Dawn breaks over the Scottish highlands, casting a gentle light upon a scene that belies the tranquillity of the morning. The sun's rays touch down on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, painting its towers gold but doing little to dispel the shadows that have fallen across its once vibrant grounds. In the heart of this grand fortress now marred by battle scars, a figure lies still—a beacon snuffed out too soon.
Ginny Weasley kneels on the hard, damp floor, her knees stained with earth and blood—evidence of the night's horrors. Her hand hovers over Harry Potter's chest, feeling for the rise and fall that should be there but isn't. Sobbing silently, she brushes away strands of unruly black hair from his forehead, tracing the familiar lightning scar etched into his skin, already ashen and cold to touch.
"Harry," she whispers, voice barely audible, choked by grief and disbelief - she’d seen it happen with her own eyes, but still, it’s hard to believe. "This can’t be real."
She is a stark contrast against the pale dawn, her fiery red hair dishevelled, eyes wide and brown like dark pools overflowing with tears that stream unchecked down her freckled cheeks. But it’s not just the physical pain that mars Ginny's youthful face—it's the raw devastation, the loss of hope that makes her look years older.
Her fingers tremble as they close Harry's eyelids, shutting away the dull green that once held so much life, so much determination. It's a final act, one she never thought she'd have to perform, especially not here, not now. Her breath catches in her throat, a silent prayer escaping her lips—that wherever he is, he finds peace.
"Ginny..." A weak voice calls out behind her, but she doesn't turn around. This moment is hers, a private goodbye amidst the chaos that lingers at the edges of their sanctuary.
A gust of wind whips past, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and destruction—an unwelcome reminder of the reality pressing in on them. She clings tighter to Harry's body, shielding him from what's left of the world. There's a fierceness in her that wasn't there before, born of love and forged in the fires of war.
His glasses are askew, smeared with dirt, yet they remain intact—a symbol of his resilience even in death. His features, usually animated with defiance, are eerily peaceful, almost as if he's merely sleeping. But the truth is far more cruel, evident in the pallor of his skin, the tear that rests on his cheek and in the silence where once beat the steady rhythm of his heart.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, resting her head against his chest, willing it to rise again. But it remains unmoving, unresponsive to her pleas. And with each passing second, the gravity of their loss sinks deeper, pulling them all under a tide of despair.
The sun continues to rise, casting a halo-like glow around Harry's head and illuminating the lightning-shaped scar that once marked him as the Boy Who Lived. Now it serves only as a reminder of his fate, carved into skin that no longer holds the warmth of life.
His features are peaceful in death, untouched by the turmoil that rages on beyond the castle walls. It's a stark contrast to the chaos and destruction that claimed his life just moments ago—a battle he waged not for glory or power, but for the simple chance at a future free from fear.
Ginny's tears fall silently, each one echoing in the stillness of the dawn like a poignant reminder of what has been taken from them. The world seems to hold its breath, waiting for a sign that this is all some cruel trick—that any moment now, Harry Potter will open his eyes and rise again. It wouldn't be the first time that night.
But there is no movement, no flicker of life returning to the boy who defied death so many times before. And with each passing second, the reality of their loss becomes more profound, settling over them like a shroud.
"Ginny," Ron calls out again, his voice wavering. He looks down at his little sister, her body wracked with sobs as she clings to Harry's lifeless form, and he longs to join her on the floor. "We... we need to move him."
"No," Ginny replies without looking up, her voice steady despite the tremor running through her hands. "Not yet. I'm not ready."
Ron doesn't argue, and he simply stands beside her, offering silent support while they bear witness to the unimaginable. The air between them crackles with grief and uncertainty, heavy with the weight of their shared pain.
Slowly, the other survivors gather, drawn by the unmistakable sight of their fallen hero. Their faces are etched with disbelief and sorrow, mirroring the devastation reflected in Ginny's tear-filled eyes. Some reach out, wanting to touch him, to confirm that the unthinkable has indeed occurred, but Ron puts up a shield, knowing Harry wouldn't want that.
It's a surreal sight, the beginnings of a new day set against the backdrop of such despair. But even as the light chases away the last remnants of night, it cannot erase the harsh truth laid bare before them: Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort are both dead, and the war is over.
"I promise, Harry," she whispers against his cold skin, her voice barely more than a breath, "you can rest now."
