What place does a wolf have in the war of men?
(12 moments in the life of Remus Lupin.)
1. You are seventeen, and you look at your friends and think you are invincible. Hogwarts isn't quite over yet, but it almost is, and the rest of the world awaits. Your hand itches for your wand and your nerves buzz, aching for the adventures that are to come. And they will come.
When you were just a boy, ten years old and shivering under silver moonlit skies in weary anticipation, you didn't think you had a future. Not unless it was there, marking the months with your howls and tally-marks of scars on your skin, and your creaking bones. Alone.
But you have friends, now. Friends! True, and loyal friends! So if your future is with them, so long as you are not alone, it will be okay. Everything will be all right.
(And you still have your scars, still howl until you wake up in the morning, shivering in the yellow sun, and your throat is hoarse and your bones still creak. But you are not alone.)
You have Sirius, with his teasing smile, his bravery and the way he has decided to cut and forge his own future, despite it all. The way amusement dances in his eyes, along with clever, sparkling ideas, and how he trusts you so fiercely.
There is Peter with his quiet courage, bright smiles, the way he is always willing to follow you to the kitchens for a midnight snack, even when the others aren't.
You have James beside you, with all his lionhearted loyalty and firey wit. His energy and unwavering belief in the good. The spark in his eyes which tells you that you will win.
Even Evans, a bright, clever flame of fury, and you pity the poor soul that will have to cross her path.
And Marlene, Mary, Dorcas, and Kingsley. And so many others surrounding you as well. The point is: there are friends. There are so many loves in your life, more than you thought possible, for a boy barely a boy, or a wolf barely a wolf.
There is a war on, outside of school, this safe little haven, sanctuary. And it's cruel and violent and unforgiving, merciless( or so you've heard) and you've signed up for it. The blood in your veins does not long for the battle, not really, but it thrums hot because you know what you have to lose, and you must protect it.
Your friends, your Marauders, have leapt into it. Joined the fray. It's only right, they say, and you love them for it.
Besides, it will all turn out fine in the end. Because you have your friends, and they have you, forever, and you feel untouchable.
2. The war is everything you expect and nothing like it at the same time.
You expect the chaos and the streets too empty, or too full of the wrong things (too many hexes and curses, Unforgivables, and not nearly enough protegos), or the severed floo connections because the other end doesn't exist anymore. The empty homes and houses, or the ones that still have the bodies that once inhabited them. The misinformation, the inescapable paranoia, all the noise and all the silence.
You expect the close calls, the near misses, the jittery adrenaline, the panic and all the blood, the hard losses. Even the way Molly Prewett — no, Weasley now — opens the door, hands shaking, posture tense and strung tight, eyes too wary, darting behind you and to your wand, and the fresh scent of her fear clinging to your nostrils.
You don't expect the four year old son which clambers into her lap with a dopey smile, or her other one reading picture books with flying dragons near the fireplace and making little roaring noises, nor the high-pitched cry of her third baby wailing in the room over.
She offers you a hot cup of tea, and you accept, taking a deep breath of the warm steam, and for once allow yourself to be reminded that you are only eighteen, fresh out of school, even though you did sign up for this war.
It's good, nice with a hint of lavender, but not enough to make it soapy, a dash of honey, and a little splash of cream. Your hands are cold against the warmth of it, but they are trembling.
The words snag on your tongue clumsily, and you trip over them staggered and you can't quite understand the meaning behind them even as they leave your lips, tumbling onto the carpet alongside little Charlie Weasley and his dragons and gap-toothed grin.
You expect the tears, the shock, even the denial.
Two brothers, Molly Weasley has lost. Two confidants, two friends. And she will never, ever see them again, except, perhaps, the mangled bodies which remain, if she wants them.
Her hand tightens on her wand, and it still shakes, and her entire frame quivers, but this time not just in fear.
There are parts of her heart that have been burnt out on that mission last week, leaving only blackened, charred ends, hot to touch and void of anything but smoke. And she wasn't even there to see it.
When you leave, she gives your cheek a silent kiss, and grips your hand firmly, warm against your own. Because there is a war on. Because none can escape it, you with your anticipation to join, and not her who never signed up for anything at all, even if her brothers did.
Because you are practically strangers, save that time she helped you with charms homework in third year.
Because Fabian and Gideon Prewett are — were good friends, comrades, her brothers.
Because a loss... is a loss.
And there is so much more to lose.
3. So there is a prophecy. And there is a traitor. Apparently.
Dumbledore said.
