2 May 1998

Neville followed Ginny into the Great Hall, holding little Rose Zeller securely in his arms. The thirteen-year-old girl was still whimpering for her mother, sobbing into the front of Neville's robes. The sound went through Neville like physical pain, but he willed himself to keep a clear head and focus on getting her the medical attention she needed—the large purple bruise flourishing up her collarbone looked worrisome.

"Where should I take her?" Neville asked Ginny in a low voice, glancing around the Great Hall. All around, witches and wizards were milling about, crying over bodies, drinking potions, and comforting one another. The hall was abuzz with hushed murmurs. It was hard to tell where the grief ended and where the help began—or if there was even a distinction at all.

"To the far left of the hall," Ginny murmured, glancing down at the silently crying Rose with a pained expression. "My mum's taking care of the younger ones."

Neville looked around and saw a tearstained, white-faced, but resolute-looking Mrs. Weasley sitting on the floor beside a small, mousy third year Gryffindor named Euan, supporting his back as she applied Dittany to a painful cluster of burns on his ankle. Neville felt a warm, fierce rush of affection for the woman.

"I w-want my m-mum," Rose wept for the fifth time, quaking in Neville's arms. "I w-want to go home…I don't w-want to fight anymore—I d-don't want to—"

"Oh, Rose, I know," Ginny whispered, gently smoothing back Rose's wispy brown hair. "And we'll get you home soon, I promise. My mum's going to take care of you, now, all right?"

Ginny's voice was like magic; Rose's sobs settled slightly and she gulped for air, nodding tremulously. Neville shot Ginny a grateful look, which she countered with a faint smile, and the two of them—Neville still carrying Rose—began to walk down the Great Hall, towards Mrs. Weasley. But then, halfway there, Ginny came to an abrupt halt in her tracks. Neville glanced at her, frowning.

"Ginny?" he asked worriedly.

But Ginny didn't respond. Her eyes were wide and vacant. Very slowly, and almost as though in a trance, she turned and set off in the opposite direction, towards where Seamus Finnigan was kneeling on the flagstone floor—beside Colin Creevey's body. Neville closed his eyes, feeling the invisible weight on his shoulders swell.

Then, Rose let out a soft moan, and Neville startled, coming back to himself. Hollowly, he continued down the hall towards Ginny's mother.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he asked, as he reached her.

Mrs. Weasley looked up at him. "Oh—hello, Neville, dear," she said in a faint voice. She looked at Rose, whose eyes were squeezed shut in pain. "What's happened to her?"

"She's hurt," Neville said, without preamble, as he gently lowered Rose down onto the floor next to Euan. "I'm not sure how it happened—she doesn't remember."

"I see," Mrs. Weasley said in a soft voice, staring at the bruises near Rose's collarbone. A crease appeared between her eyebrows. "I—I think I may need to go and get Poppy for this. Would you mind staying with her for a moment, Neville?"

Neville nodded mutely, and Mrs. Weasley turned and hurried off towards where Madam Pomfrey was applying a very thick, tarlike paste to a gaping wound on Firenze's flank. Neville clenched his jaw and knelt down beside Rose, taking her hand. Then, almost against his better judgment, he turned and glanced around the Great Hall, taking in the scene.

Along with Madam Pomfrey, Hannah Abbott and Alicia Spinnet were spearheading the healing efforts, distributing pain potions as necessary and expertly murmuring healing incantations. Neville saw several faces he recognized, and each was like a dull blow to the stomach. Angelina Johnson's forehead was wrapped in bandages. Cho Chang's right arm was in a thick cast. Ernie Macmillan's entire body seemed to be under some sort of dark paralysis, and Susan Bones and Luna Lovegood were bent over him, determinedly waving their wands at his legs. But the worst was Lavender Brown. The left side of her face and her neck were covered in thick, angry red slashes, and she was barely conscious, her head lolling back and forth. Dean Thomas and Parvati Patil were each clutching one of her hands.

