The End of the Beginning

Chapter Ten: Laying to Rest

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you,
Whatever we were to each other, that we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone,
wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow,
laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.

Pray smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort,
without the trace of a shadow in it.

Life means all that it ever meant,
it is the same as it ever was.
There is unbroken continuity,
why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you
somewhere very near
just around the corner.
All is well

Henry Scott Holland 1847-1918
Canon of St Paul's Cathedral


The funeral was attended by thousands, the front lawns covered with weeping mourners who gave their tears to a hero fallen. The last great wizard of their age. He had been a leader, a symbol. He had stood for everything that was good, pure, and light. And he was gone. And they grieved.

The speaker was a ministry official, someone who had shown up to pay his respects, but was drafted into the job because no one else would do it. Who could say the final words for someone so great?

Thousands attended the funeral for Albus Dumbledore...but two.

Draco and Neville could barley hear the speaker as they sat on the battlements of the castle, sharing chocolate frogs and staring out over the Forbidden Forest. They knew what he would say, the words were always the same, a list of great achievements, laments to what a great man the dead was and how much he would be missed. Some words of encouragement to keep going, keep living, keep the spirit of the dead alive. And a reminder that the Ministry was always there for the grieving.

In all the many funerals the pair had attended, the words had never changed, and probably wouldn't change even when they died. So Draco and Neville held their own service, with their own words.

"I remember, when I was a first year, and was walking out after curfew. I literally ran into Albus on my way down the Charms corridor.." Draco said softly, eyes gazing off into the distance, seeing that dark night seven years ago. "He just smiled down at me, goddess he was so tall to me back then...and he handed me a Chocolate Frog before heading back on his way to the loo. No points taken, not detention...just a piece of candy and a smile. He always knew what we were up to, but let us go about it."

Neville glanced down at the bit of paper he was tearing to small pieces, a tear slipping down his cheek. "I remember third year, when Snape got really bad. He asked me to walk with him...and I can't remember a word he said, I was so scared. But we must have walked miles around this school as he talked, and I remember thinking that things probably weren't so bad, that the world, wasn't so bad, if people like him were in it"

"Fourth year...after the Leaving Feast. He asked me why I didn't stand and when I told him my leg had fallen asleep he just watched me for a moment, before nodding and saying that happened to all of us. He knew I was lying, but let it go. That was worse then telling me off."

"Fifth year...DA. I felt honored to serve under his name. Granted I was also preparing to save my own life...but just the fact that it was "Dumbledore's Army"...I don't even think I would have served under Harry that willingly."

"Sixth year...and the start of the war. When he asked me to spy for him, I was stunned for three days. Everyone, even my own house had given up on me, branding me a Death Eater and die-hard supporter of Voldemort. But Albus, he had faith in me. He asked me, after putting me in detention for cursing Hermione...to spy for him. I asked him once, why."

"What did he say?"

"That he saw what I was, not what I could be"

"What kind of answer is that?" Neville asked, laughing.

"I have yet to figure that one out," Draco said, smiling as he lit up a joint, taking a deep drag. Neville took it from him and took his own drag, watching as smoke curled around Draco's lips. "I remember most, nights like these, when he would sit out here with us, and tell us stories of old. Hermione would always frown at us, bandaging up one wound or another, reading us the riot act for smoking whatever we chose to smoke. You and Harry would more than likely be locked at the lips, pausing only long enough for a drag before returning to fleshly pleasures. Seamus would be hitting on whatever young thing had caught his fancy while Dean glared, Ron would probably be sleeping, leaning against Justin...and through it all, Dumbledore's voice recounting old legends and humorous stories that would break up the tension and weariness. He always knew just what story would distract us, and let us simply be children again, listening, instead of soldiers, dying."

Draco nodded, taking another drag, watching as the smoke curled up to clouds. "That's what he wanted most for us. To be children. I think it destroyed so much of him when we went to war...when we came back dead. I saw the twinkle die a little more with each body they brought in. I thought once, that it would dim completely...and never return...but it never did. Somehow he kept the hope."