There is still chaos in the streets, and even if none of your friends have scars from your full moons (miraculously), they still have scars from yesterday, last week, and tomorrow.
James and Lily, your friends, are married. They even have a baby. Tiny little Harry Potter, with his father's (your friend's) unruly black hair, a mess of waves on his little head, his mischievous smirk, and his dimpled smile: and his mother's (your friend's) burning green eyes and button nose. He likes curling into your arms sometimes because the cardigans you wear are made of this soft, thick wool, and likes to run his sticky little fingers through Padfoot's fur and giggles and claps his hands when you make silly faces or play peek-a-boo.
And he might die.
Or maybe it will be Alice and Frank's baby, tiny Neville, which his pink chubby cheeks and his kind brown eyes.
"For neither can live while the other survives."
There is a solution — there always is, however dubious.
Fidelius.
Sirius is the secret keeper. Of course he is, they were always the closest.
Besides, Dumbledore had said they had a traitor. And you do not miss the way your friends turn their watchful eyes on you, dark creature, and follow you across the room, wary.
It's not your fault if they can't help but make you shiver, anyway.
Hogwarts, did not prepare you for this, the suspicion, the constant looking over your shoulder, never turning your back, all the deceit, the way Peter whispers his concerns anxiously behind your back, the way trust seems to flip so easily.
But it's fine. The rest of your life did. Because you are a wolf, and you cannot protect your pack if you do not know who they are.
The last time you see either of your friends—James and Lily Potter—James rests his forehead against yours and hugs you fiercely. He still cares, still loves you, still sees you, because you are his friend, his brother, you are Marauders, but he does not trust you.
He can't afford to.
Lily hugs you tight as well, eyes glistening wetly, and whispers for you to take care, not to die, that you will see them again and everything will definitely be all right.
You catch Sirius before he disappears, and hold your gaze on his, those grey eyes honest and loyal and he does not trust you either.
"Take care of them," you say seriously (ha!) though you know he already knows. "James will drive Lily crazy if it's just them and the baby, you know that."
And Sirius grins in reply, nodding. "I do, and I will. Of course I will." And you see his eyes waver and, oh, how he wishes he could trust you.
He does not hug you, and it almost makes you feel bare, but he does say, "See you later, then," and it's almost enough.
You will do anything for your friends, you think, when they are gone, even if it means they cannot treat you as one. As long as they survive, the world will right itself again, eventually...
Because you are only twenty-two and there will be time for adventures later.
There has to be.
4. The war ends.
And it's good, a victory. Yay for the light side!
There are practically parades on the street (because fuck the Statute of Secrecy, apparently,) and the noises from the celebrations reach your window, four floors up.
It a sunny day, which is rather fitting, isn't it, for the end of a war? Bright and blue and cloudless. Vast. Clear except from the multitude of owls littering the sky in all directions, no doubt delivering the good news.
And it is, of course, good news. The war is over, a maniacal tyrant is no longer on the loose, muggleborns are no longer being terrorized and murdered, for the most part.
Still, your fingers find their way around a bottle of firewhiskey, and you pop it open deftly and your hands shake. You tip back the bottle, the liquid burning harshly down your throat. People drink when they celebrate, right? So it's fine, this is fine.
You open another.
You've never been much of a lightweight, wolfish metabolism and all that. You need a little more to get you going. So by the time you drain this bottle, it's only then that you're feeling the buzz.
You should stop. Not because you need to, because you don't, actually you need to keep going, but because you shouldn't waste it. There are only a few bottles left and where have you the money for that?
Just one more then. Bottoms up.
Molly Weasley and her husband find you in the shower. There is blood running down your fingers, mixing and curling into the water, and shards of brittle coloured glass littered around it. You are crying because you are sitting in a shower, because you can't afford the bathtub to drown yourself in. You are all practically strangers still, and they find you because there are not many left for them to find, and there is no one left to find you.
"Come home with us," says Molly, because you are still a child to her, not just a soldier, and you are still only twenty-two. "We'll make you dinner, okay?"
They are kind but you are afraid you must decline. They look at each other over your shoulders, pitying and sympathetic instead of wary.
Too late, you think, too fucking late.
The war ends and three of your best friends are dead and one is in Azkaban because he murdered one and practically did the same for the other two.
And you are alone.
