A/N: This is quite a depressing fic. I've been planning it for a long time, and the planning was never as good as this. If I do say so myself, I think it came out sort of poetic. Anyway, it doesn't matter what I think, I want to know what you think. When you're done, please drop a review, it'll make me happy! Oh and by the way, I usually use italics for inflection or thoughts, but in the middle of this fic, there is a giant portion in italic, that is ALL A FLASHBACK!!! At the end when the italic is gone, it changes back to present. Ok... read!
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Guilt- that's the only word he could use to describe his feelings. They were terrible feelings. Neville Longbottom was a wreck. He was crumpled in the corner, legs bent at the knees and pressed as close to his chest as his rigid muscles allowed. One arm was wound around himself in a sort of half-hug and he used his free hand to cover his ear in a futile attempt to block out his thoughts. His foot tremored. Rocking violently to and fro, he wondered vaguely about the state of his sanity and perhaps if losing it altogether would give him a rest from these... feelings.
The clock before him offered a time, but the lateness of the hour didn't register with Neville. He only saw the white of the face of the clock- it was almost as pale as the face of death. Neville shivered and cast his eyes to the floor covered by a plush green rug, the exact same shade of emerald as Harry's eyes, even in the boy's last seconds of life...
Why does everything relate back to that?!?
The dam broke; the memories flooded in and saturated his thoughts, quenching the righteous fire burning in his gut, leaving only a queasy kind of sickness.
Harry Potter. Somehow the title 'Boy-Who-Lived' didn't seem to fit. Suddenly it was way too ironic for words. But there really are only so many times one can cheat death, and Harry had sure used up all his cheats. Neville winced as he remembered the moment.
He always pictured it in grayscale; it was fitting, more theatrical that way. It had taken place right out in the open, a muggle town no less. He had been there, of course, right next to Hermione Granger, who was in turn next to Ron Weasley and Harry. Dumbledore was there as well, along with Snape, Lupin, Moody, Tonks, Arthur Weasley and the rest of his sons, and a band of Aurors. They had been expecting an attack like this, and they were prepared for anything- even death, be it their enemies' or otherwise. The battle had occurred agonizingly slowly, yet at the same time, Neville felt that if he had blinked, he would have missed the entire thing.
Oh, how he wished he had blinked.
The memories flashed by in segments- histrionic, melodramatic half-truths- jarring and abrupt.
The members of the Order Apparated to the town. The Death Eaters had beaten them there by a good twenty minutes. Chaos roamed the streets, chasing the frantic and confused muggles.
Harry fired the first shot.
'Expelliarmus!'
It hadn't been much, but in the circumstances, it was better than nothing. A stream of light rushed toward one cloaked figure, finding its target square in the chest. The figure was flung backwards. Things went into rapid-fire succession after that.
A Death Eater fired a spell at Harry. Harry dodged it. Harry sent one of his own back.
A jet of brilliant light whistled past Neville's ear. It collided with the building behind him. The building burst into flames. Someone screamed.
One of the Weasley twins was doubled over spitting up blood.
The other fell victim to a well-placed 'Petrificus Totalus!' before he was able to bite out a counterattack.
Hermione was on the ground unconscious.
Harry was battling his way to the front.
Dumbledore received a physical blow to the head. His skull cracked. Blood splattered to his left. He fell to his right.
Snape's hair caught on fire.
Moody's already pocked nose exploded with a spell he had never heard of before.
Harry took on two Death Eaters at once. Both fired an Unforgivable Curse at him. Both missed. Both received a hex in return.
For a brief moment, the sky was illuminated as if it were day, but when the brightness subdued, the Dark Mark appeared, hovering ominously over the struggling bodies below. The Dark Side was winning. With the remaining fighters distracted, the Death Eaters struck again- harder.
Harry fell in slow motion. His back hit the gravel with a sickening crunch. The Dark Lord Apparated in and approached Harry's moaning form. A smile- if one could call it that- played over his features, seeming to giving him a deranged expression. After years of trouble from one little boy, he wanted- needed- this moment. He savored it.
His moment lasted just a second too long.
Harry's wand lifted but a centimeter and his lips parted for a whisper. What came out was a cry so fierce it could only be the result of almost two decades of pent up rage. His voice resonated through the air and reverberated off the crumbling buildings left around him. The sound escaped his mouth with such intensity that it hung thick in the air between them. The heat, the hatred, was almost tangible.
'Avada Kedavra!'
Voldemort let out a satisfactory angry hiss and thudded to the ground; he was already dead upon impact. Merriment surged through Neville's veins, but there was no time to rejoice just yet. A curse delivered by one of the loyal few Death Eaters still fighting hit him in the jaw. Neville blacked out.
When he came to, he was in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries surrounded by stark white curtains and an unfriendly, bare wall. His entire body throbbed dully. He tried to assess his injuries. Both arms were moveable, as well as both legs. His neck and mouth were another story. He winced and, with a sharp intake of breath, alerted a medi-witch of his consciousness.
"Pomfrey?"
The older woman smiled warmly. "That's Madam Pomfrey to you, dear boy."
"I'm... alive?"
"I should say so, unless a boring place like this is your idea of heaven," she responded cheerily. Her demeanor turned suddenly solemn. "Not everyone in your party was as lucky as you."
"Hermione? Ron? Lupin? The Weasley's? Moody? Snape?" Neville choked out frantically.
