When Harry had attended Bill and Fleur's wedding last year, he had wondered if the Wizarding version of the ceremony differed at all from the Muggle one. Never having been to either, he couldn't be sure.

Harry had been to a Muggle funeral, though. When he was nine, Uncle Vernon's mother had passed away, and the whole family traveled to York for the funeral. It had been rather different from Dumbledore's, to be sure, but Harry expected that anything done for Dumbledore wouldn't be normal, anyway.

This evening, the gathering at the Weasley home wasn't atypical. Same darkly-clad mourners, same table creaking with casserole dishes – what was it about casseroles when people died? – the same photo of the deceased ringed with fresh flowers. Of course, Fred's picture was moving, unlike Gertrude Dursley's, and Fred wasn't alone; he and George were both in the frame. Harry could barely tell the twins apart in person – or at least he hadn't been able to up until George's accident last summer – but it appeared that Fred was trying to pull George's hair out in this one.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had tumbled out of the kitchen fireplace, having left by Floo from McGonagall's office just moments before. Harry, who had gone first, had a few seconds to survey the scene before first Hermione, then Ron exited the green glow of the Floo. Hermione, who had never liked to travel this way, had swallowed some powder and needed several thumps on the back to break up her hacking cough.

"Look, I'm running upstairs to change," Ron whispered once Hermione was settled, leaning in toward Harry so as to be heard. No one else was in the kitchen with them, but there were several people standing in the hallway not too far away, and a louder tone would have been overheard. Harry doubted anyone cared about Ron's clothing, but considering this was a funeral, he agreed it was more polite to speak quietly. "I'll be right back."

"What do we do in the meantime?" Hermione asked him, nervously pressing her palms against her robe. "I've only ever been to one funeral, and that was at a church. This looks more like a wake."

"Fred's body is already at the cemetery. This is where anyone who wants to pay their respects comes and talks to the family, or writes in the Book of Life." Ron pointed at a book lying open on the table in front of Fred's picture. "Only a few people – family and really, really close friends – attend the graveside where we say goodbye before the burial, which is always right at sunset. That part is supposed to be more private."

"Isn't there a minister?" Harry asked.

"Weddings and funerals aren't considered religious ceremonies for wizards." Hermione spoke before Ron could answer. Having the answer – even one of them – seemed to give her new confidence, and she didn't look quite so lost.

Ron nodded. "At the graveside, anyone who wants to share a memory or just say goodbye can do so. A Ministry employee has to be present, by law . . . I can't think why, they just do. But Dad is, so that's taken care of."

"They need to certify that the body was actually buried, not taken away to use in some Dark ritual," came Hermione's voice again. "Apparently, they had some trouble with that in the past."

Harry thought that was odd reasoning. "Wouldn't it be easy for a wizard to come dig him out later?" he asked. Hermione had only needed to give a quick flick of her wand to empty a grave for Snape, so it stood to reason that exhuming him would have been just as uncomplicated.

Ron shrugged. "We do what we can, mate. Anyway, like I said, let me go change, then I'll take you around." He ran up the stairs two at a time, leaving his friends standing rather awkwardly in their corner, spying on the guests in the other rooms and attempting to take cue from their behaviour.

Not everyone was wearing black, actually. The proper attire appeared to be dress robes, which was undoubtedly what Ron would fetch from his room. Harry, having left all but the most basic of his possessions at the Dursleys' last summer, and Hermione, whose parents had packed up their house and moved to Australia, had wardrobes comprised entirely of tees and trousers. They'd spent half an hour going through the contents of Hermione's beaded purse before concluding that. Luckily, the students who'd fled during the battle hadn't been back for their things yet, so they'd both been able to scrounge Hogwarts robes to wear. While not especially dressy, they were at least neat and sober.

