Author's Note(s): Here we are at the final chapter. I'm flying several flags in this chapter. Yes, that's a Firefly quotation and I've been saving it for this chapter. Yes, that's Death of the Endless from Sandman, Constantine, and The Books of Magic. She just kind of popped up when I realized that Harry was going to meet Death. Those of you reading along with Through Feline Eyes will recognize a couple referenced characters in the first section. And yes, Neville is on the asexual spectrum; specifically, his experience is modeled off my own demisexuality. REPRESENT, y'all!

To head off questions on the topic, this story ends here not because I'm "bored" or "tired" or whatever other synonym for "lazy" you want to use. This story ends here because this is where it was always meant to end. The goal of the story was to have Luna (at the very least) go back in time. It was not about the changes that she and Neville made once they did so. Luna going back in time is the effect of Xenophilius not knowing if his daughter was alive or dead (as the cat in Schrodinger's thought experiment). After that point, things are the effect of Luna going back.

Warning(s): During part of this chapter, certain assumptions are made and potential (re)actions are mentioned. It was mentioned in the first chapter by Xenophilius that Death Eaters are not kind and the referenced action is a furthering of that narrative. Unfortunately, no matter how badass witches can be in the HPverse, female-bodied individuals remain statistically more vulnerable in most societies and things like what is hinted as having happened during the occupation of Hogwarts are, sadly, common for occupying forces to do. Nothing is graphic but as the author, I am cautioning those with sensitivities to this trigger proceed with caution.

Summary (The Last Evil): Everything has been building to this moment, their last moment together. In less than a year, they've managed the impossible. Harry remembered the story of Pandora's box…and he remembered what was left at the bottom when everything else escaped. He agreed with those who called that trapped hope the last evil. At least it's not Halloween.

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The Schrodinger Effect

Part 06: The Last Evil

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"We have done the impossible, and that makes us mighty."

– Captain Malcolm Reynolds from Firefly by Joss Whedon

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Neville had never been interested in certain things that had fascinated his yearmates. While Seamus' seemingly insatiable appetite for certain things had been a considerable extreme, Neville still didn't understand exactly why everyone thought snogging was so important. He had thought that Harry was similarly confused but he had never resisted Ginny dragging him off to various closets and abandoned classrooms. (He understood better now that Harry probably hadn't resist for reasons other than wanting to shag like a bunny.) It wasn't that he had found the idea gross or anything like that. He just didn't see why he should mindlessly pursue anything promising the potentiality of sex when there were plenty of things that would be a better use of his time. Besides, the only girl to pay him any attention had been Luna and she didn't indicate that those activities interested her any more than they did him.

He understood that someday he would have to produce at least one heir for the House of Longbottom. Gran knew how his parents had felt about arranged betrothals, so while she had never made formal arrangements, she had made sure he knew the courtship rites and traditions as well as who already had contracts. Neville did hope to marry for love like his parents had, but during the War, romance seemed less important that making sure as many students made it out the other side more or less in one piece. Not an easy task, that, even after moving the more vulnerable ones into the Room. Living in close quarters with Seamus Finnegan (opposed to just sharing a dorm) had the unfortunate consequence of reminding the lot of them that the making of heirs did not require love.

Living under the barely restrained reign of the Carrows had made it abundantly clear that even betrothals weren't enough to protect against poaching—it had only taken the siblings killing a witch for refusing their company once for everyone to learn that lesson. Of course, her betrothed had proceeded to be their most vicious boogeyman for the rest of the occupation and Neville suspected that the quiet Ravenclaw was the one who had left them in grisly display in the Ravenclaw Tower, taking advantage of their convenient incapacitation and the distraction of the Final Battle to spend what could have been hours repaying them for the murder of his fiancée. Last he had heard, the Silverhale heir was being sent abroad to finish his studies. There were a lot of those stories.

Gran hadn't pressured him any on the matter—knowing that it would take Britannia time to truly regain its feet after the War. She had made it very clear that she approved of his growing association with Harry and Luna, however. Giving them their own rooms next to his had not been exactly subtle but still within the acceptability of discretion. He still hadn't figured out if dressing Luna in a combination of Longbottom and Black colors was a shove in the direction she wished him to go or a reaction to him sleeping with his best friends. Of course, without a spell to check, Gran wouldn't know that nothing untoward had happened between them and those spells couldn't be cast in secret. Even asking for the spell could be considered an insult—and given the recent Death Eater control, impractical as the results would most likely be skewed.

