Veneficium

Monday, May 4th 1998

It was well after midnight when Kingsley and Professor Flitwick returned, covered in blood and looking like they’d been through another heartless battle. The two women had been waiting for them in the kitchen, having spent most of the day trying to clean it up a bit more. Hermione had a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the air humid and musky, and she set down her half-empty cup of tea on the counter, turning her head as the men entered. 

“Bill?” Fleur asked, looking behind the two of them and not seeing anyone else with them, their appearance deeply unsettling her. She stood up, peeking her head out the door, to look up the narrow staircase leading to the ground floor. “Bill, are you up there?” Getting no response, she returned, arms crossed, her attention directed towards Kingsley and Flitwick; Hermione swore a flicker of her Veela heritage showed for the briefest moment. “Where’s my husband?” 

Kingsley rushed to her before she cursed them both, placing his hands soothingly on her arms. “Please, Fleur, relax. Bill’s fine, nothing happened to him,” he reassured her, but she didn’t seem convinced, ripping out of his grasp.

“Then where is he? He left with you, didn’t he?” 

“Yes, he left with us, we found Hestia Jones with some students in a safe house in York, and they said they saw Mrs Weasley and George together, Bill panicked and went to look for them. He’s worried sick about his family, Fleur, that’s all. He’ll come back to you once he’s made sure they are safe, I promise.” 

Fleur brought her hands to her mouth and sniffed her sobs, before waving her hand around for a bit, trying to calm herself down. Kingsley tried once more to step closer to her, but she waved him off and walked towards the stove. With a wave of her wand, two bowls flew out from a cupboard and next to the pot she had placed a Statis charm on once it was done. 

Hermione watched Professor Flitwick take the seat to her right, awkwardly silent. Kingsley sighed but sat opposite her, and she wondered what could have happened that they looked in such a horrible state. Had they run into Death Eaters? Fleur rumbled through the cutlery drawer for two spoons, throwing them in the bowls of steaming tomato soup with a splash before levitating them in front of the two men along with some bread. They said their thanks but the blonde only glared at them as if they would magically transform into her husband if she stared hard enough. 

Never having had a proper relationship of her own, Hermione found it hard to make sense of her unwarranted attitude — no one was to blame that Bill was out looking for his family. Yet, she remembered when Ron had left them, abandoned their mission, abandoned her… How she had stayed up waiting for him to return even when she knew he couldn’t, torn up by guilt and all of the most horrible thoughts, imagining him dead in twenty different ways every day for those first two weeks, unsure if the Horcrux she wore around her neck was to blame or not. She was certain that Bill was fine, and he was either still looking for his family or dozing off after one of Mrs Weasley’s hearty dinners. Not that Fleur’s cooking was bad, on the contrary, but it was rather… shallow at times. 

Halfway through their late dinner, Hermione decided to make the brave decision and disturb the crushing silence, curious about the state of the wizards, and ask them what happened during their absence. Kingsley reluctantly answered. “We went and checked out some old safe houses of the Order that hadn’t yet been compromised, but we only found Hestia Jones, as I said before — she promised to write to me if they needed help. The students she had with her… their parents had died during the battle. Filius tried to talk to them but they were pretty shook, poor things.” Her Charms teacher was silent, not paying any attention to the rest of them as he ripped a few pieces of bread and swirled them around in his soup. “As for the Death Eaters, we’ve managed to find out very little about what they’re doing, but I think they are currently fighting over who should lead them next.” He smirked for a second, before biting his lip. “We first tried to sneak around Malfoy Manor, but either Lucius kicked everyone out, or You-know-who’s enchantments are still standing strong. Either way, we got nothing.” 

Once they realised their Master was dead, it must have been a free-for-all all. Balancing her face on her hand, she prayed Lestrange was going to be killed off by one of his power-hungry comrades, even if it wouldn’t be as gratifying as ending the bastard herself. 

“My bet is on Rodolphus Lestrange. He killed Harry and as far as I know, he was also the first marked Death Eater,” Kingsley gave his two cents, dunking a piece of bread into his soup before eating it. “This is really tasty, Fleur,” he added, nodding towards the blonde, who seemed to have cooled off by then, who gave him a weak smile back. 

Flitwick seemed to disagree. “I’d say Yaxley is more likely. He has full control over the Ministry now — not one to overlook.” 

