A young woman, no older than 22, picked up a note from her chipped desk and set off, through the frosted window and down the ivy covered wall, and into the fog filled night. Her white nightgown swayed in the wind as she ran through the field, like a ghost. In a way, she supposed, she was one. A ghost of her former, joyful self at the very least.
And so she continued to run, hair whipping in the wind and hands clutching the paper before it lifted from her grasp. She ran until she found what she was looking for- the graveyard.
The gate was black and hard to spot, but she soon found the entrance she was searching for. She walked down the path, trees giving her slight cover from the rain. Walking now, she slowed still, coming to rest at a well as her breath slowed and her heart rate went with it. Watching the pitter-patter of the rain into the water of the well, she rested her head and sighed deeply, before heaving herself up and continuing on her journey. Past the grave with the angel crying, past the grave with the horse on it, past all the stone and engraved messages, and to an unimportant looking wooden cross.
To the girl, this was one of the most important graves in the world. She sunk to her knees, clutching at her robes once again and stared at the name carved into the wood.
REGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK
The name was like a wake up call and the grief that came with it like a cry for help. He was one of many to die in recent years, one of many of her friends to perish with the war. He had drowned, you see, drowned in a feverish attempt at living. Drowned in a dark haze with nothing to his name but darkness and money. Nothing to his name but his friends and brother and cousin, who wept for him and cried for him after they saw the news a few months later.
REGULUS BLACK, OF THE NOBLE HOUSE OF BLACK, PRONOUNCED DEAD AFTER HIS DISAPPEARANCE 3 MONTHS AGO
They had built a makeshift grave for him, as no one else would. They had wept and grieved and screamed for him to come back. But he never did, because he was dead. At 19 years old, he was dead.
The next year, Evan had gone too, and with him, more grief and loss and sorrow, and another, better gravestone, paid for by his wealthy parents. The next year, it had been 5 people. First was Dorcas Meadows, killed by evil himself, then Marlene McKinnon, followed by James and Lily Potter, only a few minutes apart. Then Peter Pettigrew, killed by one once considered close to him. Sirius Black, Peter’s killer and James and Lily’s betrayer, was sent to Azkaban without even a trial. Which left 3 people close to the girl. 3 friends left. And one of those was a bit of a stretch.
The first was Remus Lupin, a long time friend and study partner, and one of the bravest people she knew. You see, he had been bitten by a werewolf at age 5 and had suffered with it ever since. He was off god knows where in the world, probably just as alone as she was. Next was Pandora Lovegood, who was only a few towns over. Pandora had a daughter, Luna, and a husband, Xenophillius. She was suffering, but not as loudly as the girl sitting in front of the grave, weeping. The last was Barry Crouch Jr, he used to be a good friend, they would wing man each other and laugh and talk until the early hours of dawn. He was off doing the one thing she sought to destroy from this world, and she didn’t know what to do about that, he had simply lost it, and she was starting to do the same.
Her sanity was slipping from her like the rain was slipping off of the cross in front of her, being puckered and sliding closer and closer with every new pelt of rain, every new problem and death and betrayal. And soon, she knew she would go right over the edge, into the already formed pool on the ground.
So she acted.
She pulled out her wand and took a deep breath, turning away from the grave as another sob escaped her lips, as she caved further and further in on herself, as the grief and sadness and insanity consumed her. She slowly, shakily, lifted the wand to her temple and looked up at the sky, gasping for breath through tears and rain, one wand on her wand and the other on her note.
“Obliviate” she whispered, and all at once, it was over, she felt nothing.
Until she woke up.
Her note read:
Hello me, this is past you. I’ve taken it upon myself to make everything better. You might not remember anything, but that’s okay. I’ll fill you in on the basics.
Your name is, and always has been, Margot McConnell, you will see something in your hand, kind of like a stick, it’s useless. Just break it in half and throw it out in the woods somewhere.
There is something hidden in your bra, it’s a key ring. On it is a car key and a house key with an address written on it, go there. And don’t mention your loss of memory to anyone, it’s not normal. Go and get a college degree or an easy job or something. Go and start a life, please.
Yours truly,
M.M.