Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, that belongs to JKR. None of the characters are mine, however the plot IS mine. No stealing.

Heavenly Father, who art in heaven,
Hallow be thy name…

The droning of the priest was annoying her, the monotone voice in stark contrast to the emotion that could be felt all throughout the church. There was already muffled sobbing, and the service had barely started yet. She tried to think of it as a show of love, and sadness for the departed, but it was hard for her to even rationalize others crying. Her brown eyes, though confused, were not tearful. All those tears were locked behind cold eyes, and an even colder heart. The rest of her family was damn near embarrassing with their tears, but the youngest could not even bring herself to comfort them, for fear that they would hate her for not being able to cry. What kind of daughter could not cry over her father?

How had this happened? Everything had been going so well … so very well. There was happiness, peacefulness, things that he had always dreamed of, and now. Now, he was gone. He wouldn't even get to enjoy the world he fought so hard to protect; he would never see his children grow old. It was fitting that parents die before his children, but no one ever mentioned the desolation that it leaves behind, and the whole in a family. What about his wife? Did anyone think about that? She would never grow old with him, never again sleep in the same bed as him and feel his warmth next to her. So yes, it was fitting he died – but too soon. He had far too much left to do in his life.

He is survived by his wife, Molly Weasley.

His sons, Bill, Charles, Ronald, and George Weasley.

And his daughter, Ginevra Weasley.

Loving father, dedicated worker, never forget:

Arthur Weasley.

At least it's over, she thought to herself. Ginevra could not stand the thought of the service taking any longer, with some priest talking about her father – they didn't really know him anyway. This muggle service wasn't his style, though he had told Molly that he wanted to be buried this way, Ginny would have rather seen one of the family friends up there, not some priest who had barely known the family before his death. It was just so very wrong, though it was like Arthur to demand to be buried like the Muggles he was so curious about. Just because she understood why her father would do such a thing didn't mean that she condoned it.

Suddenly, just as the peak of the emotion had been reached, it was all over, and people were filing up to the coffin to say goodbye. Ginny followed her mother and her brothers out of the row that they had been placed (as the family of the deceased, the priest had said, they had to sit in the first row), and out towards the front of the church. From there, people would greet them and give their apologies for his untimely death; a few would even have the gall to say that they knew him well, but no one knew him better than his family.

It seemed to drag on forever, and Ginny was not paying attention when she was suddenly embraced by a tall, ebony haired boy, more of a man now. "I'm so sorry, Gin," Harry Potter whispered in her ear, and she forced her eyes to soften a bit, though she knew that he did not deserve any of your attention.

"It's not your fault." That was the phrase she had said most often lately.

"I know, but Gin. . . I loved him like my own dad."

"We all did."

"You seem so grim . . . are you okay?"

"Yes."

"Let's get out of here."

"No."

She tried to keep her answers to monosyllables, not wanting to have anything to do with Mr. Potter. A millionaire in his own right, the hot gossip around town was how he had cheated on a smitten Ginevra Weasley with the quidditch player, Cho Chang. The fact that he had even showed up at the funeral, even more so that he embraced her, would cause a storm of rumors, and if it weren't for the setting, Ginny would have hexed him then and there. Even she, unreligious as can be, could not bring herself to damn near kill him in front of the angel figurines that were absolutely everywhere.

"Molly Weasley! I am soooo sorry," a voice to her left simpered, and Ginny turned.

"Thank you, Narcissa," her mother was dealing with the Malfoy matriarch rather well, Ginny had to admit. There was an instant spike of dislike for the other woman, and her brown eyes slid from her faux blonde hair (it had gone gray long ago, it was whispered) to the man at her side. He was taller now, Draco Malfoy, but he had lost little of his shocking good looks, and remained just as athletic as he had been at school. It had been... one … two? Two years since they had graduated and last seen each other.

She didn't like him any more now.

"Weaslet," he nodded to her, his voice low so that his mother (and the rest of Ginny's family) couldn't hear him.

"Why are you here? You didn't even know, or like, my dad," her voice was a bit more hostile than she intended, or perhaps it was just perfect.

"Mother thought it would be best for us to show our compassion," he appeared to be gritting his teeth, and Ginny smiled at that. She could still drive him mad, even when he was 21 years-old and far from a boy. She liked that.

"You aren't crying," it wasn't a question; just a statement. Ginny ran a hand through her tumbling red curls, before shrugging.

"Why should I? He wouldn't have wanted me to." Her reply seemed too personal, and she looked away, before scooting closer to her mother, who was engaged in "polite" conversation with Narcissa.

"Well, Molly, we should be going. Let us know if you need something!" And with that, they were gone.

Ginnny heaved a sigh of relief. It was almost over. Time to go home and retreat to her room, to weep and grieve for her own. Still . . . she couldn't help but wonder – why had Draco come? He hadn't been required, it sounded like Narcissa was the only one who had needed to come. So why had he been at her father's funeral? There wasn't even a slight chance he had respected Arthur, so what then? Curiosity? That would be a sick kind of curiosity, and anger burned hot and fast. She would find out later, and confront him about it.

Now? It was time to go home. The home that felt too empty and too sad for her tastes.