Funeral day dawned clear and blue. Everyone donned their Hogwarts black in mourning. The Great Hall teemed with people milling about in the same uniform; this made it seem nearly like old times, though the occasion was horribly, horribly wrong. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stayed close—this wake was the sort of thing they had to do together; Ginny wordlessly understood. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley received endless condolences. Flowers bloomed upon the caskets of the fallen heroes.
The martyrs were to be buried at sundown, in a rolling moor just beyond the Quidditch pitch. When the time came, everyone made their way out to the thousands of golden chairs. A purple carpet ran the length of the center aisle towards a vast marble table. Once everyone had settled, the small, tufty-haired minister who had presided over Dumbledore's funeral and Bill and Fleur's wedding (was this man everywhere?) stepped up to begin the service.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to remember the people who have given their lives to free us from a most terrible evil. We must honor them, by working towards harmony each and every day, through love. The mystery of love…"
The tufty-haired minister's singsong voice washed over Harry. He had never been one for lectures, and today was no different. How could anyone sum up their loss in just a few words, no matter how sincere?
Harry inhaled sharply, shivering in spite of the muggy evening air. He tried to banish the ache in his stomach and the heat building behind his eyes. A shudder to his right told him Hermione had lost her own battle for composure. Harry swallowed hard and gripped her hand tightly, steeling himself for the eulogies, willing himself to be strong, if only for the sake of his dear friend.
Harry hadn't noticed the minister concluding his solemn invocation until a crushing silence fell over the crowd.
The minister struck up a funeral march with his wand; Harry was suddenly reminded of his first night at Hogwarts, when the twins had sung along to a similar tune. His lips twitched into a rueful half-smile, inducing an onslaught of raw emotion.
Hermione squeezed his hand, whispering, "Harry, behind you." Harry craned his neck and peered down the center aisle.
A glittering glass casket floated towards the front of the crowd, ensconced in a halo of soft, golden light. Inside lay Ted Tonks, whose body had recently been recovered. His hands were clasped peacefully upon his torso; to an onlooker, he might have been asleep. The casket landed gently on the marble slab.
The minister said a prayer and Andromeda Tonks came forward to give the eulogy, with baby Teddy asleep in her arms. As she finished, she conjured a single pink flower on her husband's chest and retreated, her stoic façade finally crumbling.
White light radiated from the body. Spirals of smoke curled into the sky, turning the shimmering glass to solid marble. With a flick of his wand, the minister sent the casket to its final resting place. Dirt filled itself in and a white headstone appeared above the grave.
And so it went. Colin Creevey. Gornuk. A memorial for Mad-Eye. Scores of unfamiliar faces—Aurors, villagers, unknown students—had died to aid Harry's triumph. Every spouse's wail of sorrow tore through Harry's conscience. It was painful goodbye after painful goodbye.
When Remus and Tonks were laid to rest, Harry's eyes alighted upon sweet Teddy, whose hair was as tenaciously turquoise as ever. A pang of sorrow for all he had ever lost coursed through Harry's heart. He would be there for Teddy like no one had ever been for him. Harry clasped Hermione's hand ever tighter as he let his first tears of the day stream silently down his face.
Finally, the meadow had become a sea of marble headstones glowing brightly against the ombré dusk. Hagrid came down the aisle bearing the final body. A tuft of red hair escaped the corner of its violet shroud.
George sat on the wide sill of a window in the North Tower, leaning back against the stone. He watched the funeral progress, the knot in his heart growing tighter and tighter. Every time someone was buried, he silently pleaded for Fred to pop up and pronounce it all a grand joke.
He opened and closed his eyes several times; it wasn't going away. He considered going down there, but he couldn't let everyone see him like this. Not when they were all being so strong. George sighed and closed his eyes as another was buried.
"Not regretting anything now, are we?" sneered a cold voice. George whipped around. The Bloody Baron hovered before him.
"No," snapped George bitterly. "What are you doing here? Piss off."
"Oh, getting rude, are we now?"
"Shut up."
"Fine then, you nasty little blood traitor. Just know this: I never got over my regrets; I put a dagger in my heart because of them. If you don't go down there, you'll end up like me. Chained." The Baron glided through a wall.
His words struck a chord with George. He leapt up and bounded down to the Room of Requirement. Grabbing several boxes of Deflagration Deluxe, he dashed downstairs to the Entrance Hall and out to the grounds. Lee was getting up to speak. Swallowing hard, George decided to let Fred go out in style, and set off towards the moor.
That marked the first nice thing the Baron had done since his death over a thousand years before. He seemed to make a habit of it after that. The Grey Lady and he became quite the ghostly item.