"They are," he answered softly. Her voice was melodic but not like a song bird, Harry thought as he glanced between the flowers closest to him and the woman. It was the kind of voice that would tell the best of parables, with the harshest of moral stories. The dress and the hair made him think automatically that she was a witch and that at least was of some comfort.

"I," he started haltingly and his self-conscious awkwardness was even more obvious. "I don't know where we are." The question of whether this was the after-life wouldn't permit itself to be uttered aloud, not to someone he didn't know. Harry's gut told him that she was trustworthy and maybe even nice but for now he remained reserved, and uncertain.