In Lieu of Flowers
One by one, the pawns of the wizard war disappear;
then, one by one, the survivours return.

Todavía cantamos, todavía pedimos,
todavía soñamos, todavía esperamos;
que nos digan adónde
han escondido las flores
que aromaron las calles,
persiguiendo un destino.
Dónde, dónde se han ido?
-Victor Heredia

In the days before the war, any visitors to Diagon Alley who were less than happy might have gone to the Leaky Cauldron to drown their sorrows, or plodded to Gringotts to withdraw their last knut in despair, or slinked into Knockturn Alley with low thoughts — yet no one ever came through the doorway of an ice cream parlor who was not cheerful and contented! Florean Fortescue enjoyed one of the most pleasant pastimes on the street.

The two Fortescues —.man and portait — were a chatty and intelligent pair in this shop. On a sunny wall was a copy of Hogwarts' charmed portrait of Florean's ancestor, Headmaster Dexter Fortescue, a loud, jolly man with a rosy nose who was always pleased when customers asked him questions about the school.

Oh, the stories these two generations of Fortescues could share! Whilst dishing up ice cream, Florean himself would glady demonstrate his fine postgraduate knowledge of medieval wizardry; as a youth, he had interned to the 600-year-old potions master Nicholas Flamel and his assistant Albus Dumbledore.

Harry Potter, the boy who lived? Florean was proud to say that he knew him quite well. "He's sat here many days, sometimes for hours, and we've talked about magic over sundaes. He and Dumbledore are very close at the school, y'know. Potter 'uld often confide in me about his adventures there, and about his close friends. I feel very much at home with him; he reminds me of my days at Hogwarts, heh heh."

Perhaps, the Fortescues demonstrated too much knowledge.

One Midsummer day in 1996, the three men who had frequently asked Hogwartian and Flamellian questions entered the shop, locked the door, and pulled down the curtains.

The shop did not reopen, and Florean Fortescue disappeared.

His wife, heartbroken and shocked, took to bed. Her friends brought her reassurances, treats and flowers, which did little good. "I do not want more flowers," she told her caregiver. "I want to see poor Florean, and know he is alive and well!"

-o-

The very next day, Ollivander was found to have abandoned London, after his family's business had served the centres of magical civilisation for almost 24 centuries. The wand shop had been stripped to the bare walls; the master craftsman of wands was nowhere to be found.

-o-

It was late afternoon on the First of September. From beneath the huge office telescope, Minerva McGonagall, suddenly the headmistress of Hogwarts, retrieved the traditional three-legged wooden stool on which every new student for many years past had perched upon on their First Night. Then, of course, from a high shelf in her office, she brought down the Sorting Hat.

The hat seemed a bit agitated that evening, and finally spoke its mind as it was carried toward the Great Hall.

"Headmistress -- before I go to sing and sort, I should tell you something. I heard the most unusual thought today in your absence, which I must convey to you."

"From whom?"

"From a portrait in your office. He has not been himself for several weeks now. He was talking to himself aloud, or perhaps he wanted me to hear. He was wishing that someone would do him a favour — a most odd and drastic favour."

"Dear me. What was it?"

"The favour of removing the charm and destroying his painting. It seems, as recent events come to his attention, that Headmaster Fortescue's image can no longer live with his guilt."

After the First Night feast, Dexter Fortescue was taken down from the wall and quizzed in a private room by McGonagall and her counsels on the staff. He was a broken man, nothing like the headmaster he once represented. For months, while spending a few moments now and then in his matching portrait in Diagon Alley, he had felt free to pour out his knowledge of the school, and gossip about doings in the headmaster's office. The inquisitive men had seemed harmless enough. No, he didn't know them by name. While other portraits snoozed all day, Fortescue had been very observant in goings-on by Dumbledore's desk, and...

"And blabbed it all to strangers?" asked McGonagall, horrified.

"I'm afraid so, ma'am."

"Why didn't Florean stop you?"

"They were very complimentary about the extent of our knowledge. Florean, of course, had worked day by day with Flamel. Naturally, the question was raised whether he knew the formula for the Philosopher's Stone. I can tell you he didn't; not even Dumbledore knew it. But Florean might have tried to impress them, and..."

