Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
A.N: this was inspired by Thomas Hardy's wonderful poem 'She at His Funeral'.
She at His Funeral
By Silver Sailor Ganymede
I stood behind the other mourners, knowing for certain that I was not welcome there. That was what I got for having loved one such as Blaise Zabini, no pity, merely hatred and scorn from all around.
It should have been dark and raining, but still the sun shone as if in mockery of him. I felt as though the sun too was taunting me, saying that that day should have been filled with happiness, not sadness as it was. But there was no way that any emotion could come to me, drowning as I was in a lake of regret.
They bore him to his resting-place, his kindred… those few elitist purebloods that now remain. Many of them perished along with him, my love, during the final battle. I began to think of the final battle itself, but pushed those memories that plague me from my mind.
He was a Death Eater and I a Lightsider. He served one who believed that mudbloods were the scourge of the Earth… and yet still he loved me, no matter what his 'master' tried to make him believe.
Many in this procession were Death Eaters. Were, not are; the Dark Lord is dead, and so is the Chosen One. There is no war now, so dark and light barely matter. It does not matter any more; nothing does.
I stared around as they marched along, baring his coffin. We were all soldiers, now we are not. He died bravely; a true soldier was my love. He died, and it was my fault. He took the curse for me, told me that he loved me as he died.
I freed myself from my thoughts, tears falling down my cheeks, and knew that Blaise would have hated everything about his funeral. He would have hated the fact that everyone here wore a face as mask-like as a Death Eater's skull-mask and robes as black as Death Eater's robes. Everyone, that is, except me. They wore masks; I could not hide the way I felt, and still cannot. My tears flow as freely as the blood flowed during the battle.
I saw Daphne Greengrass throw a pitying look in my direction and realise that she too is truly mourning her cousin's death. It was Daphne who told me to come; she said that 'Blaise loved you; he would have wanted you to be at his funeral, to say goodbye.'
I followed Blaise's wish and came to mourn, but I did not wear black, as he so hated that sable shade. He said it reminded him of the darkness he was trying to forget. I wore red, as he would have wished; he said that Gryffindor red suited me, Gryffindor as I was… but now all that the colour red reminds me of is the bloodshed I witnessed.
More tears came as I walked, and still more flow even as I write this; it seems as though they will never cease. I lost him… he died because of me. Had he not loved me, he would have been alive…
Daphne slowed and walked with me.
"Do not mourn", she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "He would not have wanted you to mourn."
I knew she was right, but I could not, and still cannot.
'If he hadn't loved me, he would be alive' I thought, for what must have been the thousandth time since his death.
I looked at the others, my enemies and yet my fellows, and realised that, as they wore masks of fake emotion, the grief consumed – and still consumes my soul like hell-fire, refusing to be quenched. And it never will be quenched, not until I join him in Heaven, and I do not have long until then. I shall see you soon, Blaise.