Elements of a Hero

She sat and reread the parchment that had been delivered along with her morning copy of The Daily Prophet. When she reached the bottom of the letter, her eyes swung to the top and she read it once more for good measure. She ran her hands through her long hair, tugging at a few tangles along the way, sat back in her chair, laying the parchment on the table in front of her. Well, well, well, she thought and glanced down, skimming over the words once again.

Dear Ms. Granger,

We here at the paper feel that there would be a great public interest in your story, or should we say, the story of "Those That Saved The Wizarding World", we would be willing to pay our standard freelance commission.

Maybe a chapter piece; something along the lines of: Warriors Before the War - The Training, Warriors During the War - The Brotherhood of Battle, Warriors After the War - Lives of Glory. We would be receptive to your suggestions, of course.

If interested in this offer, please submit your first article for review and editing by return owl no later than Tuesday of next week. Interviews with any other of the involved participants would be deemed relevant and might make a significant impact on the article.

We appreciate the fact that numerous historical documents and even a large quantity of fictionalized accounts have been published over the past few years, but we are interested in a more in-depth human-interest account. A, shall we say, fact versus myth comparison piece, the fairytale expounded upon possibly, an explanation of what exactly comprises a hero.

Thank you and feel free to contact us with any questions.

The editor of the paper had signed the bottom of the parchment with a flourish. Hermione stared at the signature before flipping it over, as if the words were as blatantly obscene as they were personally offensive. The fairytale. It was obscene. To those that have come after us, we are but a fairytale. It was worse than obscene, it was - it was - her mind drew a blank. The insult was beyond definition.

She stood and walked to the fireplace. Angrily she grabbed the poker and shoved a few logs around. The fire crackled and sparks flew up the chimney. She walked back to the chair and sat flipping the parchment over looking for a particular sentence. She saw it; "involved participants" and felt a nauseous laugh boil up in her throat like poisonous steam trying to escape.

Hermione leaned back, closing her eyes and thought about her comrade at arms, her friends, the "involved participants". She occasionally received owls from Ginny, Neville and sometimes, even Ron, but it had been at least a year since she had seen any of them and that had been a chance encounter in Hogsmeade. She had rounded a corner running straight into Neville.

They had hugged each other's necks, maybe lingering in the embrace for a second longer than was necessary. Their conversation had been polite and simple. She had found that it was difficult to find words to say when the most prominent ones on your tongue cannot be spoken, not in this setting, not now, now that too much time had passed. You could not look deep into each other's eyes and say: How are you, really? You look so much different, now that you aren't covered in blood and ankle deep in entrails or panting in the throes of lust and passion and need. Oh, and I see the medi-wizards were able to heal that gapping wound on your arm, good, very good. Yes, they fixed my leg, found all of the parts, not like poor Malfoy, but I hear he does well with only the three fingers, pity they couldn't find the rest.

She thought, yes, there were things that just could not be said because this was Neville, sweet dear Neville, who everyone needed to take care of and make sure he was strong enough even though you knew deep inside that he was, but because it helped to have someone else to worry about.

She thought about the night of the attack on the Ministry, she had not known what had happened, who was hurt, killed - gone. Ron had been on guard at the Ministry, and he had not returned and she had worried and wondered where he had been and if he was okay? These thoughts had tumbled about in her mind and she had felt like she was going crazy with fear and worry and exhaustion.

And then Neville had come to her and held her.

And it had been comfort and friendship and family and warmth and safety and everything that she had needed, right then.

And it had not meant more or less than that, and she knew that if she had told Ron he might have been hurt, but he would have understood because there is a different set of rules for warriors.

In Hogsmeade that day, seeing Neville standing there, they had hugged and spoke politely and then parted with promises of reunions that neither would keep, because there is also a different set of rules for those that are no longer warriors, but used to be.

She sat for a minute and thought about Ron. He had been her center for so long. Harry was the person that she measured herself and her abilities against, but Ron was who she did it all for. She had given him her heart, her virginity and the promise of her future. There was never any doubt that she and Ron would end up married. They would have a comfortable, happy life like both their set of parents before them but, it did not happen that way, and no one was to blame. It just was too much of an effort to be together and pretend to be a normal ordinary couple when memories of the war hung between them like a bag of rotting fruit, festering and molding. There was no exact end to their relationship it just faded away slowly.

Hermione stood again, staring down at the parchment. She picked it up and started toward the fire. That was where it belonged, burnt and forgotten. How could she write a story about them, what would she say? So many accounts had already been published. So many stories had been written and all from people who had not been there, those who had been at the edges of the battle, but none from the "involved participants". She laughed slightly and sat back down holding the paper in her hand and reading it again.

Maybe it was time that the real story was told, or maybe not. She rubbed her hand across her eyes and sighed. It was not so much the story of the war that needed to be told, but maybe a - she looked down at the parchment in her hand - a "fact versus myth comparison piece, the fairytale expounded upon possibly, an explanation of what exactly comprises a hero".

She thought about that for a minute. What exactly were the elements of a hero? Not that she considered herself a hero. Yes, they had done heroic things, but did she really consider any of them heroes? Harry probably, and Draco maybe because he finally chose the right side against all that he had been raised to believe. But did standing up for your right to merely survive, did that constitute heroic?

