The Last Eight
Disclaimer: Not mine. Hers. points to JK
Summary: There is still so much they do not understand. A series of rough character sketches during the Final Battle.
The True Gryffindor.
He cannot remember a time when he was not this way. It was always the same—he was the clumsy, the dimwitted, the slow. He has never been clever like Hermione or funny like Ron or so very brave like Harry. He has never been able to charm the girls like Seamus or draw like Dean or play Quidditch like any of them—and he has never been able to see things the way Luna sees them, the way she seems so utterly unfazed by what everybody thinks, how she only cares if she understands what she says.
He is not special. He is just Neville—not-quite pudgy, getting a bit taller now, still as gawky as ever: and he will never be good enough. He remembers the Hat and it's debate about where to put him. "So sweet," it had mused. "So very sweet and loyal. You're one who won't let your friends down, dear, oh, that I'm sure of it. Yes, Hufflepuff it'll be." But then the Hat had stopped short, had seemed to be looking even more deeply at Neville. "Oh, my," it had said even more softly in his ear. "Oh, my dear. Would you look at that." And the next thing he knew, the Hat was bellowing, "GRYFFINDOR!"
Well, nobody was more surprised then him. Gran had been so pleased, but he just couldn't understand it. What was it the Hat had seen, what had it understood that he did not? He was not brave! Gryffindors were brave, that was the entire point of the whole damn house. He was not. Everybody knew that. Of course, there had been the time he had gone to the Ministry in his fifth year, but he had not faced Voldemort—oh, he would have simply died on the spot if he had had to, he just knew he would have.
But it doesn't matter now, any of that. He is standing on a desolate, barren field that used to be the Forbidden Forest, and he still has his wand. There are seven people standing next to him. They are the last ones not wounded or dead. Around them, he sees the remaining Death Eaters back away, and a tall figure strides forward. Neville does not have to be told who this figure is. He knows. The deep-set red eyes, hollow and terrifying, stare out at them, and though Neville is gripping his wand so hard his knuckles are white, he is not scared. The figure raises its wand. Simultaneously, so do the last Eight. Him or us. It's not about fear anymore.
And as spells begin flying everywhere for the millionth time that night, Neville is still not afraid, but is blocking and cursing and yes, even killing—and he is doing it to save people he loves. And perhaps, he realizes as something hits him hard in the side, and he is blinded by pain, this is why he is a Gryffindor, really a true Gryffindor. It's not about being brave every single second of his life. It's about being brave for the moments when other people need him to, and doing it without a second's hesitation.
Yes. Perhaps that was it all along.
ooo
Reveiws would be greatly appreciated. Next up: No Nonsense.