Author’s Note: Special thanks to my wonderful SQ Beta
Heather, aka Felina Black, for her excellent beta! And thanks to my dear friend Nielawen who has also helped me
a great deal. Enjoy!
"For myself, those things that have died, in dying,
entered my own heart."
--Rainer Maria Rilke
Dumbledore sat alone in his office.
It was very late in the night, and even the more talkative of portraits
were soundly asleep. The past few
days had flown by. Such triumph,
such joy. And yet, such deep,
was over at last, or so it seemed.
Dumbledore wasn’t as sure as most.
Could Lord Voldemort really have been vanquished forever? Yes, what happened at Godric’s Hollow was powerful, but was
it really enough? And did it
require the noble sacrifice of two of Hogwarts’ brightest students?
the answer to that question. Yes,
of course he knew. James and Lily
Potter were dead. But they were
not the only ones. Would they and
the others be remembered by history?
Or would they all just become footnotes in the story of the Boy Who
course there was the matter of Harry.
Tiny little Harry Potter, bereft of his parents barely after he could say
their names. Harry was now totally
alone in the world; any semblance of the life he would have led was now
silence was deafening.
frequently did in times of trouble or great contemplation, Dumbledore removed
his Pensieve from the shelf behind his desk. He sat the great basin on his desk and stared at it for a
moment, no emotion registering on his careworn face.
silvery surface twinkled and shimmered Dumbledore withdrew his wand from his
sleeve. He aimed it at the Pensieve’s
liquid depths and twitched his arm upwards. Ten ghostly figures slowly emerged from the liquid, their
bodies spun out of the translucent matter. The Gryffindor Class of 1978.
Dumbledore had come to realize as the losses sank in, this class had suffered
more than any from Hogwarts in recent memory. The Class of 1978 as a whole had been absolutely torn
asunder, it was true. They, more
so than any other class at Hogwarts had truly felt the rise of Lord
Voldemort. The Class of 1978 had
produced heroes, had produced villains, all because they had the misfortune of
being of the precise age that Lord Voldemort desired of his followers—and
House had seen casualties. Hector
Harkiss and Athena Coddington from Ravenclaw. Two Hufflepuffs had died and a third was missing, all
because of their outright support for Muggles. The Slytherins of 1978 had suffered casualties as well, but,
as Dumbledore noted with a heavy sigh, they were mainly on the other side. All five Slytherin boys from that year had
become Death Eaters. Where had he
gone wrong? What had he, what had
Hogwarts done to turn these young men to evil?
thoughts turned again to Gryffindor.
To Godric’s House. To his House. Why had they suffered so much? Why had they been targeted? Five students dead.
Five. More than Hufflepuff
and Ravenclaw combined. One
student in Azkaban. Not more than
twenty-one years old. Two in
hiding, though for how long? The
Death Eaters had found Lily and James.
And, what really shook him, two Gryffindors had completely given up
Magic and had gone to live as Muggles.
The war, the strife, the struggles had so completely nauseated two
people that they had relinquished their blood, their inheritance, their talents. They were so disgusted with what the
Wizarding World had come to that they had left it for good. What kind of a world was this?
figures continued rotating in the air above the Pensieve. Lily, James, Gwendolyn, Sirius, Diana,
Remus, Artemia, Janus, Marlene, and Peter. As he stared a little while more at their vaporous figures,
Dumbledore felt the most profound sorrow on his heart.