"I don't think a part of it could ever die completely. He was as much a child as we were. A part of him could never grow up, that's what truly made him a good man. Not his power, not his skill, not his knowledge, but that part of him that would never grow old, never grow up. You should have seen him with the preschool. They held him in such awe when he would come down and play with them."

"I did see him once. He was playing hopscotch with the girls. I never imagined a hundred year old man could jump that high, but he did it."

Neville smiled sadly and turned to throw the remains of the joint over the edge of the wall, pausing to glance down at the crowd below. "It looks like they're wrapping up, just a few more speakers left before they lower the casket."

Draco glanced over, spitting down on a ministry official. "I can never remember the final words that they say over the dirt."

Neville paused and shook his head, looking at Draco. "You know, I can't remember them either. It's been too long."

Draco laid his head on Neville's shoulder, watching Percy and Seamus conversing in low tones. "The last funeral I attended was Harry's. It was raining...and I remember watching the rain fall through the ghost of my dead lover and pondering how freaky that was."

There was silence and then a choked whisper. "I need him," Neville said, gagging on the words.

Draco turned to look at him and pulled Neville close, rocking him slowly. "We all need him, Nev. We can't keep up this fight without him...but we have to. We have to end this. For Albus, for Harry. For all those who fought and died to keep our world safe. We need to finish what they started for the sheer fact that they deserve it to be finished. They deserve for their deaths not to have been utterly, stupidly useless. We need for their deaths not to have been in vain. So that we can go on."

Neville just clung to Draco, sobbing, tears spilling from his eyes in such waves that Draco's cloak was soaked within seconds. Draco continued to hold him, rubbing his back, rocking him slowly, and letting him cry. Draco wished he could join Neville in grief, let the tears fall without halt for the friend they had lost. But Draco doesn't cry. He hasn't cried since they lowered Harry's body into the ground. He cried so many tears that day that a part of him dried up inside. There was just nothing left for him to give.

*

Tom's finger ran slowly over the wooden desk in front of him, sinking more into the large chair. The snores of hundreds of past Headmaster's surrounded him, and he could feel them watching him through their closed eyelids.

He paused his finger in it's endless rubbing and flicked his wand, watching as a chessboard flickered into sight, the pieces still frozen mid move, free of dust, as if the players had only moments before stepped away from the game. It had been more than a game to them. A true battle of wills, as Dumbledore sought to save the one he had failed.

He ran a slender finger over one of the black pieces and could hear a lost voice whispering to him.

Flashback-Tom's Seventh Year

"Your move, Tom."

The young boy blinked at the aged man in front of him before looking at his pieces, directing one of them forward. His gaze flickered to his watch then back to the table, pondering his method of advancement.

Hours passed as the two sat in silence, never exchanging a word beyond direction of pieces and reminders of turns. The clock finally struck the hour the boy had been waiting for and he stood, his hand sliding slowly from a piece. "I believe, our game is finished, Albus."

Dumbledore looked up at his student and stood. "The game is never over, Tom."

"Ours is. I leave tonight."

"Are you not returning then?"

"What more could these halls offer me? It was a nice try, but a simple game won't lead me where you want me to go. I never was good at falling into your direction." His gaze flickered down to the game in progress to make a point.

Albus smiled, holding out his hand to Tom. "If that is what you see it as, so be it." He said, shaking the young man's hand. "Congratulations, Tom. You earned it these long years."

Tom nodded and swept from the room, leaving Dumbledore to stare after him in silent reflection.

Present

Tom flicked his wand again, removing the Permanent Sticking Charm that left the pieces frozen. He rubbed his chin as he pondered the board before moving a piece, smiling softly. "Your move, old man," he whispered to the silent room around him, tears sliding down his cheeks.

*

Harry sat beside the tombstone, slowly picking apart the roses that the mourners had left, letting the petals drift slowly down over the covered grave. He sighed as he picked up a fresh one, tossing the stem over his shoulder and glancing down at the fresh earth, running a ghostly hand through the dirt.

