Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and took the lead for the first time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the square, however, she stopped dead. “Harry, look!”
She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had transformed. Harry drew closer, gazing up into his parents’ faces. He had never imagined that there would be a statue… “Harry, they’re here… right here.” And he knew by her tone that it was his mother and father this time. He moved toward her, feeling as if something heavy were pressing on his chest… a grief that actually weighed on his heart and lungs. Harry let [the tears] fall, his lips pressed hard together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was sleeping under the snow with them. He put his arm around Hermione’s shoulders, and she put hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the snow, past Dumbledore’s mother and sister, back toward the dark church and the out-of-sight kissing gate. [x]