The dead lay in a row in the center of the hall. Again, Neville spotted many familiar faces. A quiet Ravenclaw girl in his year that he had often seen in the library. A sweet-faced, sandy-haired Hufflepuff girl that he vaguely remembered from Herbology. Ginny and Seamus were still kneeling around Colin's body, obscuring Neville's view of him, but a few feet away from Colin lay Fred, pale and peaceful-looking. Most of his family had scattered to help tend to the wounded and to help bring in other bodies from the grounds; only George was still slumped on the floor next to his twin. He looked comatose.

Next to Fred lay Professor Lupin and his pretty, pink-haired wife—whose voice Neville had heard often on Potterwatch, whom he remembered well from the battle in the Department of Mysteries, from the battle in the Astronomy Tower. According to Ginny, Bellatrix Lestrange had killed her. Neville's blood seemed to boil, his heartrate accelerating.

The largest knot of people surrounded a body at the far right of the row. Terry Boot's neck and arms were scarred and disfigured, his face almost unrecognizable and covered in angry slashes just like Lavender's—but unlike Lavender, he was lying very still. Michael Corner was sitting with his head in his hands, so Neville couldn't see Michael's face, but Anthony Goldstein—who was kneeling by Terry's feet—was staring down at his friend's body with a deadened expression. Padma Patil was sobbing into Anthony's shoulder, and he was stroking her hair, but Neville wasn't sure he even realized he was doing it.

"Mr. Longbottom, your grandmother was looking for you."

Neville startled, tearing his eyes away from the horrible scene. Madam Pomfrey was standing over him, her eyes worn and heavy. A chill stole over Neville.

"G-gran?" he stammered, jumping to his feet. "She's not—she's—"

"She's completely fine," Madam Pomfrey interrupted firmly, touching Neville's arm. "I believe she is currently taking care of Miss Johnson."

Neville looked across the hall and saw Gran carefully tipping a goblet of pain potion into Angelina's mouth. Leaving Madam Pomfrey with Rose, Neville turned and walked towards her. She looked up and caught his gaze when he was a few feet away—and then, for the only time in Neville's memory, her eyes filled with tears.

"Neville," she gasped, hurtling forward and throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Neville, you're all right…you're all right…" She drew him very close, clutching him tightly to her chest, and Neville swallowed the enormous lump in his throat and wrapped his arms around her, patting her back.

"'Course I am, Gran," he said softly.

Gran pulled away, her arms still on his shoulders. "Of course you are," she agreed firmly, sounding much more like her usual, no-nonsense self. Then, she gave him a shadow of a smile, and Neville's heart gave a slightly painful jolt. He had seen that smile before—it was the same smile that Gran wore when she spoke of Neville's father.

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, inexplicably, Neville felt an enormous rush of emotion overcome him. Never before had he felt so overwhelmingly for his parents, who had laid down everything they had for him, sacrificed every inch of themselves to bring down Voldemort—and just like that, Neville was filled with a powerful, ruthless anger, mingled with a fierce determination, and he knew exactly what he must do to end the grief that surrounded every inch of the hall, creeping into the castle from every crevice, spreading its despair and misery. Kill the snake.

Neville glanced down at his wristwatch and cleared his throat, clenching his jaw. "Gran, I've got to go do something."

Gran stared at him, opening her mouth to respond, but at that very moment, there was a resounding BANG from the front of the Great Hall, as the large double doors flew open. Neville and his grandmother whipped around simultaneously, reflexively drawing their wands, along with nearly everyone else in the hall—but it was only Ron and Hermione. Gran lowered her wand, releasing a sigh of relief, but Neville did not. A chill was creeping up his neck; Hermione's cheeks were stained with fresh tears and Ron's face was white to his lips, his eyes wide with terror.

