Outside the front door sat a trunk. It was a strange,old thing: a muddy brown, like her eyes, scuffed and fading away in parts, worn from use. On the front the initials "HG" were stamped: bronze embellished with silver edges.
It stood alone in the garden, barely visible through the overgrown vegetation full of a multitude of plants, all weeds, all unwanted, all forgotten and left to grow wild.
The man stomped through the grass in an attempt to get a closer look at the offending item, his chest feeling tighter with every step he took. Soon enough he had full view of not only the trunk but a smaller, rusty, overturned cage with it's door hanging off by it's hinges. His breath caught in his throat; of course… but where could he be?
With an unsteady hand, he slowly reached towards the trunk, managing to open it despite his trembling hand which was quite unusual for him. The trunk tipped over with a dull thud causing the man to jump slightly and cautiously check his surroundings, letting out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding upon confirming he was indeed alone.
With the latches already unclipped and most of the material already warn away, he prised the case lid open recoiling in disgust and horror at the sight he was met with…
The case was empty aside from a single item. A token, he already knew, a calling card, a single extremity: a finger…
The man leapt up practically flinging the case along with its lid a good meter or two away from him "Pettigrew," He snarled turning around so quickly he ought to have had whiplash "Of course it was you, wasn't it? You sly bastard…" His fist clenched and unclenched as he stormed down the streets, grief and rage clouding his head, clouding his normally repressed emotions which were, for once showing themselves in the form of a short yell and a crash of a plant pot smashing as his booted foot swung out to kick it. The feelings came at him in tsunami sized waved with such a ferocity the man almost hoped it would leave him an empty shell.
Almost as if his prayers were being answered, the grief left almost as quickly as it came, leaving but a pounding in his brain as his already pale skin grayed in such a way he looked assuredly like a corpse, his body quickly following suit in the form of buckling legs; knees sinking into the sodden earth as shock turned to reality. "No…" He whispered to himself, almost praying that the truth was not as it seemed, trying to deny the obvious, his usually logical brain struggling to comprehend the fact of the matter.
Hermione was dead.
Hermione was dead and there was nothing he could do. There it was: proof in the form of a finger, Peter Pettigrew's calling card, there was no question about it.
As if sensing he was unable to cry, the man's already dark clothes darkened as they soaked up the moisture from the overgrown foliage. With a heavy sigh, he stood up, his grey eyes darkening as he looked up to the sky and gave a sharp nod of his head in a salute to the deceased. He would avenge her if was the last thing he did…
Draco Malfoy disappeared in a swirl of his black robes preparing himself for what he was sure would be the most difficult report of his life.