“You know what? I can manage him alone， Neville，” said Oliver Wood， ａｎｄ he  heaved Colin over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift ａｎｄ carried him into the Great Hall.    
Neville leaned against the door frame for a moment ａｎｄ wiped his forehead with  the back of his hａｎｄ. He looked like an old man. Then he set off on the steps again into  the darkness to recover more bodies.    
Harry took one glance back at the entrance of the Great Hall. People were moving  around， trying to comfort each other， drinking， kneeling beside the dead， but he could not  see any of the people he loved， no hint of Hermione， Ron， Ginny， or any of the other  Weasleys， no Luna. He felt he would have given all the time remaining to him for just  one last look at them; but then， would he ever have the strength to stop looking? It was  better like this.    
He moved down the steps ａｎｄ out into the darkness. It was nearly four in the  morning， ａｎｄ the deathly stillness of the grounds felt as though they were holding their  breath， waiting to see whether he could do what he must.    
Harry moved toward Neville， who was bending over another body.    
“Neville.”    
“Blimey， Harry， you nearly gave me heart failure!”    
Harry had pulled off the Cloak: The idea had come to him out of nowhere， born  out of a desire to make absolutely sure.    
“Where are you going， alone?” Neville asked suspiciously.    
“It’s all part of the plan，” said Harry. “There’s someting I’ve got to do. Listen ---  Neville ---“    
“Harry!” Neville looked suddenly scared. “Harry， you’re not thinking of hａｎｄing  yourself over?”    
“No，” Harry lied easily. “’Course not . . . this is something else. But I might be  out of sight for a while. You know Voldemort’s snake. Neville? He’s got a huge snake . . .  Calls it Nagini . . .”    
“I’ve heard， yeah . . . What about it?”    
“It’s got to be killed. Ron ａｎｄ Hermione know that， but just in case they ---“    
The awfulness of that possibility smothered him for a moment， made it impossible  to keep talking. But he pulled himself together again: This was crucial， he must be like  Dumbledore， keep a cool head， make sure there were backups， others to carry on.  Dumbledore had died knowing that three people still knew about the Horcruxes; now  Neville would take Harry’s place: There would still be three in the secret.    
“Just in case they’re --- busy --- ａｎｄ you get the chance ---“    
“Kill the snake?”    
“Kill the snake，” Harry repeated.    
“All right， Harry. You’re okay， are you?”    
“I’m fine. Thanks， Neville.”    
But Neville seized his wrist as Harry made to move on.    
“We’re all going to keep fighting， Harry. You know that?”    
“Yeah， I ---“    
The suffocating feeling extinguished the end of the sentence; he could not go on.  Neville did not seem to find it strange. He patted Harry on the shoulder， released him，  ａｎｄ walked away to look for more bodies.    
Harry swung the Cloak back over himself ａｎｄ walked on. Someone else was  moving not far away， stooping over another prone figure on the ground. He was feet  away from her when he realized it was Ginny.    
He stopped in his tracks. She was crouching over a girl who was whispering for  her mother.    
“It’s all right，” Ginny was saying. “It’s ok. We’re going to get you inside.”    
“But I want to go home，” whispered the girl. “I don’t want to fight anymore!”    
“I know，” said Ginny， ａｎｄ her voice broke. “It’s going to be all right.”    
Ripples of cold undulated over Harry’s skin. He wanted to shout out to the night，  he wanted Ginny to know that he was there， he wanted her to know where he was going.  He wanted to be stopped， to be dragged back， to be sent back home. . . .    
But he was home. Hogwards was the first ａｎｄ best home he had known. He ａｎｄ  Voldemort ａｎｄ Snape， the abａｎｄoned boys， had all found home here. . . .    
Ginny was kneeling beside the injured girl now， holding her hａｎｄ. With a huge  effort Harry forced himself on. He thought he saw Ginny look around as he passed， ａｎｄ  wondered whether she had sensed someone walking nearby， but he did not speak， ａｎｄ he  did not look back.    
Hagrid’s hut loomed out of the darkness. There were no lights， no sound of Fang  scrabbling at the door， his bark booming in welcome. All those visits to Hagrid， ａｎｄ the  gleam of the copper kettle on the fire， ａｎｄ rock cakes ａｎｄ giant grubs， ａｎｄ his great  bearded face， ａｎｄ Ron vomiting slugs， ａｎｄ Hermione helping him save Norbert . . .    
He moved on， ａｎｄ now he reached the edge of the forest， ａｎｄ he stopped.    
A swarm of dementors was gliding amongst the trees; he could feel their chill，  ａｎｄ he was not sure he would be able to pass safely through it. He had not strength left  for a Patronus. He could no longer control his own trembling. It was not， after all， so easy  to die. Every second he breathed， the smell of the grass， the cool air on his face， was so  precious: To think that people had years ａｎｄ years， time to waste， so much time it  dragged， ａｎｄ he was clinging to each second. At the same time he thought that he would  not be able to go on， ａｎｄ knew that he must. The long game was ended， the Snitch had  been caught， it was time to leave the air. . . .    
The Snitch. His nerveless fingers fumbled for a moment with the pouch at his  neck ａｎｄ he pulled it out.    
I open at the close.    
Breathing fast ａｎｄ hard， he stared down at it. Now that he wanted time to move as  slowly as possible， he seemed to have sped up， ａｎｄ understａｎｄing was coming so fast it  seemed to have bypassed though. This was the close. This was the moment.    
He pressed the golden metal to his lips ａｎｄ whispered， “I am about to die.”    
The metal shell broke open. He lowered his shaking hａｎｄ， raised Draco’s wａｎｄ  beneath the Cloak， ａｎｄ murmured， “Lumos.”    
The black stone with is jagged crack running down the center sat in the two  halves of the Snitch. The Resurrection Stone had cracked down the vertical line     representing the Elder Wａｎｄ. The triangle ａｎｄ circle representing the Cloak ａｎｄ the stone  were still discernible.    
And again Harry understood without having to think. It did not matter about  bringing them back， for he was about to join them. He was not really fetching them: They  were fetching him.    
He closed his eyes ａｎｄ turned the stone over in his hａｎｄ three times.    
He knew it had happened， because he heard slight movements around him that  suggested frail bodies shifting their footing on the earthy， twig-strewn ground that  marked the outer edge of the forest. He opened his eyes ａｎｄ looked around.    
They were neither ghost nor truly flesh， he could see that. They resembled most  closely the Riddle that had escaped from the diary so long ago， ａｎｄ he had been memory  made nearly solid. Less substantial than living bodies， but much more than ghosts， they  moved toward him. And on each face， there was the same loving smile.    
James was exactly the same height as Harry. He was wearing the clothes in which  he had died， ａｎｄ his hair was untidy ａｎｄ ruffled， ａｎｄ his glasses were a little lopsided，  like Mr. Weasley’s.    
Sirius was tall ａｎｄ hａｎｄsome， ａｎｄ younger by far than Harry had seen him in life.  He loped with an easy grace， his hａｎｄs in his pockets ａｎｄ a grin on his face.    
Lupin was younger too， ａｎｄ much less shabby， ａｎｄ his hair was thicker ａｎｄ darker.  He looked happy to be back in this familiar place， scene of so many adolescent  wａｎｄerings.    
Lily’s smile was widest of all. She pushed her long hair back as she drew closer to  him， ａｎｄ her green eyes， so like his， searched his face hungrily， as though she would  never be able to look at him enough.    
“You’ve been so brave.”    
He could not speak. His eyes feasted on her， ａｎｄ he thought that he would like to  stａｎｄ ａｎｄ look at her forever， ａｎｄ that would be enough.    
“You are nearly there，” said James. “Very close. We are . . . so proud of you.”    
“Does it hurt?”    
The childish question had fallen from Harry’s lips before he could stop it.    
“Dying? Not at all，” said Sirius. “Quicker ａｎｄ easier than falling asleep.”    
“And he will want it to be quick. He wants it over，” said Lupin.    
“I didn’t want you to die，” Harry said. These words came without his volition.  “Any of you. I’m sorry ---“    
He addressed Lupin more than any of them， beseeching him.    
“--- right after you’d had your son . . . Remus， I’m sorry ---“    
“I am sorry too，” said Lupin. “Sorry I will never know him . . . but he will know  why I died ａｎｄ I hope he will understａｎｄ. I was trying to make a world in which he could  live a happier life.”    
A chilly breeze that seemed to emanate from the heart of the forest lifted the hair  at Harry’s brow. He knew that they would not tell him to go， that it would have to be his  decision.    
“You’ll stay with me?”    
“Until the very end，” said James.    
“They won’t be able to see you?” asked Harry.    
“We are part of you，” said Sirius. “Invisible to anyone else.”    
Harry looked at his mother.    
“Stay close to me，” he said quietly.    
And he set of. The dementors’ chill did not overcome him; he passed through it  with his companions， ａｎｄ they acted like Patronuses to him， ａｎｄ together they marched  through the old trees that grew closely together， their branches tangled， their roots  gnarled ａｎｄ twisted underfoot. Harry clutched the Cloak tightly around him in the  darkness， traveling deeper ａｎｄ deeper into the forest， with no idea where exactly  Voldemort was， but sure that he would find him. Beside him， making scarcely a sound，  walked James， Sirius， Lupin， ａｎｄ Lily， ａｎｄ their presence was his courage， ａｎｄ the reason  he was able to keep putting one foot in front of the other.    
His body ａｎｄ mind felt oddly disconnected now， his limbs working without  conscious instruction， as if he were passenger， not driver， in the body he was about to  leave. The dead who walked beside him through the forest were much more real to him  now than the living back at the castle: Ron， Hermione， Ginny， ａｎｄ all the others were the  ones who felt like ghosts as he stumbled ａｎｄ slipped toward the end of his life， toward  Voldemort . . .    
A thud ａｎｄ a whisper: Some other living creature had stirred close by. Harry  stopped under the Cloak， peering around， listening， ａｎｄ his mother ａｎｄ father， Lupin ａｎｄ  Sirius stopped too.    
“Someone there，” came a rough whisper close at hａｎｄ. “He’s got an Invisibility  Cloak. Could it be --- ?”    
Two figures emerged from behind a nearby tree: Their wａｎｄs flared， ａｎｄ Harry  saw Yaxley ａｎｄ Dolohov peering into the darkness， directly at the place Harry， his  mother ａｎｄ father ａｎｄ Sirius ａｎｄ Lupin stood. Apparently they could not see anything.    
“Definitely heard something，” said Yaxley. “Animal， d’you reckon?”    
“That head case Hagrid kept a whole bunch of stuff in here，” said Dolohov，  glancing over his shoulder.    
Yaxley looked down at his watch.    
“Time’s nearly up. Porter’s had his hour. He’s not coming.”    
“Better go back，” said Yaxley. “Find out what the plan is now.”    
He ａｎｄ Dolohov turned ａｎｄ walked deeper into the forest. Harry followed them，  knowing that they would lead him exactly where he wanted to go. He glanced sideways，  ａｎｄ his mother smiled at him， ａｎｄ his father nodded encouragement.    
They had traveled on mere minutes when Harry saw light ahead， ａｎｄ Yaxley ａｎｄ  Dolohov stepped out into a clearing that Harry knew had been the place where the  monstrous Aragog had once lived. The remnants of his vast web were there still， but the  swarms of descendants he had spawned had been driven out by the Death Eaters， to fight  for their cause.    
A fire burned in the middle of the clearing， ａｎｄ its flickering light fell over a  crowd of completely silent， watchful Death Eaters. Some of them were still masked ａｎｄ  hooded; others showed their faces. Two giants sat on the outskirts of the group， casting  massive shadows over the scene， their faces cruel， rough-hewn like rock. Harry saw  Fenrir， skulking， chewing his long nails; the great blond Rowle was dabbing at his  bleeding lip. He saw Lucius Malfoy， who looked defeated ａｎｄ terrified， ａｎｄ Narcissa，  whose eyes were sunken ａｎｄ full of apprehension.    
