Prologue
March 3rd, 2017
-Mary Macdonald
...
Mary has lived through two wizarding wars. Loosing everything in the process, herself included- because of dammed Dumbledore- as she knows now. Yes, Voldemort may have directly been the cause of her friends demise, but Dumbledore was their killer. Murderer. Liar.
Now, Mary will die alone. In her flat. Memories scatter the walls, Mary forgets. Sometimes. The walls are a nice reminder of what they were.
One of the photos, taken in 1976- the last good year they had. Sixth year. Remus had his arm around Sirius, James was pressing a kiss to peters cheek while the other boy laughed and tried to push him off. Lily, Marlene and herself were laying on the grass, flowers in their hair. Dorcas was holding the camera at an awkward angle, smiling her cat-like smile.
Dorcas had received a camera for her birthday, a muggle one and she'd taken so many photos. Of them all.
The only thing Mary felt in her last minutes was regret. She'd never found love or made new friends in fear of them dying like the former. She had never said goodbye to any of them.
Stupid fucking order, she'd think.
How did they never see it? Blinded by love and fear. Holding onto what it used to be. Too blinded to spot the snake cowering in the lion's den.
Mary Macdonald loathes Peter Pettigrew. He was a coward. Yet she still mourns the death of the boy who won every game of chess he played. Who copied her homework. Who loved them. She does not mourn the rat. The snake. The spy.
She'd wasted her life. Spent so much time mourning and crying and smiling.
Only survivor out of eight.
She regretted not re-connecting with Remus and Sirius when she had the chance. With Dorcas. Merlin, even Harry bloody Potter would have been a start. The child of her two best friends. Laughed in the face of the dark lord. Died at the age of twenty-nine.
Remus' son, Teddy, had tried to find her a couple years back. She'd ignored his owls, letters and phonecalls.
He'd stopped trying. Stopped looking for answers.
She really wished she'd tried harder. Maybe, if she'd been stronger, she could have died with them. She was as bad as Pettigrew. A coward.
She looked up, at the memories. And she smiled. She smiled for them, for the small amount of time they had, for things they saw and for the things they didn't.
Her body stilled, sighing with relief as she felt herself shut down.
Mary Macdonald died at the age of 57.
Poison.
The stars began to shift and change. A divergence had not happened for over 64 billion years.
The world was rewritten.
A new path was born.