Hero

He walks across the grounds of Hogwarts, rain washing away the tears that streaked his age-worn face. His grey hair, usually as dishevelled as it had been in his youth, clung limply to his scalp. Silently, he continues towards the marble tomb, stumbling slightly across the muddy ground until at last he's standing before a single slab of white stone. It's freshly inscribed with words of love and he leans against it, knowing that if he lets go, he will fall.

The lightning-bolt shaped scar across his forehead more vivid than it has been in years, Harry Potter mourns in private, away from the wake where the rest of his friends and family choose to grieve in their own manner.

(*)(*)(*)

She knocks upon the door, tears streaming down her cheeks, hunched over from the weight of the half a dozen heavy tomes stuffed into her bag. Her bushy, brunette curls bounce around her reddened eyes, a few strands sticking to the drying tears on her cheeks. There's a mournful cry from the side of the hut and she forces a smile, trying to reassure the captive hippogriff that it will all be OK.

She fails.

The door opens, and there's a man, tall and strong, gargantuan in proportion with a mane of scraggly, black hair that hides most of his weather-beaten face from view. He sees her tears and exclaims, beetle-like eyes widening as he claps a hand upon her shoulder and ushers her in, gently asking her what's wrong.

Before long, he's coaxed the entire story from her, over two mugs of painfully sweet tea and a tray of homemade rock cakes. Despite her knowing his penchant for poor culinary skills, she nods as he advises her, nearly breaking her teeth as she bites into one of the cakes.

"They hate me, Hagrid," she whimpers when finally he quiets, his well-meant advice not having any effect upon her frayed nerves. "Crookshanks would never have eaten Scabbers, I know it . . . and I had to tell McGonagall about the Firebolt because if it had been cursed then Harry could have died."

"Yer 'ave a good heart, Hermione," Hagrid nods sagely as he sips at his tea, "Give 'em some time, they'll come 'round soon ernuff."

She returns his nod with a timid smile and reaches into her bag to yank out the first book, a ponderous volume about magical law and sets it upon the table. Opening it to the page she's bookmarked earlier, she draws his attention to the excerpts of past magical creature trials.

"I really think we can save him, Hagrid," she says earnestly, eager to put aside her problems and help her friend in his time of need, just as he's helped her and her friends for all of these years.

"I hope so . . ." he mumbles, squinting at the elegantly scrawled words, "I hope . . ."

.

She walks into the Three Broomsticks, once a quiet pub for the villagers of Hogsmeade and the students of Hogwarts, now a bustling restaurant after old Madame Rosmerta had retired and her young, business-minded daughter had taken over. Her age shows in her features as it never has before, steel-grey curls pulled into an austere bun as she leans heavily upon her husband for support. For once, the restaurant is silent and lacking its usual clamour. Instead, it is filled with a sense of melancholy that is fitting for a wake.

Her face is lined with wrinkles, and the tears run through them like rivers, causing the crow's feet on either side of her face to glisten in the soft firelight. Letting her husband, his platinum hair long since faded to white, steer her through the web of tables, she slips into an empty chair beside the fireplace and waves away all offers of food and drink.

Her knuckles white as she clutches at the chair, she looks into the roaring flames and thinks of all the times she's seen the same logs crackle in his tiny hut, sitting in chairs that were large enough to sleep in and chuckling with her friends at her side.

She feels her husband's fingers curl around her wrist, a comforting gesture as she remembers the giant smile, missing a few teeth, and those black eyes which always glimmered, either bright with mirth or dark with sorrow.

'The Gamekeeper of Hogwarts had been a very unique man', she reasoned to herself as she once again waved off Madame Greta, not interested in the butterbeer and food that the Three Broomsticks was so renowned for.

Hermione does not want to eat the delicacies that this restaurant prides itself on. So she sits quietly, fingers linked with those of her husband as she stares into the fire and thinks of what she truly does want.

Soon enough, she finds herself yearning for a mug of overly sweet tea and a cake so hard that it cracks her teeth.

(*)(*)(*)

The scent of spring feels like heaven upon her cheeks, warm and nurturing after the unforgiving talons of winter. She smiles as she settles into the transfigured lawn-chair and gazes across the Black Lake, enjoying this rare moment away from her classes and charges to savour the subtle thrills of nature.