The words are lost to the wind that sweeps across the castle grounds, carrying with it the lingering scent of battle. But Ginny holds onto them, repeating the vow like a mantra. It's all she can do now.
The figure of Madam Pomfrey approaches, her shadow stretching across the ground as she steps forward, Ron's shield allowing her through. Her face is a study in controlled grief, lines etched deep by worry and loss.
"Miss Weasley," she says, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of authority. "It's time."
Ginny doesn't respond, her gaze fixed on Harry's still form. Rather than seeing the matron kneel beside her, she feels her, the rustle of robes against stones acting as a stark reminder of their grim reality.
Madam Pomfrey's touch is gentle but firm as she touches Ginny's shoulder, coaxing her to rise. The contact is brief—a fleeting connection amidst the chaos—but it anchors Ginny, grounding her when everything else seems adrift.
"We must take care of him now," Madam Pomfrey whispers, her eyes never leaving Harry's body. There is a reverence in her tone, an understanding that this moment transcends duty or protocol. It's about honouring a life given willingly for others, even in death.
With care born of years tending to the wounded and broken, Madam Pomfrey reaches out, her thumb brushing lightly against Harry's cheek, wiping away the tear that lay there – the only sign of his fear. The gesture is tender, almost motherly, belying the strength hidden beneath her frail exterior.
For a heartbeat, everything is still—the world held captive by shared sorrow and silent goodbyes. Then, with a sigh, Madam Pomfrey lifts Harry into her arms, cradling him as if he were merely asleep, and resting there, adjusting him as if she's making him comfortable.
Around them, the air grows heavy, charged with the unspoken recognition of what has been lost and what remains.
"He was so young," someone murmurs, their words barely audible above the whispering wind. But they echo in the silence, a poignant reminder of the boy who lived—and died—far too soon.
Gently, almost reverently, Madam Pomfrey rises, Harry's limp form cradled in her arms. Her movements are slow, measured, each step a testament to the gravity of their loss. And though her back is bent with age and sorrow, there is a dignity in her bearing—a silent vow to uphold the respect owed to the fallen.
As she moves away, the crowd parts, forming a path lined with bowed heads and tear-streaked faces. No one speaks, the only sound the shuffling of feet and the occasional stifled sob. It's a procession befitting a hero, marked not by fanfare and celebration, but by quiet reverence and shared grief.
And through it all, Ginny watches, her heart pounding in rhythm with the fading footsteps. As the last traces of Harry disappear from view, she feels a hollow emptiness settle within her—an echoing void where once resided hope and love.
The entrance hall of Hogwarts is a cavernous space, usually filled with the echoes of childish laughter and the clattering of armoured suits. Today, however, it lies silent and still, its towering walls amplifying the weight of tragedy that has befallen the magical world.
Molly Weasley stands at the foot of the grand staircase, her figure tiny against the vast expanse of stone and magic. Her usually vibrant hair seems duller, muted by grief, and her eyes—red-rimmed from hours of crying—are glazed over in disbelief. She can't believe that Harry, their Harry, is gone. A handkerchief crushed to her chest is the only sign of movement, rising and falling with each shuddering breath she takes.
A collective gasp fills the room as four figures emerge from the top of the stairs, their faces etched in grim determination. Ron's shoulders shake under the strain of both physical exertion and emotional turmoil, while Fred and George mirror each other not in mischief but in shared sorrow. Bill leads them all, his face an unreadable mask hiding the storm brewing within him. Between them, they carry a stretcher covered in rose petals, the weight of Harry Potter's lifeless body a burden they all share.
Molly's gaze never wavers from the sight before her, each step they take driving another nail into the coffin of her hope. The pain is a physical presence, wrapping around her heart and squeezing until she can hardly breathe.
"Harry," she whispers to herself, the name tasting foreign on her lips now that its owner has been torn away from them. The loss is a gaping hole in her heart, a void that can never be filled. "Oh, Harry."
Her mind begins to drift, carried along by memories too precious to forget yet too painful to recall. She sees him in her kitchen at the Burrow; his face lit up with laughter as he listens to Fred and George recount their latest prank. His eyes are alive with amusement, so different from the vacant stare that haunts her now.
Despite the chaos around him—the clattering dishes, the squawking ghoul in the attic—Harry always seemed at peace within the Weasley home. It was as if he'd finally found the family he never had in the cupboard under the stairs.