Every eye was fixed upon Voldemort， who stood with his head bowed， ａｎｄ his  white hａｎｄs folded over the Elder Wａｎｄ in front of him. He might have been praying， or  else counting silently in his mind， ａｎｄ Harry， stａｎｄing still on the edge of the scene，  though absurdly of a child counting in a game of hide-ａｎｄ-seek. Behind his head， still  swirling ａｎｄ coiling， the great snake Nagini floated in her glittering， charmed cage， like a  monstrous halo.    
When Dolohov ａｎｄ Yaxley rejoined the circle， Voldemort looked up.    
“No sign of him， my Lord，” said Dolohov.    
Voldemort’s expression did not change. The red eyes seemed to burn in the  firelight. Slowly he drew the Elder Wａｎｄ between his long fingers.    
“My Lord ---“    
Bellatrix had spoken: She sat closest to Voldemort， disheveled， her face a little  bloody but otherwise unharmed.    
Voldemort raised his hａｎｄ to silence her， ａｎｄ she did not speak another word， but  eyed him in worshipful fascination.    
“I thought he would come，” said Voldemort in his high， clear voice， his eyes on  the leaping flames. “I expected him to come.”    
Nobody spoke. They seemed as scared as Harry， whose heart was now throwing  itself against his ribs as though determined to escape the body he was about to cast aside.  His hａｎｄs were sweating as he pulled off the Invisibility Cloak ａｎｄ stuffed it beneath his  robes， with his wａｎｄ. He did not want to be tempted to fight.    
“I was， it seems . . . mistaken，” said Voldemort.    
“You weren’t.”    
Harry said it as loudly as he could， with all the force he could muster: He did not  want to sound afraid. The Resurrection Stone slipped from between his numb fingers， ａｎｄ  out of the corner of his eyes he saw his parents， Sirius， ａｎｄ Lupin vanish as he stepped  forward into the firelight. At that moment he felt that nobody mattered but Voldemort. It  was just the two of them.    
The illusion was gone as soon as it had come. The giants roared as the Death  Eaters rose together， ａｎｄ there were many cries， gasps， even laughter. Voldemort had  frozen where he stood， but his red eyes had found Harry， ａｎｄ he stared as Harry moved  toward him， with nothing but the fire between them.    
Then a voice yelled: “HARRY! NO!”    
He turned: Hagrid was bound ａｎｄ trussed， tied to a tree nearby. His massive body  shook the branches overhead as he struggled， desperate.    
“NO! NO! HARRY， WHAT’RE YEH --- ?”    
“QUIET!” shouted Rowle， ａｎｄ with a flick of his wａｎｄ， Hagrid was silenced.    
Bellatrix， who had leapt to her feet， was looking eagerly from Voldemort to Harry，  her breast heaving. The only things that moved were the flames ａｎｄ the snake， coiling  ａｎｄ uncoiling in the glittering cage behind Voldemort’s head.    
Harry could feel his wａｎｄ against his chest， but he made no attempt to draw it. He  knew that the snake was too well protected， knew that if he managed to point the wａｎｄ at  Nagini， fifty curses would hit him first. And still， Voldemort ａｎｄ Harry looked at each  other， ａｎｄ now Voldemort tilted his head a little to the side， considering the boy stａｎｄing  before him， ａｎｄ a singularly mirthless smile curled the lipless mouth.    
“Harry Potter，” he said very softly. His voice might have been part of the spitting  fire. “The Boy Who Lived.”    
None of the Death Eaters moved. They were waiting: Everything was waiting.  Hagrid was struggling， ａｎｄ Bellatrix was panting， ａｎｄ Harry thought inexplicably of  Ginny， ａｎｄ her blazing look， ａｎｄ the feel of her lips on his ---    
Voldemort had raised his wａｎｄ. His head was still tilted to one side， like a curious  child， wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red  eyes， ａｎｄ wanted it to happen now， quickly， while he could still stａｎｄ， before he lost  control， before he betrayed fear ---    
He saw the mouth move ａｎｄ a flash of green light， ａｎｄ everything was gone.         Chapter Thirty-Five    King’s Cross    He lay facedown， listening to the silence. He was perfectly alone. Nobody was  watching. Nobody else was there. He was not perfectly sure that he was there himself.    
A long time later， or maybe no time at all， it came to him that he must exist， must  be more than disembodied thought， because he was lying， definitely lying， on some  surface. Therefore he had a sense of touch， ａｎｄ the thing against which he lay existed too.    
Almost as soon as he had reached this conclusion， Harry became conscious that  he was naked. Convinced as he was of his total solitude， this did not concern him， but it  did intrigue him slightly. He wondered whether， as he could feel， he would be able to see.  In opening them， he discovered that he had eyes.    
He lay in a bright mist， though it was not like mist he had ever experienced before.  His surroundings were not hidden by cloudy vapor; rather the cloudy vapor had not yet  formed into surroundings. The floor on which he lay seemed to be white， neither warm  nor cold， but simply there， a flat， blank something on which to be.    
He sat up. His body appeared unscathed. He touched his face. He was not wearing  glasses anymore.    
Then a noise reached him through the unformed nothingness that surrounded him:  the small soft thumpings of something that flapped， flailed， ａｎｄ struggled. It was a pitiful  noise， yet also slightly indecent. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was  eavesdropping on something furtive， shameful.    
For the first time， he wished he were clothed.    
Barely had the wish formed in his head than robes appeared a short distance away.  He took them ａｎｄ pulled them on. They were soft， clean， ａｎｄ warm. It was extraordinary  how they had appeared just like that， the moment he had wanted them. . . .    
He stood up， looking around. Was he in some great Room of Requirement? The  longer he looked， the more there was to see. A great domed glass roof glittered high  above him in sunlight. Perhaps it was a palace. All was hushed ａｎｄ still， except for those  odd thumping ａｎｄ whimpering noises coming from somewhere close by in the mist. . . .    
Harry turned slowly on the spot， ａｎｄ his surroundings seemed to invent  themselves before his eyes. A wide-open space， bright ａｎｄ clean， a hall larger by far than  the Great Hall， with that clear domed glass ceiling. It was quite empty. He was the only  person there， except for –    
He recoiled. He had spotted the thing that was making the noises. It had the form  of a small， naked child， curled on the ground， its skin raw ａｎｄ rough， flayed-looking， ａｎｄ  it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left， unwanted， stuffed out of sight，  struggling for breath.    
He was afraid of it. Small ａｎｄ fragile ａｎｄ wounded though it was， he did not want  to approach it. Nevertheless he drew slowly nearer， ready to jump back at any moment.  Soon he stood near enough to touch it， yet he could not bring himself to do it. He felt like  a coward. He ought to comfort it， but it repulsed him.    
“You cannot help.”    
He spun around. Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him， sprightly ａｎｄ  upright， wearing sweeping robes of midnight blue.    
“Harry.” He spread his arms wide， ａｎｄ his hａｎｄs were both whole ａｎｄ white ａｎｄ  undamaged. “You wonderful boy. You brave， brave man. Let us walk.”    
Stunned， Harry followed as Dumbledore strode away from where the flayed child  lay whimpering， leading him to two seats that Harry had not previously noticed， set some  distance away under that high， sparkling ceiling. Dumbledore sat down in one of them，  ａｎｄ Harry fell into the other， staring at his old headmaster’s face. Dumbledore’s long  silver hair ａｎｄ beard， the piercingly blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles， the crooked  nose: Everything was as he had remembered it. And yet . . .    
“But you’re dead，” said Harry.    
“Oh yes，” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly.    
“Then . . . I’m dead too?”    
“Ah，” said Dumbledore， smiling still more broadly. “That is the question， isn’t it?  On the whole， dear boy， I think not.”    
They looked at each other， the old man still beaming.    
“Not?” repeated Harry.    
“Not，” said Dumbledore.    
“But . . .” Harry raised his hａｎｄ instinctively toward the lightning scar. It did not  seem to be there. “But I should have died – I didn’t defend myself! I meant to let him kill  me!”    
“And that，” said Dumbledore， “will， I think， have made all the difference.”    
Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like light; like fire: Harry had  never seen the man so utterly， so palpably content.    
“Explain，” said Harry.    
“But you already know，” said Dumbledore. He twiddled his thumbs together.    
“I let him kill me，” said Harry. “Didn’t I?”    
“You did，” said Dumbledore， nodding. “Go on!”    
“So the part of his soul that was in me . . .”    
Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically， urging Harry onward， a broad  smile of encouragement on his face.    
“. . . has it gone?”    
“Oh yes!” said Dumbledore. “Yes， he destroyed it. Your soul is whole， ａｎｄ  completely your own， Harry.”    
“But then . . .”    
Harry trembled over his shoulder to where the small， maimed creature trembled  under the chair.    
“What is that， Professor?”    
“something that is beyond either of our help，” said Dumbledore.    
“But if Voldemort used the Killing Curse，” Harry started again， “ａｎｄ nobody died  for me this time – how can I be alive?”    
“I think you know，” said Dumbledore. “Think back. Remember what he did， in  his ignorance， in his greed ａｎｄ his cruelty.”    
Harry thought. He let his gaze drift over his surroundings. If it was indeed a  palace in which they sat， it was an odd one， with chairs set in little rows ａｎｄ bits of  railing here ａｎｄ there， ａｎｄ still， he ａｎｄ Dumbledore ａｎｄ the stunted creatures under the  chair were the only beings there. Then the answer rose to his lips easily， without effort.    
“He took my blood，” said Harry.    
“Precisely!” said Dumbledore. “He took your blood ａｎｄ rebuilt his living body  with it! Your blood in his veins， Harry， Lily’s protection inside both of you! He thethered  you to life while he lives!”    
“I live . . . while he lives? But I thought . . . I thought it was the other way around!  I thought we both had to die? Or is it the same thing?”    
He was distracted by the whimpering ａｎｄ thumping of the agonized creature  behind them ａｎｄ glanced back at it yet again.    
“Are you sure we can’t do anything?”    
“There is no help possible.”    
“Then explain . . . more，” said Harry， ａｎｄ Dumbledore smiled.    
“You were the seventh Horcrux， Harry， the Horcrux he never meant to make. He  had rendered his soul so unstable that it broke apart when he committed those acts of  unspeakable evil， the murder of your parents， the attempted killing of a child. But what  escaped from that room was even less than he knew. He left more than his body behind.  He left part of himself latched to you， the would-be victim who had survived.    
“And his knowledge remained woefully incomplete， Harry! That which  Voldemort does not value， he takes no trouble to comprehend. Of house-elves ａｎｄ  children’s tales， of love， loyalty， ａｎｄ innocence， Voldemort knows ａｎｄ understａｎｄs  nothing. Nothing. That they all have a power beyond his own， a power beyond the reach  of any magic， is a truth he has never grasped.    
“He took your blood believing it would strengthen him. He took into his body a  tiny part of the enchantment your mother laid upon you when she died for you. His body  keeps her sacrafice alive， ａｎｄ while that enchantment survives， so do you ａｎｄ so does  Voldemort’s one last hope for himself.”    
Dumbledore smiled at Harry， ａｎｄ Harry stared at him.    
“And you knew this? You knew – all along?”    
“I guessed. But my guesses have usually been good，” said Dumbledore happily，  ａｎｄ they sat in silence for what seemed like a long time， while the creature behind them  continued to whimper ａｎｄ tremble.    
“There’s more，” said Harry. “There’s more to it. Why did my wａｎｄ break the  wａｎｄ he borrowed?”    
“As to that， I cannot be sure.”    
“Have a guess， then，” said Harry， ａｎｄ Dumbledore laughed.    
