Not These Sounds

Had it really come to this? Voldemort defeated, Harry and Ron still alive, Professor Lupin back from among the werewolves--Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, both Hermione's parents, Sirius and Luna dead, and close calls for nearly everyone--only to lose everyone in this final cleanup?

Maybe it was, thought Hermione, as the dementors closed on her.

"Expecto-- Expecto--"

The spell would not work. She thought of her father, and of the day he died. She thought of the look on Professor McGonagall's face when, standing over Hermione's bed, the Head of Gryffindor had given her the news.

The dementor came closer.

She thought of her mother, and of the day she died. She thought of the way the Order had pulled her out of the church where her mother's community choir had been performing.

She heard the dementor's death-rattle drawing near. She heard her friends struggle to summon their Patronuses, heard them stammer and whimper the words they should have called out with confidence and joy.

And then she thought of the music her mother had died singing.

"O Freunde, nicht diese Töne!"

O, friends, not these sounds! It was appropriate, she thought, as she forced the words out and sought the melody.

"Sondern laßt uns angenehmere anstimmen

"Und freudenvollere!"

Dementors were not loud. Her friends who were fighting nearby could hear her, but she doubted they would respond. There were spells to cast. There was one last battle to win. The summons seemed fitting nonetheless: Let us make more pleasant, more joyful ones.

And she could, because now she had reached a line of melody only Tom Riddle could possibly forget, and he at last was no longer there to terrorize the rest of Britain into not remembering it:

"Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

"Tochter aus Elysium,"

Immortal--yes--that was the idea. OK, it wasn't in the German, but the English version she knew best had it: Joy, thou source of light immortal, daughter of Elysium--Elysium, the home of heroes, where they would all be someday, if they could save their souls from the dementors.

"Wir betreten feuertrunken,

"Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!"

The dementors seemed mildly confused, and Hermione felt stronger. She interrupted her singing to try the spell again, and this time it worked. Her otter, rather less frolicsome than usual, but more resplendent, began fending off the dementors. Fire-drunk? Alight, certainly, and drunk too, if that meant unrestrained.

And through the mist of darkness, she realized, ears were turning to hear her. She continued.

"Deine Zauber binden wieder,

"Was die Mode streng geteilt;"

"Alle Menschen werden Brüder,

"Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt."

Thy magic powers--this was the magic, she realized, that they needed. Joy, to conquer despair. Music, against the voiceless voids that ate souls. In that battle were more Patronuses than had ever been seen in one place, and as the witches and wizards casting them listened to the music, Hermione began to think their Patronuses were as fire-drunk as her own.

"Deine Zauber binden wieder,

"Was die Mode streng geteilt;"

"Alle Menschen werden Brüder,

"Wo dein sanfter Flügel weilt."

The mist was lessening. The mission the Order had set had been to round the dementors up and chase them away. But--all men become brothers--Hermione wondered whether sending them to some other part of Europe was the best they could do.

"Wem der große Wurf gelungen,

"Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,"

If it was, it would do. To be a friend's friend--what could be higher than that? The brotherhood of man was a good idea, but it could not compare to the love she felt for those around her--for Harry, her best friend, for Hagrid, for Professor Lupin, for Fred and George and Ginny and the rest.

"Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,

"Mische seinen Jubel ein!"

Well, yes, there was Ron.

The shimmering white light of the Patronuses was joined by a light more joyous yet, and Hermione realized other voices were sharing her melody.

Phoenixes.

A flock of phoenixes.

It seemed they had come in answer to her music.

"Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele

"Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!"

"Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle

"Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!"

This time, the meaning of Schiller's words seemed perfect: Whoever can call even one soul his on this Earth! Dementors took souls, yes, but in Kissing they destroyed; they had none of their own; they could not touch them without destroying them.

And they could not bear the sound of phoenix song.

Hermione remembered something Hagrid had once taught her: The song of the phoenix brings hope to the noble and to the innocent--but unbearable terror to the Dark.

The dementors began to tremble, to weaken, and even to fade.

"Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele

"Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!"

"Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle

"Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!"

Schiller had written that those incapable of love would steal away, crying, from the circle of friends. But he was a Muggle, and he had never met either a phoenix or a dementor.

Hermione decided to sing one more verse. Her friends stopped casting spells to listen to her, to clasp hands with her in a circle around the dementors, and to join her in singing if they knew the words, humming if they did not. To the sound of her favorite English version of the Ode to Joy, the last dementors in Britain dissolved away.

Joy, thou source of light immortal,

Daughter of Elysium:

Touched with fire, to the portal

Of thy radiant shrine we come.

Thy magic frees all others

Held in custom's rigid rings:

Kings and servants are as brothers

In the haven of thy wings!

Thy magic frees all others

Held in custom's rigid rings:

Kings and servants are as brothers

In the haven of thy wings!