Molly remembers those moments like snapshots, every detail etched into her memory. She recalls how Harry's face would light up when presented with a homemade treacle tart or how he would sit quietly after dinner, listening to Arthur discuss the intricacies of Muggle artefacts. These images flicker through Molly's mind, glowing embers of a fire that once burned brightly but has now been extinguished.
She knows she should be grateful for these memories, for the time they had with him. But the knowledge that there will be no more shared meals, no more stories swapped over cups of tea, only deepens the wound left by Harry's passing.
Soft sobbing brings Molly back to the present, wrenching her from the warmth of her recollections. She looks around, noticing for the first time the tears streaming down Hermione's cheeks and the way Ginny clings to her, seeking solace in her friend's embrace.
"Outside," Professor McGonagall's voice cuts through the heavy silence, commanding yet filled with an undercurrent of sorrow. "Take him outside."
Her boys—men now, Molly realises, forged by a battle they should have never had to face so young—nod in understanding. Their steps are measured, each one a tribute to their fallen brother as they carry him through the entrance hall and out into the open air.
The crowd parts for them, a sea of faces marked by grief and disbelief. They watch in stunned silence as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, is carried past them, his body no longer animated by the brave spirit they'd come to know and love.
Friends and classmates, teachers and mentors—all who once stood by Harry in life now stand vigil over his death, finding seats to watch his funeral. Some sit upright, staring ahead with hollow eyes; others hunch over, their bodies wracked with silent sobs.
Professor McGonagall breaks away from the crowd, her tartan dress billowing around her as she strides toward a large marble stone at the lake's edge. It stands tall and proud, reflecting the sun that dances across its surface—a beacon amid the darkness that has descended upon Hogwarts, even though the war is done.
She stops beside it, waiting patiently as Ron, Fred, George, and Bill approach. Their footsteps echo across the grounds, a sad rhythm that seems to match the beating of every heart present. With great care, they lower the stretcher onto the stone, their hands trembling slightly under the weight of their task. Harry lies there, his body draped in satin robes that shimmer softly under the sunlight.
The rose petals flutter around him, caressed by the breeze. They settle down around Harry's form, creating a halo of pink against the white marble. A profound silence descends upon the gathering. Words seem inadequate, swallowed by the enormity of their loss. Instead, the air fills with unspoken thoughts and unexpressed sorrow, each breath taken a testament to the lives forever altered by this day.
Ginny's fingers brush against Harry's cold hand once more, lingering on the skin that no longer holds warmth. Her mind is a whirlwind of memories—stolen kisses in hidden corners of Hogwarts, whispered promises under starlit skies, laughter shared, and love declared.
"Forever," she had told him once, her heart beating in time with his as they lay entwined in each other's arms. "I will love you forever, Harry."
But forever has been stolen from them, ripped away by a fate too cruel to comprehend. The echoing silence left in its wake is deafening, a constant reminder of what should have been and what will never be.
Pain claws at Ginny's chest, sharp and relentless. She remembers the warmth of Harry's embrace, the strength of his arms holding her close. Now, all that remains is a chilling void where his presence used to be—a gaping wound that refuses to heal.
"He loved you, you know." Hermione's soft and hesitant voice reaches Ginny through the fog of her grief. "He told me once that he would marry you after the war."
Hermione's words are meant to offer comfort, but they only twist the knife deeper into Ginny's already bleeding heart. Because she knows—it's the knowledge that makes this so unbearable.
She was never unsure of Harry's feelings for her; the certainty of his love gave her courage when fear threatened to consume her and hope when despair loomed large. And now, the memory of that love cuts the deepest, leaving scars that may never fade.
Ginny's hand trembles as she reaches into the pocket of her robes, pulling out a small box. It's light, almost insignificant in its weight, but its burden is immense. She flips the lid to reveal an emerald ring, its stone glittering under the sun.
This was supposed to be a different moment—a joyous one filled with laughter and tears of happiness. She had imagined Harry's surprise, his eyes lighting up as he saw the ring signifying their love for each other. But instead, here she stands, heart heavy with grief, placing the symbol of their unfulfilled dreams onto his finger.
The green gem sparkles against Harry's pale skin, starkly contrasting the sombre mood surrounding them. Its beauty seems out of place amidst such tragedy, yet there is a fittingness to it—an echo of the life force that once resided within Harry.
