An Ironic Title

Chapter 12: The Next Marauders

It is impossible for me to look anywhere and not be reminded of them - both of them. The birch tree by the lake where both would recline in various states - reading, joking, maybe eating a Chocolate Frog or two. The Quidditch Pitch where all excelled, either in the game itself or in mere team spirit - bedecked out in scarves and rosettes (though, I must admit, Miss Lovegood's hat gave everyone a run for their money). Even empty classrooms hold their ghosts, remnants of their pasts: Harry, practicing for the Tournament with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger; James, planning some prank or other (though his excuses are legendary, going over Quidditch tactics indeed!) with the members of his little gang - Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew. They fashioned themselves "the Marauders," but there were many . . . 'nicknames' for them throughout the school.

"Potter and That Egotistical Gang of His," was one of Severus and Lily Evans's favorites.

"Those Adorable Quidditch Stars (Even Remus Lupin, He's Such a Flirt)!" was another uttered by those whom I like to think are the mothers of Misses Patil and Brown. At least that would explain it. . . .

Myself, I called them "Those Interminable Pains in My Arse" (excuse my language), endearing though they were . . . up to a point. One can only listen to a dig on the Slytherin Quidditch team so many times while trying to teach a lesson. . . .

Years passed, new staff appointments were made, more pranks were pulled. Then . . . they came, bringing with them their own set of titles.

"Potty, the Weasel, and That Mudblood," is what I have heard many Slytherins jeer.

Severus Snape of course, unable to give up his childhood grudges, has sneeringly referred to them as "The Golden Trio" or, in his more spiteful moments, the same title used in his adolescence along with Miss Evans.

However, amongst myself and some of the older Hogwarts faculty, they will always be "The Next Marauders." I am referring, of course, to Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger.

Throughout my years here, there have been many pranksters who, unwittingly, have earned the title of "Marauders" from the staff - particularly Mr. Filch - the Weasley twins prominent among them. I am sure that no present Hogwarts alumni will forget their swamp or the subsequent ostentatious exit from Hogwarts for years to come.

Just as much, I highly doubt whether any Hogwarts student - perhaps the parents of those who are wizard-born - will forget the Christmas of 1975 when the suits of armor were bewitched to sing dirty versions of certain carols (and they all think Peeves got the idea himself, as if he had that same creative brilliance); or that fine summer's day at the end of their sixth year when I myself was chased around the grounds by a certain large, black dog. . . .

However, if one were to ask these same past students, they would tell you about something else the Marauders possessed, something that I have rarely seen such large quantities of: friendship. No, more than friendship - brotherhood - what marks the difference between pranksters and Marauders; what makes Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger, in my opinion, "the Next Marauders." Going over their school years in my head, one incident in particular stands out. . . .

"Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?" "Potter! Black! Where do you think you are going?"

"Hermione. We haven't seen her in ages, Professor."

"It's Remus, Professor. He's been in hospital for a few days now."

"-and we thought we'd sneak into the hospital wing. . . ."

"We thought that, erm . . . it might have been worse than usual."

"-and tell her that the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry."

"So we thought we'd go visit him, to cheer him up. Maybe bring him a toilet seat or two. . . . I was joking, Professor!"

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I - as the head of Gryffindor - was closest to these two groups (both in discipline and camaraderie) but, for some inexplicable reason, I am suddenly barraged with memories of them. The day Mulciber and Avery were found with large, pus-filled pustules all over their body (after further questioning, they sullenly admitted to having cursed a certain Remus Lupin); Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger's pale faces as they sat by Harry's bed in the hospital wing, unsure if he would wake up or not. Dreadful dementors. . . .

However, this time it wasn't dementors. This time, they know he won't wake up again. We all know. Sniffing deeply, I wipe hastily at my eyes with a tartan handkerchief. To see a friendship - no, friendships, for hasn't Remus suffered just as much, two of his best friends dead and one a traitor? - torn asunder so quickly and mercilessly. I can hardly even bear it. . . .

My eyes scan the area deftly, finally spotting them walking across the grounds with Hagrid, each with a hand on his lower back as if hoping to steady the large, tottering man, his face swollen with tears. As I watch, they joins young Miss Weasley and Dean Thomas, both of whom greet the three with sympathetic smiles. Fred and George Weasley's trademark red hair is visible as they turn in their seats to greet them, seeming slightly more somber than usual despite their grins and jokes. Miss Lovegood and Neville Longbottom - his hand awkwardly resting on her shoulder - sit down next to Hermione, Luna giving a slightly dreamy smile, Neville a nervous hand raised in greeting. Surprisingly, Remus Lupin and young Nymphadora Tonks, holding hands and rather pink in the face, join this motley group as well, eyes never leaving each other's faces.

Glancing from the small group to the casket to the many, many mourners milling about, and back to that same strange band of Harry's friends, I notice another pair of eyes studying it - Severus Snape. Almost as if he feels me watching him he turns, catching my eye and, in that moment, I know he's thinking the same as me (something that I doubt has happened between any Gryffindor and Slytherin since the great Godric and Salazar themselves).

These are the Next Marauders.

This is the legacy Harry has left behind, this crew of misfits who are bonded by their unwavering, undying friendship. "Blood traitors," Muggleborns, and werewolves alike, they are the Next Marauders.

Catching my eye again, I watch as Severus gives me a smile - not a smirk or a sneer, a smile - and, once again, I can tell we're thinking the same thing.

Here we go again. . . .