She leaned back, closed her eyes and thought about those that she had fought beside; the reluctant hero and his compatriots. When the stories were written about them they were always portrayed as larger than life, gleaming saviors of the modern world. She knew that in truth they may have become a fairytale, but in the beginning they were only children playing at games of war.

When they started out they were merely separate pieces of what would become a whole being; an aristocrat yearning to prove his worth and learn tolerance, a socially inept intellect striving for excellence, a chubby timid screw-up wanting vengeance, an aggressive kid needing to make his mark, and a myopic survivor of emotional abuse, all of them learning to lead an army comprised of bewildered children. Adults that had lost the ability to believe in the absolute of good versus evil, the ultimate power of good to conquer anything and so these adults had become afraid to test their faith against monsters, had urged them on.

These children, on the other hand had still been naive enough to march into battle clutching their ideals to their chests like badges of honor and courage. Right was might and they had no patience for the thought of defeat. They were not fearless; but arrogant enough in their innocence to believe that they could not be wrong, or wronged. They were children playing an adult game in a world built of glass and smoke.

She remembered that they found that they still needed an escape, some drank, some smoked, some played jokes and games. They escaped into loud raucous laughter that rose up until it bordered on hysteria before subsiding slowly, leaving hiccups and slight tremors in their voices and blushes upon their faces.

Some found temporary solace in each other's arms in the dark of night. Fevered kisses and frantic grasping, rushed words and pleading glances took the place of tenderness, murmurs of love or commitment. It was purely a search for release, for the semblance of normalcy. The pairings shifted, waxing and waning, the relationships fading by the light of day. Fidelity was a luxury afforded those that weren't soldiers, those that weren't prepared to die for a cause. The cause.

After all of the preparation and training, the end had come quickly. A challenge met with the power of love and faith, and then victory. She knew that the storybooks related tales of blazing glory, stunning maneuvers and the strength of one boy's pure heart.

The truth was a little less grand. They did not tell how, after a blaze of light and a whiff of sulfur, the hero dropped his arms to his sides leaned over and threw up on his shoes. How two friends, closer than family could ever have been, ran to him, lifted him up, slinging arms about his shoulders and helped him off of the battlefield.

How one child stood over the fallen body of a man who had been blinded by ambition and greed, and cried silent tears for the memory of a father that never really existed except in the mind of a boy hiding inside of what was now a soldier's heart.

Also not told is how one gentle boy picked up a broken wand from cold stiff fingers and placed it in his pocket, a gift of vengeance to be placed on the alter of his parents shattered minds.

Not recorded are the tedious details of healing the wounded, burying the dead and consoling those that remained.

All that was important in the musty halls of recorded history was that it was over. Right had beat might. The good side had won, but when the smoke cleared, and the dust settled, they had remained, weary soldiers trapped in children's bodies. For an army that insisted that they had no concept of defeat, they were unabashedly surprised when they won. It was almost inelegant in the manner in which they had looked about themselves in shock, blinked and said, well, what now?

They had glanced at each other, shuffled their feet and realized that their entire futures spread out in front of them. Years that were theirs to spend, like handfuls of sickles in a candy store.

Friendships built on strife and toll are bonded deeper than any other union, but they can become uncomfortable to those so involved. Time and distance is sometimes needed to sort through feelings and determine if they can survive the day to day routine of normal life. If your only shared memories are of horrors, the laughter and smiles that follow become fragile in their sheer intensity. If these visions of past deeds and struggles are painful to yourself, then how do you justify reliving them with those that have faced and fought the same nightmares? How do you visit that pain on those that you love?

Nevertheless, they swore to keep in touch, they laughed and talked of intermingled lives, promises of reunions and allegiances. They began the process of gathering the tenuous threads of their lives and weaving together a future where they belonged.

They were humbled by the deeds that they had performed, the challenges that they had met. They were reminded daily of their changed status to the rest of the wizarding world; stares from strangers, smiles, words spoken softly; is that him, them, her, may I shake your hand, hug your neck, thank you, thank you. They became ill at ease in their newfound notoriety. Hermione felt that history would have been better served if they had become martyrs instead of heroes, but they had stubbornly refused to do that one thing that is required of a martyr, they did not die.

She thought about the things that had changed about them. Draco, the haughty aristocrat, developed grace and dignity, he had learned tolerance and that he was worthy of love. Hermione, always the intellect, learned that you could have drive and determination and still be accepting of those not as dedicated, Neville with his gentle soul finally found peace and begin to forgive, Ron, who only wanted to stand out for himself had become an outstanding strategist with a fierce military mind, and finally Harry, the most reluctant of all, he found that sometimes the decisions you make and the path you take in order to survive are not that different from what you would have done if you had been given a choice.

Hermione opened her eyes and looked down at the parchment and thought, that is the stuff of fairytale, the root of legend, the elements of a true hero.

Maybe she would write it down, try to explain that bravery and strength alone do not make a hero, sometimes only the acts are heroic and those that perform them are merely doing what has to be done.

Hermione stood and paced the room for a moment holding the parchment in her hand, or maybe she would write letters to her friends instead. Maybe she would suggest a reunion, organize a get-together - or maybe not.