“What you must understａｎｄ， Harry， is that you ａｎｄ Lord Voldemort have  journeyed together into realms of magic hitherto unknown ａｎｄ untested. But here is what     I think happened， ａｎｄ it is unprecedented， ａｎｄ no wａｎｄmaker could， I think， ever have  predicted or explained it to Voldemort.    
“Without meaning to， as you now know， Lord Voldemort doubled the bond  between you when he returned to a human form. A part of his soul was still attached to  yours， ａｎｄ， thinking to strengthen himself， he took a part of your mother’s sacrafice into  himself. If he could only have understood the precise ａｎｄ terrible power of that sacrifice，  he would not， perhaps， have dared to touch your blood. . . . But then， if he had been able  to understａｎｄ， he could not be Lord Voldemort， ａｎｄ might never have murdered at all.    
“Having ensured this two-fold connection， having wrapped your destinies  together more securely than ever two wizards were joined in history， Voldemort  proceeded to attack you with a wａｎｄ that shared a core with yours. And now something  very strange happened， as we know. The cores reacted in a way that Lord Voldemort，  who never knew that your wａｎｄ was a twin of his， had ever expected.    
“He was more afraid than you were that night， Harry. You had accepted， even  embraced， the possibility of death， something Lord Voldemort has never been able to do.  Your courage won， your wａｎｄ overpowered his. And in doing so， something happened  between those wａｎｄs， something that echoed the relationship between their masters.    
“I believe that your wａｎｄ imbibed some of the power ａｎｄ qualities of  Voldemort’s wａｎｄ that night， which is to say that it contained a little of Voldemort  himself. So your wａｎｄ recognized him when he pursued you， recognized a man who was  both kin ａｎｄ mortal enemy， ａｎｄ it regurgitated some of his own magic against him， magic  much more powerful than anything Lucius’s wａｎｄ had ever performed. Your wａｎｄ now  contained the power of your enormous courage ａｎｄ of Voldemort’s own deadly skill:  What chance did that poor stick of Lucius Malfoy’s stａｎｄ?”    
“But if my wａｎｄ was so powerful， how come Hermione was able to break it?”  asked Harry.    
“My dear boy， its remarkable effects were directed only at Voldemort， who had  tampered so ill-advisedly with the deepest laws of magic. Only toward him was that  wａｎｄ abnormally powerful. Otherwise it was a wａｎｄ like any other . . . though a good  one， I am sure，” Dumbledore finished kindly.    
Harry sat in thought for a long time， or perhaps seconds. It was very hard to be  sure of things like time， here.    
“He killed me with your wａｎｄ.”    
“He failed to kill you with my wａｎｄ，” Dumbledore corrected Harry. “I think we  can agree that you are not dead – though， of course，” he added， as if fearing he had been  discourteous， “I do not minimize your sufferings， which I am sure were severe.”    
“I feel great at the moment， though，” said Harry， looking down at his clean，  unblemished hａｎｄs. “Where are we， exactly?”    
“Well， I was going to ask you that，” said Dumbledore， looking around. “Where  would you say that we are?”    
Until Dumbledore had asked， Harry had not known. Now， however， he found that  he had an answer ready to give.    
“It looks，” he said slowly， “like King’s Cross station. Except a lo cleaner ａｎｄ  empty， ａｎｄ there are no trains as far as I can see.”    
“King’s Cross station!” Dumbledore was chuckling immoderately. “Good  gracious， really?”    
“Well， where do you think we are?” asked Harry， a little defensively.    
“My dear boy， I have no idea. This is， as they say， your party.”    
Harry had no idea what this meant; Dumbledore was being infuriating. He glared  at him， then remembered a much more pressing question than that of their current  location.    
“The Deathly Hallows，” he said， ａｎｄ he was glad to see that the words wiped the  smile from Dumbledore’s face.    
“Ah， yes，” he said. He even looked a little worried.    
“Well?”    
For the first time since Harry had met Dumbledore， he looked less than an old  man， much less. He looked fleetingly like a small boy caught in wrongdoing.    
“Can you forgive me?” he said. “Can you forgive me for not trusting you? For not  telling you? Harry， I only feared that you would fail as I had failed. I only dreaded that  you would make my mistakes. I crave your pardon， Harry. I have known， for some time  now， that you are the better man.”    
“What are you talking about?” asked Harry， startled by Dumbledore’s tone， by the  sudden tears in his eyes.    
“The Hallows， the Hallows，” murmured Dumbledore. “A desperate man’s  dream!”    
“But they’re real!”    
“Real， ａｎｄ dangerous， ａｎｄ a lure for fools，” said Dumbledore. “And I was such a  fool. But you know， don’t you? I have no secrets from you anymore. You know.”    
“What do I know?”    
Dumbledore turned his whole body to face Harry， ａｎｄ tears still sparkled in the  brilliantly blue eyes.    
“Master of death， Harry， master of Death! Was I better， ultimately， than  Voldemort?”    
“Of course you were，” said Harry. “Of course – how can you ask that? You never  killed if you could avoid it!”    
“True， true，” said Dumbledore， ａｎｄ he was like a child seeking reassurance. “Yet  I too sought a way to conquer death， Harry.”    
“Not the way he did，” said Harry. After all his anger at Dumbledore， how odd it  was to sit here， beneath the high， vaulted ceiling， ａｎｄ defend Dumbledore from himself.  “Hallows， not Horcruxes.”    
“Hallows，” murmured Dumbledore， “not Horcruxes. Precisely.”    
There was a pause. The creature behind them whimpered， but Harry no longer  looked around.    
“Grindelwald was looking for them too?” he asked.    
Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment ａｎｄ nodded.    
“It was the thing， above all， that drew us together，” he said quietly. “Two clever，  arrogant boys with a shared obsession. He wanted to come to Godric’s Hollow， as I am  sure you have guessed， because of the grave of Ignotus Peverell. He wanted to explore  the place the third brother had died.”    
“So it’s true?” asked Harry. “All of it? The Peverell brothers –”    
“—were the three brothers of the tale，” said Dumbledore， nodding. “Oh yes， I  think so. Whether they met Death on a lonely road . . . I think it more likely that the     Peverell brothers were simply gifted， dangerous wizards who succeeded in creating those  powerful objects. The story of them being Death’s own Hallows seems to me the sort of  legend that might have sprung up around such creations.    
“The Cloak， as you know now， traveled down through the ages， father to son，  mother to daughter， right down to Ignotus’s last living descendant， who was born， as  Ignotus was， in the village of Godric’s Hollow.”    
Dumbledore smiled at Harry.    
“Me?”    
“You. You have guessed，， I know， why the Cloak was in my possession on the  night your parents died. James had showed it to me just a few days previously. It  explained much of his undetected wrongdoing at school! I could hardly believe what I  was seeing. I asked to borrow it， to examine it. I had long since given up my dream of  uniting the Hallows， but I could not resist， could not help taking a closer look. . . . It was  a Cloak the likes of which I had never seen， immensely old， perfect in every respect . . .  ａｎｄ then your father died， ａｎｄ I had two Hallows at last， all to myself!”    
His tone was unbearably bitter.    
“The Cloak wouldn’t have helped them survive， though，” Harry said quickly.  “Voldemort knew where my mum ａｎｄ dad were. The Cloak couldn’t have made them  curse-proof.”    
“true，” sighed Dumbledore. “True.”    
Harry waited， but Dumbledore did not speak， so he prompted him.    
“So you’d given up looking for the Hallows when you saw the Cloak?”    
“Oh yes，” said Dumbledore faintly. It seemed that he forced himself to meet  Harry’s eyes. “You know what happened. You know. You cannot despise me more than I  despise myself.”    
“But I don’t despise you –”    
“Then you should，” said Dumbledore. He drew a deep breath. “You know the  secret of my sister’s ill health， what those Muggles did， what she became. You know how  my poor father sought revenge， ａｎｄ paid the price， died In Azkaban. You know how my  mother gave up her own life to care for Ariana.    
“I resented it， Harry.”    
Dumbledore stated it baldly， coldly. He was looking now over the top of Harry’s  head， into the distance.    
“I was gifted， I was brilliant. I wanted to escape. I wanted to shine. I wanted glory.    
“Do not misunderstａｎｄ me，” he said， ａｎｄ pain crossed the face so that he looked  ancient again. “I loved them， I loved my parents， I loved my brother ａｎｄ my sister， but I  was selfish， Harry， more selfish than you， who are a remarkably selfless person， could  possibly imagine.    
“So that， when my mother died， ａｎｄ I was left the responsibility of a damaged  sister ａｎｄ a wayward brother， I returned to my village in anger ａｎｄ bitterness. Trapped  ａｎｄ wasted， I thought! And then of course， he came. . . .”    
Dumbledore looked directly into Harry’s eyes again.    
“Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me， Harry， inflamed me.  Muggles forced into subservience. We wizards triumphant. Grindelwald ａｎｄ I， the  glorious young leaders of the revolution.    
“Oh， I had a few scruples. I assuaged my conscience with empty words. It would  all be for the greater good， ａｎｄ any harm done would be repaid a hundredfold in benefits  for wizards. Did I know， in my heart of hearts， what Gellert Grindelwald was? I think I  did， but I closed my eyes. If the plans we were making came to fruition， all my dreams  would come true.    
“And at the heart of our schemes， the Deathly Hallows! How they fascinated him，  how they fascinated both of us! The unbeatable wａｎｄ， the weapon that would lead us to  power! The Resurrection Stone – to him， though I pretended not to know it， it meant an  army of Inferi! To me， I confess， it meant the return of my parents， ａｎｄ the lifting of all  responsibility from my shoulders.    
“And the Cloak . . . somehow， we never discussed the Cloak much， Harry. Both  of us could conceal ourselves well enough without the Cloak， the true magic of which， of  course， is that it can be used to protect ａｎｄ shield others as well as its owner. I thought  that， if we ever found it， it might be useful in hiding Ariana， but our interest in the Cloak  was mainly that it completed the trio， for the legend said that the man who had united all  three objects would then be truly master of death， which we took to mean ‘invincible.’    
“Invincible masters of death， Grindelwald ａｎｄ Dumbledore! Two months of  insanity， of cruel dreams， ａｎｄ neglect of the only two members of my family left to me.    
“And then . . . you know what happened. Reality returned in the form of my rough，  unlettered， ａｎｄ infinitely more admirable brother. I did not want to hear the truths he  shouted at me. I did not want to hear that I could not set forth ａｎｄ seek Hallows with a  fragile ａｎｄ unstable sister in tow.    
“The argument became a fight. Grindelwald lost control. That which I had always  sensed in him， though I pretended not to， now sprang into terrible being. And Ariana . . .  after all my mother’s care ａｎｄ caution . . . lay dead upon the floor.”    
Dumbledore gave a little gasp ａｎｄ began to cry in earnest. Harry reached out ａｎｄ  was glad to find that he could touch him: He gripped his arm tightly ａｎｄ Dumbledore  gradually regained control.    
“Well， Grindelwald fled， as anyone but I could have predicted. He vanished， with  his plans for seizing power， ａｎｄ his schemes for Muggle torture， ａｎｄ his dreams of the  Deathly Hallows， dreams in which I had encouraged him ａｎｄ helped him. He ran， while I  was left to bury my sister， ａｎｄ learn to live with my guilt ａｎｄ my terrible grief， the price  of my shame.    
“Years passed. There were rumors about him. They said he had procured a wａｎｄ  of immense power. I， meanwhile， was offered the post of Minister of Magic， not once，  but several times. Naturally， I refused. I had learned that I was not to be trusted with  power.”    
“But you’d have been better， much better， than Fudge or Scimgeour!” burst out  Harry.    
“Would I?” asked Dumbledore heavily. “I am not so sure. I had proven， as a very  young man， that power was my weakness ａｎｄ my temptation. It is a curious thing， Harry，  but perhaps those who are best suited to power are those who have never sought it. Those  who， like you， have leadership thrust upon them， ａｎｄ take up the mantle because they  must， ａｎｄ find to their own surprise that they wear it well.    
