Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented J.K. Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.
Author's Note: This piece is, in part, a tribute to my brothers and sisters at arms. From this sailor to all of you, I wish you peace and happiness forevermore.
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She stood before the obelisk and bowed her head. Five years to the day after this ritual had begun, and the pain was just as fresh.
She remembered when she was a younger girl, back before magic was something more than a man on the telly pulling a rabbit out of a hat, her parents had taken her on a trip to the Americas. It was Spring, the end of May, and the American muggles had celebrated a day like this. They held small parades that had ranks of men and women in sharp uniforms instead of brightly colored floats, and marching bands that played what she was told were their versions of "patriotic" songs instead of popular tunes. When she'd asked her Mum what it meant to be "patriotic" to an American, her mother had looked off for a moment and then told her that the best answer for that question would be received from one of those so crisply marching by. And so she waited.
They moved with some of the crowd as it proceeded to a small bridge and watched as a woman with tears on her cheeks tossed a wreath of flowers into the waters below. She jumped when three volleys from the seven riflemen sounded, and nearly cried herself when the mournful sound of two trumpeters wove through the air. Soon she found herself with her parents in the crowd at the muggle cemetery, watching, waiting, as the drum rolls sounded and names were read. The men and women in the uniforms stood straight and tall, though as they neared the end and the most recent names were read, she noticed something curious. Even standing there, at full attention and looking so very sharp, some of the uniformed group had tears tracing, unheeded, down their faces. She made up her mind then. She had to know what inspired such emotion in those whom she had read so many books about detailing their abilities to remain stoic under any conditions.
The ceremony concluded, she broke free of her mum's hand and walked purposefully over to the mass of uniform-clad men and women. Boldly, she tugged at the sleeve of a man with a kind face. "Excuse me, sir."
The man turned and looked down, a little surprised at the small voice with the British accent coming from his elbow. He crouched down, "Well, hey there little lady, what can I do for you? Are you lost?" He scanned the crowd quickly for likely parents of this little sprite, and when he saw a couple standing a few feet away, watching the interaction, he turned back to the girl, intrigued.
"No, sir. My mum and dad are right over there. I just want to know, sir, what does it mean to be 'patriotic' to an American? I mean, I know it's supposed to mean to love one's country, but some of you were crying, and I don't know why, and my mum said you'd have the best answer."
The man considered the brown-eyed girl in front of him for a moment before he answered. "That's a pretty big question for such a little girl. But I'll give it my best shot." She was so excited, this was it…but when the man spoke again, it was in a quiet and sure tone, not at all what she had expected from this big man.
"Patriotic, to me at least, means getting up everyday and lacing my boots even when I know that what I'm about to go out and do is going to hurt. It's picking up my wounded comrades when they get hurt and helping them come back, even if that means putting myself in a bit more danger. It means that sometimes I'm going to have to do things and see things that I have never wanted to do and see in my entire life. And it means that tomorrow, I will do it all again, just so that I know that my little brother and sister are safe in their beds at home. And I'll do it for others in other lands, to make sure that someone else's little ones are safe in their beds. Because that is what my country asks of me." He paused for a moment and looked at her again, smoothing back an errant strand of her brown hair that had come loose in the breeze. "And we cry because sometimes, some of us don't come back from those foreign lands, and that hurts more than anything. But we'll still keep doing it, because that is our choice. If keeping someone else safe, if doing what my country asks means that I become one of those names on that list, so be it. I'll do it gladly."
After he had finished, he had taken her hand and led her back to her parents. They had exchanged pleasantries for a bit while her 10-yr-old brain processed what the man had said. She thanked him, and he had given her his address so that she could write to him from England if she had any more questions. They had been pen-friends even after she went off to Hogwarts, until one day, the letter came from a middle-aged woman instead. She had cried the night it had arrived, along with a small package bearing her name. The small wooden box inside had contained two small flags, some military ribbons, and a set of small, metal insignia—all she had left of her American, Staff Sergeant friend. He had done exactly what he had said he would do if it were asked of him.
And now, years later, here she stood. At the side of another friend who had done what was asked of him. Throughout the small yard, others were bowed similarly, laying wreaths of flowers, small tokens of appreciation, or just murmuring softly to the stone. This wasn't quite like what she remembered from that childhood trip, but it was their version of it.
This was their Memorial Day; a day to celebrate everyone who had gone before them. A day for those out there now, living what they believed to be right.
And a day to honor the dead.