Chapter 3

Harry entered the Great Hall again after having left for what seemed the millionth time that day. He wondered that no one had slept yet, after the enormous battle and a grueling day of celebration and relief and mourning, but he knew intuitively that no one was tired; the hall was full of a mutual understanding that they were all exhausted from all that had happened, but everything that was happening was whirling up like a gathering storm of dust, a parallel clenching and twisting, like a fist, inside the chest of each person in the hall, keeping them awake with a single overcoming emotion, different for each of them. Harry felt himself falling into a sick, hollow pattern, entering the massive room to the apparent notice of all inside it, giving them all what they wanted and expected from him, until he felt the pressure of those around him growing too strong and excused himself once again for the bathroom, to support his weight on something other than his own sore feet, to rest, away from others' eyes, for a few moments, before he felt the emptiness bearing down on him and returned again to revel in the presence of others. And repeat.

As he walked through the doors into the crowded room, his mind distracted and disturbed, he was startled, once again, to find that his sudden presence in the room caused an upheaval once again, the effect of seeing him enter over and over having yet to wear off. He had, however, gotten better at ignoring the reaching hands surrounding him, the voices calling his name, pleading with him to do one more thing. Instead, he found it in himself to push past them, to seek out those who he knew he had to speak to. As he passed the bleary faces surrounding him, he felt the tightness gradually returning to chest, like his heart being clenched in a fist. This feeling was in such stark contrast to the feeling that crept over him in its place when he walked by himself to the bathroom, the feeling of all his pain unfurling, rearing to burst from his chest. He was not sure which he preferred.

Harry saw Neville sitting at a table nearby and quickened his pace as he made to sit next to him. Looking up, Neville smiled widely and greeted him with enthusiasm. Harry forced a smile to his lips, staring at the table instead of Neville's bright face. He saw that the sword of Gryffindor rested on the table to Neville's right, his hand nervously resting on it. The placement of his hand appeared casual, but the illusion was blown by the anxious glances Neville sent its way every few moments, as though he was convinced the sword would disappear if he didn't keep it there. Caught up in a rush of affection and gratitude and something like sorrow for Neville, Harry did not notice that Neville was talking to him.

"…and Gran went off to talk to him," he was saying. "She'll want to see you, I expect."

"So she wasn't hurt in the battle?" Harry asked, and was relieved at Neville's negative response. He knew Neville would never be able to recover if something had happened to his grandmother.

"I tried to find her right after the battle to check that she was alright, but when she found me she told me I was being silly. I should've known; of course she'd be alright." He grinned at Harry and continued in a slightly less sure tone, "She told me she's proud of me. She said I – that I'm my parent's son." He beamed as though all of his dreams had come true, unaware of the shift in his voice with this admission. Harry felt a twist in his stomach.

"That's great, Neville." His voice sounded oddly cheerful and horribly false.

"Gran and I are going to visit them as soon as we can after Hogwarts is rebuilt. We'll tell them -" he broke off, swallowed, and when he continued again, his voice was harder. "We'll tell them Lestrange is dead." The end of his sentence seemed abrupt, the strength in his voice having built with momentum that was suddenly cut off before it could reach a peak. For a moment, Harry got the impression that Neville was still speaking, that there was more to come, and he looked up from the spot on the table at which he had been staring. He saw that Neville had dropped his eyes, as though embarrassed. It was not long, however, before Neville chanced a glance up, his eyes wide and shining, pleading with Harry to understand.

"I think they'll be glad to hear it," Harry confirmed, realizing that this was the first he had heard Neville speak so openly about his parents. He recalled the shame that had clouded Neville's features when they had met his parents in St. Mungo's, the embarrassment that had quickly hardened to resilient audacity, a challenge in the face of his closest friends. At the time, Harry had gotten the impression that Neville had expected them to laugh. He got the same impression now, and understood the risk Neville had taken in this confession. He remembered Neville's refusal to discuss the meeting when they returned to school. He inclined his head, trying to let Neville know that he understood, that the last thing he would do was laugh. Neville looked relieved; he lifted his head to look at Harry, and Harry quickly flicked his eyes to the table and the rubies in the handle of the sword, which Neville was fiddling with absentmindedly.

