If you touch the sky, it falls down on you.
Or something like that.
I never wanted to be a redeemer, but I didn't have a choice. I finished Hogwarts a year after Harry Potter, and was left by my muggle father to fend for myself in a world torn by war and desperation. Not only that, but I had to take care of my little brother as well, since I was in the last generation to graduate before the school closed down.
The first part, finding a place to live, was ridiculously easy. Diagon Alley was basically deserted, and the flat owners were desperate to rent out their apartments. With the money dad had given me, I rented a little flat next to Flourish and Blotts and moved in with Dennis.
We spent our days in a vegetable-like state, making cups of tea for each other out of boredom and talking about Harry. Harry, who was out there fighting; no doubt, the greatest asset the Ministry had. We knew he'd win. It was just a matter of waiting.
Sometimes I helped Dennis learn how to brew the more complicated potions that he hadn't learned in school, or practice transfiguration. We never duelled each other. There was enough fighting going on in the world.
About two months into the summer, there was a knock on the door. I will never forget that moment when I opened the door to find a bloody Harry Potter on my threshold. He fell forward into the hallway and I jumped to catch him. Dennis and I carried him inside, put stronger wards on the door and revived him.
He told us he needed our help. He couldn't go to any of his close friends, because naturally, that's where his enemies would search for him first. He wanted to stay with us for a few days to regain his strength before he continued this mission he had. We didn't ask him to tell us what the mission was. We just assumed it was very important, so we helped.
Have you ever met one of your heroes? Were they really that great up close?
It was a painful process, realising he was as broken as the rest of us. I'd always pictured him as fearless and strong, but here he was, weak and terrified of every little noise, as if You-Know-Who himself would pop up from behind a damn shower curtain to blast him. He was sitting all day on the living room sofa, staring at a wall or sleeping, and even in his sleep, he jumped at the slightest disturbance.
Something had to be done. And it had to be done by us, because we were his last refuge.
I asked him to look at some pictured I'd taken. They were pictures of burnt houses, of hurt wizards and witches; it was a diary of war in images. It was the only way I knew how to record what the wizarding world was going through, and the best. I know he took one of those pictures with him when he left a week later.
A little girl that had lost her parents, crying over their bodies.
He had a new fire in his eyes. Before there was only anger, murderous fury, even; now there was strength. Now he had a new plan, or so he told us when he said goodbye; again he didn't tell us what the plan was, and again we didn't ask.
The Daily Prophet headquarters were destroyed two weeks ago, so there's no way of knowing what's going on outside. But we don't mind; we know our trust is justified this time, and Harry Potter will save us all.