The first funeral was the worst. Draco had never experienced grief before. Death may have been meted out by those around him, yes, he'd seen death, he'd seen lives taken, but he'd never experienced grief. The first time he'd really experienced death was Dumbledore's. Sure, he'd been on the outskirts before when people had died but those were experiences that happened to others around him, mainly to Potter, when he thought about it. But even with Dumbledore it was different, he'd been so numb with fear he couldn't feel any other emotion. After he witnessed Professor Burbage being killed at the manor, he had tried to switch off any thoughts about it being another human dying, another person with feelings; with emotions; with, Merlin forbid, loved ones. It was Burbage's face, more than anyone else's, who haunted his nightmares. It was Burbage's face which finally taught him that he wasn't cut out for this dark magic fanaticism that his father had pulled them into, willingly or otherwise.
During the first funeral, he stood under the giant yew tree on the edge of the area of the graveyard especially dedicated to the Fallen Fifty and saw so much grief it hurt, it felt like the pain would never go away. Commingled with the pain was guilt: guilt for believing his father's words; guilt for propounding pureblood superiority, guilt for taking the Dark Mark, guilt for his part in the war. He watched from under the shade of the evergreen as the bodies of Professor Remus Lupin and his cousin Nymphadora Tonks were lowered into the ground side-by-side. It started to drizzle with a light ghost-like rain. The greyness of the day was reflected in his Aunt Andromeda's face: her skin drawn and pale, spent by the emotions of losing her daughter and son-in-law. She carried a baby in her arms, their baby, his second-cousin, a child who would grow up never knowing his parents. Much like Potter, he realised with a start and with a new pang of guilt. Potter was there too, his green eyes red-rimmed behind his glasses as tears fell unchecked. There were other familiar faces as well as those he didn't know, people who had come to pay their respects: the Weasleys, Granger, Hagrid and McGonagall were among teachers from the school, members from the Order of the Phoenix, Aurors, even the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. He felt their grief and it fell on his shoulders.
Two more from the Fallen Fifty were buried on that first day, including Millicent Bulstrode, one of the three students who had been killed battling the invading Deatheaters on the seventh floor of Hogwarts. Millie, Draco's fellow Housemate, a quiet girl, teased for her weight, had defied the Slytherin stereotype and left the dungeons to protect those that she loved, the school that she loved. Draco knew he'd never given her the time of day apart from through his snide comments and his superior attitude. Draco wasn't sure he would sleep that night.
If the first funeral was the worst, then Fred Weasley's funeral was the most harrowing. Fred, one of five to be buried the next day. The pallbearers were the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, including George and Potter. That alone brought a lump to Draco's throat but he stood unwavering in his spot under the tree, the drips of rain falling heavily through the dark narrow leaves above him. He could feel water trickling from his hair and under his collar. He didn't move. He remained there, enduring the cold rain like a self-punishment. He saw George make a fleeting eye-contact with him before he leant into Angelina Johnson's arm. He watched Molly Weasley sob, her shoulders wracked with distress as the tears coursed down her face, her husband's hand placed on the small of her back. He saw Arthur Weasley quietly wipe his tears away with a green-checked handkerchief. He watched Ron, stood numbly, shrugging off Granger's comforting touch to his arm and rejecting her attempt to hold his hand. Percy, rigid with the pain that filled him, stood close on the other side of Ron, their arms against each other's, hands unobtrusively gripping the other's, the whiteness of their knuckles indicating the intensity of the loss they felt. He saw Bill and Fleur huddled together; arms clasped around each other, Fleur's head on Bill's shoulder. He saw Charlie Weasley supporting Ginny as she cried into his shoulder unable to watch her brother's coffin lowering into the ground. He saw Potter, stood slightly apart, the same unchecked tears, and he envied him, Draco wished he could cry. He swallowed deeply, so deeply it hurt his throat. He heard George's anguished howl and saw him turn away as Molly threw in the first handful of dirt onto the coffin lid.
Around the gathering at the graveside, stood at a respectable distance, there was a large crowd encircling the immediate Weasley family and close friends. There were so many familiar faces: Draco picked out the faces of teachers and students from Hogwarts; members of Potter's D.A.; members from the Order; he saw McGonagall and Hagrid again; Mr and Mrs Florins, Ms Blotts, Mr Fortescue, Madame Malkin; he saw Madame Rosmerta and Aberforth Dumbledore, Ambrosius Flume and his wife from Honeydukes, even the Trolley Witch from the Hogwarts Express. There were also many unfamiliar faces: children, young adults, parents, adults young and old, all stood together. People, Draco supposed, customers, who lives had been touched by the young man they had come to pay their respects to. Draco didn't know where it started, but as the coffin was lowered, he noticed a few wands were being raised into the air, their tips glowing. Others followed suit, and soon the Weasleys were surrounded by hundreds of pure white illuminations reflecting the sorrow and love of the gathered masses. And as the crowd parted to let the family through, Draco saw that George was barely able to keep himself standing as he was led by Angelina through the avenue of lights in the rain.
After the Weasley's had left, and the crowd had dispersed, and the gravediggers had filled the hole over the coffin, Draco watch the small figure of Professor Flitwick weave his way between the existing headstones to this latest grave. Draco watched as the wizard stood at the foot of Fred's grave for a while before flourishing his wand and conjuring a fountain of petite orange flowers from its tip. The flowers flew into the air with breath-taking beauty; vibrant and fantastical against the grey sky. Draco watched with bated breath as they came together, suddenly merging into the form of a dragon that cut through the rain as it swept around in a circle above the grave. Draco had seen that dragon before: it was a replica of Fred and George's firework dragon that had chased Dolores Umbridge from the Great Hall. Draco watched in awe as the dragon swooped down and curled itself up on the mound of mud that covered Fred's body. There was a small admission of smoke from its nostrils, no more than a sigh, and then it was inert, a guardian forever over that young man's grave.
