Consider this disclaimed.

1. Michael Kelton

I studied myself in the mirror once more, standing tall and straight, shoulders back, head inclined I hoped sympathetically. Almost there. I furrowed my brow and turned my lips down very slightly. My eyes closed briefly, as though in pain. I opened them again and they connected with their reflection. Eye contact was vital at this point.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs-" I glanced at the nearby form. "Richardson."

I tried again.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs Richardson."

Almost right. I cleared my throat slightly. I'd try a deeper timbre perhaps, something more earnest, more stoic.

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mrs Richardson."

Yes, that would do. I would be the image of the sympathising boss. I'd tell her he was a good man. Always a hard worker, never kicked up a fuss. Of course it probably wasn't true, he would have gone on strike with the rest of them, but it wasn't my place to say and it wasn't the done thing to mention that sort of business at a funeral. Kind words were all that were needed. My appearance would be perfunctory, of course but it was something the company needed to do. Shows respect I suppose.

Illness was what took him apparently. Very sudden and very sad by all accounts. Left a couple of kids, grown up mind, and of course Mrs Richardson. I assume the children will come home and look after her. I hope so. It'll be a relentless winter otherwise. I suppose it'll be a relentless winter anyway.

I tightened my tie and straightened my collar. I'd do.

The journey to the station was relentless- driving wind and rain almost in the realms of hale. I'd long since put down my umbrella, fed up with the constant battle to stop it going inside out; I always lost. I tightened my coat and buttoned my collar against the autumnal battering but it did little good. Perfect funeral weather. Sunny funerals had always seemed slightly odd to me, like they ruined the mood somehow, took away the gravity of the event. When they stick me in the ground I want it as grim as possible, a truly funereal funeral, none of this celebratory nonsense. I want black and umbrellas and solemnity, perhaps a couple of weeping women, but nothing too dramatic. And I would like my mourners to convey the proper amount respectful sympathy to my grieving widow, whoever she may be. Mourners much like myself in fact.

It's wrong to dwell on it so much of course. A very morbid thing to do, certainly, but it can't be helped on the way to the funeral. It's basic nature. I wondered if Mr Richardson had thought about his funeral much. I'd imagine it's basic nature if you're on your way to death too. I hope he got what he wanted. If I'd known him, perhaps I'd be able to tell. There's definitely guilt in me about that. Not about whether his funeral is what he would have wanted, that would be silly, but not knowing him. I suppose it's my job not to know people though, keep an eye on the figures, who's turning up, who's not turning up, what our profit is… It's a job that distances you. Until someone dies that is, then someone must go down on behalf of the company to pay their respects. Sometimes it's me; sometimes it's some other unknown face. I doubt it's much help to the family. I sometimes feel it's made me detached to the point of cynicism. I think it probably has.

I think if someone I truly cared about died I'd be hard pressed to be comforted by a company representative, no matter how good they were at saying "I'm so sorry for your loss." I think I'd be sorely tempted to send them on their way. I'm surprised by how little that happens to me, considering how many of those men thought me, their superior, the enemy.

I was interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of shouting around the next corner. A couple of lads by the sound of it. It was too early for alcohol to be involved so it would probably be over a girl. Things hardly changed; I remember those fights from my youth. I got into a couple of scuffles over a girl. She was called Mary Clerkenwell and lived a couple of doors down. She was gorgeous; had a smile for everyone until you irritated her, then a temper like a dragon. Her cheeks would go pink and she'd get a fiery look in those deep brown eyes, and you'd know you were in trouble and you would love it. I think half the boys in the area were in love with her. I'd kissed her once, behind the bakery one Tuesday afternoon after school. She'd said she liked my new haircut. I was certain that meant I was in with a chance. She denied it afterwards though, said I was making it up. I know it happened though. Didn't matter though because she barely looked at me again, despite my new haircut and the other girls thought I was a bit of a creep after that. A few years later I saw her though. She'd married Danny Hart, another boy from our school and had a couple of kids. She did say sorry though, for telling everyone I hadn't kissed her. She hadn't wanted a relationship apparently.

I rounded the corner and stopped to take in the bizarre scene. Two young men, boys really, were stood in the middle of the road, one pointing a stick at another. A dozen or so others were in a similar position to me, watching the drama in front of us unfold. It wasn't the stick that had caught my attention though. It was the look on the boys face. Grief-stricken didn't cover it, nor did furious. There was an energy coming off him, something almost physical. I'd experienced nothing like it. The true and deep hatred he clearly had for the other man emanated from his every pore. I don't think I'd ever seen loss as etched onto a person's face as then.

The dark man at this point was shaking, truly shaking, in anger, the stick in his hand vibrating with energy as words began to form on his lips as, unbeknownst to him, the other man pointed his stick at the floor. At that point, to my great confusion I had the urge to shout a warning at the darker man, but before I could-

"Lily and James, Sirius, how could you?"

Both the dark haired man and I were shocked at this. I had assumed the Sirius character was the wronged in the argument. Clearly not. It was then that Sirius began to bellow something at the other man but it was too late, because that was when the bright light exploded from the other man's stick. It was odd at first, and strangely slow. A bright light that got closer quite gradually, though I knew I could not move. I felt as though it was, in reality, travelling extremely fast but my mind had slowed it down. I was very aware these were my last moments, and, bizarrely I thought ahead to what my funeral might be like. Who would the company send for me? I was right then; it was something you thought about on your way to death. Then I knew nothing.

A/N: Hello all, so the deal with this story is twelve different chapters, each an insight into one of the muggle's life. Hopefully you enjoy it. If not, sorry about that. It would be great to hear from you whether it's praise or criticism, although obviously I'd prefer praise. Thanks for reading.