Kingsley chucked, and Hermione smiled in her palm, despite the cruel reminder of her best friend’s grim fate. “If Yaxley is crowned the new Dark Lord, Filius, I’ll eat this whole table in one sitting.”

The tiny Charms professor looked confused at the remark, his dripping spoon left hanging halfway to his mouth.

“I killed him when Hermione and I ran off,” Kingsley explained, and Flitwick nodded. 

“Good, good. One less scum to worry about… he and Lestrange used to make so much trouble at school, I shouldn’t have been so surprised when they were first sent to Askaban back then. I almost cried over Bellatrix’s imprisonment, though — one of my favourite students, such a diligent girl,” Flitwick shook his head with regrets over the past, resuming his meal. 

“I called her a whore one, at their engagement party…. I haven’t been a welcomed guest of the Lestranges ever since. They take their honour very seriously,” Kingsley chuckled into his soup. 

“You were friends?” she asked, bewildered. Just who had the ex-Auror been before he had joined the Order of the Phoenix? 

“Oh, no. Just a humble Sacred Twenty-eight Slytherin, that’s all. I hope you don’t think any less of me.” 

Hermione smiled, reassured, trying to picture Kingsley in a green and silver tie. It… fit, oddly. 

There was one good thing that had come out of the battle and that was the dreadful witch’s death. She wished she could’ve personally thanked Mrs Weasley for ridding the world of her right then and there. It was likely the unexpected grief over his wife’s murder that had made Rodolphus Lestrange kill her beloved Harry without a second thought, but she wouldn’t give the man the courtesy of a motivation. He was the lowest of the low and deserved to rot in hell along with the rest of his wretched family. 

“And Hogwarts? Is the Great Hall still standing?” Hermione asked, a few minutes later, feeling like she was going crazy alone in her mind. It was going to be a hackle if they had to rebuild it, but she was confident that it could be done. In a year or two. Or ten. If the war wasn’t to come to an end soon. 

Kingsley finished his bite before responding. “Not as far as we saw — we tried to look around the place, but it was swarming with dark wizards moving corpses about. Hence the blood… we got in a bit of a fight, but we’re alright, no wounds, I took care of that before we came. There weren’t any actual Death Eaters as far as I was able to see. But I will be going out again tomorrow to look for the others and more news.” 

She figured he must have had some medical training during his years as an Auror, for neither of the wizards seemed to be in pain. Whatever injuries they have had must have been fairly superficial. As for the corpse… if the bodies were being removed, lists of all the deceased must have been made as they spoke; they would know who was left alive. 

Around the kitchen, the mood was very sombre, the four of them returning to a heavy silence after Kingsley’s explanations. Only Fleur was still sulking by the stove, frowning at the door. 

What were the remaining students and teachers going to do once September came? Even Voldemort had been adamant that everyone must carry on their education at Hogwarts, even those who had been homeschooled up until then. Would the Death Eaters try to rebuild? 

She couldn’t blame Fleur for not looking as defeated over the news of the beloved Castle’s fate as the three of them, especially given that Professor Flitwick had lived most of his life there, but she needed to get away from the kitchen and her negative energy. It wasn’t her fault, but it didn’t make it any better. 

“I think it’s time I headed to bed,” she muttered, climbing out of her seat and saying her goodnights before taking the stairs up to the first floor, trying to remember which one was supposed to be her room. The hallway was long and narrow, characteristic of terraced houses — she too had grown up in one, if far less posh. 

They were somewhere in Birmingham, but Hermione was very unfamiliar with the city, a Londoner by birth. She and Fleur had worked all day long trying to clean up some more, but they still had a long way to go until it resembled its old, respectable self. It was nowhere near as bad as Grimmauld Place had been before the Order had made it their headquarters, but it wouldn’t win any magazine contests either. Briefly wondering what purpose a house elf had if not to keep their owner’s home clean, she took her shoes off and threw herself face-first onto the bed. 

She could only hope that when she woke up the next day, Bill would have brought Ron there, and she would wrap her arms around him and let her tears flow freely. He was the only one who could understand what torture her heart and mind had been subjected to on repeat for the past forty hours.

As she wrapped the heavy comforter around herself, Hermione stared at the ceiling. 

If Harry had been her best friend, her brother in anything but blood, her relationship with Ron had always been… more complicated. Sometimes they were inseparable, sometimes they went months without talking to each other, both with their reasons to despise the other. But still, she loved both of them equally, maybe even… he had kissed her then, in the Chamber of Secrets; neither had told Harry. In fact, they hadn’t talked about it either, for they hadn’t wasted any time around before returning to find Harry after she had destroyed the Horcrux stashed within Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup. 

