the funeral of Romolo Bagshot
The first funeral in our family was not a tragedy. In hindsight, of course.
Great-grandfather Romolo Bagshot was in his 162nd year of life, so his passing from dragonpox came as no surprise to anyone. Not in those days, at least, with a relentless epidemic dragging half the elderly members of the magical community into the grave. Even Great-Aunt Euphemia, who was old, certainly, but not that old, had kicked the bucket, followed closely by her husband a few days later.
Anyway, it was the year 1980. And despite the war raging outside, we Bagshots decided that Romolo deserved a proper funeral. After all, he had been a great wizard, a tireless researcher in the field of Herbology, not to mention his two wives and four children, most of whom were unfortunately already dead and buried. And You-Know-Who could go to hell: Granddad deserved to be honored.
So it was that on a stifling late-July day, a small crowd gathered in the ancient church of Godric’s Hollow. Once the solemn ceremony ended, we made our way to the cemetery, where Bathilda, his sister and the only surviving first-degree relative, delivered a commemorative speech that nearly brought a tear to my eye behind the green lenses of my glasses. Then the entire party moved to the old Bagshot house for the reception.
"What a terrible shame."
"My condolences, dear."
"Well, at his age…"
"Did you hear about Crouch?"
"They say You-Know-Who…"
Sunk into the large sofa in the sitting room, I drained my glass of wine while listening to that sterile murmur of voices. No one talked about anything else. People behaved as though gossiping could make them forget what was happening outside those walls. As though every new issue of the Daily Prophet did not contain, every single morning, lists of fresh murders. Murders now so common they no longer even made the front page.
I adjusted my glasses on my nose, aware that my large blue eyes must have looked even more enormous behind those round lenses, framed by a mass of strawberry-blonde curls, and glanced at the woman seated beside me.
"I’m surprised you came," I murmured to my sister.
Amaria looked down at me from her full height. With her long, austere face and black hair already streaked with silver, she was practically the spitting image of our mother. Daughter of Octavio and Eleanor Evermonde, herself the nephew of former Minister for Magic Archer Evermonde, Amaria was the one in the family who had truly made a career for herself: member of the Wizengamot and former Auror.
Politically, she belonged to Millicent Bagnold’s circle , or, as people liked to say these days, Dumbledore’s faction. Her husband Jeremiah, meanwhile, was a famous Daily Prophet columnist who had a talent for enraging all the wrong people with his investigations into the Dark Arts. In short, they were walking targets. Just to attend the funeral, they had needed an escort of three Aurors.
"We missed you, Lea," she replied, weariness edging her voice. "How long has it been since we were all together?"
I thought about it for a moment, absently playing with the stem of my glass. We had skipped Easter lunch, Christmas dinner, and the one before that too. "I’d say well over three years, Mary. But don’t feel bad about it."
I wasn’t joking. The rest of the family and I would much rather know that she and the children were safe, holed up in their house under the Fidelius Charm, than see them risk their necks for a funeral reception. If only for personal safety.
At that moment, the Smith clan swept past us, dispensing formal greetings and mournful looks.
"Have you seen who’s here?" whispered Zipporah Smith, leaning toward us. Her watery eyes were wide with shock. "The Grindelwalds! I wonder how they dared show their faces."
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing at her scandalized gossipmongering. Nearly a century had passed since the marriage of Livia Bagshot and Ezra Grindelwald, and almost forty years since Gellert had been locked away in Nurmengard. Yet British high society still managed to have an apoplectic fit every time our German relatives came to visit.
"Zipporah, honestly," Amaria scolded in her usual Wizengamot tone. "Livia Grindelwald has every right to mourn her father. And if she brings some grandchildren with her, it's certainly not a public order problem."
"Yes, well, it takes nerve to come to Britain these days," muttered Mrs. Smith, turning on her heel in visible offense, followed by her flock of relatives.
The moment they were out of earshot, my sister and I burst out laughing. I glanced at the old woman near the buffet: Livia was chatting cheerfully in German with one of her daughters, utterly ignoring the dirty looks being shot her way.
