They sat at the table, the three of them. Molly Weasley, fresh tear tracks upon her cheeks, twirling a teacup between her fingers, her son Bill Weasley to her left, picking at the peeling wood, the scraping sound of it causing Sirius Black, across the table but down a bit, to pull at his hair, where his tattooed fingers already resided. The rest of the Order had left, the final stragglers leaving the kitchen to either vanish home to their loved ones… to revel in the feel of their safety and the hazy promise of tomorrow, or taking one of the many rooms in the dingy manor. Grimmauld Place was no palace, but for wallowing in near hopelessness, the darkening walls and fading wallpaper were ideal.
The silence in the kitchen, aside from the scratching of Bill's nails, and occasional muffled sobs as Molly was unable to stop another round of wondering grief, was anything but peaceful; deafening maybe, and hollow, but not peaceful. So when a colossal thumping echoed down from one of the many floors above, it caused the stricken woman, seated at the head of the table, to jump nigh out of her seat. Bill reached out his right hand, calloused and scarred, to grasp his mother's firmly. They could find some sort of respite in that at least. Sirius stood slowly, walking out of the room and immediately turning to head up the stairs, no doubt in order to offer whatever he could to his Godson above.
And then there were two… neither with any solace to offer.