Lament
of the Angels:
Bertha
Jorkins
I failed you.
Granted, I didn't know you in life, but that doesn't change a thing. I failed you. I went on a vacation and was followed by Peter Pettigrew – Pettigrew, the slimy little rat we all thought was dead. I knew, then, when I saw Pettigrew, that Black was innocent. I knew, then, when I saw Pettigrew, that Dumbledore must have been right.
I knew that Voldemort was not dead.
And yet, I did not fight back when Pettigrew cornered me. I cowered, I begged, and I died on my knees. And with my death was the death of the last hope to alert the wizarding world to the dangers before Voldemort came back.
I wonder if Fudge would have better believed you if you'd had me backing you.
I wonder if he would have believed anyone at all.
It's odd, though. With my death, the memory charms placed on me broke. I remembered seeing Peter Pettigrew once – I had wondered, in the seconds before my death in Albania, how he had recognized me. And I remembered what poor Bartemius had done – it's lucky he managed to break free of the Imperius curse and warn you.
I've been watching you, Harry. You're doing just fine. And you'll win.
After all, what else can you do?
Review if you have something to say.
Cheers,
LIZ