Elements
Neville Longbottom was earth. Even in the years he spent far from the school, his clothes still smelled, quite distinctly, of the Hogwarts greenhouses. So did Neville himself, who has spent so much time there that the earthy smell seemed to have sunk into his very skin, comforting and deep. Earth, he was a steady, reassuring presence. Earth, he nurtured those around him. Shy, stuttering children seemed to blossom under his care as he showed them, ever so gently, the best way to coax a Mandrake out of its pot. It was as if this quiet, brave veteran of the Last War, with pale, twin scars gracing his cheeks, somehow understood them. Then the empty pot he was holding would fall and shatter on the greenhouse floor when crazy Miz Lovegood walked in, babbling away to him in the middle of class about her latest search from something called Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. And a few of the shyest students caught the look in his earth-dark eyes as he watched her and thought, perhaps, that they understood.
Luna Lovegood was water. Perhaps it was all the time she spent scouring the summer rivers for Plimpies or trying to talk to the giant squid, but water seemed to be a part of her very body. And not just the usual percentage, either, but nearly overflowing—floating just behind her strange, mercurial eyes or her shimmering hair, barely held back by the dam of her skin. Water, she was forever unpredictable. One moment she was spouting the wildest notions of the world, the next her chatter condensed into a gentle stream of comfort that left whoever found themselves floating in it warm and amazed and, somehow, reassured. Water, she flowed into whatever container was offered to her, swirling and wild and at ease with everything, her silvery eyes matching those of ancient Ollivander as they roamed together through the dim maze of his store, Luna absorbing the location, makes and peculiar habits of wands, the magics involved in their creation, with an ease that only water can manage.
Ginny Weasley was fire. It shone not only in her blinding-bright hair, but in her eyes too, their brown depths shimmering and glittering like flame. Fire, her warmth was a balm to those around her, thawing frozen hearts, soothing old wounds back to health, and shielding those around her from freezing dark, from ice. But cross those she loved, and the gentle glow in her eyes disappeared, leaving them bright and blazing. This change alone gave warning before her magic roared out against her enemies, overpowering them with crippling heat and roaring flames, through which she appeared like some ancient, dark-eyed goddess, shimmering like the sun on a desert horizon. Fire, she brought intensity to everything. In later years her children ran about her, flame-haired and green-eyed, rollicking in her wake like sparks around a bonfire. Her joy was contagious, setting everything around her to a warm and merry fire. Fed by air, she climbed higher and higher, laughing and blazing like the sun.
Harry Potter was air. No matter how deep underground, underwater, in forests, caves, or dungeons, everything about him smelled of a Quidditch pitch, glowing with breezes and morning dew. Air, he was tornadoes, hurricanes, raging against his enemies as they were swept away by the howling winds, swift and fierce and blinding and wild. Seconds later, he was a soft breeze caressing fire's hot cheeks, fingers cool and gentle in the haze of July. Around him, everyone seemed to breathe easier, assured that the world would survive. He was essential to everything, even to darkness, for evil only becomes itself juxtaposed with good. Harry, embodiment of opposites—unpredictable and dependable, dangerous and loving, fighting against overwhelming forces and yet somehow triumphant and, finally, at peace.
Earth, water, fire, and air. Together they rebuilt the world.