Neville Longbottom sprinted along a deserted corridor. He was in pain and exhausted, not to mention lugging the extremely heavy Sword of Gryffindor, but he didn't stop running. He was chasing a death eater who had fled the great hall and was now circling back towards it and consequently, towards the fighting.
Over the past year Neville had experienced the cruelty and unfairness of a country under the control of Lord Voldemort. He hated it; the unfairness, the lack of control, and the fear. That was what he was fighting against. If Neville could make sure that not one more person would live in fear of Voldemort, he would try to make that possible. He would not stop fighting ever.
Drawing closer to the great hall, he stopped short in disbelief as he heard a familiar voice. Harry!
"I meant to and that's what did it" he heard Harry say, apparently in the middle of a verbal battle with Voldemort.
Neville didn't hear the rest because he was running faster than ever before. It was impossible, but Harry was alive and just a little more hope entered the look of determination on Neville's face.
Neville stopped running, slamming into a railing of a balcony that overlooked the great hall. Harry and Voldemort were circling around each other like two boxers testing each other out. Mouth open, Neville leaned as far over the railing as he could without falling over. He had thought his friend was dead and now here he was living and breathing and dueling! Nobody knew he was up here; everyone in the hall was as fixated on Harry and Voldemort as Neville was. He needed to get closer, moving along the railing until he was nearly on top of the duel. Hiding behind a bust of Hengist of Woodcroft Neville watched the crowd down below, frozen in fear and anticipation, not able to process what either of them was saying.
"You mean he was weak!" screamed Voldemort, and Neville was shaken out of his thoughts by the shrill voice that suddenly shrieked louder than it had before into a rant that Neville had no context for.
As Neville jumped back, startled at the sudden noise he pushed off of the bust of Hengist of Woodcroft, which started to teeter. Neville grabbed on to the railing to stop himself from falling over and he stumbled a little as he watched the bust drop from the balcony. Within a split second he knew what had happened. Neville Longbottom the eternal klutz, renowned for being forgetful, who struggled through most of his courses, Neville Longbottom who had never been on a real date had just caused the death of one of the most feared and despised wizards of all time.
Lord Voldemort had died, crushed by a bust of Hengist of Woodcroft. After killing so many with his army of death eaters and foul curses, a single blow to the head had knocked the life out of him. Now everyone knew Neville was up on the balcony and they were all looking up at his shocked, pale face.
As Neville and Harry made eye contact, Harry realized that the prophecy had been right. A boy born at the end of July would defeat the dark lord, just not him. It had been Neville after all. The chosen one.