Privately, Harry wondered why Hermione couldn't just Transfigure something else into robes, but felt that it was up to her to broach the subject. He also wondered why, when she'd clearly explained the Principal Exceptions to Gaunt's . . . to Grump's . . . well, the Rules of Food, anyway . . . she still hadn't been able to multiply their food supply while they were camping all over the British countryside. But that thought, in turn, led to speculation as to how some perfectly adept wizards – namely the Weasleys and Lupin – had always dressed themselves and their children so shabbily. Couldn't magic be used to repair clothing? And at that point, Harry started to feel overwhelmed and decided it was time to think about something else entirely.

Still, considering the circumstances, it was hardly appropriate to be raising a fuss over robes. So here they stood, dressed in too-short wool school robes – at least they had the Gryffindor crest – trying to blend in with the wallpaper while Weasleys of all ages milled around them. Similarities aside, Harry really had no idea what one did at a funeral. Of any kind. It was small consolation that Hermione, usually so self-possessed, looked as bewildered as he did.

Harry jumped as Ron's voice spoke too close to his ear; he hadn't even heard his friend return. "Let's go see my parents," Ron was saying softly. He started for the sitting room, and Harry took Hermione's arm to guide her through the crowd.

Mrs. Weasley was sitting in one of the dining chairs, her husband standing over her with his hands on her shoulders. A rather elderly witch had both of Ron's mother's hands clasped in her own, and was speaking to her softly. Harry felt a pang when he saw how Mrs. Weasley's face was streaked with tears. Once rather plump, she had shed a great deal of weight over the past year, which even her long, dark robes couldn't disguise completely. Her face was much thinner, with huge dark circles under the eyes and sharply-outlined cheekbones. Both she and Mr. Weasley had a quantity of silver in their hair, and Arthur also looked as if he'd lost weight. Ron's father wasn't crying, but his face had the unnatural stillness of someone who didn't want to show any emotion whatsoever.

Ron headed straight for his mother, who stood up and folded him into a tight hug. The elderly witch gave him a sad smile before her eyes flickered to Harry, and lit up as realisation dawned. Actually, several people had looked at him strangely as the three made their way across the room; the whispering had started, too. Harry's face grew hot with mortification; this was Fred's funeral, and he was the centre of attention, which just wasn't right.

Harry and Hermione hung back while Ron embraced his mother, but after a second, Mrs. Weasley let go of Ron and beckoned for them. "Harry, dear. And Hermione. Thank you both so much for coming." she said, taking Harry's hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Of course we came." Harry nodded at Mr. Weasley, who gave him a tight smile.

"Can I help you do anything, Mrs. Weasley?" Hermione asked her quietly. Harry hoped the answer would be yes; he'd relish something to do, preferably something that would take him away from the stares and whispers.

"We'll be leaving very soon for the . . . burial," Arthur said softly. "So it's about time for all of us to gather in the kitchen. Fleur has volunteered to stay and see everyone else out."

"We could help. Or if you like, I can make sure dinner's ready when you get back," Hermione offered.

"What do you mean? You'll be coming with us, of course," Mrs. Weasley replied, surprised.

Hermione coloured. "Ron said that part was just for family, so I assumed . . ."

"You and Harry are family."

Harry saw Hermione flush, and he knew he probably was, too. But he also felt very grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley at that moment.

"Harry." Harry jerked out of his reverie when Mr. Weasley spoke his name. "Ginny's outside, and I think George is, too. Can you bring them in?"

"Sure, Mr. Weasley." Harry made for the door.

"Arthur, Harry." Harry smiled at him before stepping outside, where the sun was steadily sinking toward the horizon. Ginny was standing at the edge of the back garden, facing west, but she turned and watched him as he approached.

"Hey," Harry said awkwardly. "Erm, your dad says it's time to leave. Where's George?"

"He's over there." Ginny cocked her head. "Dad's been really worried about him," she added softly, glancing over to the corner of the yard where her brother sat cross-legged on an overturned crate, staring at the setting sun. There was a glass of what appeared to be orange juice resting on the ground next to him. "He's been hitting the firewhisky pretty hard. We all had some to drink that first night, of course, but George hasn't stopped since. He gets up in the morning, pours a shot in his coffee, and doesn't leave off until he goes to bed." As if to illustrate her point, Harry saw George lift his glass and down the contents.

