It all began with a knock on my door at about seven in the morning, just a few days after I had received your letter. I hadn't read any more than I had upon opening it and had wanted to leave it that way. I suppose you must've seen how I read and reread those words, hearing your voice in my head. It was almost as if you were sitting beside me.

I had not left my house in those few days. I had instead bottled myself up, eating very little and lying in bed for the most part of the day, only getting up to use the bathroom or wander about looking out the windows in a somber, melancholic state of mind.

I didn't really think of you, not specifically, and for this I hate myself. I instead thought about the letter, about your words, what they meant. I was still processing it all, still processing the fact that you were in fact dead.

And that word…Oh how I despised that word more than anything.

You, who had given the world so much, who had lived life seeking to control what you were, who had cared and loved so deeply…You were gone.

I had not seen you since that time, that one time at a small café in Westminster. Each time I thought about that day, something squeezed my heart and I began crying once more.

It was actually during one of these episodes that the knock sounded at my door.

At first, I didn't move, unsure that I had even heard it in the first place. When it sounded again, I slowly rose, wondering who could be paying me a visit. I had no friends-living that is-to come here, and very few no-majs knew about me and where I lived. Maybe it was a salesman, I thought. Maybe if I just lay here, they'll go away.

But, no. The knock was ever persistent and, after much debate, I finally threw off the covers and slid on my robe.

By the time I had gotten down the stairs they had knocked twice more. Carefully, I undid the locks and pulled open the door, revealing a mousy, dark haired looking woman that couldn't have been but in her early twenties. She was wearing a regular shirt and jeans and was carrying a rather large sack that seemed to be bigger than she was. When we made eye contact, she smiled at me, dimples forming in her cinnamon colored skin. It was a forced smile, that I knew. I hadn't looked at myself in the past few days, hadn't bothered to shower or brush my hair.

The woman extended a hand out to me. "Riya Pandey. It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Travers."

I timidly took her hand and, after exchanged a brief shake, I realized I hadn't yet invited her inside. "Would you like to come in?" I asked. I almost didn't recognize my own voice when I spoke. It was hoarse, dry.

"Oh, thank you."

I moved aside as she made her way in and I shut the door behind her. "Can I make you some tea?"

"No thank you," was the reply. Miss Pandey walked into the living room and sat down her bag. She placed her hands on her hips and nodded her head, as if the view about her pleased her so. "Yes," she said to herself. "Yes, I think this will do nicely."

"With what?" I inquired.

The woman turned and she gave a nervous laugh. "I am so sorry. Here I am and I haven't even told you why." She gestured to one of the armchairs, the one closest to the window. "May I?"

"By all means."

Miss Pandey sat down and continued on. "Miss Travers, you are aware that the Dark Lord and his army have been defeated, yes? That our world is on its way to healing itself?"

I nodded. I had seen it in the papers, had heard whispers of it on my occasional trips to Diagon Alley. The battle at Hogwarts had been immense and, after learning that Lord Voldemort had been killed by Harry Potter at last, I could breathe a little easier. I had been in hiding since he had risen back to power, had almost grown paranoid at the fact that no one could be trusted anymore…But now…

"What does that have to do with anything?" I finally uttered. "I had nothing to do with that."

"No, but the world is a little curious on your opinion. You see, you did know one of the fallen, correct? Remus Lupin?"

The sound of your name froze me, and that familiar grip on my heart tightened even more. "Yes, I knew him. Why is that important?"

"He is to receive the Order of Merlin, First Class," she said. "The first werewolf ever to gain such an honor. People will want to know more about him, and since you were close to him during his years at Hogwarts…Knowing more about his past will make him more human than anything. What I want is to show that even though he was different, even though he was a werewolf, that he was just like us."

She was a supporter of his kind, I could see it now. "What are you writing?" I whispered. "A book? An article?"

"A biography, of sorts, about his life," she replied. "I feel that with this, and with the Order of Merlin being awarded to him, it will be a big step for werewolves and society accepting them."

I said nothing and moved to the couch across from her, slowly sitting myself into place. I did not look at her, did not utter a sound. I just gazed at the white carpeting and thought: I must vacuum the floor. It was a rather sudden, silly thought. You would've thought it funny, I'm sure, if the situation had been completely different; if the situation hadn't been about you, about your death.

"Miss Travers, I know this is a difficult time for you, and I'm sorry if this all seems rather sudden." Her voice was gentle as she spoke. "And I shall understand completely if you'd like for me to come back at a later date."

Don't be afraid, Clara. Take my hand. It'll be alright. There's no need to be afraid.

But I was afraid, terrified. I did not want to accept that you were gone, that I would no longer be able to speak with you, laugh with you. Doing this would be a form of acceptance and I did not know if I could bear it.

I'm right here, Clara. Don't be afraid. Things will turn out fine in the end. I promise.

"Miss Travers?"

I looked up at my guest, and suddenly realized that I had been gripping the edge of my seat. Releasing my grip, I forced myself to settle against the sofa. "What do you want to know?"

"Just start from the beginning." Miss Pandey reached over to her bag and opened it, taking out a quill and a notebook. As she let go of them, they hovered beside her, poised to begin. "And don't worry, nothing will be embellished. They are designed to write nothing but your words exactly."

This was it, I thought. There was no going back, was there? I closed my eyes, just briefly, and took a deep breath. I had not told this story-our story-for many years. It had stayed dormant, and, now, here was a writer that needed this part, the years at school that I was the last real witness to. I had grieved for them all, James, Lily, Sirius, and even poor Peter whose weakness and fear had crippled him into submission.

It was better this way, I thought. Perhaps the world did need to know about you, who you were.

Don't be afraid. Be brave, Clara.

I will do this for you. I will not be afraid. Not now, when there was so much to be said.

I opened my eyes, looked over at the woman sitting across from me. And, without little hesitation, I began our story.