A Soldier's Daughter

We have a little ritual when ever my daughter returns home from school. We pick her up, drop her things off at work, and then take her and some of our family out to lunch. We have a pleasent conversation, with vague answers to questions about her school life. Then we get into our car, and go back home.

And then the real answers come out.

Hermione, bless her heart, can never seem to hold back on what's happened in her school year. We hear every detail; three headed dogs, deadly games of chess, wild rides on winged horsebirds... it's the stuff of bad fantasy tales, sometimes.

She's sleeping right now. Her father and I helped to smooth some soothing potions on her skin, right where a jagged line dances on her chest. It almost reaches her neck, but bless the Gods, it missed all major veins and arteries. She's so small, and seems fragile. But that's a deception. My child is as strong as steel.

Most mothers, in their right minds, would be going insane from worry. They have no wish to watch their children be injuried, and not nearly as horrifically as my daughter has been. As I sit and contemplate her future, I mentally review every scar that adorns her skin. Her father and I have discussed it many a time. We know every scar, from the small one under her kneecap she got falling off a swing, to the tiny one behind her ear that she recieved when her head hit the floor her second year, when she was Petrified. My daughter has more than looked Death in the eye; she seems to call on him for tea on a regular occasion.

I fear for my daughter. But I will not hold her back.

It seems mad. Most parents would force their children from that school, if they knew what happened. Basilisks in the plumbing? Giants in the forest? But I will not remove my daughter. And we, her father and I, have our reasons.

Hermione will rarely send home a straight forward message. She hasn't since she became friends with two boys, Harry and Ron. She does this because she has always been aware of the outside world, of hostile forces. Letters can be intercepted, altered, or tracked. Our names, her name, and the names of the people around her are never mentioned in these letters. It's a precaution she takes, and a very wise one at that.

Perhaps I should explain.

Hermione, as you may have noticed, is not the typical girl. Her interest in feminine things is practically non-existant. This is because of the way we raised her.

I am a soldier's daughter, as is she. My father fought in World War Two. Her father fought in Vietnam. My father-in-law also faught in World War Two. In fact, that's how I met my husband; they had befriended each other in a trench, somewhere in France. My father invited my husband's father over while I was in Uni, right after Vietnam. My husband came along, and he never left. My daughter is the result of generations of soldiers.

And it shows.

I marvel that she never backs down. She tells of us this war that has been called on in the Wizarding War. A war of blood, and principle, she calls it, and I think she's right. She's dedicated her life to it, and what right have I to tell her no?

Perhaps you think me an unfit mother. Hermione would berate you if she heard you call me that. She understands the complexities of war, the under lying themes that play in it. Can I deny an asset to the side of Light? What kind of person would I be if I told them no, you cannot have this person who has aided you time and time again?

Hermione was always taught to stand up for herself. She was already railing on the injustice of an unfair world when I took her to her first day of primary school. "It's not right, mama," she told me, "and I'm going to change it!"

Children always believe that they can change the world. But my child is already starting to push the wheels of the universe as hard as she can. Where most would moan and complain, and wait for the adults to fix things, she has taken the world in hand and is changing it as she lives, day by day. She believes that so long as she works, and tries, and refuses to give up, then she still has a chance.

And she's absolutely right.

My baby also understands that it's not easy. She's already paid the price manifold times. She is ridiculed, scorned, pushed, and abused. She spent months in a coma, Petrified. Yet she continues to push, and pull, and scream with all the fury a small woman can muster.

Hermione understands that the other side will not compete with her rules. There will be foul play, and underhandedness, and dirty tricks and schemes on their side.

But she also knows that she doesn't have to stoop to their level. She is riding on the tides of Revolution, but she will do so in a manner that when she stands before whatever God there is on her Death Bed, she will be there with a clean conscience. One can fight fairly, and still win. It just takes more work, more dedication. More sweat, blood and tears.

And she's willing to give her cause all that, and more.

She's not looking to be a hero. I don't think it ever crosses her mind.

I do worry for her, though. I weep in fear that I will get a letter, telling me how sorry they are, but my only child, my answered prayer and my salvation, is dead. It is every parents fear. My husband sometimes has nightmares. Every time she leaves, I want to lock her in her room and throw away the key. No mother wants to suffer the pain of watching their child leave them. But I know that I must let her go. War isn't fair, isn't right. It's an ugly thing, and no matter who wins, so many pay the price.

But Hermione is a soldier. She will not abandon her fellow servicemen in their time of need. She knows better. And I think I am a good enough person to know that I cannot ask her to do such a thing, no matter how much it tears me up inside, the space between the letters we recieve. She has a duty, a duty that requires sacrifice on many levels and of many kinds. I can hear Hermione weep, sometimes, for the sacrifices that have already been made, or forced. Tonight, she is crying for two people : Sirius Black, who gave his life in a battle for another, and for her best friend, Harry, whom she knows must weep alone in this. It hurts her, that she cannot be there for him. A soldier is never truly alone, in heart, so long as their buddies stand with him. But it can be lonely when you're alone in hostile territory. She barely refrains from kicking down the door to the Dursley's house and beating them mercilessly with whatever's on hand. Just barely can she hold that temper.

I can hear her settle down and sleep. My husband went to bed hours ago, and it's just me in the sitting room, pacing and looking at my own pale reflection.

I admire Hermione's strength. I know she's terrified, not for her own life, but for her friends and family. She fights endlessly to protect us, in any way she can. My heart breaks to see her so worried and tired. I want to gather her in my arms and let her weep into my shoulder, like she did when she was so much younger. But I don't, and she wouldn't let me. Tears are for later on, when battle is done; they only waste time beforehand. So we must keep it in, no matter how scared, or exhausted, or worn out we are.

She must be strong for them. For all that she defends and protects and avenges. She cannot falter for them. So I will be strong for her, just as I was strong for my husband, and my father, and so many others have been for those they love. In some ways, she acts as my mother, for a mother will work endlessly to make her child's world a better place. We are silent bastions of strength, and hope. All we can do is support our little warrior child. And remember, and fight for her as she fights for us, tirelessly, endlessly, as we must. I am a soldier's daughter.

And a soldier's daughter never cries.