Prologue Part One: No One Mourns the Wicked
It was one of those grim, cheerless nights in which the rain never seems to cease and the wind keeps up a constant tortured howl. Lighting darted about the night sky, punctuating the dark purple air with its jagged forks.
In the small, well-to-do neighborhood of Grimmauld Place, this night was no different than most to its Muggle inhabitants. Little did the residents of Number Twelve know however, that tonight was special. For it was on this stormy night Lavender Brown strode across the empty street with her chin tucked down and head bowed against the wind and rain. She held her cloak close to her body for warmth as she struggled against the rain on her short walk from the garden into the safety of Number Twelve. She jogged up the front steps and tapped once on the door with her wand. After a series of clicks the door swung open to admit her into the surprisingly bright and cheery hall.
She hung her cloak up carefully in the hallway and paused by the mirror to arrange her hair carefully. Ten years had aged her, and not too well either. Small lines worried her face and her once luxuriously soft and long blond hair was now wispy and brittle. Her fingers smoothed over the creases in the corners of her eyes. Crows feet. She smiled bitterly. How ironic was it that her old friend’s Animagus form now graced her face? She had never cared for crows, even when her friend was still alive, and now they only served as a subtle reminder to her friend’s peculiar habits and tastes.
She stepped back from the mirror. How did this happen? She was thirty-three years old, alone, unmarried, and wretchedly poor. Was it only eighteen years ago when she held the future in her palm? Time passed by quickly now, the grains of time slipping through her fingers and she grasped at youth. Lavender knew witches and wizards lived an abnormally long time, but her vanity was her weakness, and so it was with a heavy heart that she begrudgingly welcomed the coming of years.
The sound of laughter drifted down the hall. How odd it sounded! The pain still ebbed and flowed at her heart; she did not know how to feel or how to act. How did one grieve a friend whom they had lost a long time before their death?
Lavender followed the sound of laughter and voices to the kitchen where the Order members were gathered around the table. There was Harry, looking a bit battle-scarred and tired, at the head of the table, poring over maps and strategies with Mad-Eye Moody. To the right of the two was Remus Lupin, Sirius Black and Mundungus Fletcher — the three of them chuckling over another one of ‘Dung’s illicit deals. Tonks was entertaining Ginny with her various faces as Fleur commented to anyone who would listen that Tonks would be far better off if she “vould stop making those reediculus faceez!”
Lavender scanned the rest of the faces — Fred, George, Neville, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Kingsley… the list went on. They were very fortunate as to not have lost too many people. Each death was for the cause, but every death meant a dear friend departing from their midst.
“Lavender!” Harry greeted her happily. “We haven’t seen you in ages! What news do you bring from the far corners of the Ministry of Magic?” he teased.
Lavender pulled up a chair and plopped down tiredly in it. “Well, Hermione is dead,” she told him flatly.
Harry’s jaw dropped. “Hermione—dead? No!” he scoffed. “The Wicked Witch of the West couldn’t possibly be…” he trailed off.
“She is as dead as Ron,” Lavender assured him. “Luna saw to it yesterday; finished her off with a bucket of water. Daft girl, when I asked her what happened she said that she was only trying to put out the fire on Hermione’s robes.”
Harry was silent for a second then grinned from ear to ear, as if he couldn’t believe this strange stroke of luck.
“Well, this calls for some celebration, then!” Fred shouted gleefully.
The sudden roar of human voices and laughter brought Lavender back to reality rather quickly. She excused herself from the room and went to the kitchen to help Mrs. Weasley in fetching more butter beer.
She saw that Harry, Remus, Sirius, Kingsley and many others, were gathered around the fireplace, conversing in serious tones. As she drew near, they glanced at her, and once they saw who it was, beckoned her closer.
“We were just talking about Hermione,” Remus told her.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” offered Sirius, and he downed the rest of his fire whiskey.
“I expect that all of England is glad that she’s finally dead,” Lavender commented, forcing her tone to stay casual.
“Bloody hell got that right. We’ve been getting owl after owl asking us if we know anything yet, and we’ve just finished blocking off the Floo. People are mad for news,” Sirius said.
“It’s that bad?” Lavender was amazed. “All that fuss over Hermione?”
“She stepped on an awful lot of important toes, Lavender,” Harry reminded her. “You remember what she was like at Hogwarts.”
“You were friends with her then?” Sirius asked incredulously.
“I knew her, if that’s what you mean,” Lavender answered quickly.
“Tell us, what was she like? I would give anything to see her as a teenager!” Sirius laughed.
“Well, it was never easy for her,” Lavender heard herself say and immediately wished that she could take it back. They didn’t need to know about that. She looked around at the eager and expectant faces all around her and figured, ‘Oh, screw it.’
“I mean, she was doomed from the start…”
