Blurred Lines

Another post ala the Order/DE meetings! Comment with what your character did at this sad occasion.

The funeral is held at Hogwarts, mid-day on the lawn by the lake. The weather is surprisingly appropriate -- cloudy and rather windy. Seven coffins with the bodies of each fallen person lie on the field, and there is a little makeshift podium at the front. Rows of chairs are lined up facing the podium. The funeral starts with Dumbledore ascending the podium and making a speech/eulogy:

We are gathered here today in the presence and remembrance of Edgar Bones, Ellen Bones, Ephigenia Bones, Francis Bones, Lena Bones, Vesta Bones, and Wilfred Bones. There are no words, no condolences -- nothing that can be truly said for this saddening occasion. The tragedy in itself is holds enough meaning. This funeral is not sacred enough to bury this man -- no -- they cannot be buried, he cannot be buried. They cannot be stowed away in our minds. No amount of words can trivialize their memory, no words can consecrate them, no words can make them sacred -- they make their lives sacred themselves. Their lives immortalize them. But, my friends, keep in our hearts these words -- we are not here to mourn their deaths, for that will only lead us into a state of constant standstill. Instead, we are here to celebrate their lives and their achievements. Celebrate one of the most outstanding aurors the Department of Magical Law Enforcement has been blessed to have! Remember a competent witch and mother! Cherish a man who dedicated his life to Most of all -- celebrate the Bones, not for their deaths, but for their lives.

His voice gives way a little here -- the loss has clearly hit him hard, before he continues.

Forgive me if I may seem emotional -- no teacher should ever hope to bury his student. Alas, he is clear as daylight, little Edgar Bones playing on the field just over there, docking off a couple of points from miscreants over there, proudly brandishing his medal as Dueling Champion here -- the memories are all too clear in my old mind. We who share such memories of Edgar -- of all of them! -- will never forget them. In our minds, they will continue to live on. We taste the deep pain reserved solely for the strong, but we will not wash the bitter feeling from our mouths. We will grow, we will learn, and in our weakest and darkest times, there is one thing we can do -- celebrate the Bones.

I end this little eulogy of sorts with a poem I recently came across by a little bird called Emily Dickinson.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.

He then descends from the podium and sits in his seat to allow the next person who would like to say a few words speak, though he himself stays quiet for the rest of the time.