It's been six days since the war has ended, and so far every moment she's spent alone, when Teddy is asleep, she's been trying to clean out the house of anything that is Nymphadora's. There is a pile of plastic bags at the back door, stuffed with clothes and other things.

Right now she's staring at her own bedspread, wondering whether she ought to just burn down the entire house and be done with it. There's happy memories here, certainly, but the last year -- they haven't been happy memories in the last year. Thankfully, Teddy is asleep in the living room.

She drops down onto the floor, back against the wall, and stares at the bed.

Harry Potter has saved the world yet again.

Harry Potter has rid the universe of Voldemort (with a little help from a Black sister who finally found her way).

Harry Potter cannot, in fact, help Andromeda put her life together again. That's the unfortunate part. She has to keep hoping that Ted is all right, though, because if she doesn't keep hoping that -- well, Teddy is all she has left.

She was tired of this. Very tired.

You would think, being so constantly worn out as Ophelia was these days, that she would have gotten used to it by now... but she hadn't. This feeling never let up, never got any better, and she never... adapted, or whatever one was expected to do when their husband turned up dead, was found out to be a Death Eater and they were left with a five month-old baby to raise alone. Was there any way to simply transform after that kind of a life-altering event? Or were all widows just like her; sitting holed up at home, stuck to their child's side 24 hours a day and being generally depressed and pathetic like there was nothing left for them in the world?

Maybe not, if they felt like there was something left. Truth be told, Ophelia was certainly not one of those people. She had Anastasiya, of course, the only thing keeping her going when she felt she was running on fumes, but even the child was little solace. At the worst moment, a glance down into the blue eyes of the baby girl would send a jolt of memories through her, reminding her just how much had been lost, and it was back to square one. It was back to locking herself behind the bedroom door, clutching a pillow and letting the tears flow as if she had buried him only yesterday.

She kept going, though... She always put the pillow down, always came back out and always took Anya into her arms again and held her close, because no matter how upset, no matter how tired she got, she had to withstand. Smoothing a hand over the tiny head of blonde hair, she reminded herself that if life had been unfair to anyone, it was this baby. She would grow up without a father, with people telling her that her father had died a murderer, and for that reason, persevering even through the worst of times was everything.

Still, she thought as she leaned her head drowsily back against the back of the grand rocking chair, it was the hardest thing... to do all of this alone.