The room is full of people. Many of them I know, many of them I don't. A rather large proportion of them have bright red hair. I wonder whether if you discount the number of Weasleys in the room, the percentage of red hair among the remainder would be normal. Personally, I believe it would be higher than the average, as red-heads may seek each other out, especially so they can be in an environment where the stereotypes associated with red hair aren't applied, as the majority possess the hair colour, but not all the features of the stereotype.
Mrs Weasley is dead. Losing a parent is always hard. My mother died in an accident, during an experiment she was conducting. I remember her funeral clearly. It was a lot smaller than this one, but there were still a lot of Weasleys there, their hair a stark contrast to the black, as the family does live so near by. The families weren't close, but I suppose that, as neighbours, Mr and Mrs Weasley thought it right to attend. Mum and Mrs Weasley used to chat when they saw each other, whilst shopping.
My Mum was amazing. She instilled and fostered in me my love of learning, and always tried to follow where my mind went, if she could. She once told me that I thought sideways, but that "the best ideas and inventions all stemmed from people who thought aslant from the societal perception of true." I think it's a good description of how my mind works. When I find people who understand how I jump from one concept to the next, and that the randomness I employ are just variations I use to express how I feel, it's wonderful.
Mum loved to invent and create. The new object or idea that was forming under her skill and determination was always fascinating to view. They made sense to me and stretched my mind, getting me to contemplate what might unsettle or overbalance the sometimes fragile cooperation of all aspects of the creation.
There are people speaking, but I'm not interested in what they are saying. Instead, I'm more captivated by watching the other guests and their reactions. How they all relate to each other and outwardly deal with the problems they now face through the changes wrought by what has occurred. The way some people are reaching out for the comfort another can provide, whilst others are withdrawing into themselves and presenting a blank, bleak, uncaring face to the world, while they deal with their problems, which are as painful as scalding knifes stabbing their bodies.
Neville is sitting next to me, watching me follow the behaviour of those nearby. He's hesitant and shy, afraid of rebuttal, but he craves comfort. He tentatively moves closer to me, as if I can provide some of the reassurance he so desperately desires. I don't acknowledge the movement, so that he will still feel safe and can absorb the feeling of being close to another person. He doesn't see it as a rebuttal, but unconsciously considers it to be an acceptance.
I don't worry about the fact I'll never see Mum again. I can look at photos and memories of her, which are not as good as the real thing, but still worthwhile. I can go back to the Department of Mysteries and stand by the veil to listen to my mother talking to me. She calls to me through the veil to find out how I am, and if I listen hard enough, I can hear and understand her messages. She wants me to come and join her on the other side. I'd love to go, but I've still got so many things to learn about on this side, and Dad would miss me if I left. He wouldn't have any company on his tracking trips. One day in the future, though, I'll join my mother, and I can tell her about all the amazing and wonderful things I've learnt here. I can then start to explore the things behind the veil which can't be discovered whilst you're still on this side. It'll be great fun, and I'll still be able to whisper back to those who remain behind. I'll stay for now, but one day, I'll go home.