            Not that she ate lunch during it—that was better suited to a quick bite in her cubicle, though ever since she began visiting the Death Room, she had hardly an appetite at all. No, the hour was better suited to more important things, like staring at the Veil, and wondering how she’d gotten here. Her job. The Ministry. The end of the war and all the pain and confusion and grief that came with it. Sometimes she plunked her bag down on one of the benches and cried silently for an hour. Other times, like today, she just fidgeted and thought. Wizards didn’t have therapists. The Veil became hers, she supposed. At least the Veil didn’t ask questions, like the few people she’d tried to talk to.