Hi. Just want to send a brief shout-out to my fans who have stuck by my story (and especially those who have reviewed it) over these past years! It's been a while since I updated this story, but I have a feeling you're not really interested in excuses, so no worries. I'm clearly at fault :'( (Yes, I actually used a smiley. I have fallen into wicked ways indeed.) So then, once more into the breach, dear friends?

This chapter was a bit of a struggle for me. I had a choice between tacking on another scene here, but upon examination it seemed like it couldn't be achieved in anything less than six pages. That seemed to me to make the chapter drag on a bit, so it was included in a later update. But, oh well. Leave feedback, please! And, before I forget, Square Enix owns FMA, and J.K. icantbelieveshewaseverunemployed Rowling owns Harry Potter.

Chapter 11: English Way

"A FRICKEN' KID?!"

Dr. Burgess frowned. "Please Ed. There's no need for that tone."

"But you- You're- You look like you're-!"

"Every damn time…" the baby grumbled to himself, in an inexplicably deep voice. "Why can't people ever get past my physical appearance?" He appeared to be trying to massage the bridge of his nose, but, because an infant's head has about as many prominent surfaces as a melted gummi-bear, his tiny fingers were slipping off.

"Er, what?"

"Aren't infants still people? Do I not deserve the respect and dignity due to a man and doctor!?"

"How the hell can you even be a doctor, if you haven't even been potty-trained yet!?"

The doctor attempted to level a reproving gaze at Ed.

It looked ridiculous.

"Edward, you shouldn't judge people based on how they appear! I assure you, I am one of the foremost professionals in my field, and my research is well respected!"

"Yeah? Ever present it in person?"

"That is entirely beside the-"

"-Thought not."

"ENOUGH! Edward, despite my current appearance, I am in fact sixty-seven years old! What you see before you is merely the… unfortunate side effect of an earlier experiment. It's purely superficial, my mind remains as keen as ever. Now can we please move on to the case at hand? Your case?"

"Nah, I don't think so."

"…Well, then, since you are unwilling to tell me anything, I will tell you what I know, and you may choose to fill in the blanks, or not. I leave it to your discretion. But, remember, it's in your best interests to correct any misconceptions we may have. There are all sorts of possible situations that could arise, and be to your detriment, it we operate under faulty conclusions."

Ed sat back in the chair, impassive, with a careless air. But there was intensity there, too…

"What we know for certain about your condition is this: You recently happened upon magical powers, fifteen years later than they should have manifested. From what I've been told, you have a very, almost worrisomely so, strong talent. You have absorbed a full year's curriculum in a matter of weeks, giving you an above-average, possibly genius-level intellect. You possess a unique prosthesis that is years, perhaps decades beyond muggle technology. And you are an unusually capable fighter, tournament-caliber at least, though you appear largely self-taught. What do all of these things seem to indicate to you, Edward?"

Ed shifted to the side slightly, looking uncomfortable.

"Nothing? Well, I will tell you what they mean to me. They mean you are unique. That you stand out. That someone, anyone, who met you, would make a note of it. But there's the rub. There is no mention of you anywhere, Ed, in any records older than four weeks. No birth certificates. No hospital records or medical files. Not even a blip in the Ministry's Hall of the Archive. No one like you remains invisible for long, Edward. So, I'm at a loss, trying to determine exactly where it is you come from."

"I wasn't born in a hospital." Ed lied, hoping to cut off any further inquiry. "I was home schooled. And my parents don't trust the government."

The doctor harrumphed, clearly unimpressed. "Nice try, Ed, but you see, those are exactly the kind of people the government pays more attention to."

The tow-headed alchemist said nothing, his face carefully expressionless.

"Now, here's what I think. Don't bother to reply, just listen."

The doctor took in a breath.

"You're not from here, are you, Ed?"

Ed showed his teeth in an easy grin, quickly obscuring the anxious flicker that his eyes had taken toward the door. But not quickly enough…

"Hmm. That seemed to hit home with you, Ed. Because that's just the problem with you, isn't it? Home. Your home city, your home country, your home… reality?"

No way.

Ed gaped.

