Neville could pinpoint the exact moment he lost his heart to Luna Lovegood. He could feel the cold stone through his trousers, and the warmth of Nagini's blood and probably his own and others was an odd juxtaposition. But when she sat down beside him, his world narrowed to her, and he was never sure, afterwards, what kept the sword in his hand or words coming easily to his lips as she spoke.

"You and I are treasures, Neville. Peculiar treasures." Then she'd scooted over that last inch, and he could have sworn his world shifted just that little bit into rightness.

Now, as they both entered the Great Hall for their eighth year, he saw the castle through new eyes, noting here and there the restoration work still going on; the new stone melded seamlessly with the old and the windows sparkling in their repaired spaces.

Professors stood around, their wands raised, conducting last minute repairs before the students began to trickle in from the carriages. There were less this year, many less than there were. Some had died in the war, some had been removed by parents or guardians, others had simply not cared to come back after the war.

But Neville knew where his place was, and the familiar weight of Luna's hand in his reassured his fast-beating heart that this decision had been the right one to make, despite all the upheaval of the past year in the wizarding community of Britain – thankfully, Voldemort hadn't spread past the British Isles. The damage he'd done here was more than enough.

Dinner at the Gryffindor table was markedly less rowdy than in previous years, with empty spots up at down the table, not more than any other house, to be sure, but Neville could put names to these empty spots in the bench. One beside him, Justin Finch-Fletchley, was filled by Luna, but the memory of the quiet boy who'd been his friend still remained and he smiled sadly as she popped up beside him, a long scarf trailing from her hair down into her plate.

Distractedly, he tucked it beneath the table for her and took her hand. She squeezed it silently, because she was Luna and she got it, all of it, even when he didn't know what the it was.

The next day brought classes, as usual, and single Potions rather than double. The man sitting at the front of the classroom was both a surprise and a relief to Neville, even though his heart sped up in a Pavolovian response.

Professor Snape looked wan and thin – the victim of a magical snake bite, it would take him a year or more to recover, if he ever really did. Neville swallowed his anxiety and approached, fingers curled lightly around a flask in his pocket.

"Professor Snape?" Darn right, eight years and he could talk to the man without wanting to die. What an accomplishment, Neville.

The sallow looking man glanced up, his face clearing. "Mr. Longbottom. I see the hat didn't make a mistake putting you in the Gryffindor after all."

He nodded, sliding his hand out and placing the vial on the desk. "I thought you might appreciate this."

Snape picked up the fragile vial and examined it. "Nagini's blood. How rare."

"It's got a preserving charm on it, so it's as fresh as, well, you know."

Thin lips stretched over small, stained teeth. "Yes, Mr. Longbottom. I know."

Then, marvel of all, a sound came from Snape that could only be classified as laughter. The entire class gaped.

"You are a peculiar child, Mr. Longbottom."

But this was the best compliment Snape could have given and Neville's return grin was blinding.

"Yes, sir. I am a peculiar treasure."

END