The Inadequate Life

More time passed. Fred and Angelina came in; saying nothing, Fred immediately went over and hugged Ron and Ginny. Fred looked at Harry like he wanted to say something; Harry braced himself for an onslaught of accusation, but Fred only gritted his teeth and went to join Angelina sitting next to George’s bed.

After almost an hour, a Medi-Witch came in to wake George and check how he was doing. Harry had to turn away when Fred told George about Charlie-he couldn’t bear to see George’s face.

While the Medi-Witch was busy asking George a few questions—“Can you breathe normally?”, “Is the skin still sensitive?” and the like—there was a considerable commotion from outside. “What in Merlin’s name is that?” the Medi-Witch muttered, standing and heading for the door.

But Harry could hear the argument going on just outside the door—and he recognized the voice of the person demanding admittance. He closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself for the inevitable. “It’s going to start now,” he said to the room in general, making everyone look his way. “That’s Scrimgeour.”

Ron’s jaw tightened. There was some shifting in the room, as everyone made certain their wands were easily accessible.

“Like hell I can’t go in there!” Scrimgeour was shouting from the doorway. “I’m the Minister of Magic! Potter’s responsible for this chaos, and by Merlin he’s going to be held accountable! Now get out of my way!”

Despite the protests of the Medi-Witch guarding the door, Scrimgeour pushed his way through and into the room. About half a dozen Aurors followed him; one of them was Shacklebolt, who winked at Harry when Scrimgeour couldn’t see.

“So, Potter,” Scrimgeour said smugly, “it seems I was right about you all along!”

“And I was right about you too,” Harry retorted. “You are an incompetent, insensitive git.”

Scrimgeour colored, but didn’t directly respond to the insult. “You’re coming to the Ministry for questioning,” he stated. “Right now!”

Harry almost hexed the man right there in front of everyone. “This is Ginny Potter,” he said furiously, squeezing Ginny’s shoulders. “My wife. She was injured—blinded—fighting Voldemort! Because you and your pathetic excuse for a government was too incompetent to fight him yourself! We risked our lives doing your job for you—some of us died! And now you want to drag me away when Ginny’s hurt?”

“Aha!” Scrimgeour said triumphantly. “So you admit it! You’ve been waging war without Ministry approval!”

“Did I hear that right?” came a female voice from the door. “Do I get my interview now, Potter?”

Rita Skeeter shoved her way unapologetically through the Aurors. “You!” Scrimgeour growled. “You can’t be in here!”

“Oh yes she can,” Hermione snapped. “She was invited!”

“Why thank you, Miss Granger,” Rita said sweetly before snapping her attention back to Harry. “So, Potter? Is it safe to assume that all this—” She gestured over her shoulder, indicating the chaos that St. Mungo’s was dealing with. “—means that I get my interview as promised?”

“What’s that?” Scrimgeour demanded. “What promise? What interview?”

“Yes, you’ll get your interview,” Harry said tiredly, ignoring Scrimgeour’s question. “Under the terms we agreed to, and after everything’s… settled down.” Rita looked a bit disappointed, but shrugged her compliance.

“Here, let me through!” another voice demanded from outside. “They said my daughter’s in there!”

“Oh—hello daddy,” Luna said with a smile. “It’s all right, he’s my father,” she added to the Medi-Witch blocking the door.

“Shall I open up the room for a hootenanny, then?” the woman grumbled, but stepped aside.

“Luna!” Mr. Lovegood said, hurrying into the room and hugging Luna. “Thank Merlin—I got your signal, and I thought—”

“Signal?” Luna repeated, looking confused. Then she brightened. “Oh, yes. Actually, that must have been Hermione, daddy. She must have used that Sickle to call you and Ms. Skeeter.”

Mr. Lovegood turned, clearly confused, and looked over at Hermione, who smiled nervously at him. “What? LuLove, I don’t understand—”

“No do I,” Scrimgeour said, his temper clearly being tried.

“I asked Hermione to call you both,” Harry said to Mr. Lovegood and Rita. “Because I wanted the news of what happened today spread as quickly as possible. I’m hoping that you’ll both publish stories immediately, after we’ve given you some of the basics.”

“Now wait just a moment—” Scrimgeour started.

“See here, Potter, we had a deal!” Rita interrupted, glaring angrily at Harry. “I’m supposed to get an exclusive!”

“You will,” Harry sighed. “Later, you’ll get an actual, honest-to-Merlin interview, all right?” Rita’s eyes lit up. “But for now… for now, just print the important stuff, okay? And the truth, too—the whole truth,” he added pointedly.

