I’d like to say that I wasn’t told what it would be like when I signed up, but that wouldn’t exactly be true.  When I showed up at the school after the first attack on Hogsmeade, I was told outright it would be bloody, hard work – and blood hard.  That little joke was told by the redheaded bloke with the twin.

I didn’t mind the hard work.  I’m Muggle-born and straddle both worlds, working as a construction worker in the Muggle.  I made enough to allow me to live comfortably.

Yet I vowed to fight after my sister was raped and her family – even my infant nephew – was murdered by Death Eaters.  They were killed for no other reason but being Muggle-born.

These last weeks on the front lines have been hard.  Skirmishes that have one or more of us screaming under Cruciatus or dying by the Killing Curse have hurt morale.  On more than one occasion we find a Death Eater, usually newly-minted and barely out of school, just inside our lines and dead by something, anything, other than the Killing Curse.

A whisper started in the front room of the house we’re holed up in:  “He’s here.”

As unlikely as it seems, we’re led by a boy barely out of school himself.  I heard he’s tried to push others forward as a leader, but no one accepts anyone but him.  Though I doubt that story, I say nothing when its told to me.

Pushed along by the tide, I make my way to the front room.  There he is, flanked by the other two of his closest entourage.  The bushy-haired woman – I only know Harry Potter’s name, not theirs – leans into Harry, whispering something rather urgently.  He sighs, then smiles.

The interaction reminds me of my sister and her husband.  Though my heart hurts at the memory, I smile wistfully.  Remembering doesn’t hurt quite as much anymore.

Harry works the room, both the bushy-haired woman and tall redheaded bloke next to him at all times.

When he makes his way to me, the first thing I notice is how tired he looks, how dark the circles are under his striking green eyes.  He has a new scar, this one across his cheek and down to his jaw near his ear.  Hell, for that matter, both the woman and the redhead have scars – his is the worst, a vicious-looking red welt curving down his neck from his ear and disappearing into his collar.

Harry takes my attention from the redhead by taking my hand and shaking it.  “Thank you,” he says.  Even his voice sounds tired, rough with lack of sleep.

I don’t reply with anything but a tight smile.

The three continue to work the room, speaking at least a few words to every person here.  Some of us look heartened by Potter’s words, others bemused.  None look angry.  That surprises me given that he’s the one You-Know-Who is after.

After my two hour shift in the Scots December weather, I huddle under three blankets in front of the fire.  She’s there, the bushy-haired one, curled up in a large chair with a book.  We say nothing to each other, existing quietly together instead.

The redhead moves behind her.  He catches my eye, then holds a finger to his lips.  I nod.  I won’t give him away.

To both our surprises, she huffs, slams the book closed and tilts her head back to look up at him upside down over the back of the chair.  “What do you want, Ronald?” she growls.

A smile twitches at my lips as I watch his flustered response, then devolves to chuckles when he bends and catches her lips in a deep kiss.  When their lips part, she seems dazed and he walks away with a new spring in his step.  She huffs again, but this time it doesn’t seem annoyed, and reopens her book.

Potter enters the room just as I start to feel my toes again.  He perches on the edge of her chair, arm flung across the back, crowding her.

“Go away, Harry,” she mutters, turning a page.

“Hermione,” he begins, but is cut off.

“Go away, Harry.  You and Ron are both all over me and all around me when we’re out there, give me some space in here.”

He sighs, drops a kiss on the top of her head, then leaves the room.

She looks up, meeting my eyes.  I say nothing, despite being uncomfortable viewing obvious cheating.  She raises an eyebrow and I duck my head.  Silence stretches between us, more awkward by the moment, despite the fact we don’t know each other, and I’m only acquainted with her by reputation.

After several minutes, she sighs, closes her book and stands.  I slide my eyes from the fire to her face.

“Not that I owe you an explanation, but they know about each other.”  She shifts her body weight from one foot to the other before continuing, “Have a good evening.”  Though I have the feeling she was going to say something else, with that, she quits the room.

Though it shouldn’t matter to me, the fact the three names and faces of the war are involved in such a manner does make me uneasy.  Yet their presence here, their continued existence after fighting Death Eaters and You-Know-Who for so many years despite their young ages, does lighten my heart and make my burden lighter.