Chapter 24 – The Funeral
When Ava regained consciousness, the first thing she felt was pain. It radiated through her body in dull, persistent waves, but most acutely from her head. A slow, throbbing ache pulsed behind her eyes. Worse than the physical pain, though, was the hollow, distant ache in her chest, the emotional aftershock of everything she'd endured. It felt like her soul had gone quiet, too stunned to speak.
Even though she was awake, she didn't open her eyes right away. She didn't know where she was. The last thing she remembered was the green swirl of Floo powder, the roar of fire, and her godfather's voice screaming behind her. She hadn't known if she'd made it to the Burrow…or if Yaxley had caught her mid-escape.
Slowly, Ava's eyes fluttered open. The room was dim, lit only by a thin beam of moonlight streaming through the window. She blinked, allowing her vision to adjust. A cool cloth pressed against her forehead, bandaged carefully in place. She reached up, fingers trembling, and touched it.
Pushing herself upright with effort, she scanned her surroundings, trying to make sense of the space. The walls were covered in Quidditch posters, their faces familiar to her. Gwenog Jones glared fiercely down from above a cluttered dresser. Ava recognized it instantly.
Ginny's room. Relief mingled with confusion. She'd made it. She was safe.
As she sat up fully, a gentle hand touched her arm and she flinched, instinct overriding reason. She jerked back hard, forgetting how narrow the bed was, and tumbled off the side with a solid thump.
Pain lanced through her skull just as the light snapped on, and a voice shouted out, alarmed, "Mum! Dad! She's awake!"
George.
Ava winced and squeezed her eyes shut, her palms clutching her temples as footsteps rushed into the room. A pair of strong arms lifted her gently from the floor, and a warm voice whispered near her ear, "It's okay. I'm here."
Fred.
When she opened her eyes, his face slowly came into focus, concern etched into every line. Behind him, silhouettes crowded the doorway, and then Mrs. Weasley swept into the room like a storm.
"Help her to the bed, Fred…gently now. Ginny, be a dear and fetch some ice."
Fred eased her back onto the bed while Mrs. Weasley took his place, gently removing the soiled cloth from Ava's head and replacing it with the fresh one Ginny handed over moments later. The cool press of it was a relief against her burning skin.
"Hold this, dear," Molly said kindly.
Ava took it with shaky hands. Mrs. Weasley stood again and began shooing everyone out of the room with the efficiency of someone well-versed in managing chaos.
"Ginny, finish tidying up downstairs. And you two," she aimed a pointed glare at the twins, "-I want the gnomes out of that garden by the time I come down."
"But Mum–" Fred started, while George threw in a groan for good measure.
"Now!" she said sharply.
Grumbling under their breath, the three of them filed out, casting one last look at Ava before disappearing down the hall.
Once they were gone, Mrs. Weasley returned to the bed, smoothing the blanket over Ava's legs and giving her a warm smile. "You gave us quite a scare, darling. I'm just glad to see you awake. You've been out for nearly two full days."
Ava blinked. "Two days?"
Mrs. Weasley nodded. "You were unconscious when you came through the Floo. Covered head to toe in soot, poor thing. We managed to clean most of it off, but there's still a bit left." She walked to the closet and pulled out a towel. "There's a shower just down the hall. It'll help clear your head. I'll have the boys bring you something to eat once you're settled."
Ava nodded faintly, overwhelmed by the kindness in Mrs. Weasley's voice. "Thank you. I'm sorry… for coming without warning. I didn't know where else to go…"
"There's no need to apologize," Molly said gently, brushing a hand over Ava's hair. "You're safe now. That's all that matters."
She stood, smoothing her skirt. "Take your time. I'll have something warm waiting for you."
And with that, she slipped out, leaving the room quiet once more.
Ava sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle around her. The pounding in her head had dulled to an ache, but her body still felt like it had been wrung out. Slowly, she stood and walked to the mirror in the corner of Ginny's room. What she saw made her flinch.
Her hair was a tangled mess, smudges of soot streaked her cheeks and neck, and her pajamas looked like they'd been through a battlefield. Which, in a way, they had.
She reached for the towel, her limbs still aching, and stepped out of the room. The hallway was quiet, save for the faint clatter of dishes downstairs. She padded barefoot down the corridor and into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
It was time to wash away the soot. At least the part of it that could be scrubbed clean.