He looked at Harry for a moment, a strange expression coming over his face, something fierce and amazed and contemplative and happy. He stared at Harry with this mixed expression of incredulity, and Harry felt heat rising to his cheeks and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was odd that Neville could cause Harry this discomfort; Neville had always been the quiet, submissive one in their dormitory of five boys. He had always sat in the background and listened to the others and laughed at their jokes. Harry thought he had preferred it that way. He had never looked at Harry, or indeed any of them, for so long or so intently. Never as he did now. Never enough to cause discomfort. But Neville was different now. He was no longer one of the shadows.

"You did it," he said forcefully, a grin spreading across his face. "You won."

Harry felt a pang of sadness as he looked into Neville's round, shining face. As the grin on Neville's face grew, Harry was suddenly overcome by memories swirling around his head, flashes of a little boy searching a train for his lost toad, running to the Gryffindor table with the Sorting Hat still on his head, sneaking out to warn him about Malfoy, getting knocked out cold by Crabbe and Goyle, threatening to fight him to stop him sneaking out, dressing boggart Snape in his grandmother's clothes, making a list of passwords and allowing an alleged murderer to enter their dormitory. But the small child in Harry's memory had grown up, and, in Harry's recollection, quite suddenly. He had rapidly become the boy who had resiliently stared down the curse that had tortured his parents, refusing to look away, who had defended Harry in one of his rare moments of contributing to the conversation in their dorm, who had applied himself endlessly to learning new defensive spells, who had faced and been tortured by the same woman who had tortured his parents. Harry recalled Neville assisting them at the end of sixth year, one of the only DA members to do so. He remembered what Neville had told him about rebelling against the Carrows, bringing the DA back together, being forced to leave his classes and hide. He remembered Neville standing face to face with Voldemort and not flinching, but staring him down just as he had done a tortured spider three years earlier, refusing to look away and refusing to back down. A final flash of memory left Harry with the image of Neville bringing down the very sword that his hand hesitated over now burnt behind his eyelids, and he understood why Neville refused to let go of the sword. Harry also thought back on the prophecy that had been revealed to him in his fifth year; how easy it would have been for Neville to be sitting with awed eyes resting on him, to be shifting between being alone and the company of others, both equally unbearable, to be the one who had died not twenty-four hours previously. Harry felt a surge of something he did not quite recognize, at once dull and sharp, distant but stronger than he would have expected.

"We did it," he corrected. Neville made a soft noise, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

"I always knew you would do it," he went on, as though Harry had said nothing. "It didn't matter about you being the Chosen One or anything – I always knew you could do it, no matter some stupid prophecy. Some of the others – they lost hope when you were off the grid, but I knew you'd come back. It's what kept me going all year," he finished proudly. Harry nodded dully, grateful for Neville's loyalty but quietly discomforted nonetheless.

"You did great, Neville," Harry responded, and even as Neville beamed at him, Harry saw his hand tighten on the sword by his side.

"Look, here comes Gran," he pointed out, and Harry saw a flash of uncertainty in his eyes as he pulled the sword possessively toward him ever so slightly.

"Listen, Neville, I've got to run – bathroom," Harry explained, and saw faint relief and gratitude mingled with the disappointment on Neville's face. He forced his way through the crowded hall once again.

"Where'd that Potter boy run off to?" he heard Neville's grandmother snap at her grandson, as though it were his fault Harry had left. "I wanted to tell him what a fine boy he is, taking down the Dark Lord singlehandedly."

Harry heard Neville's mumbled response as he got out of earshot, and looked back to see Neville's knuckles turned white on the handle of Gryffindor's sword.