“Yes, yes, only the precious truth,” Rita said, waving dismissively. “Very well, I’ll live with that. So that means—it’s done, is it?” she asked, her quill—a normal one—poised over her notebook. “You-Know Who is—”

“Voldemort,” Harry snapped, making Rita, Mr. Lovegood, Scrimgeour and most of the Aurors twitch. “Use his blasted name! What the hell are you afraid of? He’s DEAD!”

Scrimgeour reeled back in shock. “Wh-what? What’s that? Did you—”

“That’s right,” Harry said softly. “Voldemort is dead and I killed him.”

Scrimgeour’s mouth worked for a moment, but nothing came out. Finally, he turned to the Aurors. “You heard the confession,” he said.

“But—sir, there’s not exactly proof that he did it,” one of the Aurors ventured.

“So what?” Scrimgeour snapped. “He admitted—”

“But sir, You-Know Who is—”

“That’s all right,” Harry said, reaching into his robes. The Aurors moved as if to defend Scrimgeour, but Harry only pulled out two items. One was a small wooden box, and the other a miniature chest. Harry tossed the chest onto the floor; then he produced his wand, pointed it at the chest and said “Finite Incantatem!”

The Shrinking Charm on the chest was countered, and it swelled up until it was roughly a meter wide and two-thirds of a meter high. Harry flicked his wand, and the lid of the chest popped open.

The chest was deep—far deeper than normal space would account for. Harry had purchased a chest like the one that Barty Crouch Jr. had used to imprison Mad-Eye Moody for almost a year. Scrimgeour and the three closest Aurors, including Shacklebolt, peered cautiously inside.

Roughly two meters below where the bottom of a normal chest would have been, was the body of Voldemort. Harry had brought it back, knowing that no one would believe Voldemort was truly dead without seeing his body. Harry had been too nervous to reactivate the stone arch that led from the distant meadow into the Black family vaults at Gringott’s—he’d half-feared that the alarms would trigger when he carried the chest through, and that the goblins would be furious with him for carrying the body of the most evil wizard in the world through their bank. So when the time had come for him and Pansy to get Ginny and Neville to St. Mungo’s, he’d used the phoenix feather that Dumbledore had gifted him with, which had the ability to instantly transport anyone to any location.

“Here,” Harry said, tossing the smaller wooden box to Scrimgeour, who caught it awkwardly. “It’s the pieces of Voldemort’s wand. What I could find, anyway. There’s probably still some slivers of wood lodged in his hand.”

“That—you mean—” Mr. Lovegood turned to Luna. “This is what you’ve been doing all this time? Helping Harry Potter prepare to fight against You-Kn— that is, V-V-Voldemort? You—Luna, you went up against Him?”

“Oh, I wasn’t there,” Luna said. “I was helping fight the Death Eaters in Diagon Alley.”

Rita was scribbling furiously. “Unbelievable—story of a lifetime!” she was muttering to herself. “The Chosen One Defeats The Dark Lord”!”

“Voldemort,” Harry said to her. “Use his name. In the story, too—that was part of our agreement, remember?”

Rita hesitated. “The Prophet will never print it,” she pointed out.

“Yes they will,” Harry countered with certainty. “This, they’ll print. If they don’t want The Quibbler to scoop them again, that is.” Right considered that, then grimaced and nodded.

Scrimgeour, apparently still stunned by Harry’s callous bluntness, turned to face the Aurors. He pointed a shaking finger at Harry; “Arrest him,” he ordered.

None of the Aurors moved. “But—but sir!” one of them said.

“What? What?” Scrimgeour demanded. “Potter confessed, he confessed to murder! He produced proof of it himself! Now arrest him right now!”

One of the Aurors spoke up. “But sir, this is You-Kn—er…” he licked his lips. “This is V-V-V-Voldemort we’re talking about. You yourself authorized use of deadly force against him—”

“For Aurors!” Scrimgeour shouted. “Not for the general public, and certainly not for a seventeen-year-old boy!”

“Sir,” Kingsley Shacklebolt said in his deep, calm voice, “in a speech to the Aurors just last week, you stated that the elimination of You-Know-Who justifies almost any measures, and that we should encourage everyone, even the public, to do ‘whatever it takes’ to defeat him—”

“Don’t quote my own words to me!” Scrimgeour screamed, absolutely enraged. “I want Potter arrested right this second, do you hear?”

