A Prayer to St. Jude

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"Faith is, at one and the same time, absolutely necessary and altogether impossible."

-Stanislaw Lem

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There was no memorial. Enlightened though the Ministry now was, there remained a certain reticence to admit fault in the conviction and imprisonment of Sirius Black. It did not inspire faith in governments that sentenced innocent men to a lifetime of misery. For the time being, the wizarding world would instead find comfort in the death of that most heinous of criminals, Sirius Black.

There was no body. He was fallen through a doorway from which there could be no return. He had blinked out of existence literally, magically, and physically. Not even a portrait of him survived to stand in place of the person he'd been.

There was no escape. The thick, permeating trepidation that had crept in and latched onto them all when each had been too consumed by woe or rage or despair to notice. Everyone had walked quietly, spoke too softly. They had stolen glances at him and Harry with worried eyes and whispered in conspiratorial hushes. Minerva McGonagall knew they meant well, but she was no fool. There was little that could be done to help. Remus Lupin had become very good at hoarding away pain and misery deep down out of the light.

But the death of another Marauder was his cross to bear and no one could shoulder the burden for him.

Molly Weasley had tried again and again to coax the hurt out where it could be held up and seen. She wanted to heal, to mend and fix tired broken things just as she had done for her children when they had needed it of her. And Minerva could not begrudge her that; Molly was a selfless woman who gave up for others all she had in her power to give. Under her guidance, they all had struggled to maintain some semblance of normalcy in the days and weeks since Sirius' death. Life would go on and their work would continue in the wake of Sirius Black, largely in part due to the fervent women of the Order of the Phoenix.

Those women...

Muggle men went to work, to war. Wizards went to duel and dance with dragons. To drink and doom; the same story through all the ages of all the worlds.

And the women...the women remained--wives and mothers, sisters and daughters--to pick up the pieces after their men had gone. Steadfast and resolute, left to reassemble the shards of what had been for the boys who would grow to be their father's sons. And that was at the heart of it. True or fearless or bright or cruel, boys became men as their fathers had, as their sons would, to follow in footsteps gone before or walk untrodden paths.

The women always remained a step behind, where it was easiest to catch them when they stumbled.

Minerva sat rigid on the hard seated divan along the wall in the back of the gloomy parlor. Despite the number of people filling the aged abode she was thoroughly chilled (though truth be told, she never found much in the way of warmth from the House of Black). Surrounding her were friends and comrades, fellow members of the Order of the Phoenix--her truest of brethren and closest of kin. They were a strange and pious people: so exuberant and devout in their faith it sometimes (in her secret heart of hearts) overwhelmed her.

As her gaze drifted across the room, Minerva took into account the familiar figures, reflecting quietly how peculiar it was to see them in this new light of grief, awash in streams of tears. She felt as though she saw them now as through a glass, through some lens of unmeasured misery. No deviant glance met Minerva's own as her somber colleagues fixed their attention upon the solemn-eyed woman at the front of the room. Andromeda Tonks, neé Black, had been delegated the task of speaking for Sirius' remaining family. At least, the select members of his family that Sirius had chosen to acknowledge as such.

To hear Sirius spoken of in the past tense...it was unnerving. Instead, Minerva studied the ornate oriental carpeting; focused her attention on the once carefully polished mahogany furnishings; the pale, dry skin of her own hands.

Anything but Andromeda Tonks, who stood recounting her cousin's youthful antics and stellar devotion in a hoarse but unbroken voice.

She allowed her thoughts to wander, reflecting sadly upon her surroundings. Such a beautiful home, Minerva thought, if it could ever have been called one now or in the past. So old and elaborate. In every detail, in each small and seemingly insignificant element there lay a subtle and basic claim to opulence. It was in the curving of the banisters, the tinkle of the chandeliers, even the dust seemed to collect in conceit. Oh yes. There had been only the best for the noble and most ancient House of Black whose line was now all but extinguished.

A sob broke her reverie before Minerva could escape entirely into her thoughts. She glanced in the direction of the soft sniffles.

How ironically unnatural it seemed to see Nymphadora Tonks in her natural state, pale and trembling, dark hair spilling across her shoulders in a rare confession of her lineage. Perpetually cheery Hestia Jones looking worn with sorrow. Emmeline Vance's normally immaculate form appeared harrowed, as though she hadn't the effort in her today to look proper.

As Andromeda spoke, the mourning dirge of earlier hours seemed to rise out of the walls and dust and tears for Minerva hear again. It woke memories in her; scattered images and moments absently collected throughout the years.

Of all the money that e're I had

I spent it in good company

Potter soaring to Gryffindor glory on his Firebolt...against the Horntail...to Grimmauld Place. Of everything Sirius' inheritance had done, a silly racing broom had proved perhaps his wisest and most thoughtful venture. Though Minerva was rather biased. It was, after all, an investment in her student's happiness and to that she could not be much opposed.