Sure, there were many incongruities in his history here, and in his story, but for this doctor to jump to that conclusion, so quickly? What kind of man was this Dr. Burgess? What kind of mind did he possess?

"I said that I was a doctor, Ed, and that is true, I am. But, where my true abilities lie is not in medicine, which is the curing of diseases, but rather, the diagnosing of them. I can say, with perfect honesty and without fear of exaggeration, that I am the best diagnostician, magical or otherwise, in Europe. And the most likely conclusion for your identity is, as incredible as it sounds, that you are some sort of dimension-hopping being. I cannot say at this point whether you deliberately came here or not, regardless, you are smart enough not to reveal it for fear of imprisonment and experimentation."

He tapped his lips thoughtfully.

"That is a valid fear, by the way. I've spoken to a few mountain gorillas about it in the past and apparently that is why they only communicate with grunts and pointing when humans are around. …Well, that, and the bananas."

Ed kept a straight face. "Gorillas. The big monkeys with black hair and arms you could tie a hammock around?"

"Indeed. But as for you: No birth certificate under your given name, which means no hospitals, doctors, records, or you are using an assumed name. We can scratch the assumed name off the list of possibilities right away, you're too young to have changed yours legally, and until you can all magical letters and press will refer to you by the name your mother gave you. Your acceptance letter confirms your name as Edward Elric. Made things of a magical nature, even if they possess sentience, do not have proper names, it is one of the fundamental limitations of magic. So, you are not an automaton of any stripe, and were definitely born. You apparently lacked any sort of schooling in magic, so were not born to a wizarding family. Even if they carefully hid all evidence from you, they could not hide from the Ministry. But, there are no muggle families with access to prostheses such as yours, and no reports of catastrophic dismemberment or amputation to a youth matching your age and description in any muggle hospital for the last seventeen years. This is highly unlikely with your injuries, because skilled and immediate medical attention would have been needed to keep you from bleeding to death. Not to mention the sophisticated surgery needed to attach those prosthetics without scarring or infection. Somebody has to have known of you, or helped you."

Dr. Burgess templed his baby-carrot fingers, and continued.

"It was not any muggle government. They can't keep secrets well, and least of all from us. And it was not us. You could have been some new and bizarre experiment conducted by Voldemort in deepest secrecy, but if he wished to infiltrate Hogwarts he would have planted an agent much earlier or tapped someone already enrolled, instead of something so conspicuous as to cause the spontaneous arrival of a fifteen-year-old, let alone one with a metal arm and leg. You could also have been some sort of new soldier for him, gone rogue, but why would he use a boy not yet in his physical prime? And, let's not forget the incident at Hogwarts, with the assassin who was definitely targeting you, and those three Death Eaters you roughed up."

Ed looked up, surprised. "You know about that?"

"Of course I do. I had some difficulty in time-lining all confirmed events in the last couple of weeks after you came here, but thankfully one of my contacts told me you had been seen in the Leaky Cauldron in possession of a functional Silver Arrow, a very rare broom, and there was one registered under Maurice Dobbins' name. Combined with the unusual nature of the events which took place at his home, the connection was not hard to make. You need to learn how to cover your tracks, Ed, that reconstituted limestone block that you left out front was a dead giveaway."

Ed's face shut down.

"Yes, that brings us to the biggest secret that you've been carrying, Ed. Your…gift."

Edward didn't even move a hair, his eyes narrow and calculating. Teeth gritted.

"The shaping of substances around you into new and useful forms. It really is a remarkable talent. We don't have anything remotely close to it. With magic, you combine reagents and agents in a strictly specified way, and get results that are distinctly different from their components, save for in concept. We have to work through intermediaries. But you, you have the ability to work with substance itself. Do you have any idea what that makes you, Edward?"

"What?"

"You are potentially the most powerful person alive on this planet, at this moment."

"What?!"

"Edward, this next question is extremely important. You must answer me truthfully, because the consequences of a lie could be disastrous. Millions may die."

Ed wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just contrived to look attentive.