Shadows danced around the edge of her field of vision, for she had forgotten to close the drapes, the darkness of the room creating grotesque silhouettes as they pushed away the faint lights of the streetlamps, the odd muggle car passing by. Turning around in an effort to stifle them, Hermione shoved her face into the pillow, groaning. When she and Ron would be reunited, she would ask him about the kiss. Had he meant it? Had she?

Sleep blissfully came soon, allowing her a momentary reprise from her swarming thoughts. She dreamt of Christmas at Hogwarts, late-night study sessions, boisterous laughter, warm smiles and, for the first night in many months, all was well. 

Woken up by the singing of birds and the tender caress of morning sunrays, she shifted around to glare at the window, only to see Bill staring at the sky above. Hearing the rustling of the blanket, he turned to face her, an eerily calm expression on his face. His reassuring smile had the very opposite effect and she immediately sat up straighter, a cold shiver rushing through her whole body.

“He’s dead.” 

There was no need to say his name. She felt it in her soul, how broken it was.  

“George said he was hit in the head by a rogue Avada when the cracks first appeared and people started to panic.” He looked at the end of it, like he had no more tears left to cry, nothing else to give, his voice empty of emotion. “He couldn’t get to his body before Mum panicked and pulled him out of there… she hadn’t seen it. I tried to go last night to go get him and Fred but there was nothing to get. The Great Hall… just crumbled over them and all the others.” 

She put her hand over her mouth to muffle a cry and he sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough for her to just wrap her hands around him, and he returned her embrace mechanically. Salty tears flowed freely, drenching his shirt in the ocean of her suffering, unforgiving and endless. Hit by crashing waves, the once strong pillars of her body shook with violent tremors until she started hiccuping, and he ran his hand soothingly on her back, having been in her position only hours previously. They had both lost two brothers that day at Hogwarts. 

Ron. 

They may have had their ups and downs over the years, all those ugly fights and pointless arguments, but he had always had a special space within her reserved in her heart since that day when he and Harry had saved her from that troll. Ron had hurt her beyond any means when he had left them, left her that day in the tent, and she had suffered and cried over him some days, cursed his name other days. But when he had returned with that idiotic, sloppy grin on his face, she couldn’t stay mad at him. He was half her life, after all, half her reason to keep fighting for their wretched world another day. 

And now he was dead. He was dead. 

Dead. Dead. Dead. 

DEAD.

She would never see his smile again, never hear his laugh again, never have him beg to copy her homework again, never get to roll her eyes over one of his dreadful Quidditch puns again, never get to kiss him again. 

And Harry… a part of her had always been prepared for his death, ever since their first ‘adventure’ in their first year, when they had faced the labyrinth and consequently Voldemort. It seemed inevitable that his insane luck would run out someday and she would be left to mourn, but in all her nightmares she always had Ron at her side. This, whatever Hell she was living through now, was more than a nightmare; it was so much more than she could put into words. It was inhumane. 

Hermione was alone. Bill’s embrace seemed almost mocking, taunting her about what she had for so little time and would never have again. What had been viciously stolen away from her with no remorse. What right did those damned birds outside have to sing so cheerfully when the world would swallow them whole regardless, gleefully savour their suffering? She cursed the sun, for the world ought to have been sunken under an endless drought, humanity never to be heard from again.  

She cried, sobbed, and wailed for what felt like hours, clutching on for dear life to Bill’s sturdy body. She felt as if, were she to let go for even a second, her lifeline would be slashed away and she would melt into a pitiful puddle of pain. Her throat hurt like hell, her head felt like it was in the blink of an explosion, and her ears were stuffed full like a volcano just threatening to erupt and consume everything with its scorching hot lava. She cried for both her boys, ripped away from a beautiful and fulfilling life before their time. Why was she worthy of breathing this air when they weren’t, would never ever again? She wasn’t. 

