Not Yet Discouraged

Roger ran.

Everything was insane, and it had all crashed home at the same time. The blight of darkness, knowing that the world was crumbling before his eyes... Roger was no Gryffindor.

When he realised that everything was falling down, he ran.

He wasn't sure where he was running; he merely let his feet guide him as he fled the Common Room, sprinting away from the deluge of bad news and rumours, of half-whispered shadows that grimaced and told of horrifying acts of violence. He wanted to make it stop, make it all go away, but he didn't know what to do, or what he'd need.

He was scared.

Very scared.

He ran up and down the hall of a forgotten corridor over and over, his mind overtaken by some plague of fear as his legs took him back and forth, forth and back.

He almost didn't see the mysterious door that appeared as he made his fourth trip.

He stopped, stared at it, wondering why he hadn't noticed it before. Then panic beset itself on him, and he prepared to run again, only to hear footsteps.

With no other alternative, he yanked the tarnished brass handle, thrusting himself into the room and slamming the door shut.

He stopped to breathe, to let the air finally settle itself in his lungs, before he turned around to see where he had taken refuge.

The room was old, very old, and every single wall was lined with books. Some were so old that the bindings were cracked and the lettering all but gone, some so new that he could smell the scent of fresh leather and ink.

"What is this place?" he asked the books, leaning in. Each book was the same type of leather, the same gold foil stamped into their covers, and yet each one felt different.

These are my children.

Roger flew back from the books, stumbling on the hem of his robe and falling over.

"What?" he gasped. "What? Who's there?"

I am.

"Who are you?"

I am Hogwarts, the voice rumbled, and Roger could not tell if the walls were speaking to him, or if he had somehow gone mad and was hearing voices in his head.

"You- you're what? How can you talk? What is THIS place?" croaked Roger, unsure as to who- or what- he was speaking to.

I am Hogwarts, the voice whispered, And these are my children. The stories of my children.

"Your...children?" echoed Roger. Comprehension bloomed.

"You mean the students?"

Yes. These are the stories of the students, all of them, my children that have walked through here.

Roger got to his feet and rushed back to the shelves, looking eagerly over every book. None of them had a clear name or year on it, but now he understood the feeling of difference between all of them.

You are scared.

It wasn't a question, and Roger sighed. "Yes," he said, figuring that he probably couldn't lie. "I am. A lot."

It is nothing to be ashamed of the voice said, and Roger felt a ripple of warm assurance wash over him.

"It's just so bad," he mumbled, feeling rather embarrassed. He felt the mood of this strange room shift, as if it was thinking. Do you see the book on the very left? it asked suddenly. On the middle shelf.

Roger heard a rasping noise, and he saw a book that seemed to be struggling to set itself free. He trotted over and caught the book before it fell onto the ground.

You're not the only one who's been scared, Roger. And you're not the only one who's been confused. These stories of my children hold thousands of tales, of scared children who did not know what to do.

"I bet," said Roger absentmindedly, holding the thick tome in his hand. The writing was moderately faded, so he guessed the book wasn't more than a century or two old.

"Why is this one so thick?" asked Roger, comparing it to the others.

This story is special, because it's the story of not one child, but three. Three very important children.

Roger looked at the book again, weighing it in his hands. Deciding to take a chance, he cracked the book open to the first page, and read the names written.

"Holy God!" he gasped. "This is Harry Potter!"

And Hermione Granger, the room said, and Ronald Weasley. And in the end, several others, but the true heart of this story is of the three friends.

"What story?" asked Roger. "I mean, everyone knows about Harry Potter, and what he and his two best friends did."

Do they? asked the room, and it seemed to Roger that it was slightly amused. I suppose they know some of it, much of it, but no one will ever know as much as I do. They do not know them the way I know them, and they cannot love them the way I loved them.

Roger opened the book and flipped through it . He was a bit disappointed at first, as at first glance it appeared that only the sparest description had been spared for the life story of Harry, Hermione and Ron in the thick tome.

