Disclaimer: Not mine. Except the plot, everything's someone else's. How depressing.
Ron stood at the front of Harry's funeral, he who had died merely a few days previously. Everyone looked at him, him. He wasn't good with words. He'd start with that. Tossing his speech paper aside, he began.
"I'm not good with words. Even when I was eleven, when I tried to say something nice, it came out awfully. So I'm going to quote a Muggle who was good with words, because I can't find the words, and this was Harry's favourite poem. He heard it when he was a kid, wrote it out and stuck it on his wall. So this one's for Harry.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good." By the end of the poem, everyone, even Snape, was crying. "I'll miss you, Harry."
I'm in a depressed mood. I hope you understand.
All my love, funky xxxx
