A loud thunderclap echoed through the window of the Hogwarts Headmistress’s office, as a persistent drizzle fell from the billowing clouds above. The storm had begun a short time after the Hogwarts Express had left Hogsmeade station for London. Professor McGonagall was sitting in her new office, reflecting on the loss of Dumbledore. Her thoughts strayed to Harry Potter, and she wondered how he was doing on his first night back at the Dursley’s. He’d informed her of his plans for the next few weeks after Dumbledore’s funeral. He would be staying at Privet Drive for three weeks, and then attending Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour’s wedding at the burrow. The wedding had been scheduled two weeks before Harry’s birthday. As for after the wedding, Harry had left her in the dark. As she continued staring at the dark clouds rolling slowly across the sky, she heard someone speak.

“Ah, Minerva, alone at last.�

The Headmistress froze in shock. She never thought she’d hear that voice again.

“Albus!�

“Over hear, Minerva,� said the voice, with a hint of amusement.

Standing, McGonagall followed the voice past the snoozing portraits on the wall to the one over her desk. She suddenly realised that it was not Dumbledore at all, but Dumbledore’s portrait. All at once, the emotional barriers that she had built up around herself came tumbling down, and a sharp lance of anger and sorrow pierced her heart. She felt an immense desire to scream at Dumbledore’s portrait for scaring her like that, but then the logical part of her brain, the part that she had let lead her most of her life, kicked in, and she controlled herself, settling slowly back into her armchair.

“I see that I took you quite by surprise, then.� There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he said this.

“Yes, I –I –I suppose you did,� answered McGonagall, trying to regain her composure.

“Hmm, it seems as though in waiting to speak with you alone and pretending to be asleep, I have in fact drifted off like my companions. No matter, I am quite awake now. Minerva, I have some terribly important and extremely confidential information to discuss with you.� Dumbledore’s voice, or rather his portrait’s, had suddenly taken a very serious tone. McGonagall was still somewhat flustered, and was having trouble keeping up with Dumbledore.

“Before I tell you anything, make sure no-one can listen in on our conversation.� As McGonagall complied, casting silencing charms to go with the already impressive wards around the office, Dumbledore continued.

“Also, I’ll need proof that it is really you. What really is my favourite sweet?�

McGonagall looked slightly taken aback, before she smiled and answered, “Those Muggle Lindt chocolate balls. The milk chocolate ones, though you also enjoy the hazelnut variety.�

“Ah, yes, quite right. Better to be safe than sorry. Minerva, best you sit down. We have much to discuss.�

McGonagall took her seat behind the desk, then swivelled her chair to face the portrait.

“Minerva, I need to tell you how, or rather, why I died.�

This was not what McGonagall was expecting, and the surprise showed clearly on her face.

“Excuse me, Albus?�

Dumbledore continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“My death was expected. I had been planning for it since about Christmas two years ago, though until recently I never would have imagined it would end up as it did. In any case, what I am about to say must not leave this room. You must not tell anyone else, Harry included.�

McGonagall held her breath, eyes wide, apprehension and disbelief playing across her features.

“Severus killed me under my own orders.�

“No!� exclaimed McGonagall after a moment's silence, rising from her chair, the full force of her friend and mentor's revelation hitting her. “No! How could you do that to us, to Harry, to the
wizarding world? What about the school? What about Voldemort?!�

“Minerva, please, I have my reasons.�
With great difficulty, she calmed herself down, and sat back on her seat. In the silence that followed, the only sound that could be heard was the buzz and rattle of the silver instruments on the desk. Even the thunder and rain seemed to have paused.

“Minerva, I was never the one to defeat Tom. That job is for Harry. By ordering Severus to kill me, I was doing everything in my power to help Harry. I am not as quick or as agile, or even as magically powerful as I used to be, though I suspect the latter is merely psychological. Severus warned me of young Mr Malfoy’s plot to kill me as soon as he heard, though he was unaware of just how he planned to do it. I told him that Narcissa would most likely ask him to protect Draco, and that should she ask him to help, he should take an Unbreakable Vow. Though Tom was reasonably happy with Severus, we both felt he needed some way to cement Tom’s trust in him. I knew Draco would not be able to kill me. I have watched him in all the time he has been at the school. Though he may be exceedingly arrogant and prejudiced, he is not a killer. Severus was to come and finish the job. Severus of course protested, understandably, but in the end he trusted me, enough to kill me.

