Ron's expression was grim enough that he didn't need flowers to look as though he belonged in a cemetery. It was a good thing, too, because if someone had offered him a bouquet at the moment he might well have taken a swing at them. (Not, he thought sullenly, that it would probably hurt very much.) The skirt was bad enough. He was trying not to think about it, because the job ahead, no matter how simple it should have been, was probably not something he wanted to go into very distracted, and because he knew that Harry would have to be pretty damned edgy (he would have been, no question about it) … but, really.
He threw Harry a glare he hoped still expressed the depth of his irritation, but gave a curt nod and gestured quickly in the direction of the church, home to the graveyard where the mausolea were grouped together past what looked like a cluttered expanse of headstones and smaller monuments. He didn't want to say anything - he didn't want to hear his new and very female voice any more than was absolutely necessary.
It was good practice, anyway, seeing as how he was never planning on speaking to Hermione ever again.