"Well, he just lost his twin," Harry offered. "I know when I lost Sirius, I thought how nice it would be to get good and pissed." Against his will, Harry found his mind wandering back to those days that followed the Department of Mysteries. Just at first, there'd been so much activity, what with packing up and bidding his friends and classmates goodbye, that Harry had little time to spend in idle melancholy. It was only after he'd gone home – or, more accurately, to where he lived – that the stillness and emptiness almost became too much. Harry had spent his nights rather as he suspected Sirius had for the past year: lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, only getting up on occasion to use the loo or stare blankly at the contents of the refrigerator, finally closing it without having taken anything out.

Had he been an adult with a stocked liquor cupboard, Harry may very well have chosen that method of escape. Only lack of supply and Dumbledore's timely appearance had prevented that eventuality. So he wasn't at all surprised to learn about George's new habit. "But then, I hadn't known Sirius very long, and Fred and George were never apart their whole lives. So I reckon he'll be doing this for a while."

"There've already been two suicides, family members of people that died," Ginny replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Harry looked at her in shock. "Dad thinks George might try to . . . follow Fred. You haven't seen him when he's pissed. He's this whole other person." She bit her lip as George got up, reeling a bit before setting off toward the house with his empty cup. "So you can see why we're worried."

Harry stared in horror as Ginny's eyes welled up with tears. He'd never seen her upset before and wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. For so long now, he'd tried to block out the memories of their brief, happy time together at Hogwarts last year. For one thing, it hurt too much to brood over what he'd lost. For another, on the off chance that Voldemort was still inside his head, Harry didn't even want the Dark Lord to suspect his connection to Ginny. And go after her.

Now, with his former girlfriend showing the first crack in her armour that Harry had ever seen, and free to show how he really felt, he only wanted to hold her. So he did just that. He took one step and suddenly Ginny's face was buried into his neck, into the little hollow in his throat that seemed to have been made just for her. Her shoulders were heaving as she fought not to start blubbing, and he just gently stroked her back while murmuring nonsense syllables. For the first time, Harry began to realise that Ginny wasn't just a friend, nor just a girlfriend. Their relationship at Hogwarts, which seemed intense at the time, now appeared shallow and superficial. So much had happened since, and so many friends were gone forever. Never having expected to survive the war, plans beyond the next few days were still abstract and ephemeral in Harry's concept of the future. But that evening, with the dying sunlight playing over Ginny's gorgeous hair, something in his subconscious made the irrevocable decision that this girl would be his wife one day.

They may have stood like that for hours had Ron not called them in from the kitchen. Harry reluctantly let go of Ginny and settled for putting his arm around her as they walked back to the house. Everyone who was going to the graveside was in the kitchen, ready to leave, when the two of them finally got in. Ron's parents, Ron himself, Bill, Charlie, Percy, George (who didn't look as if he could stand up much longer without assistance), and Hermione. Harry couldn't help feeling a surge of happiness that he and Hermione were considered close enough to be included in this most private family ceremony.

"Right, then, we're all here," Mr. Weasley said. "Let's go. Harry, would you bring Ginny along?" Harry was confused at the request until first Bill, then Percy, and all the rest of them in succession began Disapparating with identical pops. He had become so used to Apparating that he'd forgotten Ginny wasn't yet seventeen.

Though her eyes were still too bright from unshed tears, Ginny managed to smile at him. "Give me a hand, please? And watch where you put it," she chided.

Harry chuckled before offering his arm, which she took with both hands. He prepared himself to Apparate . . . then stopped. "Erm . . . where . . . ?" he asked, embarrassed.

"Rowe-Stuart Cemetery," Ginny explained. "It's actually within walking distance."

"Thanks." Harry closed his eyes and focused on their destination. That old Apparation feeling of being squeezed through a garden hose had never become commonplace to him, and when they appeared in the cemetery seconds later, Harry gratefully took deep breaths of the warm June air.

