It had started silent, as a whimper, but when no one had come, the sound turned into a wail, loud and high pitched. The door flew open and a woman came hurrying to the source of the noise.

“Sh Ginny, it’s fine, Mum’s here now, it’s fine...” She took the baby out of the crib. “It’s time for your dinner, isn’t it? Come on sweet, Mummy will make you a bottle.” Holding the baby in her arms, Molly went downstairs to the kitchen. Moving Ginny to her hip, she took her wand from a pocket of her apron, and flicked it. Ginny, who had finally turned silent, watched with round eyes as a tiny bottle flew from the shelf, and was filled with milk from a levitating jug. Molly walked over to the counter and screwed the teat on by hand. Then she made another movement with her wand, checked the temperature of the milk on her hand, and began feeding the baby.

The door crashed open, almost causing Molly to drop the bottle. A boy had suddenly appeared, red-haired like all her sons, and excitement edged on his face.

“Mum? The Fawcetts are having a party, and dad says I can go if you say it’s alright, so can I? Ben told me that Sara can walk now! And some guys from school might be there. Can I go?”

“If you want to look at a baby girl, I have your sister right here,” his mother said, frowning. However, as she saw her son’s expression turning to disappointment, she added quickly, “Of course you can go. Dinner’s at eight, you’ll be home by then. Take Charlie with you if he wants to go, and look after him. And Bill!” she called after him, as the boy was already hurrying outside, “no magic outside school! I will know if you do it again!”

She sighed, and turned back to Ginny. She hadn’t fed her while talking to Bill, and the baby was starting to whimper again, hands trying to reach for the bottle.

“Now, you can’t hold that on your own,” Molly said absentmindedly as she brought the teat to her daughter’s lips again. The Fawcetts were having a party - of course they were. All wizarding families were celebrating. You-Know-Who had fallen; the Potters had died, but they were celebrated as heroes. Thanks to them, the war was over.

Who thought of the misery now. There was no time to mourn the dead, it would only spoil all the high spirits. Two people had died, and they had had a son, a son that would grow up as an orphan; and people raised their glasses and whispered their names, but who truly wept, who was sorry that it was over?

No one was.

And Molly felt bitterness rise in her. Had it all been over a week earlier, her misery could have been reduced, maybe she would have been happy now, despite all the deaths of the previous months, despite the death of the Potters. But her brothers had died, fighting the Death Eaters. They had died like heroes, they had told Molly, five against two, and took three down with them. She felt a tear running down her cheek and wiped it away before it fell down on the baby in her arms. What good was it that Fabian and Gideon had been heroes? Who cared about them now?

In the light of the death of her brothers, all the other terrible things that had happened had lost significance somehow. Yes, she had known that their work for the Order of the Phoenix was dangerous, and that it might happen every day. But all these things, all those deaths�“ she had never thought it could happen to her family. She had never known what it meant. Loss.

The boys knew, of course - they had to know. It was no use telling them lies why Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon weren’t coming around for dinner anymore, telling them exciting stories, sometimes bringing gifts, and�“

Her eyes fell on the one thing the Order had given her after they had retrieved the bodies - Fabian’s watch, which was now lying on the counter, a constant reminder. Of course it looked even older than their father’s had, all of Fabian’s things looked like that. When they were younger, Molly always had to lend her things to him, because he would break all of his during his fights and adventures with Gideon.

Molly felt a lump rise in her throat. She couldn’t bear remembering them right now. Arthur had told the boys. She couldn’t have, but she knew he had done well. Bill and Charlie were old enough to understand, and they had been down for the last days; one of the reasons why Molly had let her son go to the Fawcetts even though he was grounded for two weeks for hexing Charlie’s toes.

There was noise outside the kitchen again, and a second later two very small boys came stumbling inside, duelling with sticks as though they were rapiers.

“You’re evil, die!” one of them called.

“Why am I always evil, who says you’re the hero?” the other one exclaimed, lowering his twig. The other boy seized the opportunity and prodded his twin brother in the chest with his own stick.

“Ha!” he said triumphantly, “You’re dead!”

Fred dropped to the floor theatrically, rolling his eyes up so that only the whites were visible.

“Stop it!” Molly called. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re heroes,” Fred said, straightening up again.

“Like Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian! We fight for good! And... things.” Those words were filled with nothing but pride, especially the last one.