None of the Aurors liked the idea, that much was clear. A few of them still didn’t move, but three of them did creep cautiously past Scrimgeour and hesitantly approach Harry’s bed. Harry gripped his wand tightly behind Ginny’s back, prepared to hex them all if it came to it—

“Scrimgeour.”

It took Harry a moment to realize that it was Neville who had spoken. Neville still looked terrible—his chest was still blackened, blistered and slightly sickening to look at. But clearly the potions the Medi-Witches had given him were working, because Neville was sitting up, showing no outward signs of discomfort. His wand was resting conspicuously on his lap, and he was glaring furiously at Scrimgeour. It was disconcerting to see that kind of anger on Neville’s face—the only time Harry could remember seeing him that incensed was when Draco Malfoy had unknowingly made a heartless crack about Harry’s parents and St. Mungo’s, not knowing that Neville’s parents were at that time in the long-term ward, apparently suffering from torture-induced madness.

“Harry just saved all our lives,” Neville stated flatly. “Yours, mine, everyone in this room—everyone in the world who didn’t side with Voldemort. He did what everyone’s been pushing him to do for years, because no one else could.”

“Some of us chose to help him,” Neville said. “Because Harry’s our friend, and he’s a good bloke and he didn’t deserve the bollocks that was dumped on him. We knew that it would come to this, and we did it anyway. Some of us d-died today,” he choked, and Harry had no doubt that Neville was thinking about Susan. “And some of us almost died,” Neville continued, jabbing a finger at his own scarred, blistered chest. “But there’s only one reason that I’m still breathing, and can look forward to a future without Voldemort in it, and Harry’s that reason.” He raised his wand and pointed it straight at Scrimgeour, who recoiled. “If you try to arrest Harry, then you’d better be prepared to deal with me too. If I was willing to face Voldemort himself on Harry’s word, then I can hardly be afraid of you, can I?”

Scrimgeour pointed at Neville. “Arrest him, too!”

“Oh, tossing injured people in prison, that’s brilliant,” George said, raising his own wand. “Aren’t your cells going to be full enough with all the Death Eaters we caught for you?”

Scrimgeour scowled at George. “You—”

“Our brother just died,” Fred said, standing and producing his wand as well. “Charlie Weasley. He was forced to spy on us under the Imperius Curse. We just barely got the chance to break the Curse and tell him we didn’t hold it against him before he died. That’s two of our brothers that’ve died in the last couple of months; the other was Percy Weasley—recognize the name? He died while in Ministry custody?” Fred pointed across the room. “Ron’s been crippled. Ginny’s blind. George here didn’t get off light, either. And you know what? None of us blame Harry—not for a second. None of this is his fault—it’s Voldemort’s. Punishing Harry doesn’t make any sense. I’d say punish Voldemort, but you couldn’t even manage that, at least not while he was alive. Trying to punish him now that he’s dead would be pretty pathetic—although I do like the idea of jumping in that chest and kicking the body in the bollocks a few times,” he concluded.

Harry smiled; his eyes were damp. “Thanks, Fred,” he murmured.

“Very touching,” Scrimgeour sneered. “but this isn’t a matter of debate, and neither is this some stupid Hogwarts rule that’s been broken! If murder has been committed, there is no circumstance that absolves the murderer—even if that person is Harry Potter! Anyone who stands in the way of the Ministry enforcing the law will also be held accountable!”

There was a moment where no one moved, spoke, made the slightest sound. Then, Ginny shifted. Although she couldn’t see, she turned on the bed until she was facing the Minister, sitting directly between Scrimgeour and Harry. Smiling—and her expression was very disconcerting, considering what had happened to her eyes—she drew her wand and pointed it directly at Scrimgeour.

Neville, George and Fred hadn’t lowered their wands. Now the others raised theirs as well; Ron, Hermione, Angelina, Lee, Luna—even Pansy. The Aurors all stepped away from Scrimgeour, not wanting to be involved in any way.

“Lu…?” Mr. Lovegood said weakly, glancing nervously back and forth from his daughter to the Minister.

“Harry won the war, daddy,” Luna said calmly. “I’m afraid that, in this instance, the Minister is in the wrong.”

“He’s also a power-mad, vicious bastard,” said Hermione fiercely, clearly remembering how Scrimgeour, in his zeal to force information out of her, had grabbed Hermione and shaken her before Ron had returned and beaten the stuffing out of the Minister.