James and Lily are buried by your hands, no magic, in the cemetery near Godric's Hollow. Two gravestones, one grave, hands held tightly around the other's, together even in death. You send a letter to Lily's sister, just because you feel like maybe you should, even though you know Dumbledore has already seen to it. That, and delivering the baby on her doorstep. And really, you aren't quite sure what to make of that.
You bury Peter's finger by Hogwarts, near the Shrieking Shack, this time with magic, because magic had always been yours, the Marauders' game.
The last Marauder, you think bitterly, and the cold whips around your face.
There is a full moon next week, and next month, and the one after that, and the one after that. And though you never liked them, it's been a long time since you've truly, truly dreaded them. Perhaps you can put up an ad in the paper: 'Werewolf Looking for Animagi for Full Moons', because that would work out so well.
Sirius's face looks angry in the papers, not mad like they say. No, because you can see the way he snarls, bares his teeth, the laugh that is full of irony, bitter and broken. But not insane, because he never was that, no matter how much he joked about his mother and his cousin. Angry. He is angry. What right have you, Sirius Black, to be angry? You think viciously, hands clenched around the burning image.
There is nothing left. There is nothing.
And they were supposed to last forever.
5. There are ghosts on the train, and most ghosts aren't scary, not like how muggles depict them, but these ones are.
Lily's eyes stare back at you, the burning green of fiendfyre and perhaps a hint of Avada, and James's unruly black hair catches you, and his smile finds you, thanking you as you pocket your wand and hand him chocolate.
Somewhere in another compartment, you hear the laughs of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, loud and unapologetic, full of kind mischief.
You shiver, and it might not be because of the dementors, because you have enough bad memories but they tend not to go for wolves. Dark creatures don't have souls, anyway, is what they say.
It's weird for you, coming back to Hogwarts. Hogwarts was always supposed to be your safe place, your home, a constant sanctuary. As it was for Lily, James, and Peter, and Sirius, too. Things only went wrong once you left.
The walls of the castle greet you like an old friend, its magic unveiling and wrapping around you, shielding you within its protection. It's warm and soft, humming to different melodies and in tune with you, just like it was when you were eleven. Familiar. Professor McGonagall greets you with the same kindness and quiet ferocity as before, though there are a few more lines on her face, and her hair is greyed now. And her eyes look a little sadder because there was a war, twelve years ago, and you have been alone. There is no Wormtail, Padfoot, or Prongs in sight. No Marauders, save yourself.
You see Snape (Snivellus, your mind whispers for the old times) with his great big hooked nose and his greasy hair and his ever dramatic billowing black robes, long sleeves tightened securely, even in summer, to hide the scar which marks his sins. Despite it all, he still looks at you with fear in his eyes, though he sneers and turns up his nose to hide it.
Hogwarts still feels like home, for some reason, and you suppose it must just be the magic there. And you're okay with that, with this fake, imbued sense of comfort. Because you haven't felt home in a long time, and you'll take what you can get.
6. The Map is in Harry's hand, and it's all you can do not to snatch it from him.
The Map is wrong, is what he says, and you want to laugh because, no, the Map is never wrong. You would know, it's your magic, mainly.
But there are no more pupils at Hogwarts which are called Peter Pettigrew, not since that last one, and the Map does not show ghosts.
Au contraire, Sirius would say in his fancy French accent, because Peter's name appears blinking, clear in the unfurling ink, in the common rooms, the greenhouses, the clock tower, the Great Hall, the many winding corridors, by the lake, the transfiguration classroom, the kitchens, the Gryffindor Boys' Dormitory — just like all those years ago.
And you want to laugh because his gravestone and his last finger is planted by the Shrieking Shack where you buried it. All those years ago.
It's been twelve years, just about.
Funny, it's like a reunion or something. Padfoot lurks by the forbidden forest, and you are too afraid to seek him out just yet, confusion and guilt squirming in your belly, and you are afraid of what you might find. Wormtail, that fucking rat, seemingly everywhere in the castle, almost like he really is a ghost. Prongs's unruly hair and stupid glasses, and Lily's burning eyes of fiendfyre and Avada green.
And you. In your office, in your seat at the teachers' table in the Great Hall, and your classroom teaching children Defence Against the Dark Arts.
The Map stays open on your desk, and your wand stays firmly in your grip.
7. "Well, well, Sirius. Looking rather ragged, aren't we? Finally the flesh reflects the madness within," you say, and Sirius's pooling grey eyes meet yours. At last.
And it's true. Sirius does look... mad. Azkaban can do that to a man or so you've heard.