And all the harm I've ever done

Alas, it was to none but me.

That was not quite true. Sirius has done his share of torment in his days, and then some. But he had been a good man, underneath the superciliousness and condescension that came from years of careful breeding. Sirius may have hated being one but there were some aspects of being a Black that he had never been able to fully conceal. But he had been a good man, and Minerva honestly believed he had been repentant for the sins he had been guilty of.

She stole a glance at Severus. His expression was inscrutable as ever, offering no clues to where his thoughts may dwell.

And all I've done for want of wit

To memory now I can't recall

In his final moments, Sirius had been everything anyone who had ever know him, Bellatrix Lestrange included, had ever expected him to be. Brash and reckless, animated and ardent. And ultimately foolhardy. Still, Minerva wished he could have had one goodbye if nothing else.

So fill to me the parting glass

Goodnight and joy be to you all.

The extravagant Christmas festivities at Grimmauld Place (as related to her by Remus during their private holiday celebration) was surely one of his happiest memories in recent years. For a few brief hours, Sirius had done his best to make the threat of war less real and to give something back to the Order besides a dark and foreboding center of operations. And for Harry. Especially for Harry.

Of all the comrades that e're I had

They're sorry for my going away

The proud, earnest members of the Order flashed like sunshine in her mind, a brief light against the darkness.

And all the sweethearts that e're I had

They'd wish me one more day to stay.

Andromeda, the rebellious Ravenclaw who had denied her legacy and won the Black's contempt and Sirius' adoration at once, holding her daughter and husband, their value to her far greater than what her family had deemed them worth. That had been the price she'd paid for having been born a Black.

But since it fell unto my lot

That I should rise and you should not

I gently rise and softly call

Goodnight and joy be to you all.

The chief mourner sat very still, apart from the remainder of the small crowd. Lackluster rays of sunlight shone in watery beams through the pale stained glass windows above him, catching in his coal-black hair like a halo. But Harry's face was dark and heaven was years behind or years away and he would not be delivered from evil today...if ever. Her heart went out to him. To his left, shoulders upright and head nodded in silent acquiesce to the somber ceremony was the man it belonged to the rest of the time. But he, like Harry, was in a world of his own for the time being. A world of memory, or of dreams. Maybe he was dreaming memories, dusty, muddied by fond and frequent use like an old book. Minerva did not know. She had not asked.

He would come to her when he was ready.

Minerva had loved Remus Lupin long enough to know there were battles she could not help him fight. So it was with Sirius' death. But she held out hope that the lonely little boy--almost a man now in his own right--that boy she'd always felt she'd abandoned in some way in that other time, might be able to help Remus to do what she could not. If anyone could help him reconcile his guilt and the ghosts of yesterday it was Harry Potter. Perhaps together they could make peace with the dead.

I gently rise and softly call

Goodnight and joy be to you all.

The melody was caught in her mind, thoughts unfolding within meter and rhyme as though it were the score of her life. She needed out. Of the room. Of the house. Of the grief and pain, hurt and hate that encompassed every aspect of this bloody war. Before rationale could prevent her from doing so, Minerva had silently slipped through the door at the chamber of sorrows, fleeing to the hallway and Muggle world beyond.

A flick of her wand and the plain black robes she wore were transfigured into a simple Muggle skirt and blouse. The sky above the West End still glowed pink and gold as evening descended. The heat of the day had been baked into the pavement during the hours before and Minerva could feel the residue of it radiating beneath her feet. She walked without aim, without a destination. She smelt the acrid summer air, breathing in the thickness of it in slow, careful lungfuls trying to swallow the painful ache in her throat.

Motorists honked in the street. From windows above blared pounding, insipid rhythms she could barely discern as music. Nonetheless Minerva welcomed the cacophony. It was almost enough to drown her thoughts in.

The park was cool and quiet; a respite from the emotional havoc of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The iron-wrought bench was warm though the sun had slipped away along the horizon. She felt the pleasant warmth of the smooth, stark metal seep into her lower back and shoulders as she sat taking pause from the world for a moment. So long as she focused on the fresh-cut grass along the asphalt path, or the women talking lowly on the bench behind her, then the hurt was not real. The world was as it should be.

Should have been.

She missed Sirius. But even that was not quite true. Minerva hadn't been close to him. No one had, not really. Sirius was not a man to befriend; his temperament and traumas would not allow it. Only Remus had the right to claim that distinction. But she had liked him, liked the idea of Sirius, and the possibility of clearing his name was one more reason to give her all to the Order of the Phoenix.

But Sirius Black was dead now and Minerva McGonagall was tired.

