Harry Potter and the New Marauders (A Harry Potter Fanfiction)

Picking Up The Pieces

“Of house elves, of children’s tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing. Nothing. That they all have a power beyond his own, a power beyond the reach of any magic, is a truth he has never grasped.” – Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter, in the Afterlife; (HP & the Deathly Hallows, by JKR. Bless her!)

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I

Picking up the Pieces

Voldemort was no more.

Gone as well was the threat of living a life of fear, living a life in servitude under a Dark Lord, and everything that went with it.

But also missing were several students and a few teachers at what remained of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry – not to mention several windows, doors, floor tiles, staircases, and woodwork. From the front gates, the sight of the castle made one think of a small child who had gotten into a scrap with the schoolyard bully and come out of it with more than just a black eye and a bloody nose. Fortunately, however, several locals from Hogsmeade village had rounded up some witches and wizards skilled in magical construction. Their inspection that next day after the battle, as exhausted as they all were, had determined that the superstructure of the castle was indeed intact, and that aside from a few broken staircases and cracked walls, Hogwarts was in no danger of collapsing.

“Even with magic, though, it’s gonna take all bloody summer to fix her back up,” one of the inspectors had declared.

And so, thus assured that the roof wasn’t going to collapse on them all, those who were able bent all of their efforts to caring for the wounded – and seeing to the dead. The hospital wing filled up fast, and Madame Pomfrey called in reinforcements; those more critically injured were immediately transferred to St Mungo’s. The good news was, eventually, that no one else succumbed to their injuries from what was not being called “The Final Battle.”

That left the issue of funerals.

In the end, it was decided that they would have one mass outdoor funeral to honor the fallen. The fine May weather held clear, and the Hogwarts grounds had not seen such a large turnout since the last great Quidditch playoffs. In fact, it seemed as if almost every witch and wizard in the whole of Europe – and beyond – had come to attend the services. There were dress robes, of course, and costumes from foreign lands. There were even the parents of Muggleborns, dressed in suits, their children’s fears for themselves and their parents gone.

The Fat Friar, the Ghost of Hufflepuff House, presided over these services. He waxed eloquent about the bravery of those who had fought and died, and when he turned the services over to Acting Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt – who read the names of the fallen, one by one – there was not a dry eye to be found on the campus.

And with every name read, Harry Potter felt his heart breaking just a little bit more – even if he didn’t recognize some of the names.

But it was the names that he did recognize that tore at him.

“Colin Creevey,” the Minister read, and the first tear rolled down Harry’s cheek. Somewhere in the crowd, there was sobbing, and it sounded like a child.

And the Minister went on.

“Remus Lupin,” the Friar said, and the only slight comfort Harry could find was knowing that the last Marauder to fall must now be reunited with his friends.

“Nym-…I mean, Dora Tonks.” And was the Friar grinning just a bit? Harry had to wonder, as somewhere in the crowd, a baby began to cry.

Harry then braced himself, dreading the rapid approach to the letter “W” and what he knew he would hear.