Her body trembled uncontrollably, each sob a violent shudder that tore through her chest. Even with Bill’s arms around her, his strength and warmth couldn’t chase away the cold, hollow ache gnawing at her insides. Her nails dug into his back, fingers trembling, knuckles white, desperate for something—anything—to anchor her to reality. The world around her felt distant, a muted hum she couldn’t quite reach. She was floating in this vast sea of anguish, drowning in it, but never quite sinking. The pain was relentless, ebbing and flowing like waves crashing against her, threatening to drag her under, but keeping her afloat just enough to feel every sting of it. She wanted to scream, to tear the grief from her body, to claw at the unfairness of it all, but no matter how hard she cried, it never lessened. It only intensified, echoing endlessly within her. 

Hermione wept for the sweet release of death. 

“Here,” Bill said after a while, wordlessly summoning her a handkerchief. 

She could barely make it out behind a curtain of tears, her vision blurred and watery, but she was grateful for it once she wiped some of them away. The fabric was soft but felt foreign in her shaking hands, a small kindness in the midst of her storm. Shifting away from him ever so slightly, she felt a rush of shame creep up her spine, heat flushing her cheeks as she realised the mess she'd become. 

Hermione could hardly recognize herself at that moment — so raw, so broken.

With trembling hands, she pressed the handkerchief to her nose and blew, trying to stifle the hiccuping sobs that still threatened to escape. Holding her breath for a moment, she closed her eyes and focused on the air filling her lungs, the sensation grounding her in a desperate attempt to calm down, even just a smidge. Each breath felt fragile, as if the slightest tremor would send her spiralling back into the chaos of her grief. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, fearing what she might see there—pity, concern, or worse, the reflection of her own brokenness.

“T-thank you,” she croaked, her voice strained and hoarse after so much sobbing. Another hiccup shook her frail body and Bill waved his wand, curing her. 

“Ginny, George, and Mum are back at my great-aunt’s Muriel’s with the others,” Bill explained. “I couldn’t stand to remain there. I hope you don’t fault me for not bringing them over.” 

She shook her head, blowing her nose once more into the soiled handkerchief. “They’re your family, Bill… I can’t make you do anything.” 

“You’re as good as family, too, Hermione,” he chuckled softly, his hand running in soothing circles over her back. “I always figured you would end up marrying one of my idiot brothers, I just wasn’t sure which one.” 

“Oh? And between who were you thinking?” 

He pretended to think for a moment, some life creeping back into him. “Well, Ron was too much of a child to really notice you. Fred, on the other hand, I’ve seen the way he looked at you. And come on, don’t lie, you enjoyed his strangely brilliant pranks. Honest businessman,” he chuckled. 

Hermione laughed until her irritable ear blockage popped clean. 

“Is it true you danced with Charlie at my wedding? I was too occupied to notice back then and he was far too drunk to be a reliable source.” 

She groaned, remembering the event, though she felt her face grow even more red at the thought of his very rough and buff younger brother. “It lasted less than five minutes, don’t get any ideas.” 

“He didn’t seem to think so… Gave me a rather detailed description of the way your dress fit that I most certainly did not need to hear.” 

Once more bursting into laughter, she was glad he had decided to talk with her, pulling her out of her mind for just a little, much-needed break. “I don’t want to know.” 

“Oh, it was positively obscene.” 

“I’m sorry to say it, Bill, but your brothers are pigs.” 

He nodded in agreement. “Yes… Fleur made waffles, when you’re ready,” he said, slowly sitting back up. 

“I’ll try to come and eat.” 

“Good.”

He walked towards the door and, just before closing it behind him, he whispered just loud enough for her to make out his words. “I’m glad he had a friend like you, Hermione.” 

Feeling her eyes once more bulging up with fat tears, she was glad he left her a moment alone. 

oOo

Time passed by Hermione in a continuous blur, as she locked herself up in her assigned bedroom, only coming out for the odd meal. No one seemed too bothered by it, all of them in a semi-permanent cathartic state, and she noticed Kingsley had become rather reclusive himself, holed up in the second room of the basement he allowed none of them in. She had many reasons to suspect he harboured a library there and was particularly annoyed that she wasn’t welcomed. He knew she would kill for a book, now that she was left without her precious beaded bag, and she was on the verge of a total mental breakdown. Alone and defeated.

It could happen. She had crossed that unspoken moral boundary and killed a few Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathisers at the battle of Hogwarts; she knew she was capable of it if pushed. 

