Cross My Heart

~We are the heroes of our own story.~ ~ Mary McCarthy

~Saw your friend working in this hotel

Says he used to know you when

And your dreams lucky as they seemed

They all turned their back on him

Truth be known

Truth be known

Way I feel tonight living in this back street town

'Bout my dreams

They all seem to fade as soon as I put my money down

Truth be known

When the fire that once was your friend burns your fingers to the bone

And your song meets a sudden end

Echoing through right and wrong

Truth be known

Truth be known

~ ~Neil Young, "Truth Be Known", Mirror Ball

Prologue: Letter to the Editor

The package was old, older than anything Graham had ever held in his hands before. He was afraid it would fall apart before his very eyes. Graham wondered where the man had gotten it. Graham wondered who the man was. Just this morning, in the midst of the office party celebrating the 200th anniversary of Lord Voldemort's defeat at the hands of Harry Potter, a huge man wearing a grey cloak and extremely old-fashioned leather garments and carrying a giant bow strode into the room and asked for Graham by name. Graham didn't fear much; he'd spent most of his life tracking down stories in places that weren't so nice, to put it mildly. But his man, this giant of a man (he didn't really look to have giant blood in him, but he was easily six foot ten) with a long auburn beard decorated with beads and braids and wearing a metal helm made him tremble in his boots. The crowd had parted to reveal Graham to the stranger (damn reporters, turn on you ever time!), and the made marched up to him and dragged him to the side of the room. Graham was visibly shaking by now, trying to think up which of the enemies he'd made over the course of his career would hire a hit man such as this. The man reached behind his back to pull something from underneath his full quiver of green feathered arrows, and Graham jumped when the object appeared over the man's shoulder.

The man grinned. His voice was deep and amused. "Twitchy little ferret, aren't you, Martin?"

Graham relaxed into embarrassed anger. "Look, sir, I don't-"

"Martin, this package is for you," the strange man interrupted. Graham looked down into the man's hands, which held a thick package, the shape of a large book, wrapped in dark cloth. "It has been in my family for two hundred mortal years, waiting for this moment, when I was to give it to you."

Graham took the package in his hands. It wasn't cloth that the package was wrapped in, but rather soft leather. Graham looked up at the man. "What-"

"It's the truth, Martin." The man seemed to enjoy interrupting him; maybe he knew Graham detested being interrupted. "That there's the truth, and you're going to tell it. And if you don't I'm going to hunt you, and your children, and your children's children, until you tell it. All of us will."

"All of who?" Finally a whole thought! Graham had forgotten that he had no children, at least none he was aware of.

"All the children of the Grey Queen. All that live."

"Who?"

"Read it, Martin, and you'll understand." The man turned to leave. "Honour them, Martin. Honour us." And he was gone.

Graham walked dazedly into his office, shut the door, and locked it. He sat down at his desk unwrapped the leather from the package. It was a book, a hand-bound book, written by hand, or by many different hands it seemed. Graham opened it to the first page. "Our Own Story" it read, and in smaller writing underneath "Heart of Hearts".

Graham turned the paged and nearly leapt out of his chair, seeing his own name written in front of him.

To Graham Martin, Editor-in-Chief, The Daily Prophet

History lies.

It isn't just about the old "History was written by the winners". Please. We're all smart enough to know that old standby is a half-truth in and of itself.

History lies. It simply tells you about one individual, usually a man, and what he did, and then the man that followed him, and the one after him, and after that, and on and on down the line. But that man is never a person. He never has thoughts or feelings or emotions. He simply does, as if he were a machine, and all the correctionist non-fiction in the world never changes the fact that any more than a handful of people see the man as a human being and more than just a hero and clear-sighted innovator.

History leaves no room for faults. History doesn't see in color, but rather in black and white without any shades of grey. History doesn't feel. History doesn't think. History never doubts. History doesn't know. History doesn't believe.

History lies. History pretends. History distorts the truth to meet the needs of those in charge of information and the needs of those in power.

History as painted Harry Potter as brave and strong and powerful, noble to a fault, never doubting, always faithful to the light, always confident, always loved, not wanting for a thing in the world. He was a boy with the mind of a grown man, responsible and hardworking and mature. He was patient and kind and he loved small children and furry animals and though he lost his parents when he was very young he loved easily and was always an easy soul.

History lies.

Harry Potter was a boy. He wasn't always brave in the traditional sense, but he knew that real bravery was doing what you need to do even when terribly afraid, so in that sense he was brave. But Harry wasn't strong, not always. He wasn't terribly patient, but he was very kind. Harry was plagued by doubts and fears. He certainly was noble to a fault. He was horribly responsible too, but in that he felt that everyone else was his responsibility. Harry was a boy; he wasn't mature all the time. He worked as hard as he needed to on what he deemed unimportant, and pushed himself in areas that he knew he would need; Dark Arts and Charms and the like. He was overprotective of his friends, he was filled with self-loathing, he nearly lost his mind, he nearly joined the dark, he jumped to conclusions and he hated attention.

Harry Potter was real. Harry Potter was human. He was a great man, but he was only a man.