Molly Weasley descended the stairs into the kitchen, her slippers muffled against the wooden floor. The house was quiet, the kind of stillness that came after days of worry. Arthur sat at the table, glasses perched low on his nose, scanning the morning edition of the Daily Prophet. As soon as he saw his wife, he folded the paper neatly and set it aside.
"How is she?" he asked, his voice gentle.
Molly moved toward the cold cupboard, retrieving a container of leftover shepherd's pie and a slice of brown bread. "She's awake. Just a bit dazed, poor thing. But lucid." She began assembling a tray, her movements brisk but thoughtful. "Any word from her aunt and uncle?"
Arthur shook his head. "Still abroad. They're en route from Tanzania. Visiting one of Nick's old Quidditch mates, apparently."
Molly muttered something under her breath about poor timing and took a moment to add a small bowl of fruit to the tray. "And Anthony?" she asked, not looking up.
Arthur hesitated before answering. "They found his body early this morning. Killing Curse. No sign of a struggle."
Molly paused, her hand tightening around the handle of the tray. "Dear Merlin…"
"The Ministry wants to speak to Ava," Arthur added quietly. "They're hoping she might know something about what happened."
"No," Molly said sharply, straightening. "Absolutely not. That girl has been through enough. She just lost her father, whatever sort of man he was, and arrived here unconscious, half-starved, and covered in ash. They can wait."
Arthur nodded, his expression somber. "I know. But she may be the only witness."
Just then, the kitchen door creaked open, and Fred and George wandered in, both looking like they hadn't slept much. George made a beeline for the tray, reaching for a slice of bread, but Molly's hand shot out and snatched it from his fingers before it reached his mouth.
"That's for Ava!"
George groaned. "Mum, I was starving."
"You'll live," she said briskly, pushing the tray into his hands. "Take this up to her."
Grumbling, George grabbed the tray while simultaneously fishing a leftover drumstick from the refrigerator. He leaned back against the counter, chewing casually. Fred, quieter than usual, slid into the seat next to his father, lost in thought.
"Go on, Fred," Molly added, her tone softer now. "She'll want to see you."
Fred didn't need telling twice. He rose and followed George up the stairs. The hallway upstairs was still and quiet, except for the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. The shower.
"She must've finally gotten up," George said, nodding toward the door.
In Ginny's room, George set the tray carefully on the bed. He looked around absently, then grabbed a cube of cheese and popped it into his mouth before plopping down on the edge of the mattress.
Fred entered slowly, his eyes scanning the room, the rumpled bed, the bandage wrapper in the waste bin, and the towel hanging from the end of the wardrobe. The signs of Ava being there made his stomach twist, though he couldn't quite name the feeling.
George chewed thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow at him. "Earth to Fred."
Fred blinked and looked over. "Huh?"
"You spaced out again," George said, smirking faintly. "I get it, mate. But she's here. She's safe. And she's finally awake. That's what matters."
Fred nodded slowly and sank into the chair in the corner of the room, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "I know."
But in truth, he didn't feel relieved. Not yet. Not until she was sitting in front of him, smiling, teasing him again like nothing had happened.
Only then would he start to believe she was really okay.
Ava stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam curling around her ankles as the door clicked shut behind her. She dried off quickly, only to be met with the frustrating realization that she had no clean clothes. With a resigned sigh, she picked up her soot-smudged pajamas from the floor and slipped them back on, the fabric still slightly stiff from ash and panic.
Padding barefoot down the hallway, she returned to Ginny's room and found George perched on the bed with a tray in his lap, happily helping himself to what was very clearly meant to be her meal. Fred sat quietly in the corner, his elbows resting on his knees, watching her with an unreadable expression.
Fred sat in the corner, elbows on knees, his gaze snapping toward her the second she stepped inside.
George glanced up, mid-bite. "Oi! The sleeping beauty returns! Just in time. Mum made you food, and I thoughtfully made sure it wasn't poisoned by sampling half of it."
Ava blinked at him, slow and confused, her eyes flicking to the tray. "That's… that was for me?"
"Technically," George said with a grin, licking his fingers. "But we both know I'm the one who needed it more."
She didn't respond. Instead, she crossed the room, dazed, and simply shoved George right off the bed.
"Whoa!" he yelped, hitting the floor with a dramatic thud. "Okay–definitely alive. Possibly possessed."
She sank onto the bed, reaching for the half-eaten food in a slow, mechanical way. Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted a piece of bread to her mouth, her stomach growling even as her appetite wavered.
