There was once a friendship so strong, many believed death would not alter it in the least. Most believed this until it did.
For as there always has been, and therefor always shall be, a very large difference between Death and Murder.
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Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief Makers
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Moony screamed in anguish as the sound of breaking glass filled the room, wine the color of blood staining the wall and carpets.
He hadn't bothered with locking himself in the cellar, a feat he'd pay for in the morning but couldn't bring himself to care about right then, as the pain of the change and Padfoot's betrayal overwhelmed him.
So this is what we've become, was his last coherent thought.
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Wormtail scurried through the sewers, ears pricked for the sounds of human inhabitants above. He was silently grieving over the loss of his master and prospect of what might have been even as he searched for a way to hide from him, when he returned.
He found he didn't really care about Padfoot, and all the consequences he'd left him with, or Prongs who wouldn't feel misery or happiness or anything ever again. He found he didn't even care that Moony was facing the worst of it, the kindest of them all, who thought all of his friends had left him.
He almost smirked a little as he thought. So this is what we've become.
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Padfoot could hear them, the voices of strangers and the voices of his closest friends, all condemning him, all chanting the same bloody thing. Traitor, they called him. How could you? they screamed.
Funny. Wormtail had been one of them.
He'd seen them all, still saw them, his cell full of invisible, accusing eyes.
He'd wanted to stand, to scream back at them, how foolish they were being. I didn't do it!
But he did not, because they would drown him out, them and their false accusations, their illusions.
They wanted a Death Eater and he'd worked as a fine substitute. Not that they knew that.
In his miserable cell, inside Azkaban Prison, Padfoot hopped up onto the cot and spun in circles a few times, trying to find a comfortable position. When he did, he drifted off into nightmares.
So this is what we've become.
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Through all of their misery, Prongs watched from above, face weary and eyes sad, resembling a certain old man rumored to have lived over 150 years.
So this is what we've become.