There wasn't a memorial, and it wasn't because it was too hot for a typical May second in the United Kingdom as the sun beat down upon the earth, depriving it of the dew it so desperately needed between the bouts of rain. No, it was because the while the Wizarding world recognized the War, it was with a clip or a few articles in the Daily Prophet or a station on the radio; not large memorial services, just private ones with friends and family.

As such, classes were in session in the hot noon, just as they were every May second and any other day of the school year, and because of the heat the grounds were deserted, for the outdoor classes had retreated into the shadowed indoors. Yet still one boy stood out there in the heat, gazing at an old wall, cracked by war and weather: an ancient set of stones that had seen so much in their long history.

The blinding sun caused glimmering letters, etched into the stone not long ago, to stand out. They were gold in contrast to the muddy brown of the rock so that someone standing before the wall could read them, and would only appear if the person desired to see the names.

They were the names of the fallen, of those who had died in the War against Voldemort, each written by a different person, each set in a different handwriting. The boy recognized many of the names, particularly their surnames, and it was they that he ignored as he traced the letters with this small fingers.

He reached as high as he could, for the death toll was many, so he could not reach the top, and still he stretched and began to trace. When he came to a name that he knew, he would skip it, such as that of Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, or even his own uncle.

He wanted to honor the fallen, the good and the bad. He wanted to remember those who were never recognized, whose names never saw the fame that death had brought so many others. They were the unsung heroes and villains of the war, and their stories untold, their lives and deaths ignored, their triumphs and sorrows forgotten, and it was they the young boy wanted to know.

Quietly the boy hummed a slow tune, a sad one he had heard his father sing with his uncles one May second past, and for some reason it had stuck in his head. By now his arm had begun to feel burned as the sun shone relentlessly upon him, but he continued to trace. He hadn't been to the wall in a while, not since the last time his eldest sister had gotten into trouble.

After a while his second eldest sister came out to look for him at their parents bidding. She knew she would find him at the wall, and there he was, sitting contentedly as if he didn't notice the unusual heat from which even the insects hid. With a small sigh she took a seat next to him, and stared at the wall, gazing at the names.

She heard her brother humming and recognized the song, and soon she joined him, a calm understanding between them, harmony woven together between their voices. They sat together, even when the bell rang, signaling the end of class and students rushed out to the grounds, or inside from the green houses. They paid the students no mind, and the students ignored them.

The two fell silent and waited for their parents. When they finally emerged they took the brother and sister home, and when together they replied about what they were doing when asked about it, their parents couldn't have been prouder. They were told it was a very grown up thing to understand, that many roles in the war were played, and if even one of them had not been filled, the war could have been drastically changed.

The boy and the girl shrugged off the compliment, not yet wanting to feel grown up, and with a whisper of irony they didn't know, proudly reported to their parents of words at the bottom of the wall that they had never noticed before. They were the words that went with the tune they had been humming…

And Odo the hero, they bore him back home

To the place that he'd known as a lad,

They laid him to rest with his hat inside out

And his wand snapped in two, which was sad.

And as they sang it for their parents, the boy and the girl realized that every hero and every villain has their tale, as long as there are ears willing to hear it; and they felt a little sad as they always did for understanding that some went unsung, and it made them feel a little bit older, to know this, and to see that sometimes growing up wasn't as great as they wanted to believe, that there were unforeseen twists that proved undesirable, that these were unfortunate complications amid the joy, and that all came hand in hand: the sorrow and the happiness, the sung and unsung, and the good and the bad; it was all just a part of growing up.

Thought of the Day: I'm out of ideas today.
A/N:: Guess what. I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER.
So, I'm not entirely sure why I included "Odo the Hero" in this fic, but...mmm. I still have no idea.
As for who the kids are, I always imagined them as Bill's kids, Louis and Dominique, but you can interpret it any way you'd like.
Also, the reason why there isn't a HUGE FESTIVAL on May 2nd in this is because I think that while the Wizarding World would recognize the horrors and the sorrow and death that occured because of the war, and their triumph over Voldemort, I don't think it'd be a big, big deal so many years after it occured. Like, they'd observe it, but they wouldn't celebrate it. It'd just kinda be like, "would ya look at that, it's been nearly 10 years since we managed to off that evil snake!" or something.
See what I'm saying?
Well, that's it for the Un series. Phew, and glad am I. Hope you liked it. Feedback is always appriciated. Sort of like chocolate...