George stood, brushing himself off. "That's the thanks I get. I risked my life bringing you food and pajama pants."
She blinked at him. "Pajamas?"
"I'll fetch them. Try not to commit any more violence in my absence," he said, rubbing his arm and dramatically limping toward the door. "Also, I want my punch back in full next time."
He slipped out with a theatrical bow, leaving her alone with Fred.
The silence that followed was heavier than it had any right to be.
Ava's eyes drifted toward him. Fred still hadn't moved from his chair. His fingers were interlocked, knuckles white.
She frowned slightly. "Are you okay?"
Fred let out a quiet scoff, his brow furrowing. "Am I–? Merlin, Ava, you're the one who passed out in a heap of soot and blood on our living room floor."
His tone wasn't harsh, exactly, but it carried something sharp beneath it, an edge of panic not yet dulled by relief.
"I thought you were–" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You're asking if I'm okay?"
Ava looked down at her lap, shame pressing down like a weight. "I didn't mean to scare you."
Fred rubbed his hand across his mouth, exhaling slowly. After a moment, he pushed out of the chair and crossed the room. "You didn't mean to," he echoed, softer now.
He crouched in front of her, his hands brushing lightly over her knees. "But you did. And it scared the shit out of me."
Ava met his eyes at last, red-rimmed and tired. "I know," she whispered.
"I'm not mad," he added quickly. "Just… shaken."
There was a knock on the door and it flew open before either of them could answer. George strolled in triumphantly, a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a wrinkled white shirt in hand.
"Your royal lounging attire," he declared. "Freshly liberated from my drawer. They may be a bit roomy. Perfect for dramatic exits or spontaneous napping."
Ava took the clothes with a small nod. "Thanks."
George grinned. "Anytime. I always suspected you were after my wardrobe."
Before she could respond, she gave him a tired shove toward the door. Fred followed, but not before leaning in to kiss her gently on the cheek.
"We'll be upstairs," he murmured. "Just shout if you need anything. Or if George starts monologuing again."
George winked. "I make no promises."
The door closed behind them, leaving Ava in the quiet once more.
She looked down at the clothes in her hands and let out a long, shaky breath. The fog was still there, clinging to her like smoke, but at least now, she wasn't surrounded by it alone.
Ava lay in bed staring blankly at the ceiling, her thoughts tangled and restless. Ginny's soft snoring filled the quiet room, her red hair spread across the pillow like a halo. The dim glow of the hallway light pooled beneath the door, casting a sliver of gold across then a shadow. It passed just beyond the crack of the door. Barely noticeable. A trick of the light, perhaps. Until the doorknob turned.
Ava's breath hitched. Her hand shot up, yanking the blanket over her head as though it could protect her from whatever was on the other side.
She heard footsteps in the room. Slow. Deliberate.
They creaked across the floorboards, rounding the room with a patience that made her stomach twist. She heard Ginny stir with a groggy yawn, oblivious. The footsteps didn't pause. They circled Ava's bed, growing closer. Then tugging. A hand on her blanket. She clutched it with trembling fingers, heart thundering in her chest. But it was yanked away in one swift motion.
And there he was. Her godfather, Yaxley, towering over her like a nightmare made flesh, his face bathed in shadow, lips curled in that familiar, sickening smile.
Ava sat bolt upright in bed, gasping. Her body was slick with sweat, her pulse wild in her throat. Her eyes darted around the room, the dream still thick in her lungs.
Ginny was still there, sound asleep, one arm dangling over the edge of her mattress. The moonlight filtered softly through the curtains. The room was quiet. It had only been a dream. But her skin still crawled. She could feel phantom footsteps in the air. The tug of a blanket that hadn't moved. The stare of eyes that weren't there.
Quietly, Ava slipped out from beneath the covers, careful not to disturb Ginny. Her bare feet met the cool wooden floor as she padded toward the door. She opened it soundlessly and stepped into the hall.
Nothing. No shadows. No whispers. Just the soft ticking of the old clock down the corridor. But she wasn't comforted.
She climbed the stairs, one creaking step at a time, until she reached the floor where Fred and George shared a room. Faint snores came from behind the closed door. She opened it gently. George was curled away, facing the wall. Fred lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head.
Ava hesitated in the doorway, unsure for a moment. Then she crossed the room and lifted the edge of Fred's blanket, crawling beneath it with barely a sound.
