Disclaimer: This is a story that I had started almost two years ago, while I was an avid roleplayer. The character this story is centered upon is the product of those days, my baby of sorts, who I created and fine tuned with the help of many people. Together with my friends, whom I have unfortunately lost touch with, we created a world in which we often roleplayed in, in the Marauder's Era, day by day. A world where Aryanna Wood fit in without a shadow of a doubt. I suppose this story is slightly alternate universe, so you will have to approach it with an open mind. Basically, I cannot take credit for all the aspects of this story. The Marauder's, and the world of Harry Potter, exists only because J.K. Rowling made it so. The spin on James Potter, belongs to a very talented former roleplayer named Ams, as the way Lily is characterized, belongs to my former friend Nat. So I hope that I did their characters, who they loved, some justice. Maybe this will serve as some type of a tribute to the years of my life I spent.. online, pretending with you ladies. :D

Life isn't short, but it doesn't last forever. It's hard to see it when you're living it, but every single decision you make leads you to a greater picture, pushes you away from who you are and towards who you're supposed to be. What you eat, where you go to school, where you live, the people you surround yourself with and the dignity and respect (or lack thereof) with which you treat them. It's hard, when living, to see how such miniscule decisions can change your entire life. But they do.. I just wish I would've realized that.

When I lived, I was a vivacious little girl, with masses of chocolate brown ringlets, freckled, pale skin, and big green eyes. I had a sharp tongue, short fuse, a thick Irish brogue and a penchant for rude hand gestures, even from a young age. When you grow up the youngest of four brothers, you learn the concept of survival of the fittest. You are only a strong as the hits you can take, and jokes you can make at the expense of your siblings. But I was tough, or at least, outwardly so. But it wasn't enough.

My dad was a wizard, a rather capable Auror for the Ministry of Magic who was permanently stationed at the wizarding high-security prison, Azkaban. My mum was a muggle, a pretty little thing from the Killarney region of Ireland, but vapid and materalistic. My poor father fell for her, and hard at that. But he had no illusions, he wanted to support his beautiful young bride in a style be-fitting her upbringing, but he knew that the second she found out about his real profession, of his blood and the magic deep inside, she would leave. So he hid it, he lied and did his best to create a glamour over his true identity, and his powers. He charmed his work robes, so that on apparation back into the hills behind our little cottage, they would transform into an exact replica of the uniform worn by the police force of Dublin. I was four years old when he died, another victim to the killing curse. He made the mistake of dropping his wand, of letting it fall into the hands of a disgruntled inmate and for us, that cost us--.. cost me, my father. It was shortly after this incident that the Ministry of Magic removed Wizard guards and instead, implimented the use of Dementors. They feared the loss of other great wizards, and in their eyes, the Dementors, filthly creatures that they are, were more powerful and more expendable.

When the letter arrived from the Department of Death Notification of the Ministry of Magic, my mum was outraged, furious. I can't say that I blame her, in a sense. She found out that the life she'd been living had been a lie, that the man who had fathered her five children, was tainted.. infested and filthy, in my mother's eyes. She destroyed our entire living room, ripping the apholestry on armchairs and the sofa, throwing collectibles. Picture frames came crashing down from the walls in showers of glass and shredded photographs. From that moment on, she viewed anything relating to the magical society as disgusting, a stain on the existence of humanity. When I was eleven, another letter came, this time addressed to me, and in that moment, her disgust for the magical race, her righteous indignation at the betrayl of my father, all became honed towards her youngest daughter. I had been invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I was now repulsive to her, and a danger to the household as long as she kept me under her roof. So she shipped me off, a pocketful of muggle money, and all my worldy posessions thrown hap-hazardly into my battered old trunk. I stood, eleven years old, outside of the Leaky Cauldron, scared out of my wits. Tom, always a kindly old chap, ushered me into his bar, and gave me a room, instructed me in how to go about getting my school supplies. When September 1st rolled around, he sent me on my way towards King's Cross station, to board the Hogwart's express. He sent me on a path that would alter the rest of my life. It was Hogwart's that became home to me, it's hallowed halls and cobblestone floors, drafty corridors, it's creaking suits of armour, mischevious ghosts, and even more mischevious students.

I was many things when I lived that I lost in death, though the memory of them still lives on, bittersweet in it's everlasting existence, a reminder of the things that were robbed from me with the uprising of the Dark Lord. I was a mother, a god-mother, a chaser, and Quidditch Captain. I was a waitress, and in turn an Auror, a fabulous Charms student, and an equally bad hand at Transfiguration. I loved, and I lost, and though I fought, I was still forced to leave my only son behind. The smallest comfort existed in the simple fact that his own god-parents still lived to look after him. But even they would join me, an red haired witch, as beautiful in death as she was in life, and her husband, a lean man, bespectacled, with a wayward mop of raven hued hair resting a top his head, which even death could not tame. A sad smile pressed against his familiar lips, lips I'd so often seen grinning at me, or formed in the shape of a laugh. Oh James. Selfishly, I had wished to see them again, to have the chance to say to them all the things, in life, I couldn't bear to say. But not like this. One by one, they all join me, as if they'd never left, leaving the next generation of Wizards behind, our children. Sirius, he comes after James and Lily, and in that moment I knew that if I had any breath to hold, it would be bated. Then Peter comes... and even in death, the old grudges hold, and Sirius forgets that he cannot throttle the cowardly man, the Death Eater, as he throws himself at the feet of James and Lily, his most brutal of victims. Sirius will settle for an eternity of hatred and torture towards his cowardly former friend. Remus comes at last, dear sweet Remus. At last we are one, as we were in life, while our children live on. They fight and they love and they mourn us, and they win the battle at last, in the name of us, the lost ones. The sacrifices of war. Their story will live on, one of glory and triumph, but who will tell ours?

It is my sincerest hope that this will somehow reach my son, who does not know of my existence, perhaps as an after thought on the wind, or in the mists of dreams. Although, I truly do not exist anymore. I lived in the memories of those who surround me now, of Lily, my dorm mate and of James, my best friend. I have been, in Oliver's eyes, replaced. He has parents, his true father, who I tried so hard to keep him from when I lived, and his step-mother, a woman who has taken my position, and claimed herself responsible for his birth. It's bitter, but as James reminds me, how can I truly despise a woman who has treated Oliver so kindly, and given him all the things that I cannot? Still, the memory of his birth still lives on inside me, so strong that I have to grit my teeth against even the memory of the pain, as if it were crashing over me again, though I have only the imprint of my former body. I've tried, foolishly perhaps, to remind Oliver that I existed, his mother, that even in death I love him more than any other, that I died to give him a world where he would be safe. A world where he could raise his own children. It's bittersweet, that I left no legacy, that none still exist who would be able to tell my story to my son. So I'll tell the story now, though what good will come from it, I can't know. My own son, and my god-son, the only two people in this world who I would wish to hear it, cannot. But even the dead still feel pain, and in the telling of our lives, I hope to alleviate some of mine.