"Emily Poole, you are exceptionally ordinary" ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
"What a strange way to tell me you love me, but I'll take it," ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
In which Emily falls in love w...
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THE FUNERAL WAS MORE BEAUTIFUL than Emily had expected. She had convinced herself she wouldn't cry, because Merlin knew she had done enough crying the past few days.
The warmth of the sun caressed her face as she sat next to Harry in one of the rows of chairs facing the marble table standing at the front. An extraordinary assortment of people had already settled into half of the chairs; shabby and smart, old and young. Most Emily did not recognize, but a few looked familiar, and Emily saw members of the Order of the Phoenix: Kingsley Shacklebolt; Mad-Eye Moody; Tonks, her hair the vividest pink; Remus Lupin, with whom she seemed to be holding hands; Mr. and Mrs. Weasley; Bill supported by Fleur and followed by Fred and George, who were wearing jackets of black dragon skin. Then there was Madame Maxime, who took up two and a half chairs on her own; Tom, the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron in London. The castle ghosts were there too, barely visible in the bright sunlight, discernible only when they moved, shimmering insubstantially on the gleaming air.
People were whispering to each other; it sounded like a breeze in the grass, but the birdsong was louder by far. The crowd continued to swell. Cornelius Fudge walked past toward the front rows, his expression miserable, twirling his green bowler hat as usual; behind him, Dolores Umbridge, an unconvincing expression of grief upon her toadlike face, a black velvet bow set atop her iron-colored curls. Emily could feel Harry tensing beside her and she took his hand, fingers tracing soothingly over the scars he had received from the awful woman in their fifth year.
Suddenly, Emily heard music, strange, otherworldly music, and she turned her head to look for the source of the sound, along with many other heads. Her eyes fell on the lake, and there, in the clear green sunlit water, inches below the surface a chorus of merpeople sang in a strange language their pallid faces rippling, their purplish hair flowing all around them. Slowly, Hagrid walked past the chairs, his face gleaming with tears, and in his arms, wrapped in purple velvet spangled with golden stars, was Dumbledore's body. Around Emily, people sobbed, and as she looked at her boyfriend, she saw his face pale and sunken, eyes swimming with grief. Hagrid put the body on the large, marble table, and went to sit in a seat at the front, blowing his nose into a napkin with a loud, trumpeting sound.
A little tufty-haired man in plain black robes had got to his feet and stood now in front of Dumbledore's body, clearing his throat. Emily tuned out his words as she stared into her lap, her hand still clutching Harry's tightly. From the corner of her eyes, she could see tears falling from Harry's face and into his lap, but she didn't look at him. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a breath, willing herself not to cry, to be strong. It was over in almost an instant, and when Emily looked up and Dumbledore's body had been encased in a white tomb, and people were standing out of their chairs and walking solemnly in the aisle, towards the castle.
