Remus
They were buried together, of course. With James' family, because Lily's parents were dead and her sister had made it clear it didn't matter a whit to her where they buried Lily, she had no intention of visiting the grave. Remus had wanted to bury Peter with them, he had loved them both so much, but Mrs. Pettigrew wanted him with his father. Still, he mourned them all when he came here, even the man Sirius used to be, once upon a long ago. They had been going to be friends forever, the four of them. With wives and children for the others, eventually, raising everyone together like one big family. Now he stands alone on a this hilltop, making his lonely vigil to the past. He always brings two bouquets, one from him and one from Harry. He thinks that Harry might like to know this one day. He hopes that Harry might want to know him one day. He knows that Harry is marked, even at his young age and he prays that it is Harry who will lay the flowers on his grave.
Neville
Neville Longbottom knew the fourth year other boys thought he was a bit of a clown. They were nice to him and even felt sorry for him, but they paired up with each other and only remembered him incidentally. They didn't know him the way he knew them, from being on the outside. He knew that Seamus didn't like going home on holiday, although he always pretended to be glad to see his mum. He knew that Ron wanted more than he thought he deserved and that this made him angry and sad. He knew Harry was afraid of himself, almost as much as he was afraid of You-Know-Who. And he knew that he was the first one of them to kiss a girl, although they'd never think it of him. Ginny Weasley had given him a soft, sweet, long kiss after the Yule Ball, but he'd never mentioned it to anyone. He was not a coward, but he also wasn't a fool. And, anyway, Ginny wasn't the girl for him and he wasn't the boy for her.
He also knew he was willing to die fighting You-Know-Who. And that meant he wasn't anybody's clown.
Lavender
Hermione Granger thinks she knows so much, but there's lots she doesn't know. Sure, she finally stole my boyfriend, but it took her long enough to manage it. And truth be told, she's not getting such a prize. Trust me, there is a lot that boy needs to learn about girls and relationships. And kissing! Boy, does he need to learn a few lessons about kissing.
But back to knowing stuff...I'm not so dumb. I get good grades, but more importantly I understand magic, not because I learned about it in a book, but because I feel it. I always have, even before I knew for sure I was witch. I understand the power that makes magic and I didn't need any old professor to teach me that. It's love. Not romantic love, although that's lots of fun, most of the time, anyway. No, it's the love you feel for everyone, like your parents, even if they are a bit fuddy-duddy. And for your girlfriends, who let you cry and braid your hair and share their makeup with you. And for helpless animals and babies and the clean, fresh air outside and even for people who don't understand love, like Hermione Granger. I understand love and magic. I'm smart that way.
Charlie
"I'm the safest bet you're going to find. Honest, loyal to a fault and charming to boot."
"But you work with dragons, Charlie."
"I know I work with dragons, sweetheart. I see the bloody brutes every day."
"And they leave big burn marks all over you for your troubles."
"The burn marks are manly. They show you how tough I am."
Susan spluttered with laughter. "They show how foolish you are."
Charlie winked at her. "Manly, foolish, not much difference, really."
"For heaven's sake, what am I going to do with you?"
"Marry me."
"Oh, Charlie!"
Sirius
The walls were dank and perpetually smelled of rot. The ceiling dripped monotonously, continuously, controlling his every waking thought, until he found himself counting the endless drip, drip, drip for four solid days and nights. After that descent into madness, he managed to block out the noise most of the time, although at times he wondered if perhaps a part of his mind wasn't still counting, still waiting with bated breath for the next drop of foul-smelling water to strike the slimy floor. At night he dreamed the walls were closing in on him, slowly and steadily, and he would begin to panic at the realization that he was going to be agonizingly crushed to death, ground down to his bones between the stones of Azkaban. Invariably, he woke, sweat soaked and with racing heart to sooth his hands over the luxurious, if faded, bedding in Grimmauld Place, a sure sign that he had left one prison for another.