"Ed, when you use your talent, how does it work?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, when you want to turn a cement block into cover, what happens? Does the limestone flow around you at your discretion, like pouring wax into a mold? Or do you somehow… disassemble the matter, then put it back together?"

"The second one, I think."

Dr. Burgess sucked in air, and rubbed his forehead. Clearly, the thing he had been worrying about had been confirmed.

"Wait, Doctor! Why is that so important?!"

The doctor smiled sadly, and said, "Unfortunately, Ed, if I were to tell you… It would make things worse. We can only hope that Voldemort remains as short-sighted and contemptuous of muggles as he has always been… or all is lost."

Ed was confused. Muggles? What did he mean? But his puzzlement did nothing to change his frustration.

"So…you don't trust me. I guess I can understand that."

"You misunderstand, Edward…"

"You know what? Fine, whatever. Let's be all mysterious. It's not like I don't already know what happens when someone keeps secrets from me. Oh, wait!" The sarcastic edge on his voice buzzed like a saw.

He turned to face the doctor.

"And while we're at it, what the hell kind of doctor are you anyway? What kind of doctor has 'contacts in the Ministry'? Are you a spy or something?"

"…My history is not worth mentioning."

They stared at each other, tension strangling the air.

Ed spoke first.

"So, when am I going to get to see him?"

"Who, Ed?"

"Dumbledore."

This time, it was Burgess who looked taken aback.

"Dumbledore?" he replied carefully.

"I have to pay my respects, don't I?"

Burgess relaxed slightly, in a way which only served to gently underline the brief moment of stress that preceded it.

"Ah… At this point, things are still, well… I don't know. It's all flapping loose."

"Is there a memorial service planned?"

"It's…" He trailed off.

"Burgess, what the hell is going on here!? Why is nobody talking about this? Is Dumbledore really dead!?"

The puerile physician stiffened, and in a voice tinged with despair, answered.

"Yes. Yes, Edward. I'm very much afraid he is." A ring of truth threaded through those words.

"Oh. I- …oh."

The desperate hope he had carefully stoked in his heart fell down delicately and was ruined, a lacy feather meeting dirty wet pavement.

"This Tuesday. There will be a procession in Hogsmeade. It'll take him to the Green Sward in front of… He picked it out years ago, wanted to stay where he most felt at, at home, and…"

"I…see."

"All students are invited. There will be a reserved section in front, and-"

Ed wasn't listening any longer. Everything felt unreal, like a dream. At least, in the headmaster's room, he had felt anger, rage. As long as he was feeling something, as long as he had a problem to solve, he could avoid thinking about, about everything he had lost, about the people who died. But now, he felt nothing. Was this shock? It was ridiculous, he had barely known the man a month!

But that wasn't really true, was it? There were things about him…

Like the sense of well-being he felt just from having him around, the knowledge that he was safe, even for a moment… He had been a hierophant, a comrade, a mischievous teacher.

And there was empathy, undeniable, that he had felt for him. Something that told him that they weren't very different at all. He had been a prodigy, set apart, just like him.

Just like Ed, he had had a reason, a driving cause to be good, better than everyone else. His brilliance pushed him onward, mercilessly, past all of his peers, and then colleagues, and esteemed brethren, to the point where there were no more peers, just awe and unapproachable reputation. Perhaps he found someone early, if he was lucky, someone that shared his ability (Ed though of Al instinctively), to reflect and double his shine. And then, somewhere along the dazzling arc that was the career of Albus Dumbledore, something horrible happened to him. Something that sobered him, and served as the last quenching plunge that turned him into the person he was. Maybe it was a loss. Maybe it was a fight. And just maybe, it was both.

How lonely he must have been…

"-to carry on as we always had. And in that spirit, Ed, I will ask you if you are able to continue your lessons."

Ed snapped back to the present. "What?"

"The preparatory work that you were finishing. Can you complete it? Say, here?"

"I don't know." Ed said, dazedly. "I suppose. Is your ceiling armored? Last time I tried Wingardium, I holed Tom's bar with a stone."

"You- What happened to the stone, Ed?"

Something about his voice fully caught Ed's attention.

"It flew straight up. Or was, ah, launched straight up. It went through the roof."

