"To celebrate," he goes on, and Hermione blinks in confusion as she unfolds herself from the armchair and moves to take the tray from him. There is a smear of blood along the underside of his jaw, near his ear, but he smells faintly of cologne and sweat, not the reeking stench of death. His eyes are smoky-soft and gentle set in their exhaustion-shadowed hollows, not the sharp, bleak grey they look when he's been forced to kill. But then maybe he's finally getting used to it, she thinks despite herself. The tray is heavy, the bottom of it warm.