"That's Dorcas Meadowes, Voldemort killed her personally."
Years after the second war is over, when historians begin to accumulate what little is known about the very first Order of the Phoenix, there she will be, in the second row of the reprinted photograph, standing to the right of Sirius Black. She will be half-smiling, as she was on that warm April day, fifty years ago. Only those who look closely will see how her eyes flicker towards the ginger haired man standing at the far left of the front row, a goofy grin on his handsome face. In the caption below the photograph, listing all of the names will be hers;
Dorcas L. Meadowes, murdered by Lord Voldemort in December 1979. When people read this they will cringe, imagining the worst. They will recreate her death in their minds, formed neatly of their most vivid nightmares. Then they will shake their heads and move on to the next name, the next tragedy, Dorcas having no more distinction than to have been done away with by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. It is not sad, because there is no one left to mourn her or the loss of her memory. Rather it is a testimony to her sacrifice for those who would look to see it. A life, thrown down for others with no lasting glory is the legacy she left behind, in eight words, on printed paper.
Molly remembers her a little; she was her brother's girlfriend and nearly fiancee. She always looked a little sad. There are other memories, but they fade with time. Lost beneath seven children and too much heartache. She remembers kindness and gentleness but little else and those are attributed to many others, gone too soon. Few others remember her vaguely. Aberforth Dumbledore (he was the one who knew her middle name started with 'L', but he couldn't recall it exactly), Andromeda Tonks, a few of her teachers, still living, the list is short and her lonely gravestone has not been visited in many years, though truth be told there are few who would know where to find it, tucked away in the ancient cemetery tucked away behind the old Headquarters.
So it is. Remembered for nothing other than the particular way she died or rather, the fact that she was singled out by the most evil wizard of the day to be dealt with personally. The word has an eerie finality about it and is so strikingly cruel sounding that few will venture to wonder why.
But Dorcas did live a life worth more merit than her death, a life of fleeting happy things, hope, hard work and sadness. The fact that she was significant enough to be killed by the Dark Lord himself does not change the fact that she worried for her friends, doubted herself or fell in love. But what is more interesting is the way she defied Lord Voldemort. She was a healer, going so far as to go undercover in a muggle ambulance to save those who could not save themselves, at the risk of her own life, escaping him twice, only to be lured out of safety for no other reason than to die. But she won't be remembered for that either. For she had friends who thrice defied him.
It seems tragic, but it's not really. What's tragic are the young faces in the photograph, the half-smiling blonde woman who won't live to see the decade change and the ginger haired man who will wish he hadn't. It is only the loss of that beautiful possibility that can inspire sadness and even that means little to those who live and love in the peaceful present. It is of no consequence to the cold body lying undisturbed and quiet in the ground and certainly does it mean anything to the soul, resting in contentment beyond the veil. On the other side, she lives beyond death, with all those she loved in life held close.
In that mockery of death lies her true significance.
Author's Note : Hey. I know this isn't very long, but it's a one-shot I've had sitting on my computer for a long time now. And even though I haven't been a member of HPFF very long, it's someting I'm proud to present as my first piece.