A small grouping of people, for the most part bedecked in black, stood upon the hillside. The spot chosen for the burial was in fact rather picturesque, a small prominence where the land flattened a little after its initial rise from Afon Tarennig. From the aspect, one could look down upon the gentle valley; the green and ochre grasses sweeping to the river that eventually twisted and turned its way to the nearby muggle hamlet of Eisteddfa Gurig; and looking upwards, the mild rise of the summit of Llygad-bychan, carving its careful edge against the puzzled, charcoaled autumn sky. Civilisation appeared to be a world away, and the particular curlicue of the land meant that the unfortunate and familiar drone of muggle cars was missing, giving the place a certain eerie and perennial feel. As a place to lay for all eternity, it would be difficult to find somewhere more peaceful.
Several Aurors, or at least that was what she took those hulking figures to be, were prowling about at a distance, dressed in grey and with permanent frowns etched upon their faces. After the events ten days previous, no one thought it worth taking a chance, and although the perpetrators of the attack would be rather foolhardy to try and repeat their escapade in broad daylight, enough feathers had been ruffled back in Whitehall. In addition, assigning Aurors to the service gave the Ministry a chance to do something, or at least to appear to be. Such a blatant violation of the International Statute of Secrecy had left the government looking somewhat impotent.
And as such, she attended. Partly in an official capacity: if only to be the one from the Public Information Services to deliver the canned lines to Damien Conway; that old “The Minister offers his sincerest condolences upon this terrible occasion for you and your family”, which had to be wheeled out at every public tragedy nowadays because the press loved the emotional and the vacuous. And partly because it was, after all, for DJ. Nathalie had acted as a character witness for her former Slytherin classmate after the bizarre events that had led to his short-term stay at Azkaban. And now, for this latest, horrific tragedy to have befallen him, it felt only correct and proper for her to show her respects in person at least.
Unfortunately she had had her fair share of funerals and memorial services in her time. The first had come with the end of the war; and with it the burying of the dead. Her own father had no corpse to inter, but many others did. Initially there had been the more dramatic funerals; individuals with perhaps chequered pasts but much too public a persona to prevent any issues with their very communal, open burials. And afterwards came those Death Eaters who had been too controversial; labelled murderers and thugs and criminals and so had to be dealt with in much smaller, private ceremonies, away from prying eyes. A sense of camaraderie but not much else. Bury them and forget about them as soon as possible, because any connection to the living could lead to career suicide and an associated eternal shunning.
And of course at Hogwarts itself, the dead and the martyred had had to be remembered. She remembered the seemingly endless memorials, the sycophantic crying and the holding of hands; girls one moment unable to stand, their knees buckling with the weight of sheer despair and devastation, and ten minutes later giggling amongst their cohorts. The bleak cynicism of remembrance, a gallows humour, oh god not another memorial.
And then had come the fire at Hogwarts, and more death to those so young. But that had been different; those apolitical corpses wrapped in soiled white sheets in the Great Hall, and the smell and the taste of charcoal and iron in ones mouth. And together everyone could mourn for those poor children. And mourn they did. Nathalie thought that historians would one day look back upon the fire and the dome and consider this the very tragedy that should have brought the wizarding population of Britain back together again. Perhaps it had, momentarily. It had felt a very cross-community catastrophe, which were, apparently, always the best sort.
Thusly she had approached the Saturday with that youthful cynicism; I’ve seen death what’s the big deal, as she had dressed and readied herself. She had considered wearing her official Ministry robes - lavender with silver trim and presumably designed by someone with very little taste - but it seemed somehow more fitting to come dressed in mourning as a citizen; as a friend. And therefore she had dressed in her formal black robes over a simple black dress, and she had blown the dust off of her old black witches hat with its crumpled conical crown, which seemed to have no purpose nowadays than to add the finishing touch to any formal graveside ensemble. It had the added bonus of making the wearer veer rather close to the Professor McGonagall side of the clothing spectrum, which was either a bonus or a faux pas, depending upon the situation. And so she stood there upon the hillside amongst an equally sombrely-clad group, and the strangely precise parallel grouping of seven wooden coffins seemed surreal in its overindulgence. But as anyone who had been to more than enough funerals grew to learn rather quickly, it was not the remains that caused the problem, but rather those left behind. Therefore she had watched DJ, seemingly apart from the rest of his family group, head slightly bowed as they began to lower the bodies, and the weight of sadness pressed down upon them all. To see a family ripped asunder was difficult to watch. By her shoulder a lady sobbed quietly.
What exactly had occurred ten days previously? An act of terror, was the official line at present. A rather brazen, brutal and careless slaughter of the innocent. And to make matters worse, the proprietors - DJ’s relations - had been nothing but fine, upstanding pureblooded citizens. Alarm bells had been rung back in London, naturally, but mostly for the violation of the Statute. From Nathalie’s perspective the true horror of the crime - the murder of purebloods - had drawn far less attention and horror than she would have liked, and that truly had chilled her blood. The idea that some strange, perverse fanatic was waging war upon the civilian population was certainly distressing, to say the least.
In the smothering quiet of the hillside the coffins were interred, and the silence was only broken by the harsh cawing of crows in the distance. An autumnal breeze was coming off the moorland beneath them, bothering the folds of their long robes about their legs. The ersatz-minister or whatever he was intoned a prayer of sorts, and believers and non-believers alike bowed their heads and responded in kind for the benefit of the Conways. Upon its conclusion the group slowly broke up and dispersed, and an awkward line formed for the mourners to offer their sympathies to the family, where hands where shook and murmurs of sensitivity were shared, but still DJ stood to the side, apart, strangely disconnected from the rest. Ignoring the others, Nathalie pushed through the gathering to her former housemate.
DJ appeared different from the last time she had seen him. Admittedly, that had not been the best of circumstances; a gloomy and cold courtroom of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was enough to make anyone look poorly. He looked more adult now, changed perhaps, and wore the cloak of mourning as would be expected of anyone who had been through such a taxing emotional strain. The blonde stopped before him, and looked at his feet momentarily in deference.
“DJ, I’m sorry for your loss.” She met his eyes. The official declaration first. “The Ministry of Magic, and Minister Shacklebolt himself, extend their sincerest condolences upon this terrible occasion for you and your family, and assures you that no stone will be left unturned until the perpetrators of this horrific act have been found, and punished to the full extent of the law.”
A pause. “And, I’m sorry, too. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” She put her hand upon his forearm. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through. What can I do?”