"Hinted that he knew how to make it?"

"Yes -- to his doom, I fear. I don't know what's happened to Florean; they destroyed my other portrait right off when they came for him. Oh, what have I done!"

-o-

Erasmus Ollivander, lying in a cold dark cellar of Malfoy Manor, had plenty of time to think and regret.

Somehow, the Dark Lord's men had known that Neville Longbottom would be coming for a new wand. The Death Eaters could be very convincing to an frail old man. They had induced him to craft it with a built-in flaw, so that in battle, it could be hexed into total failure.

Ollivander did not want Mr. Longbottom to suffer the fate of his parents if the "Maker of Fine Wands" was so weak as to give in to physical intimidation. He had made the new wand, and told the men he had jinxed it. He had not. Longbottom, in fact, had received a powerful new weapon.

With a warning about poor Mr. Fortescue, the Death Eaters left Ollivander and his shop in place — feeling his silence was ensured, and they might return about more wands, replacing any of their own which were broken in battle, and jinxing any of the opposition's.

Neville's was the last wand Ollivander made before his disappearance. His heart went out of wandmaking with that. He shuttered the shop and planned his escape. He portkeyed his entire stock with all his tools and cores to a preplanned safe location, then returned to the alley. His thoughts raced. He'd have to contact Arthur Weasley on the matter of sanctuary, and...

Obviously, he didn't move fast enough. The alley watchers saw his unusual activity, and the men came for him as they had for Fortescue. No longer could they let him stay free, trusting to reluctant loyalty out of fear.

The Dark Lord had at him, with all his questions. Why did Potter's wand save him? Why had his brother wand failed? And what of the legend of an Elder Wand?

-o-

There would seem to have been little reason for an unimportant Sixth Year student to disappear, and little chance that it could happen in the safety of Hogwarts.

Shortly before Christmas holidays, Luna Lovegood made the mistake of walking alone, something she frequently did. Two girls she did not know befriended her in a corridor and they walked together. The girls were marveling about a magical cabinet they had discovered that could carry them places, like something out of a C.S. Lewis story. Would she like to see it? Fascinated, Luna followed them.

They stopped by the wall where the door to the Room of Requirement would normally appear. To Luna's eyes, it was quite a different room that the two girls opened; it seemed to be a vast storeroom. Something told Luna that this was not right; she momentarily stunned the suspicious pair and fled the scene. Once the polyjuice wore off, the "girls" reverted to Crabbe and Goyle, who went through the cabinet to tell Borgin they had failed.

Luna was not so lucky the next day as she literally joined the "Desaparecidos" of the world. She was boarding the Hogwarts Express ahead of the crowd. There were men there, and they promptly took Luna's wand from behind her ear and disapparated with her.

McGonagall had to notify Xeno Lovegood that his daughter was missing from the train. Xeno already knew that. The men had been there, and instructed him what he had to do if he ever wanted to see his beautiful, spirited daughter again. She must not be harmed, he insisted, but they said that it all depended on him.

So it was that Luna, too, found herself in Malfoy Manor, not for what she knew, but as the dark side's simple pawn to force Xeno, the old fool, to do their will. Fenrir coveted her, and looked forward to the day she'd no longer be needed.

-o-

During the wizard war, there were many who simply disappeared from their normal lives. Some of the lost never found their way home. Magical landmarks had been lost or destroyed; the same was true of memories. Minds and bodies of the innocent had spent time in Azkaban, or interrogation, or battle. They were weary at best, destroyed at worst.

Some only had to deal with their own health before looking for their families. Others were bothered by the thought of meeting old friends and kin who had gone over to the dark side. Could they forgive?

Percy Weasley made peace with his family very quickly. Other homecomings and reunions took longer.

-o-

The Aurors managed to locate Ollivander's stock where the Death Eaters had taken it, and restored it to his shop. The wand maker didn't know this when they finally brought him to Diagon Alley. "It'll all over for me soon, I expect," he moaned, reluctant to even walk down the lane to the empty walls he expected. "The shop's gone now, scattered to the four winds. My fine wands may be propping up blueberry bushes in some Muggle's garden. Milleniums of family tradition, and I've failed the family and ended it all. From that first fine shop in the Conjurers' Forum in ancient Rome, to rack and ruin in London!"

