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Lightning cracked above the haunted domain, illuminating the ground and casting unearthly shadows across the well-trodden path. A man wandered through the rows of marble, seemingly without a purpose to those who might glance upon the elderly gentleman. They would take in his stilted hobble and faded robes stained with the remnants of failed potions and decide him to be crazy. But if they had only taken a closer look, at a face kept carefully blank and dark empty eyes, too old for one with such a carefree spirit. They would have realised that he was not crazy at all.
The man trudged through the mud, thankful for the swollen clouds hovering on the edge of the horizon, for the snow within them had yet to fall, making his journey easier and less tiresome. He slowed to a stop when he reached a row of eight, one after the other, his first visit to them in many years. It was easy to see the difference in age as some of the stone had already begun to crumble – despite the fresh flowers that lay at their base, while others had only begun to grey.
He limped to the furthest on the left and crouched, bones creaking, in order to trace its engraving with his fingertips.
RIP
James F. Potter “Prongs”
27.03.1960 – 31.10.1981
“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”
He chuckled softly with tears teeming in his eyes at the infamous words of the man who had once posthumously stood as the guide throughout his schooling years, knowing that the words that he lived and died by had become a legacy set in stone, one by which future generations had abided by.
Moving on the next in line, the man choked on a sob at the words of a woman to a son she would never see grow up, who would never know her.
RIP
Lily J. Potter née Evans
30.01.1960 – 31.10.1981
“You are so loved…be safe. Be strong.”
The words of love had been forever immortalised in a letter to Harry, found hidden within his trust vault at Gringotts. Allowing him a brief glimpse into the woman she once was and the mother she could’ve been if only she had been given the chance.
The death of both James and Lily on the fateful Halloween night had left Harry Potter without a father or a mother, it is Lily’s absence which is felt most keenly, as whilst stories and descriptions of James were readily available, few of Lily’s friends remained to share her history, with Alice Longbottom permanently residing within St Mungo’s and Severus Snape walking his own delicate balancing act as a double agent.
The man, having experienced his own losses, knew Harry’s pain only too well. It was this shared conviction that enabled him to shift his gaze to the next stone.
RIP
Sirius O. Black “Padfoot”
03.11.1959 – 18.06.1996
“We’ve all got both light and dark inside of us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.”
The wisest words ever spoken by Sirius Black to a godson who had already been exposed to the malicious and manipulative nature of both sides, explored the nature of his prejudice and how it has been overcome. Those who knew him would go to contrast the mature words against the bigoted young boy who had supported James Potter’s own beliefs, following him mindlessly as had the owner of the next tombstone, this one at which the owner stood at a distance.
RIP
Peter Pettigrew “Wormtail”
16.04.1960 – 12.03.1998
“I returned.”
The two simple words made the man scoff, Pettigrew had returned from his presumed death only to die later by his own hand. And whilst this gravestone had initially been erected at his initial death, it had been edited to reflect the later betrayal and subsequent altercations in his date of death, but also existed as a depiction of the chubby little boy who had followed the rest of the Marauders like a lost puppy.
The next marble headstone held a gentle man with a dangerous alter ego, who despite his capability for destruction and predisposition towards violence was a distinguished, mild-tempered individual.
RIP
Remus J. Lupin “Moony”
10.03.1960 – 02.05.1998
“‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.”
His faith had always astounded the man, following the young Potter unquestioningly, his loyalty reminiscent of the devotion he held for his father before him. Treating him, not a child nor as a figurehead, but as a person, respected without holding him in reverence. The next grave however, though close in proximity to its predecessor was starkly different, with bright lettering that contrasts against the stone, charmed to change colours after several days. Currently, it was neon orange.
RIP
Nymphadora Lupin née Tonks “Tonks”
23.02.1973 – 02.05.1998
"Don’t call me Nymphadora, it’s Tonks!”
He almost had to laugh at this, knowing that the vivacious woman would have personally returned from beyond the grave if only to ensure that she was not remembered by her hated first name. The next grave however, was decidedly the one which made him feel the most conflicted.
RIP
Severus T. Snape “The Half Blood Prince”
09.01.1960 – 02.05.1998
“Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words – they stand no chance against His powers!”
Snape’s view of emotionalism and self-control were what defined him as an individual, the opinions made justifiable by his work as a spy within Voldemort’s ranks. Having isolated himself from any and all personal connections, he had alienated anyone who had attempted to make one. The elderly man had spent so much of his time debating within himself the validity of Snape’s actions, whether if someone had attempted to see past his hard exterior if it would have made a difference to his struggles, or if the well-intentioned nature of his actions only served to act as an excuse for his true dark persona.
The last stone though, was the one which reduced to body-wracking sobs, head bowed in grief that had never truly dissipated, even in all the time that had passed. Of course he’d been buried here, he was an honorary marauder after all.
RIP
Frederick G. Weasley “Gred”
01.04.1978 – 02.05.1998
“He’s not Fred, I am!”
A bitter laugh escaped his lips as he saw the inscription. They were right about one thing, Fred and George had always confused those around them, even their own mother being unable to tell them apart and now they had pulled the ultimate prank. The one they had always dreamed of, but could never have even imagined pulling off. Fred Weasley was not the one to die during the Final Battle. His twin brother was.
In his death, George Weasley had truly become the king of all pranksters, but of course, none were any the wiser and they never would be. Until of course when Fred died and they took a look into the older twin’s will.
With the storm still raging above his head and snow-heavy clouds drawing ever closer, the man sat on his knees, muddied ground seeping into the already stained robes, head bowed for an age, and when his head finally rose, the elderly man’s eyes ignited with a spark at a flash of lightning, hinting at the joy they once held.
As Fred Weasley, the man living in the shadow of his dead brother, turned to leave, he had a sudden thought, several of the graves were missing something. And a small, mischievous smile lit up his face as he retrieved his wand.
If anyone were to walk by at that exact moment, if they had just taken a closer look at the old man with ancient eyes and a genuine smile, they would have seen him carving two words into five separate tombstones.
And as he rocked back onto his haunches to admire his handiwork, the voice of his only son, Frederick George Weasley II, called for him “Dad! Where have you been? Roxanne and I have been looking for you everywhere!” Not waiting for an answer he bustled on “C’mon, we’ve gotta get to Hogwarts or we’ll be late for the anniversary celebrations.”
A bemused smile appeared on Fred Weasley’s face as he pondered the remarkable likeness of his son to his older brother Percy in his youth, although Percy thankfully had mellowed in the fifty years since the war’s end. He allowed his son to lead him from the cemetery, the strong grasp holding him upright and aiding the older man’s hobbled stride.
“What were you doing here anyway?”
“Oh, just visiting some old friends.” He murmured as he turned for one last glance at the two words written in clear, looped print at the foot of five tombstones before
he was apparated away.
He smiled to himself and whispered the words as he felt the familiar tugging behind his navel.
“Mischief Managed.”