By nine A.M., it seems like nothing more than a somewhat busy night for the Death Eaters; Tonks responds to the early-morning alarm, going back and forth between the three houses where attacks had occured, collecting data as quickly as she could.

By noon, they are starting to fit the puzzle pieces together. There are clues at each site, calling cards; these attacks are deliberately connected. Watch, Voldemort is saying. Watch what I can do. Owls criss-cross the globe as the magnitude of this night begins to hit them all.

By three, Nymphadora can no longer keep count of the attacks. She can only Apparate from one house to the next, not gathering data, now, just trying to keep on the trail of these murderers. The Aurors' ranks are stretched far too thin, like too little butter on too much bread. There aren't enough of them.

By six, she has seen too many grief-stricken eyes, held too many hands, listened to too many unearthly wails as people grapple with their loss.

By nine, Nymphadora locks herself in the far stall of the women's loo, back at the Ministry, and allows herself five minutes to cry, as quietly as possible.

Then she walks back out into the world.

The world that has gone dark.