Krizue: Will do

Katharina-B: It disappointed me as well that there wasn't more follow-up for this. Glad you liked it!

CoNnY-B: I'll admit that I'd hoped for something like this since HBP, but I was pleasantly surprised to find it actually happening…

Kates Master: Your wish is my command

Vanus Empty: I found myself unexpectedly impressed by the entire Malfoy family. In the end, they were far more loyal to each other than they ever were to Voldemort.

2- Broken

It should have been raining. Steely grey clouds should have blotted out the sun, and the wind should have howled around the gathered mourners. Icy rain should have lashed against the tombstone to echo the tears shed by the gathering of friends and family. But it didn't. Bright sunlight beamed cheerily down on the graveyard outside Ottery St. Catchpole and not a shred of cloud marred the clear blue expanse of sky above their heads. A soft breeze made the leaves on the trees whisper, providing a relief from the hot summer sun. It was dreadfully inappropriate.

Ron couldn't help but think that Fred would have found that funny.

In fact, neither of the twins had ever had any patience for funerals: when someone was dead they were dead, and moping wasn't going to change anything. At Uncle Bilius' funeral they had stood at the back of the crowd and conversed in whispers all through the service, sniggering quietly. Mum had been furious with them about it, ranting and raving for hours after they got home. It had quite taken everyone's minds off the topic in hand. No chance of that now, Ron thought, casting a sideways glance at the sad, forlorn figure of his surviving twin brother.

"How is he?" Lee Jordan had asked him softly as they arrived at the grave.

"Sometimes I think he died as well the night Fred did," Ron had replied quietly, numbly; "He goes through the motions, but there's not much of my brother left in there."

Afterwards they went back to the Burrow, and Arthur poured them all measures of Firewhiskey in silence as Bill passed out the full glasses. They all looked awkwardly at the floor, clutching the glass tumblers uncertainly, knowing no words would be adequate to fill the horrible, gaping silence which coiled like smoke through the house.

"Fred," Charlie said simply, raising his glass in salute. The murmur was echoed around the room, and they drank. At least then they could pretend the watery and stinging eyes were just because of the whiskey's burn.