Once upon a time, when they were still students at Hogwarts, Harry gave Ginny a locket—small and silver, enchanted by him—so they could communicate their love across great distances. There wasn't a day that Harry didn't send her a message of love, and she always sent one back, ensuring he knew she was okay. The locket lies cold against her chest; it's magic is useless without Harry on the other end.
"Ginny," Hermione whispers, her voice barely audible over the rustling trees. "Are you sure about this?"
"I have to," Ginny murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. Her fingers trace the contours of the ring before she gently slides it onto Harry's lifeless hand. A single tear escapes her eye, falling onto the cool marble.
The ring sits there, beautiful and terrible in its significance. It's not just a piece of jewellery—it's a promise that will never be fulfilled, a dream that died along with Harry. In this moment, Ginny feels the loss not just of Harry but also of what could have been—their future together, the family they would never have, and the love they would never get to fully explore.
She steps back, allowing others to come forward and pay their respects. One by one, they approach the body—Hermione with tears streaming down her face, Ron looking older than his years, Luna tracing patterns in the air as if trying to catch something elusive. But none stay as long as Ginny does; none feel the gravity of loss quite like she does.
Finally, when his loved ones took their seats, Ginny steps forward again. This time, she isn't alone; Ron is at her side, offering silent support while Hermione hovers nearby, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.
Ginny clears her throat, her voice hoarse with emotion as she addresses those gathered around. "Harry... he was..." She pauses, struggling to find the right words. How can she possibly capture the essence of Harry Potter, the boy who lived—and loved—with such intensity?
"He was kind," she starts, her voice gaining strength as she speaks. "He always put others before himself, even when it meant risking his own life." She glances towards Hermione and Ron, knowing they understand better than anyone the sacrifices Harry made for them—for everyone.
"And loyal," Ginny continues, her gaze now on Neville, whose bravery during the Battle of Hogwarts mirrored Harry's own. "He stood by his friends, no matter the cost."
Her voice wavers, the enormity of her grief threatening to consume her. But she pushes through, determined to honour Harry's memory as best she can.
"I am grateful for every moment I had with him, however brief, because his love changed my life," Ginny confesses, her heart laid bare for all to see. "And though he is gone, his spirit lives on in each of us—in our courage, our resilience, and our unwavering belief in doing what's right, and I know without a doubt that I will love him until I die."
Hermione takes a step forward as Ginny takes a step back, her hands clasping the sides of the podium as if it were a lifeline. Her chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm, each breath more laborious than the last. She glances down at her notes, but they blur together, meaningless symbols on a page that offer no solace.
"Harry was my best friend," she begins, her voice steady despite the turmoil. "From the moment we met on the Hogwarts Express, I knew he was someone special, even though he didn't like me at first."
Hermione glances back at Ron—who nods encouragingly—and Ginny, whose grief mirrors hers. Hermione swallows hard, pressing on with the task at hand.
"He was brave," she continues, "braver than anyone I've ever known." A lump forms in her throat as she recalls the countless times Harry had faced danger head-on, his green eyes blazing with determination. "It didn't matter how daunting the odds were; if there was a chance to do what was right, Harry took it without hesitation."
A murmur of agreement ripples through the assembly, affirming the truth of Hermione's words. They know—as does she—that Harry's courage was not born of recklessness but rather from a deep-seated sense of duty, one that urged him to fight even when others would have fled.
"Let us remember that Harry was only seventeen when he gave his life for ours," Hermione says, her voice growing louder and more insistent as anger threatens to drag her under. "Seventeen. Most people his age are worried about exams or Quidditch matches, not battling dark wizards and saving the world."
She pauses, letting the gravity of her words sink in. Seventeen is too young to die—it's too young for anything, really—but especially for someone like Harry, who had already endured so much.
"But that was Harry," Hermione adds, her gaze unfaltering. "He never shied away from responsibility. He bore it willingly, knowing full well the cost."
The audience is silent now, hanging onto every word, their expressions a mix of sorrow, admiration and perhaps a bit of guilt. Some bow their heads in quiet respect while others blink back tears, their faces etched with pain.
"And look where it got him," Hermione whispers, her voice breaking under the weight of her grief. "In the end, all his bravery..."
