Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march.
Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix song before, that the music was inside him, not without: It was his own grief turned magically to song.
I thought it sounded a bit like Percy singing... maybe you've got to attack him while he's in the shower, Harry.
Harry ran upstairs to their dark dormitory. He pulled out the cloak and then his eyes fell on the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas. He pocketed it to use on Fluffy — he didn’t feel much like singing.
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