She missed Remus too, because he was not the same. There was no false cheer in his demeanor such as Tonks had taken to feigning, or forced convivial words at meals. She often saw him smile, though Minerva was never deceived by it. There was no more mischievous twinkle lighting in his eyes. No more knowing glances with a comrade. No brotherly affectations. As Wormtail had died with Prongs, Moony died with Padfoot. Yes, Peter had survived. So had Remus.

But the Marauders were dead.

She wanted him to speak in the voice he'd had before. The kind and matter-of-fact tone that allayed her anxiety and warmed her through the night. The casual faith he had in their work. She had believed and he had believed and together they had fought against Dark Magic and intolerance and forces that wore down the world.

But he did not speak in that same tone anymore and her faith was not as resolute as it once had been.

"...I don't understand it, Marjorie. No one cares anymore. No one but the old men and women like us without much left in us. Money is their religion. No, that's not what he told me. What was it he said? Freedom. That's what it was: freedom. So he could be free to marry an atheist and free to defile his father's memory and free to do whatever he pleased."

"That's not freedom, that's frivolity."

The first woman sighed heavily and Minerva felt a pang for this woman she did not know. It was at once both terribly disheartening and yet soothing to know that a world existed outside her own.

"I know it. But you can't make them see. You can't make them believe. You can hope, but that's never the same."

"They're a lost cause, the whole of the generation. Sing it up to St. Jude, Doris. It's all you can do."

They were silent for a few moments. Two children chased a puppy across the street. A flock of pigeons scattered from their path. A horn beeped in some distant trafficker's impatience.

"Come on Marjorie, these tired old bones need to get back home."

The women gathered their things up and ambled off, leaving Minerva alone again. Something brushed her ankle and she reached down to pick up a piece of paper. It was a prayer card of thin material and cheap, smudgy ink. A half-blurred cross adorned the top, just above the pray title: Novena to Jude. She realized the second woman must have handed it to the first during their conversation and the first woman must have dropped it soon after. Or discarded it.

"Most holy Apostle Saint Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, the name of the traitor who delivered the beloved Master into the hands of His enemies has caused you to be forgotten by many, but the Church honors and invokes you universally as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. Come to my assistance in this great need, that I may receive the consolations and help of Heaven in all my necessities, tribulations and sufferings..."

A small biography of him was printed on the back. Minerva smiled, but only a little. Sirius might have appreciated the irony if it weren't his own life and useless death this Muggle man mirrored. A chill ran up her spine and the ghostly smile disappeared from Minerva's face. How many more useless deaths would this war see? How much blood would be spilt? Who would be the next martyr? Futile though it may be, Minerva hoped against all logic that she might never find out. The woman's words echoed in her mind.

You can hope, but that's never the same.

The prophecy. It all came tumbling back to the damned dream of a half-witted visionary more taken with fantasy than the world around her. Though, as much as Minerva wanted to blame Sybill, she knew it was unfair. If anything Sybill's foresight gave them the upper hand; He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named still was unaware of its full content. The prophecy was what had given the Potters advance warning in the first war, even if they were doomed despite it. Sybill's gift (if that was what it was called) had proved advantageous in forecasting You-Know-Who's fall and rebirth. Still, Minerva had little respect for the "art" of Divination and its cloudy symbolism. There was too much room for error, too little precision.

And, even with a piece of the future, there was so little could be done to change the outcome.

In the gathering darkness, Minerva sat in perfect stillness, maintaining composure above all else.

She half-listened as businessmen conversed on mobiles and women spoke from windows and doorways and automobiles. Heard disembodied laughter carried down from some rooftop sanctuary of untroubled children. Lamplight caught in branches and reflected off leaf tops gave the distinct impression of burning trees and bushes. Students, children too in so many ways, passing through the warm summer of their lives debating dates and dreams they could know but never understand.

The evening was warm and Minerva was cold. Grateful too.

Because when she finally looked up an age or an hour later, the city had swallowed the sky and there were no stars out for her to see.

-----

Nearly everyone had departed by the time she arrived back at Grimmauld Place.

Climbing the stairs to Remus' room, she lay by his side on the musty linen sheets, moving deliberately so as not to break his fragile rest. His breathing was deep and even; by all outward appearances his sleep seemed peaceful, and untroubled. But as she brushed the hair from his brow, her gaze lingered on his lidded eyes and she wondered what it was he saw when confined to the darkest recesses of his long and painful memory.

Before allowing sleep to claim her as well, she whispered a small prayer to a saint she'd never known and a god she did not understand. She made no pleas for peace or for salvation. Such were fallible hopes which lasted only so long as the light from which they came did not fail. Instead she prayed only for the strength to face the darkness. Minerva McGonagall had all the courage of her convictions, though she was unsure if the ability to see them through would last.

Then, achingly tired, she drifted into dreams of grim-faced women and men she could not save.