A/N: The credit of the Harry Potter plot and characters belongs solely to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing of it but my own words.

Burn-out: In Defense of Hannah Abbott

All members of Dumbledore's Army were extended the honor of immediate acceptance into the Auror Training Program, with the exception of Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, whom it seemed were allowed to bypass training altogether. They'd already fought and defeated the most dangerous threat, one even the Aurors couldn't face (though they were mostly corrupt at the time).

So more than a few people raised an eyebrow when they walked into the Leaky Cauldron and saw naive little Hannah Abbott scrubbing up the counter (she preferred doing it the Muggle way). And more than a few simpered, "Dear, sweet child, this is not where you belong."

Hannah would give them a strained smile, pull a quill from where it was tucked behind her ear (her hair was always slathered in ink by the end of the day, but she did it anyway), and grit out, "Mmhm. And what can I do for you today?"

To tell you the truth, she couldn't have cared less where they thought she belonged. She was here, and they were there, and that's all that really matters, isn't it? (But she was much too nice to say that.) Hannah resisted the urge to spit in their drink, handed it to them gently, and said, as warmly as you please, "Enjoy." (Her apron would be wrinkled beyond ironing, from the way she gripped it in frustration sometimes.)

Once upon a time, it'd been her hair, her innocent blonde pigtails, that had born the brunt of her emotions. (But she'd chopped them off, part way through what ought to have been her sixth year.) A blip in her day, a confusing problem, and yank, her hair was in her mouth and she was chewing on it before you could realize she'd moved at all. (Her mother had always hated that habit. Hannah was full of bad habits.)

She remembered the first day of her first year at Hogwarts. Her mum hugged her tight on Platform 9 3/4 and whispered, "Never let anyone speak for who you are," in her ear, like it was their special secret. The secret of life. Her dad tugged one of her pigtails affectionately. (Her mum scowled.)

She remembered cowering in the wake of Sorting, of hearing her name, first, and wobbling up to the stool. Hannah couldn't recall why she was so nervous. She'd always known it'd be Hufflepuff. She worked hard and wore her heart on her sleeve, and in all the years she'd live, she'd never regret it.

The next girl to sit at the table — Susan Bones — was decidedly less excitable, but they became inseparable all the same.

Over the next six years, Hannah learned what it truly meant and took to be a Hufflepuff. It meant being ignored and underestimated and looked down upon. It meant being perpetually in the background and being content in it. It meant knowing others thought less of you and being the better person anyway.

It wasn't easy. Hannah's temper flared whenever the words "miscellaneous," "stupid," and "leftovers" came up. She fumed at the mention of "a lot o' duffers." Couldn't people see that Hufflepuffs were so much more? They weren't brainiacs, but they were hard workers. Not gloryhounds, but they were fair. Not particularly cunning, but exceptionally dedicated.

So yeah, when Cedric Diggory became Hogwarts Champion and finally earned Hufflepuff a bit of well-deserved attention, Hannah cheered as loud as she could. And when Harry Potter seemed to be unable to not be center of attention, Hannah wore a "Potter Stinks" badge, and she wasn't ashamed.

When her hero and friend died, Hannah rolled up her sleeves and sloppily signed her name to Hermione Granger's parchment. Cedric had died because he hadn't expected it. Hannah would.

And when, in sixth year, she got pulled out of class and told her mother had been killed simply for being Muggle-born, Hannah went home. And no, she didn't come back for the rest of the year.

But she wasn't lazy. Far from it.

She went home and found a mass of used tissues and scratchy blankets on the couch, and it looked suspiciously like a human, and it smelled rank, so Hannah cooked a nice, hot meal. And when both she and the mass had eaten, she shoved said mass into the bathroom with a towel, change of clothes, and plenty of soap. Then she cried. And when she looked up at her reflection and saw the pigtails, she just . . . well, she grabbed a pair of scissors and started snipping away.

Hannah spent what should have been her sixth year making sure her father lived to see her seventh, and she didn't regret a thing.

Then Susan showed up at her doorstep.

"You cut your hair," commented Susan in the same composed voice as always. She reached out as if to touch it, but pulled her hand back quickly.

"Hi, Susan," replied Hannah, calmly as she could muster.

"Auntie Amelia died."

Then Hannah wrapped her in a hug so tight she was sure Susan would start gasping for air. Susan sniffed and clutched her even tighter.

Seventh year, Hannah went back, and she rejoined the D.A., and she fought. She fought with everything she had. She watched friends tortured, and she took some of that too, and later she saw people die.

So when the year was over, she didn't go back again. She couldn't go back to Hogwarts. It wasn't the same, and neither was she.

So no, Hannah didn't take her N.E.W.T.s. She walked into the Leaky Cauldron and picked up an apron and never looked back. She left the war behind her, and she didn't miss it. Not at all.

And one day, she glanced up from behind the bar to see Neville Longbottom sitting on the other side.

She remembered the timid, kind boy from Hogwarts. She remembered the confident young man from seventh year. This Neville was a bit of both.

"Oi," she said with a bit of a grin, "what'll it be?"

When Hannah married Neville, he was just starting as the new Herbology professor. She had just been made landlady of the Leaky Cauldron, and she was proud.

"I'm not quitting my job," she had told him confidently when he proposed.

"I'd never ask you to," he responded immediately, steadily.

"My mum once told me to never let anyone speak for who I am," she continued uncertainly.

"Your mum," said Neville, "was a smart woman."

"The best," agreed Hannah, gripping her apron.

(Hannah's hair grew back, but she'd never wear pigtails again.)

Say Hannah Abbott burned out as much as you'd like, that she peaked at 18 and went downhill from there, but Hannah Abbott lived exactly the life she was meant to. And she didn't regret a thing.