Neville watched with mounting dread as the two of them dashed down the length of the hall, towards where Professor McGonagall was conversing softly with Ginny's parents and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Hermione and Ron came to a screeching halt in their tracks and began whispering hysterically. A second later, McGonagall clapped her hands over her mouth, her face draining of color. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley looked devastated. And Kingsley's expression had grown very hard.

"What is this?" whispered Gran, sounding fearful. "What's going on?"

"I don't…" Neville trailed off, watching as Percy, Bill, George, Ginny, and Fleur Delacour hurried across the hall to join the small group. Ginny grabbed Ron's elbow, saying words that Neville couldn't hear, and Ron leaned down and whispered something in her ear. Ginny dropped her brother's arm, staggering backwards—and then, it hit Neville, like a punch in the gut—Harry was not with them.

Whispers were flying thick and fast around the Great Hall now, as all eyes zeroed in on the tight-knit cluster standing in the center of the room.

"I'm going to go and speak with Minerva—" Gran began decisively, but she was cut off by a different voice—high, and cold, and terrible, as it filled the room, echoing through the walls and ringing through the atmosphere—

"Harry Potter is dead."

Screams and shouts of terror rent the air. Gran gave a strangled cry of disbelief. Feeling as though his stomach was falling away, Neville turned, almost in slow motion, and looked at the Weasleys again. They all looked horrorstruck, immobilized, their expressions frozen.

"He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him."

A surge of white-hot anger filled every nerve, every cell in Neville's body—and he was not the only one. An angry buzz was reverberating through the hall, as, all around, witches and wizards leaped to their feet, glaring up at the ceiling.

"You filthy, lying bastard!" snarled Seamus loudly, his entire body shaking with fury, his hands curled into fists—and there was a riotous cheer of agreement.

"We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family."

The rumble of angry voices in the hall was steadily becoming a roar; Neville almost didn't hear what Voldemort said next.

"Come out of the castle, now. Kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."

Seamus swore vociferously, making a rude hand gesture at the ceiling, but nobody else said anything; everybody seemed afraid to move, waiting for further instruction—whether from Voldemort or someone in the Great Hall, Neville wasn't sure. Neville stared straight ahead, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

At last, it was Professor Sprout who spoke. "Minerva," she said softly, fearfully, from where she was standing with Professors Flitwick and Trelawney. "What should we do?"

Professor McGonagall turned and looked at Professor Sprout, opening her mouth to respond, but no words came out—for the first time in all of the years that Neville had known her, she looked truly lost for words. Worse yet, she looked broken.

Silence filled the Great Hall again. And then, for the second time that night, the answer seemed to come to Neville from somewhere deep within—a fire, raging fierce and wild in his core, filling him with a kind of courage that made every bone in his body snap into place—kill the snake.

"We've got to go outside," he said loudly, his voice cutting sharply through the deathly still atmosphere. "We can't stay in here. We've got to keep fighting. We've got to go out there and meet them, head-on."

"Neville," gasped Gran, trying to catch his hand, but Neville shook his head and stepped out of the way.

"With or without Harry, we know what we're fighting for," he continued, his voice rising, echoing throughout the hall, filling every ounce of stunned silence. "We know why it's important. We may have lost Harry tonight, but we can't let him—or anybody else we lost—die in vain. We've got to keep fighting, for all of them."

There was a long pause, as Neville's words settled into the atmosphere. Swallowing heavily, Neville glanced around at the hall.

Then— "Hear, hear!" roared Seamus, raising his wand and shooting a shower of dazzling red-and-gold sparks into the air. "I'm in!"

"So am I!" bellowed Dean, joining his best friend, his face set and determined.

"Me, too!" cried Parvati, wiping her cheeks and squaring her shoulders.

One by one, the members of the Great Hall climbed to their feet and drew their wands, voicing their agreement. The Weasleys moved to form a formidable line near the double doors of the hall, with Hermione, Ginny, and Ron at the head. Kingsley, jaw clenched and eyes blazing, stepped forward, as well. And then, at long last, something inside McGonagall seemed to reawaken and resolve itself, and her pale face flooded with color, a fierce, powerful determination that radiated through the Great Hall, filling Neville with fresh confidence.

