She walks between faded funeral stones and time-worn effigies where rain water has darkened cherub eyes and lips and she touches each lonely figure and thinks about the living person. She reads the names, but they don’t really register in her mind. The divide between the living and the dead feels arbitrary. Wizards can live for hundreds of years, if they’re careful. And maybe longer, if they split their souls. Tom has told her she will make her own Horcruxes one day.