“It is actually very lucky that you sent Filius to Severus. He had not been informed of the Death Eaters’ arrival.�

McGonagall had sat speechless as she absorbed this. Struck by a sudden thought, she said, “But Severus stunned Filius. Surely, if he’d really been on our side, he'd have let him rejoin the fight?�

“If he had really been a Death Eater, he would have killed Filius, and most likely Ms Granger and Ms Lovegood. As it happened, he instructed them to go inside his office and look after him. Ms Granger and Ms Lovegood, as I take it from the overheard conversations in this room, would have quickly realised he had been stunned. From what I have heard, Filius rejoined the fight quite quickly.�

“Yes, yes, he did, I suppose. And yes, had Flitwick seen him joining the Death Eaters, it could have caused some complications.�

“Exactly,� said Dumbledore, a smile on his face. Even as a portrait he enjoyed teaching.

“But why kill yourself?�

“My dear Minerva, I was already dying. I had a year to go, maybe two if I was lucky, but I was unable to give much more to the Order’s effort. I cannot tell you why it is better this way, but the fact that I cannot tell you should convince you that it is important enough.�

“But we miss you, Albus.�

“Talk to me here.�

“But it’s just not the same.�

“No, it’s not,� said the portrait, “but there are more important things in life to worry about. Voldemort’s fall is just one of them.�

McGonagall just sniffed, her eyes suspiciously moist. The initial shock of actually speaking with Dumbledore’s portrait was wearing off, and she was beginning to realise what this all meant.

“Now, Minerva, has Harry informed you of his plans for the summer?�

“Yes, he has. He plans to stay with his relatives until Bill and Fleur’s wedding at the Burrow. He said he’ll attend the wedding, and then start his quest to defeat You-Kno-, I mean, V-Voldemort.�

“Hmm. Minerva, may I ask you a favour?� asked Dumbledore, though he knew McGonagall wouldn’t refuse.

“Of course, Albus, anything,� replied McGonagall.

“After the wedding, the next day would probably be most appropriate, tell Harry I need to speak with him. Bring him to Order Headquarters. I have a second portrait there, which I can travel to from here, much like Phineus over there.�

There was a grunt as Phineus Nigellus recognised his name, though his eyes remained tight shut as he continued to pretend to sleep.

“Of course Albus. I’m sure he won’t refuse.� McGonagall paused for a moment, and then asked the question that had been bugging her since she first saw the portrait those few days ago. “Albus, what are you. I mean, as a portrait. It feels as though I’m talking to you, the real you, but it can’t really be. I mean, that is basically immortality, isn’t it.�

“Minerva, to put it bluntly, I am two things. A copy of a personality, and a way to store information. I know everything that the real me knew, plus what you have told me in our conversation, and anything else I have overheard since I have been a portrait. The difference between a human and me is that I have no soul. I am merely a copy of a personality, and this personality cannot change. People change as they grow older and learn more. I won't. As such, over time, my personality will reconcile less and less with what I know, though it would likely be a slow process. This is why so many portraits you see, particularly old ones, are a bit.... off.�

At this point, McGonagall was put in the mind of Sir Cadogan, the unbalanced (both physically and mentally) knight of the North Tower, amongst others.

“As a portrait,� Dumbledore continued, “I have no sense of myself. The only reason I use the words “I� and “me� is habit. I am like a computer program, albeit a very complicated one.�

Professor McGonagall just looked confused at the mention of computer programs. Dumbledore smiled, and said, “Ask Harry, or probably better, Ms Granger.�

“I’ll do that, Albus.�

Professor McGonagall spent the rest of the night talking with Dumbledore’s portrait about the school and whether it would be closed, as well as times gone past. At that moment, to Minerva McGonagall, it almost was like Dumbledore was still alive. For the first time since the attack, she felt a sliver of happiness.