"Excellently spoken, Mr. Longbottom," she said piercingly, and Neville heard a distinct note of pride in her voice. "Everyone, follow me."

There was a mad rush for doors, as the forty or so remaining fighters in the Great Hall—injured and otherwise—hurried to follow McGonagall outside. Neville saw Angelina, bandages and all, head for the door with Alicia, Katie Bell, and Oliver Wood, followed by Susan Bones, who was assisting a pale, still somewhat-paralyzed Ernie, and a Cho whose right arm was in a sling. Swallowing heavily, Neville clenched his wand and turned to face his grandmother.

"Gran, I—"

"Now is not the time to doddle, Neville," Gran said sharply, seizing his wrist and pulling him forward. "We must go and meet him—precisely like you said."

Neville blinked rapidly, allowing her to drag him out of the Great Hall.

The air outside was warm and muggy, settling onto Neville's skin like a suffocating cloak. He fell into step between Luna and Ginny. Neither Ginny nor Luna greeted him; they all walked forward mechanically, numbly, without conscious thought.

And then, Neville saw them—a mass of dark cloaks, silvery masks. A chill welled up in him, and he quickened his pace, leveling with McGonagall, who was still at the head of the pack. Neville squinted through the darkness, searching for Harry's face, but he did not see it—and for one, glorious moment, he thought that Voldemort had been lying—

"NO!"

The terrible, terrible scream pierced Neville's heart like a knife, and he whirled around just in time to see Percy, George, Seamus, and Dean leap forward to prevent Professor McGonagall from running towards Hagrid, who stood with the Death Eaters, positively quaking with grief, holding a dark figure in his arms—

Neville's mouth fell open, his mind going blank. Next to him, Ron and Hermione had begun to roar in anguish. Hermione had actually fallen to her knees.

"No!"

"No!"

But the worst, by far, was Ginny, who was sobbing brokenly and fighting fiercely against her father's restraining arms, desperate to reach Harry. "Harry!" she screamed, clawing at the air, her breathing shallow and jagged. "HARRY!"

The cries of Ron, Hermione, and Ginny seemed to startle the other fighters out of their paralyzing stupor. As one many-headed beast, the crowd converged on the Death Eaters, shouting and swearing, crying and cursing, their voices echoing in the still evening air. But Neville did not join in on the abuse—his eyes, wide and unblinking, were transfixed by the dark form lying in Hagrid's arms…it was impossible…impossible…Harry could not be dead…Neville had just seen him, he had just spoken to him…

A jolt of something electric shot through Neville's heart. With every ounce of effort he could muster, Neville forced his gaze away from Harry's limp, lifeless body and redirected his attention to the thing that was coiled carelessly around Voldemort's shoulders—the snake.

It was enormous, a vivid, poisonous shade of green, easily twelve feet long and as thick as Neville's thigh. But its eyes were the eeriest of all—beetle-black and slit-shaped, they leered at the crowd with an almost human-like amusement. Gripping the handle of his wand so tightly that he could feel his knuckles turning white, Neville thought furiously. He had to act fast…he had to do it…but he had only one shot—there was no room for error—

"SILENCE!" shrieked Voldemort suddenly, launching a jet of the brightest light directly into the crowd. Immediately, Neville felt his throat seal itself, and he knew, judging by the sudden stillness of the crowd around him, that everyone else had felt it, too. "It is over!" Voldemort spat, his red eyes glittering dangerously. "Set him down, Hagrid, at my feet, where he belongs!"

He pointed his wand at Hagrid, and the groundskeeper—glaring at Voldemort with a terrible, fierce, grief-stricken hatred—was forced to lower Harry's pale body onto the grass. Neville stared at it, gritting his teeth in an attempt to dislodge the enormous lump that had risen in his throat.