"You weren't supposed to fall," He said softly, looking back up at the dying horizon, watching as the bloody sun fell from the sky. "You were supposed to be immortal...just like Sirius." He sniffed and rubbed his nose. He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. "What happens to the world when all of it's heroes fall?" He asked the night, which gave no answer.

"You were my hero, you know. The greatest wizard I had ever known." He laughed softly. "When I was eleven I thought you had hung the moon...or conjured it. Then I grew up. And discovered you were a man. A human, who made the same mistakes as everyone else.

"You would think, that a boy who was hailed as a hero, would know the truth. But I never did. Not until Sirius died. Then I realized that we all make mistakes, all turn a blind eye to things we really should see. But you were still my hero. You had faith we would win, even when we were losing. You gave me the strength to keep going, even when I wanted nothing more then to fall.

"Why did you have to leave me, Albus? Why now? Why in a way that I can never see you again, talk with you. I thought...once...that at least when you died, we would be together. Two ghosts, forever haunting Hogwarts, talking about the old times, inspiring awe amongst the kiddies...but you never returned Albus.

"I waited for you, you know. I waited by your body for hours, even after everyone else had given up all hope. I waited for you. Because I just knew...you would come back.

"But you didn't. Haven't. So now I'm still here, waiting. While you're off doing whatever it is that the truly dead do.

"So what now, Albus? What do I do now that I've lost everyone? When dad died...well I was too young to understand. I was too young to know what a father meant. When Sirius died...I knew what I lost, but not really, because he wasn't there, he was always on the run. But you, you were always there. Even when I didn't know it, you were there, watching over me, guiding me.

"You are my father, Albus. You are the teacher, the healer, the disciplinarian, and the lover. You guided me, perhaps not through my first steps, but through my first years being who I truly am. You comforted me when I ached, and laughed with me when I felt joy. You held my hand when I needed it most, and pushed me away when I tried to cling.

"You helped me to stand on my own two feet...and dusted me off when I fell flat on my arse. And now you're gone. And I can't tell you how much you truly meant to me. I can't tell you how much I loved you, respected you, looked up to you, hated you, cherished you.

"I can't tell you how many dreams I had where you were here to protect me forever...where we never grew old, and were forever in this school, a timeless moment without Voldemort or the war. Where it was peaceful and perfect."

Harry laid his forehead against his knees, ghostly tears staining the legs of his jeans as he cried. "I miss you, need you, love you, want you...father" He whispered. "And you're gone."

*

Minerva McGonagal stared at the bed she had shared with her husband for little under a year. The covers were still turned back, waiting for them, his pillows slightly indented from where his head had last rested on it.

The book, on the right hand table lay open, a cute bookmark resting in it, marking his page. A muggle-born had given it to him just before she died in the first war, whispering about how it reminded her of him. He had never let it go since then. Minnie can still remember the tear that gathered in his eyes whenever he looked at it.

A glass of water stood, half full, next to the book, along with a small packet of Sherbet Lemons, her husband's favorite candy. A choked sob sounded in Minnie's throat as she gingerly reached out and picked up the packet.

Her knees suddenly gave way and she landed hard on the floor, her shoulders shaking as she cried, clutching the packet tightly, nearly crushing the candies. Her long black braid fell down across her shoulder, tickling her cheek, making her cry harder as she remembered how much her husband used to love brushing her hair as they sat, relaxing.

She cried, for all the things she never said to him, all the times she never kissed him, all the moments she never touched him. She cried for all the years that should have been left to them, all the years they had lost in a single instant.

She reached out blindly and clutched at a pair of fading robes, pulling them around her, tears still flowing down her cheeks as she curled on the floor, surrounded by his scent, the feel of him still trapped in fading cloth, the candy packet clutched to her chest. And she cried on, long into the night.

They had been married only a short time, but had known each other since she herself went to school here. In that time she had partaken in many loves, but few who truly touched her the way he had.

And now he was gone. Gone, gone, gone, gone. Forever gone. And she was left with a stupid metal bookmark and a crushed packet of candies to remember him by. Those, and fifty-nine years of memories, a castle full of ghosts between them...and a bedroom that echoed in her mind.