As much as he didn't like her high-handedness in just ordering it, he could understand both her motivation and reasoning behind doing it. Gran didn't just approve of Luna and Harry; she liked them. Due to Luna's captivity during the war, there were certain political implications in the mix, which the subtle declaration of intent would resolve. With the backing of Longbottom on the claim of impending marital alliance with Lovegood, Harry wouldn't be swamped with offers once it became obvious he was done with Hogwarts.

It added complications though.

Things with the Weasleys were going to be strained for a while, since one of them had thought it wise to dress Ginny in Potter gray the same way that Gran had Luna in the Black triad. Judging by their faces when they spotted Luna at his side, Neville was putting his money on Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny being the masterminds behind it. It might have worked how they had wanted if they knew anything about how the system truly worked and what Houses Harry would be able to claim once he reached the right age—as prestigious as Potter was, it was outranked by Black and Peverell. Neville couldn't fault the play—after all, that's how the game was played among the marrying set. Wearing the colors of your suitor's House (if they were the higher House) told the competition that this one was claimed and to pursue further was to risk a feud. Ginny's move had only backfired because she chose a lesser House's colors, which indicated in that same sneaky way that she wasn't a true consort candidate. To his mind, it was yet another mark against Hermione, however.

"He doesn't know."

Neville hadn't realized just how much information he had assumed that Harry had known about the world. Sure, he was used to just freely offering information whenever Harry got that little furrow between his eyebrows, knowing that Harry didn't like asking if it could be avoided—but until Luna's urgent whisper on the stairs that day, it had never occurred to him what exactly being raised by muggles meant for Harry. He wouldn't know about the polite games played by the wizarding community, wouldn't realize the significance of little gestures and fashion. Harry wouldn't have noticed how the scions of the more powerful Houses had eyed him for indications of permission to approach—did he even realize who the Potters were in magical Britain? Didn't anyone tell him? Because while Harry didn't like asking, he would have eventually.

In the wake of the fiasco that was their birthday ball, Harry had taken to avoiding both Luna and himself, even going so far as to make excuses to leave rooms. Neville had thought he was upset at being manipulated, but Harry hadn't seemed angry so much as distressed about something. When they had finalized the travel plans (and doesn't that make it sound like going a decade into the past was the same as booking a portkey to Nice), Harry had agreed with the initial suggestion for Harry to be the anchor while Neville went with Luna. It was like he had already been resigned to being left—like that was just the way things were going.

Then Harry hadn't shown up in their room one night. Neville had gone searching the second night, finding the man in the room that had actually been given to him. He didn't sleep that night, too worried about how Harry was faring on his own to settle. Much of it had been spent pacing between the rooms to check on Harry or back to check on Luna. When he would have done the same on the next night, Luna had simply glided past him into Harry's room before she slid into the bed. Not even waking, Harry had curled around her like Devil's Snare. Joining them had been like the first gulp of breath after being strangled, painful and wonderful in equal measure.

Seamus had always describe lust as a fire burning out of control. Ron had made it seem like a demand that had to be followed. Dean had been clear that getting off, with or without help, was a basic need. Neville had never understood—and truthfully, he still didn't really get it—but since the evening he had held Harry as he broke down at the suggestion of escaping his childhood home, something had shifted. It was like a wand being lit. No, like suddenly noticing a plant breaking free of the ground.

Neville had never wanted so badly in his life. He didn't know exactly what he wanted but the feeling was there. He wanted to touch and stroke and taste, not just Harry but Luna too. It was terrifying and intense. If this was what the other guys had been talking about, Neville could understand the obsession. This feeling was glacially cold but burned like an inferno. It cajoled like a siren's call but at times it screamed like a veela. While he didn't think that a climax was needed, Neville could certainly agree that he needed them in his arms like he needed air.

As the day for the ritual grew nearer, it occurred to Neville that he really ought to talk about this, maybe back out of it entirely. Then he would watch Luna preparing some detail and he knew that she would try on her own if they didn't help. She would be safer if she wasn't alone and if it worked, then Harry wouldn't be alone either. So he said nothing and tried to fill their last hours together with the silent declaration of his feelings.

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Luna checked the lines again. The magic overlaying the chalk had already grown bright enough that looking gave her spots, but she had to be sure. So much depended upon everything being perfect that she would probably check even during the ritual itself. She was obsessed and she knew it—but knowing didn't change anything.

Not like going back would.

She'd save her mother, stop the explosion that killed her. Then she'd save Harry. All her calculations indicated that they'd most likely have to wait until Sirius had escaped before they had any chance of success, but by then they should have everything in place. If possible, they may even have a couple of the horcruxes destroyed as well.

They had a plan. It should work. It would work. This night was going to be hard enough for Harry, because physical matter couldn't be sent back and there was only one way to separate an intact soul from its physical vessel. Well, there were probably other ways, but the Killing Curse was the cleanest and swiftest. It ensured the greatest chance of success. She just needed to check everything once more. Just once more—it had to be perfect.