“No,” Molly said sternly. She wanted to go on, tell them why it was wrong to risk their lives, why it wasn’t as good as it seemed from the outside. But she couldn’t. They were too young to understand; and after all, Molly couldn’t say that it was a bad thing after all. Even if no one thought of her brothers right now, she knew that they had done a lot of great things before they had died, and that even at the end, they had still taken three with them. Who knew what would have happened to people, to Molly’s family maybe even, if they hadn’t arrested or killed all those Death Eaters. But still. They wouldn’t have had to risk it all...

“Go play outside, will you? Ginny needs to sleep now.”

That wasn’t true, but she couldn’t bear seeing her three-year-old sons like that. Tiny though they were, they reminded her of her brothers.

As the boys left the room, now arguing who was going to be the villain, and who the hero in their next duel, Molly put the bottle down again and cradled Ginny gently in her arms.

“I’m not going to let you die,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes again. “I’m going to look after you, after all of you.”


* * *


The high pitched, wailing screeches filled the air, an onslaught of unbearable noise to the unappreciative ear. The screeches faded and died to be replaced by numerous loud bangs, lowly imitations of rounds of Muggle gunfire.

The celebrations were in full swing and Avery felt sickened. The decrepit, old ruin of a house that served as his safety barrack creaked and groaned as the late autumn wind pressed in on it from all sides.

In a few meagre hours, Avery’s life had changed completely. He had been on top of the world, untouchable, feared and revered. Yet now he was scurrying like a rat into its hovel and the Aurors were dying to spear him with their claws.

Avery threw his arms over his head as a firework exploded above his hideout, sending mounds of dust cascading down from the ceiling. Voldemort had been his world and now his world had gone, each firework puncturing another hole into its coffin.

Did these people not care that he had lost everything? Their lives were uplifted whilst his was on a downwards spiral. Did they have no compassion?

All around Britain that night people were raising a glass to Harry Potter �“ the boy who lived, and about half as many were mourning the death of a great witch and wizard �“ James and Lily Potter.

But what about all the people that the Death Eaters had lost? Did nobody care about them? Rosier? Wilkes? Were they just to be forgotten? Over a year they had been gone, and with their deaths came the first ever time that Avery ever doubted what he was doing.

Killing Muggles had been nothing; they were mere specks of dust on an otherwise spotless landscape. The Order was the same, they were nothing more than irksome flies buzzing here and there, getting in the way. But watching the deaths of your comrades? That was not so easily overcome.

Avery froze, holding his breath. He could hear something. Urgent whispers sailed on the wind and muffled footsteps became embedded in the dusty soil outside. Bang! The door shook on its hinges.

They had come.

Avery’s heart rammed hard against his ribcage. This was it fight or flight. His mind was working furiously hard. What should he do?

Voldemort was gone and with him had gone Avery’s power. He was ruined.

The door flew open and several figures were framed in the doorway, the wind whipping the dust up in spirals around them. Avery cowered in the corner as they approached him, Mad Eye Moody taking the lead.

Moody loomed over him and gave a harsh, guttural laugh. “Aha! I’ve waited a long time for this. Get up, Avery, you’re coming with me,” he growled, pointing his wand at Avery and looking at him as if he were nothing more than mud stuck to his shoe.

Avery, however, had been wrong. He was not ruined. He had, and would always been, a Slytherin, and this was to be his salvation.

He gazed up at Moody with a look of pure bewilderment. “Going where?” he asked, puzzlement and a slight tremor present in his gravely voice.

“Azkaban,” growled Moody unpleasantly.

“B-b-but why? I haven’t done anything!” Avery exclaimed.

“Haha! A likely story.”

“No, seriously, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t remember anything,” he rambled.

“You know what, Moody,” piped up a blonde haired witch, “it sounds as if he might have been Imperiused.”

“Nonsense,” fumed Moody, sparks flying from the end of his wand and narrowly missing Avery’s forehead.

“We can’t rule it out,” argued the witch, her voice stern. “We’ll have to take him in for questioning.”

“Fine!” grumbled Moody as he made to walk away. “You lot deal with him.”

Avery gave an inward sigh of relief. He was a coward, but he was safe. It was a much better solution than being brave and attracting danger �“ the Potters had proved that.

The meek shall inherit the Earth, thought Avery. After all, they were the only ones left.