Prologue: the one's who leave us…
"The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living." – Marcus Tullius Cicero
January 15, 1965
The funeral was a solemn affair, as funerals tended to be. The January snow made the scene almost beautiful. Each guest, dressed in customary black, seemed to glisten with each flurry. The casket was a beautiful black oak, carved by some of the best dwarven craftsmen known to man. Each image was significant to the women who lay within it. Each image a representation of her life. And though a short life, she had lived well. Honorably.
Among the guests were her closest friends. A diverse group from all aspects of society. Lyra had not been known for her judgmental views nor her prejudice. Born and raised a muggleborn, Lyra had died a noble mother.
Her husband, Ignatius, was the first to make his way to the casket. It was customary for the husband to say his farewells first. Ignatius was not known for his sensitive heart but as he made his way to touch his wife's casket all could see the red that rimmed his deep blue eyes. He, out of all the guests, harbored the look of a dark wizard but all who knew him could attest to his kind heart. Ignatius wore a fitted black suit, refusing to wear a robe as many of the guests had done. His black hair was slicked back, and he looked regal. Bending to his knee, he laid his head upon the wood.
No one knew what he had mumbled in that moment but his silent sobs were obvious from the shaking of his back. The whole congregation stood silent, heads bowed to stare at the white floor. Even the children in attendance seemed aware of the seriousness of that moment.
Moments later, Ignatius made his way to his feet; remnants of his tears glistening on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as his darling children made their way to the casket. His eldest, Simon, looked grave but his jaw was tightened as if refusing to cry. Simon was all his mother. Though his looks wavered between both his parents, his sensitive personality belonged only to Lyra. And as Simon, only eleven, touched the casket he too dissolved into tears. At Simon's side was Thomas whose glasses glistened in the evening starlight. Thomas dared not look upon his father nor anyone else. With all the dignity a nine year old could muster, he dared not stray his gaze from the wood.
His sister, Eleanora, followed. Her eyes, a glistening green, and her hair, an odd burgundy, was all that resembled her mother. For her heart was her father's and she bore his fierce personality. She held her youngest sibling, Killian, tightly in her arms. The boy seemed to weigh her down, and Simon, stepping to the side, went to take him from her. Ignatius shook his head sharply, and his eldest bowed his head in compliance. He knew that Killian's weight was the comfort she needed and, so, he watched as she too went to touch her mother's casket. At five, Eleanora looked much older that day.
Lyra Margaret Griffin Banks had been too young. Too kind. Too good to die in such a way. Never would Eleanora forget her mother's mangled face as she died before her eyes.
And, in sync, thirty witches and wizards rose their wands to the sky as they paid homage to a witch who was both powerful and kind. A witch who lived her life to the fullest. And, in the flurry of sparks in the air, the form of a dark figure was missed as her murderer watched on with detached respect.
