Title: Validity

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series, and I make no money off of this. Also, the dialogue between Neville and Voldemort, along with a couple of descriptive sentences, have been lifted directly from canon. I did not write those parts. I fully credit JKR with those parts. The first part of the story is simply me rewriting canon events from Neville's point of view.

Pairings: None

Rating: T

Warnings: Nothing more extreme than what's already in the book, so none.

Summary: Voldemort was dead. Harry Potter was alive. Neville had killed a snake. Somehow, that last part just seemed so ridiculous when compared with the solemnity of the first two statements.

Word Count: 1,747 (Yes, a bit of a quickie)

Prompts: Sentence: S/he tried to remember who had talked him/her into this.

Dance

"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." ― James Moriarty, Sherlock

Author's Note: This is my entry for Round 10 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.

This round, our team had to choose a mascot, and then each one of us was tasked with writing about some aspect of his or her life. We chose Neville Longbottom because he was the underdog that rose to awesomeness, much like our team with all the instability we had in the beginning before we finally got ourselves into the top eight.

Because of this, all our stories will (hopefully) be interrelated and make up The Life and Times of Neville Longbottom, so if you have the time and interest when it comes to darling Neville, feel free to read my teammates' stories, too. This is the list of our stories, in chronological order:

1. Emily Rye by Mark Geoffrey Norrish

2. Validity by trollnexus

3. The Last Fairytale by vcbxnzm21

4. Luminescent by LuxaLucifer

5. Rectifying Mistakes by erm31323

6. Shepherd's Pie by Calumniator

7. Night of the Living Verdure by MaryRoyale

8. Vigor by NiceFwoops

You don't have to read them all, though, if you're short on time. Each one of our stories works a standalone. :)

Neville lay on the ground, grunting in pain with his wand out of reach. Voldemort was hissing something and Bellatrix was laughing shrilly, but that did not matter right now. He had to get up, because everything hinged on this moment. Because he was a Gryffindor.

As he struggled to his feet, he tried to remember who had talked him into this, who had talked him into charging madly out of the crowd and towards old Moldymort over there when he could have stayed nondescript and relatively safe for just a bit longer.

His eyes flickered towards Harry's limp body on the grass and then towards the snake that lay contentedly at Voldemort's feet.

Oh, right.

He faced Voldemort, his empty hands curling into fists, and Voldemort faced him, his hand casually waving his wand around. Mad as it was, Neville hardly felt any fear. There was no room for it alongside his anger and grief.

There Voldemort stood, monster of the century, looking smug and proud of the pain and suffering he had caused. Neville recalled an old saying someone once told him: "Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." Voldemort, with his slitted nostrils and his deathly pallor, sure looked like a villain.

But this wasn't a fairytale. The hero was dead, the villain lived to see another day, and all of this was painfully, terrifying real. Neville clenched his fists harder.

"But you're a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?" the bastard was saying, cooing the words as if he had any right to feel proud of Neville's blood and bravery.

Neville thought back to Gran, who had shouted the same thing after each failed attempt to surprise accidental magic out of him. "But you're a pureblood, aren't you?" she had shouted as he flailed and spluttered in the waters of Blackpool, as if the words were a spell that would coax the magic and proof of legitimacy out of him. "Go on, save yourself! You're a pureblood, aren't you?"

"So what if I am?" he said loudly, both in response to that memory and in response to the monster in front of him now. What did being pureblood even mean? Why was it so special to this madman and to his Gran, who had always used his blood heritage as a prodding stick to get him to do "better"? Why couldn't he be valued for being Neville Longbottom?

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock," cooed Voldemort, caressing the word noble. "You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We need your kind, Neville Longbottom."

His kind? No, Voldemort and his followers were not of his kind. His kind was lying on the grass in front of him, dead with some unfinished business Neville had to complete.

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," he snarled. "Dumbledore's Army!"

The crowd cheered, and he felt like he could fly. He was not alone. He was surrounded by his kind.

"Very well," Voldemort hissed, chilling the crowd's cheers. "If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head, be it."

Voldemort waved his wand, and Neville tried not to flinch. If he was going to die, he was going to die with nothing but the cheers in his heart.

Then a misshapen bird flew in through a shattered window, depositing a hat into Voldemort's outstretched hand. Neville raised his eyebrows as he realised it was the Sorting Hat.

Voldemort stepped closer with the Hat in his hands, making another dramatic declaration.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School. There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colours of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

Then Neville found himself hit, yet again in his life, by the Full-Body Bind Curse, and the Hat was unceremoniously crammed onto his head. Around him, he could hear the uneasy movements of the crowd, but he knew they couldn't save him, not with the Death Eaters keeping guard. He had to save himself, somehow, just like Gran told him to. He was a pureblood, wasn't he? He regretted his moment of anger at Gran; he loved her, he didn't want to die this way, he had to concentrate and save himself somehow—

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

Neville's head heated up as Voldemort set the Hat on fire.