"So, Lea," Amaria continued, still amused, "how are your dogs?"
"Oh, wonderfully! Bluebell recently had a huge litter,twelve beautiful puppies. The problem is business is dreadful these days. I don’t think wizards are in the mood to welcome a puppy into their homes. I may end up having to sell to Muggles."
I sighed, feeling a pang of melancholy. As the youngest child, many years younger than Elwood, Amaria, and Abram (ours was a long-lived family, and late pregnancies were practically a bizarre tradition), I had always been considered the baby of the family. Even now, on the brink of forty. But I rarely saw my siblings anymore, and I missed those times terribly.
I worked at the Ministry, yes, but in the most looked-down-upon department of all: the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. And to supplement my income, I bred Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. To me, the finest breed in the world.
I smiled at my sister. "And how are your ‘dog-children,’ Mary?"
"My dog-children are… well, you know… a bit frightened," she replied with a shrug. "But this year Renata is taking her O.W.L.s, and Willy chose Divination and Ancient Runes as his extra subjects. He thinks he has the Inner Eye,keeps dreaming about dying or something of the sort… Derek wants to get married, though. To his girlfriend, but he still doesn’t know when. I’m not even sure we’ll be able to celebrate. And Marlene, well… Marlene…"
"You’re talking about dog-children and look who just arrived," I interrupted, tapping her arm.
Marlene had just stepped through the front door. Behind her were her distant cousin James Potter and his very pretty,and very pregnant,wife, Lily Potter. Bringing up the rear was an extraordinarily handsome and very tall young man… what was his name again? He was a Black, that much I definitely remembered.
"Marlene!" exclaimed Amaria, springing to her feet to greet her daughter. I stood up immediately after to follow.
"Mother!" Marlene replied, and the two embraced tightly.
But when they pulled apart, Amaria stepped back in horror. "What on earth happened to your face?!"
Marlene had a nasty bruise across her cheekbone; in fact, she was not the only one, since the two boys with her looked as though they had just staggered out of a bar fight. As she approached us, I noticed Marlene was dragging her left leg.
Marlene was my favorite niece. She was an even taller young woman than her mother, with golden skin and a face scattered with freckles, framed by soft straw-blonde hair. We had so much in common: we were both former Gryffindors and devoted fans of the Holyhead Harpies, the team Marlene had been expected to join as a Beater straight after graduation. Yet she had turned down the offer, even rejecting the Pride of Portree. A baffling decision I simply could not understand. Now she juggled a part-time job in an ice cream shop, and every time I saw her she had a new bruise.
"It’s nothing," Marlene cut in sharply, dodging Amaria’s question, earning herself a murderous glare in return.
While mother and daughter began bickering, I decided to spare the other three youngsters the awkwardness. I turned especially to the red-haired girl.
"Lily, James… Black! How are you all?"
I gave James a quick hug, then moved to Lily, and finally hesitated for a second over what to do with the third boy. In the end, Black and I settled for a formal handshake.
"Aunt Maysilee, my condolences," James exclaimed, flashing one of his lopsided grins.
"What condolences, James? We’re exactly the same degree of relation."
"Tell me instead," I continued, glancing toward the girl’s prominent belly, "when is the little one arriving?"
"It’s a boy, and we’re really hoping he arrives at the beginning of August," Lily replied, stroking her nearly full-term stomach.
James wrapped an arm around her proudly. Looking at her, I thought she was radiant. Truly beautiful. But suddenly I saw tears glistening in her large green eyes, ready to spill over.
"Sorry…" the young woman apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed by the emotional collapse.
"Don’t worry, dear," I comforted her, laying a hand gently on her shoulder. "These days, I find myself bursting into tears for no reason at all too."
"Cousins! Auntie!" called a voice behind us.
Tedious Rowan Wilkes appeared in the doorway of the drawing room, arm in arm with his mother, my cousin Marigold Bagshot . Rowan had unfortunately inherited every single Bagshot feature. He was short, with a mop of orange hair, a face splattered with freckles, a large potato-like nose, and the kind of build that already hinted at a substantial belly later in life.
