Silent Cry

The sky was covered with grey clouds as William Lupin stared intently at the graves of his parents and sister. The day was gloomy, and the rain, relentlessly pouring from the heavens, seemed to emphasize the weight of his loss. Wet drops tapped on the coffins, soaking the earth above the freshly dug graves.

The Muggle cemetery, where they had found their final resting place, was modest and quiet. It was surrounded by neat rows of graves and old, weathered tombstones. The Lupin family's Muggle neighbors, despite their non-magical nature, had shown exceptional kindness and supported Will during this difficult time. They had helped organize the funeral, providing their services and resources to ensure a respectful farewell.

Those gathered at the cemetery stood silently in the rain, their faces marked with grim expressions. There was no service—only comforting words and quiet prayers spoken by the locals. William felt like an outsider in their company, as though a stranger stuck in a world where his grief was beyond words and their words of comfort could not fill the gaping void in his heart.

The farewell was brief. The graves were covered with dirt, and with each clod of earth, the heaviness of loss was felt. Standing at the edge of the freshly dug graves, William felt his soul fill with anger and sorrow. He couldn't help but think that his parents and sister deserved more than this grey cemetery and the relentless rain.

After the last clumps of dirt were thrown on the graves, people began to disperse. William remained alone in the cemetery, unable to leave. His thoughts were filled with rage and disappointment. Inside him, the flame of hatred for those who had taken his family grew, and he knew that this flame would not die until justice was served.

The silence of the cemetery was broken only by the sound of rain, which continued to pour as if the heavens themselves were mourning this terrible loss. Will's eyes, full of determination and despair, repeatedly drifted over the graves, as if to underline his readiness for the next step—that which was to follow this sorrowful farewell.

As William stood alone in the cemetery, his anger and despair overwhelmed him, and he kept replaying the moment when the Ministry of Magic representatives had arrived at his home to investigate his family's murder. These memories haunted him like painful wounds, each one laced with a sense of injustice and pain.

The Aurors, cold and indifferent, had entered the house without a trace of sympathy. Their eyes had swept over the ruined rooms, and their voices had sounded like the cry of soulless machines, incapable of understanding human pain.

"We need you to describe what happened," one of the Aurors said, his voice dry and detached. "We need to find out who is responsible for this crime."

Barely holding back tears, William began to recount how it all happened. He described how the Dark Mark had appeared over the house, how his father had been found dead by the fireplace, and how his sister and mother had died in a horrific, brutal scene. He tried to make them understand that the killers weren't just some bandits, but Death Eaters under Voldemort's command.

"It was the Death Eaters," he repeated, almost pleading. "Voldemort led them. I saw him. He did this!"

But the Aurors merely exchanged doubtful looks and indifferent comments.

"Too much drama in your account. We can't believe every word," one of the Aurors, an elderly man with an icy stare, said skeptically. "We've received testimony that these could have been former associates of your father. They butchered his family, and their quarrel in the forest led to one of them's death. They probably couldn't split the stolen goods evenly."

"No!" William shouted, desperately clenching his fists. "I killed one of them. I saw him die. You have to believe me!"

The Aurors merely shook their heads, not believing the words of a fifteen-year-old. Their disbelief was evident, and they couldn't imagine that the young boy was capable of such a killing.

"You couldn't possibly have the strength or experience for such a deed," said the same elderly Auror, his voice full of mockery. "You should have thought more about your safety rather than making such bold statements."

These words, spoken with cold indifference, struck William to his core. He felt every word from the Aurors become part of his pain, their disregard and dismissal of his account turning into a knife wound.

He again remembered how indifferently the Aurors had left his house, leaving him alone with his grief and emptiness. Their detached faces and the contempt in their eyes only intensified his determination and anger. He was filled with hatred and a resolve to avenge his family, for every betrayal and lie he had endured. This hatred and bitterness had become his driving force, pushing him to continue the fight despite all the obstacles and injustices he had faced.

The Lupin house, once filled with laughter, warmth, and joy, had now become an embodiment of emptiness and fear. The fireplace, which had once warmed them on cold evenings, now only reflected despair and coldness. William was alone in this house, where everything reminded him of the lost happiness. The sounds of laughter and family gatherings, which once filled the rooms, had been replaced by silence, which seemed increasingly suffocating with every passing second.

For whole days, he stayed by the graves of his parents and sister, mourning them and praying for their peace. He sat at the edge of their graves, sometimes until late at night, his eyes tired and red from crying. His grief was as deep as the grave in which his loved ones rested.

In the evenings, William returned to the house, which now was nothing more than a grim reminder of what had been. Sometimes he went to his room, where anger and rage would overtake him. In fits of fury, he smashed anything that came to hand: chairs, tables, interior objects. The dull thuds and the crash of breaking items were the only sounds that disturbed the silence that reigned in the house. These bursts of anger were his way of coping with the pain.

The next morning, Will would again clean up, picking up shards and traces of the destruction. This ritual had become part of his daily life, symbolizing his attempt to maintain some semblance of normalcy amid the chaos around him.

This was how the first week after the tragedy passed. Days turned into nights, and nights into days, and William found himself caught in a vicious circle of grief and hatred. The landscape of his life was filled with grey hues, where each morning was as empty as the one before. But in this darkness, in his inner gloom, a feeling began to take root, one stronger than grief and hatred: the desire for revenge.

Every morning, he woke up with renewed resolve. The house, which had once been full of life, had become the arena for his pain and fury. He knew that he needed to find a way to channel his anger and turn it into a weapon that would help him achieve his goal. Instead of seeking help from others, he decided that he must act alone.

Despite his immersion in plans of revenge, William's thoughts occasionally returned to a question that gnawed at him. Why hadn't Snape, his godfather, not only failed to attend the funeral but never once showed up at the house to offer support? These questions tormented his soul, cutting through the layers of anger and pain.

Every time he returned to the empty house, filled with silence and cold, he couldn't help but ask himself this question. William understood that Snape had been an important figure in his life, but now his absence seemed especially painful. He had expected that his godfather, who had been part of his family, would come during this difficult time to offer his support.

In William's memories, Snape had always been strict and distant, but he had been someone he could rely on. The absence of his presence was as much a blow as the loss of his family. William was sure that Snape knew about the tragedy, but for some reason, he had not felt the need to appear in the house or offer his condolences.

With each passing night, when William sat by the graves of his loved ones or tore apart his room in fits of rage, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Why had his godfather, who had always been so significant to him, remained indifferent? Maybe he hadn't known about the tragedy, or perhaps he had his own reasons for not showing up. Or maybe something had happened that had prevented him from coming.

With each day, the questions only grew. William knew that he couldn't afford to spend too long in self-reflection, especially when his mind and body were consumed with thoughts of revenge. However, the inner tension and anxiety regarding Snape's absence never left him.

He often tried to imagine how he could have changed his behavior to attract Snape's attention. Perhaps it would have been futile, but he still longed to understand the reasons behind the silence. He replayed possible scenarios in which Snape might have appeared and explained his absence. And each new assumption only strengthened his resolve to act independently.

One way or another, William was ready to move forward, despite the unanswered questions that remained. The path of vengeance was dangerous and complicated, and he knew that he couldn't afford to be distracted by what he couldn't change. But even in this darkness and rage, the questions about what might have happened lingered unanswered, like shadows following his steps in the cold forest.