Fairy Tales and Fantasies

You always were the bookish one. Ever since you were a small boy and you wondered into the woods one full moon, things have scared you. People have scared you. The world has scared you. But what use did you have for friends back then anyway? Your friends lived in the books you read. You found your companionship among the witches and wizards who lived, not in the houses around you, but in the pages of your brightly illustrated story book. The worlds you read about were so much simpler. The knights were brave and the princesses fair. Evil was defeated quickly, in twenty pages or less. Once upon a time...

You watch him holding his sleeping son, cradling the baby like a new father should. It's a touching scene, but one you know you can never posses for yourself. Not in the near future at any rate. He doesn't seem to know you're there - he thinks you're still downstairs having dessert with his wife and best friend. You didn't mean to spy, but you were on the way to the bathroom and now, well, here you are.
He jumps slightly when you clear your throat to announce your presence and he turns an enquiring face towards you. You ask to hold the baby. And with those few simple words the air in the room changes completely. While before the feeling of peace was tangible, now you could cut the tension with a knife.
Any feelings of jealousy you may have felt previously are doubled by the flash of mistrust in his eyes. You hate the fact that at twenty years old he has everything you want and can never have. You hate the fact that you have to watch him being loved by the woman you love so desperately yourself. You hate the fact that even after half a lifetime of solid friendship, he mistrusts you because of a disease you cannot control. What he doesn't seem to realise is that the disease doesn't control you. Because you know what's going through his head: Werewolf. Traitor. And yet he places his son in your arms, if only for the pretence that everything is all right. But you know it's not.

You don't know what you're going to do. You lived your whole life before Hogwarts in hiding, in seclusion. You know you can't go back to that. You're losing your friends, not because of something you did, but because of something you are. And it's breaking your heart.

Taking your special red powder from the mantelpiece, you throw it into the fireplace and direct the resulting flames to bring you to the Order of the Phoenix meeting. After a sickening ride through London's chimneys you step out of the fire into the one place where you know you'll never find any welcome, the home of Dumbledore's greasy-haired prodigal son. You talk with the other members, who treat you as always. You think you may detect a little coldness towards yourself, but then again you're probably just being paranoid.
You know you aren't being paranoid about Sirius, though. It has always amazed you how much of a dog he is - his laugh like a bark, his teeth-baring grin, his brutish and uncivilised treatment of those he dislikes. He stands at the other end of the room, ignoring your presence. Subtlety never was one of his strong points.
You snap out of your musings as the meeting comes to order. You all sit in the parlour but several members, including Prongs and his doe, are conspicuous only by their absence. Moody, Longbottom, Prewett and Meadows speak, making reports on the movements of He Who Must Not Be Named. But no one has more to say than the Potions Master. He alone has done what no other has managed to do, and double-crossed Slytherin's heir. You watch him speak, and feel a pang of despair that one who was proven to have worked for the other side is accepted, while you who have shown nothing but loyalty is shunned. For shunned you are, you know now that the coldness you detected earlier was not paranoia. Because when the missions are allocated, yours is sadly insignificant. You are loosing their trust. You look at Dumbledore in disbelief, but he only stares at you critically as if daring you to say a word in protest. You do not. It is with a heavy heart that you apparate back to a silent and empty house.

You've never liked Halloween. You never saw the point of celebrating what Muggles believe to be a fairy tale but that you live every day of your life. You know the red-haired princess, and the brave, messy-haired knight. You've met the comical little peasant boy and the noble sorcerer who turned away from evil to fight for the Light.
You've never liked Halloween, because you think it's unnecessary. You will like it even less after tonight.

