AN: Ok, MAJOR Spoiler Warning. Turn back now if you don't wanna know, people. As soon as I finished reading, I wrote this. I couldn't not write it. Neville-centric.
A True Hero, A Gryffindor
For one moment, the fire seemed to caress his skin like the first touch of sunlight. And then, all hell broke lose.
He screamed, feeling his skin bubble and scorch, and then, nothing. Not blackness, even his agony blocked by stunning, pure realisation.
Kill the snake. If you're gonna die, Neville, you need to take that bitch snake with you. Kill the snake.
He felt it then, a weight lifted off his shoulders, as though in his agony and bravery, the very spell which kept him near squib like had rusted and fallen away. He took barely a moment to rejoice, before he focused on fighting the binding spell. With a growl and a flourish, he stood, removing the hat when he felt something cold and metallic touching the top of his head, withdrawing the sword and eyeing Voldemort coldly for the barest of moments. Around him, the battle raged, but he was content. Voldemort looked, for one tantalising moment, terrified, and with an arc and the whoosh of metal against air, the sword made its way, aim true, to the neck of the hissing creature.
The head soared through the air, and the battle seemed to die with Voldemort's agonised scream. He watched the wand being raised towards him, knew with cold certainty he was about to die, and felt no regret. Gryffindor's sword. He was truly a Gryffindor.
A shield went up around him, and with a final smirk towards the Dark Lord, Neville Longbottom ran to join the fray.
Fin.