“So, Severus,� a high-pitched voice hissed from the shadows. “You were successful.�

Snape's black eyes stared at the wall. “Of course, my Lord. Dumbledore's trust made it an easy task in the end.�

“But from what I gather,� continued the voice from behind him, “young Draco could not finish the job.�

Snape paused. He knew Draco's life was in the balance, his failed attempt at Dumbledore's life putting him in great danger. Though at the same time, Snape suspected Voldemort had already made his decision.

“Draco was in a difficult position,� the oily-haired former Professor continued. “You're aware, of course, of Dumbledore's way with words.� He paused, sensing a movement in the shadows from the corner of his eye. “He can engineer doubt in all but the most secure and experienced of minds.�

“You're fond of the boy, aren't you, Severus,� remarked Voldemort, slowly materialising from the shadows into the dim green light cast by enchanted lamps. “I do not blame you, he has great potential, much like his father at the same age.� This last statement was delivered with such cold disdain that it was all Snape could do not to shiver.

“Draco was the one who disarmed Dumbledore, a task many a powerful wizard has died attempting,� Snape said by way of reply. “It is my personal belief that that should count for something. He also repaired the Vanishing Cabinet. Without it, Hogwarts could not have been infiltrated. My achievement would not have been possible were it not for Draco's actions.�

“Yes, Severus, you are quite right,� Voldemort replied, walking ever-so-slowly behind Snape's back, wand twirling menacingly between his fingers. “You have proven your worth to me; your opinion is one I value.�

“Thank you, Lord,� replied Snape in a breathy voice. “I am humbled.�

“Send them in,� called Voldemort sharply, and a short, balding figure with watery eyes who had been standing inconspicuously in the corner of the room ran to the door, opened it, and ushered in four figures.

“Thank you, Wormtail,� said Voldemort icily. “Welcome, Lucius, Draco, Narcissa. And thank you for attending, Bellatrix.�

“My Lord,� began Narcissa, fear in her voice, “Though Snape performed the act, Draco was still successf-�

“Quiet,� shot Voldemort, in a soft voice more piercing than any scream could manage. “You will speak only when spoken to, Narcissa, if you want your son to live.�

Narcissa looked terrified, distraught, but the subtle implication that Draco might yet live gave her the strength to control herself.
“I trust your short stay in Azkaban was not too taxing, Lucius?� enquired Voldemort silkily.

“Azkaban is always taxing, my Lord, but a sacrifice worth making,� replied Lucius humbly.

“Severus here has been recounting the events leading up to Dumbledore's demise,� began Voldemort. At the mention of Dumbledore's death, Bellatrix gave a quiet cackle of glee. “You will be pleased to know that he spoke very highly of Draco's achievements, despite his inability to complete the task. I am inclined to agree. Dumbledore's powers lay not just in his magic; he could be very persuasive.�

“My Lord, you are too kind,� said Lucius, bowing. Narcissa's breathing was getting faster, hardly daring herself to believe the words coming from the Dark Lord's mouth. Draco simply stood, as he had since he entered, face downcast, trembling, hands clenched tightly, trying to forget the terror he was facing.

“Yes, there is great potential in the boy, and it would be a terrible, terrible shame for it to go to waste,� continued Voldemort, though his voice carried a tone that made Narcissa's hair stand on end. Lucius looked on apprehensively.

“And yet, he could not complete the task required of him,� Voldemort said slowly, dragging out every ominous syllable. “Severus had to step in, revealing his true loyalties and losing me my best spy.� Narcissa's face fell. Lucius' features remained stable, but his eyes widened, panic stirring in his chest.

“Of course, I am now accustomed to Malfoys failing me,� Voldemort said icily, walking up to Lucius' face, feeling his breath, and fixing Lucius with a stare that would freeze fire. “I do not intend for it to happen again. Crucio.�

At once, Lucius crumpled to the floor at Voldemort's feet, agonised screams echoing off the stone walls as he thrashed and rolled in excruciating pain.

“You are too proud, Lucius, too arrogant for your own good,� came Voldemort's soft voice, somehow clearly audible over Lucius' screams.

The curse was lifted, and Lucius slowly rose onto all fours, and then his feet, unsteady.

