Home. The word was beautifully resonating through his mind. He needed to get home, see his wife, and meet with his daughter. He needed to hold them to him and kiss their angelic faces until his lips became chapped .He needed to be back in that small flat, needed to smell the air within it. He remembered it vaguely and how it smelled of gardenias. Home… What a wonderful word.

He knew these streets well, a permanent map was drawn in his mind's eye and it provoked his muscle memory. Even in the changes in them that had been instilled throughout the years, a ghost of a trace of the way it once was still led the way. A left here, hook a right there, around the tailor's… There it was. Old, decrepit. The ghost of its former glory loomed over it, a grey cloud, heavy with memories.

Below his house, his neighbor. Years ago, he had spoken to the couple that lived down thee, had them over for dinner. But now, they, like the rest of London, was lost to the filthy, greedy streets of today.

Mrs. Lovegood's Meat Pie Emporium. Yes, now he began to remember. Remember, and embrace. The streets near here were vacant, the way mosquitoes were repelled by spray, people walked away from the street as quickly as they could.

But not Bill. He opened the emporium door as casually as he would've fifteen years ago.

There, a woman stood, glowing pale in the dimly lit room, the loud clanging of cutlery and popping of a fire the only noises in the room.

Feverishly working, she didn't acknowledge Bill until a small cough was uttered by him and she was yanked abruptly from her concentration.

"A customer!"

Bill, startled by her sudden excitement, and not wanting to intrude, turned to leave.