Marigold looked remarkably similar,a small, round witch. Despite the fact that we were at a funeral, only her blouse was an appropriately somber color; her skirt was an unfortunate explosion of clashing prints and bright patterns. She was visibly tipsy, letting her eldest son guide her along. Lately she had been drinking heavily, a habit that was entirely understandable.
"Rowan, Gilly, finally," I exclaimed, feeling a rush of familiar warmth.
To me, Marigold had always been much more a sister than a cousin. My parents had taken her in when she was eight years old, after her own parents, Eros Bagshot and Gaia Carrow, died in a tragic and deeply suspicious accident. To this day, our family is convinced that Gaia’s deranged parents murdered them deliberately, though unfortunately there was never enough evidence to drag them before a court.
After the usual greetings, Rowan,as always,immediately launched into a speech about the magnificence of Bartemius Crouch.
"His proposal regarding the use of the Unforgivable Curses is pure genius! If the Wizengamot doesn’t approve them, they’re fools. It’s the only way we’ll ever..."
Only young Black and poor Lily, unaware of the danger, actually engaged him in debate.
"We certainly shouldn’t stoop to the Death Eaters’ level…" Lily argued firmly.
Merlin’s beard. Why, of all the freshly graduated Hogwarts youths, had that pompous Crouch chosen Rowan as his personal assistant?
By the third round of exchange praising Bartemius’s "brilliant" proposals, I officially decided I had had enough. Leaning toward Marigold, I whispered, "Let’s go get something to drink."
Marigold snapped out of the stupor induced by the conversation and turned to me. "Yes, absolutely."
I linked my arm through hers and hastily excused us from the group. "Marigold and I desperately need a glass of pumpkin juice. It’s unbearably hot in here," I said, striding away.
We reached the buffet, and Marigold immediately stretched out a hand for yet another goblet of wine.
"How many glasses have you had?" I asked, stopping her with a look.
She wiggled her fingers vaguely in the air, trying to dismiss the matter. "Only the eighth."
I looked at her despairingly. "Gilly, it would be extremely inappropriate if you vomited in front of everyone," I scolded softly.
Marigold opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly she went deathly pale. Her expression twisted into one of sheer terror, as though she had just seen a Dementor.
Instinctively, I turned around. Oh no…
Old Bathilda was shaking hands with various relatives while chatting with them, and standing beside her, a wine glass in hand, was a slender figure.
Marigold’s damned daughter.
"I’ll handle this," I said, trying to reassure my cousin.
Marigold did not need to be told twice. She snatched up another glass and hurried away in tears.
Meanwhile, I marched straight toward them, chin high and shoulders squared.
"Bathilda, Gisela, lovely to see you both… I’m just borrowing Daisy for a moment," I interrupted, causing the two women to stare at me in confusion.
Daisy pressed her lips together, visibly tense. "Hello, Aunt Maysilee," she greeted me.
"Have you seen what we’ve done with the garden? Daisy, come on, I’ll show you. I know how much you love plants."
The young witch hesitated for a second, but I gave her no chance to protest: I seized her firmly by the arm and practically dragged her out of the house.
As we crossed the threshold, we passed a group of witches and wizards entering at that very moment. I immediately recognized Augusta Longbottom, accompanied by her daughter-in-law.
I pushed my niece down the pathway until we reached a secluded corner near a rosebush. The moment we were alone, I released her arm and glared furiously.
"Leave," I told her bluntly.
She had always been a pretty girl; she and her younger sisters had inherited every attractive trait from the adulterous excuse for a father who had sired them. I remembered olive-toned skin, amber eyes dusted lightly with freckles, framed by thick chestnut hair and a perpetually gentle smile.
But the creature standing before me now was only a faded shadow of that memory.
