Chapter 27
“I can’t stand this!” Ginny paced around the kitchen of the Burrow, unable to sit still. She was actually wringing her hands, she realized suddenly, squeezing her fingers on alternate hands. She’d thought people only ever did that in books.
“None of us can, Ginny, but please sit down,” said Ellen in patient-dentist tones. “You’re making us all even more nervous.”
Ginny sighed but threw herself into a chair at the kitchen table. Around her, the kitchen of her childhood home glowed, a beacon in the dead of night here in Britain. Outside, she could hear crickets chirping, the occasional hoot of an owl. Inside, the Burrow was as messy and comfortable as it had always been, every object warm with familiarity. But the house was gripped with deathly silence, even Errol silent on his perch, for Ginny’s parents and brothers were fighting against Voldemort on the far side of the world, and only Ginny and Ron were left, with three other very tense and silent people, all sitting around the kitchen table.
Hermione, seated between Ron and Ellen, tried to smile at her. “It’ll be okay, Ginny,” she said. “Dumbledore’s there, after all.”
“But so’s Harry.” Ginny buried her face in her hands. “And Mum and Dad. And Bill and Fleur. And Fred and George. We should be there with them!”
“Tell me about it.” Ron stared down at the scratched tabletop, face very pale. “This is all my fault,” he whispered wretchedly.
“Ron.” Hermione placed her arm around his shoulders. “That’s not true. You heard Dumbledore. That Horcrux made you take it. And who knows? Maybe this will actually be beneficial. After all, if you hadn’t taken the Horcrux, Dumbledore might never have found it.”
“It’s not beneficial if You-Know-Who comes to kill everybody,” Ron muttered.
“How exactly did this—this wizard even know to come to San Benito, though?” Geoffrey spoke up suddenly, brow furrowed. “What exactly happened back there? Why did Harry collapse like that? How did that wizard—possess him like that?”
Hermione shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of anything like that before.” She looked at Ron and Ginny. “Have you?”
The siblings shook their heads. “Maybe it’s because You-Know-Who tried to kill him as a baby and failed,” Ginny suggested. “Maybe it—forged a connection between them. Or something.”
“A connection with You-Know-Who,” murmured Ron, and shivered. “Poor Harry.”
Poor Harry indeed. Ginny thought of Harry, raised on a steady diet of lies all his life, only to have the truth forced on him in a huge, shattering wave, then being possessed by Voldemort and having to prepare to fight Voldemort and his followers off—all in one day.
It’s all my fault, Ginny thought miserably. She knew that was not true, just as it was not true of Ron. But still, the guilt remained.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Everyone jerked at the noise, and Hermione cried out. They all wheeled around to stare out the window. There, framed against the dark, was the most beautiful bird Ginny had ever seen: a creature of shining beak and fiery feathers, flame-blue eyes peering in. It chirped and tapped on the window again.
“What is that thing?” Ellen sounded torn between fear and wonder.
“It’s a phoenix!” Ginny jumped up and ran to the window. “Actually—it’s Dumbledore’s phoenix! I’ve seen him in Dumbledore’s office. His name is Fawkes, I think.” She started to undo the latch.
“Wait!” Hermione jumped to her feet. “Don’t open the window, Ginny!”
“But Fawkes might have a message from Dumbledore—”
“Or it might be a trick,” Hermione said grimly. “An illusion meant to make us let our guard down.”
Ginny paused at this. “He doesn’t look like an illusion,” she said uncertainly, peering through the glass at Fawkes. The phoenix cocked its head, peering back.
Ginny drew her wand. “I’ll check.”
“Ginny!” Hermione protested. “We’re not allowed to do magic outside of school.”
“Honestly, Hermione, you think that matters at this point?” Ron had stood up now too and was holding his wand ready. “Go ahead, Ginny.”
Ginny took a deep breath and cast the spell: “Specialis Revelio!”
There came no reaction. Fawkes just sat on the windowsill. He pecked at the window again, more impatiently this time.
“Okay,” said Ginny. “I’m going to let him in.” And before she could change her mind, she opened the window.
Fawkes flapped in, sending a wash of warm, fire-scented air over the humans in the room. He swooped gracefully to perch on the back of Ginny’s abandoned chair, then turned himself around with quick little struts of his feet. His blazing blue eyes focused on Ginny’s.
Dumbledore needs your help, he said, his wordless thoughts floating his meaning directly into Ginny’s mind.
“What?” Ginny gasped. “What do you mean?”
