Hero
I'm not a hero. I was never the hero. I've known heroes, so don't try to tell me I was one.
I played Quidditch and I dozed through lessons and I plotted with Padfoot to flood the Slytherins' bathroom. Nothing mattered outside of us, and me, and ways to fill the boredom our cleverness thrust upon us. No need to do the homework; we could manage it in a few minutes next day. No need to revise; knew all that stuff like we were born to it.
Moony always had to work. Never seemed to mind - I think he loved it, loved the words, at least. Loved to read. Loved to know that he was working to gain his knowledge, enjoying the careful path he walked where every step took him closer to completion. We could never be bothered with that. Much easier to let it come to us in flashes of brilliance, lazy as a sunbeam on the lake.
I've known heroes. Moony. I reckon you could call Moony a hero. Not the sort who rushes off to save people, no. But he just keeps on going, every day, every minute. He smiles and he speaks politely and he's always, always so kind to people, no matter that the world has been so cruel to him.
I'm not a hero. Dumbledore praised me to the skies - after he'd finished taking points from Gryffindor - when I pulled Snape back from Moony's teeth. Hated every second - it would've pleased me not long before - but I knew that I'd never been in danger. I could've transformed - Moony wouldn't have hurt Prongs, even if he tore Snape apart. Dumbledore told me, told Snape, told Padfoot, that I'd risked my life to save him. Snape hated me for it. Padfoot, should've known better, but he still believed Dumbledore then, and for a while he hated me too. I was the hero, and Moony forgave me before he forgave Padfoot. And I hated myself for being called a hero, when I'm not a hero.
I'm not a hero. I've known heroes. When I was seventeen our head of house died protecting Moony, Padfoot and I from the danger we'd so blindly stumbled into. He didn't even flinch from it - he just ordered us to run, like he'd ordered us into detention so many times before - and we obeyed, unthinking, because he didn't sound scared or angry or resigned. He sounded like he'd be there afterwards to punish us if we disobeyed, not like he'd be dead a handful of heartbeats later, still and cold on the ground in the echoing flare of green light.
They call me a hero, and I'm not, I never have been. My whole life has been nothing but selfishness, looking out for myself. Looking out for my friends, yeah, but they're an extended circle of selfishness, really. Another part of me, to be protected. Looking out for Lily, for Harry.
He came up the path, and I couldn't move for seconds. Then I shouted - I told Lily to run - I grabbed my wand and I waited, and he didn't even blow the door apart - just unlocked it, turned the handle, entered as calm as you please as if we'd given him a spare key.
We didn't speak. I used the shield; he used avada kedavra.
I heard the beating of wings, and then it was over, and even my death did nothing to save them. Lily, my Lily - gone on the next moment, offering up her own life for our son's, a thousand times more the hero than I.
And me? They call me a hero, but I'm not. Not really. I wish they'd stop telling my son that I am.
I've never been a hero.
- end -
I'm not a hero. I was never the hero. I've known heroes, so don't try to tell me I was one.
I played Quidditch and I dozed through lessons and I plotted with Padfoot to flood the Slytherins' bathroom. Nothing mattered outside of us, and me, and ways to fill the boredom our cleverness thrust upon us. No need to do the homework; we could manage it in a few minutes next day. No need to revise; knew all that stuff like we were born to it.
Moony always had to work. Never seemed to mind - I think he loved it, loved the words, at least. Loved to read. Loved to know that he was working to gain his knowledge, enjoying the careful path he walked where every step took him closer to completion. We could never be bothered with that. Much easier to let it come to us in flashes of brilliance, lazy as a sunbeam on the lake.
I've known heroes. Moony. I reckon you could call Moony a hero. Not the sort who rushes off to save people, no. But he just keeps on going, every day, every minute. He smiles and he speaks politely and he's always, always so kind to people, no matter that the world has been so cruel to him.
I'm not a hero. Dumbledore praised me to the skies - after he'd finished taking points from Gryffindor - when I pulled Snape back from Moony's teeth. Hated every second - it would've pleased me not long before - but I knew that I'd never been in danger. I could've transformed - Moony wouldn't have hurt Prongs, even if he tore Snape apart. Dumbledore told me, told Snape, told Padfoot, that I'd risked my life to save him. Snape hated me for it. Padfoot, should've known better, but he still believed Dumbledore then, and for a while he hated me too. I was the hero, and Moony forgave me before he forgave Padfoot. And I hated myself for being called a hero, when I'm not a hero.
I'm not a hero. I've known heroes. When I was seventeen our head of house died protecting Moony, Padfoot and I from the danger we'd so blindly stumbled into. He didn't even flinch from it - he just ordered us to run, like he'd ordered us into detention so many times before - and we obeyed, unthinking, because he didn't sound scared or angry or resigned. He sounded like he'd be there afterwards to punish us if we disobeyed, not like he'd be dead a handful of heartbeats later, still and cold on the ground in the echoing flare of green light.
They call me a hero, and I'm not, I never have been. My whole life has been nothing but selfishness, looking out for myself. Looking out for my friends, yeah, but they're an extended circle of selfishness, really. Another part of me, to be protected. Looking out for Lily, for Harry.
He came up the path, and I couldn't move for seconds. Then I shouted - I told Lily to run - I grabbed my wand and I waited, and he didn't even blow the door apart - just unlocked it, turned the handle, entered as calm as you please as if we'd given him a spare key.
We didn't speak. I used the shield; he used avada kedavra.
I heard the beating of wings, and then it was over, and even my death did nothing to save them. Lily, my Lily - gone on the next moment, offering up her own life for our son's, a thousand times more the hero than I.
And me? They call me a hero, but I'm not. Not really. I wish they'd stop telling my son that I am.
I've never been a hero.
- end -