“You could have been great for me, Lucius. If ever you could have abandoned your own selfish pride, and served me without reservation, you could have risen above all others. But now look at you,� spat Voldemort as he lifted his wand again. “If I am going to spare Draco, I must ensure that he never falls under the same illusions you did, Lucius; the Malfoy name means nothing to me. The Malfoy name is mud. My power stretches beyond petty names. Your name exists only to serve me. You have made it so, Lucius.�

And with that, he raised his wand again. “Crucio,� he whispered once more, and once more Lucius Malfoy crumpled to the floor in agony, only this time, his wife and son fell with him. Bellatrix had turned her wand on her own sister, a darkly manic smile upon her face as she betrayed her blood, while Peter Pettigrew, Wormtail, had Draco at his feet.

Snape watched on without expression as the torture continued. He had seen it many times before, though it was confronting to see the betrayal written across the Malfoys' faces whenever the curses were momentarily lifted.

“Wormtail, cease,� Voldemort hissed after a while, and Draco stopped screaming, lying panting on the stone floor. Voldemort and Bellatrix continued their punishment. “Make him watch.�
Narcissa had begun to bleed from her nose and ears, while Lucius had gone a deathly pale.

“Do you see, young Draco?� hissed Voldemort from across the room, as Wormtail forced Draco, under his wand, to watch his parents' suffering. “Do you see the price of arrogance and pride? Your parents are weak, nothing, and neither are you.�

He lifted the curse momentarily. Lucius too had begun to bleed from his nose. Narcissa's movements had stopped as well, as Bellatrix lifted her wand. “You, on the other hand, have the potential to change, to learn. Your anger will fuel you. You will learn this is the only way.�

A ragged voice rose from Voldemort's feet. “Please..... Lord, spare....spare me,� came Lucius' voice, crackled, broken, pathetic. “Take.... take Draco instead.... please....�

“Father.....� came Draco's voice, stunned with soft betrayal.

“Lucius, how could you?� sneered Voldemort, as Narcissa gave a small whimper. “Your own son?�

“Please..... I have.... I have been loyal....�

“You have been nothing but selfish, Lucius, since the moment I met you,� snapped Voldemort. “Do not deny it, it is what made you strong, but now it is time you paid the price for your lack of devotion.�

The torture began again. Fresh screams filled the room, bouncing off the stone walls and mingling with the writhing shadows cast by the flickering green lamps to create a confusion of pain, sorrow and betrayal. Draco absorbed this; his father, who was willing to sacrifice his own son, dying before his eyes in an agony most unimaginable; his mother, his impotent protector, frail and pathetic as her scream turned hoarse, harsh, inhuman.

“Bella, I tire of this,� said Voldemort wearily, as the screams eventually grew dim. “Finish them.�

“With pleasure, my Lord,� Bella replied, as Voldemort lifted the curse.

“No.... Bella....� croaked Narcissa feebly.

“Avada Kedavra,� sang Bellatrix gleefully, and a bolt of green light struck her sister in the chest, sending her flying into the wall to land in a crumpled heap, dead. Draco watched, his expression unreadable, his agony unknowable, as his world crumbled. Lucius was next; he landed face down on top of Narcissa, husband and wife lying in a sinister, morbid mockery of an embrace.

“Well done, Bellatrix,� said Voldemort, matter of fact. “You shall be rewarded. Look after young Draco now,� he continued as he swept out of the room, Wormtail following faithfully behind.

Snape watched as Bellatrix sauntered over to Draco, who had collapsed as Wormtail lifted his wand to leave.

“Here now, Draco, auntie Bella's here,� came Bellatrix's lilting, musical, sing-song voice. “You're safe. Everything will be alright now.�

Bellatrix knelt down and took Draco into her arms. Draco numbly returned the hug, his eyes dead, his spirit crushed, and Snape felt with force the horror of this violation of nature, a son taking his parents' killer into his arms.

“Ready to go, Severus?� called Bellatrix, as she released Draco, supporting him as he rose.

“Of course,� replied Snape smoothly, his voice never wavering, and they swept from the room, leaving the corpses of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, together in their death, for Nagini.

