Black robes. Soft, eerie music. Tense silences. The tears, speeches, and murmured sympathies of each funeral all blurred together in the foggy window of Ron’s mind.

Harry’s was by far the worst. Ron didn’t look at the coffin, or anybody’s face. His body trembled and his mind kept alternating between completely blank and buzzing with thought. He couldn’t help reliving Harry’s death.

“I’ve told you before, Potter, you’ll meet the same end as your parents!� roared Voldemort.

Harry didn’t flinch, but continued to point his wand steadily at Voldemort, like a freshly brandished sword. His robes were torn at the sleeves and burned at the hem from the barely-missed curses from Death Eaters. The Gaunt ring glistened on his right-hand middle finger.

“Tom…Dumbledore wouldn’t have wanted it this way, he would’ve wanted you to have a second chance, a chance to redeem yourself.�

Voldemort let out a high, cold laugh. “Dumbledore and his second chances…Potter, I have no intention of redeeming myself. I only intend to kill you.�

BANG. Neville’s limp form slammed against the wall and Bellatrix, with whom Neville had been duelling, twisted around to face Harry and shrieked, “Noceus!�

Harry’s wand arm shot off to the right in a bloody blur as Voldemort screamed “AVADA KEDAVRA!�

All Ron could see was green light—

Then Ron’s mind would go blank, his body numb. He wouldn’t allow himself to relive the next moment.

Kingsley’s and Lupin’s funerals were also unbearable, but not the same as Harry’s.

Kingsley’s was well attended; even the Muggle Prime Minister came. It was very grand and elegant - the Ministry had planned it – but it felt too formal and less sincere than the other funerals had felt.

It seemed that only the Order came to Lupin’s funeral. Ron had forgotten that Lupin, to everyone else in the Wizarding World, was an outcast.

Ron sat on a hard wooden chair facing a closed coffin at the fourth funeral of the week. He, along with much of the Order, helped set up hundreds of hard wooden chairs into neat rows, into an army of respectful soldiers. The rows were now filling with solemn people and the air stunk of sickly sweet flowers - attempts at respect and grief and honour.

Neville’s grandmother was at the podium, sniffling and shouting and becoming quite hysterical. “My grandson… my grandson…brave…like his father…�

Ron could hear sobs all around him and see shoulders shaking out of the corner of his eye. He faintly wondered how they could have any tears left after the three previous funerals.

He simply stared at the grass. He hadn’t shed a tear; he hadn’t felt any grief. Horror was the only feeling that registered in him, but he usually didn’t feel at all. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, or slept. His thoughts seemed to come to him slowly and his surroundings felt unreal.

All of the Order had been staying at his house since Voldemort’s downfall. It was a harsh contrast to the Order’s active days. Everyone had been anxiously working towards a goal, however difficult it may have been, but now the goal had been reached and all that was left were the losses.

Fred and George had never been seen so sombre. They mostly helped out with Harry’s paperwork for his will and funeral. Percy did too; he seemed eager to help out in any way he could. His lingering guilt was apparent.

Charlie, Bill, Fleur, and many others from the Order, would go to Hogwarts and the Ministry to help with the re-construction, sometimes not getting home until very late. Tonks’s hair had again assumed a mousy brown colour and she had taken to long, solitary walks in the garden. Other than that, she kept to her room.

Mrs Weasley hadn’t left her room at all, except for the funerals. Mr Weasley had spent the week trying to comfort her; he could be seen carrying trays of food in and out of their room, along with books and knitting.

Ginny took on the cooking and cleaning that Mrs Weasley usually did. She’d cried at the funerals – absolutely sobbed at Harry’s – but kept composed otherwise. She was quiet, but determined to be helpful and cool-headed. Only Ron showed less emotion than her.

The Burrow had never seen a gloomier atmosphere—about twenty people sat around the table outside every morning in near silence.

The morning after Neville’s funeral, an unfamiliar owl arrived at breakfast. It landed in Ron’s scrambled eggs and dropped a pale purple envelope on his bacon. Everyone seated watched the owl give a small hoot and fly away.

“Looks like it’s from the Ministry,� said Hermione encouragingly.

