Author's Notes: Written for a HP challenge at the most magnificent forum of 'Fiction Net'. Takes place three years after the Trio's Seventh Year.
He tried, really he did.
Hermione Granger sat in Neville's squishy armchair, watching him slowly take down the torn orange and black streamers. She had offered to help, but he had refused. Apparently as his only guest, she was supposed to 'relax' and 'enjoy the party'... or at the very least, the decorations. She wanted to snort from the absurdity of it all, but stopped herself just short after seeing the resigned look in his eyes.
It had been one of the most insane ideas; a Halloween party in these dark, dangerous times. Somewhere on the other side of England, Hermione was sure, the Dark Lord himself would be creating his own 'parties', if He had not already. Closing her eyes, she thought she could hear the distant screams floating their way downwind. An all-too-real Haunted House coming to life just around the corner.
Neville had invited practically everyone he had come into contact with at Hogwarts, in an attempt to defy the greatest evil wizard in history on His Night and turn screams into laughter. But... no one had come. No one had even wanted to come. Or, if they had, they were in no position to be doing so.
Hermione curled in a bit more on the chair, hugging her arms to herself. She was the last of the Trio now, resigned to spend each and every day shouldering the burden that was far too heavy for her to carry. Harry, her first love, had died at the end of what was supposed to have been their Seventh Year, in a blaze of glory that was cut short long before its time. Ron, in an attempt to gain revenge for his fallen friend, had soon followed the same path.
She had had her chance at 'glory' as well, and had stared defiantly into those blood-red eyes for a full minute before her infamous Gryffindor courage failed her. She prefered not to talk about that, however.
Having taken down the streamers, Neville had turned to the untouched refreshment table, unloading each dish into seperate containers. She had no clue how long he had saved his paltry rations to be able to unload such a feast upon the empty table, but she knew better than to ask.
There was a sort of happy look on his face, as if he had not expected anyone at all to come. It was that half smile that had her staying far longer than she should have. She really should be across town, fighting off the Dark Lord's minions for what was left of the world's innocent citizens. Instead she hid from her courage, watching a boy-turned-man put away food.
A chill slithered across her left arm, and she turned to find the ghost of Luna Lovegood, watching Neville's every movement with a glazed look in her insubstantial eyes. She had died protecting Neville barely a year after The Battle, and had returned to this world to continue protecting him - or at the very least, make sure Neville took care of himself. Hermione found herself unabashedly jealous of Neville for a hot moment before looking away from the ghost and to the object of both of their thoughts.
"He is happy you came."
"I know."
"You shouldn't be here."
"I know."
The silence stretched between them as Neville took the filled containers to the kitchen.
"Harry isn't coming back."
"... I know."
"Neville isn't Harry."
"No, he's not."
"Goodbye, Hermione."
Hermione's eyes went wide as saucers as she found herself staring at thin air where Luna's ghost had once been. Instead, she found herself staring at the door to her own kitchen, in her hidden apartment down the road. She did know how the ghost had managed to do it, but she was smart enough to realize why.
Moving from the armchair to her bed, she did not even feel the tears running down her cheeks. Neville had Luna. The Dark Lord had his Death Eaters. Harry had Sirius. Ron had his family.
She was alone.
