This is my story. The tale of Sirius Black and Mary MacDonald. But this isn’t the whole story. This is the end.

Oftentimes, our story is told as a companion piece. What happened to us, our lives, add a background plot to the tale of our famous friends, Lily and James Potter. Of course Sirius is infamous, a fact I shall never grasp.

But I am ill. I am thirty two and I am very ill. Cancer, it seems, is a malady that comes with Muggle blood. And in the Wizarding World also there is no cure.

So I have spent much time remembering. Remembering my life as it was at its happiest. I say nothing out loud. I have long since given up my wand. I gave it up the first time at twenty-one, when James and Lily died and Sirius killed them and killed Peter. I brought it out again to go to St. Mungo’s, three years ago, when the Muggle doctors diagnosed me. My husband and children have never known where I went to school. When I wrote Dumbledore with my decision eleven years ago, he didn’t fight me. He sent me a cover story - a degree in political science and recommendations from top people in the British government that woke up one morning with memories of me being a remarkable scholar. He gave me a life. Until three years ago, I worked at 10 Downing Street. It was wonderful. The Minister of Magic would sometimes write, and I became an unofficial liaision. It was once a year, if that, so it was tolerable. Once a year, to relive all those dreadfully wonderful memories.

I met my husband at a restaurant. We were both lonely. Every Thursday night, I’d go to the Italian place I took Sirius to on our first and only “official� date. To remember better times and to remember him as he was: a ridiculously handsome boy that hid his sadness and sought only to make everyone around him smile. He was never a murderer until he . . . was. I’d go to Antonio’s and sit and think. And my husband, Clive Boxley, would go every Thursday to remember his father. And it became a new reason to go every Thursday; we’d go to see each other. Then it was date night. Then our wedding reception. And our anniversary spot.

We had twins when I was twenty-seven . . . five years ago. Two beautiful children, Amelie and John. John, after Clive’s favorite author, J. R. R. Tolkien. And Amelie, because that was the name Marlene always wanted to name a child. And most didn’t remember I’d lost Marlene, too. And Alice. And Darcy and Remus and I shared an unspoken agreement not to speech much ever again.

This is the end of my story. I’m weak and bald and I’ve got weeks to live. If only Sirius could see me now - maybe he’d feel redemption. Maybe he’d tell me that he was falsely accused. Maybe he’d just stare at me with the sunken eyes of a man preyed upon by dementors. To think of him empty, to think of him dirty, to think of him cold . . .

I hold my children close and kiss Clive and know that my family will be all right and safe when I’m gone. And I remember, because no one told Sirius they loved him before he vanished from this world.
****
We’d just graduated from Hogwarts. The year was 1978. We all boasted wild plans and held hands and walked into adulthood with wild bravery. We all knew Voldemort was at large, but we were young and invincible. Sirius and James had a flat, Lily went back with her parents, Frank and Alice got married, Peter began the School of Healers at St. Mungo’s and boarded with another trainee, and Remus got a flat across from the one Marlene shared with Darcy and I. The gang was moving forward in life.

Sirius and I were never official, not really. But he was always there. And we knew we loved each other. And I knew I’d marry him someday.

James and Lily were married in spring, on the anniversary of her sister’s wedding, just to vex the Dursleys and make it impossible for them to appear. Lily wore a tight gown with no straps or sleeves and a mermaid skirt. Her fail was long, her red hair curled to perfection, her green eyes brighter than ever with love for James. She looked more gorgeous than any of us had ever seen her. James was a third year with an impossible dream coming true. At the beginning of the ceremony, Dumbledore, who was officiating, read a note Sirius had given him.

It was from third year.

Sirius, I think I like Lily Evans. Forget what I’ve ever said. She’s so pretty, and so smart, and she cares about everyone. I think it’s terribly impossible to care about everyone. I’m gonna marry her, Sirius, just you wait.

And there was fourth year.

She called me a wart-infested toad, and she spends all her time with Snivellus . . . who wouldn’t want to date me? I offered her my SOUL. If I offered my soul to Catarine, that girl from Hufflepuff, she’d have her tongue down my throat faster than you can say “Silver Arrow.� Does Lily think I’m ugly? WHAT IS IT ABOUT THIS GIRL? Why do I still want to marry her . . . remind me to go see Madam Pomfrey about getting my brain checked once Binns is done boring us to death.

We all laughed, and as the maid of honor, I locked eyes with the best man. And he winked at me. And I thought to myself, “Why do I still want to marry him?� He’d never make it official between us again. It would always be spontaneous meetings and visits to each other’s flats, and romantic trips to the Muggle world for me to watch him wonder at a grocer’s or the view from Harrod’s or the museums like the Henley and the Natural History Museum. It would always be handholding and quick kisses but it would never be girlfriend and boyfriend. We’d go dancing in Knockturn Alley and he’d visit me at Flourish and Blott’s with ice creams. But he’d never ask me to marry him. He was the bravest man I knew, besides Dumbledore, or my poor old dad. He saved me from . . . Avery.

