Once there was a boy, a very clumsy boy. He was not strong or particularly brave. He went to a school that was no ordinary school, but he kept to himself and generally didn't get good grades. He was intimidated easily and had low self-esteem.
The boy had one talent however, he was very good with plants. And even if his Gran said that it was not a really useful skill, he did great in Herbology.
His roommates were heroes and troublemakers, aways getting into adventures that grabbed the attention of the whole school. His Gran always said he should be more like them, be brave, take risks, be a hero. Like his father had been.
But his father wasn't any of those things anymore and his mother didn't really recognize him when he visited. To be frank, being a hero looked bloody scary.
And time, as it often does, passed. The boy grew. He realized that being a hero was scarier and bloodier than he expected. But not being one was worse. He couldn't watch the world he knew turn to dust. He had to do something.
So he fought and he left his fears locked away. Sometimes it seamed pointless, like childish pranks. But he was fighting and that felt glorious, that felt right. He knew his father would be proud.