In the mist-like curtain of rain, the coffin slowly descended into the grave.
Harry stood numbly in the rain. The people around him seemed to have turned into shadows. They said many comforting words to him; some patted his shoulder, some embraced him, but his heart had already become a black wall, and nothing could penetrate it anymore.
In the distance, an old man watched in silence, the same calm sorrow rising in his heart.
"Albus, aren't you going to comfort that child?" A tabby cat leaped down from a nearby branch and transformed into an elderly witch.
"You and I both know how pale and powerless words are at a time like this." Dumbledore sighed deeply. "We have both endured his pain before, but that pain still belongs to him alone. We cannot share even the slightest bit of it for him."
"Will Harry hate us?" Professor McGonagall asked.
Dumbledore glanced at the witch. In the rain, Professor McGonagall looked thin and haggard. "I don't think so. Harry is a kind child. Rather than hate us, he may be more willing to hate himself."
Professor McGonagall looked as though she were about to cry. "Then I would rather he hated us."
Dumbledore reached out and patted McGonagall on the back, momentarily unable to think of anything to say.
"Professor, are we doing the right thing?" Professor McGonagall asked.
Dumbledore opened his mouth, but the affirmation that should have come without hesitation now faltered.
He knew Minerva needed that certain answer. After so much effort and sacrifice, after enduring so much pain, she should at least receive affirmation for what she had done.
Yet he also knew that she had asked because, like him, she had begun to doubt whether the cause they had fought for was necessary at all.