She trails off, unable to finish the thought. Instead, she stares out at the sea of mourners, her brown eyes pleading for understanding—for some measure of peace amidst the chaos of loss.
"But even though our hearts are heavy with sadness," Hermione continues after a long pause, "we must not forget the reason why we're gathered here today: to honour Harry—to remember him, not just as the Boy Who Lived but also as the boy who loved."
Again, she looks directly at Ginny, who meets her gaze with an intensity that speaks volumes. In that single glance, they share a lifetime of memories—of laughter and tears, of battles won and lost, of moments both ordinary and extraordinary that bind them together in a tapestry of friendship and love.
"We owe it to Harry to keep fighting, even though the war is over," Hermione declares, her voice resounding throughout the clearing. "We need to stand up against injustice, protect those who cannot protect themselves, and always choose love over hate."
And then, as if drawing strength from somewhere deep within, Hermione straightens her posture. Her next words carry a conviction that belies her frail appearance, filling the air with a tangible sense of resolve.
"Because that's what Harry did," she says firmly, "and it's what he'd want us to do."
With that, Hermione steps down from the podium, leaving behind a silence stretching thin across Hogwarts' grounds.
"Harry was our brother," says Ron as he steps up to the podium, his freckled face pale against the backdrop of mourners. His voice cracks on the words, thick with unshed tears and a grief that clings like a second skin.
"I remember the first time we knew it," he continues, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. "It was the summer after our first year at Hogwarts when Fred, George and I flew Dad's old Ford Anglia to Surrey to get him from those Muggles."
He pauses momentarily, picturing that night in sharp relief—the thrill of rebellion, the joy of seeing Harry again, and most of all, the sense of rightness that had settled over them once Harry was safely ensconced at The Burrow.
"We didn't just see Harry as a mate who needed our help. No, we saw him as another brother—another son—for Mum and Dad. And I reckon they felt it, too. They took him in without a second thought."
Ron manages a weak smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I always did have a lot of brothers," he quips, drawing a few scattered laughs from the crowd. "But Harry...he was different. Special. If I'm honest, he was my favourite."
His smile fades then, replaced by a faraway look—a silent admission of regrets left unsaid. "I wish I could've told him that," he murmurs more to himself than anyone else. "That he was more than just the famous Harry Potter to us. That we unconditionally loved him for who he was."
The final words spoken over Harry's still form carry unbearable weight, the kind that presses down on chests and squeezes hearts until it's a wonder anyone can breathe at all. But they do—because they must because life demands it even as death stands sentinel among them.
"Thank you," Professor McGonagall whispers into the silence, her voice thin but steady. "Let us now bid our last farewell to Harry."
With a flick of her wand, she conjures a white coffin around Harry's body—a gentle and reverent gesture as if cradling something precious within its confines. The crowd watches in hushed awe as the magic takes shape, materialising from nothingness into a tangible symbol of their shared loss.
Intricate patterns etch themselves across the surface of the coffin, phoenix feathers and lilies blooming beneath the touch of unseen hands. They are symbols of rebirth and purity, chosen not just for their beauty but for what they represent: the promise of a new dawn after the darkest night, the innocence preserved amidst corruption. And isn't that Harry? Isn't that the boy who faced evils no child should know yet emerged with a heart unhardened?
Sunlight filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows over the crowd. It catches on the polished surface of the coffin, setting it aglow with an ethereal light. There is peace in this image, a serenity that seems almost out of place given the circumstances. Yet there it is—the quiet assurance that even in death, Harry James Potter remains untouched by the darkness that sought to claim him.
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall." Luna Lovegood's voice is soft but clear, cutting through the quiet like a silver thread. She steps forward from the crowd, her pale blue eyes reflecting the sky above. Her long blonde hair floats about her shoulders, stirred by a breeze that carries with it the promise of change.
Luna stops at the foot of Harry's coffin, her gaze locked not on the lifeless form within but on the faces of those who have come to say their final goodbyes. There is strength in those eyes, a resilience born of the understanding that death, while cruel, is merely another part of life's cycle.
Her white and flowing dress rustles against her legs as she moves to stand beside Ron. The fabric is simple and unadorned except for the small, hand-painted symbols that dance across its surface—symbols only Luna could decipher, yet meaningful.
