for amber. love you :3

988 words by google docs

He had never felt more empty inside.

Everyone had gone to sleep hours previously, but Neville couldn't seem to shut his brain down. He knew that the war was over, that remaining Death Eaters were taken into custody, but his brain couldn't shut out the paranoia that had haunted him for the past year—always afraid that someone was coming, someone was going to kill him, kill the people he loved.

He couldn't remember the last time he had a full night of sleep, and the war being over would be the perfect opportunity to catch up on the several hours missed, but the war still lingered over him, like a dark thundercloud over his thoughts.

So far, Neville had spent a good three hours in his old Gryffindor dorm, awake, listening to the soft breathing of Harry, Ron, Dean, and Seamus. It had almost felt like his was back to a simpler time, when they were just five boys, who came together by happenstance, the Sorting Hat finding the bravery in each of them.

The Sorting Hat had brought them together. The Sorting Hat, which had sat on Neville's head only a few hours previous, burning his body, leaving him with marks that might not ever go away, Fiendfyre being one of the worst types of magic.

His brain swirling, his head aching, Neville pulled on sweatpants and decided to walk around the school.

He already knew that most of the school would be destroyed, having done a lot destroying himself, but as he descended the familiar wooden staircase from his dormitory, Neville marveled at the fact that the Gryffindor common room seemed to be untouched. There was no fire crackling in the fireplace, but every chair was still there, waiting for the students to lounge around on them, doing assorted homework and talking about everything and nothing.

It was the place where Hermione had cursed him with petrificus totalus, making him as stiff as a board. It was the place where he had sat, waiting for news about the lone student taken into the Chamber of Secrets. It was the place where he had hung his head in shame, having left the common room's passwords lying around. It was the place where he had enjoyed the celebration after Harry defeating the Hungarian Horntail. It was the place where he had gotten the terrible news that Bellatrix Lestrange escaped from Azkaban. It was the place where he witnessed Ron get his first girlfriend and wondered what it would be like to get his own. It was the place where he left, finding comfort in the Room of Requirement instead—and it still didn't change.

Neville paused by one of his favorite chairs, tucked away in the corner of the big room. He brushed off some dust from the chair's arm and wiped a tear from his eye. Why was he getting emotional over a freaking chair?

Bracing himself for the amount of destruction her would be facing, Neville took one last sweeping look over the still-perfect common room, his home for seven years, and climbed out of the portrait hole.

It was worse than he expected.

Even just stepping out and looking at the opposite wall made him wince; it was gone, destroyed, smashed by giants, or spells.

Neville tried not to cry, and walked onwards, exploring further and further into the halls of Hogwarts. Everything was covered in dust and dirt, and nobody was prowling the hallways, even Filch and Mrs. Norris taking a break.

Neville turned a corner and then heard a sound he'd grown familiar to, comforting first years in the room of requirement—somebody was crying. He peered down the corridor and saw a blonde-haired girl sitting there, dust from the surrounding debris covering her ripped robes. Neville made his way over, trying to see who it was. On closer look, he realized that it was Hannah Abbott, who he recognized from his herbology classes—she was a Hufflepuff in his year.

"Hannah?" he called tentatively, standing a few feet away from her. She didn't notice him arrive until then, and she looked up at him, eyes red, and then buried her face in her hand, crying again. "Can I sit down next to you?" he asked, feeling awkward and unsure of what to do; he had comforted first years in the past, but Hannah was in his year. He didn't want to seem like he was trying to hit on her, or something. When she didn't answer, Neville sat down next to her anyway, drawing his knees up to his chin and internally wincing at the dirt he'd be getting on his pants.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked, voice soft. He heard Hannah take a shaky breath, before mumbling something unintelligible into her hands. "What?"

"My mom," she said quietly, lifting her head a little. Her voice was raw, probably from lack of use.

"Did she…?" Neville didn't want to say the words—it would make it seem too real—but he knew the answer to his half-asked question already: Hannah's mom had died in the war. Even though he didn't know her, Neville felt a pang in his heart. Hannah let out another sob, now lifting her head up all the way.

"She came to fight, once she heard that the battle was happening," Hannah explained, tears running down her face. "and now—" She let out another sob, but then quickly wiped her tears away. "I'm sorry. Neville, right?" He nodded, a little bit taken aback by her sudden change of mood. "I don't mean to—"

"No, no," Neville said quickly, realizing that she felt sorry for crying over her mom. "It's okay to cry," he said, moving closer and putting an arm around her.

He felt her shake and then placed her head on Neville's shoulder, letting the tears rain down.

The war was over, but there was still no room for them to be happy.

Yet.