“I bet that’s your acceptance letter to the Auror training program,� said Mr Weasley to Ron, looking proud through his grief.

Ron tore open the envelope and skimmed the letter. “‘Congratulations, Mr R. Weasley, you have been accepted’-yeah, it’s the acceptance letter.� He put the letter down and resumed pushing his bacon around his plate.

“Aren’t-aren’t you excited?� Hermione asked, apprehensive.

“What? Oh…y-yeah. I mean, yes, I am.�

Mr Weasley looked concerned, too. A clock chimed from somewhere inside. “Merlin! It’s eight! We’d better check in with the Ministry…� He dashed inside from the table; most of the table said hurried goodbyes and followed.

Half an hour later, Ron and Hermione were helping Ginny finish with the dishes. Ginny hadn’t said a word and sometimes she would keep scrubbing the same spot over and over, her eyes out the window and in the direction of the orchards where they used to play Quidditch.

“Ron?� croaked a weak voice. “Ginny? Hermione?� Mrs Weasley stood in the doorway in a crumpled dressing gown, her eyes swollen and her hair dishevelled.

“Good morning, Mrs Weasley,� said Hermione tentatively. “Do you want me to get you anything?�

“S-some tea would be nice,� she replied. Ginny poured a cup from the kettle and Hermione handed it to Mrs Weasley. “Thank you, dear.�

“You’re welcome, Mrs Weasley.�

“No, no, call me Molly.� She started to smile, but then her eyes filled and her lips quivered. She turned around and shuffled out of the kitchen.

“I can’t stand to see your Mum like that, it’s horrible,� said Hermione, putting the last dish away.

Ginny nodded, but looked uncomfortable and left the room. Ron and Hermione sat at the table in silence for a few minutes.

“Ron,� she sniffed, “I don’t think things will ever go back to normal…things were never normal in the first place, with Voldemort…�

Ron held her hand while she cried, but he didn’t even absorb the meaning of her words. It was so much easier than grief, the numbness. It was comfortable. Much more comfortable than the funerals, the words of sympathy from strangers, and the talk about the deceased.

Later that afternoon, Ron and Hermione lay on Ron’s bed, just watching the Chudley Cannons fly by on his ceiling. Ron was most comfortable doing this; mealtimes and funerals were when he was forced to relive Harry’s death. The grieving people around him pulled his suppressed memory to the surface. Watching his ceiling required no manners, no interaction, no thought. It was mesmerising, like watching flames leap around the fireplace.

When the first day of September arrived, Mrs Weasley, Fred, George, Ron and Hermione went with Ginny to King’s Cross Station. It was hard for Ron to believe that it was already September. He had lost sense of what day it was. Three weeks since the deaths seemed like a long time.

Fred and George carried Ginny’s trunk inside, and Ginny waved goodbye from a nearby compartment window, although with a forced smile. The train lurched and gathered speed as it raced around the bend. Mrs Weasley burst into tears. Some of the other parents on the platform looked at her with sympathetic expressions.

George put an arm around Mrs Weasley, but Ron just watched her face wrinkle up with each sob. Tears trickled down her face, one after the other as her lips quivered and shook as she took in a shaky breath after each sob.

A few months ago he would have been distressed by his mother’s tears, would have let her hug him and bury her face in his shoulder. Now it was like viewing her in a memory; it didn’t occur to him to reach out to her, he was only a witness to her grief.

After a few minutes, Mrs Weasley wiped her face and tried to breathe evenly. “Shall we get back home then, Mum?� George asked her quietly. She nodded and they passed through the gate together.

An hour later, Ron sat at the Burrow’s kitchen table, staring absentmindedly at the Floo Powder that spilled when Fred and George hastily left for the ministry. Faint voices from upstairs reached him through the ceiling. Hermione and Mum have been talking for ages, he thought, reluctantly climbing the stairs.

He paused outside the closed door, his hand hovering over the doorknob. It’s just going to be tears, tears and memories. He paced for a minute, and then sat, leaning his back against the door. The voices were clearer now; he could tell Mrs Weasley was crying.

Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to slip back into the numbness. Her tears couldn’t reach him here. His memories couldn’t reach him here. Sadness and happiness had disappeared from Ron’s life. His preferred emotion was no emotion at all.