“I was safer at Hogwarts. I think I was a good teacher –”    
“You were the best ---”    
“--- you are very kind， Harry. But while I busied myself with the training of  young wizards， Grindelwald was raising an army. They say he feared me， ａｎｄ perhaps he  did， but less， I think， than I feared him.    
“Oh， not death，” said Dumbledore， in answer to Harry’s questioning look. “Not  what he could do to me magically. I knew that we were evenly matched， perhaps that I  was a shade more skillful. It was the truth I feared. You see， I never knew which of us， in  that last， horrific fight， had actually cast the curse that killed my sister. You may call me  cowardly: You would be right， Harry. I dreaded beyond all things the knowledge that it  had been I who brought about her death， not merely through my arrogance ａｎｄ stupidity，  but that I actually struck the blow that snuffed out her life.    
“I think he knew it， I think he knew what frightened me. I delayed meeting him  until finally， it would have been too shameful to resist any longer. People were dying ａｎｄ  he seemed unstoppable， ａｎｄ I had to do what I could.    
“Well， you know what happened next. I won the duel. I won the wａｎｄ.”    
Another silence. Harry did not ask whether Dumbledore had ever found out who  struck Ariana dead. He did not want to know， ａｎｄ even less did he want Dumbledore to  have to tell him. At last he knew what Dumbledore would have seen when he looked in  the mirror of Erised， ａｎｄ why Dumbledore had been so understａｎｄing of the fascination it  had exercised over Harry.    
They sat in silence for a long time， ａｎｄ the whipmerings of the creature behind  them barely disturbed Harry anymore.    
At last he said， “Grindelwald tried to stop Voldemort going after the wａｎｄ. He  lied， you know， pretended he had never had it.”    
Dumbledore nodded， looking down at his lap， tears still glittering on the crooked  nose.    
“They say he showed remorse in later years， alone in his cell at Nurmengard. I  hope that is true. I would like to think that he did feel the horror ａｎｄ shame of what he  had done. Perhaps that lie to Voldemort was his attempt to make amends . . . to prevent  Voldemort from taking the Hallow . . .”    
“. . .or maybe from breaking into your tomb?” suggested Harry， ａｎｄ Dumbledore  dabbed his eyes.    
After another short pause Harry said， “You tried to use the Resurrection Stone.”    
Dumbledore nodded.    
“When I discovered it， after all those years， buried in the abａｎｄoned home of the  Gaunts --- the Hallow I had craved most of all， though in my youth I had wanted it for  very different reasons --- I lost my head， Harry. I quite forgot that I was not a Horcrux，  that the ring was sure to carry a curse. I picked it up， ａｎｄ I put it on， ａｎｄ for a second I  imagined that I was about to see Ariana， ａｎｄ my mother， ａｎｄ my father， ａｎｄ to tell them  how very， very sorry， I was. . . .    
“I was such a fool， Harry. After all those years I had learned nothing. I was  unworthy to unite the Deathly Hallows， I had proved it time ａｎｄ again， ａｎｄ here was final  proof.”    
“Why?” said Harry. “It was natural! You wanted to see them again. What’s wrong  with that?”    
“Maybe a man in a million could unite the Hallows， Harry. I was fit only to  possess the meanest of them， the least extraordinary. I was fit to own the Elder Wａｎｄ，     ａｎｄ not boast of it， ａｎｄ not to kill with it. I was permitted to tame ａｎｄ use it， because I  took it， not for gain， but to save others from it.    
“But the Cloak， I took out of vain curiousity， ａｎｄ so it could never have worked  for me as it works for you， its true owners. The stone I would have used in an attempt to  drag back those who are at peace， rather than enable my self-sacrafice， as you did. You  are the worthy possessor of the Hallows.”    
Dumbledore patted Harry’s hａｎｄ， ａｎｄ Harry looked up at the old man ａｎｄ smiled;  he could not help himself. How coul dhe remain angry with Dumbledore now?    
“Why did you have to make it so difficult?”    
Dumbledore’s smile was tremulous.    
“I am afraid I counted on Miss Granger to slow you up， Harry. I was afraid that  your hot head might dominate your good heart. I was scared that， if presented outright  with the facts about those tempting objects， you might seize the Hallows as I did， at the  wrong time， for the wrong reasons. If you laid hａｎｄs on them， I wanted you to possess  them safely. You are the true master of death， because the true master does not seek to  run away from Death. He accepts that he must die， ａｎｄ understａｎｄs that there are far， far  worse things in the living world than dying.”    
“And Voldemort never knew about the Hallows?”    
“I do not think so， because he did not recognize the Resurrection Stone he turned  into a Horcrux. But even if he had known about them， Harry. I doubt that he woul dhave  been interested in any except the first. He would not think that he needed the Cloak， ａｎｄ  as for the stone， whom would he want to bring back from the dead? He fears the dead. He  does not love.”    
“But you expected him to go after the wａｎｄ?”    
“I have been sure that he would try， ever since your wａｎｄ beat Voldemort’s in the  graveyard of Little Hangleton. At first， he was afraid that you had conquered him by  superior skill. Once he had kidnapped Ollivａｎｄer， however， he discovered the existence  of the twin cores. He thought that explained everything. Yet the borrowed wａｎｄ did no  better against yours! So Voldemort， instead of asking himself what quality it was in you  that had made your wａｎｄ so strong， what gift you possessed that he did not， naturally set  out to find the one wａｎｄ that， they said， would beat any other. For him， the Elder Wａｎｄ  has become an obsession to rival his obsession with you. He believes that the Elder Wａｎｄ  removes his last weakness ａｎｄ makes him truly invincible. Poor Severus . . .”    
“If you planned your death with Snape， you meant him to end up with the Elder  Wａｎｄ， didn’t you?”    
“I admit that was my intention，” said Dumbledore， “but it did not work as I  intended， did it?”    
“No，” said Harry. “That bit didn’t work out.”    
The creature behind them jerked ａｎｄ moaned， ａｎｄ Harry ａｎｄ Dumbledore sate  without talking for the longest time yet. The realization of what would happen next  settled gradually over Harry in the long minutes， like softly falling snow.    
“I’ve got to go back， haven’t I?”    
“That is up to you.”    
“I’ve got a choice?”    
“Oh yes，” Dumbledore smiled at him. “We are in King’s Cross you say? I think  that if you decided not to go back， you would be able to . . . let’s say . . . board a train.”    
“And where would it take me?”    
“On，” said Dumbledore simply.    
Silence again.    
“Voldemort’s got the Elder Wａｎｄ.”    
“True. Voldemort has the Elder Wａｎｄ.”    
“But you want me to go back?”    
“I think，” said Dumbledore， “that if you choose to return， there is a chance that he  may be finished for good. I cannot promise it. But I know this， Harry， that you have less  to fear from returning here than he does.”    
Harry glanced again at the raw looking thing that trembled ａｎｄ choked in the  shadow beneath the distant chair.    
“Do not pity the dead， Harry. Pity the living， ａｎｄ above all， those who live  without love. By returning， you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed， fewer families  are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy goal， they we saw good-bye for the present.”    
Harry nodded ａｎｄ sighed. Leaving this place would not be nearly as hard as  walking into the forest had been， but it was warm ａｎｄ light ａｎｄ peaceful here， ａｎｄ he  knew that he was heading back to pain ａｎｄ the fear of more loss. He stood up， ａｎｄ  Dumbledore did the same， ａｎｄ they looked for a long moment into each other’s faces.    
“Tell me one last thing，” said Harry， “Is this real? Or has this been happening  inside my head?”    
Dumbledore beamed at him， ａｎｄ his voice sounded loud ａｎｄ strong in Harry’s  ears even though the bright mist was descending again， obscuring his figure.    
“Of course it is happening inside your head， Harry， but why on earth should that  mean it is not real?”                   Chapter Thirty-Six    The Flaw in the Plan              He was flying facedown on the grond again. The smell of the forest filled his nostrils. He  could feel    the cold hard ground beneath his cheek， ａｎｄ the hinge of his glasses which have been  knocked sideways    by the fall cutting into his temple. Every inch of him ached， ａｎｄ the place where Killing  Curse had hit him    felt like the bruise of an iron-clad punch. He did not stir， but he remained exactly where  he had fallen， with    his left arm bent out at an akward angle ａｎｄ his mouth gaping.    
He had expected to hear cheer of triumph ａｎｄ jubilation at his death， but instead  hurried footsteps，    whispers， ａｎｄ solicitous murmurs filled the air.    
"My Lord... my Lord..."    
It was Bellatrix’s voice， ａｎｄ she spoke as if to a lover. Harry did not dare open his  eyes， but allowed    his other senses to explore his predicament. He knew that his wａｎｄ was still stowed  beneath his robes because    he could feel it pressed between his chest ａｎｄ the ground. A slight cushioning effect in  the area of his stomach    told him that the Invisibility Cloak was also there， stuffed out of sight.    
"My Lord..."    
"That will do，" said Voldemort’s voice.    
More footsteps. Several people were backing away from the same spot. Desperate  to see what was    happening ａｎｄ why， Harry opened his eyes by a milimeter.    
Voldemort seemed to be getting to his feet. Various Death Eaters were hurrying  away from him，    returning to the crowd lining the clearing. Bellatrix alone remained behind， kneeling  beside Voldemort.    
Harry closed his eyes again ａｎｄ considered what he had seen. The Death Eaters  have been buddled    around Voldemort， who seem to have fallen to the ground. Something had happened  when he had hit Harry with    the Killing Curse. Had Voldemort too collapsed? It seemed like it. And both of them had  briefly fallen unconcious    ａｎｄ both of them had now returned. . .    
"My Lord， let me --"    
"I do not require assitance，" said Voldemort coldly， ａｎｄ though he could not see it，  Harry pictured    Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hａｎｄ. "The boy . . . Is he dead?"    
There was a complete silence in the clearing. Nobody approached Harry， but he  felt their concentraded    gaze; it seemed to press him harder into the ground， ａｎｄ he was terrified a finger or an  eyelid might twitch.    
"You，" said Voldemort， ａｎｄ there was a bang ａｎｄ a small shrick of pain.  "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."    
Harry did not know who had been sent to verify. He could only lie there， with his  heart thumping traitorously， ａｎｄ wait to be    examined， but at the same time nothing， small comfort through it was， that Voldemort  was wary of approaching him， that Voldemort    suspected that all had not gone to plan . . . .    
Hａｎｄs， softer than he had been expecting， touched Harry’s face， ａｎｄ felt his heart.  He could hear the woman’s fast breathing，    her pounding of life against his ribs.    
"Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?"    
The whisper was barely audible， her lips were an inch from his car， her head bent  so low that her long hair shielded his face    from the onlookers.    
"Yes，" he breathed back.    
He felt the hａｎｄ on his chest contract: her nails pierced him. Then it was  withdrawn. She had sat up.    
"He is dead!" Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.    
And now they shouted， now they yelled in triumph ａｎｄ stamped their feet， ａｎｄ  through his eyelids， Harry saw bursts of red    ａｎｄ silver light shoot into the air in celebration.    
Still feigning death on the ground， he understood. Narcissa knew that the only  way she would be permitted to enter Hogwarts，    ａｎｄ find her son， was as part of the conquering army. She no longer cared whether  Voldemort won.    
"You see?" screeched Voldemort over the tumult. "Harry Potter is dead by my  hａｎｄ， ａｎｄ no man alive can threaten me now!    Watch! Crucio!"    
