The dark-haired young man trudged wearily through the hallway, ignoring the stares and whispers. He knew what he looked like. He knew his robes were torn and bloody and he knew that he had a rash across his face from a miscast spell
He hesitated and did his best to smooth his hair down before knocking lightly on the door and then going inside. He smiled when he saw the woman sitting on the edge of the bed.
She tilted her head curiously and then smiled shyly back at him. His heart clenched and he closed his eyes to keep from crying out in disappointment. In a few moments, he forced his eyes open.
"Hello," he said. His voice came out in a dry rasp and he swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry I'm late, I know that visiting hours are almost over but I came as quickly as I could. I think that Professor Dumbledore will be angry that I left so suddenly but I wanted you to be the first to know that it's over. Voldemort's dead."
At the sound of the Dark Lord's name, the woman frowned and her fists clenched convulsively.
His throat tightened and he approached the bed with slow, cautious steps. Kneeling in front of her, he took her hands in his, careful not to move too quickly. He gently rubbed her cold, pale fingers until they unclenched. "There now, that's better," he said softly. "There's no need for you to be upset."
Tentatively, her fingers twined with his and he forced back a sob. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he continued. "Quite a few of them are dead, actually. Peter Pettigrew, Lucius Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson. I don't know about Draco, I lost sight of him. Some of the people on our side died, too." His voice faltered for a moment and then strengthened. "But you don't need to know about that right now. I don't want you to worry about that. The most important thing is that Bellatrix Lestrange is dead."
He gave a strangled laugh. "Ron was fighting with her and I knocked him away just so that I could be the one to kill her. And it was easy. I thought killing someone would be hard, but it wasn't. I hated her so much that it wasn't hard at all."
Neville looked up into his mother's puzzled eyes and then leaned forward, resting his head in her lap. "I thought killing her would make it better," he whispered. "I thought it would make a difference. But it didn't, did it? It didn't."
He started to cry when his mother began awkwardly stroking his hair.