The box had been waiting for her when she’d come back from a late and stressful afternoon of birthing a breached cow, both mother and calf had been lost and the loss had sunk deep into Rose than it should have. Hollow eyed, tired and with ever fibre in her body longing for a bath and bed, she’d picked up the plain white box with her name printed on a card from the door and set it on the hall table, it looked identical to the piles of boxes with medicine that arrived at the clinic and it was easy to think there had been a slight misdirection in the post system.
With the flat to herself, she took her time in the shower, cleaning away the stress and grime of the morning and letting her mind recharge. The routine of shampooing and cleaning was routine and that routine helped her to finally relax and unwind until time had stopped meaning anything. It was close to an hour later that she padded from her bedroom, towel drying her hair and feeling like a human persona ain; there were always days like this. It was part of the job and she was slowly learning that the way to cope was to unwind, not to push herself too hard. She’d done everything she could for the animals, there had been nothing else to do but make them comfortable at the end. It was one of the few parts of the job that Rose hated.
The white box on the table was like a beacon in the neat but fussily ordered female flat and curiosity had her opening the box and peeking inside. The box was filled with papers and on top of it was a wizarding picture of a young, healthy attractive man who was smiling into the camera, pulling faces and letting the amusement show in his eyes at being caught on film.
Phillip.
Seeing him alive, seeing his face again after so very long was like receiving a blow to her stomach and she let out a small sigh at the face of her brother who had been taken by Diggorys law. The picture showed him younger than when he’d been sentenced to Azkaban but it was still the same. Unsteady fingers reached in to lift up the image, tracing the jawline and stroking the cheek as memories that she’d tried to hard to bury surfaced. There were no pictures of him at home; her parents had tried to keep above Ministry suspicion by removing all evidence that they’d ever had a son who was responsible for their ST labels but Rose had never forgotten him, never stopped loving him and here was proof. Her brother had lived and been loved, the picture was proof of that and though she didn’t know who would send a picture she was suddenly grateful for it and the memories it had stirred up in her. Setting it aside, she picked up the remaining papers from the plain cardboard box and leafed through them as understanding began to dawn on her. In her hands were Prophet articles on the Battle, the Captures when the Zeller name had first been put in print and then finally, articles upon articles of his trials; moving pictures of him being led locked in chains to Azkaban and the glance he’d shot to his parents and Rose who had been at the trial.
Finally. Horrifyingly, she reached the last page. His obituary. Four short lines announcing the death of ‘Convicted Death Eater Phillip Andrew Zeller (37)” He’d never gotten a chance to come out of Azkaban and Rose had never seen him since he’d been taken away at his trial. Reading the words, seeing them printed was like loosing him all over again and Rose knew the loss had never really healed. Missing him was like a physical ache and she put her head down and simply wept for Phillip, for the fact he’d never rub her hear to simply muss it up or tease her just ‘because’. His life had been taken and someone had wanted to remind her of it. Why?
What reason could there be in reminding her of her brothers death? Who could possibly be so cruel as to think it was necessary? Rose didn’t see the warning printed on the back of the card but she heard the scream of her flatmate. Astoria.
Leaving the contents of the box across the table she ran for her friends room, opening before knocking.