Harry had been expecting it， knew his body would not be allowed to remain  unsullied upon the forest floor; it must be subjected    
to humiliation to prove Voldemort’s victory. He was lifted into the air， ａｎｄ it took all his  determination to remain limp， yet the pain he    expected did not come. He was thrown once， twice， three times into the air. His glasses  flew off ａｎｄ he felt his wａｎｄ slide a little beneath    his robes， but he kept himself floppy ａｎｄ lifeless， ａｎｄ when he fell no ground for the last  time， the clearing echoed with jeers ａｎｄ shrieks    of laughter.    
"Now，" said Voldemort， "we go to the castle， ａｎｄ show them what has become of  their hero. Who shall drag the body? No - Wait - "    
There was a fresh outbreak of laughter， ａｎｄ after a few moments Harry felt the  ground trembling beneath him.    
"You carry him，" Voldemort said. "He will be nice ａｎｄ visible in your arms， will  he not? Pick up your little friend， Hagrid. And the    glasses - put on the glasses - he must be recognizable - "    
Someone slammed Harry’s glasses back onto his face with deliberate force， but  the enormous hａｎｄs that lifted him into the air    were exceedingly gentle. Harry could feel Hagrid’s arms trembling with the force of his  heaving sobs; great tears splashed down upon him    as Hagrid cradled Harry in his arms， ａｎｄ Harry did not dare， by movement or word， to  intimate to Hagrid that all was not， yet， lost.    
"Move，" said Voldemort， ａｎｄ Hagrid stumbled forward， forcing his way through  the close-growing trees， back through the forest.    Branches caught at Harry’s hair ａｎｄ robes， but he lay quiescent， his mouth lolling open，  his eyes shut， ａｎｄ in the darkness， while the    Death Eaters croed all around them， ａｎｄ while Hagrid sobbed blindly， nobody looked to  see whether a pulse beat in the exposed neck of    Harry Potter. . . .    
The two giants crashed along behind the Death Eaters; Harry could hear trees  creaking ａｎｄ falling as they passed; they made so    much din that birds toes shrieking into the sky， ａｎｄ even the jeers of the Death Eaters  were drowned. The victorious procession marched     on toward the open ground， ａｎｄ after a while Harry could tell， by the lightening of the  darkness through his closed eyelids， that the trees    were beginning to thin.    
"BANE!"    
Hagrid’s unexpected bellow nearly forced Harry’s eyes open. "Happy now， are  yeh， that yeh didn’t fight， yeh cowardly bunch o’ nags?    Are yeh happy Harry Potter’s - d-dead . . . ?"    
Hagrid could not continue， but broke down in fresh tears. Harry wondered how  many centaurs were watching their procession pass;    he dared not open his eyes to look. Some of the Death Eaters called insults at the centaurs  as they left them behind. A little later， Harry    sensed， by a freshening of the air， that they had reached the edge of the forest.    
"Stop."    
Harry thought that Hagrid must have been forced to obey Voldemort’s commａｎｄ，  because he lurched a little. And now a chill settled    over them where they sood， ａｎｄ Harry heard the rasping breath of the dementors that  patrolled the other trees. They would not affect him now.    The fact of his own survival burned inside him， a talisman against them， as though his  father’s stag kept guardian in his heart.    
Someone passed close by Harry， ａｎｄ he knew that it was Voldemort himself  because he spoke a moment later， his voice magically    magnified so that it swelled through the ground， crashing upon Harry’s eardrums.    
"Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away， trying to save himself while  you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his    body as proof that your hero is gone.    
"The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters  outnumber you， ａｎｄ the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must    be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist， man， woman or child， will be  slaughtered， as will every member of their family. Come out of the    castle now， kneel before me， ａｎｄ you shall be spared. Your parents ａｎｄ children， your  brothers ａｎｄ sisters will live ａｎｄ be forgiven， ａｎｄ you will    join me in the new world we shall build togheter."    
There was silence in the grounds ａｎｄ from the castle. Voldemort was so close to  him that Harry did not dare open his eyes again.    
"Come，" said Voldemort， ａｎｄ Harry heard him move ahead， ａｎｄ Hagrid was  forced to follow. Now Harry opened his eyes a fraction， ａｎｄ saw    Voldemort striding in front them， wearing the great snake Nagini around his shoulders，  now free of her enchanted cage. But Harry had no possibility    of extracting the wａｎｄ concealed under his robes without being noticed by the Death  Eaters， who marched on the either side of them through the    slowly lightening darkness . . . .    
"Harry，" sobbed Hagrid. "Oh， Harry . . . Harry . . ."    
Harry shut his eyes tight again. He knew that they were approaching the castle  ａｎｄ strained his ears to distinguish， above the gleeful voices    of the Death Eaters ａｎｄ their tramping footsteps， signs of life from those within.    
"Stop."    
The Death Eaters camte to a halt; Harry heard them spreading out in a line facing  the opne front doors of the school. He could see， even    though his closed lids， the teddish glow that meant light streamed upon him from the  entrance hall. He waited. Any moment， the people for whom    he had tried to die would see him， lying apparently dead， in Hagrid’s arms.    
"NO!"    
The scream was the more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that  Professor McGonagall could make such a sound. He heard    another women laughing nearby， ａｎｄ knew that Bellatrix gloried in McGonagall’s despair.  He squinted again for a single second ａｎｄ saw the open    
doorway filling with people， as the survivors of the battle came out onto the front steps  to face their vanquishers ａｎｄ see the truth of Harry’s death for    themselves. He saw Voldemort stａｎｄing a little in front of him， stroking Nagini’s head  with a single white finger. He closed his eyes again.    
"No!"    
"No!"    
"Harry! HARRY!"    
Ron’s， Hermione’s， ａｎｄ Ginny’s voices were worse than McGonagall’s; Harry  wanted nothing more than to call back， yet he made himself lie    silent， ａｎｄ their cries acted like a trigger; the crowd of survivors took up the cause，  screaming ａｎｄ yelling abuse at the Death Eathers， until -    
"SILENCE!" cried Voldemort， ａｎｄ there was a bang ａｎｄ a flash of bright light，  ａｎｄ silence was forced upn them all. "It is over! Set him down，    Hagrid， at my feet， where he belongs!"    
Harry felt himself lowered onto the grass.    
"You see? said Voldemort， ａｎｄ Harry felt him striding backward ａｎｄ forward  right beside the place where he lay. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you    understａｎｄ now， deluded ones? He was nothing， ever， but a boy who relied on others to  sacrifice themselves for him!"    
"He beat you!" yelled Ron， ａｎｄ the charm broke， ａｎｄ the defenders of Hogwarts  were shouting ａｎｄ screaming again until a second， more    powerful bang extinguished their voices once more.    
"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds，" said Voldemort，  ａｎｄ there was a relish in his voice for the lie. "killed while trying    to save himself - "    
But Voldemort broke off: Harry heard a scuffle ａｎｄ a shout， then another bang， a  flash of light， ａｎｄ grunt of pain; he opened his eyes an infinitesimal    amount. Someone had broken free of the crowd ａｎｄ charged at Voldemort: Harry saw the  figure hit the ground. Disarmed， Voldemort throwing the challenger’s    wａｎｄ aside ａｎｄ laughing.    
"And who is this?" he said in his soft snake’s hiss. "Who has volunteered to  demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the    battle is lost?"    
Bellatrix gave a delighted laugh.    
"It is Neville Longbottom， my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so  much trouble! The son of the Aurors， remember?"    
"Ah， yes， I remember，" said Voldemort， looking down at Neville， who was  struggling back to his feet， unarmed ａｎｄ unproctected， stａｎｄing in the    no-man’s-lａｎｄ between the survivors ａｎｄ the Death Eaters. "But you are a pureblood，  aren’t you， my brave boy? Voldemort asked Neville， who stood facing him，    his empty hａｎｄs curled in fists.    
"So what if I am?" said Neville loudly.    
"You show spirit ａｎｄ bravery， ａｎｄ you come of noble stock. You will make a very  valuable Death Eater. We need your kind， Neville Longbottom."    
"I’ll join you when hell freezes over，" said Neville. "Dumbledore’s Army!" he  shouted， ａｎｄ there was an answering cheer from the crowd， whom    Voldemort’s Silencing Charms seemed unable to hold.    
"Very well，" said Voldemort， ａｎｄ Harry heard more danger in the silkiness of his  voice than in the most powerful curse. "If that is your choice， Longbottom，    we revert to the original plan. On your head，" he said quietly， "be it."    
Still watching through his lashes， Harry saw Voldemort wave his wａｎｄ. Seconds  later， out of one of the castle’s shattered windows， something that looked like a  misshapen bird flew through the half light ａｎｄ lａｎｄed in Voldemort’s hａｎｄ. He shook the  mildewed object by its pointed end ａｎｄ it dangled， emtpy ａｎｄ ragged: the Sorting Hat.    
"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School，" said Voldemort. "There will  be no more Houses. The emblem， sheild ａｎｄ colors of my noble ancestor， Salazar  Slythering， will suffice everyone. Won’t they， Neville Longbottom?"    
He pointed his wａｎｄ at Neville， who grew rigid ａｎｄ still， then forced the hat onto  Neville’s head， so thta it slipped down below his eyes. There were movements from the  watching crowd in front of the castle， ａｎｄ as one， the Death Eaters raised their wａｎｄs，  holding the fighters of Hogwarts at bay.    
"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish  enough to continue to oppose me，" said Voldemort， ａｎｄ with a flick of his wａｎｄ， he  caused the Sorting Hat to burst into flames.    
Screams split the dawn， ａｎｄ Neville was a flame， rooted to the spot， unable to  move， ａｎｄ Harry could not bear it: He must act -    
And then many things happened at the same moment.    
They heard uproar from the distant boundary of the school as what sounded like  hundreds of people came swarming over the out-of-sight walls ａｎｄ pelted toward the  castle， uttering lowd war cries. At the same time， Grawp came lumbering around the side  of the castel ａｎｄ yelled， "HAGGER!" His cry was answered by roars from Voldemort’s  giants: They ran at Grawp like bull elephants making the earth quake. Then came hooves  ａｎｄ the twangs of bows， ａｎｄ arrows were suddenly falling amongst the Death Eaters， who  broke ranks， shouting their surprise. Harry pulled the Invisibilty Cloak from inside his  robes， swunt it over himself， ａｎｄ sprang to his feet， as Neville moved too.    
In one swift， fluid motin， Neville broke free of the Body-Bind Curse upon him;  the flaming har fell off him ａｎｄ he drew from its depths something silver， with a  glittering， rubied hａｎｄle -    
The slash of the silver blade could not be heard over the roar of the oncoming  crowd or the sounds of the clashing giants or of te stampending centaurs， ａｎｄ yet， it  seemd to draw every eye. With a single stroke Neville sliced off the great snake’s head，  which spun high into the air， gleaming in the light flooding from the entrance hall， ａｎｄ     Voldemort’s mouth was open in a scream of fury that nobody could hear， ａｎｄ the snake’s  body thudded to the ground at his feet-    
Hidden beneath the Invisibilty Cloak， Harry cast a Shield Charm between Neville  ａｎｄ Voldemort before the latter could raise his stamps of the battling giants， Hagrid’s yell  came loudets of all.    
"HARRY!" Hagrid shouted. "HARRY - WHERE’S HARRY?"    
Chaos reigned. The charging centaurs were scattering the Death Eaters， everyone  was feeling the giants’ stamping feet， ａｎｄ nearer ａｎｄ nearar thundered the reinforcements  that had come from who knew where; Harry saw great winget creatues soaring the heads  of Voldemort’s giants， thestrals ａｎｄ Buckbeak the hippogriff scratching at their eyes  while Grawp punched ａｎｄ pummeled them ａｎｄ now the wizards， defenders of Hogwarts  ａｎｄ Death Eaters alike were being forced back into the castle. Harry was shooting jinxes  ａｎｄ curses at any Death Eater he could see， ａｎｄ they crumpled， not knowing what or who  had hit them， ａｎｄ their bodies were trampled by the retreating crowd. Still hidden beneath  the Invisibility Cloak， Harry was buffered into the entrance hall: He was searching for  Voldemort ａｎｄ saw him across the room， firing spells from his wａｎｄ as he backed into  the Great Hall， still screaming instructions to his followers as he sent curses flying left  ａｎｄ right; Harry cast more Shield Charms， ａｎｄ Voldemort’s would-be victims. Seamus  Finnigan ａｎｄ Hannah Abbott， datted past him into the Great Hall， where they joined the  fight already flourishing inside it.    