"This is it?" he asked incredously. "Oh wait, this bit looks interesting. The DA... Dumbledore's Army. In the... Room of Requirement? I've never heard of that room before, I wonder what it is..."

Roger swore that the voice chuckled.

The books only give what needs to be given, it said patiently. I am the one who remembers what happened, what transpired here.

Roger blinked, then returned to the book, flipping towards the end.

To the story of what had truly sealed the legend of the Golden Trio.

"What did they do?" he asked himself, for no one really knew the complete happenings of the Final Battle, as it was known.

He shivered, because it seemed that the last battle was not so final. He knew that had happened before seemed to be on the verge of coming to life again.

Do you really wish to know, child? the voice questioned.

Roger considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I do."

The air stirred and thickened, and the pages of the book flipped back and forth.

My children. My children.

I have harboured secrets of theirs for many years. Harry Potter and his friends were not the first to cross my path, not the first youngsters to take destiny into their own hands. I remember them all, but you want to know about what these children did.

What did they do?

They fought.

They bled.

They died.

They lived.

"They... lived?" asked Roger in confusion.

In their own way, yes. These children- not just Harry, Ron, and Hermione, but also Neville, and Ginny, Parvati and Padma, Seamus, Theodore, Daphne, Susan and Graham, Orla, Luna, Blaise, Dennis- many more, and yet in some ways, not enough.

Roger felt his confusion grow.

The battle was fevered.

Roger shivered.

But War is rarely smooth and cool. They fought here, child. I felt them bleed, cooled their bodies as they lay dying on the ground. I fought to keep them alive as hard as the dark ones fought to kill them.

It starts simply, child. I harboured the one who brought all this thoughtless evil upon my children- I know his story too. I know them all. I know their secrets, and dreams, and fears, and I remember them. Who can forget their own child? I remember the pain- I felt many lives drain into oblivion, and I saw many of my students make their way into whatever place all souls go for judgment.

But the children- oh, my children. They were brave, all in their own way. Courage is not for Gryffindors alone.

Roger felt an immense grief build up and whirl around him, but skirting the edges of the intense suffering and lament were whorls of pride, and of love.

They moved in packs, the dark ones, and they ate my children as surely as their Master bade them to eat death. One by one, they were picked off- but Roger, if you had been there, you would have seen. You would have seen feats that have never been performed before or since. For if there is one thing my children have always known- save a few sad, lost souls I have never been able to salvage- they have known compassion and love.

Roger felt a strange sense of- not foreboding. Of something entirely else.

I saw them save one another, work together. I saw them strike back with a fury and a rage that even evil cannot consume, because it is a fire that burns clean and clear. I saw Susan Bones, fighting to the last, finally hurling herself into a group of Death Eaters and blowing the lot of them up. I saw Theodore Nott take down wall after wall of myself, and I eagerly parted myself for him, because he was leading the young ones to safety.

The light fluctuated, breathed, and for a moment, Roger was caught up in the heat of a pitched battle.

I have seen many bad things, Roger, the room murmured, many terrible things indeed. But I have seen simple acts of kindness, and goodness, and they all came out that night, when Harry, Hermione and Ron faced off with the Dark Lord of their time.

Roger stood, staring at a picture of the three friends, enraptured by the low, rich rumble of the room.

There were few left, at the end, the room continued, and my children knew what I always had- Death does not see colours, or Houses, or family lineage. Blood tastes the same, no matter whose veins it pours from. But still, Harry and his friends plunged on, fighting their way to the Great Hall, fighting for the freedom of you. Of me, Of all those who fought, and all those who cowered in silence. My children have always understood that sacrifices must be made.

And so they blasted and battered their way to the Great Hall, and faced down one of the most evil people I regret to say my four walls sheltered for seven long years. In the end, in my arms, there stood two factions of my students, two siblings divided until the bitter end.

The room seemed to sign heavily, and Roger put a hand on another book for support. Melancholy filled the air, drifting through the candlelight.