It has been two hundred years now, to the day, since Voldemort was defeated for the last time, and one hundred years since the last major player in the Dark Lord's defeat died. Now is the time when the truth cannot hurt anyone. Now is the time when people can see Harry for what he was.

I lived during Harry's time, though not long enough to see the fall of Voldemort. But I knew it would come, and I knew what history would do to the story. Nothing is gained from half a picture. In order to truly learn from the past we must strive to see the whole story. In this regard I took the steps necessary to piece together the real truth of the fall of Voldemort, as seen through the eyes of those who lived it.

People need to know the real Harry. They need to know his friends, his enemies, his mentors, his faults, and his blessings. They need to know the person.

When you read this, know that I have been gone more than two hundred years. Not a day will go by from now as I write until the day I die (there are 15 of them) that I won't hope to God I'm wrong about my death, but my death doesn't change your need to know.

Let people know who we were. Let them have to truth. The great Albus Dumbledore himself once said, "I believe the truth is preferable to lies."

The greatest what to honor us is to tell them our true story. Let us be the heroes we were. Honor Harry Potter, who never wanted the glory and fame that stalked him all his life. Honor Ron Weasley, who always wanted his own spotlight while smothered in the shadows of his loved ones. Honor Hermione Granger, who was the brains behind Harry's talent. Honor Albus Dumbledore, who twice saved the world from the threats of Dark Wizards. Honor Severus Snape, who made the mistake of becoming a Death Eater and subsequently risked his life innumerable times to assist the forces that stood against Lord Voldemort. Honor Rubeus Hagrid, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Minerva McGonagol, Arabella Figg, and Mundungus Fletcher. Honor Arthur and Molly Weasley, Draco Malfoy, Virginia Weasley, Bill and Charlie Weasley, and Fred and George "Founders of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes International" Weasley. Honor Hafiz Nuada and Selene Hayes, Michael, Jessie, Rhiannon, and Kenneth Flynn. Honor Graislaine Whiterose and all of her brothers. Honor me.

This here, sitting on your desk, is a collection of our thoughts, our words, our feeling, our hopes and dreams and desires. You have in front of you everything we were.

On this day, two hundred years to the day Lord Voldemort was defeated, honor us as we deserve. Remember us as we were.

This is our truth. Cross my heart.

Good Luck,

Maeve Flynn

Graham Martin sat back in his chair, taking a deep breath as he did so. He ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair. Maeve Flynn. The name was not familiar, but Maeve herself (if this was genuine) seemed to imply that was the point. Everyone knew the name Weasley; the family own two separate companies and was one of the oldest and wealthiest wizard families in all the world, along with the Malfoys and the Potters. Ron Weasley, name wasn't very familiar, but there were so many Weasleys it was impossible to keep track. Draco Malfoy...well, he had to have been that one that sided with Dumbledore, no other Malfoys before him were worth mentioning. Graham was familiar with Selene Hayes, only because his mother had had an obsession with divination. Graislaine Whiterose, well, you would have to be stupid not to remember her. Half the art depicting the fall of Voldemort showed her in varying states of undress. Graham himself particularly liked the one where her...ah well, there would be plenty of time spent researching her in order to verify this- this- this thing.

Most of these people, though, Graham had hardly ever heard of. Sirius Black he was familiar with. That must have been quite a story when that broke: "Convicted Potter Killer Cleared! Dead Man Lives!" Remus Lupin...it rang a bell somewhere. Graham had never heard of any of these Flynns, or Hafiz Nuada, or Severus Snape or Minerva McGonagol or Arabella Figg or Mundungus Fletcher.

But Graham had to admit, he was interested, and not simply because the world was still obsessed with Harry Potter. Slap his name on anything and it would fly off the shelves. And more than a few women in fashion and seamier magazines (and one or two that Graham dated) used charms to mimic Graislaine Whiterose's appearance. Red hair was quite fashionable too.

No, Graham was interested for other reasons. Graham was a reporter, but he took it more seriously than that. It wasn't about the scoop, it wasn't about telling a tale that would sell. It was about telling a story that people wanted to know. It was about telling the truth. Graham had often found that the truth was far more interesting than what people read in the papers. The truth was about insider and local politics, about social structures and inside deals. The truth was about selfish people and the innocent victims. It wasn't black and white, cut and dry. It wasn't ink on a page like the public saw every morning on the corner, folded up neatly and costing ten knuts.

Graham had a thirst for knowledge about people. It was why he did what he did. It was why he was so good at it. He didn't want gossip; he wanted a story that people cared about. He wanted the extra bit, the human side. Graham liked that darkness in the soul, and he loved that shining moment where people showed what they were worth. It wasn't always good, and to fulfil his part as a jaded newspaperman Graham would often say that it was almost never good, that good was an anomaly, but deep inside Graham was a softie. Graham loved the tale of the underdog, the good thief, the saved soul, the redeemed sinner, just as much as he liked the tale of the guy who got what was coming.

More than anything, Graham loved a story, and in his hands, no matter which way he threw it, no matter whether it was a fabulous truth or an ingenious hoax, this was a story.

Graham made his decision. He turned the page.