"Huh. And you said that a levitating charm did this?"

"Yeah."

Burgess looked interestedly at Ed, clearly glad for the change in direction. "Hmm… Well, I can't say I've ever heard of too much arcane potential being a problem, although I do see a fair bit of business from those with too little. Thankfully, this is something that is fairly easy to test. Do you see that blue glass ball on the shelf? The one with the metal dial. Pick it up, please."

Ed looked about, then saw the device the doctor was talking about, sitting innocuously about three feet from a book titled "The Wizard's Plight: Five Hand Exercises for the Management of Carpal Tunnel.".

It was a fat blob of cobalt glass, about the size of a bocce ball. Sticking out of the top was a wire-thin golden needle, and as he looked, he could see the polished gauge, with increments marked off in bizarre symbols and glyphs, where the metal met the almost-liquid smoothness of the material.

He hefted it in one hand. It was surprisingly heavy, and cold, like it had just come out of a freezer.

"Yes, that's it. Just hold it for now. It's self-calibrating, you see. In just a moment…"

A flickering blue light, like a torch somehow seen through a hundred feet of water, grew in the absolute center of the device. It started to hum, a deep low sound, more felt than heard.

The golden needle began to deflect subtly back and forth.

Thankfully, it was slowly warming, thawing Ed's numb fingers.

The light, growing, as a train's does as it approaches closer, was now the size of an egg. The needle was now at about a 45-degree angle from its initial position.

"See, there you are. An average Thaumopotence rating. Nothing to be-"

But the needle hadn't stopped moving. The light inside was getting closer, and brighter, and the humming was rising, vibrating inside of Ed's ribcage, becoming more insistent, more droning… The glass was now uncomfortably hot.

"That's fine Ed, you can put it down now." Said Dr. Burgess anxiously.

The needle had gone as far as it could go. But that wasn't enough. Ed watched, fascinated, as the magic of the device slowly began to bend the needle itself, like a psychic's spoon… There was a weak little snap as it broke off and flew through the air...

"Ed… ED! DROP IT! ED!"

Ed couldn't hear him. The radiance inside was a sun, a supernova, a ball of furious incandescent brilliance. The drone was the roar of a jet engine at three feet away, the eruption of a volcano. He tried to let it slip, but his arm wouldn't obey his commands, it was somewhere far away, held in place by the light and noise and heat.

He saw the blisters forming on his hand, as the heat of it passed the point where hot and cold could be discerned by his body, and just became overwhelming sensation…

With a roar of anger, Ed swung his other arm, and smacked it from his grip. It flew, hitting the ground and rolling into a corner.

Instantly, the light within it died, the cacophony bled away, to be replaced by the shivering little sounds of thousands of spreading cracks, cob-webbing the once-clear blue glass.

Ed looked at his hand. Throbbing red weals covered the inside of his palm and fingers.

"What." He began, "The hell. Was that!?"

Dr. Burgess, blinking away the purple spots dancing in front of his eyes, seemed completely mollified.

"I-I'm not sure, Ed. I've never seen a reaction that violent before…"

He nervously rubbed his fingers over his chin, back and forth…

"If I were to guess, I would say that…that…"

His fingers stopped.

"Oh. Of course. How obvious. Heh. Convenient, yes, this is convenient, isn't it? A proof of concept. And an explanation, too!"

"What?" Ed exclaimed, exasperated. "What is it?"

The doctor seemed quite pleased with himself. "Where do you suppose magic comes from, Ed?"

Ed shrugged. "Well, my first theory was that it was all a great big load of sh-, er, lies, but the jury's still out on that one. Ah, do you have any burn ointment?"