She basks in the late-afternoon sun, letting it warm her tired bones as she closes her eyes, thinking of all that they have lost in the past year, and all that they have built. Like a phoenix, Hogwarts has risen from the ashes with her at its head, burning brighter than ever before.

It's Easter and the children are home, leaving her alone with the House-Elves and a few members of the staff who have no true home other than Hogwarts. Usually there would be at least a dozen students remaining within the castle but not this year – families were still healing from the travesties of war.

There's a heavy footfall behind her and she sighs, not bothering to open her eyes as she speaks:

"It is considered rude to sneak up on a witch, Hagrid."

"I'm 'fraid that at my size, Professor, I ain't be doing no sneaking," he replies, coming beside her and sitting upon the ground. Even like this, with her on a chair and him upon the grass, his head towers over hers. It is fitting, she believes, that a man with a heart as large as his possesses a girth to match.

"That is very true," she chuckles, bringing her hand up to stroke across her scarred cheek, a token remembrance of the battle she had fought not a year prior to this day. She remembers the flash of light and the blinding pain, and she remembers Hagrid coming before her, his giant blood allowing him to use his own body as a shield against the curse that would have ripped her head from her neck.

As always, he had waved off her thanks with a simple, "You would 'ave done the same for me, Professor."

"The castle is almost rebuilt," she notes as the birdsong fills her ears, eyes fluttering open to catch sight of the half-giant beside her. He's still a barrel of a man, but there's a few streaks of silver in his tangled mane that weren't there a month ago, and beneath the wiry curls there are wrinkles and lines that proclaim his age for all to see – if they look hard enough, that is.

It reminds her that she was not the only one to have gone to school with Tom Marvolo Riddle . . . she was not the only one to have suffered for her trust in him. Hagrid had been dealt a worse hand than her . . . yet here he sat, having strove on and on and on.

"And the Forest is healing," he replies, nodding as she smiles and summons a tray of scones and two goblets of pumpkin juice, letting her eyes slide shut once more as she enjoys the silent spring afternoon with one of her dearest friends.

.

She totters forwards on a gnarled walking stick, wisps of snowy white hair peeking from beneath her hat, her face as lined as the bark of an old oak, before finally letting herself sit at one of the tables near the walls. Her brittle bones protest as she leans back, the joints creaking as she turns to face the waitress beside her.

"Firewhiskey," she croaks, her voice crackling like the fallen leaves of autumn, "and a slice of your cherry pie." The waitress nods, a girl fresh out of Hogwarts, and disappears into the melancholy crowd, leaving Minerva to her memories and tears.

She is old . Never before has she felt so ancient and worn, not even when she first saw the grandchildren of her former students, and then later their great-grandchildren, running through the halls of Hogwarts.

Thoughts of days long past fill her mind as she gazes at the beaming portrait upon the wall, a giant of a man playing with a baby dragon as a child may play with a teddy-bear. It's enough to bring a smile to her face, and her lips tremble as she realises that this is the closest she will ever get to seeing him truly grin – through paint and canvas.

The waitress is back and sets the cherry pie and firewhiskey before her, patting her lightly on the shoulder, murmuring a few words of comfort before going about her duties. Minerva shakes her head, content to cry alone. She is the last, after all. Let the children – even those who had grandchildren now – grieve by themselves amongst those they loved.

She raises the glass to her lips, her fingers shivering as the harsh liquid touches her parched lips and she swallows in a single gulp, remembering all the times she'd refused to sit down and drink with Hagrid whilst he was alive.

Minerva nods once at the portrait, a sad smile on her face as she raises the glass as if in a toast, before inclining her head to the left.

"To you, my friend," she whispers, before settling back in the chair and staring at the slice of cherry pie, wishing that it would change into one of her friend and colleague's famously inedible casseroles.

(*)(*)(*)

"You have about as much charm as a flobberworm!" his girlfriend exclaims, pulling away from him and stomping away in the direction of the castle.

"Hermione!" he calls after her, quailing at the venomous glare that she shoots his way as she looks over her shoulder, anger brimming in her chocolate-brown eyes, "I'm trying."

"Try harder," she states simply before striding off, leaving him alone in the Forbidden Forest. When he's sure she's out of earshot, he lashes out at a nearby tree, kicking hard enough to stub his toes through his boots and to scuff the leather.

