Author’s Note: I asked for and received special permission from Mynuet to post this fic here, as it is just over 500 words. There is major character death and a short description here. I cried writing this, if that tells you anything. It is meant to show the bonds of love are everlasting.


Draco gripped his daughter tightly, burying his face in her wispy blonde hair.

“Daddy,” she whispered. “You’re squashing me.”

“I’m sorry, Pumpkin,” he whispered back, releasing his hold on her slightly.

At his knees, two identical twin girls with bushy brown hair held on tightly. He could empathize with them.

He looked down the line. Arthur Weasley always stood at the far left. Fleur Delacour Weasley was next, followed by Nymphadora Tonks Weasley, Penelope Clearwater Weasley, Angelina Johnson Weasley, Katie Bell Weasley, and then him at the end of the line. Assorted children were either carried by their mothers or standing solemnly alongside.

Today was the third anniversary of the death of the Weasley clan and Hermione Granger-Weasley.

It was so amazingly simple for one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters to strike them all at once. Arthur, who had been the Minister of Magic, had summoned his family to Hogwarts for the largest meeting of The Order of the Phoenix. It had been easier for Hermione, the redheaded boys and their sister, who all worked at the Ministry, to meet Molly and Portkey over to Hogwarts.

Draco had met his other sisters-in-law at Platform 9 ¾ for the trip on the Hogwarts Express. With eleven children all under the age of seven, Arthur had thoughtfully arranged the much less strenuous travel at Draco’s suggestion. They were already ensconced in Hogsmeade when word came.

It had been an enemy of Percy’s who struck the final blow. The man, who had had enough of Percy’s belittling to last a lifetime, had grown tired of his reformed boss’s supercilious ways and perfect giant family. He was easy pickings for Lucius Malfoy, who had the minion branded and brainwashed before his twenty-fifth birthday.

As the keeper of the Portkey Authority, he only had to jam Bill, Charlie, Molly, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, Hermione and Ginny into the chamber and fire off an Avada Kedavra before slamming the Portkey chamber shut.

One could only surmise they were too surprised to react to the spell bouncing, splitting, going this way and that. It wasn’t until the next Portkey was scheduled fifteen minutes later that the grisly discovery was made.

After the wakes, laments, and ceremonies were over, Arthur summoned what was left of his family. Together, they planted perennials in the garden, to honor each of the dead. They were spring blooms, to be sure, jonquils, hyacinths, tulips, irises. But they bloomed every March 28th without fail, without magical poking or prodding.

No one knew how, or why, but it became their ritual, to stand in front of the line of verdant green stalks and shoots, to see the pregnant blooms full of color and life blossom on hidden cue.

When Ginny’s soft, cream-hued tulips opened, he felt tears stream down his cheeks and absorb into his daughter’s hair. Below him, Ron and Hermione’s twin daughters sobbed quietly as their parents’ bright yellow jonquils showed their face to the weak spring sun.

He hated to look down the line of weeping family, to look at their knees or in their arms and see an army of little boys and little girls who wouldn’t know their mothers or fathers.

His daughter’s chubby hand moved to his cheek and wiped away stray tears.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” five-year-old Lily told him softly. “Mummy loves you, see? She made the flowers bloom.”