He was jealous, she realized. They had Dumbledore's army, and so he had the Inquisitorial squad.
In the privacy of her bed, she would cry silently for him.
She knew what the creation of Dumbledore's army meant; it meant war – real war with bloodshed and death.
His little squad was simply a petty child's notion.
Sometimes she wondered when she had become so much older than him, pureblood, dark artists extraordinaire. But mostly she just watched him, and knew he would be one of the first to fall – to suffer bloody consequences in the war that hovered on the horizon.