"Fuck," he yells to himself, turning away and putting his hands behind his head to tug at his own hair. In his zeal, he succeeds in pulling out a few strands, barely feeling the sharp sting as the platinum locks fall to the leaf-strewn ground.

The sound of a snapping twig draws his attention and he whirls, face blanching of what little colour he had as he drew his wand and aims it at the trees, breath coming in short, ragged pants as he surveys the forest around him. If anyone heard their argument . . . no, he couldn't let himself think that. It was probably just one of the creatures that inhabited these woods.

A face appears amidst the bowed branches and Draco steps back, eyes widening as the half-giant steps into the clearing and looks him up and down before speaking in a low voice.

"You and Hermione, eh," he states, "Can't say I saw that wun comin."

"Quite the spat too," he continues, glancing in the direction that the young witch had stormed off in.

"You can't tell anyone," Draco commands nervously, his voice breaking like waves against the cliffs as he keeps his wand up, hands trembling as he blinks at the man.

"Not my business," shrugs Hagrid, "It's gettin dark though, students shouldn't be in the Forest after dark."

Draco nods and stows his wand away, feeling a strange sense of respect welling within him for the man.

"I 'eard what you and her said," adds Hagrid just before he could turn to leave, "Look after her, Malfoy, or I'll string yer up meself."

"On my life," nods Draco, before heading off after Hermione.

.

He sighs quietly as he holds his wife's hand, feeling her pulse between his fingertips as he stares at the portrait upon the wall and waves off another waiter. The restaurant is crowded now, more and more people showing up to bid their farewell to one of Hogwarts' greatest heroes. He wonders, perhaps idly, where they were when the funeral itself was taking place – now though, they flock to the wake in droves, eager to share stories of their adventures and experiences with the old half-giant.

The night is old when the song is first heard, echoing mournfully through the village and castle, lilting through the forest and the across the lake. Draco looks up, noting the change in his wife as she too turns towards the windows and together they stare at the flash of flame across the sky.

The lament of a Phoenix.

It's haunting and musical and a balm to their souls, but it brings back a thousand memories of classes spent in the sun, of unicorns and hippogriffs, of a lesson on thestrals and a battle with a blast-ended skrewt. It's pure magic, sad and powerful, and he bites his lip to stop the single tear that threatens to fall as his wife lays her head upon his shoulder.

He may have never truly known the man, but from what he did, Hagrid's heart was purer than his own blood.

(*)(*)(*)

He's just turned eleven when a door comes crashing down, on a storm-torn island just off the coast. There's a monstrous giant in the doorway, dressed in a coat large enough to double as a small tent. The man bends to enter, his face hidden by a rain-soaked forest of hair, dark and tangled. Two beetle-like eyes stare at him, and the man breaks into a smile.

"Yer look like yer dad, but yer 'ave Lily's eyes," says the man, nodding and giving him a once over before turning on his trembling uncle, and before Harry's eyes, the giant ties his uncle's gun into a bow.

The night passes in a blur of sausages and cake, of secrets and lies and by morning he takes the man's – Rubeus Hagrid's – hand and lets himself be led into a new world.

.

Harry lets the tears fall, hot and heavy upon the marble tomb, and sees them washed away in seconds by the rain.

Shivering in the cold, he reaches into his coat and draws out an umbrella, flowery and pink and he lays it across the cool stone. With a flick of his wand, the umbrella sinks through the stone to lie upon its owner, and Harry turns away, wiping away the tears with a soaked sleeve.

"Goodbye, Hagrid," he whispers, "You truly were our hero."

-Written for Round One of Season Three of the Quidditch League-

Go Falmouth Falcons!

A big thank you to Lokilette for beta'ing this piece.

-Task: Write about the Favourite Character or Favourite Pairing of one of your Teammates-

The Favourite Character I was told to write about was: Rubeus Hagrid

Prompts:

Restriction: No "?"

Setting: Restaurant

Dialogue: "You have about as much charm as a flobberworm"

-Also Written for the Greek Mythology Mega-Prompt Challenge: Theseus (Write about Rubeus Hagrid)

-This Story was nominated for Judges Pick for the Category of Chaser 2.

-This Story placed Third at the March 2015 Fan-Faves at HPFC.