The whispers among the crowd grow fainter, replaced by the lingering notes of an unseen piano. Its melody, haunting and beautiful, drifts through the air, each note a testament to the boy lying still beneath the enchanted glass.
For a moment, everything else fades away—the sorrow, the pain, the gaping hole left behind by Harry's absence—all swallowed up by the music that seems to echo the very heartbeat of Hogwarts itself.
Luna closes her eyes, letting the music wash over her. It seeps into her skin, trickling down to the marrow of her bones until she can feel it thrumming there, a silent hymn of grief and love interwoven. Her words are carried on the wind when she opens her mouth again, reaching every ear despite their gentle delivery.
"So, I'll sing Hallelujah, you were an angel whose life wasn't done," Luna's voice is a haunting melody, carrying with it the weight of loss and the beauty of remembrance. "When you fell down, you couldn't get up; spread your wings as you go," she continues, her voice rising slightly, filled with a poignant mix of sorrow and hope. "And when God takes you back, he'll say, 'You're safe now, you're home.'"
The piano's melody weaves seamlessly around Luna's words; each key struck with a tender precision that matches the ebb and flow of Luna's singing. The mourners sit entranced, many with tears streaming freely down their faces, others clutching at each other for support. The lyrics speak directly to the heartache they all share, yet there is solace in them, too, a comforting notion that Harry is now beyond suffering.
"Hallelujah, you were an angel whose life wasn't done," Luna sings again, her voice steady despite the emotional gravity of the moment. "I wish we could see the person you'd become," she continues, her tone now laced with a soft, aching regret for the future that has been snatched away. "Spread your wings, oh I hope that when God took you back, he said, 'Hallelujah, you're home.'"
Luna opens her eyes, her gaze sweeping over the assembled mourners. Her expression is gentle and understanding—the look of someone who sees beyond the surface of things and recognises the depth of emotion beneath the veneer of stoic faces.
The mourners remain still, caught in the grip of emotions too powerful to shake off easily. The raw beauty and pain of Luna's performance touched them all, encapsulating the shared grief hanging heavily over Hogwarts grounds. It is not just a tribute to Harry but a testament to their love for him, which persists even as his body lies cold and still before them.
The echoes of Luna's voice linger, weaving among the mourners like spectral threads. Each word she sang holds onto the hearts of those present, reminding them of the boy who lived and died defending the world he loved. The haunting melody is a sorrowful lullaby, yet within its folds, there is comfort—a reminder that they are not alone in their loss.
Luna gazes across the crowd, her eyes clear despite the tears that cling to her lashes. Her face is pale, almost translucent, yet it radiates an inner strength that belies her delicate appearance. She understands the power of grief—the way it can tear at your insides and leave you feeling hollow—but also how it can bind people together, creating connections where none existed before.
Molly Weasley remains seated as mourners begin to stand and leave, to head inside to celebrate Harry's life. Her heart is heavy in her chest. Her eyes, usually so full of warmth and kindness, are red-rimmed from weeping. She watches the sun climb higher in the sky, its rays casting a gentle light upon Harry's resting place.
Molly's hands tighten on Arthur's arm, seeking comfort even as they offer it in return. The love she feels for this boy—this brave, selfless young man who was like a son to her—is etched into every line of her face. It is visible in the way her lips tremble, struggling to form words that will never be enough to express the depth of her loss.
"Harry," she whispers, barely audible above the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of life beyond the castle walls. "You were taken from us too soon." Her voice breaks, choked with emotion. But beneath the grief is something else—a profound sense of gratitude.
"For all the pain, for all the fear... we were blessed to have known you," Molly continues, her gaze fixed on the simple headstone marking Harry's grave. "Your courage, your love... they changed us, made us better. And for that, we will always be grateful."
She closes her eyes, letting the sunlight warm her tear-streaked cheeks. In this moment, Molly chooses to believe that Harry's soul is at peace—that he has found sanctuary from the storm that marked his time among them. He is no longer the Boy Who Lived but the Boy Who Loved, whose memory will continue to shine long after the last petal has fallen from the lilies adorning his grave.
"Thank you, Harry," Molly breathes, her words carried away by the breeze. She imagines him somewhere out there, watching over them with those bright green eyes that held so much wisdom, so much understanding. With one final whisper of thanks, Molly leans into Arthur's embrace, finding solace in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against hers.