I Know The End {Fred Weasley, ACT I}

Chapter 62- A Graduation and A Funeral

Sirius Black was dead.

There was an article in the Daily Prophet detailing Sirius Black's newfound innocence. Fred told her not to read it, told her it wouldn't help, and she didn't. Couldn't. The letters blurred together; the wires crossed in her head until it was nothing more than alphabet soup. And she didn't care much.

Because Sirius Black was dead.

The title, boldened in black, the ink still wet in the rush to print the story, was the only thing that made its way through the dozens of walls she'd built in the hopes of protecting herself. It wriggled in between the cracks in the bricks, leaving it's mark like graffiti.

A Life Wasted: Sirius Black's Tragic Story of Gross Misjustice

Because Sirius Black's life had ended the same day that James Potter had been torn from this world. One could not live without the other, she supposed, and so his life had ceased being much of a life at all, only consisting of demons and prisons since that fatal Halloween night.

And he would never have his happy ending. Never have that cottage on the beach. Never finish his six-month plan to win Remus Lupin back.

Because Sirius Black was dead.

There were whispers in the halls, the shaking of heads at supper.

How could this be? How could the Ministry have been so easily fooled? And who the bloody hell was Peter Pettigrew?

Stares followed her, the whispered tones taunted her, but she said nothing, did nothing.

Because Sirius Black was dead, and nothing Eleanor Potter did could change that.

They clicked their tongues in remorse, oh what an awful case, what an awful life, but eventually everyone moved on. There is only so much pity that can bestowed upon a dead man. Only so many times that a person can shake their head and mutter what a shame before the feeling fades. Until there's a new tragedy to devour whole.

And with Voldemort's presence confirmed, there was plenty of excitement to go around. Plenty of gossip to be had. Plenty of toe-curling, adrenaline-pumping chaos to analyze.

And so, the world moved on, because Sirius Black was dead and that was that. No remorse for the role their society played, not when one can simply point their finger at the Ministry's incompetency all while shrugging off the blame of clinging to that same Ministry's ideals when it fitted one's own needs.

And there were plans to be made for the seventh years. Big plans. Flats were being leased, roommates being claimed, job applications filed. Decisions, decisions, decisions.

But Eleanor Potter made no such decisions. The key to the cottage on the beach Sirius had promised her lay limp on a chain around her neck. It's cold metallic sting bit the skin of her chest, finding it's place right above her heart.

The key to a house that could never be a home. That she could never allow herself to step foot into.

Because Sirius Black was dead.

Iris was going to live in London. Her parents bought her a two-story loft that was situated above an independent book seller. It was quaint, Iris claimed, while also being modern chic. Iris offered Eleanor the spare room that looked out at Big Ben, the view being too good to refuse, Iris promised, but Eleanor couldn't accept.

Because Iris Webb's apartment was perfect, and Sirius Black was dead, and Eleanor Potter didn't deserve anything perfect.

Iris would train as an Assistant Healer at St. Mungo's. She received her acceptance letter the day before graduation. Eleanor congratulated her friend with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She tried not to think of the fact that Iris was a Muggle-Born in a world that would soon turn on her.