Author's note: This is a very short drabble :). I was disturbed by so many dramatic explanations of Dumbledore's funeral, displaying it as grand, tearful... I don't think that the people who most cared for him would cry into the embraces of their beloved at his funeral, but instead, perhaps, give him a last toast and fight on for a new, better world. Because that was Dumbledore's greatest wish, was it not?
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Dumbledore was dead.
His funeral had been nothing glorious; so much pain and sorrow, so much regret entwined his death that the people were too numb to cry, too numb to shout and wail and break into emotional puddles as they would otherwise do if his death was not still so fresh, still so unbelievable... They still expected him to walk back at any moment, with a light in his eyes and a kind smile on his lips, and merrily apologize for setting such a rude joke on them.
But it was not a humourus occassion, the funeral, and nobody laughed.
It was - silent. Quiet, serene, up on the small hillock near the lake, with white and pale pink petals sailing through the warm wind and grass dancing on its tunes.
It was silent, and it was on the first true day of spring that year. The world was blooming around the small group of white chairs that faced the white coffin on the white pedestrial, but it was a silent world that day; no birds were singing, no animals rustling in the forest, even the squib was silent and the Whomping Willow still.
People sat and stood, then lifted their heads with lost looks, searching for their beloved ones, disbelief on their faces and emptiness in their hearts where the old man once sat twinkling in his purple robes.
And the wind sang sorrowful songs and danced around them all, embracing the thoughts of anger and revenge and taking them away with it, for Albus Dumbledore would not want his friends to pay the price of his death in blood and even more sorrow.