Molly
Molly was unpacking and pointlessly repacking the bags. Hermione had already had already made sure all they had everything they needed. But if she went downstairs with the others, she would have to say goodbye. So she refolded Ron's pajamas for third time, pretending not to notice they smelled of Hermione's perfume. Good for Ron, Molly thought, almost savagely. Good for them for knowing some love, some pleasure, before.... There she stopped, because he was going to war, no matter what they called this journey of theirs. Her son was going to the heart of battle she didn't believe he would survive.
An increase of noise from downstairs told her the time had come. Molly squared her shoulders and, sending the bags down before her with a wave of her wand, went to face her son and his dearest friends as they left her for the last time.
As she entered the living room, she saw that Ron was opening a letter. Who on earth would owl him today? The whole family was here to see him off. He turned to her and reached out for her hand, dropping the shiny, silver badge onto her palm. Head Boy.
"Keep this for me, Mum, until I get back, won't you?" he managed to get out, voice cracking, before he turned away from, turned from boy to man into front of her eyes.
She pinned the badge over her heart. She will keep it safe for him, until he gets back.
Remus
He loved to watch her until she fell asleep. He could always tell the exact moment she finally stopped lightly dozing and went into true slumber, because she metamorphed out of the day's mask. Her hair muted to a soft brown, her face might round or sharpen, her eyes widen or narrow, depending on how she had looked that day. The point was she turned into a Nymphadora Tonks that only he saw. She didn't look as she did in that awful year after Sirius died and he was denying her, she was softer, easier, more beautiful, if such a thing was possible. He could barely believe he was the one who was giving this lively, funny, delightfully unique young woman the comfort and contentment she evinced in this moment, but miraculously, he was who she wanted. He never told her about this waiting, preferring to let her believe he had trouble falling asleep. She might think he was odd, she might think he cared about her looks, she might start staying up later than him. Keeping his silent watch over his love was a communion with the lost, a giving of thanks, a prayer for the future.
Neville
Neville was seated on the stone wall outside Florian Fortescue's when Susan Bones approached and gestured to the space beside him, as though asking for permission to join him. He nodded and she hopped up. They sat in silence for a bit, each intent on managing their highly heaped cones, and not ending up covered in Strawberry Tart Ripple Fudge ice cream. When he felt his treat was safely under control, Neville turned to Susan and said "Same flavor, I see."
"It's my favorite," Susan answered. "How about you?"
"Well, they were our of cockroach-crusted boogey flavor, so I settled for this. Shame, really."
Neville was delighted when she laughed.
"Looking forward to seventh year?" Susan asked casually.
"I'm not going back," he said, for the first time to anyone other than his journey's companions.
"What?" Susan exclaimed. She turned to him earnestly and continued. "Neville, I know last year was hard, but we have to try. We can't give up on living in our world, no matter how frightening it might be right now."
"No, no," Neville said, adding quickly "Watch your cone, there." As Susan went for an errant drip, he quickly blurted it out.
"I'm going away with Harry Potter," he told her, unable to control the swell of his chest, so great was his pride at being asked to join Harry. "Well, Harry and Ron and Hermione."
"Going away where?" Susan asked, turning to look at him. His expression must have given something away, because she turned somber and quickly added, "Never mind. Don't tell me. What I can imagine is bad enough and I don't won't to worry worse than I'm already going to."
Susan looked sown briefly, as though fighting back tears. "I suppose it's the only way, then."
"I think so, that's why I'm going," Neville told her, surprised at her sadness and the ease with which they were conversing.
"Well, then," Susan said, leaning over to deliver a soft, strawberry flavor kiss, "Come back safely." She nodded once and then smiled.
"I will," Neville promised, feeling for the first time that he just might.
