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Hermione's hair, when Harry touched it, was made of wires. Dumbledore sighed, and brought out his wand.
"Sir? What's happening? Hermione... she's clockwork. Not real. I saw Ron sleeping, but he was so quiet..."
"He's clockwork as well, Harry. The charms are wearing thin." So tired, I'm so tired after so long, Albus thought. Please don't ask me again.
"So none of them are real? Even you?" Green eyes shuttered, warmth lost.
"I'm real, Harry. It's always been just you and me, my boy."
"You're very old, aren't you? You don't want to do it any longer, I can tell. Are you sorry?"
Albus gazed upon Harry's body in its sinuous metal framework, bespelled parts drawing breath into his lungs and carrying away what he couldn't use any longer.
"I'm sorry I hadn't the courage to stop you suffering, Harry. Always such a good boy, so willing. Tell me what you want."
Harry, by the strange grace of his machine, reached out a hand to his mentor. "Let's rest now."