Dr. Burgess smiled. "Well, Ed, unlike where you come from, magic here exists as a force, as gravity does. All particles in the universe generate, and are susceptible to gravity. Now, imagine for a second the core, the essence or consciousness of a being was, in fact, a particle. Particles generate different quantities of gravity, depending on their mass. Similarly, conscious beings, as well as other kinds of matter; particles, if you will, generate and utilize magic according to their own… potential. As for why spellcraft and the like seems to contradict the laws of physics, that is easily explained. Although gravity and electromagnetism are forces, they have to obey different, internally consistent rules, as accorded by their nature. These rules can contradict each other, even though their existence is integral to the overall functioning of the cosmos. The laws of gravity says that a MagLev train should touch the ground, but the laws of electromagnetism oppose and overrule it, if they possess enough strength. Similarly, magic-users can overrule the other laws of the universe, as long as sufficient force is used and as long as we act according to magic's principles, in a way that does not destroy them."

"That's great. Now, how does that affect me, again? Oh, and also, ow."

"When you crossed over into this universe, instead of it collapsing due to your anomalous and logically impossible presence, the world started treating you exactly as it would have if you had been born here. Evidentially, your essence is one that, if it had existed naturally in this world, you would have been a wizard by birth. But there's a problem. A wizard who is fifteen years old, all of that time having been spent in this universe, with a fairly average ability, whether through spell or spontaneous manifestation should have expended fifteen years worth of magic by now! And clearly, since this has not happened, in order to remain consistent, all of that magic has accrued around you, waiting to be used!You're working with a surfeit of effectively one and a half decades worth of arcane potential! That's why you destroyed my instrument, it simply couldn't handle the task. And no wonder!"

A gloomy look crossed his face. "That cost me a small fortune, you know. It'll take me months to secure another load of meteor sand. And you wouldn't believe what those goblin crystal-blowers charge. It's highway robbery, it is. Terrible, how these things conspire against the small practice-owner-"

"-Hey, doc." Ed said.

"Hmm?"

Ed held up his burned hand.

"OH! I'm terribly sorry Ed, I was carried away… The red and white jar on the second shelf."

Trying not to look too hurried, Ed ran to it, and slathered on the thick green gel it contained. To his relief, the pain faded almost instantly.

"Ed, I'm sure you knew that Dumbledore's original plan called for you to attend Hogwarts as a first year student. With everything that's happened, do you still feel that you can finish you preparatory work in time for the school year?"

"I… yes, I can." Studying was the only thing he had ever been sure of. No matter what, learning more had always helped in the past. And he was good at it.

"Good, that's… good. You are prepared for the work, that's the most important thing… But this backlog business, it makes things dangerous, for you and your classmates. We simply cannot let you walk around with that kind of power."

Ed, looking at his hand as the medicinal goo slowly evaporated off, leaving only healthy pink skin behind, nodded in agreement. "You're right. Is there something I can do?"

Burgess thought for a minute, then replied. "Well, there is something…"

He opened a little drawer near his hand, and pulled out a wand that was clearly a few sizes too big for him to grip properly. With an exaggerated clasped-hands approach, he managed to hold on to the wand, and waved it in a crude figure-eight.

A much larger drawer from a standing file on the other side of the room rolled out. A small box, about the size of a paperback novel, floated up from inside it, and whisked over to the doctor, landing neatly in front on him.

He pulled out a little iron hoop, only two inches in diameter. Fastened on the inside of the circle were eight slightly-stretched fine metal springs placed equally distant from each other, coming together in the middle like spokes. At the hub where all the coils met was what looked like a small, pitted black pebble.

"The stone in the center is a chunk of very dense iron ore. Here."

He tossed it to Ed, who caught it easily.

"Try shaking it."

Ed did. He immediately noted how the springs would extend and contract according to the way he shook it. As his hand finished moving one way, and started back, the lodestone would keep on going for a little bit, as the springs gave it enough give to sling back and forth.

"Feels strange, doesn't it? Like it has a little more momentum than it should?"

He nodded.

"Yes, well, as you know, inertia is the force which resists change. Magic is change. The form of this object, along with the enchantments on it, makes it very difficult for anyone possessing it to perform any magic. Like trying to swing a bat with a heavy weight on it. It's normally used for rehabilitation for wizards or witches with little to no power, so that they can learn to use what they do have more effectively, but in your case, it's more of a protective item. We call it a Limiter. It used to be called Professor Spirrid Squidge's Squib Strainer, after the creator, but we decided to rename it once he moved to Tanzania."

"Why?"

