A Plain Wooden Box

They said that You-Know-Who himself had killed her.

Susan didn't doubt it in the least. Her aunt had never spoken fearfully of the Death Eaters that had taken part of their family, but even her hard eyes had shown terror at the thought of the reborn Dark Lord. Her aunt Amelia had been a strong witch in every sense - magically, physically, mentally. But still she had found her way into an early grave, murdered at the hands of the twisted, evil villain of their world.

It wasn't as though the thought of You-Know-Who being responsible for the death of one of her family was a novel idea. Susan had an aunt and uncle that she didn't even remember because of the Death Eaters. But the sterile idea of dead relatives didn't prepare her for the onslaught of despair that had struck her when her tearful mother had informed her that her favorite aunt had passed away.

"Susan?" her mother called.

"Coming," Susan replied, standing up and placing the portrait of her paternal grandparents, her father, and her dead aunt and uncle back on her shelf. It had taken time to convince her parents that she should accompany them to Amelia's house to sort through her belongings, but Susan felt that she had to go to that cozy house one final time.

She was supposed to have visited with Amelia this weekend. Her aunt would have taken a day off of work, and they would have spent evenings looking through books and photographs that had belonged to people Susan had only heard about, and they would have went into London and shopped and went to Diagon Alley. Amelia hadn't been frightened by the Ministry propaganda and pamphlets that had been distributed.

Susan hurried into the living room, and tried to ignore the sadness in her father's eyes.

The Floo journey to Amelia's house was brief. Too brief for Susan, who wished that they could have driven the distance so that she could have more time to adjust to what she would see in her aunt's house.

Furniture was overturned. A single vase was shattered. A Tiffany lamp was lying on the floor, stained glass cracked and broken on the sensible rug. A few feathers, ends covered in something Susan didn't want to imagine, littered the floor in front of the fireplace. Susan gingerly stepped over them, avoiding the messes, wishing that the room was as orderly as Amelia had always kept her home.

Even looking at the destruction You-Know-Who had left in his wake, Susan still felt as though her aunt might come out of the kitchen, holding a cup of tea and telling them to make themselves at home while she straightened up.

Her mother knelt next to the shattered vase, and began to carefully gather the pieces. "Remember this vase?" she asked.
Her father shook his head until her mother held up a large piece that revealed the vibrant yellow pattern. Susan realized with a start that her father was old - deep creases marred his face and in the scant light the grey in his hair overpowered the brown. But the expression on his face, the broken, sad expression of someone who had outlived his family, was what made him appear eons older than he ever had before.

"That was Edgar and Anne's vase," he said slowly. "Amelia kept it after..." His voice cracked, and he took a deep breath. "Amelia kept it after it was the only unbroken thing in their house."

Her mother nodded silently, tears streaming down her face. Susan can't bear, can't stand the weight of memories she doesn't share, so she walks into the kitchen. Her absence is not noticed.

Once she's standing in the middle of the kitchen, she regrets venturing alone into the house. It feels wrong that this house, so familiar to her and host to so many good memories, feels so foreign to her. She hesitated before every movement, afraid of disturbing... something, anything. The air felt stale and heavy, somehow, even though it had been less than a week since her aunt's death.

She considers sitting at the table, but the sight of the chair half-pulled away from the table deters her. Her aunt must have hurriedly pushed that chair back, the night that she was...

Susan trailed her fingers along the back of the chair. It wasn't right that Amelia was dead. She hadn't deserved to die because of the pointless war they were suddenly embroiled in. It's almost as though she can see the shade of her aunt, hurrying through the house, screaming, throwing futile curses.

They hadn't said exactly how Amelia had died, but Susan didn't think that the Killing Curse was the only one she had suffered. Instant death at the whim and desire of another was terrifying, but the thought of the Cruciatus and the torture that could be done with magic sickened her.

She pulled out a chair across from displaced one, and sat down. She stared at her hands as they rested on the table, imagining Amelia's hands patting hers, a gentle smile, a burst of laughter. If things hadn't fallen apart, she would have spent tonight talking and laughing with her aunt. She wouldn't feel broken and disjointed, she would feel happy and content.

She shivered, and wondered when the temperature modulating spells on the house had failed. Had they lasted past Amelia's passing, or did they sputter out at the same time her life did?

"Susan, where are you?" her father asked.

"I'm in here," she replied, standing and walking towards the doorway.

"We're starting upstairs," her father said briskly.

"Where--" Susan began before pausing, thinking better of her question. But the desire to know pushed the words out of here mouth. "Where did she die?"

A stiff, uncomfortable silence.

Finally: "In the living room. She was nearly to the Floo powder when--"

No one needed to finish the sentence.

The next few hours crawled by as they carefully went through Amelia's belongings. Susan chose a gracefully hewn jewelry box for herself, remembering childhood days of Amelia allowing her to dig through the sensible necklaces it contained. The wooden box with its simplistic lines and plain color weighed heavily on her heart as she tucked it under her arm as they left for the day. It felt wrong to take it out of her aunt's bedroom, felt wrong to carry it to the Floo.

"I can't take it," she said suddenly, before thrusting her hand into the jar of Floo powder.

"Of course you can, sweetheart," her mother said. "Amelia would have wanted you to have it."

"But," Susan began, "it belongs here. In this house. In her room. It's not mine. It's Aunt Amelia's. It's too much like stealing to take it - she's only been gone a few days!"

"Oh, darling," her mother said, wrapping her tight in her arms and stroking her hair. "Amelia said something similar, when we insisted she take that vase from her brother's house. But we aren't pillaging, we aren't being vultures. In time, you'll be glad you have something of hers, something with good memories that you can look at and smile, because you remember your aunt who loved you as though you were her own daughter. Amelia didn't have a family of her own, so you were her legacy as much as her reputation and career were, as much as the books she helped write and the laws she helped pass were."

Tears streamed down Susan's face. "Why couldn't it have been someone else? Why did it have to be her? We've lost enough to them."

"Because my sister was strong enough to be a threat," her father said quietly. "The Bones family has stood up for what's right, and even though it's cost us dearly we're not going to cave. We stand against the Death Eaters and," he shuddered before finishing his sentence, "Lord Voldemort."

Her mother released her, and looked around the room. "This house was never as cold and uncomfortable as it is right now," she said. "Do you know why that is?"

Susan shook her head mutely.

"It's the traces of dark magic. Lord Voldemort murdered your aunt in this room, and we can feel the way he twisted the very air we're breathing. But in time, the dark magic will fade, the bad memories will fade and all that will remain in this room are the memories of the good life your aunt built for herself and lived out in this house. No matter what the Death Eaters do, they cannot erase our past, the good and the bad times we've shared, the love we've shared. Remember that, Susan. Forget the terrible, endure the horrible and remember the togetherness."

Susan felt as though weight of the jewelry box had lessened, somehow, as she took a handful of Floo powder that, a week earlier, would have saved her aunt's life.

She wouldn't let You-Know-Who poison her memories. She wouldn't lace every memory and thought about her aunt with the knowledge of her early death.

She would endure.