"I have to go." His voice was quiet, but every word was clear, as if he were reciting an oath that had been written long ago and needed no revision. "I have to tell Professor Dumbledore all of this myself."
The night in Godric's Hollow was colder and quieter than at Hogwarts. Wind passed through the cracks in the ruins, making a low hum like the lowest string of a cello being drawn. The snow had stopped, but it lay thick on the ground. When Iris—that was the lark's name, as Harry learned later—descended from the sky, her claws sank into it, and when she pulled them free, they kicked up a small spray of fine snow that gleamed silver-white in the moonlight. Fawkes made no sound. He folded his wings, perched on a broken stone pillar, tucked his head beneath them, and became still.
Harry stood before the ruins, his legs still weak. The feeling of being compressed, twisted, and forced through an impossibly narrow tube had not entirely faded. His stomach still churned, his ears still rang, and his knees still trembled faintly. But he stayed upright. Not because his legs had regained their strength, but because he saw that person.
Dumbledore stood before the remains of the Potter house, his back to the ruins and his face turned toward a relatively intact monument nearby, blanketed in snow. The monument was made of gray-white stone, and beneath the moonlight it gave off an ancient, mellow glow, as though time had polished it smooth. Names were carved into it, but it was too far away to make them out.
Dumbledore was not looking at the monument. His head was lowered as he gazed at the snow beneath his feet. The snow was white, and so was his beard, but