The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

Outside the walls of Excalibur Magical Academy, the city of Caerleon bustled with vibrant anticipation as Yuletide drew near. Storefronts glowed with festive decorations, their windows framed with garlands and wreaths, while strings of lights draped elegantly from lampposts, casting a warm, inviting glow over cobblestone streets dusted with snow. Laughter and cheer lingered in the air as the city folk prepared for the season, blissfully unaware of the shadows stirring within the castle walls, where darker matters brewed, inching closer to their appointed hour.

Nestled within the heart of Caerleon's laborer district, away from the grandeur of the city's festive avenues, stood a humble tavern known only to its regular patrons. The wooden signboard above the tavern's double doors bore the name Himmel und Hölle, its carved letters weathered by time and the elements. Oxidized iron chains creaked softly as the sign swayed in the cold winter breeze, the faint sound mingling with the muffled din of the city beyond.

The tavern was a sanctuary for the working class—dwarves, elves, and humans alike—all of whom found camaraderie here over hearty meals and strong drinks after long days of toil. Tonight, however, the bar was quiet, the earlier crowds having dispersed hours ago. The dim glow of the lanterns inside cast long shadows over the wooden beams and polished floors, while the scent of aged whiskey and faint traces of roasted meats lingered in the air.

A lone figure remained seated at the bar, his form hunched slightly over the counter, elbows resting firmly against the well-worn wood. The bartender worked in silence, meticulously polishing a whiskey glass with a white towel, ensuring it gleamed under the soft illumination of the display shelves behind him. The shelves were a testament to the tavern's character, lined with an impressive collection of rare and vintage spirits from every corner of Avalon.

Serfence sat quietly, his dark eyes fixed on the single object before him—a small box, its lid tilted open to reveal a platinum ring cradling a flawless sapphire stone. The gem sparkled faintly in the soft light, an artifact of beauty and promise now burdened with the weight of memories. He lifted his glass, rattling the single round ice sphere inside, the golden liquid swirling around it like a fleeting moment slipping away.

The ring had once symbolized hope and love, a future bright with possibility. Now, it lay before him, a silent, painful reminder of what could have been but would never come to pass. Serfence's fingers brushed the edge of the box, his expression unreadable save for the faint shadow of loss etched into his features. Beyond the tavern doors, the snowfall continued, soft and relentless, blanketing the city in quiet stillness.

The sound of a chair being dragged across the splintered wooden floor broke the stillness, the sharp scrape cutting through the low hum of the tavern. Serfence's dark eyes flickered slightly at the noise, but he didn't turn, his focus remaining fixed on the ring before him.

A figure settled into the chair beside him, the quiet creak of the worn seat signaling their presence. The bartender approached with practiced ease, placing a glass on the counter before the newcomer. In a fluid motion, he dropped a single sphere of ice into the glass, the soft clink followed by the familiar sound of liquid pouring from a bottle.

As the bartender moved to take the bottle away, the man reached out, gripping his wrist with a firm but measured hold. His eyes met the bartender's, their gleam steady but carrying an unspoken weight.

"Leave the bottle," the man said, his voice quiet yet resolute. "Please."

The bartender hesitated only a moment before nodding, setting the bottle beside the glass with a slight clink before retreating to the far end of the bar.

Silence fell again, save for the faint howl of the winter wind beyond the frost-crusted windows and the soft creak of the sign swaying outside. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall filled the room, its sound amplified in the quiet, almost oppressive in its regularity.

"I knew I'd find you here," the man finally said, his voice breaking the silence with a tone that was both matter-of-fact and faintly resigned.

Serfence didn't reply. His gaze remained fixed on the sapphire ring, the faint light catching its polished facets as it lay within the open box. His stillness was unyielding, the weight of his thoughts keeping him anchored in place.

Workner took a sip from his glass, the sound of the ice shifting inside barely audible over the tick of the clock. His steel-gray eyes wandered through the tavern, tracing every beam and pillar, every framed photograph and yellowed article clipping.

