Closing the door
A door opened. A man came in and set to work. All traces of the presence of the Order had to be removed before Narcissa came to claim her property. He rummaged through the parchment on the kitchen table. The plans of the ministry disappeared in his pocket. He had found what he was looking for.
"Filthy werewolf!" a voice shrieked when he walked through the corridor. He didn't attempt to shut the portrait up. What could he say? That there would be no more blood traitors in her house?
The place was still a mess in spite of all the efforts of one man to clean it. The furniture was covered in a thick layer of dust. Empty bottles littered the floor. Mildewy stuff on plates reminded him that only a few months ago, there had been life here. He tried to ignore the filth.
He shut the door behind him and walked down the snow-covered and brightly lit streets.
Why didn't it feel like nothing had happened? In the end, the situation was not unlike two years before: all his friends either traitors, or dead. Why had it been so hard to close that door?