Daisy looked alarmingly thin. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and her skin had taken on a sickly yellowish hue stretched tightly across her skull by hollow cheeks. Even her lips were so dry and cracked they seemed ready to split open. She wore a black lace corset with a neckline wildly inappropriate for a funeral, pushing up her chest conspicuously, paired with a long black skirt that reached her ankles.
"I only came to offer my condolences," she replied with a shrug.
"I don’t care. Leave," I repeated.
She looked at me with those hollow eyes. For a moment, I shut my own and pressed my lips together.
"You are not welcome here." No, she could not stay.
Her face twisted with anger. "It’s rather ironic that I was thrown out of the house for the family’s safety, yet you people invite half the Order…" she snapped bitterly, her voice thick with resentment.
For the briefest instant, I pitied the miserable figure before me.But then I remembered my coworker Greg. I remembered what they had done to his family, to his daughters, and to countless others.
And every ounce of pity I might have felt burned away in hell within a second.
"Don’t you dare, Daisy. Don’t you dare compare yourself to them," I snarled.
"Or what?" she asked, flashing a devilish smile.
"Who knows. And you? Will you crawl back to your master so he can come slaughter us all?"
I drew my wand and pointed it straight at her. Instinctively, she did the same, and suddenly we stood facing one another, ready to strike.
"I see you’re keeping alert. Does your master even give you days off, dear? Judging by your appearance, I’d say not," I taunted.
She continued glaring at me for a moment, then suddenly lowered her wand and glanced past my shoulder.
Standing in the doorway of the house were Marlene, her father Jeremiah, and young Black, all three with their wands pointed directly at us.
"I didn’t come here to cause trouble, dear Aunt," Daisy said in a suddenly conciliatory tone. "But do me a favor and tell my mother to stay away from Marlene, all right? And from the Potters. Especially the Potters. For her own safety."
Then she turned on her heel and walked down the pathway, away from the house.
I did not lower my wand until the crack of her Apparition echoed through the air.
Only then did I finally allow myself to breathe again.
"They killed one! They killed one of them!" my boss, Achilles Filch, shrieked as he burst into the office, waving a bottle of champagne around like a trophy.
I looked up from the mountain of paperwork I had been working on. It was a late June morning in 1981; the office was still half-empty, and only my desk and Arthur Weasley’s were occupied.
"Did you hear, Mrs. Bagshot? They killed one of those filthy Death Eaters! Ha!"
"Really?" I asked. When I had arrived at the Ministry that morning, I had noticed a swarm of reporters crowding the atrium; however, I had assumed it was yet another press conference from Minister Minchum trying to claw back a bit of public support.
"Yes! Orford Umbridge confirmed it to me in the corridor just now—it happened last night. Moody led an ambush," Filch explained, his face practically glowing with delight.
I should have been happy. Yes, I was happy. Surely it wasn’t…
I smiled back at him, forcing the expression. "Finally!" I cheered.
"Come on, Bagshot," he exclaimed, and with a flick of his wand he conjured three floating goblets onto the table. "We have to celebrate! You too, Arthur!"
A balding man rose from the desk beside mine and approached us curiously. Filch filled the goblets to the brim and handed them out.
"To Bartemius Crouch and Alastor Moody , may this be the first of many!" our boss proclaimed, raising his glass dramatically.
"Amen," Arthur and I replied in unison.
Then we toasted together. The champagne was cheap, horribly bitter; as I swallowed it, I felt my insides twist into a tight knot.
"Mrs. Bagshot? Is Mrs. Bagshot here?" asked a tense voice from the doorway.
Alice Longbottom had just appeared at the entrance to the office.
At the sight of her, I felt the blood freeze in my veins. I gripped my goblet so tightly my knuckles turned white.
"Yes, I’m here," I answered faintly.
"Good morning. Sorry to disturb you. Could you come with me for a moment?"
"Of course…" I said to the young Auror.
Filch and Weasley looked at me in confusion, but without another word I turned and left the room to follow her. I asked her nothing as we walked; I did not dare ask. Alice, I think sensing my fear, did the same and kept silent.
