She didn’t listen to him; she thought this was something they could handle. She was wrong about that. Tybalt grimaced and shook his head helplessly, but he had to get it out, had to tell her now however much he hated to, however much Elsie would hate him for it –

“It’s Owen,” he heard himself say – distantly, like the world was underwater. “It’s Owen, Elsie. He’s dead, he... died today.” Owen, her little brother; her bold, boisterous little brother; who’d gone ice-skating with them years ago; who’d had a whole quidditch career ahead of him; a whole life ahead of him; a family who loved him.

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