And now there were more， even more people storming up the front steps， ａｎｄ  Harry saw Charlie Weasly overtaking Horace Slughorn， who was still wearing his emeral  pijamas. They seemed to have returned at the head of what looked like the families ａｎｄ  friends of every Hogwarts student who had remained to fight along with the shopkeeps  ａｎｄ homeowners of Hogsmeade. The centaurs Bane， Ronan ａｎｄ Magorian burst into the  hall with a great clatter of hooves， as behind Harry the door that led to the kitchens was  blasted off its hinges.    
The house-elves of Hogwarts swarmed intot he entrance hall， screaming ａｎｄ  waving carving knives ａｎｄ cleaver， ａｎｄ at their head， the locker of Regulus Black  bouncing on his chest， was Kreacher， his bullfrog’s voice audible even above this din:  "Fight! Fight! Fight for my Master， defender of house-elves! Fight the Dark Lord， in the  name of brave Regulus! Fight!"    
They were hacking ａｎｄ stabbing at the ankles ａｎｄ shim of Death Eaters their tiny  faces alive with malice， ａｎｄ everywhere Harry looked Death Eaters were folding under  sheer weight of numbers， overcome by spells， dragging arrows from wounds， stabbed in  the leg by elves， or else simply attempting to escape， but swallowed by the oncoming  horde.    
But it was not over yet: Harry sped between duelers， past atruggling prosoners，  ａｎｄ into he Great Hall.    
Voldemort was in the center of the battle， ａｎｄ he was striking ａｎｄ smiting al  within reach. Harry could not get a clear shot， but fought his way nearer， still invisible，  ａｎｄ the Great Hall became more ａｎｄ more crowded as everyone who could walk forced  their way inside.    
Harry saw Yaxley slammed tot he floor by George ａｎｄ Lee Jordan， saw Dolohov  fall with a scream at Flitwick’s hａｎｄs， saw Walden Macnair thrown across the room by  Hagrid， hit the stone wall opposite， ａｎｄ slide unconscious to the ground. He saw Ron ａｎｄ     Neville bringing down Fenrir Greyback. Aberforth Stunning Rookwood， Arthur ａｎｄ  Percy flooting Thicknesse， ａｎｄ Lucius ａｎｄ Narcissa Malfoy running through the crowd，  not even attempting to fight， screaming for their son.    
Voldemort was now dueling McGonagall， Slughorn， Kingsley all at once， ａｎｄ  there was a cold hatred in his face as they wove ａｎｄ ducked around him， unable to finish  him -    
Bellatrix was still fighing too， fifty yards away from Voldemort， ａｎｄ like her  master she dueled three at once: Hermione， Ginny ａｎｄ Luna， all battling their hardest， but  Bellatrix was equal to them， ａｎｄ Harry’s attention was diverted as a Killing Curse shot so  close to Ginny that she missed death by an inch -    
He changed course， running at Bellatrix rather than Voldemort， but before he had  gone a few steps he was knocked sideways.    
"NOT MY DAUGHTER， YOU BITCH!"    
Mrs. Weasley threw off her cloak as she ran， freeing her arms， Bellatrix spun on  the spot， roaring with laughter at the sight of the new challenger.    
"OUT OF MY WAY!" shouted Mrs. Weasley to the three girls， ａｎｄ with a simple  swipe of her wａｎｄ she began to duel. Harry watched with terror ａｎｄ elation as Molly  Weasley’s wａｎｄ slashed ａｎｄ twisted， ａｎｄ Bellatrix Lestrange’s smile faltered ａｎｄ became  a snarl. Jets of light flew from both wａｎｄs， the floor around the withces’ feet became bot  ａｎｄ cracked; both woman were fighting to kill.    
"No!" Mrs. Weasley cried as a few students ran forward， trying to come to her aid.  "Get back! Get back! She is mine!"    
Hundreds of people now lined the walls， watching the two fights， Voldemort ａｎｄ  his three opponents， Bellatrix ａｎｄ Molly， ａｎｄ Harry stood， invisible， torn between both，  wanting to attack ａｎｄ yet to protect， unable to be sure that he would not hit the innocent.    
"What will happen to your children when I’ve killed you?" taunted Bellatrix， as  mad as her master， capering as Molly’s curses danced around her. "When Mummy’s gone  the same way as Freddie?"    
"You - will - never - touch - our - children - again!" screamed Mrs. Weasley.    
Bellatrix laughed the same exhilarated laugh her cousin Sirius had given as he  toppled backward through the veil， ａｎｄ suddenly Harry knew what was going to happen  before it did.    
Molly’s curse soared beneath Bellatrix’s constreched arm ａｎｄ hit her squarely in  the chest， directly over her heart.    
Bellatrix’s glounting smile froze， her eyes seemd to bulge: For the tiniest space of  time she knew what had happened， ａｎｄ then she toppled， ａｎｄ the watching crowd roared，  ａｎｄ Voldemord screamed.    
Harry felt as though he turned into slow motin: he saw McGonagall， Kingsley ａｎｄ  Slughorn blasted backward， flailing ａｎｄ writhing through the air， as Voldemort’s fury at  the fall of his last， best leutenant exploded with the force of a bomb， Voldemort raised his  wａｎｄ ａｎｄ directed it at Molly Weasley.    
"Protego!" roared Harry， ａｎｄ the Shield Charm expａｎｄed in the middle of the  Hall， ａｎｄ Voldemort stared around for the source as Harry pulled off the Invisibility  Cloak at last.    
The yell of shock， the cheers， the screams on every side of :"Harry!" "HE’S  ALIVE!" were stifled at once. The crowd was afraid， ａｎｄ silence fell abruptly ａｎｄ     completely as Voldemort ａｎｄ Harry looked at each other， ａｎｄ began， at the same moment，  to circle each other.    
"I don’t want anyone else to help，" Harry said loudly， ａｎｄ in the total silence his  voice carried like a trumpet call. "It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me."    
Voldemort hissed.    
"Potter doesn’t mean that，" he said， his red eyes wide. "This isn’t how he works， is  it? Who are you going to use as a shield today， Potter?"    
"Nobody，" said Harry simply. "There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you ａｎｄ me.  Neither can live while the other survives， ａｎｄ one of us is about to leave for good. . . ."    
"One of us?" jeered Voldemort， ａｎｄ his wholy body was taut ａｎｄ his red eyes  stared， a snake that was about to strike. "You think it will be you， do you， the boy who  has survived by accident， ａｎｄ because Dumbledore was pulling the strings?"    
"Accident， was it， when my mother died to save me?" asked Harry. They were  still moving sideways， both of them， in that perfect circle， maintaining the same distance  from each other， ａｎｄ for Harry no face existed but Voldemort’s. "Accident， when I  decided to fight in that graveyard? Accident， that I didn’t defend myself tonight， ａｎｄ still  survived， ａｎｄ returned to fight again?"    
"Accidents!" screamed Voldemort， but still he did not strike， ａｎｄ the watching  crowd was frozen as if Petrified， ａｎｄ of the hundreds in the Hall， nobody seemed to  breathe but they two. "Accident ａｎｄ chance ａｎｄ the fact that you crouched ａｎｄ sniveled  behind the skirts of greater men ａｎｄ women， ａｎｄ permitted me to kill them for you!"    
"You won’t be killing anyone else tonight，" said Harry as they circled， ａｎｄ stared  into each other’s eyes， green into red. "You won’t be able to kill any of them ever again.  Don’t you get it? I was ready to die to stop you from hurting these people - "    
"But you did not!"    
" - I meant to， ａｎｄ that’s what did it. I’ve done what my mother did. They’re  protected from you. Haven’t you noticed how none of the spells you put on them are  binding? You can’t torture them. You can’t touch them. You don’t learn from your  mistakes， Riddle， do you?"    
"You dare -"    
"Yes， I dare，" said Harry. "I know things you don’t know， Tom Riddle. I know  lots of important things that you don’t. Want to hear some， before you make another big  mistake?"    
Voldemort did not speak， but powled in a circle， ａｎｄ Harry knew that he kept him  temporarily mesmerized at bay， held back by the faintest possibility that Harry might  indeed know a final secret. . . .    
"Is it love again?" said Voldemort， his snake’s face jeering. "Dumbledore favorite  solution， love， which he claimed conqered death， though love did not stop him falling  from the tower ａｎｄ breaking like ａｎｄ old waxwork? Love， which did not prevent me  stamping out your Modblood mother like a cockroack， Potter - ａｎｄ nobody seems to love  you enough to run forward this time ａｎｄ take my curse. So what will stop you dying now  when I strike?"    
"Just one thing，" said Harry， ａｎｄ still they circled each other， wrapped in each  other， held apart by nothing but the last secret.    
"If it is not love that will save you this time，" said Voldemort， "you must believe  that you have magic that i do not， or else a weapon more powerful than mine?"    
"I believe both，" said Harry， ａｎｄ he saw shock flit across the snakelike face，  though it was instantly dispelled; Voldemort began to laugh， ａｎｄ the sound was more  frightening than his screams; humorles ａｎｄ insane， it echoed around the silent Hall.    
"You think you know more magic than I do?" he said. "Than I， than Lord  Voldemort， who has performed magic that Dumbledore himself never dreamed of?"    
"Oh he dreamed of it，" said Harry， "but he knew more than you， knew enough not  to do what you’ve done."    
"You mean he was weak!" screamed Voldemort. "Too weak to dare， too weak to  take what might have been his， what will be mine!"    
"No， he was cleverer than you，" said Harry， "a better wizard， a better man."    
"I brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore!"    
"You thought you did，" said Harry， "but you were wrong."    
For the frist time， the watching crowd stirred as the hundreds of people around the  walls drew breath as one.    
"Dumbledore is dead!" Voldemort hurled the words at Harry as in the marble  tomb in the grounds of this castle， I have seen it， Potter， ａｎｄ he will not return!"    
"Yes， Dumbledore is dead，" said Harry calmly， "but you didn’t have him killed.  He chose his own manner of dying， chose it months before he died， arranged the whole  thing with the man you thought was your servant."    
"What chldish dream is this?" said Voldemort， but still he did not strike， ａｎｄ his  red eyes did not waver from Harry’s.    
"Severus Snape wasn’t yours，" said Harry. "Snape was Dumbledore’s.  Dumbledore’s from the moment you starting hunting down my mother. And you never  realized it， because of the thing you can’t understａｎｄ. You never saw Snape cast a  Patronus， did you， Riddle?"    
Voldemort did not answer. They continued to circle each other like wolves about  to tear each other apart.    
"Snape’s Patronus was a doe，" said Harry， "the same as my mother’s， because he  loved her for nearly all of his life， from the time when they were children. You should  have realized，" he said as he saw Voldemort’s nostrils flare， "he asked you to spare her  life， didn’t he?"  "He desired her， that was all，" sneered Voldemort， "but when she had gone， he  agreed that there were other women， ａｎｄ of purer blood， worhier of him - "    
"Of course he told you that，" said Harry， "but he was Dumbledore’s spy from the  moment you threatened her， ａｎｄ he’s been working against you ever since! Dumbledore  was already dying when Snape finished him!"    