Chaos erupted. In the background, what sounded like hundreds of people ran forward, shouting war cries, and a giant voice shouted "HAGGER," which was answered by a multitude other giant voices. There was the sound of hooves stomping, bows twanging, people screaming—

But all that mattered was that Neville had broken free, his body leaping up in the most graceful dance he'd ever done.

Before he could even appreciate it, he noticed that the Hat fell off him. By instinct, he reached into its flaming depths and pulled out a sword.

He looked at the snake. No one was watching it; all eyes were on him, and even Voldemort was caught off-guard by his reanimation. He had one shot at this, one chance to fulfil his last promise to Harry.

In one single stroke, he sliced off the great snake's head.

He watched as the head spun high into the air, gleaming into the light flooding from the entrance hall.

Voldemort's scream was rendered soundless by the noise of the battle, but Neville could still see him raise his wand. He braced himself even as he got ready to move, but the spell that shot out of Voldemort's wand was blocked by a shield.

Wait, a shield? Who could have—

"HARRY! HARRY—WHERE'S HARRY?" shouted Hagrid, and Neville whipped his head around. The spot in the grass where Harry had lain was empty.

Harry hadn't died, after all.

Peace settled into Neville's heart, and he found the strength to keep moving, keep fighting until this battle was over.

Neville lay on one of the few unbroken stone benches several hours after the conclusion of the battle, trying to catch his breath. Voldemort was dead. Harry was alive. Neville had killed a snake.

He couldn't help but grin at the last part. It seemed so incongruous, somehow, next to the solemnity of the first two statements. A snake! Neville Longbottom had pulled a sword out of a hat and killed a snake! It was ridiculous.

But Harry had hugged him after the battle, whispering, "Thank you, Neville. I knew you'd manage it."

Ron, who had been right next to him, exclaimed, "Good job pulling the Sword out! Only a true Gryffindor can wield it. Trust me, mate, I would know."

A true Gryffindor. After years of taunts and doubts from Gran and his schoolmates, he had finally been validated as a true Gryffindor.

He looked at his hands. Ordinary hands, really. But they had held the sword of Godric Gryffindor himself. He knew he was being repetitive in his mind, but he still couldn't believe it.

"Ah! There you are, Mr Longbottom. I have been looking all over for you."

Neville's eyes widened, and he immediately got off the bench, almost falling in his haste. He quickly stood and straightened himself up to face McGonagall, whose lips were pursed in a straight, firm line. He gulped. Had he done something wrong?

Her lips softened at the corners, probably sensing his panic. "Do not be alarmed, Mr Longbottom. I am only here to inform you that Minister Shacklebolt would like to have a word with you in the Great Hall."

"Oh. Alright, Headmistress. I'll be on my way."

She smiled at him, and he felt the tension in his shoulders loosen a bit. "After that, do get some rest. It is the middle of the night, and you really should be in bed by now."

"Yes, Headmistress."

He ducked his head sheepishly and nodded before heading towards the Great Hall.

When he reached the entryway, he saw Shacklebolt facing the shattered windows, waving his wand to clean up the shards of glass. He walked over to him slowly, not wanting to startle him.

"Minister?" he finally asked, when it seemed that Shacklebolt was pausing for a bit in his spellwork.

He turned and smiled. "Neville! Just the man I wanted to see."

"What is it, Minister?"

"I just wanted to commend you for what you did back there. You…you saved us all. If you had not been brave enough to run out there and face You-Know-Who, Harry really would have died, along with the rest of us. You were the bravest person there."

Neville blushed. "Thank you, sir."

"I wish your parents could have seen you up there. They would have been proud."

His heart clenched. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"You know…all things considered, there was no way you could have finished your NEWTs, but you show great promise regardless. For this year only, I think we at the Ministry would be quite willing to forgo those requirements for potential Auror trainees."

His eyes widened, and he looked up at Shacklebolt. "What…? Me, an Auror?"

"Yes, Neville. You, an Auror. Your parents were the best in the force, you know, and I can see that they have passed that talent onto you. You would make a very valuable addition to our corps. We would love to have you."

"I…I don't know what to say, sir."

Shacklebolt smiled and patted him on the back. "I understand that you've been through a lot. Hell, I've been through a lot. It's alright if you want time to think about it. But I am not letting this subject go until you either see things my way or prove me wrong, so expect an owl in a week."

Before Neville could say another word, Shacklebolt had turned and walked away.

He looked at his hands again. Could he possibly do it? Would he be able to follow in his parents' footsteps? Killing a snake once was one thing, but chasing after criminals on a day-to-day basis was another matter entirely.

He yawned, suddenly feeling very knackered. Well, he did not have to answer those questions today. He would just follow McGonagall's orders and go to bed for now.

Perhaps tomorrow, he could think about adding the title of "Auror" to his name.

But for today, he was simply Neville Longbottom, and he was proud of it.