"Wait!" she called, "What's your rush? What's your hurry? You gave me such a-" she wiped her hands on her apron, "fright! I thought you was a ghost. Half a minute, can't you sit?" But Bill's legs were like petrified wood. "Sit you down! Sit!" But there wasn't much sitting to be done, considering Mrs. Lovegood; the pale woman more or less pushed Bill into the nearest seat before he had time to react. "All I meant is that I haven't seen a customer for weeks. Did you come here for a pie, sir?" At this, she picked a pie up and placed it excitedly onto the cleanest plate she could find. "Do forgive me if my head's a little vague." She reached up to brush her white blonde hair behind her ear, procuring a bug from her white locks. "What was that?" She examined it for no more than a moment before placing it down on the counter. "But you'd think we had the plague from the way that people--" The bug scurried away, hoping to go unnoticed, but a small, white hand chased after it, "keep avoiding--No, you don't!—Heaven knows I try, sir. But there's no one comes in even to inhale." At last, she found a pie that was bug free (for the most part), placed it on a plate, and placed it in front of Bill. "Right you are, sir. Would you like a drop of ale?" Bill nodded, for the woman was rather hospitable. Quickly, she skimmed over the small bump in the conversation and continued on (she could really talk). "Mind you, I can hardly blame them." She had his attention while she poured a tankard of ale. "These are probably the worst pies in London I know why nobody cares to take them. I should know, I make them. But good? No. The worst pies in London-- even that's polite. The worst pies in London. If you doubt it, take a bite..." Bill didn't very much care. Pie was pie, and anything was better than the gruel and pig shit they fed you in prison. So he obliged, sinking his teeth deep into the pie, prepared to enjoy his first good meal in one and a half decades. And he regretted it. Was it his imagination, or did he taste dust as something foul crawled over his tongue? The doughy center left traces of the mildewy counter in his mouth. His teeth collided with something rubbery that flipped around like a fish out of water.
When Mrs. Lovegood's back was turned, the food in his mouth was on the floor, blending in seamlessly with brownish flooring. But she noticed nonetheless, somehow knowing he'd do just that. "Is that just disgusting, you have to concede it. It's nothing but crusting," She returned with his ale, much to Bill's delight, "Here, drink this, you'll need it. The worst pies in London..." And off she was, to prepare another, hopefully better pie. "And no wonder with the price of meat what it is, when you get it. Never thought I'd live to see the day… men would think it was a treat finding poor animals that are dying in the street. Mrs. Moony has a pie shop."
"Who's Mrs. Moony?"
"Who's Mrs. Moony?" Lovegood repeated back, her voice surprisingly whimsical, "She's my competition. Mrs. Nymphadora Lupin. Calls herself 'Mrs. Moony', she does. She does her business but I noticed something weird. Lately all the neighbors' cats have disappeared. I have to hand it to her, what I call is enterprise, popping pussies into pies. It wouldn't do in my shop." Bill found himself slightly relieved at this news, and yet, slightly sick to his stomach. He couldn't tell if that was from the pie he just attempted to ingest, or if it was from the newfound knowledge that Tonks was cooking cats. "Just the thought of it's enough to make you sick. And I'm telling you those pussy cats are quick." Bill chocked on his ale as he tried not to laugh at the hypocritical irony of this. "No denying times are hard, sir. Even harder than the worst pies in London!" Bill tried, grudgingly to take another bite. "Only lard and nothing more. Is that just revolting? All greasy and gritty. It looks like it's molting, and tastes like--" 'All shitty' was Bill's only thought, but Mrs. Lovegood chimed in again. "Well, pity! A woman alone; with limited wind and the worst pies in London." She sighed, miserable at the bleak picture she must have been painting. "Ah, sir. Times are hard…" Bill, though, was no longer listening. He was gulping down his ale in hopes to wash out the horrendous taste of the pie.
"Trust me, sir. It's going to take a lot more than ale to wash that taste out. If you come with me, I'll get you a nice tumbler of gin." At this, Bill noticed the surprised look on her face wasn't just from the shock of having her first customer in who-knows-when; it was just how her faced looked. Interesting.
Bill rose to his feet and followed her behind black curtains to a second part of the building; a second part that might as well have been a second whole world. A harpsichord sat in a corner, collecting dust, but still was beautiful, as were the odd little knick-knacks that stood along the shelves lining the walls. "Isn't this just homey?" She started, "The wallpaper was such a bargain to, since it was only partly singed when the chapel burned down. Here you are," she handed him a large amount of gin, which was perfect to wash out the sickening taste that had reached a cruel fortissimo within his mouth. "Now, have a seat by the fire. You look chilled to the bone."
Bill did as he was told, the taste surrendering to the stronger one of the gin. "There's a room above this shop, isn't there?" he tried to sound casual. "If times are so hard, why don't you rent it out to someone?"
"That? Up there? Merlin's beard no! I won't go near it."
"Why's that?"
"People say it's haunted."
"Haunted?" That was absurd. Bill had lived up there once upon a time. Haunted? In all that rooms cheeriness? It was impossible.
"Yes, haunted. And who's to say they're wrong? Something nasty happened up there. Years ago."
"What happened?"
"There was a wizard and his wife, and he was beautiful. A handsome breaker and his wife, but they transported him for life." She gave a sad sort of sigh, the smell of nostalgia filling the air. "And he was beautiful."
"What was his name?" Bill asked, already knowing the answer, but not wanting to hear it said aloud.
"Weasley. William Weasley."
"And his crime?"
Another sigh. "Foolishness."
They sat in a silence that tried to strangle him while Lovegood went unharmed. She merely stared intensely at him while the fire glowed bright and red, reflecting across her sheet white face. "He had this wife you see, pretty little thing, silly little nit, had her chance for the moon on a string-- Poor thing. Poor thing."
Bill could see it now; Fleur, up in that room, beautiful, distraught, tears glowing silver on her angelic face. A baby was pressed tightly to her, crying, as she tried to hum her back to sleep.

"There was this man you see, wanted her like mad. Everyday he sent her a flower. But did she come down from her tower? Sat up there and sobbed by the hour. Poor fool… Ah, but there was worse yet to come, poor thing."

Worse? How could this story, his story, his wife's story get any worse than this? He had been sent to Azkaban on a false charge, his wife was by herself, forced to raise their daughter alone for fifteen years. How could his life, her life get any worse?

The war. Who had won the war? Bill couldn't remember the details. Just lights, and curses, and dead bodies of friend's and his brother strewn across the floor, the last ghost of a trace of their last expression permanently plastered on their faces. The dark side, Lord Voldemort's side had won. The Order had lost, but they scrambled to regain their lives, to regain order and some grasp of sanity.

"Well, Wormtail calls on her all polite, poor thing… poor thing." Luna shook her head sadly, "Malfoy he tells her is all contrite. He blames himself for her dreadful plight. She must come straight to his house tonight, poor thing… poor thing..."

It was all coming back to Bill now. That man had been Lucius Malfoy, member of the "new and improved" Wizenmagot. He was a persuasive figure in society now with Voldemort in power, human once more. Sending Bill to Azkaban had been as easy as picking lint off a sweater; one swift move and he out of the picture. That made Malfoy free to take his wife. It was a giant, violent game of chess. Bill had been check mated.

