It was late indeed, and he should have been in bed long ago, but there was always more work to be done. As good as Weatherby was, he just couldn't hand sensitive matters over to one so green. And he still hadn't found anyone to cover Jorkins' work; he preferred to do it himself, still. He felt bad, after all, and he suspected whatever had happened to her was partially because of him. He had never been good with memory charms to begin with, and nerves and desperation had led him to overcast the charm. He could imagine Jorkins, wandering mindlessly through Albania, and pushed the guilt out of his mind. He'd done far worse when he had to, and he'd do it again.

He realized he was hungry somewhere through the fifth report. Weatherby was ridiculously thorough, and hunger was keeping him from paying any attention to the charts on the cauldron thicknesses of recent Finnish imports. "Winky?" he called out, without thinking. There was no answering squeak, no dashing feet, just an echoing silence. He sighed. Was it wrong to regret the absence of his house-elf than of some overly-inquisitive Ministry witch who couldn't leave well enough alone? Because he did. He sighed, again, and poked his head into the boy's room on his way to the kitchen.

The boy's room was unchanged from his time in Hogwarts - painted green - his lip curled at the thought of the boy, begging to paint his room in his house colors. He should have known then, he should have realized what the boy was. But Winnie had loved him so, and he had never denied Winnie anything, except that one time... He shook himself out of the memory of that underground room, and his wife's cries.

He kept the boy under Imperius, as well as the full Body-Bind. The boy was extraordinarily displeased. Every so often, he'd manage a good grunt or two, never able to form more than a word at a time. None of those words were fit for polite company.

He glared down at him. If his foolish son hadn't been so - so - he shook his head in anger, unable to even formulate the best word. It was all that boy's fault. So much, so very much he'd lost because of that boy. His career, his esteem, his elf, his wife...

His stomach rumbled, and it occurred to him that he needed to feed the boy again. He cleared his throat, voice rusty after not speaking all day. "I will release you long enough to eat, after I've had my supper." The boy growled, but he ignored it, and swept out, slamming the door behind him. It echoed through the empty house.

In the kitchen, he quietly charmed some soup warm and assembled a sandwich, eating methodically. Then he washed his dishes and cleaned the crumbs off the table. He tried to keep things neat, but he just couldn't match Winky, who could anticipate every need before the need even existed. He wondered how house-elves did that.

He slapped together a sandwich for the boy and took it upstairs. With a wave of the wand, he released the Body Bind, and pointed it at the boy. "Eat." Resentfully unresisting, the boy did, but even Imperious couldn't keep the hatred from his eyes.

He ignored that too, taking the empty plate downstairs, leaving the boy once again bound with nothing but his mind for company. I suppose we have that in common, if nothing else.

Passing the living room, he caught sight of the one picture of the boy that was still there. Not because of the boy; no, because it was one of the best pictures of Winnie. It was an old picture - before the boy had begun Hogwarts. He and Winnie and the boy were all laughing, and he and Winnie each had a hand on one of the boy's shoulders, and their free arms were linked. He flexed his arm, and smiled, looking at the image. Everything had been perfect, then. An amazing, loving wife, a wonderful son, a job that was rapidly advancing, a new house - this house - and Winnie, always Winnie...

He found his cheeks were wet. Impatiently, he brushed the tears away and fetched his paperwork and charmed up a pot of tea. He looked, wavering, at the bottle of Ogdens, and after a moment gave in, pouring a healthy slug into the pot.

Underneath the picture of his old life he placidly worked through the night, the whisky bottle growing lighter as the night wore on, his mood greyer. He stretched a bit when the clock rang three, trying to decide if he should go to bed or just stay awake the rest of the night, when the doorbell rang.

He almost called for Winky, but stopped himself just in time. If only she just realize I was only doing what I had to do to protect us all, and just come back. Suppose she was at the door...wouldn't that be lovely? He knew it was impossible, but despite everything he still hoped, and so he opened the door wide without paying any attention, half-expecting to see his house-elf, looking down. But all he saw were knees. He raised his head, and saw only a man, holding a strange looking bundle. But the face was familiar, and the bundle -

He had never seen eyes that red. Merlin's beard...

Somewhere, he remembered reading once that at the moment of one's death, their life flashed before their eyes. But all I see is eyes, so I can't be dead, can I?

The man raised his wand, and all he could hear was "Imperio!"

Somewhere, underneath it, he could hear his son laugh.