Neville was alone. His ears were ringing with the echoes of screams and spells and explosions. Gran was injured. Neville couldn't find her, but had seen Madame Pomphrey—Poppy—bearing her away on a stretcher. The Weasleys, well… they weren't to be disturbed at any rate. Harry had disappeared with the most spectacular sandwich and he, Neville, was alone in the entrance hall, still holding that damn sword.
There was a party, of course. Neville had looked in, but he felt, with blood flowing down the side of his face and the grimy sword still clutched tight between his fingers and his Gran missing, he would not be an asset to the celebrations.
Colin Creevy was dead. In Colin's first year Neville had helped him send his very first owl post.
"Oh, wow! Thanks, Neville! Look at it fly away! Owls are amazing, hey, Neville? I'm sending my dad some pictures. I can't wait for him to get them. They move! Can you believe it? He was so floored when I got my letter. He's a milkman, you know."
In Neville's mind, in that memory, Colin was eleven. He would never be older than sixteen.
And Remus. Neville couldn't count the times he had had tea with Remus. All through third year, when he was worried about exams or being bullied by the Slytherins, or being bullied by Snape, Remus had been willing to listen. He often had a funny story about his time in Hogwarts, or about Neville's parents. Whenever Neville felt worthless, which was a lot in those days, he could talk to Remus. Remus understood. A brief flash of Snape in drag forced a weak laugh from Neville's throat.
Another memory, about particularly clever prank involving some expired butter beer and a box of chalk. Fred. Another laugh. "Won-won's" chapped lips, that he showed off to everyone in sixth year. Lavender. Neville was roaring. Shoulders wrenching, stomach churning,hands clutching at that damn sword at every joke and happy memory and every party he had had with these people, in these halls… and he wasn't laughing.
"Neville," her voice was a tiny song. Her hand on his shoulder was the silkiest feather. "Neville it's—" but she didn't finish. It was clear she didn't know what to say. It's ok? It's over? It's done? It wasn't true and they both knew it. Luna wrapped her arms around him. Her hair was covered in ash. She smelled like charred wood, and spells, and blood.
They cried together.
That was it. Luna got there first. He was still shocked by how quickly and how naturally it had happened.
Months later, Neville stood in front of the mirror in their flat and straightened his jumper. It looked awful, but when Molly Weasley knits you a jumper you'd better damn well wear it. Even if you hate both the sickly gold and the macabre, headless snake she knits on the front. Even if its loose and ill-fitting in all the wrong ways. He had slimmed down since school, he really had. Luna's cooking probably had a lot to do with that.
It was Christmas, and so much had changed since the war. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were missing again. They had been sent off by the newly formed Ministry in pursuit of some former Death Eaters who had been rallying around a new leader. Some of them seemed to think Voldemort was merely occupying another body. Another mission. Neville wondered, not for the first time, if those three would ever be done. Each time they returned home they were grimmer, harder. Unrecognizable from the mischievous, bright, optimistic trio who had been his only friends for so many years. Ron, rumours said, had started using the crutiatus curse to gain information. Harry, still struggling from losing his connection to Voldemort, was a magical wild card, prone to uncontrollable explosions and fits of accidental magic. And Hermione was so devastated by the loss of her parents at the hands of Death Eaters she had tried to refuse returning to the Wizarding World at all. Only Hagrid had been able to convince her there was still enough good it was worth saving.
Fleur was pregnant. She was due in June. Neville had found out when visiting Ted and Andromeda. Little Teddy, who could not yet speak, did manage to change his nose to exactly match Neville's.
Molly couldn't stop cooking, Arthur never more than ten feet from her. She had destroyed her clock, unable to face the one broken hand, and the other eight still constantly facing "Mortal Peril." Bill and Charlie were heading up the reformation of the ministry and George—George was in St. Mungoes. The scars on his arms, they said, were healing but his mind… how does one recover from losing half of themselves? If Percy hadn't taken over the shop it wouldn't have reopened at all. Everyone desperately needed a joke shop.
"It looks fine," Luna murmured, coming up behind Neville and straightening his collar, pulling him out of his worry and memories. She seemed to sense when he was losing his grip. When the pain and hopelessness and sorrow welled up in him and seemed unmanageable she simply appeared. Following wrackspurts, maybe. She fiddled with his earring. It was a snake's fang, dangling from a single, tiny ruby. "Molly won't like it," she said. Neville shrugged and grinned. Sweeping her into his arms.
"I'm wearing her jumper," he said, "That will have to be good enough." He kissed her. She tasted sweet, and smelled like pine. "Time to go."
Neville and Luna's apartment was the much altered transfiguration classroom. Over two hundred people had taken up residence in the castle. Temporarily, they all said, but Neville was unsure he would ever be able to leave.
School was suspended for the year. Families, it was decided, needed to recover. The castle was still in ruins. It had lain abandoned over the summer, and the only way to go back had been together. At first it was only five of them: he and Luna, Ginny, Seamus, and Dean. That first week had been torture. Memories of the battle were everywhere they looked. Dormant curses flared up at their presence. Seamus had nearly been crushed when a tower collapsed. Dean lost a hand.
But no one could stay away. Cho Chang was the next to arrive. Ernie Prang and Hannah Abbot the day after her. Lee Jordan, Angelina, and the rest of the DA. McGonagall immediately organized the previously chaotic reconstruction, barking orders from her wheelchair and ignoring Madame Pomphrey's insistence that she rest. The shields weren't repaired until Flitwick, a handful of Ravenclaws in tow, arrived in October. Gran and her bridge league were followed by most of Hogsmeade. The days were spent repairing walls and scrubbing floors and making everything the way it had been. The nights were spent in solitude, study, or—in the case of many—drink. Neville had taken charge of the children who had started trickling in as the castle was repaired; those whose families had been killed in the war, or whose homes were destroyed, or whose parents were Death Eaters on the run. There were about twenty of them, all sleeping in the Hufflepuff common room. It had been the only house to let unsorted children take up camp. He found he quite enjoyed helping them with their magic.
Neville grasped Luna's hand tighter as they entered the Great Hall. Hagrid and Grawp had brought up the usual twelve Christmas trees, and they stood as glittering sentries around the room, which was hung in bright red and green. House elves were everywhere, carrying trays, serving food and (Hermione would have been pleased) happily chatting and sipping butter beer on high stools at the tables. Faces, familiar but for scars, were everywhere. It was unbelievably jolly.
At the end of the feast, Arthur Weasly, seated between his wife and McGonagall, stood and cleared his throat. All eyes were immediately upon him. His hands were shaking he had to place down his goblet.
"This year—" he started and faltered, and cleared his throat again, "After all we've—" He shook his head, tears forming in his closed eyes. Molly, eyes red and puffy, grabbed his hand and whispered something. He nodded and clutched her tightly, giving up his speech. What could he say? What could anyone say? Neville looked around. Everywhere heads were bowed, tears were falling. The stone walls, freshly rebuilt and carved all over with the names of those who fell in the war, seemed unusually high today. The sky was swarmed with stars. Hands reached for hands, shoulders shook, and all of them seemed overcome by the feeling everyone shared, but no one could name. Luna squeezed Neville's hand. He felt her move beside him. The bench scraped backwards as she stood. Luna, tears bright in her blue eyes, raised her golden goblet as high as her arm would allow and faced the starry sky.
"To love," she spoke in a clear, loud voice the Neville had never heard her use. Everyone repeated, drank, and the spell was broken. Smiles and conversation returned. The feast resumed, and everyone felt a little better. A little happier. A little less alone.
Luna got there first.