"Lucy," Harry says, out loud, and points. In the corner, right at the edge, there it is. His handwriting is a little more polished, a little more practiced than all the others. There’s a crooked heart next to his name, and it wasn't written by "Lucy’, for sure. Hermione thinks of Narcissa, and thinks of how she must have loved him, really. A girl with all the world in front of her. The picture in Hogwarts archives, that Hermione had stumbled across in Fourth Year, of Narcissa grinning for the yearbook, Lucius smiling a little next to her. She hadn't realised who it was until she read the names at the bottom, and she’d just looked at the picture again, analysed everything in it and compared it to the slimy little git she knew. 