"Try saying it three times fast."

"Oh." "Okay then."

"I'll have one built into an everyday item that wouldn't look out of place on a wizard. That way, no one will know about its existence except for you and me. I'll send it to you, with instructions on its use, once it's complete. In the meantime, use this one to finish your preparations. Professor McGonagall should see you back to your lodgings."

…

The days before Dumbledore's funeral came and went quickly. Ed threw himself into his work. He developed deep circles under his eyes, forgot meals, and went without sleep. Tom became used to seeing him working at the desk in the morning, in the same position he had been in at closing.

The deep pall that Dumbledore's passing had cast was all but impenetrable. Business was even worse than when Voldemort had been at the height of his terrible power. It was as if all London's magical denizens were in mourning. Even Skullcrusher Stevens, a man who would willingly fight anyone, and on three separate occasions had gone mano-a-mano with a nun, barely had the spirit to throw a halfhearted punch at Tom after his fifth round.

There were worse things to come.

…

It was gray and raining, the day that they buried the headmaster.

It was Ed's first time in Hogsmeade. Closely packed buildings boasting the highly sloped roofs of residents familiar with the ravages of winter were interspersed with earnest cobblestone streets, the cobbles set in spirals and whorls, which meandered in an easy looping way through the town. The village was the only place in Britain exclusively populated by magical denizens. Of course, this meant that everyone knew what day it was. Windows of shops, which most likely would have offered glimpses of exotic and wonderful goods, were shuttered. Black curtains hung in every awning.

The rain was cold and heavy, and he stood in a field of somber umbrellas.

Unfortunately the slow trudge from the portkey link to the main thoroughfare had had him wading through puddles and pools, so that it felt like his pants had been soaked through all the way up to his calves. The Limiter's weight in his pocket had become familiar by now, but it, as always, seemed far heavier than it should be, and thudded dully against the outside of his thigh with each step.

A giant, familiar silhouette appeared before him. Ed cheered slightly at the sight, but the grim nature of the occasion tamped back down the momentary brevity.

"Hagrid!"

The massive shape turned, surprised.

"Har- Ed! I din't know ye-yeh were comin'."

Ed sobered more fully. Hagrid's great hairy face was streaked with fat tears, his beard even matted down in places with them. Although he had pasted a smile over his mouth, his shoulders were still convulsing with the force of unsubtle sobs.

The guilt hit him like a heart attack.

"Hagrid, I'm so sorry." He managed around the sudden tightness in his chest.

This was apparently enough to break Hagrid's paper-thin emotional reserve.

Instead of replying, Hagrid wrapped him up in a sudden an overwhelming bear hug that knocked out Ed's remaining air. Ed felt a twinge from his ribs reminding him that, yes, while they were completely healed, thank you very much, they could certainly be persuaded to break again. His patting on Hagrid's shoulder wasn't so much an expression of sympathy as a wrestling submission.

Hagrid released him, still blubbering. It would have seemed ridiculous in other circumstances, this overwhelming show of sadness, absurd to the point of hilarity.

But Ed wouldn't laugh now.

Dumbledore was dead.

"Hagrid, I want to… Where's Harry?"

Hagrid pointed noiselessly with one colossal hand, towards the front. There was a standing section there, walled off with pale gold banisters and black velvet ropes. A plain sign said simply 'Reserved: Hogwarts Students'

"Thanks." Ed elbowed his way to the front. Ordinarily, there would be all manner of protest to this kind of maneuver, but the people he wormed through seemed to honestly be too distraught to care.

He made it to the front. As he was wondering how to get past the ropes, either by ducking underneath them, or jumping, both of which seeming to be unforgivable breaches of decorum in this solemnity, the rope he was standing in front of unhooked itself with a stately grace, and moved aside as if held by an invisible usher.

Ed walked through, marveling even then that Dumbledore must have already put him on the school's registry. He had thought of him as a student even then… when something Ed had brought with him killed him.

