of Voldemort's wand…" The headmaster could only hope that this would be the beginnings of something: A way to repair their relationship and get Harry back under control, where he belonged.

"An old man, who said something about, "spotting for Filch?"" Harry said, "Bertha Jorkins. And…Hermione," he whispered, a tear trailing down one cheek, "Cedric… And…"

"Your parents?" said Dumbledore quietly. Blake's grip on Harry's shoulder was now so tight it was painful. "The last murders the wand performed," said Dumbledore, nodding. "In reverse order. More would have appeared, of course, had you maintained the connection. Very well, Harry, these echoes, these shadows… what did they do?"

Harry described how the figures that had emerged from the wand had prowled the edges of the golden web, how Voldemort had seemed to fear them, how the shadow of Harry's father had told him what to do, how Cedric's had made its final request for his wand and for Hermione's remains to be brought back.

"You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you tonight Harry. You have shown bravery equal to those who died fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers." Harry only glared at Dumbledore, and he realized quickly that the Harry who sat before him, was not the same teenager of this year. There was a vacant emptiness to the eyes, and a, hatred. An all-encompassing hatred, "You will come with me to the hospital wing," he said, as if he still all the power and authority he would ever need, "I do not want you returning to the dormitory tonight."

Griphook stood interceding before Harry could verbally tear the man's head off, "Headmaster, he will not be spending this night in the hospital wing. The residence is as secure as Gringotts, doubly so due to the protections extended by Hogwarts itself. It would be the most secure location within the castle." Griphook did not bother to add that the Axe Masters Honor Guard was now supported by elements of the Sword Wind Blades who had also cleared a path between the headmaster's office and Moaning Mrytle's bathroom.

"Griphook," Harry met his friend's gaze, "The… two men…the Goblins… Gringotts… you have done so much for me. Now I ask that you let the Ministry handle the trial and sentencing of the two men. Their testimony… will help the wizarding world accept what is coming." Griphook only nodded. He knew what was coming. They all did:

War.

Returned to his residence, he changed and collapsed in to his bed, and found that sleep would not come. He was lying, staring up at the ceiling. He glanced at the clock and realized he had been lying there for over an hour. He rose, and left, nodding to the Goblin stationed outside his door and in to Hermione's room. He collapsed on to the bed, and finally, let it all out, let it sink in, and let himself cry.

Hours later, just as the sun was rising, he was finally asleep.

The days following the tournament were surreal to Harry. The school year was ending and everything seemed to be going wrong. Minister Fudge had brought more than Aurors and Hit Wizards to collect the two wayward souls bound for Azkaban: He brought a Dementor for his "personal protection." It protected him well, administering its kiss to both Igor Karkaroff and Barty Crouch Junior. The interrogation reports were "beyond useless" as they had not been collected "following ministry approved guidelines." The screaming match between the Minister, Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster had reached near epic proportions and in itself would become a legend around Hogwarts:

"By all accounts, he is no loss!" Fudge had blustered, "It seems he has been responsible for several deaths'."

"But he cannot now give testimony, Cornelius," said Dumbledore. He was staring hard at Fudge, as though seeing him plainly for the first time. "He cannot give evidence about why he killed those people."

"Why he killed them? Well, that's no mystery, is it? He was a raving lunatic! From what Minerva and Severus have told me, he seems to have thought he was doing it all on You-Know-Who's instructions!"

"Lord Voldemort was giving him instructions, Cornelius," Dumbledore said. "Those peoples deaths were mere by-products of a plan to restore Voldemort to full strength again. The plan succeeded. Voldemort has been restored to his body."

Fudge looked as though someone had just swung a heavy weight into his face. Dazed and blinking, he stared back at Dumbledore as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. He began to sputter, still goggling at Dumbledore. You-Know-Who… returned? Preposterous. Come now, Dumbledore…"

Though the headmaster had tried, repeated and even offered common sense, practical suggestions and advice to the Minister about preparing for the war to come, the response had been blunt, "It seems to me that you are all determined to start a panic that will destabilize everything we have worked for these last thirteen years!" snarled Fudge.

"If your determination to shut your eyes will carry you as far as this, Cornelius," said Dumbledore, "we have reached a parting of the ways. You must act as you see fit. And I - I shall act as I see fit." Dumbledore's voice carried no hint of a threat; it sounded like a mere statement, but Fudge bristled as though Dumbledore were advancing upon him with a wand.

"Now, see here, Dumbledore," he said, waving a threatening finger. "I've given you free rein, always. I've had a lot of respect for you. I might not have agreed with some of your decisions, but I've kept quiet. There aren't many who'd have let you hire werewolves, or keep Hagrid, or decide what to teach your students without reference to the Ministry. But if you're going to work against me -"

"The only one against whom I intend to work," said Dumbledore, "is Lord Voldemort. If you are against him, then we remain, Cornelius, on the same side."