The Minister stood in the center of a semi-circle of pointed wands. His eyes, fixed on Harry, were blazing with rage; his arms were shaking at his sides, like he wanted to reach out and strangle Harry with his bare hands. Harry wasn’t sure what to do; while it seemed like Scrimgeour couldn’t get him right then, he was sure to be trouble in the future…

The sound penetrated Harry’s consciousness slowly; it built gradually, growing gradually louder, until it prickled his awareness. It was a song—a soft, gentle song, full of both sorrow and hope, of loss and of joy. He felt the tightening in his chest loosen, and he was able to take a deep breath, the first that he had managed that day.

Others had heard it too; all around the room, people were turning their heads this way and that, wondering where the strange song was coming from. “What is that?” Angelina asked breathlessly. “It sounds…familiar…”

Harry knew what it was. Instinctively he knew to look right at the center of the room, just as a burst of brilliant flame flared out of nowhere.

A stunning red-and-gold bird the size of a swan appeared from the heart of the flames. He soared into the room and circled it, still trilling his uplifting song. “Fawkes!” Harry breathed.

Everyone lowered their wands and stared at the phoenix, who looked even more spectacular than usual. Harry would have guessed that Fawkes had been groomed, he looked so perfect. Or maybe it was the effect of the song—Harry could feel the phoenix’s trill filling him with calm and contentment.

But as Fawkes circled the room a final time, Harry’s blood froze when he remembered something. Months ago, Dumbledore’s portrait in the Headmaster’s quarters at Hogwarts had asked Harry if Fawkes had appeared since his funeral. When Harry had asked why, Dumbledore had told him that Fawkes would show up when he was ready to “choose another person to bond with”. Oh bloody hell, that’s all I need… Harry thought, nervously eyeing the phoenix.

Fawkes hovered for a moment in mid-air, his gaze moving over everyone in the room. Then, with a rather majestic beating of his wings, he landed, his talons circling the strong wood of his chosen perch—the headrest of one of the room’s beds.

But it wasn’t Ginny’s bed he’d landed on—it was Ron’s. And Fawkes’ focus clearly was not Harry—it was Hermione.

“Oh…my…” Hermione murmured in awe as her eyes met those of the phoenix. Then she gasped as Fawkes trilled again. “Wh—me?” Hermione squeaked, a terrified look on her face. “B-b-but I—I’m not—”

Fawkes trilled again; He’s speaking to her, Harry realized with astonishment. Fawkes was speaking to Hermione in a language which only she was permitted to understand. Even without Hermione’s stammered responses, it was very clear whom Fawkes had chosen.

“But I’m not—I don’t want—” Hermione began weakly, but stopped at another trill from Fawkes. Her eyes lit up, and her expression shifted in an instant from horror to wonder. Tears began falling from the corners of her eyes, but rather than fear or sorrow, Hermione seemed full of amazement, as though she were seeing something that no one else could, and the beauty and wonder of it moved her to tears.

Fawkes lowered his head, almost in deference, and trilled one final time. “Yes,” Hermione whispered. “Of course.”

A murmur ran around the room, but everyone fell silent again when Fawkes unfurled his wings, lofted in the air—and, turning slightly, settled himself gracefully on Hermione’s shoulder.

“Bloody hell,” Ron said weakly. “That thing is not sleeping in our bedroom!”

Hermione favored Ron with a sardonic look, but it didn’t last. “This—this changes nothing,” Scrimgeour said shakily. “Potter still broke the law, and that pet of Dumbledore’s doesn’t change that fact!”

“Somehow I don’t think Fawkes impressed him, Hermione,” Harry said, frowning at Scrimgeour.

“Harry—Harry, are you all right with this?” Hermione asked anxiously. “I—I know how much Dumbledore meant to you…”

To Hermione’s surprise, Harry laughed. “Mind? I was half afraid that Fawkes would choose me, Hermione! I’ve got enough attention without being pegged as the next Dumbledore—you’re welcome to that mantle.”

The idea of being described as the next Dumbledore clearly didn’t sit to well with Hermione, either. She went almost completely white, and she had to take hold of the bed rail for support.

“Hermione?” one of the Aurors said, drawing their attention. The man was staring at Hermione incredulously. “Hermione Granger? But—but you were reported as dead! I signed the death notification to your parents myself!”

“Yes,” Hermione said sardonically. “Well, I had to come back and see to my responsibilities, didn’t I?”

The Auror gaped at Hermione with not a little fear. “By Merlin’s beard!” Scrimgeour hollered; Harry was surprised he wasn’t jumping up and down in his anger. “It makes no difference! ARREST POTTER!”

