When they approached the funeral home driveway, Harry felt a sudden lurch of dread in his stomach. He didn't think he could face Sirius' dead, cold body in that dark, chestnut coffin. He didn't think he could watch him being lowered six feet below . . . he was terrified. "You know . . . many people will be there that will want to talk to you and condole with you. I suggest you be courteous and polite as many famous witches and wizards are in that home right now," Mundungus said. Harry didn't appreciate being ordered around by this man that he had met barely four hours ago. But, being polite, he just nodded in return, acknowledging his statement. It felt extremely good to get out of the hot and stuffy car and into the breezy August afternoon. It felt quite nice, but there was a distinct chill in the air . . . or maybe it was just his dread speaking for him. They finally entered the funeral home and Harry couldn't believe how packed it was. There must have been at least 400 wizards and witches there. Harry wasn't sure if the 400 were there because they were glad to see him go . . . and he didn't really want to find out. Harry heard a voice behind him and turned around. It was Dumbledore. He had been talking to a young witch of around Harry's age whom was very nice-looking indeed. She smiled at Harry and Dumbledore before leaving. "How are you, Harry? I want to apologize for not staying with you that day at your relative's house. But I hope you can understand that the outside world's demands are very high as of right now and I had other business that I was obligated to tend to," Dumbledore said. "Yes, of course Professor, of course I understand . . . I've been making it through all right. It hadn't really hit me until I was just riding in the car with Mr. Fletcher. Dumbledore . . . where is he? I would like to see him." "He's in the room right through there . . ." Dumbledore pointed with a steady finger through the masses of people crowded around the room. Harry nodded at Dumbledore and trudged his way through the sea of witches and wizards. He finally caught a glimpse of what looked like bunches of flowers and candles. He looked downwards, not wanting to see him, yet feeling it his duty to do so. Sirius deserved at least that much respect. As he came to an opening, he saw it. He neared it, dreading what lay before him. And there was Sirius Alan Black, godfather to Harry, best friend of his parent's, ex-convicted murderer, lying in a casket, pale as a ghost. He lay motionless with hands at both sides, looking dashing in his navy blue suit, which lay upon him carelessly. It was very hard to see his usually lively godfather in this state. He'd never imagined him to be dead. Harry put a hand into the casket and touched him. Harry drew back quickly . . . he was cold as ice. He wrapped his hand around Sirius' and sat there for quite a long time. It wasn't until someone came up and tapped him on the shoulder that he was aware that the actual funeral was starting. "Sirius Alan Black," the priest started, "though a wrong impression came across to many of us when convicted of a false felony, was truly an inspirational and great man. He touched many of our lives in some way or another and managed to create a spot in his heart for each and everyone of us. He caused many to laugh during his years at school and was a very admirable person indeed, even in childhood . . ." As the priest went on, Harry zoned out. He wanted to be anywhere else but there right then. He looked straight ahead and blocked out the priest's words. Seeing Sirius in that setting was just too . . . disturbing. After all, he'd never been through a fu -- . . . Harry's thoughts were interrupted when another marched its way right in. He had been through a funeral. Dumbledore once told him that some of his parent's ashes had been collected after Voldemort attacked them in Godric's Hollow, the night that they died. Harry had asked where they were, as he thought that he deserved to have them, but Dumbledore hadn't revealed the answer, for "security reasons." Harry hadn't thought of his parent's funeral in a very long time. He'd never considered the fact that they must've had some kind of service for them. What would be his reaction today if another kind of memorial service was held? As this event was causing many dark and depressing thoughts, Harry thought it time for a break. It was then that he realized it appeared that Harry was the 'guest of honor' in a way. It seemed as if he was the only 'family' Sirius had ever had, and he was sitting in front of the funeral party, in a separate chair from everyone else. Harry hadn't even noticed the people that kept coming up to him and saying, "I'm sorry, dear . . ." The funeral continued and Harry remained in his state of fogginess. And before he knew it, it was time for the last good-bye before they locked the casket. Harry was the first in line and walked towards the coffin. There was Sirius again, cold as ice, lying there like a lifeless vegetable. Harry had tried so hard to prevent the tears that had been building up inside him, but the longer he looked at the dead Sirius, the more the gale of hurt wanted to escape. He couldn't control it anymore and let out a desperate cry of anguish. He collapsed onto the person next to him and cried, and cried, and cried . . . The next few hours were just a blur. It seemed as if he was delirious as he had no idea where he was or whom he was sitting next to. He heard voices around him that he did not recognize . . . he saw flashing lights. "Stop moving me around," Harry tried to mumble. A voice spoke as if speaking into a tape recorder, "His words are incomprehensible and he seems to be deliriously confused . . . his limbs are limp and his speech is jumbled . . . what do you suggest? Okay . . . just grief? Just sleep? Pills? Okay, I'll have Tom go and get them . . ." And that was all he remembered.

Harry must've woken, as sunlight was suddenly pouring into his eyes. But then the light was shaded and he could finally open his eyes. "Are you okay?" The voice was music to his ears . . . so angelic it sounded as if it should've been in the heavens, and not here on earth. The oily tones of this female's voice made him at ease at once. "Yes," Harry replied, closing his eyes again so he could correct his vision. Soon, he opened them again and was looking into the eyes of the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. "My name is Annabelle . . . I believe you're a Mr. Harry Potter?" "Yeah . . ." This girl didn't seem to be British either, she surely had an American accent. "You've been sleeping for two days straight . . . I've been watching over you . . . we never knew when you'd wake." "Who is we?" Harry wondered briefly for a minute, then realized that it had come out in the form of a question. "We, as in the British Society for American Orphanized Children, or BSAOC for short," this girl named Annabelle said. "Oh, I see . . ." Harry felt the urge to launch into his story of orphanism, in order to relate with her, but figured she already knew and decided he shouldn't waste his already feeble energy.