[A/N: Written for MNFF's monthly challenge 1 using the theme of "What it Means to be a Hero" by Annie of Gryffindor.]


Her quill scratched noisily against the piece of parchment on the desk before her as her hand moved back and forth across the page, hurriedly scribbling down everything she could remember. Although the details were still vividly fixed in her mind, a dark sense of urgency hung over her, pestering her to write all of it down as quickly as possible -- and so she obeyed.

For a moment, she paused in her writing. Letting the quill fall out of her hand, she sighed and tucked the loose strands of hair that had fallen over her face behind her ears. A quick glance at the small clock holding down one corner of the parchment told her two hours had passed since she last checked the time. She winced and shook out the cramps in her hand before picking up the quill again, dipping it in a small ink bottle, and returning to her work.

Reflecting back on it, I find it ironic how he was nothing to everyone out there fighting but everything to me; how those last few minutes between us never affected anyone's life but my own. No one but me saw him take his dying breaths, and no one but me heard his last words. It's amazing how that one small exchange between us defined my future but was brushed aside by the world.

Where do I even begin? Is it possible to explain those emotions coursing through me in words? Is it possible to explain any of it in words? I don't think it is, but I will try my best to do it anyway.

The sun was still high in the sky when we found him. He was weak; Voldemort's followers had already tortured him to the point of near death by the time Hermione and I intervened and drove them off. After helping me to overcome the Death Eaters, Hermione left. Her last words before she walked away were these: "Be careful. They're after you." I should have told her to heed her own words of caution, I should have told her to watch her step as well. But I didn't, and after that afternoon, I never saw her again.

When Hermione had disappeared entirely into the shadows surrounding the clearing, I turned my attention to him. Even though I had built up a resistance to gore over the long months of the war, nothing could have prepared me for the image of him lying there, broken. It sickened me to the core. Blood seeped through his robes from the cuts and other wounds his thrashing about had caused, ugly black bruises the size of my fist marred his pale skin, and worst of all, he was shaking -- not a faint quivering, but a violent convulsing, as if he were reliving his worst nightmare in his mind. The freckles on his face stood out in sharp contrast against his sheet-white skin, and were only enhanced by the look of pure agony and terror etched into his features. Why do I remember these details? Because I fixed that last image of him into my mind, swearing I would never forget it -- and I haven't.

I tried not to cry, but I could only hold back the anguish so long. By the time he was able to open his eyes and recognise me, I was sobbing over him. By that time, night had fallen and the forest around us was dark. It seemed to press in on us from every side, a foreboding reminder that we could be discovered by Death Eaters any moment. Nevertheless, I stayed here, weeping profusely but still managing to hold his limp hand tightly in mine.

At long last, I was able to gather up the strength to say three words: "Are you okay?" Funny how the first thing I asked him was the question with the most obvious answer out of all the answers to the other questions floating around in my mind.

In response, he closed his eyes again. I could see the corners of his thin lips twitching. He was trying to smile for me.

"Don't," I begged. "Don't waste your energy. You'll need it later."

He tilted his head slightly to the left in an attempt to shake his head. Then, he spoke. In a rasping, trembling voice, he whispered, "There is no later."

"Stop it!" I cried, my voice high-pitched. He winced; the volume of my voice was painful on his ears. "I'm sorry," I added apologetically, lowering my voice, "I-I just...I..."

"You don't have to say anything," he murmured. He then bit his lip and sighed.

I gazed in fear at the expression of anguish twisting his facial features. At that moment, I would have given anything to ease his pain, anything. But I was only seventeen; I had no knowledge of healing spells. I was helpless to do anything but crouch there and watch life escape him with every breath of air he exhaled.

"You know," he said suddenly, his voice weaker than ever, "we never got the chance to talk. To really..." His voice trailed away and it took him a moment to find it again. "To really just talk..."

"We can talk now," I said desperately. "We can talk when this is all over. You'll be fine, I promise. We can talk all we want about school, about life, about ourselves, when everything is back to normal, because I promise you it will be."

"Promises are just words...They can't fix me, and they...they can't determine the future." A series of heavy coughs wracked his body then, and I was horrified to see that he was coughing up blood. When he stopped, he was shaking more than ever.

"I can't see you like this," I whimpered, resisting the urge to bury my face in my hands and will it all away.

"Oh God...it hurts..." he groaned, giving off no indication that he had heard my last words.

I let out another sob, unaware that the tears streaming down my face were falling onto and soaking into his robes. "Stop it, I can't stand this."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his eyes still closed. "I don't want to hurt you...You're so brave, love...you've fought for so long, watched others die...and I can't...All I can do is...all I can do is give up."

"No!" I said hysterically. "No, you have more courage than I'll ever have! Don't you understand?! Not many people can face death like you're doing right now...but don't, don't give up yet."

He sighed again, a feeble, dry sound that reminded me of a breeze ruffling the leaves of a tree. "When I was young, all I wanted...was to be a hero. I wanted to save people...to be glorified by...what I did...to die for someone."

"Dying for someone isn't what a hero does!" I said, resisting the urge to try to shake some sense into him. "You, you're a hero just being who you are. Just for having the strength to say all of this. But please, keeping hanging on. Letting yourself go isn't going to help anyone."

"I'll try not to as long as...as long as you don't let go of me." Then, to my surprise, he managed a small smile. It seemed to take all of the energy he had left in his body to just force that smile onto his face, but he did it.

"I'll never let go of you," I whispered fiercely.

