Into Pieces We Fall

Into Pieces We Fall

They are the inseparable four, the Marauders. They are famous and infamous.

At the very mention of their names, Hogwarts collapses into a tizzy of whispers and rumors. All the while, they smile and sit silently and bask in their shallow glory because it is a textbook-perfect example of dramatic irony: their exploits near legend, but only they will ever be aware of their fullest extent. It is their secret, worshiped in their private alters.

But there is a bit of a catch for, you see, neither is anything without the others. The individual will starve in the woods while the collective survives. They are the four proverbial pieces to the proverbial puzzle, differently shaped but equal to the others in every way. There is no keystone for they are all keystones. Let one piece, a single piece slide away, retreat, pull back, disappear, and the collective is undone.

At this stage, perhaps there is still a chance, a chance that the brotherhood might be rebuilt. All it would require would be reconciliation, compassion, a dash of lighthearted humor, and maybe all could be forgiven.

Here, we depart from the textbooks and written procedures. Here, we deal with The Special.

The Marauders are special.

They know they are special.

Their genesis was special.

Their adventures were special.

Their downfall will be special as well.

-

James is the first to go, snuffed from the earth in the whish of wand and the blinding stagger of light. He is the stupid little boy that thinks he can fly.

As usual, though, there is an entire system of pulleys, levers, and ropes behind the curtain and stage. Besides, James is dying, not flying, although the self-centered bastard would love to have you think otherwise.

Whispering in a low voice to the Dark Lord, Peter wonders how it came to this.

James was the one he noticed first because he was the one everyone noticed first. When his eyes scanned the room, James's casual features were what he saw. James was The Idol. James was The Light. Flies are attracted to light and find it irresistible. In his more thoughtful and pensive moments, Peter would realize what someone like James was giving up become friends with a maggot such as himself. The very top reaching to the very bottom, risking reputation, decency, the companionship of others, and it was all done with perfect sincerity and inclusion.

Sometimes, Peter was even able to trick himself into thinking that James was his friend. When he thinks of Harry Potter these days, Sir and Almighty The Boy Who Lived, he sees James framed so impeccably in that narrow face, that streak of daring.

Logic was quick to return, however, always accompanied by the hasty douse of cold water: James is only a tool. They are all tools. Peter made a choice, and it is a choice he must stand by so long as it is the right choice.

So when he learns his school friend and confidante tops the Dark Lord's list of priorities, he laughs himself into tears. They taste so sweet on his tongue.

-

Sirius is the second to go, albeit after a delay that is much too long, thinks Peter. No, he reminds himself. They are eliminated only when they need to be.

Oh, but this one. This Sirius Black. He should have been eliminated fifteen years ago, or if not eliminated, still locked up in Azkaban. Peter underestimated his skill and cunning, the same skill and cunning that complemented him so well with James when the two boys found each other, the heart, the bane, the blood of Gryffindor. A touching story, really.

Sirius could have been great. The opportunities were not merely open to him but shoved down his throat like dessert after a seven-course dinner, something that simply had to be eaten. How many chances was he given to pick the right side, and how easily he would have ascended through the ranks with a name like that and the sheer intensity of his magic, his mania.

There was a flaw in that logic, a flaw Peter spotted long before the Dark Lord ever did: Sirius did not want to be a subordinate, even if subordination's ultimate reward was glory. He was The Renegade, rebelling for the sake of rebellion. Pure gut and cheek, that man. Pure gut and cheek. It was a dangerous path to tread.

Peter is not there when Bellatrix whirls her wand at her stubborn, arrogant cousin, reversing the tables on Mr. Black. For Sirius, everything changes - Peter wishes he could have seen the look on his old acquaintance's face as it dawns on him on that he has been defeated at last.

-

And then there are two, heads locked in a struggle between lofty idealism and, as the other nobler side views it, rampant self-interest. He wonders if total destruction of his previous life is really necessary: Remus is of quiet disposition, studious and reserved. Peter knows this it the last chance; everything can begin anew between them - after all, there is no point in resolving matters within yourself when you have given up your existence to the constantly shifting favor of Madame Fortune.

Except, this time, the gamble is sure, and with each day, the tryst between victory and the Dark Lord settles into a new and different kind of permanence. The relationship will be consummated soon, a joyous union proclaimed. In theory, what becomes of Remus should be of little importance.

He knows it matters. For Peter, this is The End. The days of romping and cavorting must be committed to the flames now. When Remus is gone, the past will be gone. The climax of the war will be the last confrontation between the Dark Lord and his nemesis, yet below the drama and fireworks will be this, a seemingly ancient feud will come to resolution. Ghosts and echoes will cloud the air as the partisans take their stance. Long suppressed memory will surface.

This is a battle no one else will be aware of, but it means everything.

The rules are simple.

Goodbye, Harmony. Farewell, Mercy.

From the circle of four, there can only be one winner as schoolboy fantasies fall to the ashes and winds.