Harry closed his eyes. His hands were folded over his knees, fingers twisted together so tightly that the skin over his knuckles had stretched white, like an overinflated balloon about to burst.
He racked his memory desperately.
On the day Dumbledore left, had the torches in the corridor been lit or dark?
What color robes had he worn? Had he looked back when he left? Had he said something like, "I'll contact you"?
No.
He had said nothing.
He left. Like ash blown away by the wind, like sand washed away by water, as though he had never existed at all.
Harry opened his eyes and looked at Hermione. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His throat was as dry as sandpaper, and every swallow felt like gulping down an unpolished, jagged stone.
"No. He left nothing. He said nothing. He just—left."
Hermione withdrew her hand from the tabletop and placed it on her lap, her fingers interlaced as her thumbs rubbed against each other. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. Her eyes rested on the row of bookshelves behind Harry, on those thick, dull-colored old books whose gilt lettering had faded from their spines.
Her gaze moved over those spines, left to right, then right to left, like someone pacing before a row of unlabeled doors, unable to decide which one to push open.
Then she heard a sound.
It did not come from behind the bookshelves, nor from outside the window, nor from anywhere with a direction. It seemed to grow directly from the air itself—from the candle flames, the wood grain of the table, the tiny motes of dust floating in the air, lit by candlelight.
Clear and bright, as though someone far, far away had tapped a crystal goblet. The rim trembled,