Neville pressed his back against the bathroom sink. It was cold, the stone soothing some of the nervous heat that was radiating off of his flesh. Something else had happened, he knew.
It wasn't that this was rare, or anything. Nearly every day the death eaters took in someone for torturing. More than once now, they hadn't returned.
Neville had heard the screaming all the way from the walk to the bathroom – and he would do anything to delay going back there, now.
He had too, he knew. He was their leader. It was his job to make them believe that they were safe, even though they never were. He was their leader, their trusted commander. He organized the rebels, protected the first years, and tried with all his might to keep everyone believing. Sometimes it got hard, though. Really hard.
He hadn't exactly asked for the position, of course. It had just sort of fell to him, once it was clear that Harry and everyone weren't coming back. He had taken it, because someone had to step up and take charge, but he hadn't wanted to. Ginny and Luna had been right behind him, of course, but now Ginny's spirits were weakening, and Luna just didn't have the same pull with the students. In the end, it was all up to him. He was the one who put on a brave face and led everybody through this war. In truth, he was proud of himself. He did it better than he ever hoped that he would. But still, sometimes it was nearly unbearable.
"Hello Neville Longbottom," Moaning Myrtle said, swooping ungracefully from a toilet pipe. She'd gotten more courageous, Neville noticed. She was now appearing in every bathroom on a daily basis, wreaking impartial havoc where she could. Even so, he had only seen her a couple of times for himself.
"Harry Potter's little friend," she continued, giggling with mirth. "Didn't you hear Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter's friend? They're all talking about it. About Terry Boot and the Cruciatus Curse." She gave a little shriek – whether out of joy or fright he couldn't tell – and dove into the toilet bowl.
He sighed, standing up and turning on the faucet. He splashed some water on his face, resolving to go handle this now. "Goodbye Myrtle," he murmured impatiently, leaving her domain behind.
"Goodbye," she hiccupped, waving with a shimmery hand as he shut the door behind him.
Only a week later, he was back in the same bathroom. It had been a rough day for everyone, he knew. A few second years from Hufflepuff had been missing for two straight days, and nobody had any idea where they were. Things were getting more and more miserable by the day, and Neville was pretty sure that they needed a miracle to restore everyone's spirits. He couldn't just do that, anymore.
"What's wrong?" Myrtle asked, approaching him from behind. "Did something happen to your little friends?" In her own way, mocking though it seemed, she sounded genuine. Neville frowned, supplying a nod as response.
She submerged herself in the toilet bowl, exploding from it ten seconds later like a geyser. She went next to him then, nearly invisible against the ivory of the sink.
"Of course, nobody worried about Myrtle. Nobody dared to think where she might be." She blinked at him, her eyes as wide a teacup-bottoms. She gave a shuddering, melodramatic gasp. "Neville's friends are lucky to have him around."
Neville shrugged, realizing grimly that she was paying him an oddball sort of compliment. "Thank you," he said, gruffly. "Well, I ought to be going now."
"Do come back!" Myrtle called after him. "You're much more fun than the other boys!"
Neville didn't dare think about this until he was a good fifty yards away. What did she mean by "fun"?
It was not for another month that he escaped to the bathroom again. He had been busy, and although he desperately needed a moment away, he hadn't had time to take it. Luna had disappeared, you see. And it had been hard enough when it was the three of them in charge, and now it was just he and Ginny. But mostly just him.
She was more upset than she let on, he knew. Well, they both were, but he knew it was especially difficult for Ginny. Her brother and ex-boyfriend were both missing, obviously she lived everyday in terror.
And he and Hannah had become… something. It was good, for a while, although his heart ached for her. She'd lost so many already, Neville wasn't sure he even had a right to feel sad himself, anymore.
But now, he wanted just a second to himself. If he could just process the day's events for a moment, he'd be alright in the morning.
He should have expected her presence, though. She always showed up, it seemed.
"You're quite brave, you know," she said, reprovingly. "Just like Harry Potter."
Neville winced, wishing she would stop mentioning Harry. He was really missing his friends, right now.
"I've heard stories you see," Myrtle said, coming uncomfortably close to him. "About little Neville and the Death Eaters…" Her expression was nearly scary, Neville decided. She looked… enthralled? Her words were shadowed by a cackle-like laugh, nearly sending Neville out of his skin.
He stared past her into the mirror, staring at his disfigured face. It was burned and scarred, one appendage or another nearly always swollen. His hair had a filthy look to it, his once-silky locks caked with dirt. Showers were certainly not first priority, anymore.
"What's the matter?" Myrtle said, almost kindly. Her eyelashes were fluttering at him.
"Nothing," Neville replied, his voice hollow. "I'm fine." He was surprised how naturally the words came; he was very practiced at repeating them.
"It's alright to cry, you know," Myrtle said to him. As if to demonstrate, two teardrops made their way between her eyes and her chin.
"Yeah," Neville replied, just as dully as before. "But I have to get back. So, I'll see you later." He gave a wave to her, secretly wishing he could listen.
He did not return until the very end of the year. Things got better, simultaneously to getting worse. Dumbledore's army found its pride – around the same time their circumstances sank to hell.
But now, it was over. They had won, although they really couldn't call it that. So many people had been lost. So many friends, who Neville had finally grown close to, had gone down fighting. Their horrific year had been all for naught; they wouldn't get to see the world that they died for.
This hurt him, more than anything had all year. And he couldn't just go back and let everyone call him a hero; it wasn't right.
He stood at the mirror, hardly recognizing his own face. The sorting hat had singed his hair, leaving burns all around his skull. His cuts and bruises disguised his face, and hardly any features remained intact. It didn't matter though, obviously. Not when Colin Creevey – little Colin Creevey, who shouldn't have been there – was killed in battle.
"What happened?" It was Myrtle. She had been in the toilet during the battle, Neville realized. She had hid.
This angered his already edgy nerves, and he turned away from her. The other ghosts had helped.
"I thought we were friends, Neville," Myrtle said, eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you come and visit me?"
Neville thought his rage must be visible, it felt so strong. It was leaking onto the floor, seeping out his ears in unbearably scalding steam. "I was busy," he said. "I had other things to worry about." He glared out her, ashamed to feel his eyes fill. Why did she have this effect on him?
She swirled around him, her gossamer frame brushing his burned hair. "It's alright," she cooed.
Neville's anger was not assuaged though, and he continued to frown. They had made odd companions, during the year. She should have helped during the battle.
Even so, his tears continued to fall. He couldn't help it, and he was too tired to try. It was the first time he'd let himself cry in months, he realized. The first time he'd had a chance.
Myrtle settled herself against his back, evidently trying to comfort him. Her ghostly-composition chilled his body, making his nerves completely numb. He shivered, wishing she would go away. He wanted to feel warm, not numb. Isn't that what comfort was?
It was only ten minutes later, when he turned away from her.
"I should go," he whispered, wiping at his red-rimmed eyes. "I should help repair the castle."
"Alright," Myrtle conceded, much more agreeable than he ever remembered her being. "Come back soon!"
"Yeah," Neville said, nodding. He might, he thought. When holding Hannah hurt too much, or when reconstructing the Great Hall brought back too many memories. He would come back to her, for a moment of absurd escape.
"Goodbye Myrtle," he said, trudging towards the doors.
"Goodbye Neville Longbottom," Myrtle replied. She didn't follow it by "Harry Potter's Friend".