A great many things were said between Harry and Voldemort. Isabella heard them distantly, for is seemed she could not stop thinking of Bellatrix's wild laugh and her last, silent plea.
All that she knew was that, though Voldemort was dead and everyone else was rejoicing, Isabella felt that something larger that Voldemort was coming. She could tell the members of the VI felt it too. Everyone around them was celebrating and grieving, cheering and mourning.
The VI hung on the sidelines, a separate group. Isabella was utterly torn between the two. She felt the loss of Alex, Morgan, Castro, and Fred keenly, but also the terrible loneliness of feeling like the only one who had to go back home to a war-torn country where discrimination went beyond magic.
Luna and Isabella spent a few minutes alone amid the jubilation, arms wrapped around each other, silently grieving the loss of their best friends. Terry was a constant presence and gentle comfort, but Isabella knew she would be leaving him soon.
Her parents had agreed to let her stay for the three funerals. The rest of the VI was sent back to the Academia, but Isabella retreated to the shelter of the Scottish cottage.
They buried Castro beneath a weeping cherry tree. Spring blossoms, still falling this late in the season, coated his grave with pink petals.
Morgan's family only wanted a very small funeral. Luna and Isabella were invited, but they were the only ones outside of the Baker family. Isabella brought a wreath of hyacinth flowers and placed them on the empty coffin. This was the hardest of the three funerals, simply because Morgan had been so overflowing with life, so filled with curiosity and love and vitality that it was hard to imagine her lifeless and broken.
Morgan's mother, a tall regal-looking witch with blonde hair, did not cry. Isabella did not think less of her for this, knowing how it felt to have utterly spent your tears. Morgan's father was fair with bright green eyes; quiet and solemn, his silent tears traced silver lines down his cheek.
Alex's memorial was more full. Her grandparents and parents and cousins and aunts and uncles had shown up. They all cried, but there was a phoniness about it that Isabella hated. It was almost as though these extra people, people who hadn't really known Alex and just felt obligated to attend, were intruding on the real grief of a select few.
Isabella brought no flowers to Alex's memorial. She knew Alex would not have like something as frivolous as plants.
When she had been at Morgan's funeral, Isabella thought it strange to have a casket and no body. Now, however, she realized how strange it was to not have a casket. To the Muggle members of Alex's family, her parents claimed she had died in a fire and her body couldn't be recovered. This was, of course, true, but Isabella thought it excluded all of the heroism Alex had shown in her final acts.
The air was unseasonably cold. Isabella shivered slightly, wishing she had thought to bring a shawl. She stepped off the wet grass she had apparated upon and onto the gravel path. Far up ahead on hill's slope was the black marquee, golden light peeping out of its cracks, promising warmth inside.
Isabella's shoes stuck a little in the mud as she walked up the hill. The brisk winds flurried around her, like curious birds that tugged her hair and clothes. The black silk roses on her dress rumpled crossly and crouched low.
Someone was coming down to meet her. George Weasley was somber, his normally laughing brown eyes downcast. His red hair had gotten longer and shaggier, in a vain attempt to cover up the hole where his ear had been. He wore black, but his clothes seemed baggy, as though he had lost weight. George's fine shoes slipped and skidded on the gravel as he came down to Isabella.
"Bella - " he began, his brown eyes pained. "Bella, I - " but he seemed unable to go on. Isabella wrapped her arms around him and he laid his head on hers.
"I know," she whispered. They stood for a moment, silent and trembling, before the raindrops began to fall. George offered Isabella his arm and helped her up the rest of the slope and into the black tent.
Rows upon rows of hard-backed seats were facing the front, where a coffin lay upon its rest. George seemed unable to look there, as though he couldn't bear to see his twin's dead body.
A large number of people had come to bid Fred Weasley their last farewells. Isabella saw Harry, Hermione, Angelina Johnson, and Lee Jordan sitting amid the red-haired Weasley clan. George slipped away to join them as well.
"Bella," someone called softly. Isabella turned and saw Terry in the final row. Members of the DA sat back here, as though trying to give the family space. Isabella slid into the seat beside Terry, who took her hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.
"My brothers and sisters, we are gathered here today not only to grieve the loss of a friend, but also celebrate the life of a wonderful man," the tiny, tufted-hair officiant began. "Fred Weasley was a kind, compassionate, and loyal friend. He demonstrated great bravery and tremendous talent. It is hard to think someone so full of life could lose that life."
Isabella felt tears welling in her eyes. What good were words to describe the person Fred Weasley had been? If Fred had been here, he would have laughed at this tiny man spouting sentimental dribble. But Fred wasn't here.
Rain pattered on the marquee walls as the service continued. It was interesting how the sound of the leaves thrashing in the rain sounded like wings fluttering.
Isabella realized too late that those were not leaves, but actually were wings. She only knew that when a particularly strong gust of wind tore through a gap in the tent walls and a thoroughly wet, disgruntled-looking hawk had flown in.
Mourners gasped and turned to watch the bird - Isabella could see now that it was Tarquinius - ruffle his feathers and soar over to her.
"Well - um -," the little wizard said, completely distracted. "Oh, yes, a reading from..." he went on, and Isabella glared at Tarquinius.
"Go away," she hissed. "I'm in the middle of - ouch!" Tarquinius dug his talons into her arm. Terry slapped the bird until he loosened his grip and Isabella untied the message around Tarquinius' leg.
As she read, her face went white and the hand clutching the page tensed until her knuckles stood out white.
"What's wrong?" Terry asked in a hushed whisper, but Isabella stood abruptly, causing her chair to fly back.
"Really, miss!" the wizard squeaked indignantly. "We are having a - " But Isabella turned and ran out of the tent. Terry stood and, looking around at the shocked faces, slipped out after her.
Isabella stood about ten feet from the tent, still clutching the letter. She was re-reading it, apparently unable to believe what was written.
"Bella, what's all this - ?" George had followed them out. He was pale and wan, nearly stumbling through the mud.
"I'm sorry, George!" Isabella shouted over the rain. "But I have - I have -" She crumpled the paper in her hand. "I'm sorry," she mouthed, then disappeared with a crack.
"BELLA!" the two young men shouted, but she was gone, leaving nothing but rain in her wake and the letter, which fell to the ground like a shot bird. Terry dove for the paper and picked it up.