Colin Creevey's funeral left him feeling empty. His small coffin, carried by Oliver Wood and Neville Longbottom, who had found his body in Hogwarts's grounds after the battle had finished, and by the boy's father and, once more, Harry. That small kid who followed Potter around everywhere, with the constantly irritating snapping of his camera. Draco felt the pit of his stomach contract as the first clod of earth hit the top of that small coffin. He nearly turned away when Colin's younger brother, Dennis, stepped forward and dropped his brother's camera into the mud, the bang hollow as it hit the coffin lid. Oh, what he would give to have that camera snapping away beside him, to hear that unbroken voice wittering on about Potter, worshipping his hero with his blind enthusiasm rather than hearing the empty thuds of earth reverberating against the wood of his coffin through the drizzle.
Lavender Brown, mauled by Fenrir, and Theodore Nott, another Slytherin to join Potter's side during the battle, were both buried the following day, along with four other students. He watched the familiar faces from school grieving for their classmates. Everything was equal in death, he realised: it didn't matter what House, how much wealth, what intelligence, what gender, what sexuality, what ability, whether pureblood or muggleborn. None of it mattered in death. Death wasn't biased, death was utterly inclusive. Even the grief was the same, it may manifest itself in many different forms but it was the same underneath. It hurt, so much. He noticed that Harry was there too. Stood apart. Draco realised that he too was paying his respects to each and every one of the Fallen. The man looked pale and withdrawn, his eyes no longer red-rimmed from crying but hollow, dead behind his glasses. He noticed that Harry's face looked wan, thin, like he wasn't eating properly. He wondered when he had become 'Harry' rather than 'Potter'.
Neville came and stood beside him that day. They didn't speak. They didn't even look at each other. They just stood side-by-side under the dark-green yew tree, watching the dead being buried. They didn't need to speak; it was comfort enough to know they were sharing their overwhelming grief with someone else.
On the fifth day of funerals, Severus Snape, his own Godfather, was buried. Harry was, once again, a pallbearer, carrying the coffin through the driving rain towards the muddy rectangular hole in the ground. Too many times, Draco thought, Harry has carried too many coffins in this short time. Draco wished he was there beside him, he wished he were able to be a pallbearer too and could help to shoulder the weight of Severus's coffin but Deatheaters weren't welcome, even ex-Deatheaters. Draco didn't protect himself from the rain, he could have easily cast a shield charm but it felt inappropriate, as if the rain should be there to wash away the grief and pain, but instead it seemed to drive it further within Draco's heart. Harry said a few words graveside. Draco couldn't hear them, but he saw Harry falter, he saw him cry again. And Draco cried too, the tears running silently down his cheeks, mingling with the rain water. His vision blurred as he bit on the inside of his lower lip to try to control the sobs that were rising up inside him. Neville silently handed him a black handkerchief. Pointless really, considering the weather, but the small act meant the world to Draco.
That afternoon, Harry joined them under the yew tree as three more of the Fallen Fifty were buried. They didn't acknowledge each other. They stood stoically in a row, watching as one Fallen after another was lowered into the ground, watching the grieving relatives. Watching. Silently watching.
For nearly two weeks, they watched.
For nearly two weeks, the rain fell.
If Remus's and Tonk's funeral was the most devastating and Fred's the most harrowing, if Colin's funeral made Draco feel hollow and Severus's made Draco finally cry, it was the final funeral that was the most poignant. The last of the Fallen to be buried was unknown to the three observers. He had died on the Quad Battlements, given his life protecting the children within the castle. His coffin was born by six men, all wearing long black dress-coats with silver braiding on their cuffs and collars and silver buckles across their chests. The coffin was covered in a black cloth; on it, in large silver lettering, was D.M.L.E. contained within a double circle and framed by a starburst of silver lines: it was the flag of the Auror's department. Behind the pallbearers walked a lone woman, dressed in black, her face covered by a veil. Behind her, the Funeral Master. When the men placed the coffin by the waiting grave, they each took a step away but stayed in a circle around the coffin. The flag lifted, hovering above the grave, and folded itself with exacting precision until it finally became a thick triangle of cloth. One of the men took it and handed it to the widow. She clasped it to her chest, hugging it tightly. Once the coffin had been lowered, and the handful of dirt scattered on its top, the six Auror's surrounding the grave raised their wands. They stood like this for a minute. Draco was sure he held his breath the entire time. The rain abated at last and the graveyard was still and silent, waiting, watching. Even the birds had stopped singing. Then, in a cloud of ferocious bangs, six flares of blackness shot from each wand-tip skywards, then another six flares soared into the sky, and six more, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and then two final flares together. Those fifty flares ascended upward, ever higher, until they exploded together into millions of tiny white lights that fell like the rain had only moments earlier. The lights fell into an umbrella, a shield of light that settled over the graves of the Fallen Fifty, guarding them, protecting them, honouring them as equals in the war against evil before the shield shimmered and disappeared. As one, the six men Apparated on the spot away from the graveyard. The widow was led away from the grave by the Funeral Master and the gravediggers came forward to fill in the final grave.
Draco felt empty.
For the first time in those two weeks, Neville turned to the other two. 'I hope to see you in September,' he said. 'At Hogwarts,' he clarified. And he turned and walked away into the gloom of the impending evening.
Harry also turned towards Draco, he didn't speak. He looked at him for some time, then nodded curtly, then twisted away in a haze of Apparition smoke leaving Draco stood there alone.
Finally, Draco went home.