Greetings and salutations, readers! I present, for your enjoyment, a telling of the tale of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs! I hope that some of you may enjoy this story; I want to experiment with some ideas about characterizations for the Marauders, and to do this, I am enlisting the help of Doran; please excuse his ego, which is overly large, to say the least. Please leave reviews- they are the food, drink and oxygen of a writer, as well as an excellent way to provide constructive criticism, which I love very much! Also, if anyone happens to be interested in beta'ing this story for me, please let me know! Thanks, and I hope you enjoy this tale.
Hello there! You're new, aren't you? I thought so- all of you first years always look the same, so small and frightened and lost! You survived your Sorting, though, and now that you've all been Sorted into Gryffindor, oughtn't you to be acting a bit braver? I mean, really, you are in the house of the brave! What would your parents think if they could see you now, all sitting here in your new room, surrounded by new housemates and potential friends, with faces as long as yours are right now? Honestly, children, you ought to be having the time of your lives!
What's that? Who am I? Must you even ask that question? I am Doran- have none of your parents mentioned me? What a shame - I thought I had made more of an impression on many of them when they were here. As you can see, I am a painting of a boy; before you ask, let me assure you that I am not based on any subject who actually lived, which is why I am the unique character that I am. You see, most paintings are based on a real person, and when painted by a magic-user, they take on the personality and memories of the subject. I, however, am unusual, in that I was painted entirely from my artist's imagination. He made me up, you see- or so he claims, but I am convinced that I thought myself up. Because of this, my personality and thoughts are all my own, and I am indebted to no one for them! My artist, a brilliant wizard of exceptional artistic ability, if I do say so myself, likened himself to Pythagorus after I was completed; he always said that he choose to paint the boy you see before you, exactly as I am. I am supposed to be a young boy, although I do not know how old he thought I ought to look- I have been told that I look eight, and that I look twelve. It doesn't matter, I suppose- I am far wiser than any child of such an age would be; I have seen far more than any of you have. I was painted just over a hundred years ago, and was placed in the Gryffindor common room exactly one hundred years ago tonight. And what a night that was!
But be comforted- you are no different from any of the classes of new Gryffindors I have seen come through here in the past century. All have been frightened and anxious, though many have hidden their fears better than you do! I suppose that despite the fact that it is late and you all have classes tomorrow, none of you are ready to sleep yet? I can see it in your faces- you are too nervous. Very well then; I shall once again take up my storyteller's mantle, and share a tale of the past with you, until you are ready for sleep.
No, no- don't protest! I have performed this service for students for as long as I have been here; it is no trouble, let me assure you! In fact, I quite enjoy having people to tell tales to- it can be very lonely being a painting, let me tell you. That's right, all of you lie down in your beds- that's good, boys. Now, let me see- what tale shall I tell? I know- I will share with you the story of my own first night at Hogwarts.
At the time, I was newly painted, and knew almost nothing of the world or of people- I was quite the child myself! They brought me in and hung me upon the wall, and I got my first look at the Gryffindor common room. It looked just the same then as it did now, although some of the furniture has been destroyed and replaced since then. Then Albus Dumbledore came in to speak to me- you all know of him, don't you? Of course you do! He was the new headmaster at that point, and was known for his unorthodox methods and style; the fact that he personally came to welcome a new painting was astounding. He smiled at me just as if I had been a real child- oh, how his eyes twinkled, like bright stars were caught in their depths!
"Hello, Doran." Dumbledore's voice- I remember it so clearly now- bright and merry, but with such a feeling of power behind it. "I hope your trip here was pleasant? I would like to welcome you to Hogwarts; please feel free to talk to me at any time! As a Gryffindor painting, I must ask you not to enter any of the other common rooms, but other than that, feel yourself free to move around the castle. I believe you will find that there are paintings hung in almost every room of this castle, and as long as the occupants of these paintings do not object, you may move through them freely, giving you access to the entire castle." Dumbledore smiled at me again, kindly, and I was so grateful for his warmth and welcome that I had a difficult time responding properly, but he waved away my awkward thanks. "I am aware that you are a unique painting, Doran, and I wish to make your stay here as pleasant as possible. Just because you are a painting does not mean that you have no feelings, and I wish to be considerate of those. Now, if you are interested, the students are about to arrive; if you would like to observe the proceedings, please follow me, and I will lead you to where you will be able to see." Of course I wanted to see, so I followed Dumbledore eagerly.