“Poor little Mudblood girl with no daddy . . . dirty blood can be fun, Severus does it all the time. And no one’s here, Macdonald. No one’s gonna hear you scream.�

But Sirius did. And Sirius broke his nose. And Sirius stood by my side when Dumbledore threatened to expose his father if he didn’t quit it with the Death Eater talk and the creepy stalking. It would be too much of a controversy, to expel a Slytherin Death Eater’s son like that. But Avery never came near me again. And I never stopped loving Sirius for that, even if he got bored with me. Even if he had awful commitment problems. I never stopped.

But he killed people, you’re saying. All those Muggles, and James and Lily, and Peter.

Another Sirius did.

A Sirius I abandoned.

He came to my flat a year and a half after the wedding. We’d been out of Hogwarts for almost three years. It was January, 1981. Nine months before . . . that. Sirius came to me. He said the Potters were going to use a Fidelius Charm. I told him it was too dangerous to become their Secret-Keeper. Let Dumbledore. I held him close to me and made him promise not to take such a risk. You-Know-Who feared Dumbledore, like he feared no one else. Their Secret would be safe with Dumbledore. I kissed him and told him I loved him. He cupped my chin in his hands and said he’d never loved anyone else. He told me he feared his family. He told me they were pureblood maniacs, that a Muggleborn would be in constant danger from madmen like his cousin Bellatrix. But he told me he wanted to marry me. And I said yes.

We never told anyone. James and Lily were new parents with a price on their heads. Remus and Marlene had split up, and Marlene and her family were in deep hiding. Peter was never around anymore. Darcy was living with her sister-in-law, following the drunken blunder of her brother. Her sister-in-law was a Muggleborn named Patricia Silveretti, from Italy. Darcy’s brother was having commitment issues, and Patricia had a ten month old baby named Lavender that was his. Darcy was trying to support the family and keep them safe in these dark times. And I lived alone, across the hall from Remus. Every month I cared for him after his transformations and covered for him at Flourish and Blott’s where we both worked as junior managers. He was no longer in love with Marlene, she no longer in love with him. He was seeing a small blonde, named Barbara, that wrote a column advocating the rights of werewolves in wizarding culture.

I loved Sirius. Then I went to Lily and James’ one afternoon and felt so fearful for them that I used their bathroom to vomit. After losing my father to a war far from home, and my mother to a new man, and my brother to the car accident, I had a smoldering fear of loss. And I realized I could no longer be a part of this world. It was too dangerous. So I asked Sirius to run away with me. He was the Potters’ Secret Keeper, now, and I knew he’d be much safer abroad. I spoke of travelling, of hiding our wands and using new names, seeing a new place every morning. I imagined marrying on a gondola in Venice, or in some chapel in Hollywood. Far from the gloom of England and London and the curse of You-Know-Who. I imagined seeing Sirius smile and play in the waves in dog form. I imagined cuddling him in some chalet in the great North.

He shook his head and said he couldn’t leave. James needed him. And I screamed that I wouldn’t lose him. And he said I would. And he left, calling me a coward. And I told him never to come back. And I packed my bags. And I cursed his name, if only to avoid the pain that would come later.

Lily was glad about my decision. She wanted everyone to be safe, and felt powerless, shut up in Godric’s Hollow. I stopped by to visit Harry and kiss his soft little head. I promised to send presents through Dumbledore, to be his cool Aunt Mary. And I left, telling James to keep Sirius safe.

Dumbledore wrote me the letter nine months later. I was staying in a hostel in India, with some friends I’d met traveling. Two were Aussies, two American, and three were German. The note came to me by owl, and the seven of them couldn’t believe the sight. I read Dumbledore’s flawless script. The image of his pen is burned in my mind. Voldemort vanquished. James and Lily dead. Marlene and all the Mckinnons dead. Harry an orphan, the Boy Who Lived. And . . .

I fainted, and my friends checked me into a hospital. I awoke with a cool cloth on my forehead and an inescapable hurt burdening my soul. Sirius betrayed them. Sirius betrayed them. Sirius hurt them. Sirius blew up Peter. Sirius blew up a street. Sirius hurt me. He betrayed me. He was a new man, that betrayed everyone. He died. The papers said he laughed at the scene, that he laughed with mirth. And I pictured it with horror. The darkened, shadowed face of my former love, overcome by the imminence of death, the burden of three lives. I pictured his laughter, a harsh and violent sound shaking every stone in London. A freakish twist of his old chuckle. I couldn’t comprehend the radical change in his character, but I believed it, and I blamed myself. For all the deaths. If I’d stayed, if I’d loved him, if I’d been his wife, what would he have been? Dumbledore suggested to me that he was already turned, but I rejected the idea. It would mean he lied about loving me. It would mean he lied about wanting to marry me. It would mean he lied about every single thing. And I couldn’t imagine that. That was beyond . . . anything. Dumbledore agreed, that the change had to have been wrought after I abandoned him. We talked at length about the possibility of Sirius not being the culprit. But all our theories were flimsy.