"Among the deceased are: Mad-Eye Moody, Bill and Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Pip Wingletom, Francis Ellerby, Willbiggins Spudmore, Vratsa Quiberon, Mathilda Blaggert, and..." she ticked off the names of friends and Aurors in a business-like manner, but when she trailed off, her expression betrayed the torrent of emotion flowing through her.
"Dumbledore?" Neville asked cautiously.
"Heavens no, child. He's just over there, resting he is." Madam Pomfrey pulled back the curtain and pointed where the elderly Headmaster was propped against pillows, snoring soundly with a stream of drool dribbling off his chin and disappearing into his long silvery beard.
"Well, you could at least wipe off the dribble from his chin, make him look a tad more dignified," Neville retorted, feeling oddly protective of the old man.
"Oh, pish posh!" Pomfrey snorted. "That man has never held dignity in high regards. I'll bet you twenty galleons that spit is there on purpose as his own silly little way of relieving the tension." As Pomfrey bustled about, Neville remembered she had not finished her list of the dead. His stomach did a flip as he realized who the final name belonged to.
"And... Harry? How's Harry?"
Pomfrey instantly stopped moving completely. She didn't have to say a word to confirm his suspicions.
"I'm sorry... Harry... well, he didn't make it..." Her voice was faint and her breathing shallow. Neville felt his throat constrict and his own breath shortening. A lead weight tugged at his heart and threatened to pull it right out of his body. Swinging his legs over his hospital bed, he stood shakily. He waited a minute while the room stopped bouncing about him, and he rushed to Dumbledore's side.
Neville looked down gently and took in the sight of a frail Dumbledore. He had never thought it would happen. Of course, he had also come to think of Harry as invincible...
"It's not fair," he whispered, letting his chin fall to his chest. His whole body shuddered with a sigh that was dangerously close to a sob. He gave a slight sniff in an attempt to contain himself, and let his eyes fall shut. "Why did Harry have to pay? He'd already given so much..." A solitary, fat, hot tear rolled down the side of his nose. He didn't bother wiping it away.
"It had to be that way."
Since Neville didn't see the professor's awakening, the unexpected, demure voice startled him. He regained his composure.
"But why? Why couldn't someone else help him?! Harry was already... so weak..." He whimpered, recalling to his mind's eye Harry's appearance before the final battle. He had been weak. Great, dark bags flanked his eyes, his skin had lost the youthful glow, his gait had become slow and hitched, even his smile looked pained and cracked. The spark in his eye was faded and dulled, a mere shadow had been left; it was a cold reminder of the burden the boy carried. Neville cringed at the memory.
"It couldn't have been anyone else but him."
"WHY?!" Neville all but exploded out of his chair causing several medi-witches to look in on their room, shushing and tutting at him. His eye twitched in an agitated manner and he pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose trying to calm it.
A sigh escaped the older man and he lay back resignedly. He hesitated a moment before plunging forward. "There... was a prophecy made."
Neville caught his breath in his throat and sat silently. He watched Dumbledore with intense interest waiting for the information to spill out and wash over his body, purge him of the murderous thoughts swirling inside of him.
"Years ago..." Dumbledore continued, "It was predicted that there would be one who could defeat Voldemort." He squinted his eyes, sifting through the organized files of his cobwebbed and dusty memory.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal..." Dumbledore quoted as much of the prophecy as he could remember verbatim.
"Harry," Neville affirmed.
"Aha," Dumbledore countered softly, "but does it not sound like someone else?"
"No, Harry was the only one 'marked'; Voldemort gave him the scar."
Dumbledore's smile was bittersweet. He never did like giving people this kind of news- the kind that would burden them with the heavy responsibility- but he seemed to do it quite often. He recalled the time he gave nearly the same speech to Harry. It hadn't really been that long ago, relatively. Harry had been just a boy. And Neville! He was still just a boy. It was cruel, and he hated dumping the load on the innocent. Still, it could never be his decision to keep it from them if it was their right to know. Sadly, Neville deserved to know.
"Harry was 'marked' only because Voldemort did so after hearing the prophecy. He believed it could be Harry and only Harry. Excluding that part, does it remind you of someone?"
Neville stared at Dumbledore, convinced the old bat had finally flew off his rocker. Dumbledore looked back with a stern expression and Neville exhaled noisily in defeat. He furrowed his forehead and knitted his brows in thought.
"Born in the seventh month... the end of July..." he murmured, trying to piece it together, "with parents who went against Him three times..."
Neville's eyes shot open. Realization dawned and the color drained from his face, leaving behind the pallor of a ghost.
"Me," he breathed.
Dumbledore's eyes looked tired and full of remorse.
"I'm sorry."
The words were barely audible, spoken more for the benefit of Albus than Neville, as the younger boy had gotten up with robotic stiffness and staggered to his bed like a sleepwalker.
They say time heals all wounds. Neville thought that was a load of bull hockey. He still felt the same sharp sting to his lungs whenever he breathed in and the same dull ache to his heart when breathed out. His hair hurt. And he wasn't even sure it was possible for hair to hurt.
Wherever he went he carried it around- like a dark rain cloud, hovering just above his head. He was certain it was visible to all. They could all look at him and know that horrible secret.
It could have been him.
Maybe it should have been him.
Inhale. There was that sting. Exhale. There was the ache. It was reassuring in a way- a constant reminder that he still had in his grasp his precious life, when men far better and greater than him did not.
It was guilt. That was the only word he could use to describe it.
His foot tremored and stilled. It would all be over soon. Soon.