He sighed for a third time. "Do you remember that time when I helped you practice your Patronus?" I may have been clutching at straws, but at that moment, I could have sworn that, miraculously enough, his voice sounded stronger as he said the words.

"Yes," I whispered, jumping at the chance to distract him from death thoughts. "We worked into the night because it was so hard for me to produce a corporeal Patronus. But you were patient and you kept encouraging me and giving me tips."

"It was a giraffe, wasn't it?"

"Yes," I said again, unable to keep a small laugh from escaping despite the fact that I was still crying. "I would have preferred something more graceful, but you told me your favourite animal was a giraffe."

The laugh that issued from his lips was cut off immediately by another bone-jarring round of coughs. Once he was able to breathe again, he grimaced and clutched his side with his free hand. "Only because your Patronus was a giraffe," he whispered, his voice weaker than ever.

"Don't say anything," I said, frightened by his worsening condition. "Save your breath. I'll talk to you."

He moved his head a quarter of a centimetre down to express his gratitude towards my suggestion.

I closed my eyes, willing away the panic that was rising in my throat. Forcing a smile onto my face, I began to narrate every moment between the two of us that stuck out in my mind.

"I remember when we first met in second year. I can't believe we never spoke to each in first year. I wish we had; it would have meant more time for us together. But still, it wasn't until second year when we were partnered together in Charms that we started to talk. That was before the attacks.

"Third year was when we became friends. I still remember the time we went to Hogsmeade in February with Hannah and Ernie and had a snowball fight. Merlin, I was freezing and soaking wet by the time we returned to Hogwarts but I was so incredibly happy. We had so much fun together as just friends.

"Then in fifth year, I really started to notice you. As...something more."

At that moment, I opened my eyes and looked down at him. He was lying still, and for a heart-stopping second, I was afraid he had died. Then I saw his chest rise up and down, and relief flooded through me -- he wasn't dead; he was resting. I continued, keeping my eyes on him this time.

"The first time we shared a butterbeer together without our friends around in The Three Broomsticks...that was amazing. And then you kissed me. I must have been floating on clouds for the rest of that month. Maybe even longer.

"You were so perfect to me. You always bought me gifts and chocolate. I still have all the cards from the chocolate frogs you gave me that year. There must be at least fifty of them. But I never got Cliodna. I told you that one time when we were sitting under the willow tree by the lake, and do you remember what you said to me? You told me I didn't need that card, because I was more beautiful than her. I think I fell in love with you then."

I was too choked up at that point to continue, so I simply lifted his hand and pressed my lips to it. The coldness of his skin frightened me, but I didn't let go.

"Are you awake?" I whispered.

"Yes," he murmured, opening his eyes to look at me. They were dark with pain, but he still managed to fix them on mine. "Thank you for that."

"I should go get help," I said nervously, biting my lip and looking at his twitching limbs.

"No," he said desperately, "don't...don't leave me..."

"But--"

"Please, don't."

I nodded. "Okay," I whispered. "Do you want me to tell you more of what I remember?"

He shook his head, wincing as he did so. "No, let me speak."

"Are you sure?" I asked worriedly, knowing that his remaining strength was steadily ebbing away.

"Yes." He then gritted his teeth in pain and tightened his grip on my fingers. I opened my mouth to say something, but he continued on. "I told you that I wanted to be a hero when I was younger. It was every little boy's dream...I wanted to save people...but you were right. A hero isn't defined...defined by how willing you are to die for someone else. Saving others isn't always literal. But I never knew that before I met you. When I first laid eyes on you, I was different...I had shut myself away from the world...I was afraid to let anyone in because of my blood. I didn't think I belonged. You changed me...you saved me. You made me realise...how much I truly did belong at Hogwarts...and why I was chosen to be a wizard. You're a greater hero than I'll ever be, Susan."

"No!" I gasped, terrified by the somber note in his voice. He spoke as if the words he were saying were his last. "Justin -- don't say that -- you've faced greater dangers, you saved me -- do you remember, you saved me from the Death Eater -- you've been --"

But I was interrupted by his sharp intake of breath. The remaining colour in his cheeks seemed to drain away as he rolled over onto his side, coughing up blood violently. I watched all of this in panic, not knowing what to do. I tried to grab onto his arm and steady him, but he jerked away. And then, his shaking finally stopped and his body became still. I knelt there, waiting for what felt like years for him to turn around and smile faintly at me again, but he never did. He never smiled at me again.

And so I crouched there in that clearing for the rest of the night, hunched over his limp form, weeping endlessly. The sun rose on pools of my tears intermingled with his blood. I don't know how long I stayed there, but I stood up and left eventually. Hours after I walked away from his body, I killed the first man I'd ever killed. And I continued to kill and torture, I continued to take away the lives of the Death Eaters that had taken away a life that meant more to me than my own.

Justin was right. My promise of better days was never fulfilled, for even though we won the war, things were never back to normal. When the war ended, we were all changed people. But no one was more affected by it than I was, because none of them sat there through the night, watching Justin die. No one but me saw him take his dying breaths, and no one but me heard his last words.

She dipped her quill in the ink bottle again and wrote the words The End at the bottom of the page. Then, she dropped the quill, rested her elbows on the desk, and buried her face in her hands. Writing down her story had taken a toll on her both physically and mentally. Her eyes drifted to the clock. It now read 1:01AM. She had been writing for ten hours straight.

Picking up her quill one last time, Susan shuffled through the sheets of parchment scattered about on the surface of the desk, searching for the first one. She found it after a few minutes and pulled it towards her. Then, she placed the tip of the quill against the page and scrawled down the following words:

This is the story of a hero, as told by Susan Bones.