Chapter 64

Imogen picked up another plate from the table in the Burrow's kitchen, and began to wash it, her motions mechanical, her face fixed in an expression a calm she did not feel. Eleven had seated themselves for breakfast: the six remaining Weasley children, Mr. and Ms. Weasley, Harry, Hermione and Imogen. Breakfast had been sombre, with none of the usual raillery associated with the Weasley clan. Imogen finished washing the plate, and passed it to Hermione to dry.

"I feel so totally out of place," said Imogen. "I can understand why Harry is here. But really I don't belong."

"I feel the same way," said Hermione. She kept her voice low, for the Muffliato charm was out of the question; in the Weasley home Hermione and Imogen were underaged wizards forbidden the use of their wands. On today of all days, the day of Ginny's funeral, rule breaking was the farthest thing from their minds.

After Voldemort's defeat the previous day, Imogen and the rest of Harry's friends gathered at the rendezvous point, the fountain at the entrance to the Ministry. Only then did Imogen learn what some of the others already knew, that their group had lost four of their number. She barely had time to absorb the news of the loss before they all had been hustled out of the Ministry by McGonagall, as a second battle began to rage. With Voldemort's power broken and so many of his followers dead or missing, it was time for the Ministry to purge itself of undesirable elements. But the undesirables were almost equal in number to the decent wizards, and a longer, fiercer and a far more deadly battle soon was underway as the Ministry waged war on itself. Prior to returning to the Ministry to join in the fight, McGonagall arranged for the teens to be apparated home, except for Harry, Imogen and Hermione. Imogen had no home to go to, and Hermione's parents had been in hiding since Skeeter's disappearance. And it was ridiculous to think of placing Harry with his useless guardians, and so Harry, Hermione and Imogen were temporarily with the Weasley clan. All three of them felt uncomfortable being at the Weasely home after the family had suffered such a severe loss, and Imogen in particular felt guilty, certain that her presence was a gross imposition. She had not been in the same room with the family when Mrs. Weasley was told the news, but she had overheard the poor women's reaction. Imogen was sure the memory of Mrs. Weasley's screams of anguish would haunt her for the rest of her days. And so would Imogen's sense of guilt. Six months earlier in the very kitchen where Imogen was now washing dishes, she had persuaded Ms. Weasley to allow Ginny and the rest of them to practice Defence against the Dark Arts in preparation for the final battle with Voldemort. And now the Weasley's youngest child was dead as a result.

The news of his daughter's death, had, if anything, hit Arthur Weasley harder than it had his wife. As Hermione and Imogen did the dishes, the head of the Weasley clan sat motionless in his favorite chair in the living room, the same chair in which he'd sat with his little girl playing on his knee. To outward appearances, Mr. Weasley looked like a man subjected to a Dementor's kiss, except for the silent tears rolling down his face.

Harry and Ron were outside with Fred and George, trying to find chores they could usefully do. Anything was better than being shut up inside the house. Almost in mockery of the family's feelings, it was shaping up to be a beautiful day. On any other day like this, Mr. Weasley would be at work, Mrs. Weasley would be bustling about the house, and the children, if not school, would be playing Quidditch or up to mischief of some kind. But instead, they were waiting, just as their parents were waiting. Waiting for the memorial service which was to take place that evening. Until the service was said and done, everyone lived in what amounted almost to a state of suspended animation.

The boys began clearing the garden of gnomes, but stopped when they realized that the chore was rather amusing, and began to instead to weed the garden. They could not use their wands, and Fred and George joined Harry and Ron on their hands and knees, attending to a chore that might have waited until the end of term. The boys laboured under the hot sun, working in silence and not looking at each other. They worked slowly, the repetitive task numbing their minds and allowing them some relief from their grief.

"You didn't tell me how she died," said Arthur Weasley to his son Ron. Ron and Harry looked up, and then stood. They had not heard Mr. Weasley approach.

"You only told me that she died with you, fighting Voldemort. But how did she die?"

"She died as about as bravely as a person can die," answered Ron, "she took her own life to save the rest of us." Arthur Weasley listened as Ron told the story of his sister's death, a tale not very long in the telling. When Ron finished, Arthur nodded in silent satisfaction. He felt the pride for his daughter welling inside him, and for a moment it combated the grief. After a brief struggle, the grief won out easily and the pride subsided. But it did not disappear entirely, and the dull spark glowed within him.

"And the men responsible for your sister's death?" Arthur looked searchingly at his son. Had Ginny been avenged?

"I killed one of them," said Ron. "And Harry got another. But the third, Pettigrew..."

"He got away, did he?"

"Almost, but not quite." Ron explained how Pettigrew had initially escaped, but then had been reeled in by Hermione's predatory cat.

"They found his body not long after the battle was over," continued Ron. "He was halfway out of the closet that he'd been hiding in. But it was really strange. One of his arms was torn off and the healer said he bled to death. No one's taking credit for the kill, and I don't know if we'll ever know what happened."

"How many did you get, Ron?"

"Three. And Harry got three, too."

"You did well, Ron. And you too, Harry."

Like Ron, Harry needed to hear something like this. But not from Mr. Weasley.

"Sir, I wouldn't mention something like this on a day like this, but I need someone to take me to Hogwarts, if only an hour or so."

"Is it important?"

"Yes. I need to see Dumbledore. I don't know why, but I just know that I need to."

"Tell Charlie that I want him to take care of this." Arthur Weasley sighed, turned, and began to walk back to the house. Ron looked at his father's retreating form. For the first time in his eyes, his father looked old.

Not long thereafter, Harry entered Hogwarts, having left Charlie behind in Hogsmeade. He arrived as students were hustling from one class to another, the usual cheerful student sounds filling Harry with resentment. Harry swallowed his irrational anger at his fellow student's mirth, and made his way to the infirmary. Pomfrey was absent (at that very moment she was at Saint Mungo's holding still a struggling Bellatrix as Neville resectioned the woman's other leg), and so a trustworthy seventh-year Hufflepuff was on duty.

"Is it true?" asked the girl as she admitted Harry to the infirmary.

"Is what true?"

"That Voldemort is dead?"

"No. At least I don't think so." Seeing the girls face fall, he added, "but he won't be going anywhere any time soon. He's in Ministry custody and in desperate need of medical attention. He won't be bothering anyone, at least not for some time."

"He killed my aunt sixteen years ago," said the girl. "Not that my loss compares with yours. But anyways, what can I do for you?"