Because they wouldn't get a second chance and then Harry, their Harry, would be alone. That couldn't happen. Harry…he was everything and that's what he deserved. Even if she had to remake all of time and space while fighting against every power in the universe, that is what she would give him.

Everything.

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It was white. That was the first thing that Harry noticed after the green faded. The basement at Grimmauld Place had been dark when they had started the ritual and then after he had killed—released Luna and Neville, the explosion of that sickly light had blinded him. Maybe he was still blind because everything was so impossibly bright and so very white. There didn't seem to be any discernable details as far as he could see.

"Master," a voice stated from behind him, causing him to jump and spin. He lifted his wand, only to find that it wasn't his; it was Dumbledore's or rather the Elder Wand. He couldn't spend much time pondering that as his attention was immediately captured by the petite woman in front of him. He had seen punk rockers around London and Edinburgh when he and Neville would go on their pub crawls, but something about this particular woman seemed different, for all that she wore the same style of clothing. Her hair was similar to how he had worn his back in third year—that impossible middle length that looked good on both sexes and just like his, it was a wild mass of fluffy flyaways. Most peculiar was her makeup; one eye had a delicate curl descending from the center and her lips were the color of the dark wine that they had used for their Equinox celebration just hours before the ritual where he had killed—released his best friends. Around her neck was a simple black ribbon with a silver ankh charm dangling from it.

"I'm not a master," Harry replied. It seemed the most important thing at the moment. He had to make that distinction immediately, regardless of whatever else was happening right now. She smiled at him sadly.

"But you are my Master," she countered. She said it so simply, just as Luna would have. He felt as if he had to swallow around bits of gravel at the reminder of the woman as he had last seen her: collapsed in a pile of unmoving flesh with her empty eyes still open. It was hard to breath. He shook his head in denial of both the image and the words. "You have been touched by all my Hallows, and have touched the Endless. You were Chosen, for many things, long before you were born. You are my Master."

"I can't be anyone's master," Harry protested. It was an old argument—he had had it with Kreacher so many times before they had made their compromise. He wasn't capable of being cruel or of punishing anyone or taking charge of them. Luna was the one who always knew what to do and if she didn't, then Neville did. And now they were both dead and he had killed them. He dropped the wand and bunched his hair in his hands, tugging ruthlessly at the strands. His eyes clenched closed as if that could block out what the woman was saying and the image of Neville falling backwards, so much like Sirius had. "I can't—don't you understand? I c-can't."

He felt cool hands covering his own, tangling with his fingers and forcing them to loosen their hold. She tugged him towards her until their bodies were flushed. Her head fit perfectly under his chin, just as Luna always had, and oh, god, she had the same haunting scent of Star-of-Bethlehem that had surrounded Luna. The gravel was back. His hands clutched hers. It must have hurt, but she didn't complain, nor did she pushed to change the hold he had upon her. His eyes burned with the tears that wanted to escape but his eyes were too tightly clenched to allow them any freedom. He had known that it would hurt, sending them back, but this felt more like something vital and deeply internal had ripped apart.

"You're Death," he managed finally. The little woman moved her head in a positive manner. At once, he stepped back, moving his hands to her biceps. He met her eyes as if attempting to burn her with his rage. "Take me to them. I can't—not without them. I thought I could, but I can't continue. You say I'm your master. I order you to take me."

"I cannot do that, Master," she replied calmly, as if his grip would not have been bruising her had she been human. "I have no rules but one. I cannot take my Master."

"Then bring them back to me," he ordered.

"Oh, Master," she whispered, her dark eyes filling with tears, "they are already gone. The deed is done and cannot be undone. Bringing them to you would serve no purpose."

"Am I your master?"

"You are my Master."

"Then obey me. Bring them here. Now."

"There is no here, Master." Death raised her arms so that she could cup his face in her hands, his hands slipping away from her as numbness filled him. Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones and he realized that she was attempting to wipe away his tears. "Here is falling apart, even as we speak. Time cannot be rewritten easily. There must always be a Price and as the Power resides in you, it is you who must pay it. I cannot tell you if you will have them again. That hasn't been decided."

"What Price?"

"This, Master," she answered and suddenly he understood. The pain ripping through his very soul at having killed Luna and Neville and the crippling regret of knowing how much they meant to him but far too late for it to mean anything other than sorrow, these were the Price of meddling with Time. As if she had read his mind, she gave him a solemn nod. His legs gave out beneath him. He fell to his knees. A wail pierced the silence. Lost in his grief, Harry didn't even realize that it was from him.

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An Ending

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