It was terrible, my son. I can still feel their deaths, feel the anguish and the anger that filled my stones with blood and tears. Many martyrs were born that day, on both sides. And in the end, as always, there were just the two: Harry James Potter, and Tom Marvolo Riddle- Lord Voldemort.

"What did they do?"

They danced. 'Round and 'round, gracefully firing off spell and hexes, Harry's back watched by Hermione and Ron. For hours, they dueled for the future, Roger, both sides trying to ensure victory.

"But we won," said Roger. "Harry Potter won."

Yes, and no.

"Huh?"

He lost so much that day, my child. He never returned to Hogwarts. But who could? I lost Harry Potter just as sure as I lost Tom Riddle. That is the price he and I both paid. But I knew he loved me, and he knew I loved him. I understood why he left. My staircases and hidden passages run red with the blood of his friends, Roger, and I will carry that taint on my stones until the day I cease to be.

"That seems awful," commented Roger sadly, looking at the bright, eager faces of Harry, Ron, Hermione, and also Neville, Luna, and Ginny on another page.

It was well worth the cost. But do you know why they won?

"No," whispered Roger. "I don't think I really understand."

They won because they kept trying, son. They never gave up. It was harsh and terrible, and my floors are soaked with the tears of the children, who were scared and unsure. They won, my child, through perseverance. That, in the end, is what you will really need.

"Me?" spluttered Roger. "What'd you mean, me?"

Do you not want to be safe? Save your friends? Save me?

"Well, yes," stuttered Roger. "But how can I-"

Do you think, child, the room said sternly, that these children were not scared? Do you think they always had a stratagem? The best-laid plans of battle have never survived first contact. But they fought, Roger, fought when they were scared and running. Bravery is not about being unafraid; bravery is courage under fire, to stand up and charge into the thick of battle when you are scared and want to leave. And these children were scared.

"But I'm not Harry Potter," said Roger sadly. "I'm not really good at anything, I don't have anything."

You have your friends, my son. And you have the students, and they are your family. You don't need mounds of spells or tricky wand-work to fight your battles. You need your friends.

"Bu-but-" stuttered Roger. He jumped when hundreds of books flew off the shelves and landed around the room.

Harry Potter was not the first of his kind, Roger, and he will not be the last.

Roger stared at the clusters of books that pockmarked the floor.

These are my other children, some of them, who fought for me. These are the stories and stuff of legends, from throughout the ages. Some of them died, some of them lived, but in the end, they always triumphed. Evil can never really win, child, not so long as I have my children here.

Roger slumped to his knees, in awe of the many books that flipped open and stirred in some unfelt breeze. He swore he could hear the voices of the students whose lives had been recorded, hear their laughter and sorrow, hear the tales of their adventures.

My children, whispered the room with conviction, and with pride, have never failed me, and I am not yet discouraged. There are many ways to fight, Roger Brahand, and I know you will find your strength. I know you will.

Roger stared at his hands, pale and slim. His friend, Amanda, always said that he had hands like a healer, soft but firm.

Everyone fights in their own way, child, and each is as important at the next. Do what you must, Roger, but do it.

Roger felt tendrils of comfort and faith surround him, fill him, and he nodded.

Go, child, and see what must be done.

Roger stood up, brushing his knees. He carefully set the lives of Harry, Ron and Hermione on the floor, reverently tracing the spine of the book for straightening out.

"Thank you," he whispered, and fled.

The room shifted one last time, and books- the lives- of all the children to ever pass through the doors of Hogwarts gently found their way back to their appropriate spot. All save one, the slimmest volume, which lay a few paces away from where Roger had sat and learnt of all the students who had fought before him.

And had he looked, he would have seen a very familiar name written in one of the books of Hogwarts' many heroes.

His own.

The room seemed to smile down at the slim book, as words began to race across the page surely as Roger raced to his friends.

Never have they failed me, the room said, and they will not begin now.