Upon arriving to England I’d gone straight to Dumbledore. After my visit to Hogwarts, I forced myself to Godric’s Hollow. There was Remus, on his knees. He’d been a Marauder. One of four. Now he was one. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he stood and we held each other. For a long time, just standing there, in the November rain, holding each other by our friends’ shell of a home. By the ruins of our lives. Then he nodded, and walked into the downpour, and said he’d be in touch. I never heard from him. I went to see Darcy. She had brought her brother back to the mother of his child, and now lived above their garage. She was nanny to the young girl, Lavender. She was a weepy mess. I moved to hug her like I’d hugged Remus, but she screamed at me to leave. Again. Leave. Because I’d left and my leaving had left everyone dead. I agreed with her and fled. My sister’s home in Wales was my haven for months on end. She was the only human I had left in the world. None of my old Hogwarts class. Alice and Frank, I knew, would be too much. Three years ago, when I went to see about my cancer, I didn’t see them either. I had a heavy weight in my heart, thinking about their bodies, warm, breathing, only a few floors above my head. But to see their madness would have broken me.

I married Clive at twenty five, four years after the darkest days of my life. Clive knew I had a tragic past. I told him the full stories of my family’s deaths, but told him only that my school friends were all killed in a horrible boating accident. Sometimes he’ll catch my gaze into the distance and know I’m sad, and he’ll hold my hands.

I don’t quite know who I’m writing this to. Harry, maybe? I was brave enough to go to Hogwarts a few weeks ago and see him from a distance, with Dumbledore and McGonagall holding my hands. Some of the pureblood students pointed at my wheelchair. But I watched only Harry, seeing him eat in the Great Hall with a Weasley. Seeing him eat the same food at the same table as Darcy’s niece. Seeing him smile the way James used to, seeing his eyes flash like Lily’s used to. And then McGonagall took me home and met my husband, saying she was an old professor of mine. Seeing Clive and dear old McGonagall stand in the same doorjam brought my life full circle.

Now I can sit here and write my heart on paper. And I can hear John and Amelie scream from the other room. I’ve made Dumbledore promise to tell Clive the whole story if it turns out either of my babies are gifted with magic. I hope they are. I hope their magic blesses their lives, and I hope it doesn’t curse them like it cursed mine. I hope Voldemort never returns like Dumbledore thinks he will. I hope Clive lives to see our grandchildren. I hope he lives to see our grandchildren marry and have great grandchildren. I hope Clive is happy, someday, after I’m gone. I hope Amelie never forgets what my kiss feels like on her forehead. I hope John never forgets how good I am at reading a picture book. I hope Sirius was falsely accused. I hope one tragedy, at least, is solved. I hope that someday Sirius is freed from Azkaban, that he holds Harry’s hand, and acts like a true godfather. I hope that I was wrong to ever doubt my first love. And I hope that someday, Sirius touches my gravestone and loves me still.
***
Mary Evelynn MacDonald Boxley died two weeks after finishing this account of her adult life. She was survived by her two children and husband. Her son John was a wizard, one of the greatest of his age, and went to school with Harry Potter’s godson Teddy Lupin and niece Victoire Weasley. John Boxley read his mother’s story at fifteen and was pleased to know that Sirius Black did, in fact, get proven innocent. He read it to his younger sister and father later. Clive Boxley donated it to the Museum of the Great Riddle Wars, and Harry Potter met the entire family to remember their mother and wife.

From the Diary of Sirius Black
It’s been a week since I left Hogwarts. Remus sent me word of everything that’s happened since I was in Azkaban. He told me Mary died, that she got married and had two kids. He told me that he and Darcy went to the funeral. It was little over a year ago. She died of a Muggle disease. I miss her more than anything. But I’m heartbroken that she died thinking I was a murderer. That I betrayed Prongs. I went to her grave. A man my age was there, touching the stone. He said he was her husband. Clive Boxley. I told him I went to school with her. He didn’t recognize me from the news. (That’d be the haircut, I presume.) I guess I did a good job at dressing Muggle, because he didn’t give me a weird look or anything. He told me she chose the epigraph herself. Those words will always haunt me, the words she put on her gravestone.

And It Is Through the Deepest of Tragedies that True Love is Borne.
Mary MacDonald Boxley
January 18th, 1960 to October 12th, 1992
Beloved Friend, Mother, and Wife.

I think I stared at those words for a long time. Then Clive turned to me, and he asked if my name was Padfoot. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I nodded, and took the note from him.

Dying to be with Lily and James and Marlene and Peter. Please don’t be bad.
Much Love,
Mary.