Chapter 886 - Martial Alliance (1/2)

Dawn had yet to arrive, but the village of Mould-on-Would is steadily being repaired. The living had long ago since been evacuated and only the dead remained. The dead are carefully collected and cataloged by Ministry of Magic staff before the deceased bodies are transported back to the Ministry of Magic to be collected by their closest of kin. Tragically, only half of the corpses can be correctly identified while the remaining corpses (or an ȧssortment of body parts) are in states that make identification all but impossible. The magical signature of the deceased could be traced but not correctly identified considering the ȧssortment left. The latter dead would be officially pronounced and be burned on a large public pyre for the families of whose whole corpses are missing. This would permit the families to mourn their loss safely and publicly. (For truly, there was not much to bury…)

The sky is dark and cold, but an aged wizard with wispy (typically unruly) hair kneels on the damp, frigid cobblestones. His warm hazel-colored eyes are empty having lost any traces of warmth. In fact, upon closer inspection, his eyes are red and puffy, his nose red, but the tears on his wrinkled face had since dried away. His every breath-forms small trails of clouds that dissipate just as quickly as they are formed.

Fleamont Potter remains gaze remains distant as his mind replays the scenes over and over in his mind. He had swiftly departed from Prince Manor to check on his wife, Euphemia. She had been feeling ill and had attended the Presentation Ball with him and their son, James. Perchance subconsciously sensing that something had gone terribly wrong, he had hurried home without their son in tow rather than leaving James in the care of the Prince's.

To his dismay, Fleamont had been greeted by the sight of an empty house and not a single trace of his wife within his sight. He had immediately summoned their house elf, Nimmy, the older salt-peppered haired house elf had with great agitation appeared.

Wrangling her hands, the house elf's large blue eyes were red including her long red nose. Her smaller bat-like ears wobble as she sobs, ”Master, Nimmy could not stop the mistress. Mistress feeling better wished to bring a treat back the master and the young master! Nimmy failed to stop the mistress! Bad Nimmy!” The house elf chastised herself.

Fleamont's heart sinks dreadfully into the pit of his stomach. ”Nimmy, where did Euphemia go?”

Nimmy lets out a loud sniff, before very loudly blowing her nose into a hankie. ”To Mould-on-the-Would, Master,” she hiccupped loudly, before blowing her nose again.

Without waiting for more, Fleamont rushed out of the home and hurried out into the snow. He tromped across the snow leaving footsteps until he reached the end of the house wards, before apparating away to Mould-on-the-Would. In a blur, he arrived at the rampant scene of death and destruction. Teams of Auror's, A.P.D. officers, and other Ministry officials rebuild the town, while other teams collect, corpses and mangled body parts including that of the giants for research. At this point, there are no longer any survivors to be found and the medical healers on standby had since retreated to Mungo's to tend to the wounded and survivors from the giant attacks.

”EUPHEMIA,” Fleamont bellowed in frantic panic as he rushed through the destroyed village.

”Sir, you can't enter,” an A.P.D. officer sternly stopped him, ”the town is currently closed to the public until the Ministry declares otherwise.”

”You don't understand my wife is here,” Fleamont babbled struggling to get loose from the younger and obviously much stronger A.P.D. officer.

The A.P.D. officer's face softens slightly, before a bit more kindly saying, ”Sir, I understand your concerns, but all the wounded and injured are presently at St. Mungo's, I suggest that you make your way there instead.” He tactfully neglected to mention that only the living survivors were there, while the dead victims were at the Ministry of Magic or officially missing…

”Yes, yes,” Fleamont mumbled to himself and hurried away, before pausing to stammer a hasty thank you, before rushing off.

With a loud pop, Flemaont emerged on the outskirts of a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store named, Purge and Dowse Ltd. The place had a shabby, miserable air about it. The window displays consisted of a few chipped dummies with their wigs askew, standing at random and modeling fashion at least ten years out of date. Large signs on all the dusty doors read, CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT, and had always read as such as far as anyone knew.

At this late hour, the snow-covered street was is utterly desolate under the dense fog. The light of the yellow lamp posts is bȧrėly visible through the dense fog looking more like the sinister yellow eyes of a creature observing through the darkness. The buzzing of the lamp post can faintly be heard through the fog. Fleamont pays these trivial details no mind as he hurries towards the window display that shows a rather ugly female dummy modeling a green nylon pinafore dress and whose false eyelashes were treacherously hanging off.

Fleamont's breath fogs the dusty glass as he leans over. ”Euphemia Potter!” He blurted out as the dummy remained silent for the longest of times, before roughly moving her head and beckoning him forward with a crooked jointed finger.

Without any hesitation, Fleamont steeped right through the dusty glass and vanished. The St. Mungo's reception area is festively decorated. The crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo's had been turned to red and gold, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway, and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles that glittered in every corner, and topped with a gleaming gold star.

Yet all the festive delight is lost on Fleamont and those lining up in the crowded, noisy reception to try and locate their loved ones. There are rows filled with wizards and witches sitting upon rickety wooden chairs all wounded in some form or manner. The worst of those wounded are tended on the spot by healers in lime-green robes and emblems on their ċhėsts of crossed wand and glistening white bone. The healers in the lobby frantically attempt to staunch the worst of the bleeding, before transporting the wounded to another floor to be urgently treated.

Fleamont struggles to move through the crowd and towards the inquiry desk. The wall of the inquire desk is covered in notices and posters that read, ”A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE ANTI-DON'T'S UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED HEALER! The WEREWOLF CURE DOES NOT CURE OTHER MALADIES NOR DOES IT GRANT ETERNAL LIFE!”

Still, the most eye-catching item is not the notices but rather the portrait of a witch with long silver ringlets. The label for her portrait reads as follows,

”DILYS DERWENT