"You see?" crowed Voldemort gleefully, pacing back and forth in front of Harry's body, his arms spread wide. "Harry Potter is dead! Do you understand now, deluded ones? He was nothing, ever, but a boy who relied on others to sacrifice themselves for him!"

The red eyes were dancing with cruel amusement, but Neville could do no more than gnash his teeth and glower at Voldemort—until Ron stepped forward, red-faced and shaking with rage.

"He beat you!" he roared at Voldemort, and miraculously, the spell sealing Neville's throat vanished. The answering chorus of shouts from those standing around Neville was such that Voldemort, his idle amusement quickly replaced by cold fury, had to fire a second, more powerful spell into the crowd of fighters. Neville choked on his voice, his eyes streaming, but he pressed his lips together and stood upright, refocusing his attention on the large green snake. Then, very slowly, he began edging away from the crowd…away from McGonagall…away from Ginny and Luna, Ron and Hermione, and the rest…and towards Voldemort, who was still speaking, coldly and maliciously. Clenching his wand tightly, Neville dug his heels into the ground, preparing to launch himself at the serpent. It was now or never.

"He was killed while trying to sneak out of the castle grounds," Voldemort sneered, and the Death Eaters around him jeered and laughed. "Killed while trying to save himself—"

Neville charged, his wand held aloft and pointed at the snake—but the answering Disarming Charm hit Neville with such force that he toppled to the ground, yelling in pain. Wandless, he fell, sprawled out on his stomach at Voldemort's feet, barely five feet away from where Harry lay on the grass, unmoving. Heart pounding against his ribs, Neville looked up and saw Voldemort standing over him, his serpentine eyes flashing, as he flung Neville's wand aside.

"And who is this?" Voldemort hissed venomously. "Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight, when the battle is lost?"

Trembling with fear and fury, Neville struggled to climb to his feet, opening his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by an insane peal of laughter, and he turned just in time to see Bellatrix Lestrange break away from the knot of Death Eaters and join Voldemort, her chest heaving and her eyes gleaming.

"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord!" she shrieked, cackling. "The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"

The acknowledgement of his parents—by Bellatrix, no less—sent a fresh wave of anger crashing through Neville, and he stopped struggling, curling his hands into fists.

"Ah, yes, I remember," Voldemort said smoothly, his lipless mouth twisting into a cold smile. "But you are a pure-blood, aren't you, my brave boy?"

Neville glared at Voldemort, his body now rigid with rage. "So what if I am?" he spat.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock," Voldemort told him, his cruel smile widening. "You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

Voldemort's words echoed in Neville's ears, and in that instant, Neville felt every last shred of fear leave him. He gaped up at Voldemort in disbelief, blood rushing to his head, paralyzing him with shock and outrage—he was unable to comprehend the words—that Voldemort genuinely believed that Neville—Neville—would ever, ever join his cause—

"I'll join you when hell freezes over!" Neville roared, punching the air, not caring that he was wandless, defenseless, at Voldemort's feet. "Dumbledore's Army!"

The answering roar from the crowd startled Voldemort, Bellatrix, and the rest of the Death Eaters. Neville heard Bellatrix stifle a gasp, and saw a few of the Death Eaters stumble backwards—and a burning satisfaction welled up in him.

Voldemort raised his wand and shot another Silencing Charm into the crowd, his faced contorted with cold rage—but something was not right. Neville's throat did not seal itself—he could still speak. He heard a few hushed, confused murmurs from the fighters behind him and realized that he was not the only one.

"Very well," whispered Voldemort at last, and the danger in his tone alone seemed to do what all of his Silencing Charms were failing to; Neville tensed. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it."

Voldemort raised his wand and brandished it, and Neville instinctively squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the curse, thinking of his grandmother, his parents, professors, and friends, but the curse did not come. Moments later, Neville heard the distant sound of splintering glass and he looked up to see something worn, dark, and distorted soar through the air from one of the castle's windows, landing softly in Voldemort's pale, spidery fingers—the Sorting Hat. Neville stared at it, utterly nonplussed.