The Aurors all looked at each other. Then the one who’d identified Hermione cleared his throat; “No disrespect intended, Minister,” he said, “but I’d rather get fired than get on the wrong side of someone with friends like that!”

All the other Aurors muttered similar sentiments. “I guess it helps to have powerful friends,” Harry muttered to Hermione. Ginny snorted.

“”But I don’t want to be the next Dumbledore!” Hermione hissed in distress.

“I didn’t want to be The Chosen One, or the Boy Who Lived,” Harry responded. “At least no one’s expecting you to personally deal with Voldemort. Just be your normal brilliant self and you’ll live up to the reputation just fine.” Hermione blushed.

“So, Potter, I see you’re going to hide behind your name, and what that old fool of a headmaster left you,” Scrimgeour snarled, glancing contemptuously at Hermione. “Being Dumbledore’s man will only get you so far! I will not stand by while you—”

Ginny’s head whipped around. “You!” she shouted, pointing straight at Scrimgeour. “You’re working for Voldemort!”

“What?” Scrimgeour exclaimed, looking deeply offended. “Now see here!”

“Ginny,” Harry said softly, “I don’t like him either, but that’s—”

“Harry, he said you were Dumbledore’s man again, remember?” Ginny insisted. “Voldemort himself called you that in that memory we saw! I didn’t put it together until just now, but—Scrimgeour used to be Head of the Auror department!”

“So what?” Scrimgeour demanded, getting quite red again.

“So what better target could there have been, while the Ministry was still denying Voldemort’s return, than the Head of the Aurors?” Ginny snapped. “Why else would the Ministry have failed so completely since then? You were never incompetent before you were made Minister—how did you get so pathetic so quickly, unless someone was pulling your strings to force you to fail against Voldemort?”

A couple of the Aurors were looking at Scrimgeour askance. “That’s absurd!” Scrimgeour growled. “I’ve been through the same Veritaserum tests as everyone in the Ministry!”

“Yes, that’s true,” Kingsley Shacklebolt said thoughtfully. “And you placed yourself in charge of deciding who would administer the tests to whom—including yourself.”

“So you could easily have placed Voldemort’s spies in charge of administering your tests,” Hermione said, glaring at Scrimgeour. “And had them give you water instead of Veritaserum…”

“This—is—preposterous!” Scrimgeour bellowed. “You have no proof, no cause to make such baseless accusations—”

“It can easily be disproved,” Shacklebolt offered calmly. “We can simply administer another Veritaserum test, with real Veritaserum.”

“I won’t submit to such a thing!” Scrimgeour protested. “I am the Minister of Magic!”

“Your own policy states that, in order to remove doubt and prevent a failure of trust in the Ministry, any Ministry official whose loyalty is under question shall be subjected to an additional Veritaserum test,” Kingsley pointed out.

“But not the Minister himself!”

“You did say without exception, sir.”

“This is all your fault, Potter!” Scrimgeour shouted, spinning to advance on Harry. “My own people—they dare to question—”

Ginny turned her sightless eyes on Scrimgeour. “I’d like credit for my part too,” she said smugly.

“Minister,” Kingsley said, “since Head Auror Robards is back at the Ministry trying to coordinate our efforts in Diagon Alley, I am the senior Auror present. It is my duty to administer a Veritaserum test on you. If you will—”

Hary saw it coming, but he didn’t have his wand up quick enough. Fortunately for him and Ginny, Hermione was just a hair faster than Scrimgeour. Her nonverbal Shield Charm was so strong that it reflected Scrimgeour’s Curse back at him, barely missing his head. Before he could even react, Hermione had Disarmed Scrimgeour with a casual Expelliarmus, and used a Levitation Charm to lift him, struggling uselessly, into the air—all in the span of five seconds. Fawkes, still sitting on her shoulder, hadn’t moved a feather.

Almost everyone in the room had raised their wands, but they all lowered them again. George whistled. “We will never be able to tease Ron again,” he said to Fred.

“Put me down this instant!” Scrimgeour shouted. “How dare you—”

“Considering how a roomful of people just saw you trying to kill at least one person, I’d say you’re not really in a position to make demands,” Hermione interrupted coldly. “Perhaps I should shake you, like you shook me?” she added with a touch of venom, wiggling her wand and making Scrimgeour jerk a bit in mid-air. After a long, tense pause, Hermione lowered Scrimgeour carefully to the ground and dismissed the Levitation Charm. “Just be grateful that I’m not and will never be anything like he was,” she said with dignity. As two Aurors grabbed the shocked Minister, Hermione turned to Kingsley. “I assume you’ll need this,” she said, handing him Scrimgeour’s wand. “Who knows what he may have cast with it.”