We walked through the familiar corridors until we reached the entrance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There I spotted a radiant Crouch giving interviews to a crowd of reporters. Among them I noticed my brother-in-law Jeremiah: unlike everyone else, who looked cheerful and triumphant, he remained completely impassive.
No, not her, no. Anyone but her.
We turned down another side corridor, and eventually stopped before a heavy iron door.
"It’s Daisy, isn’t it?" At last I found the courage to ask Alice, breaking the silence.
"We believe so. You’re here to identify her, Mrs. Bagshot," she replied in a tone so gentle it hurt.
Alice was a good girl. Or at least, she seemed to be. I knew her, her family, her husband’s family. For a moment I studied her: the round face, the soft cheeks, the kind eyes. Yet I felt exposed, judged. Such shame.
"Please, don’t judge me," I begged her. "Don’t judge me."
"I’m not judging you, Mrs. Bagshot. Please calm down," she tried to reassure me.
We stood there in agonizing silence until the iron door finally opened, and a Healer from St. Mungo’s stepped out.
A Healer? Then perhaps Daisy was only injured. Perhaps she had lost consciousness. Perhaps, against all logic, she was alive.
"Mrs. Bagshot?" asked the woman in healer’s robes, her voice flat and professional.
I crossed the threshold and found myself in an icy room lit by harsh artificial light from above. Large metal shelves lined every wall and, in the center, on an iron stretcher, lay a body covered by a thin white sheet.
I understood immediately.
The Healer approached the stretcher and lifted the sheet, revealing the corpse’s head and shoulders.
A violent wave of dizziness hit me, and my head began to spin.
Daisy lay there motionless. They had not closed her eyes; they stared at me now, glassy, unmoving, devoid of life. Her mouth hung slightly open, and her brown hair, dull and tangled, spilled messily across her shoulders. They had stripped her clothes away.
Thank God for that. I would not have been able to bear seeing her wrapped in that black uniform.
She looked like a doll, a puppet with its strings cut. Her waxen face had lost every trace of color, and it would never regain it.
"Yes, it’s her," I said, turning toward the Healer, my voice hard, almost contemptuous in an effort to conceal its trembling. "Daisy Marie Wilkes. I recognize her."
The woman retrieved a sheet of parchment and dipped her quill into ink, ready to record the information.
"She…" I faltered, feeling my throat tighten painfully. "She had left… I don’t know where…" I lowered my gaze before giving the only official answer possible. "Godric’s Hollow," I said at last. "Resident of Godric’s Hollow. Did she… did she suffer?"
"Killing Curse. She also had old combat injuries in the process of healing."
"I’ll give you a moment," the Healer said, more statement than question , before leaving through the door.
I remained alone with Daisy.
I touched her cold cheeks, brushed her hair back with my hands. I took her left hand, clasping those thin fingers. I brought them to my lips and kissed them.
"I’m sorry, child, I’m so sorry…" Tears began running down my face, dripping onto hers. "I’m sorry he took you. We should have protected you…you were only a little girl…"
"Maybe we should have been stricter, I don’t know, darling. We thought you were safe at Hogwarts. Daisy, rest now. You’re finally free."
Then I wept over her frozen limbs.
I looked at her one last time, caught sight of that horrible tattoo, and tucked her arm back beneath the sheet; she had gained a little weight since Great-Grandfather’s funeral. At least there was that.
I closed her eyes and adjusted her jaw so she looked as though she were sleeping. I kissed her forehead and left.
On my way back to my office, I ran into her brother. Rowan was carrying a box overflowing with belongings.
"He fired me," he said miserably.
I was not surprised in the slightest. Frankly, it would have been a miracle if the same thing didn’t happen to me.
I stepped closer and hugged him tightly before pulling back, my hands still resting on his shoulders.
"You’ll find something else. Have you gone to see your sister yet?"
"You did the right thing. There’s nothing worth seeing in there," I comforted him, trying to lend him some calm.
"Mum’s coming, though," the boy murmured, keeping his eyes lowered.
