Dawn, shifting from gray-green to pale gold, had already climbed onto the villagers' rooftops.
Among the neat rows of houses, thin smoke rose from the occasional chimney, mingling with the morning mist drifting down from the mountain ravines.
Hogsmeade, which had been clamorous all night, was still asleep.
The tents housing the displaced wizards and the allied forces had not only packed Hogsmeade's broad central street.
Even the gentle slope behind the post office was covered with military tents. Even the Shrieking Shack had been hastily cleared out to house people.
A damp, freezing north wind swept in with the morning fog, stealing the land from the sunlight. Flecks of snow began to drift through the air thick with grief and confusion.
Amosta looked toward a large tent in the square.
With sorrowful composure, Narcissa wiped Lucius's face while Draco removed his father's mud-stained shoes and replaced them with a brand-new pair of boots.
Her husband, his father, had been a respectable wizard.
Lucius Malfoy lay peacefully asleep, a faint, contented smile lingering at the corner of his lips.
Perhaps he was glad that he had protected his son.
Perhaps he was proud that his death could ensure the Malfoy family's prosperity for the next century.
The outline of Amosta's soul rippled faintly, and he could not help but feel despondent.
No one could control every turn of events, not even him. On the contrary, it was precisely because of his intervention that so many people's fates had changed.
Lucius was one of them.
According to the original story, he could have lived until Voldemort's downfall. He could have seen his grandson born and go to school.
Of course, his intervention had also given some people a happy ending.
Remus and Tonks, for instance.
Exhaustion had overwhelmed the pregnant Tonks,