Every day she went to sleep crying, her pillow soaked with tears that never seemed to dry, and every morning she woke up the same way, the sorrow clinging to her like a second skin. The hours blurred together as she spent most of the day in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, crying some more as memories of her short but happy childhood resurfaced. It felt like a lifetime ago—those days of innocence when her biggest concern had been schoolwork. And her parents… She remembered the warmth of their home, the feeling of safety, the laughter that used to fill the rooms; the joyful days spent learning about history and art during their annual summer holidays around Europe. 

But that world had been ripped away from her the moment she’d been thrust into a war that wasn’t even hers to fight to begin with. It wasn’t fair—none of it was.

Yet, deep down, she knew she would need to accept it if she ever wanted to keep going. There was no undoing what had been done, no reclaiming the lost years or the shattered peace. Acceptance was the only way forward. But the problem was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. What was the point of moving forward when the future felt so bleak, so empty?

oOo 

Wednesday, May 20th 1998

Two weeks after they had apparated there, Fleur decided something needed to change with their attitudes. After numerous failed attempts at trying to get through to them by means of gentle conversation, she resigned and took a different approach, one she knew was irresistible. She surprised them all by making a giant two-tiered cake for dinner, each one a different flavour and decorated in cheerful colours. Hermione was grateful for the attempt, but she was more grateful for the surplus of delicious cake she now had to gorge on. 

Her method had yielded mixed results: Bill had now resumed his lovesick persona from the summer after her sixth year when they had been freshly engaged, making her nearly gag over their open affections; she had decided it was as good a time as any to come out of hiding and help Fleur around the house, mentally unable to follow Bill and Professor Flitwick back outside in the real world just yet.

 As for Kingsley… 

Well, Kingsley had become a near-complete recluse, either throwing apart sealed boxes scattered around the little utility closet under the stairs leading to the basement or warding himself up in the almost-certainly library. None of them had any idea what his deal was, as he chose not to divulge his secrets to any of them as of yet, and he didn’t seem eager to any time soon. What he was looking for was anyone’s guess. 

“I just don’t understand,” Fleur tutted as she stuck her feather duster into the deep crevices at the back of the china cabinet. 

Wrung dry of more tears than she had ever imagined her meek body would have ever harboured, Hermione felt as if she could try to pull her weight around some more, the unfaltering feelings of uselessness that haunted her nightmares needing to be put to rest. 

The two witches had taken on the task of cleaning out the formal dining room — after being nearly pushed out of the basement and subsequently, the kitchen one day. As June approached, it would soon become too hot outside to eat where they cooked, so they decided it was good motivation to clean around. “All he does all day is make more of a mess, rumbling through filthy boxes and books.” 

Hermione set down the enchanted rag she had been wiping the lone window clean with, and frowned. “Maybe he’s looking for some way to help.” She was growing sick of the blonde’s attitude regarding the ex-Auror. If she wanted him to do something so bad, maybe she should leave the house with the other two once in a while and get something done other than dinner. Kingsley had saved their life, offered them a heck of a shelter, no matter how dusty, and all she could do was complain. Granted, she herself had some doubts about Kingsley and what he was so determined to hide from them, but still. 

“Honestly, Hermione,” Fleur turned to face her, hands on her hips, while the duster worked on its own. “He’s supposed to go out there and fight — that’s supposed to be his job, non?” 

 “And what do you do? Do you complain about me to Bill or Professor Flitwick the same when I’m not around?” 

They stared at each other, mirrored stances, before the blonde narrowed her eyes, “What is that supposed to mean?” 

Hermione tossed her rag off on the large table between them. “Well, I don’t go out there and fight, either.” 

“You are a child,” Fleur said like it was obvious, her expression morphing from one of anger into sadness. “You’re not supposed to fight — it is horrifying that you think you should.” 

Unfortunately, this had the desired effect to close her mouth. What did it matter that she was still considered a child by most? When had any responsible adult been bothered by that when she had been thrown head-first into the bloody battle? Especially given that now, she no longer was underage. As shocking as it was, she had become a woman overnight without ever having had the chance to be a child. Her fate had been sealed from the moment Professor McGonagall had shown up at her parents’ front door with a letter written in her name in emerald green ink. 

As much as he hated to admit it, Fleur was… right. Hermione sighed, pulling the nearest chair out from under the table, and sitting on it. “I hate knowing I’m doing nothing.” 