Draco
Ginny Weasley's rich, red hair shone in the candlelight of the Great Hall. It was magnificent hair, the kind of hair you imagine spilling about her face as she leans over you to kiss you, the kind of hair that was meant to trail over a man's body, for him to curl his fist in and pull her closer. Wasted on her and wasted on Potter, who wasn't even here to run his fingers through it. It probably reminded him of her mother, the pathetic sod. It didn't cause Draco of his mother, that was certain and unfortunate.
He had to stop looking at her, that was all. If only her laughter wasn't so loud. Really, how tacky to laugh that openly, that throatily, that appealingly. No manners, he thought, that's what it was, but what else could one expect, given her background. And there was no need to imagine her raised in a proper wizarding family, cool and imperial and witty, appropriate and available to him. That kind of thinking was what kept him up late at night, ignoring Pansy; annoying her and only tangentially aware of her efforts not to show it. Pansy was raised well, of course, but, oh, if she had that laugh, that hair…well, he wouldn't spend his evenings with her, staring into the fire, with it's own rich, red flames licking the logs, taunting him, reminding him…
With a start, he realized that Ginny was staring back at him. He should sneer and turn away, turn to Pansy, Draco knew that. Otherwise, what would she think of him, gazing at her like that. He should turn away from her, not notice the challenge and the contempt in her eyes, not wonder how she managed to convey both emotions at once. Not wonder what the hell it meant. Yes, he should turn away from her, the Mudblood loving tart, the waste of beauty and pure sensuality. And he would turn away. As soon as she did.
Ron
Every rotten word between them was acid in his stomach. Hermione's nails were spikes in his palm. They ran to someone's dead boy, not wanting to believe the murmurs, believing them anyway.
It's not Harry. It's Diggory. Thank God.
Harry was paler than Hermione. Ginny neared, gasping with relief.
It's not Harry. It's Diggory. Thank God.
Diggory lay face up, eyes staring into the blazing sun. A woman, who must have been his mother, was screaming like a banshee, a few feet away. Cho fell to her knees.
It's not Harry. It's Diggory. Thank God. Pretty boy Diggory.
Ron retched.
Molly
The sound of the knitting needles wasn't calming anymore. Not since everything had shattered. Now Bill was something different, no one was quite sure what. Ron was on some fools' journey, with his girl and his hero. And Dumbledore was dead, as if that was even conceivable. Still she knitted, because she always had. Upstairs, Arthur turned in their bed. Soon, he'd call down to her, perhaps come to get her, wrapping her in one of the many shawls she made on one of a hundred other sleepless nights. But Dumbledore had never been dead before, so it had been possible and now he was and she didn't think they could survive. So it didn't matter who Bill was or where Ron was or what she knitted. She pulled the bright blue yarn closer and wept.
Neville
The boy stood looking out the Common Room window. From a distance it seemed he might be watching a Quidditch game or looking for a friend. It was only closer that one could see the determined set of his face, the ramrod straightness of his spine. He was waiting.
Outside, the battle was raging, barely visible from his post. The war had been raging for two long years. Years of training, of learning, of waiting for his chance. He had learned every spell that crossed his path, practicing each one until he mastered it. Even Hermione's old History of Magic notes had come in handy. Evil had been defeated before, he reasoned, and knowing how could only help. It would be defeated again, he had to believe that. The day had come.
Today he would play his part. Today he would take his revenge. For his parents, for his miserable, lonely childhood, for the Muggleborns living in fear, for the innocents. For Ginny's first year and Ron's last. It had to stop. It would stop, no matter what it cost him.
The boy stiffened even further. The battle had intensified, red and green jets of light flying every which way. He leaned closer to the window – they were drawing near the gates. It was time to slip out and join them. Dumbledore would be furious at him, he knew. They were supposed to stay inside, where it was safe. There was no such thing as safe, there never had been, not while the Dark Lord and his followers were alive. The boy knew this better than anyone. This was his battle too and no one was going to stop him from fighting it.
The time was now. The boy was ready. Neville Longbottom turned away from the window.