The students, under no-one's direction but perhaps out of a desire for the comfort of familiarity, had sorted themselves into their Houses. They wore uniform black dress robes, yet the color of their scarves gave them away. Ed recognized the blue and bronze of Ravenclaw, the yellow and black of Hufflepuff, the (notably fewer) green and silver of the Slytherin, and lastly, the massive swell of gold and crimson that was Griffindor.

Ed saw a glimpse of flame-red hair.

That would be Ron, Ed thought to himself.

He worked his way over. Although he had discarded his red hoodie in favor of a black wool coat and his dark undergarments, which he had come to understand resembled those of a priest of the Christo-Judean Church in this world, he still drew some attention from others. Most, however, were lost in private thoughts or huddled conversation.

He discovered that the red-headed boy he had seen was not, in fact, Ron, but the family resemblance was so close as to be extraordinary…

"Excuse me?"

The boy turned to him. He had a face that looked like it was more accustomed to laughter than sadness, but there was no mirth there, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

"Yeah?" It was more of a croak than a voice.

"I'm looking for Ron Weasely. You look so similar…are you related? And do you know where he is?"

" 'M Fred. He's my brother. I think he's over there, someplace." He gestured vaguely.

"Ah… thanks." What else could he say?

He saw Ron at the same time as he saw Harry and Hermione. What he would talk to them about now, he didn't know, but for some reason he felt he had to.

He walked a slow walk to their company.

…

Harry felt like… to be honest, Harry didn't feel much of anything.

The last couple days, Harry and his friends had busied themselves with rampant speculation and investigation, using the information they'd gained from their brief reconnaissance at Hogwarts and whispered bits of fact and rumor. They'd exhausted every angle, tried every kind of inquiry in a flurry of activity, but try as they might, they had to sleep sometime. And when they did, the thought always came to them just before their eyes closed, It doesn't matter what we do now. He's gone. And day by day, the springs and twisted lengths of elastic which drove them slowly gave up and petered out in fruitlessness. Now even despair seemed gone.

Harry was a shell in a land of ghosts.

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

Harry turned around, to come face to face with someone he'd last seen tracking red footprints down the marble hallway of Hogwarts, away from the murdered body of his mentor.

"Hi, Harry."

" 'Lo, Ed. I didn't know you'd be here."

"I…" killed him "had to pay my respects. He- well, Dumbledore-" Oh, wonderful, now he was bending the sentence into a pretzel to try to avoid using a past-tense verb… He was really not in the game…

There was a low and mournful sound. It sounded strange, haunting, pervasive, like a combination of a morning doves's call, but warbled and modulated in ways that made it stretch out and double back on itself… It was nothing less than absolute sadness expressed through the air.

There was a sudden unrest among the crowd.

A rough whisper from Hermione brought Harry and Ed's attention back to current events.

"Harry, it's starting!" She shot Ed a small look of acknowledgement, then stared out into the street.

The procession was moving. At first, there was a marching regiment wizards wearing robes emblazoned with military-seeming honors and medals. It took some puzzling out, but Ed soon realized that they must be Aurors in dress uniform. And then came coaches.

Harry halfway expected something outrageous and flamboyant, as seemed to typify wizard style, but reserve was the watchword of the day. The coaches were plain black, simple, although they were each pulled by Thestrals, spectral horses with dark and strange powers. There were small emblems on the coach doors which neither Ed nor Harry had seen before. Harry spent a minute studying one absently, a shield emblazoned with crossed wands, each emanating three stars from their tips.

The source of the shapeless dirge approached closer. To Harry's surprise, they were not musicians with instruments, but beautiful, blond women. Although no tears stained their cheeks, Harry had a feeling that each of them were trying to express with their voices the pain their strange, almost birdlike faces could not show.

They moved on. The moment that he had been dreading. The Headmaster's coffin.

It was pulled, not in a hearse, but an open rig, piled high with flowers. Ed smelled their fragrance from here, crisp and unmistakable in the raw air. And rising up from them, emerging as a rock wreathed with surf, was the casket. Long and ivory-white, with bits of silver metal on the corners. Laying over it was a pall that, Harry recognized with a start, was the banner of the school, embroidered with shining thread which stood out like a spark against the bleak backdrop that was the rest of this funerary parade.

And then the screaming started.