Your friend hugs you tight and close and you breathe each other in because you are in the company of a Marauder and so is he for the first time in over a decade. The wolf perks up at the scent of old friends and you clutch tight and swear to yourself, to James, to Lily, that you will never let go. Not again. Not ever.
Sirius is curling masses of long bedraggled hair, dark shadows smudging the skin under his eyes, shredded and wretched prison clothes, wild eyes of sad madness. He is the scent of mud, the salt of his sweat, the tang of sour odour, and that wet dog Padfoot your nose knows so very well.
He is the fact that you are not alone anymore. And you will not let go.
It's like breathing again clean air after suffocating for twelve years.
James's son, Lily's son, stands there quivering in the the corner if the room, but his mouth is set into a firm line, determination burning along with the Avada. And Molly's son, Fabian and Gideon's youngest nephew clutches the rat to his chest.
The rat.
"He's a werewolf!" Miss Granger shouts, the brightest witch of her age, muggleborn, Gryffindor — Lily would have liked her.
And then Snivellus arrives with all his rotting, silly, petty words with him, and yours too and it all happens so bloody fast.
Peter Pettigrew, friend, traitor, Marauder, smiles up at you, face cautious, fat and round from gorging himself with Molly Weasley and her son, and the first thing you want to do is hug him too, because, damn it, his finger is buried not three metres away outside, and it's was you. You who buried it, alone, the last one, the only one.
And you've been alone for so, so long.
But then Sirius snarls, and Harry Potter, James and Lily's baby, cries out in shock, and you remember that you have been alone and that you were the one who planted the headstone.
The wolf howls.
After, once Peter has squirmed his way out again, and Sirius is gone on the back of a fellow fugitive — a Hippogriff of all things — and the cat (or wolf — ha!) is out of the bag, and you are on your way out, something blooms in your chest. Light.
You have not felt it for a long time.
Harry Potter's own eyes meet yours in protest because it's not fair, but they hold steady with all the courage of a lion, and the stag and the doe. You hand him the Map, passing it down to the one legacy of the Marauders: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, Purveyors of Aid to Magic Mischief-Makers.
There were only four of you after all, and you were all only mortal, only children.
It was never going to last forever.
8. You watch him breathe it in, the sound of the waves, the tide lapping against the shore, the salty fresh air, the cool summer breeze tangling with his hair.
He has clean clothes now, and is better fed, though it will still be some time before he's a healthy weight once more, and he can smile, just. And you feel like weeping, but for once the tears are not just of sorrow (though they are a little.)
Sirius lives with you now, and between the wolf and the screams of his memories and the paper-thin walls of your tiny flat, it's a wonder you haven't been kicked out yet. Originally, you'd extended the sofa for yourself and let him take the bed, only the best for the infamous Black, right? But then Sirius had whimpered, and Padfoot had whined, and when you crept in to check, frightened, manic eyes had met yours, ones which had seen too much, bourne too much for too long, a broken scream playing on his lips.
So now you share your magically widened bed, with Sirius (and sometimes Padfoot) curled into your side, and you hold each other tightly because both of you see the way the other shivers.
"All right, Moony?" he asks, not turning away from the water just yet.
You nod, and your hand reaches for his, because it's just the two of you now. "All right, I think. You?"
He lets out a short chuckle, awkward and fractured. "Yeah. Just about. "
It's a full moon tonight, so your skeleton aches and creaks in anticipation for its reformation. But you won't be alone, and Sirius grips your hand a little tighter.
9. He's back.
There have been whispers for so long, and nobody wants to believe their Boy Who Lived, but he's back.
He's back and it's already started because a boy is dead. Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff, a good student, diligent, hard working, kind, brave, loyal to his friends and housemates, well liked. You know because you've taught him, he had a good future ahead of him. And now he is dead.
Defence Against the Dark Arts you taught him — to defend himself from wolves like you and rats like Peter. Well, he was clearly taught so fucking well, wasn't he?
It doesn't matter though, not anymore. A child is dead and Dumbledore reforms the Order because there is nothing left to do for Cedric Diggory save protecting the others. And there will be others. You know that.
Such is the nature of War.
Sirius's eyes find yours and you hold each other because you are both so very afraid. You've seen this before. Because you were seventeen and frightened, and now you are thirty-five and frightened, and when will it ever end?
You help Sirius clear up the old manor, at 12 Grimmauld, even as you see the way his back gets strung tighter and tighter with each passing second, and his whole frame gets more and more rigid. You watch as he covers the old portrait of Walburga Black, his mother, with thick black tarp, to muffle the dictionary of abuse she hurls at him.
