Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own anything Harry Potter related or make any profit from writing about it.
Tom Riddle's funeral was a surprisingly small affair. Aside from the standard swarm of reporters, most of the wizarding population chose to celebrate closer to home with bonfires, parties, and fireworks. Harry, the Weasleys, and a few of the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix attended the ceremony, which was held, fittingly, beside the broken Gaunt house. Ironically, the same Ministry official who'd spoken at Dumbledore's funeral was waiting for them under the swishing boughs of a thin green tree, his flyaway hair swaying in the cooling breeze of dusk. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new temporary Minister for Magic, stood close by, the dying sunlight reflecting off his gold earring when he nodded his quiet greeting to them. Tom's body floated in the air next to him, suspended by a simple Hovering Charm.
There were quite a few pops and flashes from the reporters' flashbulbs when they arrived, which Harry ignored while the group approached the trio, Kingsley, the little Ministry official, and Tom's corpse. Even after seeing him defeated, it was still a little discomfiting to see Voldemort so close without reaching for a wand or ducking for cover. It occurred to Harry then that, even with magic and power, Voldemort was just as mortal as anyone else after all. He was reminded suddenly of a news story he'd heard through the window at Privet Drive about a man who had devoted his life to exercise and healthy living, but had then died in a hurricane while hanging onto a telephone pole to test his strength. In the long run, sit-ups, tofu, and Horcruxes could save neither man from his fate.
Harry sat between Ginny and Percy on one of the wobbly wooden chairs under the tree. A few seats down to his left, Harry could hear Mrs. Weasley sniffling into a handkerchief, Mr. Weasley's murmurs of comfort a low and steady mantra punctuated by the undulating drone of crickets. Her tears weren't for Voldemort, Harry knew, but because of him. Further down to his right, Hermione and Ron sat close together, their hands clasped tightly on Hermione's thigh. A knot twisted around his heart when Harry noticed how many seats were left open, spaces left for Weasleys and Order members who wouldn't be here or anywhere again.
He turned in his seat when the flashbulbs stuttered again, in time to see the Malfoys slip into the last empty row, keeping a respectful distance. Narcissa and Lucius stared straight ahead as they sat quietly, their arms crisscrossing behind Draco's narrow shoulders. The Malfoys were dressed in smart silver robes, which made it more obvious that Snape wasn't with them. Harry wondered briefly if they were even very close now that Voldemort was dead. As Snape was nowhere to be seen and Harry was sure at least Draco would know where his own godfather was, he raised a dark eyebrow questioningly at Draco, who seemed to get the message but shrugged and sat back, a mask of bored indifference tightening the lines around his eyes.
The new minister cleared his throat and stepped forward and Harry turned back around in his seat, frowning and folding his arms over his chest. Ginny huffed next to him as if she'd expected to hold hands with him, but Harry kept his sight focused on Shacklebolt and his hands to himself.
"Many of us from the first war," Kingsley began in his low, deep voice, "have dreamed of this day for a very long time. The long road to this-" his dark brown eyes flicked down to Voldemort's body and back up again- "has been strewn, sadly, with our losses." He paused, his eyes resting sorrowfully on Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. "Our sons, our daughters, our fathers and mothers, and even our closest allies have fallen so that we could be here today." He met Harry's gaze and continued thoughtfully. "Though they are gone, their sacrifices won't be forgotten, nor will we forget the sacrifices made by those we once thought to be the enemy. It's taken too many years and too much suffering, but Tom Riddle's reign of darkness and murder is finally over." Shacklebolt nodded to the man with tufty hair and strode forward to sit in an empty seat next to Bill and Fleur.
The man from the Ministry simply nodded once and jabbed his wand at the lifeless form of Voldemort. Crack! The body disappeared in a downward puff of purple smoke, and a dark granite headstone jutted up from the earth next to the tree like a tooth cutting through gums. The little man dusted his black robes and nodded to them again before he strode away down a dirt road. With a small pop, he Disapparated.
"Well, that was a little anti-climatic," one of the reporters stated bracingly. Quite a few of them agreed loudly, and the rest of them wandered off with their cameras and Quick-Quotes Quills to get their stories to their bosses as quickly as possible.
Bill and Fleur were the first to leave. It didn't escape Harry's notice when they each laid a protective hand over Fleur's abdomen before they spun on the spot and Disapparated. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley drew their brood to them when Percy pulled an empty tuna tin from his pocket. Harry paused to join them; Lucius and Narcissa had Disapparated without notice and Draco was slowly making his way toward him.
"Come on, Harry," Ginny called, one finger hooked inside the rim of the dingy tin. Her brown eyes narrowed when she saw Draco, her chin tilting up defiantly. "Thirty seconds, Harry."
Without thinking, Harry jogged to Draco, grabbed his wrist, and ran him back to the Weasley group. Shoulder to shoulder, he placed their fingers on the bent-back lid, just in time to notice Mrs. Weasley's small sad smile, Ginny's furious glare, and Draco's mocking smirk. Before he could rethink his actions, the tin glowed a bright blue, an invisible hook behind his navel jerked him backward and they were on their way to the Burrow.