The overwhelming feeling of being a disappointment had stained her thoughts for the past few weeks relentlessly. She had failed Harry. She had failed Ron. Had failed herself and everything she had ever stood for. What did it matter that Professor Lupin had declared her the brightest witch of her age when it had ultimately gotten her nowhere good? At best, she and her best friends’ efforts had just merely slowed down Voldemort. He was dead now, yes, but they had been so caught up in somehow ending him, that they had never thought about what would come after. What was now her reality had seemed so far away for so long, purely a fantasy to keep them fighting. She had no idea what she was supposed to do now. As misguided as they had proved, she no longer had any clues from Dumbledore to go off of. Harry had been the revolutionary leader, not her. 

“Oh, Hermione,” Fleur walked around the table to come closer, taking a seat next to her. “You have been manipulated by nasty old men to think that way since you were young. Bill told me about what you got in at that Hogwarts, and from what I’ve seen of it, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long. I’ve always thought that Dumbledore cared very little about his students after he let Harry compete in the Tournament.” 

“Why did you join the Order, then? It’s all Dumbledore’s.” 

Her parents had instilled in her a very deep sense of respect for authority from a young age, and she had looked up to the Headmaster ever since she had first read about his legendary triumph over Grindelwald. Despite that, over the years she had developed a certain… uncertainty when it came to Dumbledore. After he had tasked her and Harry to save Sirius and a literal Hippogriff, they, two thirteen-year-olds, instead of doing it himself, her initially weak suspicions had only blossomed over the coming years. Dumbledore had known everything about the Horcruxes, about the Deathly Hallows and how crucial they were. She could understand why he may have only wanted Harry, Ron and her to know about it, trusting them fully not to defect and turn spies against him as a senior member of the Order might have. But it was still wrong. 

He had willingly chosen to sacrifice them when it could have gone differently. 

After having had so much time alone to think this past fortnight, she understood more than she had during the course of their mission; perhaps she had known it all along, only having not allowed herself to be aware of it. It would mean the Headmaster had betrayed them from the very beginning, betrayed Harry. Unfortunately, after what they had seen from Snape’s memories, it might have actually been true all along, a plan devised as soon as Lily and James Potter had been killed. 

“For Bill,” Fleur finally broke the silence. “Because he believed in the cause, and I’ve always wanted to prove that I am more than just a pretty face. I guess I haven’t been doing as well on that front as I would’ve hoped from your perspective.” 

Overwhelmed and feeling the tears she had been battling the past few weeks creeping back like a relentless doxy infestation, she stood up. “I think I should get back to it,” she whispered, picking the nasty rag back up. Fleur must have picked up on what she was trying to do and, despite frowning, she simply shook her head and resumed cleaning as well. There was no way for her to know just what the blonde was currently thinking about, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know to begin with. War ruined everyone. 

The monotony of wiping the grubby glass was simple enough that it helped relax her, and she splashed a little more of the odourless cleaning potion on the cloth before she pulled her chair closer to the window and sat up on it. At some point, before they were finished, Kingsley’s elf came and burst into tears seeing them working instead of her. Fleur kicked her out, mumbling about how she cries but she’s not rushing to get things clean for them first. 

Hermione’s heart broke when she first heard the pitiful wails of the house elf, but she had grown rather tired of her antics. It was most unlike her past self, who had fought for the creature’s rights as best as she knew how as a teenager, but after fighting in the war, she had grown to realise their world would need much more to change such an old tradition. 

She had to put herself and her fellow witches and wizards first, those who were so ardently discriminated against to the point they were hunted like wild beasts escaped from London Zoo, wreaking havoc on the capital. House elves had it good in comparison. Small steps. 

Come lunch, they gathered to eat in the kitchen for the last time. 

Professor Flitwick and Bill had just retreated to wash up after a long, gruelling day outside. Hermione couldn’t help but notice how exhausted they looked — there was a heaviness in their expressions, more pronounced than usual as if the weight of the day’s events had settled on their shoulders. She felt a sharp pang of worry. 

Fleur, meanwhile, was visibly irritated by Kingsley’s absence, muttering under her breath as she set the table. With an impatient wave, she urged Hermione to go and find him, insisting she use any means necessary to bring him over for lunch before they began.

Hermione nodded, though her mind was already racing. Bill and Professor Flitwick had spent the entire day out, gathering information and searching for any remaining survivors from the battle; a grim task that seemed to drain more hope from them with each passing day. She knew they must have news they wanted to share with all of them, Kingsley included.

Even before the conversation began, the air felt thick with the promise of bad news. Hermione could sense it looming, a storm yet to break.