Draco's funeral was on a Tuesday. It felt like a strange time to have one. She brushed her daughter's hair, slicked back beneath a black headband. Narcissa placed a white peacock feather on the coffin. It may have been July but she wrapped her robes tightly around her body, chilled as if it were the dead of winter. The next day was a Wednesday, and then a week passed. A series of Tuesdays marching on, blurring together endlessly. 