Fred tensed immediately. Then his breath slowed. He shifted toward her, his arm coming around her protectively, almost instinctively. He didn't speak. He didn't ask. He just held her. And Ava, wrapped in warmth and the familiar scent of him, finally let herself close her eyes. She still felt haunted. But at least now, she didn't feel alone.
The next morning, Ava made her way downstairs with Fred and George, still groggy but drawn by the scent of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. Her body felt heavy, her thoughts distant, as though her mind hadn't quite caught up to the fact that she was safe. When they stepped into the room, she spotted Angelina sitting at the table across from Ginny, lazily munching on an apple. Mrs. Weasley was at the stove, humming softly as she flipped something in a pan.
Ava blinked, taken aback. She hadn't expected to see her cousin here, especially not so soon. A pang of emotion twisted in her chest. Gratitude. Guilt. Relief. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed her until that very moment.
As soon as Angelina saw her, she jumped up from her seat and rushed toward her, pulling Ava into a tight, fierce hug. "I'm so glad you're alright," she whispered, her voice thick with relief.
Before Ava could reply, a blur of movement entered the room, Angelina's mother. She didn't say a word, just enveloped both girls in a massive, trembling hug. Ava felt the warmth of her aunt's arms around her and something in her chest gave way. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she clung to them both, burying her face into the crook of Angelina's shoulder.
A moment later, her uncle Nick entered the kitchen with Mr. Weasley at his side, both men looking weary but relieved. They offered quiet smiles, and nods of acknowledgment. No one asked questions. Not yet.
After breakfast, the adults gathered in the living room. Ava sat on the sofa with her aunt and uncle beside her, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley took the armchairs nearby. Fred, George, Ginny, and Angelina were ushered into the other room, but Ava knew they hadn't gone far. The occasional creak of floorboards, and the faint whisper of movement beyond the doorway, made it obvious they were listening.
Her voice trembled at first, brittle and raw, but she pushed forward. Word by word. She told them about the gathering she'd overheard, her father's meeting with Death Eaters: Lucius Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and her godfather. How they spoke of the Dark Lord, of allegiance, of power. Her breath caught more than once, but still, she didn't stop.
She told them about Yaxley. How he looked at her. How he followed her upstairs. How everything turned to panic.
She told them how her father had burst into the room, how his voice had filled the hallway, furious, protective, just before the Killing Curse tore through the air. How she'd heard the thud of a body falling, and how she'd fled, barely making it to the fireplace in time.
But she didn't tell them everything.
She didn't say what Yaxley almost did.
She couldn't. The memory sat coiled in her chest like a serpent, waiting. Just thinking about it made her stomach twist, made her skin crawl. The sensation of his breath, his touch, it still lived beneath her skin, like a bruise no one else could see.
And maybe one day she'd speak it aloud.
But not now. Not when her voice might break for good.
When she finally finished, her throat felt scraped raw. The room had gone still. Even the clock on the mantle seemed to tick quieter. No one spoke.
Molly Weasley and Aunt Kendra sat pale and horrified, hands covering their mouths. Arthur Weasley looked stunned, expression unreadable as he processed the weight of her words. Her uncle Nick stood by the window, back turned, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Finally, he turned.
His voice was quiet, even. "Now that your father is… gone, you'll need somewhere to stay. Your aunt and I are willing to take guardianship of you, Ava. If that's what you want."
Ava blinked, her throat tightening. She glanced at her aunt, who gave her a small, shaky smile and nodded quickly.
It made sense. It was the logical choice. But even as the adults discussed guardianship and practicalities, Ava's thoughts drifted toward someone they hadn't mentioned. Someone she hadn't brought up.
Lupin.
She hadn't said a word about him. Not during the retelling. Not after. The name clung to the back of her throat, too tangled in fear, grief, and confusion to say aloud. He was her father. That truth lived in her bones now, no matter how freshly carved. But she didn't know what that meant yet, not after everything. Not after losing the only man she'd called "Dad" her whole life, even if he hadn't deserved it.
Her aunt must have sensed the weight behind her silence. She reached over and gently took Ava's hand, her fingers warm and grounding. "You don't need to decide anything right now," she said softly. "Just focus on school. We'll talk more after the funeral."
Ava gave a small nod, her eyes drifting to the patterned rug beneath her feet. Her thoughts felt slow like they were trying to move through water.
"Am I going to the funeral?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
Arthur cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair, his expression careful. "You don't have to. Not if you're not ready." He glanced at her aunt and uncle before continuing. "The Ministry's concerned. With Yaxley involved, your presence might put you at risk. Their official recommendation is for you to stay away."