It seemed Fudge could think of no answer to this. He rocked backward and forward on his small feet for a moment and spun his bowler hat in his hands. Finally, he said, with a hint of a plea in his voice, "He can't be back, Dumbledore, he just can't be…"

The week did not improve from there, as he met first with the Cedric's parents. He told them little more than what they needed to know: He confirmed that their son won the Triwizard Tournament, that he had given his life to save another. "The wand chooses the wizard," said Harry, "and it served your son well. May it always stay with you, and bring you some comfort in the time ahead." He was machine like as he presented Cedric's wand in a dark blue velvet lined box, Mrs. Diggory was unable to hold back her tears as Cedric's father accepted the wand.

Hermione's parents were another story entirely. Where Cedric's parents had grown up, lived through and survived the first war with its attendant horror stories, the same could not be said his girlfriend's parents. From the get go it was clear that it was not going to go well: The first thing Derek Granger did was swing a roundhouse punch. Derek had telegraphed it, and Harry had seen it coming, but did nothing more than roll with the blow. He barely felt it, "Feel better Mr. Granger?" asked Harry, blood dribbling from his nose, "First one, was free. Next one," Harry drew his wand, "I'll make you pay for."

Derek Granger stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, clearly eager to take another swing at Harry. "Forgive him, Harry," said the woman accompanying him, obviously his wife and Hermione's mother. Her eyes were red from crying, hair disheveled, "It has been difficult…"

The silence was uncomfortable, for a long, long moment, until Harry waved his wand, stopping the flow of blood from his nose, and holstering the weapon and gestured slightly, "Please, sit down." Awkward does not begin to illustrate the situation. Though they had never met, Hermione's mother knew a great deal about Harry.

"My… our daughter, she hesitated, "was in love with you for a very long time," she reached in to her handbag, pulling out a stack of rolled up parchment, "She wrote a lot about you in her letters… and she did write to us at least twice a week." Mrs. Granger handed the letters to Harry who held the stack, uncertain what he was supposed to do with them, "I think you should have them…" her voice cracked, "Can you tell me, tell us, how, it happened?"

Though it got easier to tell, every time he told it, he had left out a part of it; he had always maintained the truth: Hermione was killed by Avada Kedevra, but he had never spoken of what had happened before that. Her parents, like Cedric's were suffering through perhaps the ultimate agony for any parent: Burying their child. Their only child. Better that they have a… pleasanter fiction.

"I should have just burned that letter!" growled Derek Granger, "Then none of this would have happened! She would never have met you! She would never have died at the hands of a madman!"

Harry could stand no more of Mr. Granger, "Mr. and Mrs. Granger, there are no words that I can say, that anyone can say to ease your pain, ease your loss. Your daughter was my closest friend, my girlfriend, and my first love." His voice broke, "I failed her." His eyes were dark circled and haunted, he had no more tears to shed, "I failed both of you when I didn't protect…" he shook his head, "I would give everything to trade places with your daughter, but I can't. Magic, for all is wonder and power, cannot cheat death." He drew his wand and began quickly copying the stack of letters, "The Goblins have instructions to move Hermione's coffin wherever you want it to go. They will handle all of the paperwork as well. Just tell them where and when."

Handing the originals back, he met Mrs. Granger's gaze, and found that she was confused by his actions, "The letters… are one of the few things that you have, to remind you of Hermione…" a single tear rolled down his cheek, "Your need is greater…" Harry fled.

Harry avoided the Great Hall. He ate late or early when he chose to dine there to avoid the students. His tutors still held lessons with him, but it was more for the benefit of the retinue though. Harry did not slack off - he pushed himself hard, throwing himself in to any task with an almost reckless abandon. It helped get his mind off the things that circled in his brain like sharks that had smelt blood in the water. The other two champions did not know what they could say or do. Fleur was having a hard time coping with the death of Cedric. Viktor… suffice to say that the Imperius Curse had left some psychological marks on the Bulgarian Seeker. The events of the third task had damaged their friendships, but not irreparably so. The three former champions, surrounded by their friends had spent too many long nights passing a vigil over the two empty chairs with bottles of butterbeer. When that proven to be insufficient, Viktor had produced firewhiskey. Nobody asked where he had gotten it - nobody cared.

He spent a fair amount of time with Hagrid too. The half giant said little to Harry who appreciated the silence. Only on the final day of the term did his friend finally ask the critical, all-important question: "You all right?" Harry gave his standard, generic semi positive response, "No, you're not," said Hagrid. "Course you're not. But you will be." Harry said nothing. "Knew he was going to come back," said Hagrid, and Harry looked up at him, shocked. "Known it for years, Harry. Knew he was out there, bidding his time. It had to happen. Well, now it has, an' we'll just have to get on with it."Hagrid raised his bushy eyebrows at the disbelieving expression on Harry's face, "No good sitting and worrying about it," he said. "War's coming. And we'll meet it when it does… Dumbledore told me what you did. Harry." Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry. "You did as much as your father would've done. I can't give you higher praise than that."

There was possible higher praise, if he had brought his love back. If she had lived instead of him, if he had died protecting her. There would have been higher praise for the boy who lived.

Now, he was just the boy who lost.