Shut up, you think, shut up.
There is a basement-cellar at 12 Grimmauld Place, several of them. When you were younger, Sirius would often joke about how he thought it was haunted. You wouldn't be surprised.
Some days, when you are just there by yourself, and Sirius is back at the flat — because he can't stand to live in this house — you fold it back and let the wolf take over. It screams and screams and taunts and yells at an old portrait of a mother who wasn't really a mother, and the old, frozen memory of Walburga Black screams back.
Harry sends his letters, dozens upon dozens, and you cannot reply and Sirius gets angrier and angrier, because that's his Godson. And because there is a war coming, and they cannot lose James or Lily or anyone else. Not again.
But Dumbledore, the wise old fool, knows what he's doing, apparently. So it should be fine. That's what everyone said when you were seventeen, and you won didn't you?
The Light will prevail, it always does. It did the last time.
(But there are already ghosts around you and more to be made and there is death, so many deaths, and you do not know how long you should be grieving for, but it feels as though you've been in mourning for half your life.)
There is a war on, and you already know what it's like to lose... and what it takes to win.
But Voldemort is back. He's back, even when they call James and Lily's son The Boy Who Lied. And you are tired and worn and weary, you are haunted and shivering and afraid, and you are Gryffindor and wolf and angry. So fucking angry.
You look at Sirius, who has spent his life in the Black household, in war, and in Azkaban. He trusts you, because he can't afford not to. Something within you steels itself.
There is a war on, burning quiet as it is, and you have something left to lose, still, somehow, and you still have something to protect.
And because of that, you will fight.
10. Sirius is chucking wood into the fire haphazardly, watching mesmerized at the dancing flames as though he has never seen fire before. The crackling ribbons of orange cast a warm light on his skin, bouncing pretty off it in hazy, mellow hues.
You smile at him, tenderly, from your beaten up old couch, because he is happy and you are not sure how many smiles you will have left.
He comes back to sit next to you, snuggling into your side, all soft and tired, humming just a little, one of the muggle songs he was obsessed with back when you were only just boys.
"Firewhiskey?" You suggest, lightly, because there are five bottles left somewhere in the kitchen and you do not think there will be much time for more.
"Oh, yes please," replies Sirius, perking up just slightly.
So you untangle yourself from his limbs and head to the kitchen, and when you return, holding four of the five bottles precariously in your arms, Sirius has one of your large ratty blankets draped over himself and allows you to burrow in right alongside him. You uncork the first bottle, passing it between you, taking swigs in turn. And it's then, halfway through the first bottle, with Sirius leaning into your side, when you think to yourself:
You love him.
It comes clear like a truth you've known all along, like your mind gathering itself after waking up from a deep sleep.
You love him. Of course you do, of course you love him, there is no other way.
Sirius who accompanies you on full moons, who can still smile, who is not afraid to cry or shout or laugh, even though you are amidst another war, and everything around you feels like it's falling apart and going to hell. Sirius Black, who is your best friend, your partner in crime, your Marauder. You are a man in a desert and he is the oasis of water, or you are a drowning man and he is the light at the surface and air at the top and the lifeline you cling to. And you cannot ever, ever, ever let him go.
You love him, and it's the only thing, really, that could have happened.
Sirius smiles at you, blanket falling off his shoulders and laugh falling from his lips, small and warm and true. Real. He is the realest thing you have.
"Can I kiss you?"
It tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it, or even really think it.
And he stops. His eyes widen and then the grey of them darkens, deep and pooling and drawing you in.
"Okay," he mumbles softly, and then louder. " Yes."
Sirius's lips are soft on yours, a little cracked, warm and spicy from the Firewhiskey, and it just feels right. Sirius kisses fiercely and powerfully and overwhelmingly. And all you can think is just Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.
You love him, and he loves you.
The fire burns on, and, at least for now, everything is okay.
11. "Nice one, Prongs!" you hear Sirius exclaim, across the room, and something in your heart clenches, but you don't turn to look because you are in the Department of Mysteries, this is a battle, and you don't have time.
Why is there never enough time?
A burning streak of Stupefy red, rushes past you, blinding vividly, viciously, slashing brightly across your vision.
The Veil catches Sirius mid-laugh.
Prongs's son lets out a cry, of shocked despair and desperation, and you catch him in your arms, holding him tight, restraining him, even as he scrambles and struggles in your arms, screaming.