We came to the entrance hallway- where you came in tonight, through the big thick wooden doors, if you remember? Well, we were just in time; the Deputy Headmistress was just opening the doors, looking as fierce and imposing as she possibly could. The first years outside- oh, I still remember their faces so clearly! Most looked terrified, absolutely white and shaking in their shoes, and so it was the few exceptions who fascinated me most.
The first child I saw was rather unexceptional in appearance, though if you saw a picture of him, you would disagree with me - that face and one very like it became famous later on. His hair was wild and unruly- so very unlike my own neat, shining tresses! He was not overly tall, nor was he short; his round glasses set him apart from others, though. He did not look frightened; he appeared entirely confident in himself, and merely glanced around curiously before quickly putting on a mask of detached boredom.
A few steps behind him stood another boy, also dark haired, but this child was well favored in appearance and in bearing. He was obviously used to good manners and opulent surroundings, but what caught my attention about the boy was the look of delight on his handsome face as he stepped through the door. His face was literally shining with joy, and his eyes were gleaming brightly. He stood a bit straighter, I thought, and threw his shoulders back proudly as he passed through the door.
A third boy with dark hair stood far from the first two, but his face was sullen and dark rather than joyful, and he kept shooting baleful glares at other students around him. His hair looked as though it could use a good wash, and his hooked nose was far too large for his face. He was obviously too full of anger and unpleasant feelings to bother with anxiety.
My eyes fell next on a girl whose red hair shone brightly in the candle light. Her face was set in an expression of determination, and she raised her chin slightly, as if taking on a challenge. She seemed ready to spring into action at any moment, and was obviously taking great pains to ensure that she did not appear nervous at all.
Shortly behind the pretty girl stood a short, round boy - I always thought he ought to cut down on the sweets that he ate, but I never did say that to him- that would have been inexcusably rude, of course. His hair was blond, and with his round face and gaping mouth, he ought to have appeared a total idiot, but did not merely because of the bruise on his face. It looked as though someone else had punched him several times in the face, probably within the last few hours; the child certainly looked sour and crabby enough for me to believe that he had, in fact, been involved in an altercation in the recent past.
The last child I noticed in the brief moments before the children were ushered into the Great Hall stood apart from all of the others, although he did not seem to bear them any malice. In fact, his face was more devoid of emotion than any other in the room; he seemed almost supernaturally calm and composed in the face of the noise and confusion around him. He stood like an island of serenity, a few strands of his light brown hair falling in his eyes as he observed the other children quietly.
And then they were moving, and I with them, into the Great Hall. They all filed up to the front of the hall, to where the teachers sat waiting, looking for all the world as if they were preparing to pass judgement on the children who stared at them with such wide eyes. I suppose they were, in a way, for the Sorting Hat- yes, the same hat you all wore tonight- does judge. The judgements of the hat are very rarely wrong, but for good or for ill, the judgement that each child sat under had an effect on the shape of the rest of their lives. How many students have learned to be loyal because of their placement in Hufflepuff House? How many pronounced Gryffindor have been forced to learn bravery? Do not fear, children- you are all Gryffindors at heart, even if you yourselves doubt it now. The Sorting Hat knows, you see, and in time you will all come to see for yourselves that it was right about you. You will all be brave as lions one day; less than adept at planning ahead, perhaps, and likely headstrong and reckless, but ever so brave. I have seen it a hundred times.
But that night, you ask? Yes, yes, I will continue! You yourselves have seen one Sorting ceremony, and that night's was no different from your own, except in the names that were called. I paid such close attention to all of the new Gryffindors - or at least I tried to, but as the students kept coming, it because so difficult! I finally decided to keep a close eye on all of the children I had taken a particular interest in earlier, and vowed to myself that I would certainly learn who the rest of them were, in time. My spiky-haired lad, and the joyful one, were placed in Gryffindor; the boy with bad hair went to Slytherin, which I was later to learn was the home of the arch-rivals of my new house. The red-headed girl went to Gryffindor as well, which made me glad - she was really very pretty- and the boy with the bruises, as well as the calm child. I was quite excited- so many of the children who interested me were going to be in my house!
