What defines a hero? Superhuman strength? The ability to shoot lasers out of their hands like those Muggle comic books? Is it bravery that distinguishes heroes from the crowd? Honesty? Integrity?

My father had none of these. But he was still my hero.

When I was five, I asked my father about the strange black tattoo on his forearm. He hit me across the face. Hard.

My mother dabbed essence of Murtlap on my bruised, swollen cheek and begged me to never mention it again. I was sent outside to play, but curiosity led me back inside the dark house. I heard something. A sound I’d never heard at the expansive manor I called home.

Crying.

I know, I know; curiosity killed the kneazle. But I couldn’t help myself, and before I knew it, I was on my knees, peering into the majestic library. My father sat hunched over at his desk, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. At the time, I was beyond bewildered, but I think I understand better now. My father – the proud, dignified idol I looked up to – was ashamed.

When I grew older, I went to Hogwarts, and there, thanks to History of Magic, I learned the truth. The truth about Death Eaters and war and the Dark Mark. The truth that my father, my childhood hero, was hardly a hero at all.

At that point, I began severing ties with my family. I was already in Slytherin – that couldn’t be helped – but I refused to defend their twisted pureblood ideals. By the time I turned seventeen, I had left home to move in with my best mate’s family. A few years later, I was married to my longtime girlfriend and we had a young son. Life couldn’t have been better.

Then the unexpected happened.

I got an urgent message from my mother – my father was at St. Mungo’s, and he was dying. I remember I Flooed there, because I was so shaky I would’ve splinched myself for sure. I don’t know what I expected. A tearful reunion? A cold rebuke for my being a horrible son?

It was neither.

My mother was crying silently as I knelt by his bed. It was a struggle to form words. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry for his dark deeds? His failure at fatherhood? I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. His gray eyes, full of shame, were desperately seeking repentance.

So I forgave him.

But something still tugged at me. My thoughts drifted to my own son, sleeping safely at home, and I tried to imagine him leaving the family, renouncing any connection with me. It was beyond painful.

“I’m sorry, too,” I finally confessed.

My father’s face relaxed and I was still holding his hand when he left the world.

The rest of the night after that is hazy. I remember I didn’t cry, but walked home, stunned and dazed.
I didn’t cry at his funeral, either, a solemn affair with speeches full of empty words. They called him a “hero” and a “great benefactor to the community”, and praised his “accomplished life.”

No one knew how much of a hero he really was.

He might not have saved the Wizarding World or defeated a Dark Lord, but, in his final moments, he set aside his dignity and showed remorse for what he had done. And that’s hero enough for me.