Bellatrix Lestrange cackles wild, somewhere off in the distance, her shrieks bouncing off the walls and echoing right into your ears. Mad. Insane. Taunting. And you want to rip her to pieces.
"I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black! I killed Sirius Black!"
The battle rages on, and your wand hand keeps singing, twirling with the rhythm of the violent sparks flying all around you. It fights to keep you alive, and you're not sure why. Everything seems to be slipping. Again.
There is no silence, no honour in it at all. Just fighting, dirty, on scraped knees, and soldiers which are children, just like you were, all those years ago. And there is no time to mourn. There is no body for you to bury (not even a finger.) There is nothing.
Just an absence.
The wolf howls.
The realisation of it washes over you like a cold tide, numbing and sharp. You are in bed, sinking into the old mattress and you keep sinking. Beside you is a space, empty and stale. It still smells like him, and there's a hair on the pillow, two brushes on the dresser, one for the dog and one for the man, and his socks are still left haphazardly around the room because he was always a bit shit at doing the laundry.
And Sirius Black, your Sirius, your Padfoot, your Marauder, your friend, is... dead.
Sirius Black is dead.
The taste of him still lingers on your tongue, burning, because you love him and he loved you. Like Molly and Arthur Weasley love each other, like James and Lily loved each other. And it was not a prophecy which killed your friends, it was a war.
12. You are thirty-eight, and you are surrounded by bodies and the hallways which hold the memories, the ghosts of your friends and you haven't felt invincible in a long time.
Hogwarts is where it all began, and, you suppose, you never really left. It's all ruined now, all in flames, and dust and rubble.
The Great Hall — where you made so many memories, got sorted and met your friends at eleven, pranked your peers with your fellow Marauders at twelve, fourteen, seventeen, did your Potions homework over breakfast — half of it has been blown in, and the rest of it is up in smoke. The corridors are blocked up by burnt debris or littered with bodies, dark and light alike. Astronomy Tower, where Dumbledore, that wise old fool who led one army and inspired another, fell, has fallen in on itself. And Gryffindor Tower, your home for what still remains the happiest times of your life, has crumpled. Every child here is a soldier, fighting for their life.
The castle is crying.
You raise your wand, red Stupefy sparks dancing and shooting across, hitting smokey dark robes.
You see Narcissa Black — no, Malfoy — fighting her way through, and calling out the name of her son.
You help Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas take down a giant, always a pair, those two.
You hear Parvati Patil wailing amidst the hexes she throws because her sister is on the ground as well.
Molly Weasley screaming out because her son lays amongst the rows of all the other corpses, and a seventh of her heart is stained on the floor. George hasn't seen yet.
And you wonder, casting a Protego in time for another student — fifth year, Hufflepuff — if it's better to lose both twins, or to just lose one and leave behind the other.
You see Greyback catch your eye, gold to gold, and see him bare his teeth at you, more animal than man, and his mouth is already slick with blood of another. A foot away, Lavender Brown, child, fellow Gryffindor, one of your students, lies limp on the ground. Just a body now.
Hot blood rushes through your veins and you hold your wand tight, feeling that deep thrum of magic flowing through you and out of it.
You don't see Peter during the final battle. Perhaps he is not even there, the Dark Lord having laid too heavy a hand, or scurried away as always. But you want to cry out to him, Look what you've done. Look at it! Look at it.
Look at all this death and destruction, and what the fuck has it all been for?
Everything is swift and loud, chaotic, and some moments you are not sure who's a friend and who's a foe. You dodge a Confringo and a Crucio, and fire back an Expelliarmus. You trip over the body of a young girl, green and silver tie, Slytherin, and you feel sick.
You had thought that you wouldn't be afraid of dying, like James's ancestor with the Cloak, the youngest brother, that you would welcome death like an old friend. And that maybe your old friends, your Marauders, would come to welcome you.
But death is frightening. You were wrong. You don't want to die.
You don't want to die.
You think about Harry, James and Lily's son, Sirius's Godson with his mess of unruly black hair and dimpled smile, and her burning green eyes of fiendfyre and that one Avada Kedavra. And you still, somehow, have something left to live for.
You don't want to die—You want to live.
Dumbledore had said not to pity the dead, but to pity the living. After all, to the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure. And a part of you almost laughs at that.
Well, you wanted adventures, didn't you?
The blast hits you dead centre in the chest, bright, vivid Avada green, another Death Eater, nameless and masked.
You do not even feel the ground when it kisses you.