People look down on bureaucrats. I know my siblings certainly do. We are seen as tedious busy bodies, taking far too much time on inconsequential things and doing work that has no real benefit, while the heroes and warriors are out fighting dragons. But when I was ten, my father took me to work, and I looked into the eyes of a tired, worn-out scroll-pusher who had helped to save lives in the war every day, and would probably never be thanked for it.
As a child, evacuations had always unsettled me. The warnings would come through the Floo system at any hour of the day or night, and we all had to be ready to pick up and move. Mum would pick up the babies, while I helped Dad corral the twins, and make sure to leave a window open so that the pets could get out if the house caught on fire. We Floo-ed to a government facility, a protected place where scared people gathered together and tried to track down their friends and loved ones to make sure they were still alive. Mum and Dad had all of their Order connections, so this was not their only source of information, but for so many families, this was all they had as their line of defense against Death Eaters. We would wait while officials went down great lists and checked that people had made it in safely, taking note of all those who had yet to come. And those who never did come. Plenty would go back to their homes later and find rubble and ashes. And maybe they would take a moment to think about what would have happened if the warning had been five minutes too late.
The war passed, and life went back to its normal routine. I grew older, and the sting of fear from the war faded a bit, although I can never completely say it has gone away. The year before I left for school, my father took me to work to show me what he did all day. He walked me through department after department, introducing me to people, telling me what they did. At one point, we stopped in front of a small desk in the Department of Magical Transportation, Floo Regulation Panel. A man named Barnes sat there, a small, slight, tired-looking man. He shook my hand and gave me a smile while my father explained what Mr. Barnes did. He was in charge of coordinating evacuation messages: receiving notice of the incoming threat to an area, connecting to all fire places in the danger zone, and sending out the messages, all within as small a span of time as possible. He had been at his job for twelve years.
This man was a hero! A real life hero, who might have even saved my life, completely unbeknownst to me. As a child, it had not occurred to me that someone needed to do this, that the warnings did not come out of thin air. But people were passing by his desk without giving him a second glance! The pile of scrolls on his desk was huge, and empty cups of tea across the shelves showed signs of long nights. I scanned the walls and didn't see any sort of commendations. It didn't look like anyone really noticed him, despite what important work he did every day, both in times of war and times of peace.
I left for school with my head full of images of Mr. Barnes, the hero that people did not notice. I knew from a young age that I was not cut out to be a fighter; I was the most intellectual of the brothers, something that has earned me my share of bruises over the years. Maybe, if I studied and worked hard enough, I could be one of the people who saved lives on the other side. But I would not be content to be unnoticed. I wanted to be the best, to have people acknowledge my accomplishments. I wanted to be a scroll-pusher, but the best bloody scroll-pusher there was. My siblings could have the duels and races; I was going to be a hero anyway.