They lingered on the dents etched into the wood from nights when company had gotten a little too rowdy, and the scuffs on the floor from brawls fought and forgotten. The ghosts of laughter and voices long past seemed to echo faintly in his mind—four friends, together in cheer, their vows and promises exchanged amidst the noise. Now, all of it was a distant memory, faded but not erased.

"This place…" Workner said as he shrugged. "So many memories." He let out a strained chuckle. "I remember when Creedy picked a fight with that orc. Got his teeth knocked out for his trouble. Then the rest of us got involved, and—"

He paused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Amelia stepped in and ended it all in an instant. Soft and fluffy as she was, that girl knew how to throw a punch, I'll give her that."

"If I recall correctly," Serfence said suddenly, his gaze turning toward Workner, "you were there with Creedy when he picked that fight. Trying to defuse the situation, weren't you? At least until the orc called you… what was the word again?" His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of amusement crossing his otherwise stoic face. "Peredhel, wasn't it?"

Workner's eyes widened briefly before he let out a genuine laugh. "Ah, by Gil-galad, that's right," he said, shaking his head. "Being called a half-breed has always been a bit of a sore spot for me. You know why."

"Oh, I know," Serfence said, his tone dry. "I also know I woke up in the Hospital Wing three days later because of you two, with a splitting headache. That's what I know."

Workner raised his hands in mock defense, his laugh fading into a sheepish grin. "I said I was sorry, Serfence. How long are you planning to nurse that grudge?"

There was a beat of silence between them before both men broke into quiet chuckles. The weight in the air lifted slightly, the shared memory bridging the distance time had placed between them.

"You know," Serfence said, "in a small, tiny, insignificant way, I do find myself missing you from time to time."

"That's a strange way to say you care," Workner replied with a raised brow, lifting his glass in a mock toast. "But I'll take it."

Workner returned his glass to the bar, his shoulders heavy as he let out a long sigh. "Gryffindor declared a Bellum Inter Duos against Dryfus," he said. "The duel is set to take place in a week."

"I know," Serfence replied curtly, his dark eyes fixed on his whiskey. "Foolishness. The lot of it."

"We've failed, Edward," Workner shook his head slowly. "As professors. As adults… as men. What kind of world have we created, where children are forced to settle their differences with wands and blades instead of words and diplomacy?"

His voice cracked slightly, the weight of his guilt bleeding through. "How broken have we become to allow such darkness to fester in the hearts of the young?"

Serfence exhaled sharply. "You're delusional if you think this is new, Workner," he said, taking a slow sip from his whiskey. "Age doesn't define one's darkness, nor does it shield anyone from committing atrocities. Children are no exception. They never were." He paused. "I know that better than anyone."

Workner's gaze shifted to Serfence, the faintest trace of regret flickering in his steel-gray eyes. "That you do," he murmured. After a moment, he added quietly, "You should've told me back then. I would've gone with you."

Serfence's hand tightened slightly around his glass, his expression hardening. "It wasn't your burden to bear, Workner," he said firmly. "It was mine. And it still is."

Workner's eyes fell on the ring in the open box before Serfence. Its sapphire glinted faintly in the dim light, a quiet reminder of a pain that still lingered. "Edward," Workner said softly. "It wasn't your fault. It never was, and it never will be."

Serfence's grip on his glass tightened, his jaw clenching. "She was there because of me," he said bitterly. "She went too deep… because of me."

The faint sound of cracking glass interrupted the silence. Serfence's hand trembled slightly as the pressure of his grip fractured the crystal.

"Edward…" Workner began cautiously.

"And she's dead," Serfence spat through gritted teeth. "Because of me!"

"Edward!" Workner cried out as the glass shattered in Serfence's hand. Shards scattered across the counter, some tumbling to the floor. The round ice sphere rolled off the edge with a dull thud, leaving behind a spreading pool of golden whiskey.

