This was written for the latest task for the Triwizard Tournament (Working Together). Lynn (rhead-a-holyc) wrote the first half, and where the line break is, I carried on.
I hope this makes sense. I had a bit of trouble with it, to be perfectly honest. My fingers ran away from me.
Self-BeliefGlancing at the gold and red sword that lay perfectly in his hand, Neville wondered how he had managed to reach the position he was in.
If anyone where to have told him that this was what he would be doing back when he was a first year, he probably would have hidden under his blankets in the first year dormitory for the next week. The danger didn't even have to be there for him to be terrified of it back then.
It would have been ridiculous to even imagine him being within a hundred mile radius of Voldemort during that time. He would have never believed it himself, yet here he stood in the middle of the battlefield that had once been Hogwarts. There was still a part of him that barely believed that he was here even though he had fought alongside Harry several times now.
There was mud and blood splattered on him, and it didn't make a difference any more. He had a purpose, and he was going to fulfill it.
But he wasn't Harry. How could he even think of facing Voldemort and winning? How would he ever get close enough to Nagini to kill her without being killed himself? Surely it was impossible for clumsy, stupid Neville.
His grip tightened around the sword's hilt. He wasn't that Neville any more. He was the Neville who could do anything he set his mind to, except maybe Potions, the Neville who managed to keep the remaining Dumbledore's Army alive during the past year. He was far more than he had ever been before, far wiser, stronger.
His lack of faith didn't matter.
Harry had trusted him with this.
Harry believed in him where even he didn't believe in himself.
Neville raised the sword to eye level, the blade catching the light. He could see the mocking expression on Voldemort's face.
He took a moment to close his eyes, remembering everything and everyone who counted on him being able to do this. He held their faith on his shoulders even if no one else realised it. It was a lot of responsibility and pressure, but it was all something he was willing to shoulder because there was no one better for the job. Everyone had their own role to play, and this was his.
Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of mocking crimson eyes and he felt an instant anger within him that-
Neville gasped as his eyes flickered open.
His hands flickered to his wand to check the time, before groaning.
It had been a year since then, since Voldemort had been defeated but they were all still living with the aftermath of the destruction.
oOo
Neville especially, although he knew that Harry still got nightmares himself, nightmares of what he had seen in the Forbidden Forest that night. Whatever he had seen, he wasn't telling anyone.
Was it bad that the nightmares still applied to what he was facing now? He was plagued by self-doubt, and it was no different to what he had felt that night. That gnawing, niggling feeling in the depths of his stomach, telling him that he would fail.
He felt it when he stood in front of the Ministry every morning. Neville Longbottom couldn't become an Auror. He was deluding himself.
But, his mind also wouldn't let him quit the training process. Neville would see Harry and Ron every morning, laughing and joking as best they could, and they would always beckon him over, let him join in.
They had always been friendly, but it was only now that Harry seriously seemed to like Neville. There were three groups in the Gryffindor boy's dormitory of their year – Ron and Harry, Dean and Seamus, and Neville. The outsider, the onlooker.
All that had changed when Neville had sliced the head off of that snake. He was a war hero, someone liked and desirable and owed. He was privy to the jokes of Harry and Ron, and when Hermione stopped by after her classes had finished, she always brought a pastry of some kind for Neville, as well as her boyfriend and her best friend.
Neville knew that he shouldn't like it, but he did. It was a whole different world.
The niggling feeling started gnawing at his insides again, and Neville flinched, trying to shake it off. He checked his watch again, as if the time might have magnificently leapt from two am to a decent time, but of course it was only two minutes past two now.
His hand twitched, reaching for his wand, a nervous tick that he'd adopted during when he was stuck at Hogwarts with the Carrows. Neville used to sleep with his wand in his hand, but that habit had disappeared a few months ago.
Hermione, among others, had decided to retake her seventh year. Neville wasn't among the number, much to many people's confusion.
To be honest, Neville just didn't want to see the corridors that he knew people had died in. He didn't want to sit in the classrooms that had become torture chambers for the Carrows to use on rebels and misbehavers. He didn't want to eat in the hall where he cried over the bodies of his friends.
Only Luna knew this.
Sweet, kind Luna. She had always understood him. And as a girl that was misunderstood herself, Neville and her made a perfect match.
Neville didn't bother getting out of bed, like he did most nights, after his nightmares. He just lay there, smiling and looking up at the ceiling, thinking about the girl that would always wait for him on the other side.
She had been there for him straight after the sword had made that final swing, the swing that killed Nagini. And that was all Neville needed.