Bonds
"Kill me"

Disclaimer: Harry Poter doesn't belong to me. Draco, however, is my slave. .
AN: This chapter's kind of depressing. Sorry it isn't longer.


"Dead! They can't all be dead! Twenty-two people, Freya! How could this happen?" he demands of the Medi-witch. Head of the emergency unit at St. Mungos, Freya still manages to find time to talk to angry, grief-stricken Alastor Moody. Devastated herself, the woman leads him to a comfy chair in the waiting area and sits down beside him. She can spare him a few moments, at least.

"Fifteen of those people were dead when they got here, Mr. Moody. There was nothing that could be done. It does look like most of the inju"

"But they're dead? Tonks, Remus, Arthur, Shacklebolt? My friends...are dead?"

"It looks as if Mr. Shacklebolt will recover, though his left hand will have to be amputated to stop the poison."

"The others?"

"Yes, Mr. Moody, they have passed on," she says, clearing her tight throat, patting his hand sympathetically. Alastor's normal eye is red, tears running from it. The magical, protruding eye is unaffected, roving restlessly around the room, as if expecting more Death Eaters to materialize.

Of course, they appeared to be normal people, traveling for the holidays. During the chaos, the Dark Mark glowed luridly in the Network, calling the banshees to order before they fled. Anyone unlucky enough to have been in the Network was seriously injured or murdered. More unsettling, there would probably be several more victims coming to the hospital who had been partially in the Floo Network.

"There is a Ms. Hestia Jones who is conscious. She'll be here for the night, but she wants to talk to you immediately. Now don't be alarmed by her appearance. Her injuries look worse than they are."

Alastor refrains from making a sarcastic comment, reminding himself that Freya had saved the lives of several people and still found time to speak with him. He takes a steadying breath, muttering to himself until a shadow falls across him. Hestia leans back in her wheelchair as the nurse rolls her before front of Moody. He steels himself for the sight, but it still catches him off guard, which certainly is saying something.

All that is left of her ebony hair is stubble, blending in with her blackened scalp. Her shoulders have blisters, slathered with some sort of stinking ointment. Scarlet lines cross her cheeks, one of her eyes swollen shut where her burning hair fell across it. She is lucky though. The spell hadn't been strong enough to burn her skin, just her hair and the top of her clothing. With some difficulty, she smiles. He doesn't respond.

"What should we do?" she asks.

"We'll post a patrol, but I'm pretty sure it was Maurice they were after."

"Why would Maurice Ellis have anything to do with them? Wasn't he muggleborn?"

"Who knows? I saw him summon the banshees though. It turns out Ellis was involved in a lot of things. Shacklebolt learned that he was selling hallucinogenic mushrooms, he was transporting dragon eggs to America, running a fairy ring..."

"Fairy ring?"

"It's a slang term," he explained, "and basically it's catching Veela girls and selling them for concubines. Anyway, it really doesn't surprise me now that I know the truth."

There is silence between them for a moment. Hestia sips water from a paper cup she'd been holding, staring into the liquid. She sighs, missing that curtain of hair she could have used to hide her tears right now. Sniffling, she voices an issue that has weighed heavily in her mind since she awoke.

"What about Lethe?"

"Tonks fought so hard for that baby to live when she was born so early. It was a miracle when she did. Maybe she would have been bett"

"Don't say that, Alastor! Many people said that about Harry Potter, and where would we be without him? Conquered six years ago."

"You're right, Hest," he replies wearily. "I wonder how the kid's going to take it. All of them really. There's at least a dozen orphans around here. And Arthur...He was so excited that Percy would visit on New Year's and now...now he's dead. Good man, Weasley, has a good bunch of kids too. I'm sure at least of them will be there with Harry when that battle comes around."


Armand suckles greedily, though his cousin had fed him not long ago. His stubby fingers tug his mother's matted tresses, even as Bellatrix fluffs the wispy hair on the crown of his head, which is the same rich black as her own. She adores him instantly, and the infant seems to respond to her. She never imagined that she'd have children at his this age, nor had she desired any, but now that Armand is with her, the woman feels pride and affection for her feeble son.

Dr. Wright stands near the doorway, unsure how to act. After he had checked the woman's health, the mousy Franz is ignored, observing at a distance, longing for his own daughter. How is Bellatrix Lestrange deserving of a poignant moment with an unnatural child when he is parted from Annie and Gwen? He hadn't been able to write his family, as promised. Unbidden, jealousy and spite flare up in the normally placid man.

"The Dark Lord," he says with visible apprehension, "wishes that you sleep, regain your strength. You do not want to overextend yourself? I will bring the baby back in a few hour's time."

"You will give me a few more minutes with him," she commands imperiously. Unabashed, she continues breast-feeding, sparing Franz none of her attention. He steps back obediently, a fine crease between his brows to allude to his irritation. He glances at a golden watch, resolving to allot Bellatrix five minutes.

"His crib is in the next chamber?"

"Yes, to the right," the doctor answers impatiently.

"All right, you may take him back now," Bellatrix answers, kissing Armand's cheek before relinquishing him to Wright. The young man wraps the infant securely in his silk blanket, departing taciturnly. Bellatrix sighs to herself, wishing fruitlessly that she could protect him, and by doing so, herself.


She screams, her agony indescribable. Thrashing, the workers at St. Mungos bind her to the rails on her bed for her own good. Clumps of white curls and shreds of her own flesh are clutched in her hands, thrown at her assailants when they tie down her wrists.

