            Hermione pressed her lips as she wracked her brain for something that made sense. In reality, it hardly made sense to her. "I was very lost after the war," she began slowly. She thought back to the numbness she had felt then—the sense of walking through the world as if underwater, limbs weighed down, body always cold. "I know that you and Ginny—and Ron, and the others—that you cared for me, but you had your own lives. And I had mine. And I thought I could get through, but there was something missing. A piece of me, maybe." Hermione leaned back into the pillows, knuckles pressed into her chin. It hurt, even thinking about that time. For even with all the horror this winter had brought, at least she felt  alive. At least she didn’t feel like drowning every single second of every dreadful day. "I don’t know why I started, but I began spending nearly every lunch hour in the Death Room. With the Veil. And that continued until I sensed him," she said, her voice barely even a whisper as her gaze landed heavily on Sirius.