The feast was long, I must say; being unable to eat, and being unnoticed by any of the students, ghosts, or other paintings, I did not have much to do but watch others eat. I must confess that feasts always bother me slightly; I so dislike the feeling that I am not a part of the school's life, and having to stand and watch as others partake in a feast does make me feel lonely. But enough about that!
I followed closely as the prefects led the way back to Gryffindor tower, hoping that I would learn my own way there soon. While I waited for the students to enter, I introduced myself to the lady in the painting that guarded the secret entrance to the tower; she is a kind woman, if rather hard to approach at first. By the time that I entered the tower, the students had mostly disappeared, all leaving for their own dormitory rooms. I had no idea where anything was, but taking a guess, I made my way up the wall to the side of one staircase, and entered one of the rooms inconspicuously. To my delight, I was in the room of the first year boys - this very room, if you will believe it! That year's enrollment was small- at the time, you see, the world was just recovering from a very difficult time, involving the dark wizard Grindlewald, and many were still afraid, or had fled the country, or were simply dead. Consequently, there were only four first year boys- less than half as many as there are of you now! I sat quietly in a painting in a corner of the room and observed the boys.
The calm one was getting ready for bed quickly and efficiently; the bruised boy sat on a corner of his bed and glared at the joyful lad. Finally, it seemed he could take it no more, and the boy jumped to his feet, his bruised face angry.
"Why'd you hit me on the train? I wasn't hurting you at all, you know!" The joyful boy looked sober, and gazed at the other quietly for a moment.
"Peter Pettigrew, right?" He asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Well, I'll tell you. I hit you because I heard what you were saying- about purebloods and - and "Mudbloods" and half-bloods. My family is obsessed with that nonsense about blood and purity and all that rot, and I won't tolerate it from a fellow student. So, as long as you don't ever attempt to insult or degrade another student on the basis of their family or blood type again, we'll have no problems, right?" The boy smiled brightly and put out his hand to Peter.
"Hang on." The spiky haired boy spoke up, directing an unfriendly look at the second child. "You're Sirius Black, aren't you? One of those Blacks? Your family is entirely obsessed with blood- your family is a load of dark wizards and witches, all involved in making life miserable for anyone not pure enough for your standards! Where d'you get off with hitting Peter for saying the same kinds of things?"
Sirius dropped his hand and stared cooly at the boy. "My family is wrong. My family is a load of bigoted, biased morons. I want nothing to do with them or with their ideas, and I would appreciate not being lumped in with the rest of them. You will notice that, unlike the rest of my family, I was not placed in Slytherin. Doesn't that tell you anything, James Potter?" Potter looked skeptical for a moment, staring fixedly at Sirius as if he could divine his true intentions by staring hard enough. Finally he nodded, and smiled somewhat abashedly.
"I believe you. Sorry- I shouldn't have assumed that you would be like the rest of them, I suppose." The three boys shook hands in a friendly manner, and then looked around, obviously curious about the whereabouts of their fourth roommate. The last boy had apparently readied himself for bed, climbed in, and fallen asleep in the amount of time it had taken the others to introduce themselves and work out their differences. The boy's bed sat next to the window, and the light of the newly-waning moon fell upon him as he lay, still as death, in a deep sleep.
"Friendly type." James said sarcastically, shaking his head and pulling a wry face at the sleeping boy.
"You must admit he has the right idea, though." Sirius yawned, and within moments, all four boys were fast asleep.
And now, my young lions, you should also sleep. I see in your eyes that you are tired. No, no, protest as you will, I will not tell any more of this tale tonight. Yes, they were exceptional people, and I know you wish to hear the story from a source other than a textbook - and believe me, I am the one to ask! I know more about the tale than anyone else living, and I will share it with you - but not all tonight! Sleep now; perhaps you will dream of the brave men you will become. You might think of the boys from my tale; three of them became numbered among the bravest and best that history has produced. Someday, you may be as brave as they were, those true sons of Gryffindor.