"There will be no more sorting at Hogwarts School," Voldemort said harshly, holding the hat up for everyone to look at. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone." Voldemort turned and looked at Neville, his eyes glittering venomously. "Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

And before Neville could begin to make heads or tails of this pronouncement, Voldemort slashed his wand through the air. There was cry of fright from the watching fighters, but it was quickly stifled—and the Full Body-Bind Curse hit Neville with the force of a thousand bricks, and he felt himself turn to ice—but once again, something was very, very wrong—there was feeling in his nerves, he could move his fingers—and his toes—he could twitch his lips—Neville stared up at Voldemort in shock—but Voldemort hadn't noticed anything. He was staring at Neville as arrogantly and as coldly as ever. Stepping forward, he roughly forced the Sorting Hat onto Neville's head, pulling it over his eyes and ears. Neville heard movement behind him, and he could imagine the fighters of Hogwarts tensing and converging. Meanwhile, faint rustling from in front of him told Neville that the Death Eaters were preparing to retaliate—but Voldemort's muffled voice sounded quite unconcerned, as he continued to speak.

"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me," hissed Voldemort.

Neville dimly saw a burst of red light from under the folds of the hat, and felt a blast of tingling warmth wash over him—but the pain did not come. He heard screams of shock and terror behind him, but he did not care—this was his last chance—his only hope—he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, thinking furiously, Help me! Help me! You promised me I was a Gryffindor! You promised me I had what it takes!

The hat did not respond—but then, to Neville's shock, it contracted, squeezing itself around Neville's head—and then, with an almighty thud that caused stars to erupt in front of Neville's eyes, something very hard and very heavy landed atop his skull—at the same time that the air suddenly exploded with what sounded like thousands of footsteps, thundering from the direction of the school's boundaries.

And now, Neville acted without thinking. The fire in his heart, pounding through his veins, was telling him exactly what to do. In one heart-stopping streak, Neville hauled himself free of the Body-Bind Curse and whipped the Sorting Hat off of his head. It was in flames—but somehow, Neville could touch it without being burned. Glancing wildly around, he saw hundreds and hundreds of reinforcements storming onto the lawn, firing curses at Death Eaters, bellowing spectacularly—Grawp and the centaurs were swarming Voldemort's giants—and there were cries of horror as arrows and curses, alike, landed among the Death Eaters, forcing them to dissolve their rigid formation—

A flash of the brightest red-and-silver caught Neville's eye and he looked down at the hat in his hands. And once again, without a moment of hesitation, his heart telling him precisely what to do, Neville reached into the folds and withdrew the sword—the sword of Godric Gryffindor.

Confidence and certainty burning into every muscle in his body, Neville whirled around and sought his target—the scaly green beast, jeering on its master's shoulder—and for the smallest split-second, Neville could have sworn he saw a shadow of Voldemort's own fear and anger in the monster's eyes.

The silver of the sword's blade seemed to blaze through the darkness of the night like lightning, attracting every eye in the vicinity, and as Neville brought it down, he thought of his parents—of Harry—of Professor Dumbledore—Professor Lupin and his wife—Fred—Colin—Terry—and everyone else who had ever sacrificed anything for the sake of Voldemort's destruction, the man responsible for so much wrong, so much hatred, so much death—and in one fell swoop, the snake's head was off, circling through the air—and its body landed with an unimpressive inelegance at Voldemort's feet.

Author's Note:

Three cheers for Neville, our favorite awkward underdog-turned-hero! Neville's the man! :D

This was written for Screaming Faeries's Ice Cream Factory Challenge on HPFC. My characters were Neville and Voldemort, and this was the first scene that popped into my head. And I couldn't stop thinking about how significant this scene was for Neville...so, naturally, I had to write it from his POV. Heh.

Hope you enjoyed this! I'd love to hear from you regardless.

Ari