I wrote this before Deathly Hallows came out, of course (I swore Neville would die. Swore.) and afterwards did a revised version for Fred, but didn't like it as much so I just decided to release this. I suppose that makes it Alternate Universe (which is when a fan fiction author changes certain aspects of a story but keeps everything else the same, for all who don't know)... so enjoy!


Neville Longbottom died last week.

And as everyone who was no one knew him, his funeral was quite the party. The tombstone was impressive. The guests were high-profile. The tears were genuine. The outfits were stunning, of course, and you simply can't forget the cake--a masterpiece, it was, and you can be certain Neville would have enjoyed it.

But he couldn't. 'Cos he's dead.

How did he die, you might ask? Voldemort, of course! Why did Voldemort kill him? Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived, of cou-.

Er. I suppose we can hardly call him to Boy-Who-Lived, as the title isn't true anymore (not to mention that Harry might get jealous).

But anyway, Voldemort killed Neville because Neville was The Chosen One even though he wasn't, not technically, but as the official Chosen One turned out to be a dud, Voldemort decided "What the Merlin, I've got nothing to lose, might as well!" and went ahead and battled Neville who put up quite a good fight for a wimp who should've been in Hufflepuff (but then again, Harry should have been in Slytherin and Hermione should've been in Ravenclaw, so there goes that arguement)who then right proved that he did have a bit of talent in him after all by destroying the bloody Dark Lord with a bloody snake fang.

His grandmother is certainly proud.

"I'm quite proud," she says to Molly Weasley, who has been wielding her handkerchief like a limited-edition Ollivander's wand. "I suppose he does have a bit of his father in him after all," and with that jerks a finger to the left, where a frighteningly skeletal man is sitting with his frighteningly emaciated wife. Other than that however, they both seem right as rain...which, for all who know the circumstances of their past, is quite alarming. Mrs. Longbottom explains: "St. Mungo's released them just in time for the funeral. Most baffling case they've ever had, the Healer for their ward said, and yet the most miraculous as well. They simply snapped out of it. Last. Week. We all know why, of course, but we don't know why."

Mrs. Weasley bursts into fresh sobs, and Mrs. Longbottom looks away. A drop of sweat rolls down her eye. A drop of sweat. Not a tear. Most definitely not a tear.

Another teardrop follows.

"Alice doesn't understand what happened, though," her voice breaks slightly, "She remembers nothing from the past sixteen years. The girl hasn't even seen a mirror yet. Frank is better, if you can call it so. He has a fuzzy memory of lights, Healers, Bertie Botts and a young man who used to visit him every holiday."

The End!!!


This story is so incomplete, it's absurd for me to even bother uploading it. I didn't write anymore before July 21st, though, and anything I write now seems off. Please, please, please, please review!