A/N: Written for The Album Challenge by Fire The Canon on the HPFC Forum. Album: Up to No Good by Split Seven Ways

Together 'til the End

We live for the highs; making trouble's what we do …

At home, there was one. He was skinny and black-haired and wore glasses that threatened to slip down his nose whenever he flew on a broom. After they fell off during a particularly dangerous Quidditch stunt and he nearly crashed, he begged his father to reapply the automatic-adjustment charms.

'Maybe they've worn out,' he said, unconsciously running a hand through his hair.

His father grinned, but there was pride in his eyes as he exchanged a glance with his wife.

'Maybe if you hadn't been taking my wand every spare moment to practise on everything you could get your hands on, you wouldn't have muddled the spells,' he said, tone stern and eyes twinkling.

'I wouldn't be borrowing your wand if I had my own.'

His mother groaned. 'We've talked about this. Not until you're eleven. Now, I know it's useless to tell you to drop the dangerous moves, but can't you at least wait until you go to Hogwarts? I'm sure –'

Her son gave her a look of deepest exasperation.

'Mum, I'm not allowed a broom there; at least, not in first year. Anyway, I'll be eleven in another month; surely that's close enough, right? Right?' He accompanied this plea with a cheerful, winning smile that would have won the heart of anyone, save those who knew him best. Neither of his parents were fooled, though he received his wand on his eleventh birthday, via an indulgent all-day trip to Diagon Alley, which naturally included the joke shop and ice cream parlour.

'Mahogany,' the aged wandmaker told him, as the wand in the boy's hand emitted sparks, and he waved it around excitedly. 'Eleven inches, pliable … yes, powerful, and excellent for Transfiguration.'

The new owner of the wand was barely listening. He did not, of course, yet realise how true the wandmaker's words would be.

On the train, there were two. The boy with glasses met the one who would fast become his best friend: a handsome, cocky boy with a restless, rebellious streak.

'Where are you heading, if you've got the choice?'

'Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart! Like my dad.'

At Hogwarts, he met two more boys, with whom he would later become inseparable – a misfit and a hanger-on, both pleased to be included in the little gang. From pranks in the Great Hall to adventures in the Forbidden Forest to midnight feasts in the dormitory, the four Gryffindors – Marauders, they dubbed themselves – did everything in the spirit of friendship and fun.

'I'd do anything for you,' he told his three friends, over and over. It made his best friend declare the same and the brown-haired boy surprised and grateful and the small boy immeasurably nervous, because how could he be expected to return it in kind?

'We'll be together 'til the end, I swear.'

When the war came, he died as he had lived – in a blaze of glory; a foolish, daring, recklessly brave move, murdered by the wand of the one who wanted to kill his son. Wandlessness never meant much to one who always, even 'til the end, fought with his heart to protect those he loved.

Together 'til we die; I'd do anything for you