“Thank you,” Kingsley said. “And to you as well, Mrs. Potter,” he added to Ginny, who looked up. “I have a great deal to take care of, so please excuse us. We will undoubtedly need to speak with you all again—please don’t go anywhere.”

Harry waited five seconds after the door had been shut before bursting out “I don’t believe this! What the hell more can they want from us? After everything we’ve done—after what we’ve been through—” He put his head in his hands. “It’s never going to be over,” he said, his voice thick as he tried to hold back tears. “There’s—I’m never going to get any peace…”

No one responded for a long moment. Then Ginny spoke; “Harry,” she murmured softly to him, “let’s go.”

Harry looked up at her. “Go?”

“Let’s get out of here,” Ginny said to him. “Right now, all of us. We don’t—we don’t have to stay. The Ministry’s going to be crazy enough dealing with holding over a hundred Death Eaters and having no Minister that they’ll have no time for us, at least not for a while. Let’s go home. We’ve earned it, haven’t we? By now?”

Harry stared at Ginny with longing. He wanted to go, to just grab her and just fly off to the House of Black, and just stay there with Ginny and never go out, never deal with the Ministry or the Wizarding World’s expectations, ever again. He even had a Portkey that would take them straight to their bedroom. But—“We can’t, Ginny,” he said wretchedly. “Or I can’t. As much as I wish I could… my part’s not done. I have to take responsibility for what I led us to. And I have to give Rita and Mr. Lovegood enough information to write their stories—”

“I can do that for you, Harry,” Neville suggested. “I mean, I was there when you fought Voldemort…”

“You were out cold for half of it,” Pansy retorted. “I, however, was fully conscious the entire time.”

“And I’ll be happy to explain to daddy and Ms. Skeeter about the Diagon Alley battle,” Luna offered.

“And as for your responsibilities,” Hermione said gently, “they can wait, Harry. For a while, at least. I think that Auror Shacklebolt’s going to be fronting the Ministry investigation, and I think he’ll be just as willing to deal with me as he would with you. Ron won’t be going anywhere for some time, not with his foot like that—and I won’t be away from him for very long,” she added, reddening slightly. “It might as well be me.”

“You—you’ll do that?” Harry asked.

“Of course I will,” Hermione said with a smile. “Harry, you’ve more than earned the right to have your friends shoulder your burden for you when it becomes too much to bear. You were the leader we all wanted—”

Harry swallowed. “But not a good enough one.”

“You were the leader we expected,” Hermione insisted firmly, “and we got through this much better than we’d really believed we would.”

Nods all around the room confirmed that everyone else agreed with Hermione’s statement—everyone. “Me, Fred and George can deal with mum and dad for now,” Ron said. “Go on, Harry. Relax for once, okay?”

Harry couldn’t even begin to say how grateful he was to his friends. “Thank you,” he murmured, tears of relief breaking free.

“Hermione,” Ginny said pleadingly, “you said—”

“Don’t worry, Ginny,” Hermione said, leaning down so she could hug her friend. “I’ll be working on your problem, I swear it. And I’ll be around—I don’t think I’ll want to move out of the—out of or headquarters just yet. If it’s all right for Ron and I to stay for a while longer, that is.”

Ginny laughed with relief and hugged Hermione back. “Of course,” she whispered in Hermione’s ear.

Hermione hugged Harry as well, and then stepped back so she could take Ron’s hand. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed one particular person. “Rita?”

Rita Skeeter, who’d been scribbling so furiously that she’d covered a dozen parchments with notes and had broken four quills in her excitement, looked up. “Yes?” she said sweetly.

“Remember,” Harry reminded her, “that you can only print what I agree to. Anything else and our contract is broken, and you don’t get your exclusive interview later. So only the basics about today for now, the names of the victims, and maybe just a hint of—what did you call it—flavor. Right?”

Rita struggled with herself for a moment before sagging. “Yes, all right,” she muttered.

“Good.” Harry said. Pulling the stone Portkey out of his pocket, he took Ginny’s hand, the stone clasped between them. “Ready?” he asked her.

Ginny swallowed and nodded. “Ready. Are you?”

Harry smiled. “I am,” he said. “I’m ready for this.” He tapped their clasped hands with his wand. “Portus!”

And they were gone.