Hermione busied herself with eating her soup, overwhelmed by the urge to walk out of the room. She had sat through so many of these dinners, and each time she always felt like a hostage. They made banal conversation and hinted at what they were currently working towards, as Draco didn't quite trust her enough to hear everything just yet. She had actually found herself grateful. Of the things they let slip, or didn't care to censor, she figured she had heard enough to haunt her forever. The crimes and coverups, the corruption. The constant deaths. Every time she listened as keenly as she dared for a familiar name, but those cropped up rarely, now. She had been hopeful for a while, until the realization hit her that most of her friends had probably died years ago, at the last battle, when Draco had killed Harry, and she had got there too late.