Marauding, etc.

Short Fiction concerning the Marauders and their contemporaries.

Under the Last Remembered Moon

The moonlight shows many things, not least the face of a time I thought long dead. If you stare at it hard enough I fancy you can see our faces in the silver. Like a pensieve, it stores for all time the memories of those who commit themselves to its power. As we did, voluntarily and as Remus did through force.

Through the window I can see the family sitting round the table, enjoying their meal. I know this is the house; I came here once with James and Lily, though at this moment I cannot see Harry. And now I realise, I do not even know what he looks like. My eyes flicker back to the large lump of a boy sitting at the table, and wonder. The realisation hits hard. What would James say if he saw his son now?

He cannot play Quidditch like that. Gryffindor never chose beaters just for their size. James would be distraught. Nothing much else mattered to him, but that his son would follow in his footsteps. James' footsteps were rarely visible. He had a tendency to fly everywhere.

There is a sound of shattering glass from inside, voices echoing angrily out into the street. The boy I am watching flinches back suddenly, and I am startlingly ashamed. No Marauder should flinch, from anything. Oh, James, were you here. Were we all here. I would almost rather have lived through another ten years of Voldemort. At least I would have been free. And you would have lived. You and I would have been Marauders together. James and Sirius. We thought never to be parted.

Silence descends once more, and I can see their conversation through the window. I wonder what it is they discuss. They must ask Harry often to recite tales of his schoolboy adventures. That is, if he had any. The voice inside my head that would normally provide reassurance that it is James son and of course he had schoolboy adventures, has fallen strangely silent.

The blank silver face in the sky watches with interest, pulling me away, out of the present into a time so old. Oh, how I loved you all, my Marauders. Prongs most of all but you knew that already, everyone knew. An unspoken fact, but fact nonetheless. Definitely fact.

Inside something is happening, there are voices again, shouts of anger and fear, but I am not there. I am trapped in a world that is not my own, that does not exist. I almost feel your presence, my dear Prongs, I almost taste you on my parched lips. It has been so long now I can barely remember what it is. On a hazy edge of my vision, in another world I think, a figure bobs gently on a ceiling, screaming in terror.

Still I am not there. I raise my head and let out a call, as a wolf in pain. An art perfected long ago to draw Moony away from any situation that might have become dangerous. No one hears me. Not a soul answers to my call, and the silent watch of the moon holds me down, in place. I can see you now as well, I can see you standing before me, as you did so long ago. Here and now, there is no other world. It is you and me, James, only us. Yet it is not you; I know you are dead.

I catch a glimpse, a face that has been stored away in the moon for twelve years, waiting unseen. Now frozen in time, I know. I know who it is I look upon. Though it is James' face, his expression it is not. I never saw any of us look so alone. There is a moment of resentment; pure, unadulterated hate for the one who caused all this. I wish I could go back and change things.

I creep forwards, watching him, attempting that doleful puppy look James said I did so well. I wait for the reaction, wait for Harry to step forwards and pat me. James would have done. I can go with him then, explain things, perhaps one day. James would have accepted that. In my mind I see Harry and me, as close as James and me. I want to laugh with joy, here now is James' son, my godson, within my grasp.

Azkaban must have hardened my expression, or times have changed so much that personal protection is paramount. I watch Harry's face as he raises his wand, I see a flash of fear there, and I wonder, what became of us that James' child is not so curiously arrogant as to approach? What became of all those plans we made for our future? In that instant, as the clouds part for just a second, I see the moon, like the moon I used to see when I was a child. In that instant, I see before me a child who ought to be something different, who ought to have lived and been famous. Been famous for something he did, not something he cannot remember, likely doesn't want to. And I cannot forget.

In my heart I make a promise, akin to that I made when I held my best friend's son in my arms when he was born. I will protect you Harry, as I should have done twelve years ago. I will stay one step behind you, and be as proud as James should have been, of you.

With every passing of the moon time moves on. Time changes things, not always for the better. It's my fault, all of this. I cannot change that but let me try to set things right, let me try to end what should have ended twelve years ago.

The moon sets gently in the sky, and Padfoot turns away, lightly treading the cracked stone pavement. He does not wait to watch any more. And I, trapped for a time inside the dog within me, I will wait. As with each rising moon, I shall fulfil my promise. Until the moon rises no more, I shall not forget.