Hagrid was walking slowly up the aisle between the chairs. He was crying quite silently, his face gleaming with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars, was what Hermione knew to be Dumbledore's body. She looked at the body that she had killed, that she had struck down. She felt nothing for him. She had hated him for years, and he had thought her to be evil ever since her sorting.