Then he entered and saw his shop, everything neatly restored to the best of the memory of his many customers. He looked over his counter, and the lamps and quills and ink pot were all in place. The account books were open to the last entry:

July the 12th, 1996. On Acct. of Mrs. Augusta Longbottom. A Cherry Wand,
11½", Core of Unicorn Tail Hair, for Mr. Neville Longbottom, Student. Paid in full.

Ollivander wandered into the shelf aisles, glanced around, and immediately stopped. The surprise and delight vanished from his face.

"Good Lord, you've put all these wands back in the wrong place! This will take me a month to make right. My eager customers will be standing in lines outside, whilst I'll be struggling to figure out what's where. How can a shopkeeper make money when you've hidden everything on him? Out! Out, all of you!"

The aurors smiled and left. Mr. Ollivander was back in business, and as crusty as always.

-o-

Friends lay scattered and broken all over her lawn — the little chunks of her plaster ceiling reading "...iends - friends - fri..."

Luna Lovegood walked through the ruins of her home. The Erumpent horn explosion was foreceful, but it contained no fire; nothing had burnt, but very little was still in one piece. She wished there was a charm to restore her ceiling painting, if nothing else. Her faith in her friends had been her salvation. She'd have to remake the ceiling just the way it was before.

When she found her father, he was in total despair. He was ashamed; he had given in. He had aided the dark side, and was willing to sacrifice Luna's friends and all his better judgment to recover her, not even knowing if she was alive. He could not put his deep gloom into words.

Luna knew what he had done, but she needed no explanation or plea for forgiveness. Her response was so typical; she apologised to him! "I'm so sorry I was away, father. I should have been here for you; now our beautiful home is ruined, and your press, too. Can you ever forgive me?"

Xeno looked at her in total amazement.

She smiled. "We can rebuild the house. For now, at least our garden is intact, and our orchard and grape vines. I'll gather some dinner. Perhaps you can find tableware and utensils. If not, we can do without them. Why, we can picnic on the lawn, and feed the squirrels, and sing together, just like when mother was here!"

-o-

Not everyone was home yet. Near Christmas 1999, an emaciated old man came to a farmhouse door near Dappling. As he did every day, while aimlessly wandering the country lanes of Surrey. he begged something to eat. He could not tell them his own name, let alone where he was from. The family decided he was harmless and inoffensive, perhaps a shell-shocked veteran of the 1940s battlefields; they invited him in from the cold. Rather than intrude on their dinner table, he chose to sit in a chair by the door, taking the meal they offered.

After the main meal, the littlest girl of the family wandered up to the stranger, curious. He was warming his hands with a tight grip on a mug of steaming coffee, and staring into space.

"We're going to have afters now," she said.

"Pardon?" he replied, surprised at her interest.

"Yesterday we had cakes, but tonight we have my fav'rite."

"And what is that, child?"

She lit up. "We're having ice cream!"

"Ice cream. I used to like it, I think. I haven't had any. None at all."

"Would you like some?"

"Ice cream? Yes, if I might, please."

"I'll ask Mum nice."

"Ice cream," he muttered to himself. "Ice cream.." He hadn't seen it or thought of it in years.

It was just the jog his memory needed. "Ice cream!" The spells weakened. His memories began flooding back.

A week later, the bedridden Wysteria Fortescue had a visitor. Her young caregiver did not know him, and the poorly-dressed, unshaven man would only say that he was a good friend who had not seen her in years. With a wand at the ready, the girl reluctantly let him in, and announced his presence.

"Oh, it's not yet another vase of flowers, is it?" said the old lady, her head turned away, looking out the window.

"No," said the teary-eyed man at the doorway. "It's tea time, cherie. So, I've brought you your favourite ice cream, as I always do at tea time."

"..F-Florean?" she stammered in disbelief, and slowly turned to see.

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Original story material is the property of the fanfic author; other material of Rowling et al. falls under the usual disclaimer.