Serfence stared down at his gloved hand, fragments of crystal embedded in the leather. The cuts were shallow, not deep enough to draw blood, but the sight of it seemed to paralyze him. His eyes widened, the weight of his words sinking further. "She's gone… because of me," he whispered. "It was all my fault, and I'll never forgive myself."

Workner placed a steady hand on his friend's shoulder, his grip firm yet gentle. "Edward," he said softly. "You can't carry this alone forever. You don't have to."

But Serfence didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on his hand, on the shattered glass, as the silence between them stretched endlessly. The storm within him raged on, unseen but relentless.

Workner lifted his hand from Serfence's shoulder as the bartender approached, wand in hand. With a deft wave, the shattered glass on the bar counter reassembled itself, every shard snapping seamlessly back into place. The bartender then dropped a fresh sphere of ice into the glass before stepping away.

Without hesitation, Workner picked up the whiskey bottle and poured Serfence another drink, the liquid swirling around the ice with a quiet, soothing sound.

"You want to know what I think?" Workner asked as he set the bottle down. "I think the real reason you're so hard on Gryffindor is because, in some way, he reminds you of…" He hesitated briefly before continuing, "...well, you."

Serfence turned his head sharply, his brow arching as though Workner had just insulted him. "Really?" he said dryly. "And how, pray tell, did you arrive at this enlightening revelation?"

"Do I need to elaborate?" Workner replied, lifting his glass and giving it a small swirl, the ice tinkling softly within. "But more precisely… you're angry because, unlike you, he still has a chance. A chance to set things right. To fight for his love. To save her." He took a slow sip, savoring the burn of the whiskey as it slid down his throat. "A chance that was denied to both of us."

"Hubris," Serfence muttered. "Absolute hubris."

"And yet," Workner continued, unfazed, "I also know you didn't mean a word of what you told him that night. The truth is, you wanted to spare him. Spare him the pain, the anger, the sorrow that's burned inside you ever since. You wanted to shield him from it, praying—maybe even begging—that some higher power would take pity on him. Or on you. Or just…" He paused, "…end it all."

A heavy silence settled between them, the weight of Workner's words hanging in the air like a shadow.

After a moment, Serfence broke the silence. "After the incident… after they found her—or what was left of her—I went in." His focus shifted briefly to the ring resting in its box. "I found them. The ones responsible. And I slaughtered them. Every. Last. One."

He paused, his words deliberate and heavy. "To this day, I remember it all—the screams, the begging, the desperate prayers to whatever god they thought might save them. I still hear it, Workner. Every time I close my eyes, it's there, waiting."

Workner nodded slowly, his expression somber. "I know."

"That wasn't all," Serfence continued, his gaze hardening. "I didn't stop there. Years later, even after I ended the one person ultimately responsible, I was left with the most painful realization of all." He leaned forward slightly.

"No matter what I did—no matter how many bodies I buried to sate my anger and hate, no matter how many I tortured, maimed, or eviscerated to dull the emptiness inside me—it didn't change a damn thing. It didn't bring her back. It never would."

He exhaled slowly. "I will never feel her warmth beside me again, never taste her kiss or feel her touch on my face. She's gone. And with every Killing Curse I cast, I felt a piece of myself die. Until there was nothing left of the man she fell in love with. Just… this."

Workner remained silent, his gray eyes fixed on Serfence with quiet understanding.

"In a way," Serfence said after a long pause, "you're right. Gryffindor is a fool. An annoyingly persistent one." His gaze turned distant, his tone betraying a faint sadness. "But there's nothing more tragic than watching someone so full of hope, so alive, be reduced to a hollow husk of a man. Like me."

Workner nodded again, raising his glass in a silent toast. No words passed between them for a moment, only the faint ticking of the clock and the distant howl of the wind.

"You're wrong about one thing," Workner said. Serfence raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp with curiosity. "You're not the only one who lost something that day."

