A man in his fifties stepped forth and threw two roses, red and yellow, into the magical fire blazing on the grave. Grief was deeply etched on his face. Harry wondered who he was. Hermione and Ron seemed as puzzled as he.

Later, they saw him with Flitwick. “I’m sorry for your loss, Charles,” the diminutive teacher said, his eyes misty.

The stranger’s voice was strangled. “Thank you, Filius. I know my wife was close to you. She treasured your friendship a lot.”

A blush covered Harry’s face. He’d known Professor McGonagall for decades and never knew she was married.