"It matters not!" shrieked Voldemort， who had followed every word with rapt  attention， but now let out a cackle of mad laughter. "It matters not whether Snape was  mine or Dumbledore’s， or what petty obstacles they tried to put in my path! I crushed  them as I crushed your mother， Snape’s supposed great love! Oh， but it all makes sense，  Potter， ａｎｄ in ways that you do not understａｎｄ!    
"Dumbledore was trying to keep the Elder Wａｎｄ from me! He intended that  Snape should be the true master of the wａｎｄ! But I got there ahead of you， little boy - I  reached the wａｎｄ before you could get your hａｎｄs on it， I understood the truth before you  caught up. I killed Severus Snape three hours ago， ａｎｄ the Elder Wａｎｄ， the Deathstick，  the Wａｎｄ of Destiny is truly mine! Dumbledore’s last plan went wrong， Harry Potter!"    
"Yeah， it did." said Harry. "You’re right. But before you try to kill me， I’d advise  you think what you’ve done . . . . Think， ａｎｄ try for some remorse， Riddle. . . ."    
"What is this?"    
Of all the things that Harry had said to him， beyond any revelation or taunt，  nothing had socked Voldemort like this. Harry saw is pupils contract to thin slits， saw the  skin around his eyes whiten.    
"It’s your one last chance，" said Harry， "it’s all you’ve got left. . . . I’ve seen what  you’ll be otherwise. . . . Be a man. . . try. . . Try for some remorse. . . ."    
“You dare --- ?” said Voldemort again.    
“Yes， I dare，” said Harry， “because Dumbledore’s last plan hasn’t backfired on  me at all. It’s backfired on you， Riddle.”    
Voldemort’s hａｎｄ was trembling on the Elder Wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ Harry gripped Draco’s  very tightly. The moment， he knew， was seconds away.    
“That wａｎｄ still isn’t working properly for you because you murdered the wrong  person. Severus Snape was never the true master of the Elder Wａｎｄ. He never defeated  Dumbledore.”    
“He killed --- ”    
“Aren’t you listening? Snape never beat Dumbledore! Dumbledore’s death was  planned between them! Dumbledore instended to die， undefeated， the wａｎｄ’s last true  master! If all had gone as planned， the wａｎｄ’s power would have died with him， because  it had never been won from him!”    
“But then， Potter， Dumbledore as good as gave me the wａｎｄ!” Voldemort’s voice  shook with malicious pleasure. “I stole the wａｎｄ from its last master’s tomb! I removed it  against the last master’s wishes! Its power is mine!”    
“You still don’t get it， Riddle， do you? Possessing the wａｎｄ isn’t enough! Holding  it， using it， doesn’t make it really yours. Didn’t you listen to Ollivａｎｄer? The wａｎｄ  chooses the wizard . . . The Elder Wａｎｄ recognized a new master before Dumbledore  died， someone who never even laid a hａｎｄ on it. The new master removed the wａｎｄ from  Dumbledore against his will， never realizing exactly what he had done， or that the  world’s most dangerous wａｎｄ had given him its allegiance . . .”    
Voldemort’s chest rose ａｎｄ fell rapidly， ａｎｄ Harry could feel the curse coming，  feel it building inside the wａｎｄ pointed at his face.    
“The true master of the Elder Wａｎｄ was Draco Malfoy.”    
Blank shock showed in Voldemort’s face for a moment， but then it was gone.    
“But what does it matter?” he said softly. “Even if you are right， Potter， it makes  no difference to you ａｎｄ me. You no longer have the phoenix wａｎｄ: We duel on skill  alone . . . ａｎｄ after I have killed you， I can attend to Draco Malfoy . . .”    
“But you’re too late，” said Harry. “You’ve missed your chance. I got there first. I  overpowered Draco weeks ago. I took his wａｎｄ from him.”    
Harry twitched the hawthorn wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ he felt the eyes of everyone in the Hall  upon it.    
“So it all comes down to this， doesn’t it?” whispered Harry. “Does the wａｎｄ in  your hａｎｄ know its last master was Disarmed? Because if it does . . . I am the true master  of the Elder Wａｎｄ.”    
A red-glow burst suddenly across the enchanted sky above them as an edge of  dazzling sun appeared over the sill of the nearest window. The light hit both of their faces     at the same time， so that Voldemort’s was suddenly a flaming blur. Harry heard the high  voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens， pointing Draco’s wａｎｄ:    
“Avada Kedavra!”    
“Expelliarmus!”    
The bang was like a cannon blast， ａｎｄ the golden flames that erupted between  them， at the dead center of the circle they had been treading， marked the point where the  spells collided. Harry saw Voldemort’s green jet meet his own spell， saw the Elder Wａｎｄ  fly high， dark against the sunrise， spinning across the enchanted ceiling like the head of  Nagini， spinning through the air toward the master it would not kill， who had come to  take full possession of it at last. And Harry， with the unerring skill of the Seeker， caught  the wａｎｄ in his free hａｎｄ as Voldemort fell backward， arms splayed， the slit pupils of the  scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality， his body  feeble ａｎｄ shrunken， the white hａｎｄs empty， the snakelike face vacant ａｎｄ unknowing.  Voldemort was dead， killed by his own rebounding curse， ａｎｄ Harry stood with two  wａｎｄs in his hａｎｄ， staring down at his enemy’s shell.    
One shivering second of silence， the shock of the moment suspended: ａｎｄ then the  tumult broke around Harry as the screams ａｎｄ the cheers ａｎｄ the roars of the watchers  rent the air. The fierce new sun dazzled the windows as they thundered toward him， ａｎｄ  the first to reach him were Ron ａｎｄ Hermione， ａｎｄ it was their arms that were wrapped  around him， their incomprehensible shouts that deafened him. The Ginny， Neville， ａｎｄ  Luna were there， ａｎｄ then all the Weasleys ａｎｄ Hagrid， ａｎｄ Kingsley ａｎｄ McGonagall  ａｎｄ Flitwick ａｎｄ Sprout， ａｎｄ Harry could not hear a word that anyone was shouting， not  tell whose hａｎｄs were seizing him， pulling him， trying to hug some part of him， hundreds  of them pressing in， all of them determined to touch the Boy Who Lived， the reason it  was over at last ---    
The sun rose steadily over Hogwarts， ａｎｄ the Great Hall blazed with life ａｎｄ light.  Harry was an indispensible part of the mingled outpourings of jubilation ａｎｄ mourning，  of grief ａｎｄ celebration. They wanted him there with them， their leader ａｎｄ symbol， their  savior ａｎｄ their guide， ａｎｄ that he had not slept， that he craved the company of only a few  of them， seemed to occur to no one. He must speak to the bereaved， clasp their hａｎｄs，  witness their tears， receive their thanks， hear the news now creeping in from every quarter  as the morning drew on; that the Imperiused up ａｎｄ down the country had come back to  themselves， that Death Eaters were fleeing or else being captured， that the innocent of  Azkaban were being released at that very moment， ａｎｄ that Kingsley Shacklebolt had  been named temporary Minister of Magic.    
They moved Voldemort’s body ａｎｄ laid it in a chamber off the Hall， away form  the bodies of Fred， Tonks， Lupin， Colin Creevey， ａｎｄ fifty others who had died fighting  him. McGonagall had replaced the House tables， not nobody was sitting according to  House anymore: All were jumbled together， teachers ａｎｄ pupils， ghosts ａｎｄ parents，  centaurs ａｎｄ house-elves， ａｎｄ Firenze lay recovering in the corner， ａｎｄ Grawp peered in  through a smashed window， ａｎｄ people were throwing food into his laughing mouth.  After a while， exhausted ａｎｄ drained， Harry found himself sitting on a bench beside Luna.    
“I’d want some peace ａｎｄ quiet， if it were me，” she said.    
“I’d love some，” he replied.    
“I’ll distract them all，” she said. “Use your cloak.”    
And before he could say a word， she had cried， “Oooh， look， a Blibbering     Humdinger!” ａｎｄ pointed out the window. Everyone who heard looked around， ａｎｄ  Harry slid the Cloak up over himself， ａｎｄ got to his feet.    
Now he could move through the Hall without interference. He spotted Ginny two  tables away; she was sitting with her head on her mother’s shoulder: There would be time  to talk later， hours ａｎｄ days ａｎｄ maybe years in which to talk. He saw Neville， the sword  of Gryffindor lying beside his plate as he ate， surrounded by a knot of fervent admirers.  Along the aisle between the tables he walked， ａｎｄ he spotted the three Malfoys， huddled  together as though unsure whether or not they were supposed to be there， but nobody was  paying them any attention. Everywhere he looked， he saw families reunited， ａｎｄ finally，  he saw the two whose company he craved most.    
“It’s me，” he muttered， crouching down between them. “Will you come with  me?”    They stood up at once， ａｎｄ together he， Ron ａｎｄ Hermione left the Great Hall.  Great chunks were missing from the marble staircase， part of the balustrade gone， ａｎｄ  rubble ａｎｄ bloodstains occurred ever few steps as their climbed.    
Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the  corridors singing a victory song of his own composition:         We did it， we bashed them， wee Potter’s the one，    And Voldy’s gone moldy， so now let’s have fun!        
“Really gives a feeling for the scope ａｎｄ tragedy of the thing， doesn’t it?” said  Ron， pushing open a door to let Harry ａｎｄ Hermione through.    
Happiness would come， Harry though， but at the moment it was muffled by  exhaustion， ａｎｄ the pain of losing Fred ａｎｄ Lupin ａｎｄ Tonks pierced him like a physical  wound every few steps. Most of all he felt the most stupendous relief， ａｎｄ a longing to  sleep. But first he owed an explanation to Ron ａｎｄ Hermione， who had stuck with him for  so long， ａｎｄ who deserved the truth. Painstakingly he recounted what he had seem in the  Pensieve ａｎｄ what had happened in the forest， ａｎｄ they had not even begun to express all  their shock ａｎｄ amazement， when at last they arrived at the place to which they had been  walking， though none of them had mentioned their destination.    
Since he had last seen it， the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s  study had been knocked aside; it stood lopsided， looking a little punch-drunk， ａｎｄ Harry  wondered whether it would be able to distinguish passwords anymore.    
“Can we go up?” he asked the gargoyle.    
“Feel free，” groaned the statue.    
They clambered over him ａｎｄ onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly  upward like an escalator. Harry pushed open the door at the top.    
He had one， brief glimpse of the stone Pensieve on the desk where he had left it，  ａｎｄ then an earsplitting noise made him cry out， thinking of curses ａｎｄ returning Death  Eaters ａｎｄ the rebirth of Voldemort ---    
But it was applause. All around the walls， the headmasters ａｎｄ headmistresses of  Hogwarts were giving him a stａｎｄing ovation; they waved their hats ａｎｄ in some cases  their wigs， they reached through their frames to grip each other’s hａｎｄs; they danced up  ａｎｄ down on their chairs in which they have been painted: Dilys Derwent sobbed  unashamedly; Dexter Fortescue was waving his ear-trumpet; ａｎｄ Phineas Niggelus called，     in his high， reedy voice， “And let it be noted that Slytherin House played its part! Let our  contribution not be forgotten!”    
But Harry had eyes only for the man who stood in the largest portrait directly  behind the headmaster’s chair. Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon  spectacles into the long silver beard， ａｎｄ the pride ａｎｄ the gratitude emanating from him  filled Harry wit h the same balm as phoenix song.    
At last， Harry held up his hａｎｄs， ａｎｄ the portraits fell respectfully silent， beaming  ａｎｄ mopping their eyes ａｎｄ waiting eagerly for him to speak. He directed his words at  Dumbledore， however， ａｎｄ chose them with enormous care. Exhausted ａｎｄ bleary-eyed  though he was， he must make one last effort， seeking one last piece of advice.    
“The thing that was hidden in the Snitch，” he began， “I dropped it in the forest. I  don’t exactly here， but I’m not going to go looking for it again. Do you agree?”    
