11. Harry, you're hairy
"My condolences, Harry," he croaked in a hoarse whisper.
He had already unraveled enough of the truth for Harry to make furthermore objections to what would happen to this new home of his, but he wasn't going to bulge yet, a little more persuasion and he would have his own home, a place for him to be without interruption, unless he wanted to, a place where he was no longer enslaved by any and could now do whatever he pleased.
He smiled to himself as he headed off towards the grounds, where the funeral were about to start. Even though his insides was wincing and aching in pain, he could not help but feel a little bit happy about this new outcome of things. Of course, this was not how he had imagined it would happen, but he knew it was all for the best. His heart thumped the harder he stepped on the ground, but he did not care. The prospect of the funeral made him fume as he approached the big crowd of people looking like one, with their black cloaks tugged around them. He could feel the warm rise in his cheeks caused by the happiness of seeing this many people turn up.
After having endured people giving their condolences and asking him how he was doing, he stood the grave, with the black coffin beside and the big hole in the ground, where the body would be lying in only a short matter of time.
He stiffly stared into the hole, mentally preparing himself to say goodbye forever.