Everyone else had formed a circle around the only open grave. Harry and Ginny hurried to join them. Arthur nodded at the pair without pausing in what he was saying. ". . . in this last farewell to our brother and son. Now, anyone who'd like to share a memory of Fred or say something to him, do so."

Ron shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. "Well, what I remember most about Fred is how he . . . well, how both of you" – he nodded at George – "were always trying to run Mum ragged switching places with each other. She got pretty good at telling you apart, but if you switched jumpers or something, she was usually too flustered to notice." Mrs. Weasley had a sad smile on her face as Ron spoke. "Fred's favourite game was to get a snack from Mum, then go upstairs and come back again, pretending he was George. 'Mum, you gave Fred a snack, can I have one, too?'" Ron mimicked, and everyone laughed. "Of course, she'd give him one, then he'd come back again and act like it had been George the whole time. Mum figured she'd fed George twice, so Fred ended up with a third snack." Ron shook his head. "He ate more than the rest of us put together and never gained an ounce. Anyway, that's what I remember."

There was an awkward pause. Perhaps everyone had a memory to share, but no one wanted to appear pushy. Finally, Bill started to speak, swinging his arms freely by his sides. "Erm, well, Ron always came to me when you two had been taking the piss out of him, so I'm rather biased towards thinking of him as a troublemaker," he said. "Like when you turned his teddy bear into a spider, and . . . oh, yeah, that time you almost killed him with the Unbreakable Vow." This last was delivered in a light and deliberately nonchalant tone, so it also elicited laughter from the group.

Percy, who despite his flaming red hair still looked oddly out of place among the family he'd ignored so long, went next. "You two were always so close," he began, looking at George while addressing the whole group. "Charlie and Bill were, too. I felt kind of left out, which is why . . ." Percy looked down at his shoes and scuffed a toe along the grass. "That's why I started to keep to myself. But what I always liked about Fred was that he was never mean. He played all kinds of pranks, even on me, but he wasn't ever malicious. It was all good fun." He stopped and looked about him rather awkwardly. "Well, that's . . . that's it, I reckon."

Arthur nodded. "Thank you, son." He turned to his wife. "Molly? Are you ready to say goodbye?" He placed a comforting hand on the small of her back. "Go ahead, love," he added in a softer voice.

"Oh, go 'head and tellum," George suddenly spoke up in the too-loud tones of someone who's been drinking heavily and can't regulate the volume of his voice. "Tellum how you awways blamed him'n'me for everything. Tellum how uhsh . . . uh-shamed you were t'have such losers fer sons.” George was smiling, but there was no laughter in that smile; it was more of a grimace. "Tellum."

"George," Arthur admonished his son. "Stop." Mrs. Weasley's face was working, more tears beginning to slip down her face.

George acted as if he hadn't heard his father. "Oh, it wuz awways Bill the Prefect, Ch-charlie the Head Boy . . . Perthy wuddna give tuppenth for any of 'un, but you couldna stan' it whenne left. Never cried when Fred'n'me moved out!"

"That isn't true, George!" Mrs. Weasley cried piteously. “I always loved you children the same, every one of you the same!" She turned to her husband. "Arthur, tell him," she pleaded. "Tell him I loved them both the same as the others! Tell him how proud I was of them!"

Whatever Arthur might have said was drowned out as George continued his tirade. His mother's supplications seemed only to fuel his ire. "Oh, shu-u-u-ure. You shure're proud when we got rich, but how 'bout before? Awl them Howlurrs, and the th-thcreaming when we came home for how-howwid-daze . . ." George's voice trailed off as if he'd lost his train of thought. Everyone stood frozen, none of them knowing what they should do.

After a few seconds' pause, George opened his mouth, ready to continue. "Harry, why don't you speak next, please?" Arthur quickly interrupted.

Harry didn't even have a chance to start talking when George took another step forward, stumbling even over the flat earth. Harry could smell the whisky from clear on the other side of the open grave. Everyone tensed as George called across to Harry, as if the English Channel stood between them instead of perhaps four feet. "G'head, then, mate. We tho honoured to haf the Boy Who Wived wif uth today . . . whaddaya wanna thay about the Boy Who Died?" George burst into hysterical laughter that echoed horribly in the absolute silence.