“My dear boy， I do，” said Dumbledore， while his fellow pictures looked confused  ａｎｄ curious. “A wise ａｎｄ courageous decision， but no less than I would have expected of  you. Does anyone know else know where it fell?”    
“No one，” said Harry， ａｎｄ Dumbledore nodded his satisfaction.    
“I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present， though，” said Harry， ａｎｄ Dumbledore  beamed.    
“But of course， Harry， it is yours forever， until you pass it on!”    
“And then there’s this.”    
Harry held up the Elder Wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ Ron ａｎｄ Hermione looked at it with a  reverence that， even in his befuddled ａｎｄ sleep-deprived state， Harry did not like to see.    
“I don’t want it.” said Harry.    
“What?” said Ron loudly. “Are you mental?”    
“I know it’s powerful，” said Harry wearily. “But I was happier with mine. So . . .”    
He rummaged in the pouch hung around his neck， ａｎｄ pulled out the two halves  of holly tstill just connected by the finest threat of phoenix feather. Hermione had said  that they could not be repaired， that the damage was too severe. All he knew was that if  this did not work， nothing would.    
He laid the broken wａｎｄ upon the headmaster’s desk， touched it with the very tip  of the Elder Wａｎｄ， ａｎｄ said， “Reparo.”    
As his wａｎｄ resealed， red sparks flew out of its end. Harry knew that he had  succeeded. He picked up the holly ａｎｄ phoenix wａｎｄ ａｎｄ felt a sudden warmth in his  fingers， as though wａｎｄ ａｎｄ hａｎｄ were rejoicing at their reunion.    
“I’m putting the Elder Wａｎｄ，” he told Dumbledore， who was watching him with  enormous affection ａｎｄ admiration， “back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a  natural death like Ignotus， its power will be broken， won’t it? The previous master will  never have been defeated. That’ll be the end of it.    
Dumbledore nodded. They smiled at each other.    
“Are you sure?” said Ron. There was the faintest trace of longing in his voice as  he looked at the Elder Wａｎｄ.    
“I think Harry’s right，” said Hermione quietly.    
“That wａｎｄ’s more trouble than it’s worth.” said Harry. “And quite honestly，” he  turned away from the painted portraits， thinking now only of the four-poster bed lying  waiting for him in Gryffindor Tower， ａｎｄ wondering whether Kreacher might bring him a  sａｎｄwich there， “I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”          Epilogue    Nineteen Years Later              Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first of September was  crisp as an apple， ａｎｄ as the little family bobbed across the rumbling road toward the  great sooty station， the fumes of car exhausts ａｎｄ the breath of pedestrians sparkled like  cobwebs in the cold air. Two large cages tattled on top of the laden trolleys the parents  were pushing; the owls inside them hooted indignantly， ａｎｄ the redheaded girl trailed  fearfully behind here brothers， clutching her father’s arm.    
"It won’t be long， ａｎｄ you’ll be going too，" Harry told her.    
"Two years，" sniffed Lily. "I want to go now!"    
The commuters stared curiously at the owls as the family wove its way toward the  barrier between platforms nine ａｎｄ ten， Albus’s voice drifted back to Harry over the  surrounding clamor; his sons had resumed the argument they had started in the car.    
"I won’t! I won’t be a Slytherin!"    
"James， give it a rest!" said Ginny.    
"I only said he might be，" said James， grinning at his younger brother. "There’s  nothing wrong with that. He might be in Slytherin"    
But James caught his mother’s eye ａｎｄ fell silent. The five Potters approached the  barrier. With a slightly cocky look over his shoulder at his younger brother， James took  the trolley from his mother ａｎｄ broke into a run. A moment later， he had vanished.    
"You’ll write to me， won’t you?" Albus asked his parents immediately，  capitalizing on the momentary absence of his brother.    
"Every day， of you want us to，" said Ginny.    
"Not every day，" said Albus quickly， "James says most people only get letters  from home about once a month."    
"We wrote to James three times a week last year，" said Ginny.    
"And you don’t want to believe everything he tells you about Hogwarts，" Harry  put in. "He likes a laugh， your brother."    
Side by side， they pushed the second trolley forward， gathering speed. As they  reached the barrier， Albus winced， but no collision came. Instead， the family emerged  onto platform nine ａｎｄ three-quarters， which was obscured by thick white steam that was  pouring from the scarlet Hogwarts Express. Indistinct figures were swarming through the  mist， into which James had already disappeared.    
"Where are they?" asked Albus anxiously， peering at the hazy forms they passed  as they made their way down the platform.    
"We’ll find them，" said Ginny reassuringly.    
But the vapor was dense， ａｎｄ it was difficult to make out anybody’s faces.  Detached from their owners， voices sounded unnaturally loud， Harry thought he head  Percy discoursing loudly on broomstick regulations， ａｎｄ was quite glad of the excuse not  to stop ａｎｄ say hello. . . .    
"I think that’s them， Al，" said Ginny suddenly.    
A group of four people emerged from the mist， stａｎｄing alongside the very last  carriage. Their faces only came into focus when Harry， Ginny， Lily， ａｎｄ Albus had drawn  right up to them.    
"Hi，" said Albus， sounding immensely relieved.    
Roses， who was already wearing her brａｎｄ-new Hogwarts robes， beamed at him.    
"Parked all right， then?" Ron asked Harry. "I did. Hermione didn’t believe I could  pass a Muggle driving test， did you? She thought I’d have to Confound the examiner."    
"No， I didn’t，" said Hermione， "I had complete faith in you."    
"As a matter of fact， I did Confund him，" Ron whispered to Harry， as together  they lifted Albus’s trunk ａｎｄ owl onto the train. "I only forgot to look in the wing mirror，  ａｎｄ let’s face it， I can use a Supersensory Charm for that."    
Back on the platform， they found Lily ａｎｄ Hugo， Rose’s younger brother， having  an animated discussion about which House they would be sorted into when they finally  went to Hogwarts.    
"If you’re not in Gryffindor， we’ll disinherit you，" said Ron， "but no pressure."    
"Ron!"    
Lily ａｎｄ Hugo laughed， but Albus ａｎｄ Rose looked solemn.    
"He doesn’t mean it，" said Hermione ａｎｄ Ginny， but Ron was no longer paying  attention. Catching Harry’s eye， he nodded covertly to a point some fifty yards away. The  steam had thinned for a moment， ａｎｄ three people stood in sharp relief against the  shifting mist.    
"Look who it is."    
Draco Malfoy was stａｎｄing there with his wife ａｎｄ son， a dark coat buttoned up  to his throat. His hair was receding somewhat， which emphasized the pointed chin. The  new boy resembled Draco as much as Albus resembled Harry. Draco caught sight of  Harry， Ron， Hermione， ａｎｄ Ginny staring at him， nodded curtly， ａｎｄ turned away again.    
"So that’s little Scorpius，" said Ron under his breath. "Make sure you beat him in  every test， Rosie. Thank God you inherited your mother’s brains."    
"Ron， for heaven’s sake，" said Hermione， half stern， half amused. "Don’t try to  turn them against each other before they’ve even started school!"    
"You’re right， sorry，" said Ron， but unable to help himself， he added， "Don’t get  too friendly with him， though， Rosie. Grａｎｄdad Weasley would never forgive you if you  married a pureblood."    
"Hey!"    
James had reappeared; he had divested himself of his trunk， owl， ａｎｄ trolley， ａｎｄ  was evidently bursting with news.    
"Teddy’s back there，" he said breathlessly， pointing back over his shoulder into  the billowing clouds of steam. "Just seen him! And guess what he’s doing? Snogging  Victoire!"    
He gazed up at the adults， evidently disappointed by the lack of reaction.    
"Our Teddy! Teddy Lupin! Snogging our Victoire! Our cousin! And I asked teddy  what he was doing --"    
"You interrupted them?" said Ginny. "You are so like Ron --"    
"-- ａｎｄ he said he’d come to see her off! And then he told me to go away. He’s  snogging her!" James added as though worried he had not made himself clear.    
"Oh， it would be lovely if they got married!" whispered Lily ecstatically. "Teddy  would really be part of the family then!"    
"He already comes round for dinner about four times a week，" said Harry "Why  don’t we just invite him to live with is ａｎｄ have done with it?"    
"Yeah!" said James enthusiastically. "I don’t mind sharing with Al--Teddy could  have my room!"    
"No，" said Harry firmly， "you ａｎｄ Al will share a room only when I want the  house demolished."    
He checked the battered old watch that had once been Fabian Prewett’s.    
"It’s nearly eleven， you’d better get on board."    
"Don’t forget to give Neville our love!" Ginny told James as she hugged him.    
"Mum! I can’t give a professor love!"    
"But you know Neville--"    
James rolled his eyes.    
"Outside， yeah， but at school he’s Professor Longbottom， isn’t he? I can’t walk into  Herbology ａｎｄ give him love. . . ."    
Shaking his head at his mother’s foolishness， he vented his feelings by aiming a  kick at Albus.    
"See you later， Al. Watch out for the thestrals."    
"I thought they were invisible? You said they were invisible!"    
but James merely laughed， permitted his mother to kiss him， gave his father a  fleeting hug， then leapt onto the rapidly filling train. They saw him wave， then sprint  away up the corridor to find his friends.    
"Thestrals are nothing to worry about，" Harry told Albus. "They’re gentle things，  there’s nothing scare about them. Anyway， you won’t be going up to school in the  carriages， you’ll be going in the boats."    
Ginny kissed Albus good-bye.    
"See you at Christmas."    
"Bye， Al，" said Harry as his son hugged him. "Don’t forget Hagrid’s invited you to  tea next Friday. Don’t mess with Peeves. Don’t duel anyone till you’re learned how. And  don’t let James wind you up."    
"What if I’m in Slytherin?"    
The whisper was for his father alone， ａｎｄ Harry knew that only the moment of  departure could have forced Albus to reveal how great ａｎｄ sincere that fear was.    
Harry crouched down so that Albus’s face was slightly above his own. Alone of  Harry’s three children， Albus had inherited Lily’s eyes.    
"Ablus Severus，" Harry said quietly， so that nobody but Ginny could hear， ａｎｄ she  was tactful enough to pretend to be waving to rose， who was now on the train， "you were  named for two headmasters of Hogwarts. One of them was a Slytherin ａｎｄ he was  probably the bravest man I ever knew."    
"But just say--"    
"--then Slytherin House will have gained an excellent student， won’t it? It doesn’t  matter to us， Al. But if it matter to you， you’ll be able to choose Gryffindor over Slytherin.  The Sorting Hat takes your choice into account."    
"Really?"    
"It did for me，" said Harry.    
He had never told any of his children that before， ａｎｄ he saw the wonder in  Albus’s face when he said it. But how the doorsr were slamming all along the scarlet train，  ａｎｄ the blurred outlines of parents swarming forward for final kisses， last-minute  reminders， Albus jumped into the carriage ａｎｄ ginny closed the door behind him.  Students were hanging from the windows nearest them. A great number of faces， both on  the train ａｎｄ off， seemed to be turned toward Harry.    
"Why are they all staring?" demａｎｄed Albus as he ａｎｄ rose craned around to look  at the other students.    
"Don’t let it worry you，" said Ron. "It’s me， I’m extremely famous."    
Albus， Rose， Hugo， ａｎｄ Lily laughed. The train began to more， ａｎｄ Harry walked  alongside it， watching his son’s thin face， already ablaze with excitement. Harry kept  smiling ａｎｄ waving， even though it was like a little bereavement， watching his son glide  away from him. . . .    
The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded a corner.  Harry’s hａｎｄ was still raised in farewell.    
"He’ll be alright，" murmured Ginny.    
As Harry looked dat her， he lowered his hａｎｄ absentmindedly ａｎｄ touched the  lightning scar on his forehead.    
"I know he will."    
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.