"Of course when she goes there poor dear, poor thing, they're having a ball all in masks. There's no one she knows there poor dear, poor thing. She wanders, tormented, and drinks, poor thing. Malfoy has repented she thinks poor thing. 'Oh where is Sir Malfoy?' she asks. He was there all right, only not so contrite."

So Wormtail was in on this, too? That bastard! Bill felt unexplainable feelings erupt within him, boiling from somewhere deep. He was about to explode. Lucius Malfoy and Wormtail were going to pay. But how would he do that?

"She wasn't no match for such craft, you see. And everyone thought it so droll. They figured she had to be daft, you see, so all of them stood there and laughed, you see. Poor soul… poor thing!" Luna had finished her story, not saying enough, but saying more than was necessary, saying everything he needed to hear.

At that moment, so many things happened at once. He saw every occurrence of the past happen at once. He saw Malfoy's large hot hand encircle Fleur's thigh, Bill's beautiful, pure, virtuous Fleur… Not her. He saw her cry in pain and fear as Lucius held back her flailing arms as she angrily scratched at him, trying to get him off her. His lustful lips searched her body as his party guests watched, laughing hysterically with cruel, sick tones.

As she screamed, a tea kettle hissed and Victorie, snuggled in her crib began to cry…

It was tearing at Bill, bitterly, ripping his inner mind apart as his heart began to shatter. Was he going insane?

"No!" He cried, rising to his feet, his face pulled into a pained, shocked, and heartbroken grimace. "Would no one have mercy on her?" If she said no, he would die, whether that was emotionally or physically, he didn't know.

Luna Lovegood's face was unrecognizable. It was pulled into a please, elated smile that hid behind a shocked and serious face. "So it is you… Bill Weasley?"

He didn't answer. He merely stared at nothing. Or perhaps he was staring at the memories that were spinning away, replaced by vicious, blind hatred for the men that brought this to life, that made his world fall down around his ears. "Where's Fleur?" he asked, feeling light headed, the moment surrounding him, surreal, "Where's my wife?"

Luna sat, silent for a moment, chewing her words before spitting them coldly with as much gentleness as she could in his face. "She poisoned herself. Draught of the Living Death from the apothecary in Diagon Alley." She looked down at her hands. "I tried to stop her, really I did. But why would she listen to me?"

Bill felt the world crash around his feet, his heart shatter violently within his chest. His wife, dead? In a surreal spiral, Bill felt himself fall. He didn't know where he was going, or whether or not he was sitting or standing. He was unaware of which was up or down. As the tears, for the first time in years fell silently down his pallor cheeks. Where was his daughter? Where was his baby girl?

Mrs. Lovegood seemed to read the question off his face as if he were a book, vulnerable and exposed. "He has your daughter. He adopted her like his own."

"He?" Bill asked. His blood didn't run cold anymore. In fact, it stopped running for a moment, and then began to boil on high. "Malfoy?"

At this exact moment, Bill indescribable grief morphed into an equal amount of anger. Malfoy was the reason behind his imprisonment. He was the reason why his family slipped through his hands the way sand slipped quickly through an hour glass. He was the reason his wife had poisoned herself and now lay beneath his feet, enveloped soft, eternal sheets of soil, her perfect, beautiful body the meal of the crawling creatures she always detested. Malfoy was the reason his daughter grew up away from loving arms and was thrust into the cruel world of corruption that was sure to twist her fragile, wonderful mind.

Bill's knees lost their ability to hold him up, but he remained standing. "Fifteen years." He said with a voice barely audible over the crackles and pops of the fire behind them and the usual creaking of old buildings. "Fifteen years, I've wasted away in an Azkaban cell. I spent fifteen years dreaming that I might come home to a wife and child."

"I must say," Lovegood piped up, boldly, "the years haven't been too kind to you, Mr. Weasley."

The sadness on Bill's face twisted into a smile. "No. They haven't. And I will be compensated for those years."

"Compensated?" Lovegood gasped, her hands flying to her pale pink lips. "You don't mean…" She couldn't utter the word.

But Bill's smile grew wider still. "Revenge." He said, the image of Fleur's death being avenged fleeting almost joyfully before his eyes. "Revenge." The word began to taste good on his tongue. "It will be mine." He stood, his silence chilling the air. Not even the fire provided heat now. "Wormtail and Malfoy will pay for what they did."

Lovegood only stared, her face unreadable. "What are you going to do?"

Bill smiled slowly. "First," he said, "I'll need to see that room."