Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter


My father's a hero. They say he's a legend. They still stop and stare in abject fascination at his scars when he passes by. I think that's why we live in muggle England. Mum's family is the only reason we're still in Europe, I think.

Dad doesn't much like the attention though; for the most part he ignores it. Only I think he was having a bad day and he snapped at one of the reporters that can't seem to find a better story than that of a saviour whose victory is seven years passed.

The greasy man had asked what his biggest regret about the war was. Father seemed to think it was a stupid question. His face had clouded with rage and his fist clenched. I think the only reason he didn't punch the reporter was because of mum's hand resting lightly and firmly on his arm. Instead he bit out an answer. "The whole thing. Only an idiot doesn't regret war." Abruptly he turned on his heel and left mum and I hurrying after him.

He has a shot glass in his hand now. He does this every once in awhile. He'll pour some whiskey into it and sit in his chair staring at the fire. And he'll never take a sip. In the middle of the night I'll creep down the stairs. Dad will still be sitting in his chair and his eyes will be glazed like he'd drunk. And the glass will have the same amount of whiskey. A soft brown colour in the firelight.

Gently I'll take it from his hand and put it back in the bottle. He won't say a thing; neither will I. Silently understanding his need for the tranquility. Those few moments in the dark of the night when he can pretend the war didn't happen. So he doesn't regret anything.

Only tonight is different. I couldn't sleep and when the clock strikes twelve I'm wide awake. I open the door softly and he doesn't acknowledge my presence. He never does and I don't mind. My father has demons, the likes of which I could never dream up. I fear one day they'll see me and haunt me like they haunt him.

So I take the shot glass full of whiskey from his drooping hand and when I usually hurry from the room I pause instead. The words of the reporter have been playing round my head all day. I turn slightly so I can see what he sees. The fire killing the wood. Licking at its wounds, making them worse. Torturing as it slowly eats at its body. And whisper escapes from my lips.

"What was the hardest thing you had to do?" For a moment I fear he will answer. But the only sign he heard is the slight flutter of his eyelashes, I might have imagined it in the flickering light. A few seconds more. Silence. Finally I turn and leave him to cackling fire and his demons.