The Marauding is Done
Tears rolled down Linda's face as she stood quietly at the window, watching the harvest moon eerily illuminate the barren fields that first day of November.
The rest of the world is celebrating tonight, she thought. You should be too. With that thought, she laughed an ironic laugh, an insane cackle that chilled the bones of anyone and everyone near. Celebrating what? the witch asked herself, smoothing her scarlet robes of mourning. She'd never refused an assignment before; Linda Ellis didn't do that. Good, cheerful Linda took whatever was offered. How else had she climbed to the top?
Thousands of young writers jumped for this job, the story of the century. Nothing so sensational had ever graced the front page of the Daily Prophet. And who else to take it on but Linda Ellis, journalist extraordinaire? But Linda had refused, her blue eyes filled with unshed tears. They had begged; they had knelt at her feet. Only her heaven-sent power of describing could ever capture the mingled horror and joy of that night.
Just as the debate was reaching a head, Linda lay down her quill and stalked out of the room, trying not to let anyone see the tears on her face. And the job had been given to Rita Skeeter, a promising up-and-comer.
Now, in the privacy of her home, Linda picked up her pen once again. Laying it on the parchment, she began to write:
Tonight, the world celebrates. Tonight, I mourn.
There's nothing to cry about, I've been told a thousand times. Sacrifices have to be made. You got to do what you got to do. Look, they've said angrily, this is the happiest day in thirteen years and you bury yourself in your house to cry! Have you lost your mind, Linda?
But they don't realize what we lost last night. We lost more than two delightful young people, enchanted and in love. We lost more than a powerful dark lord, though precious few are mourning his passing. We lost something miraculous, something wonderful.
Few have read past the first page of the Daily Prophet
, telling of Voldemort's downfall. But buried in the reaches of the third section is another story, no less tragic, but still there. It tells of two boys named Peter Pettigrew and Sirius Black.I knew Peter and Sirius. I knew James. And I knew another boy, whose name has not been shown.
I went to Hogwarts with them all. They used to make me laugh harder than anyone. James, Remus, Sirius, and Peter were the most effective Cheering Charm I've ever seen.
James was tall and handsome, with fog-gray eyes and a brilliant smile. Sirius, his best friend, was hysterical and charismatic. Remus offset these two, yet had a charm that the others lacked. Peter was the quietest, neither the brains nor the brawn of the operation, but still there.
I loved them. We were not best friends, but we could laugh together over a Butterbeer. I respected their company and sense of humor; they respected my brains and jokes.
No one has mentioned that the world lost that friendship. James dead. Peter dead. Sirius, the worst of all, a traitor. And Remus the only one left.
Why do you celebrate?
The tearing of this camaraderie tears my heart into four pieces.
I call those pieces Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.
Linda lay down her quill, exhausted. She knew that the world had lost something too wonderful for words.
And Remus was left alone.
She rose, dried her tears, and went to find him.
A/N: So few people mention that this wonderful friendship was destroyed with Voldemort. I think it's so terribly sad, and this fic just kind of wrote itself in fourteen minutes. Hope it wasn't too terrible – it's been a long, hard week!
Alanna