He paused, just long enough for her to feel the weight of his words.
"But," he added gently, "if you do want to attend… there's a way. The Ministry can provide Polyjuice Potion. You'd be disguised–one of the staff members escorting the family. We'd arrange everything. You'd be protected."
Ava looked up, her heart thudding in her chest. The very idea of being anywhere near Yaxley again made her blood run cold. But not going... not saying goodbye... not facing it at all?
It felt like turning her back on something final. On the last moment, she'd ever have with the man who raised her, no matter how flawed he'd been. A chapter had ended, violently and abruptly, and whether or not she had loved him, he had still been hers. And he was gone.
She hesitated only a moment.
Then she nodded, voice barely audible. "I want to go."
The funeral service was held at St. James Cathedral, arranged by the Ministry of Magic. It was a formal, hushed affair, high, arched ceilings and towering stained glass windows casting a dim, reverent light over the pews. Nearly a hundred witches and wizards attended, their faces somber, their voices low. Ava remained close to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley throughout the ceremony, unable to speak with her aunt, uncle, or Angelina. For the duration of the service, she was not Ava Johnson. She was Alyssa Nguyen, Ministry secretary for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, thanks to Polyjuice Potion and a carefully orchestrated cover.
To only a handful, the truth was known.
As the ceremony progressed, Ava's heart thudded beneath the stiff collar of her borrowed robes. When the time came to pay respects, she moved with stiff limbs and a heavy step toward the casket. The line moved slowly, each mourner pausing in solemn silence. When at last she reached the front, she looked down at the man she'd called her father her entire life.
His face was cold. Still. Unfamiliar in its stillness.
In her mind, his voice echoed: "I never thought you were my daughter."
And yet… he had protected her. He had chosen her, in the end. Chosen to die for her.
Her throat tightened as a tangle of grief and confusion rose within her. He wasn't the man she had believed he was, not entirely. But he had still been there. Present. Protecting. A complicated, cruel, damaged man… who had, perhaps, loved her in the only way he knew how.
She turned away, unable to cry.
But as she stepped back, she collided with a tall figure in the aisle. She flinched.
"Excuse me," came the smooth, velvety voice. "Are you alright, miss? You look as if you've seen a ghost…"
Ava froze. Slowly, she looked up and met the sharp, gleaming eyes of Corban Yaxley.
Her blood ran cold.
He tilted his head, inspecting her as if she were a riddle to be solved. His expression was neutral, but there was something behind his gaze, something knowing. Predatory.
"I'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "I suppose I'm just… not comfortable at these sorts of things."
He smiled faintly, that same unnerving curl of the lips she remembered far too well. "They've never bothered me. I find funerals oddly… grounding."
He leaned in just slightly. "But then, I've always had a dark side. I hope that doesn't trouble you."
His eyes dragged over her, slowly, like fingertips down a glass. Ava's breath hitched in her throat. Every instinct in her body screamed to run, but she stayed rooted in place. Trapped in her own skin.
Then, blessedly, another voice rang out.
"Alyssa! There you are!"
Remus Lupin appeared beside her, smiling warmly as he draped an arm around her shoulders in a gesture of familiarity. "I've been looking all over for you."
Yaxley stepped back, his interest suddenly cooling.
"Professor," Ava breathed.
"Sir," Yaxley said curtly, then turned on his heel and strode away without another word.
Ava let out a shaky breath.
"Thank you," she whispered to Lupin. "I… I didn't know what to say to him."
Lupin gave her a gentle look. "You don't need to say anything. Come, let's talk somewhere quieter."
They moved to a bench tucked along the cathedral's far wall. The murmurs of the service hummed faintly in the background as they sat.
Lupin hesitated a moment before speaking. "I'm sorry about your father."
Ava looked down at her lap.
"I heard what happened," he added softly. "I can't imagine how overwhelming it must be for you."
A pause. Then– "With Anthony gone," he said carefully, "I know questions of where you'll stay might come up. I've spoken to your aunt and uncle, they're more than willing to take you in."
Ava nodded. "They already offered."
He gave a faint smile. "They're good people. But… if things ever feel too crowded, or if you want something different…I want you to know my home is open to you. Always."
Her eyes flicked up to him.
"I know your mother didn't think I was capable," he said quietly. "But I want you to have the choice she didn't give you. If you want to stay with me after school… I'd be honored."
