You are eleven when they claim you, branded as sure as if it were the Dark Mark burned into your skin. They robe you in crimson and crown you in gold, and you call yourselves the princes of magic.
Yours is the house of kings and mudbloods, heroes and traitors. You live louder and burn brighter than any other house. Yours is the honor, the glory, the fire, and the destruction. As for the rest, well, they have their safety; you have given up yours for them. What does it matter, then, if you have taken their joy? They can rejoice in your success, your triumphs, your Quidditch Cup and victory banners. The greatest among them aspires only to be your cup-bearer while you scarcely notice their existence. Kill the spare, Voldemort said, and while you regret Diggory's death more than you can say, you sometimes think that perhaps he was extraneous after all. You and your housemates are the heroes; he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
You tell yourself that there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin, but when you close your eyes at night, all you can see is Wormtail, pale and traitorous, gaping back at you with empty eyes. So you cling to what you have been taught. Hufflepuff is the daffodil that twists and dances in the wind and willowy Ravenclaw bends before the force of evil, while sinister Slytherin chokes out life and goodness like a weed.
The Slytherins… for all their evil, they know. You hear them in the corridors and the Great Hall, whispering foolish Gryffindor, laughing over your audacity or mocking how you rush into things without thinking. You hear but you do not listen, for there are greater things in life than security.
You are the oak tree; you will stand firm. You vow that you will not falter, will not bend, will not betray those you love. But you are weak, and in the end, you cannot stand against the raging gale.
You see, oak trees never bend. They only break.
And your blood flows down, crimson, like a robe.
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Author's Note: I have no doubt that the house that has produced so many heroes has also produced a number of martyrs. I had no particular character in mind when I wrote this, though I think it would suit Harry, a Weasley, Sirius, or any one of a number of nameless Aurors. For anyone who's interested, the inspiration and title for this fic came from my college alma mater, which includes the phrase "true and valiant". I think it suits the Gryffindors very well.
This is my first fic, and reviews and suggestions are much appreciated. Thanks!