Black
They sit around the table at Grimmauld Place, silence being their purity. They all have their scars to bear. Their crosses are etched into their shoulders. There are many different stories to tell.
Remus Lupin, Professor of the dark arts. A person who spends his entire life walking the line between man and beast, a man swayed by the sliver of the moon. His eyes are dark brown and worn, but the speck of yellow, the wolf in him, is obvious amongst the black of his pupil. He sits in silence, mind ticking like the clock of damnation, a watch that never stops. The scars on him are physical, marked by those who gave up everything to remain his friends. He is the last faithful Marauder, the only one to remain strong in times of darkness. He looks at the fast rising moon, his bane and his pride. It is half full. He rests his face in his hands, holding back tears. In his mind he hears snuffling. Sometimes the memories get too much.
Nymphadora Tonks, the Auror. She is of the brood of the shapeshifters, able and willing to hide behind another face. Her face at the moment is heart-shaped, the way she likes it. Her bubblegum pink hair serves to hide her ties with the family that disowned her. Her blue eyes are red around the edges, showing spent emotion. She sways slightly, but tries to be strong in the face of darkness so powerful that it threatens to overwhelm every ones souls. God, how she wishes she was in his place. She wishes that she were there, to save him when the blow was struck. She wishes that she were behind the curtain, in the place of the hidden.
Ron Weasley, the second best, the expected and the sidekick. He growls and curses under his breathe. The deep wounds on his arms mark where memories have stung him. He runs his hands through his red hair and thumps the table. Why was he so stupid to have fallen for the curse? Why didn't he fight the magic that had encased his mind? Why did he let madness carry him away? If he had, if he had won, he would have been there and maybe he would have stopped it. Maybe he would have made a difference. But no, here he sits, facing his hearts treasure, knowing that he was off in another world when the darkness fell.
Hermione Granger, the genius, the smart, the prefect. She looks back into the blue eyes that she knows have watched her from afar and her heart plummets. Why was she such a coward? Why was she so unaware of her surroundings? Why did she fall when she was needed most? She thinks of herself as all brains and no heart. Why can't she admit to herself what she needs to? Most of all, she pities those who were left behind. She knows the feeling of failure and she hates it. This, however, is worse than failing the easiest test. This feeling of nothing, of emptiness, for her friends and for her fallen companion is more than she can bear. Again she meets those eyes. Why would he look at her so? Especially at this time and place.
Then there is Harry Potter. The hero, the savoir. The Boy Who Lived. An unquenchable fire is scorching his mind and heart. The fire of rage. The fire of sorrow. He finds himself clenching his fists until his knuckles are white and his fingernails break into his palm. How he hates the world right now! When such greatness is gone, what is the point in living? Why should you live when you feel the emptiness of life? He looks over at the Maraudering Werewolf, who has his face buried in his hands. It is obvious that others feel the pain, but none so powerful as his. Again his knuckles turn white. There is too much inside of him, too much pressure. It is almost more than he can bear. But to let it out would let it overcome him. It would destroy everything he needs to fulfil his future.
There are others. Ben Kingsley, a hunter of the darkness who blames himself, Mad Eye Moody, the erratic who wishes that he was faster on the draw and Severus Snape, a man who knows that by all rights he should feel nothing at all. But he feels the pain. They all do. It's like a cloud of sorrow, poisoning the souls of the survivors.
Albus Dumbledore sighs and looks at his watch. He knows that the other members present are wallowing in the darkness of fatality. He feels it beginning to seep into his calm and conscious mind. He shuts his eyes. This is not the first or the last time such a tragedy would happen but it doesn't make it any less painful. Slowly, he gets to his feet and raises his glass. Everyone's eyes look towards him. He pushes his spectacles up his nose and raises his glass higher. With everyone's eyes on him he looks towards his outstretched hand. Slowly, and with much trepidation, He mutters the hateful and final words. The ones he has had to mutter before and he knows he will have to mutter again. This is a war and there will be more deaths, more sacrifices made.
"To Sirius Black. May he be remembered always."