My cheeks flushed instantly and my heart skipped a beat.
I gave myself a moment to absorb the news. This was going to be a colossal disaster. And in front of everyone, no less.
"All right. Then I’ll wait for her. You go home."
We parted ways, and I slowly made my way back toward the morgue. I found a wooden chair nearby in the corridor and sat down, prepared to intercept Marigold.
While I waited, the heavy iron door hissed open.
A pale boy with a messy shock of straw-colored hair slipped out, trying not to make any noise.
I stared at him, utterly bewildered.
He noticed my presence and looked back at me, visibly startled and caught red-handed. I knew him, or rather, I had seen him many times before in Daily Prophet photographs and around the Ministry corridors.
"You’re Crouch’s son, aren’t you?"
At those words, the boy looked almost panicked. "Erm… yes, that’s me. And you are…?"
"The aunt. I’m Daisy Wilkes’s aunt …or rather, I was her aunt. I’m waiting for her mother. What are you doing here?"
"I… well… Daisy, she helped me with my Charms O.W.L.s And with my N.E.W.T.s too, you know…"
That completely caught me off guard. Bartemius Crouch’s son , what was his name? Junior, or something like that , was born in ’62. Which meant he had stayed in contact with my niece even after she graduated.
He seemed to read the confusion plainly written across my face and hurried to explain himself.
"She was a talented researcher. Sometimes she tutored younger students."
I nodded, pressing my lips together. Oh yes, Daisy’s work as a researcher; I had never understood what exactly she did or what use it was.
"I’m glad to hear it. I hardly saw her these last few years," I added.
"Who would have thought she was…"
Who would have thought that my niece - nearly expelled during her seventh year at Hogwarts alongside that boy and his sinister friends for practicing Dark Arts - would become a Death Eater? Shocking indeed.
"Bagshot. My condolences."
And Crouch’s son walked away toward his father’s office.
Before he disappeared, a commotion erupted down the corridor.
"LET ME SEE HER! I HAVE TO SEE HER! LET ME THROUGH!" screamed a woman’s voice.
Daisy’s mother appeared at the far end of the corridor, her face flushed scarlet and her eyes horribly red. Behind her, in a bizarre and chaotic scene, ran two St. Mungo’s Healers, my mother, and the damned Alastor Moody, his wooden leg thudding heavily against the stone floor.
"Mrs. Bagshot, stop!" one of the Healers cried uselessly, waving a medical file.
"Mrs. Bagshot, we need to question you!" Moody shouted, his gravelly voice echoing through the corridor.
"Gilly, darling, calm down," my mother pleaded, struggling to keep up.
For a moment I stared at the disaster unfolding before me, then sprang from the chair and hurried toward them.
"Gilly, it’s not worth it. I’ve already identified her," I reassured her, trying to stop her before it was too late.
Marigold’s large blue eyes widened and, between sobs, she managed to ask, "So it’s her? It’s really her?"
"Yes, it’s her," I confirmed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Crouch Jr. had stopped a few yards away and was watching the entire scene with an expression I found disturbingly amused.
I grabbed my cousin by the shoulders, physically blocking her path. Marigold had always been fragile and emotional as a girl, and as she grew older she became a woman prone to violent reactions, incapable of managing nervous breakdowns.
"Gilly, you need to remember her happy. Don’t give yourself unnecessary trauma," my mother intervened, finally catching up to us, looking exhausted.
"She looks like she’s sleeping," I lied, simply to comfort her.
Marigold shook her head slightly, unconvinced by our words. "I haven't seen her for almost a year, she's my daughter… please, please."
Moody and the two Healers exchanged thoughtful glances while Gilly kept shooting them desperate, pleading looks.
At last, the old Auror grunted and broke the silence.
"All right, Mrs. Bagshot. I’ll take you myself."
And with those words, Alastor Moody took my cousin gently by the arm and guided her toward the Ministry morgue with surprising delicacy.
I watched them enter, and scarcely a moment after the door closed behind them, Marigold’s agonized screams began echoing through the corridor.
