It’s early morning Tuesday the next week, and Hermione's still in her worn flannel pyjamas that she’s had since 5th year, sipping cold tea out of a mug, half-eaten toast in front of her. Tonks is clattering around in the pantry, swearing under her breath when she can't find whatever it is she wants. Hermione’s reading the paper results, scoffing at Skeeter under her breath every half-minute. 