He reached out and gently took her hand.
Ava stared at their joined hands, then at his face. "Thank you," she said, voice barely audible. "I haven't decided anything yet… but I'll think about it. I promise."
He nodded, then gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
"I'll let you get back," he said, rising.
As he walked away, Ava stood and turned back toward the gathering.
Across the room, her eyes locked with Yaxley's.
He stood in a tight cluster with Lucius Malfoy and a few other men, speaking in hushed tones, but his gaze was fixed on her. Watching. Measuring.
Then he smiled, slow and crooked, before turning back to his companions.
Ava's skin crawled.
The smoke curled from the end of Yaxley's cigarette like a lazy whisper, dissipating into the grey London air. He leaned against one of the cold iron gates outside the cathedral, his coat collar turned up against the drizzle. The funeral had ended, the mourners filtering out in hushed clusters of black robes and damp eyes.
He didn't weep.
Didn't even blink.
The rain didn't bother him, nor the sharp wind threading through the old stone archways. He stood still, unmoving, only his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator waiting for something to break away from the herd.
Footsteps approached, crisp and practiced. Lucius Malfoy came into view, cloak immaculate despite the weather, face carved into its usual mask of disdain.
"He died a coward's death," Lucius said, glancing toward the cathedral doors. "A disappointing end, even for Anthony."
Yaxley took a slow drag, eyes fixed ahead. "The end comes for all of us. It's how we meet it that matters."
Lucius arched an eyebrow. "Still waxing philosophical, are we?"
"Just honest."
Lucius hummed. "And yet you're still standing. Which is more than we can say for him."
A silence settled, long and taut.
Lucius shifted, voice lower now. "Have you heard from the others? Selwyn, Travers?"
Yaxley nodded once. "They're watching. Waiting. Like the rest of us."
"It's time we stop waiting." Lucius's voice dropped further. "The Dark Lord will rise again. We've been scattered too long. No direction. No order. We need to rebuild."
"And you think you'll lead us?"
Lucius stiffened. "I'm not here to posture. I'm here to prepare." He leaned in slightly. "But don't mistake quiet for weakness, Corban. If we don't find discipline before He returns, we'll all be dealt with."
Yaxley gave the barest tilt of his head, unimpressed. "So long as you remember that includes you."
Lucius straightened, cloak swirling. "The next gathering is set. Rosier's estate. Month's end."
"I'll be there."
Lucius hesitated, then said, "And the girl?"
Yaxley didn't answer.
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "Have you seen her here?"
A long pause. Yaxley flicked ash from his cigarette. "I saw a lot of people."
Lucius's voice dropped, tight with irritation. "She's a liability, Corban. The Ministry's sniffing around already. If she talks–"
"She won't."
"You're certain of that?"
The silence that followed was deliberate. Yaxley exhaled slowly through his nose, letting the smoke hang between them. "You worry too much."
Lucius studied him a moment longer, then nodded once, sharply, and walked off into the thinning crowd, his polished boots silent on the damp cobblestones.
Yaxley remained. The cigarette burned low in his fingers.
That's when he saw her.
Across the courtyard, just beyond the final line of mourners. She stood with Arthur Weasley, who was murmuring something softly to her while offering a small nod. She returned it, polite, measured. Not quite warm. Her expression was composed, unreadable to the casual eye.
But Yaxley's eye wasn't casual.
He noted the way she held her arms close to her sides, fingers curled too tightly around the handle of her small handbag. How her shoulders sat just a little too high, like she hadn't realized they hadn't dropped since she stepped out of the cathedral. Her gaze flicked too quickly when someone else approached, though she masked it with a soft smile.
She wore a charcoal-grey coat, clean and pressed, with gloves she hadn't removed once. Her hair had been styled neatly, tucked back from her face in a way that seemed older than her years. Not a girl in mourning, just another bureaucrat or intern attending a superior's funeral.
She looked ordinary.
She wanted to look ordinary.
Yaxley let the cigarette burn nearly to the filter before he dropped it at his feet and ground it out beneath his heel.
As she turned, Arthur guiding her away from the cathedral steps, her eyes flicked across the courtyard, just once. Not directly at him. But past him. Through him. Still, he watched.
No change in his expression. No shift in posture. Just the faint, lazy tilt of his head as she moved away from the cathedral towards the road. And then, barely visible, the corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. Not quite. And then he turned and walked the opposite way, disappearing down the street.