Harry Potter sat at his shabby desk in his bedroom, gazing at the bright stars that littered the sky. This summer was very much like the last, surprisingly chilly given the season. Most nights had been cloudy and misty, so a clear one like tonight was somewhat of a rarity. Harry fantasised about taking off on his broom and touching the stars. His troubles always seemed to melt away when he was airborne, and he had never had greater troubles than at that moment. He’d been thinking about Dumbledore. He still couldn’t quite believe that he was gone. Ron and Hermione had been over as often as possible, and this was one of the many things they would talk about. Every so often Harry would catch himself still speaking of Dumbledore in the present, and this would often bring a tear to his eye. He, ever Harry, would quickly brush the tear away and continue speaking.

Having Ron and Hermione there as often as he was had made his stay at the Dursleys' far more enjoyable than previous summers. They'd been over almost constantly since the start of the holidays, something for which Harry was immensely grateful. The Dursleys' had refused at first, but when Harry had pointed out that both Ron and Hermione were old enough to use magic, the objections died in their throats. They’d decided to take a short holiday, and didn’t bother to tell Harry where. Ron and Hermione had therefore been there to talk with him, be it about Voldemort and Dumbledore, the recent escapes at Azkaban (“I heard the Dementors have left their posts completely now,� Ron had said), how worried Hermione’s parents were about the dark struggle they could never understand, or the Chudley Cannons’ premiership hopes for next season. Harry had a great time teasing Ron about their recent bottom-of-the-table finish. At first Ron had been a bit sensitive, but then his humour returned and he brushed off the teasing with an “I’m used to it.� His friends kept him from dwelling too much on Dumbledore’s death or his impending quest to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes, without avoiding the topic. Whenever he would get depressed, or show signs of panic, they were there to help him out of it, encourage him, and examine it in a detached, matter-of-fact manner that always made it seem easier, at least for a while. They also helped him control his anger. Whenever he was reminded about Snape, his blood began to boil.

So nights like these, alone, had been a rarity. With the Dursleys gone, at least one of his friends had usually been able to stay the night, and often they both stayed. Ron would sleep on a spare mattress in Harry’s room, and Hermione would sleep in Dudley’s room, much to her disgust. Harry had also visited the Burrow a couple of times, and had stayed there one night. He wasn’t sure how much time he could spend there for the blood magic to be effective, so he didn’t dare risk much more time than that. He also didn’t want to have to confront Ginny. He had seen the look of hurt and anger that crossed her face when he tried to ignore her at the Burrow. He had barely seen her again the whole time he was there.

Harry sighed. He wasn’t sure about Ginny. He knew he liked her, and he knew she liked him. There shouldn’t be a problem, should there? Harry, for about the millionth time since he had turned eleven, found himself wishing he was just a simple, ordinary teenage wizard. He decided then and there that if he survived the final battle, which seemed less and less likely to Harry every day, he would try to make things up with Ginny. Then, and only then, because he knew that doing so beforehand would not only put Ginny in danger, but might possibly distract him from his goal.

Harry had discussed the Ginny issue with Ron. Ron told him in no uncertain terms how he'd felt about Harry dumping Ginny like he did.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t a little bit relieved when I broke up with her,� Harry had responded. “You didn’t want her in danger any more than I did.�

“Yeah, you’re right,� Ron had replied. “I’m just not sure what I care more about, her safety or both or your happiness.�

There had been a meaningful silence between the two friends before Harry continued.

“Look, I don’t know if I’m going to beat Voldemort, and even if I do, I’m no certainty to survive.�

Ron simply looked at Harry apprehensively, not entirely sure where the conversation was headed. This had been the first time they’d spoken about Harry’s actual chances of defeating Voldemort.

“But, if it makes you feel any better, if I do beat Voldemort, and I do survive, I’ll try to make things up with Ginny.�

“Do you promise?� asked Ron, smiling. “Because I will hold you to that.�

“Yeah, I promise,� said Harry, his head lowered in embarrassment. “I have to admit, those weeks I spent with Ginny were some of the best of my life.�

“Good to hear it,� said Ron jovially, and he punched Harry’s arm and to cover his best friend’s embarrassment. “Though I may have to take that back if you start giving me details.�

“Hey, we’re not back together yet,� he objected.