She screams again, spitting and choking on her own saliva. Blood splatters on the sterile walls, the ceiling, the room divider. It is flung from her ears, result of the banshees' onslaught, and streams over her face from self-afflicted wounds. One nurse finally casts a powerful spell on her, and the patient collapses.

"My god, what is the matter with her?" an assistant whispers, stunned.

"The banshees must have driven her mad," an experienced witch responds as she labors, gently cleaning the victim. Another takes her pulse, a third tending the disturbing scratches and bald patches as another assistant releases the woman from the spell holding her limbs in place. None notice the Voldemort's brand upon her upper arm, white as molten metal.


Harry falls back against his pillow, moaning. The Dark Lord requires peace, or rest, so Harry is allowed the same. His face still exhibits the trials he has faced, his lips set in a grimace, pallid as the snow outside. The covers are tangled around his body from his flailing, and wheezing suffices as breath.

Snape lurks in the doorway between Molly and Hermione, watching Stella do what little would help. Ron is downstairs, getting tea for everyone he claims, but in reality, he does not want all of them to see him crying. Ginny's tears have dried, and she lays next to Harry despite the others' presence, worn out from the day's events and half asleep.

"It must be over," Severus remarks.

"Good. He'll be okay?" Ron says.

"Should be. We won't know until he's up," the professor responds, accepting a cup of chamomile tea, with sugar, honey, or cream. He drinks the blows on the fresh beverage, perusing Harry over the rim of the porcelain tea cup with a lachrymose, thoughtful expression. At length, Ron joins him at the foot of Harry's bed, peering into his tea. He jumps up, spilling the drink when the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," he offers, mopping scalding tea from his stomach. The lanky teen hurries to the front door, returning soon after with a stern, youthful apprentice of St. Mungos. Recognizing him, Stella asks "Whatever are you doing here, Clarence?"

"You are needed at the hospital, Stell, and..." He swallowed thickly, stuttering. "I came here to...to inform you that...that Mr. Weasley has...died." The final syllable is so faint that they hardly hear it, but every person knows what he told them.

"What do you mean? How?" Snape asks, rising to his feet.

"The Floo, an attack by banshees...from Vol...Vol...Vold...Him."

Ginny wails, sitting up in the bed, wracked with sobs. Her thin frame shakes and she crawls to the floor so not to rouse Harry. Molly darts forward, kneeling to embrace her daughter, leaning against one another's shoulders, Ginny blotting her eyes on her hem.

"Oh my!" Stella mutters, escorting Ron to the empty bed. He doesn't fight her, simply follows, looking drained and ill as bile lurches in his stomach. He rolls over, facing a blank wall, denying what he had just learned. Hermione attempts to walk to him, but as soon as she stands, the world tilts before her and she crumples, caught by Severus Snape, who appears stoic as ever.

"Go on then. You are needed elsewhere. Just one thing. The people who were with Arthur, did any survive?" he inquires over Hermione's head, still supporting her.

"I...I don't know, sir. A lot of people are at the hospital. You should come when you are able," Clarence says, then Apparates after Stella.


The catacombs are evacuated. If all of my Death Eaters are gathered, we are an easy target. They spread out to the far corners of Europe, to hide until we will return in a week. There will be no communication, no evidence left behind. It is an efficient operation, and everyone is gone within an hour.

The exception is the Malfoys. Bellatrix and Armand must be somewhere secure with someone reliable to care for them. The doctor goes with them should there be need. Lucius is the only one I will make contact with at his manor, in four days, December 26th.

Of course, I shall keep track of everyone else. Most of them are still in France or have taken refuge in Spain or Belgium. I can sense each of them very weakly. Thus I know that only one lives who was sent to capture Ellis. Smith had to be dealt with after all, simply because I had no time to bother with him. Now only Morgana is left, though she is very close to death, obviously unable to come to me. Once we are in a more stable position, I will have Lucius fetch her. I cannot let the enemy use her.


A house elf scurries to the grand double doors and utters a pathetic spell to get inside Malfoy Manor. He repeats the incantation and poofs into a library where Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco pretend to read after dinner. Draco notices the elf first, nodding as acknowledgment.

"Master, Mistress, young master," Kershy squeaks, bobbing his head at each Malfoy in turn, "a man at gates, much important!"

Lucius goes to the window, scanning the grounds in the failing light of the setting sun. Seeing a lone figure behind the gates, barely discernable at such distance, Lucius casually says "Let him in." They can deal with one Ministry worker.

"Yes, master," Kershy squeaks and disappears. A short figure materializes before the gate as it swings open. The elf talks with the visitor a moment, judging by his erratic gestures, then walks up the path to the mansion, trailed by a tall man. Moments later, the doorbell rings, and then Kershy reappears in the library with their guest.

"Welcome," Lucius drawls, "and who exactly are you? What is your business here?"

The man walks to the hearth, stretching on hand before the hearth, his back to the Malfoys. In a raspy voice, he tells them "It's not important. Mrs. Malfoy, you had a sister, Andromeda?"

"What does it matter?" she snaps, nervous.

"This is her granddaughter," the stranger retorts, turning. In the crook of his arm is a drowsy infant with a crocheted pink hat.and mittens. "You are her only living relative. Andromeda's daughter passed on today. Her baby, Lethe, is yours."