Every war has three sides: the two fighting and the poor sods caught in the middle. This one is no different. The light has its martyrs, as does the dark. We who are on the third side, however, have statistics. We are fence sitters, those unsure of where they stand- and ostriches – those who believe that if they can't see what's going on, they won't be affect them. We have been given many names by the light and the dark: coward, opportunist, faithless, collateral. We are the people who study history and read the news, but whose lives do our descendants only remember as generations pass.

During the first war, my parents retired to the country, avoiding the large cities which had become targets of choice. My father's family raised stock and maintained an apple orchard. I was born into this small community during the darkest hours of the conflict. Mistrust and paranoia hung in the air like London smog despite the fact that our village was far too inconsequential to garner attention from either side.

I received my letter in the same manner as my peers and my parents, their parents and the large majority of my ancestors in years past. The drive to the station was a mix of glad anxiety and apprehension over the years to come. The station represented the beginning of my journey into adulthood. Times were peaceful; the war had ended a few years before. Fear and terror had been banished into our nightmares and subconscious.

Unfortunately for all, this peace was not to last. In my seventh and final year at Hogwarts, the terror of my early childhood began to creep back into my life through a stuttering, nervous professor. At the time, we had no idea that the inconvenience of a closed corridor would be the very least of our worries.

I attended the funeral of a friend three years later. Cedric had been like a younger brother to me. He was all questions and curiosity in his first year but by the time I had graduated he had gained much in the way of confidence and knowledge, emerging as a leader within our house and his class. He was a boy with so much potential to truly be something. Our house had so few people like him. I recognized many past and present Hufflepuffs at his funeral. Most of our house's alumni were far too old to have ever met Cedric, but all had heard of him. They recognized him as someone who could bring back the glory of old that we once possessed when industry, loyalty, and integrity were prized qualities.

In the months and few years that followed Cedric's funeral, more friends and acquaintances fell, some fighting on the light side, some for the dark, and some for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Both the light and the dark recruited in earnest so that they might quickly recover from their losses. The most highly publicized casualties were those Dumbledore and the Lestranges. I attended neither funeral. The Headmaster had never taken an interest in me, so I never had the opportunity to peer inside his office or speak to him. Few students were granted that privilege.

Time passed. "The Boy Who Lived," Harry Potter, and You-Know-Who – (like most, I do fear his name) – were locked in a stalemate. Both sides returned blow for blow. The death toll rose steadily. I stayed in the countryside waiting for war's end not caring who won. I just wanted it to stop.

Toward the end of the war, a friend visited me, imploring me to join the fight. I refused and told him that "I am no warrior. I am not a healer." He accused me of taking the side of the dark. I laughed and told him that I had to tend to my herd and orchard.

"You'll have to choose," he told me. "Neither side will look kindly on those who stood against them."

"I'm not standing against anyone."

"Nor are you standing with anyone."

"When your war is done, you will need people who did not stand to rebuild and re-establish our world."

He spent a few more hours trying to convince me to take a side and left in an angry swirl of robes, wood and straw as he took to the air. A few months later I read his obituary in the Daily Prophet.

The war ended seven years after Cedric's death – (to the day, now that I look at it more carefully). I'm still here. Half of my family's orchards have to be replanted. One of the post-war skirmishes occurred at an uncomfortably close distance. The new ministry is attempting to not repeat mistakes of the past while trying to see justice – and in some cases – vengeance done. My husband, a muggle school teacher, once joked that the British magical governments are overturned more frequently than those of the muggle French are. I did not quite understand because I did not take "Muggle Studies," but I understood his meaning. The world has become more unstable and the future more uncertain.

"The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be." - Paul Valéry

----------------

Thanks to my Betas: Laura and Beth, who edited this well over a year ago.