I've been thinking of writing a book.
I'd call it "The Magic of Being a Marauder".
Of course, it would be written under a pen-name.
Using the name Padfoot seems somewhat arbitrary though, considering the circumstances.
Even if the irony is just too grand to be ignored.
The fact that I have to use that form to even stay sane is so horrifically fitting.
I used to use "Padfoot" as a way to escape my life, even when at Hogwarts.
Everywhere I looked, I was reminded of how shit my life was.
I looked at my trunk; I was reminded that I was eventually going to have to return to that god-forsaken hell hole.
Grimmauld Place, indeed.
I would venture around the school after-hours with James, and we would play meaningless pranks on meaningless people. We would prank the Slytherins with "righteous" abandon.
The Slytherins.
Ever present thorns in the rose that was my life.
God-damn fucking snakes.
Every time we pranked those bastards I would remember my father, and my mother, and my eversosweet little brother.
Regulus.
They always did love him more.
Not to sound like the "spoilt, 'I wish they loved me more', child of a fucked-up home" archetype.
I'm glad they don't love me.
I hate them.
I hate everything about the family I was dragged, kicking and screaming, up by.
They think they're perfect with their Toujours Pur bullshit.
I hate them.
And of course, how am I to forget the one person that ever made me feel whole.
Well that's not entirely true.
There was a group of people.
The Marauders.
The best family I could have ever asked for.
We were, for all intents and purposes, brothers.
Brothers in everything but blood.
But that's over now.
Due to the one brother we always protected.
Always looked after.
The one brother I thought we could trust.
Even above myself.
I thought I would cave.
I thought that if Lily and James put their trust in me, and named me their Secret Keeper, that I would be the one to betray them.
All because of those God-damned inbred Blacks.
I thought that when, and it was a matter of when, not if. I thought that when Voldemort came to me, that I would tell him everything.
I was scared.
I was a fucking coward.
And because of my shameful, unforgivable cowardice, James and Lily are dead.
My Best Friend.
The Girl.
Because of course she was The One.
James and I are too similar for it to have been anyone else.
But he was in love with her from the moment we met her.
The moment they locked eyes, even before James liked girls, he knew he would want to grow old with her.
The Girl.
And it's my fault she's dead.
Never am I going to see her smile again.
Never am I going to see her laugh and cry and scowl like she did when I gave my fucking speech at her fucking wedding.
Her wedding to my best friend.
And it was my fault.
My fault that she hated him when we first met.
My fault that they fell in love in our last year at Home.
My fault that they had their wedding in possibly the most beautiful place I've ever seen.
My fault they died.
So, in retrospect, the book wouldn't be called "The Magic of Being a Marauder."
It wouldn't be a long list of brilliant pranks, hilarious jokes and the daring exploits of four teenagers discovering how fucking awesome magic and brotherhood could be.
It would be a letter.
To Remus.
To James.
To Lily.
To Harry.
It would be a letter.
Saying just how fucking sorry I am.
How sorry I am for failing the Marauders.
How sorry I am for failing him.
How sorry I am for failing her.
How sorry I am for failing his parents.