Harry's face and ears burned; he couldn't even fathom what would be the right thing to say. "George," he began, but George cut him off.

"Wha'? Oh, thawry, mate, thath my bad ear. Funny th-thtory there; we wath helping out thith frienda ourn 'bout a year ago, 'n' thomehow ev-everyone but him ended up getting huwt."

"George!" Ginny hissed.

"Why don't you go pour yourself another drink, mate?" Ron shouted at his brother, closing the space between them with four quick paces. "I reckon your old one is wearing off!"

"Stop it, please!" Hermione cried, stepping between the two men. "This isn't the right time."

"Ith my brin twother'th funeral, you damned . . . you Mumbwood," George bellowed, tripping over the words even worse now that he was riled up. "Wha'th a better time? How m-many udder people're dead cautha him?" George tried to point at Harry and ended up aiming the gesture at Ginny, who stood to Harry's left, gripping his arm like a vise.

At the word 'Mudblood', Hermione flinched back from George; her shoulders sagged, and Harry saw her eyes fill with tears at hearing the epithet from the last person she expected to use such a slur. Ron, however, far from shrinking away, lashed a fist out at his brother's face; there was a sickening sound as his punch landed slightly off the center of George's nose.

"That's enough, son." Arthur's voice, while quiet, echoed loudly in the sudden deathly stillness. Ron, whose face was red as a beet except for two white spots right at the crest of his cheeks, and whose eyes were burning like live coals, allowed Arthur to gently push him back from George. George's nose was already bleeding, but he didn't even appear cognizant of that. In fact, other than a slight swaying of his tall frame, George didn't seem to have been affected at all. He started to laugh, an eerie sound with no mirth in it whatsoever.

"Fred'th dead, po-o-or dead Fred," he slurred in a singsong voice, stumbling, but not struggling, as Arthur steered him away from the shellshocked people at the gravesite. Arthur looked over his shoulder at Ron as he walked.

"Help your mother, son," he said simply, before pulling George's staggering form close and Disapparating with a pop.

Harry tore his eyes away from the spot where Arthur had just been standing and looked at Mrs. Weasley. Arthur was right; she needed help. Her face was white as snow, and she looked ready to keel over. Ron, snapped out of his fury by his father's words, turned and caught her just before she fell. As Bill and Charlie rushed over to help, Mrs. Weasley sagged limply against Ron.

"Let's get her home," Bill said to his brothers. "You two go first and stand ready; I'll Apparate Mum." He looked over at Harry, who was still holding Ginny's hand tightly. "Don't take any notice of what George said just now, Harry. You see how it is; he goes after everyone when he's pissed." Bill shifted his weight to support his mother better. "He doesn't even remember it when he's sober."

Harry nodded, ashamed and yet grateful that Bill stopped in the middle of a crisis to try and make him feel better. Ron also spoke to him and said, "I'll see you back home, mate," before he and Charlie Apparated away.

Which left Harry behind with Ginny, Percy, and Hermione, who was facing away from them, her arms hugged tight around her middle as if she were cold, though the air was still warm. Ginny's face was a mask, but her eyes were brimming, and she looked ready to crack. Percy just looked terrified as he looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione, whom he barely knew, and his sister, whom he didn't know that much better. Finally he cleared his throat and said, "Ah, I reckon I'll just . . . go see if Dad needs my help." He Disapparated without giving any of them a chance to reply.

Harry's shoulders slumped; he felt as tired and drained as ever he had while on the lam from the Death Eater-controlled Ministry. He reached out and absently pulled Ginny back against his chest, feeling her heaving with unuttered sobs even as he waited for Hermione to recover herself and turn around. And all the while, the setting sun's backlight glowed crimson, as if the blood of the fallen had evaporated in the day's sunshine and stained the sky with the price of their sacrifice.