Workner shifted his glass, staring into the swirling amber liquid as though it could offer some kind of solace. "We all lost a piece of ourselves when Amelia was taken from us," he said. "She wasn't just a friend; she was the light that shone in our darkest days. The smile that lifted our spirits when the world felt dull and gray. She held us together when everything seemed like it was falling apart."

He glanced over at Serfence, his gaze shimmering with unspoken sorrow. "And now…" Workner shrugged. "Now, I'd give anything—anything—to have what we had again, even if it's just for a moment."

Serfence let the words hang in the air for a long moment before responding. "You can't live in the past, Workner," he said. "No good ever comes from opening old wounds just so you can watch yourself bleed again."

He leaned back slightly, his dark eyes distant, the flicker of pain barely visible beneath his stoic façade. "Memories are as fleeting as adrenaline—brief, powerful, and gone before you know it. They elevate you for a moment, make you feel alive… but when they fade, all that's left is the pain."

Workner shrugged, downing the rest of his whiskey in a single motion, exhaling sharply as the burn coursed down his throat. "I suppose you're right," he admitted. "But I can't help but wonder how different things might have been if she were still with us. You, me, Creedy… and her." A small, bittersweet chuckle escaped him. "The Dungeon Delvers. Quite the team we were, weren't we?"

He pushed back on his chair with a soft scrape, rising to his feet. Adjusting his scarf, he wrapped it snugly around his neck, preparing to leave. "Well, it's late, and I could use some decent sleep for once. You can keep the bottle. Just don't stay up all night with it."

He turned and made his way toward the door, each step accompanied by the faint, deliberate creak of the worn wooden floor beneath his boots.

"Thanks for the drinks, Workner. And the company," Serfence said, glancing over his shoulder, a rare flicker of gratitude breaking through his usual stoicism. "Just like old times. It's… nice."

Workner gave a casual wave over his shoulder, his scarf trailing slightly as he approached the door. His hand wrapped around the cold iron handle, but just as he began to push it open, Serfence's voice cut through the silence—quieter this time, yet sharper.

"You loved her too, didn't you?" he asked suddenly. "Amelia."

Workner froze, his fingers tightening slightly on the handle as a shadow passed over his face. He turned back to face Serfence, his gray eyes clouded with a mix of pain and nostalgia. A faint, pained smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

"Who knows?" he said softly. With that, he pushed the door open, stepping out into the crisp night air as snow swirled gently around him.

The door creaked shut behind him, leaving Serfence alone with the bottle and his thoughts. Without a word, he reached for the whiskey, pouring himself another glass. The sound of the liquid filling the crystal echoed faintly in the now-empty tavern. He lifted the glass, staring at it for a long moment, before taking another sip, the silence around him heavy and unyielding.

His gaze returned to the ring, the light catching its facets one last time as if to taunt him with memories he couldn't escape. With a slow, deliberate motion, he closed his eyes, drawing in a steady breath. Then, with finality, he shut the box, the soft click of the lid sealing it away once again.

****

Workner trudged along the snow-dusted pavement, his boots crunching softly with each step. He stopped beneath the glow of an overhead streetlamp, its pale light casting long shadows on the empty street. With a heavy sigh, he reached into his shirt, pulling out a ring that hung from a delicate silver chain around his neck.

The ring was pure platinum, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship inspired by elvish artistry. Its intricate design gleamed faintly, the bright diamond at its center catching the glow like a frozen star. Inside the band, an inscription in elegant elvish script read: Orthach 'Uren Ir Tirach Enni.

Workner's eyes softened as he gazed at the ring, his thumb brushing over the engraving. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if the act of breathing alone carried the weight of memory and regret.

"Who knows," he murmured softly over the whisper of the winter wind.

After a lingering moment, he tucked the ring back into his shirt, its cool weight settling against his chest. Slipping his hands into his coat pockets, he resumed his walk, his figure disappearing into the gently falling snow.