Dawn Rivera

The Wandmaker

"We should close his eyes."

Bill is wearing a travelling cloak; Fleur a large, white apron, from the pocket of which protrudes a bottle of what I recognise to be Skele-Grow. Hermione and I are wrapped in borrowed dressing gowns, pale and unsteady on our feet; Danny and Ron put their send around us when we reach them. Luna, who is huddled in one of Fleur's coats, crouches down and places her fingers tenderly upon each of the elf's eyelids, sliding them over his glassy stare.

"There," she says softly. "Now he could be sleeping."

Harry and Danny place the elf into the grave, arrange his tiny limbs so that he might be resting, then doing out and gaze for the last time upon the little body. I force myself not to break down as I remember Dumbledore's funeral, and the rows and rows of go,den chairs, and the Minister for Magic in the front row, the recitation of Dumbledore's achievements, the stateliness of the white marble tomb. I feel that Dobby deserves just as grand a funeral, and yet here the elf lies between bushes in a roughly dig hole.

"I think we ought to say something," pipes up Luna. "I'll go first, shall I?"

And as everybody looks at her, she addresses the dead elf at the bottom of the grave.

"Thank you so much, Dobby, for rescuing me from that cellar. It's so unfair that you had to die, when you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did for us. I hope you're happy now."

She turns and looks expectantly at Ron, who clears his throat and says in a thick voice, "Yeah...thanks Dobby."

"Thanks," mutters Dean.

Harry and Danny swallow.

"Goodbye, Dobby," Harry says. It is all he can manage, but Luna has said it all for him. I want so much to comfort him, to my arms around him, but I don't dare leave Ron's comforting embrace. Bill raises his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rises up into the air and falls neatly upon it, a small, reddish mound.

"D'you mind if we stay here a moment?" Danny asks us.

We murmur words I do not catch; there are gentle pats upon their backs, and then we all traipse back towards the cottage, leaving Harry and Danny alone beside the elf.

We are all sitting in the living room when Harry and Danny enter the little hall, our attention focused upon Bill, who is talking. The room is light-coloured, pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly in the fireplace. I don't think Harry and Danny want to drop mud on the carpet, because they stand in the doorway, listening.

"...lucky that Ginny and Misty are on holiday. If they'd been at Hogwarts, they could have taken them before we reached them. Now we know they're safe too."

He looks round and sees Harry and Danny standing there.

"I've been getting them all out of The Burrow," he explains. "Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, they're bound to target the family - don't apologise," he adds, at the sight of Harry's and Danny's expressions. "It was always a matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood traitor family there is."

"How are they protected?" asks Harry.

"Fidelius Charm. Dad's Secret Keeper. And we've done it on this cottage too; I'm Secret Keeper here. None of us can go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend, Fleur's given him Skele-Grow: we could probably move them in an hour or - "

"No," Danny says, and Bill looks startled. "We need both of them here. We need to talk to them. It's important."

I hear the authority in his voice, the conviction, the sense of purpose. All of our faces are turned towards them, looking puzzled.