“Ginny, what are you saying?” Hermione sounded alarmed. “No one’s said anything!”
“Shush.” Ginny could not tear her gaze from Fawkes. His eyes held her, hypnotic. “Why does Dumbledore need my help?”
He is not strong enough to destroy the last Horcrux, said Fawkes. Only Gryffindor’s sword can destroy the Horcrux, and only someone truly worthy can wield the sword. His gaze grew more intense than ever. Are you worthy, Ginny Weasley?
“I don’t know,” Ginny whispered. “But I want to help.”
Then come with me, and we will destroy the final Horcrux. Voldemort will be mortal once more, and the one prophesied may kill him.
“How?” Vaguely, Ginny was aware of the others shouting, Ron trying to pull her away, but the commotion seemed in another universe. “The battle is thousands of miles away.”
A phoenix’s flight is magical. Come with me, Ginny Weasley.
Ginny looked into the phoenix’s blue eyes. The phoenix looked back.
“Yes,” whispered Ginny. “Yes, I will.”
Fawkes let out a long, golden trill. He turned around again, presenting his long tail feathers. Ginny knew instinctively what to do. She reached out and grasped the tail feathers. They glowed hot in her hands.
Fawkes let out a loud, belling crow. With a flap of his wings, he launched into the air. The others fell back with cries of alarm, but Ginny held on, arms above her head, even as golden dust began to rain from Fawkes’s wings, falling around her in a sparkling curtain, obscuring the kitchen behind a wall of falling light—
Then light suddenly blazed everywhere, a scorching glow of California sunshine, and Ginny found herself in the middle of a battlefield.
Fawkes soared upward with a screech, only just avoiding a misfired curse. Ginny ducked, hands over her head. All around her, witches and wizards shouted and yelled and chanted incantations. Curses blazed and hissed and exploded. Dust rose in the air in choking curtains. The cries of the wounded sounded in a strangled chorus.
Ginny glimpsed a silver mask, flashing as its owner fell back. A Death Eater’s mask, she realized, remembering illustrations from Hermione’s books. Around her, other silver-masked figures were fighting Ginny’s friends and family. This must be the battle, now in full swing.
No one had noticed Ginny’s arrival. She stayed on the ground, crawling, trying to get out of the way.
Fawkes had said Dumbledore needed her help. But where was he? She looked around frantically, then gasped.
Dumbledore had fallen to the dust, nearly flat on his back. He didn’t seem to have his wand. His left hand was clutching his right wrist, face a mask of agony. And over him reared a great, brown-patterned snake, mouth wide open, fangs unsheathed.
“No!” Ginny launched to her feet, wand at the ready. Fawkes swooped over her head, and something fell from his claws to her feet: a great shining sword, its blade etched, its hilt studded with magnificent rubies.
Kill the snake! Kill the snake! Fawkes screamed.
There was no time to think. Ginny snatched up the sword by its gem-studded hilt and, heaving it up, ran at the serpent.
She was almost too late. The snake had already begun its downward strike, launching itself at Dumbledore. But somehow, Ginny never knew quite how, she mustered the strength to swing up the huge heavy sword and bring it chopping down.
The snake’s head went flying, bouncing off the ground. An unearthly shriek rang out. The snake’s decapitated body fell back, writhing and twitching, and some black, oily substance that was not blood spilled out onto the ground.
Fawkes let out a long, whistling carol of triumph. Ginny backed away, the sword suddenly very heavy in her hands. She dropped it, thudding into the dust.
Dumbledore, still lying on the ground, still clutching his wrist, gave her a faint, shaky smile. “Thank you, Miss Weasley,” he whispered.
“Professor!” Ginny dodged around the sword and ran to him. “What’s wrong? What happened to you?”
“A curse hit me in the wrong place, I fear,” said Dumbledore. His right hand looked worse than ever, Ginny saw: a dead, blackened claw, the flesh shriveling on brittle bones. “But never mind that. Miss Weasley, you must—”
But Ginny never found out what she must do. A high-pitched howl of rage rose over the tumult of the battle, so loud and horrible that it brought a lull to the violence. Combatants, Death Eaters and defenders alike, all paused and looked over at a tall, unnaturally thin figure, a figure with a bald head, red eyes, no nose, and fish-white skin.
A figure who was holding Harry’s limp, dead body in midair, hanging from his wand.
“You may have destroyed my last Horcrux!” screamed Voldemort. “But I have killed Harry Potter and Severus Snape! What do you have to say to that, Dumbledore?”