You stagger up Hogwarts's long driveway, through the large oak doors to the gargoyle. You gasp the name of the latest Honeydukes creation, then lean on the wall for support as you slowly spiral up. This is the one place you are sure you will find solace. But you are wrong.
Opening the wooden door, you are greeted by a solid wall of noise. Laughs and happy voices, the type of sounds you haven't heard in twelve long years. You look around disbelievingly. It doesn't make sense to you. What are they all happy about? To your left Dedalus Diggle holds a glass of firewhiskey while to your right Emmeline Vance sips on a bottle of butterbeer. As you stare at her uncomprehendingly, she looks up and sees you. Her face falls suddenly and she looks away with an expression of mild embarrassment. Her companions notice and turn to the door, and seeing you they too fall silent. Slowly the hush sweeps across the room, from right to left, front to back, like some sort of epidemic. It would be funny if you remembered how to laugh.
Moody, of course, is the first to break the silence. He growls your name in a gesture that is half consolation and half warning. But you cut him off. All your life you have backed down at the first sign of confrontation, not because you are a coward but because you have always preferred peace. But now - now you are not rational. Now the first man you every befriended and the only woman you have ever loved are dead, and no one is sad. Everyone is rejoicing. You won't let them placate you this time. This time you feel like picking a fight yourself. And you don't give a damn how much hurt your words will cause, because you are sure that no one can feel worse than you do now.
You ask them what they are happy about. No one looks you in the eye. You ask them again, and someone tentatively tells you the war is over. You ask them a third time, more loudly, and Frank Longbottom tells you rather defiantly that you are not the only one to have lost friends in the war. You turn to face him, slowly, and he flinches at your gaze. No, you are not the only one who has lost friends. You know this, and you tell him so. But you also tell him that when his mother was killed, it was not because his best friend betrayed her. You tell him that when his sisters died under the terrible green glow of the skull and the snake, that in the months before their deaths no one had suspected that he was selling them to Voldemort. You tell them all that for every single person they have lost, they had the support of their friends and the Order before tragedy struck, and they had the support of their friends and the Order after. You have had neither.
And you turn your back on them before you can say anything else you will later regret and you collapse as you slowly spiral down the stairs.

How can rock bottom get any worse? This is the worst you have ever felt in your life. But it turns out there is further to fall.
Dumbledore comes to your house, in the early morning before you see the day's headlines. He tells you the news, and the cup you were about to serve tea into smashes to the floor. You very nearly follow it down, but strong arms grip you and help you to a seat. He then proceeds to tell you about things you don't hear properly. About Harry. And living with muggles, not you. Because of safety, and your damn furry little problem again. Things about Sirius not getting Kissed (Ha! That's a first) because of politics and Blacks. Something about life sentences in Azkaban. You hear without listening and stare blankly ahead until Dumbledore realises that you are in no state to understand anything, and gently helps you into bed. He places a vial of potion next to you in case you need help sleeping, and goes into the kitchen saying he will stay as long as you need him. But you don't really care. You turn and face the wall, and you see in your mind the events of the past night and morning. James falls like a toppled statue, Lily crumples to the ground. Peter cries and runs after Sirius, who laughs as muggles fall like flies around him. And you shout at the Order and storm home like a petulant child. And for the first time since you were a little boy scared of your first full moon, you curl up into a ball and cry yourself to sleep.
You cry for the fallen Marauders, who should have been remembered as legends of the Hogwarts halls, as heroes of the battlefields. You cry for Peter, who will be remembered for nothing but a single act of failed retribution. You cry for James and Lily, who will be remembered for nothing but dying when their son lived. You cry for Sirius, who will be remembered as nothing but a traitor and a murderer. And you cry for Remus Lupin, who is left sad and terribly alone, and who will be remembered for nothing.

The world you live in is a world of fantasy. A world of hags and trolls and dragons and magic. You live the pages of your childhood fairytale books as they turn slowly towards the inevitable ending. But this is not a real fairy story. The princess is not saved, the knight is not triumphant. The little peasant boy finally proves his worth, but is rewarded for his services with nothing but death. The Evil enchanter was only pretending to be Good. He acted his part well. And you know now that all fairy tales are lies, because there's no such thing as a happy ending.