“S’only a matter of time,� said Ron with his usual optimism. “Although,� Ron continued, “if you want any chance, you should try to at least clear the air with her pretty soon. At the moment she’s pretending you don’t exist.�

And so Harry had gained full forgiveness in Ron's eyes, and was determined to at least make things civil between himself and Ginny, for the time being.

Harry got up and trudged over to his bed. He lay down and looked over at the clock. All this pondering had stolen the night away. It was seven minutes past twelve. Already tomorrow, thought Harry. Probably time I got some sleep.


The weeks in the leadup to Bill and Fleur's wedding went by much the same for Harry, though his short stints at the Burrow painted a picture of continually growing tension, panic, disorder and worry as the wedding drew near, and things inevitably went wrong. Molly was concerned about the budget (she had refused to let Fleur's side of the family pay any part of the Weasley's share, despite their offers), nobody could agree on seating arrangements, and the bridal party were bickering over, well, everything. Charlie was to be Bill's best man, with Fred, George, Ron and Harry to be groomsmen. A friend of Fleur's from Beauxbatons, Jacqueline, would be maid of honour, while Ginny, Gabrielle, and a further two of Fleur's French friends would be bridesmaids. It was also increasingly difficult for Ginny to avoid Harry during these times, which made it even more awkward and obvious when she inevitably managed. As much as he loved visiting the Weasleys, Harry did feel a certain relief whenever he returned to Little Whinging.

In the end, of course, the wedding went off without a hitch. Bill and Fleur married, many tears were shed (not least by Hagrid, prompting some good-natured teasing), the delicious feast which Molly had prepared, with the help of Dobby, Winky and a few other Hogwarts house-elves, was devoured with gusto, and in true Weasley style, a large game of Quidditch broke out, actually taking place above the tables as lunch continued, to rather varied responses (“Never 'ave I seen such a vonderful display of ze yousful spirit!� exclaimed Fleur's father, as Remus tore after Ginny, while Jacqueline's mother nearly fainted over her dessert, muttering weakly about “ze barbarism of it all!�; Hermione's parents simply stared, stunned).

Late that afternoon, after the celebrations were complete and most of the guests had trickled out, McGonagall approached Harry and asked for a quiet word in the now-deserted living room.

“Yes, Professor?�

“Harry,� said McGonagall, not entirely sure where to start. “A few weeks ago, just after the…the events of…� She faltered, and brushed a quick tear from her eye.
“Yes,� prompted Harry, also feeling emotional.

“Well,� she continued, “as I'm sure you know, a portrait of Albus now hangs in my office. I had a conversation with the portrait.�

Harry just sat there, not knowing where this was going.

“Well, needless to say, it was among the more interesting conversations I have had. Albus, or rather, his portrait, asked me to ask you to go and see him. He suggested tomorrow. He has a portrait at Headquarters. He said that would be the best place to talk to him.�

By this time Harry was staring, transfixed, at his shoelaces. The idea of talking with Dumbledore’s portrait was daunting to say the least. So soon after he had died! Harry felt upset just thinking about it.

“If you would rather not, I’m sure it could wait a little while,� McGonagall offered. “Albus did not suggest it was urgent.�

“No, that’s OK,� replied Harry resolutely. “I’ll have to do it sometime. The sooner the better, right?� He gave a weak smile. “Did Professor Dumbledore mention what it was about?�

“No, I’m sorry. I’m as much in the dark as you, unfortunately. Are you going back to stay at Privet Drive, or are you staying here?�

“Going back, I think,� Harry replied, a tinge of regret colouring his response. “I’ve stayed here two nights in a row. Don’t want to risk letting the blood protection fail, you know?�

“Hmm. Well, you’ll be seventeen in two weeks, am I correct?� Harry nodded. “I’ll have to get you something.�

Harry was about to protest this, but McGonagall put her hand up, insisting, a gentle smile gracing those usually stern lips.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning and we can go see Albus. How does that sound?�

Harry mumbled a thank you. Truth be told, he was feeling very tired. It had been an exhausting day, both physically, with the Quidditch, and emotionally, seeing Bill and Fleur wed, and then this. It wasn’t long before he said goodbye to the Weasleys and Hermione, who was staying at the Burrow that night. Mrs Figg had been at the wedding too, and he was following her through the Floo to her house before making his way back to Privet Drive.