A/N: I don't own the Potterverse; that would be J.K. Also, for the purposes of this fic, losing your soul is considered death, regardless of whether a body could function without it.

sakaratul maut - (n.) the extremely unbearable pain suffered during the last moment of life, on the cusp of life and death [arabic]

This was it. He could feel it was time. And, if truth be told, he almost looked forward to it. Having outlived almost all of his peers, and nearly all of his friends from Hogwarts, there was precious little left for him here any more. Oh, there were always more family moments to be had, more children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to be born, but the allure of it all, the newness of life, was long gone for him. It had all gotten so very old, as had he.

He had never been near enough to a Dementor to ever worry about being Kissed, though he had heard from Harry that the pain of your soul forcefully being pulled from your body was immense. And as Harry would know how Death looked and felt, having seen and experienced enough in his own life, he knew that crossing over was not a pleasant experience, regardless of how one did it. It was even worse when one knew it was coming, Harry had said. The agony was palpable on the faces of the soon-to-be deceased, right up until the moment they passed, and a look of utter contentment was frozen upon them forever. It was that moment, the one right before contentment, that he feared today.

Lying here in his bed, he could even begin to see the faces of his long-departed friends again. Hannah, his first love, passed only months ago and yet looked as though she had never left Hogwarts; Pomona, his mentor and long-time friend, radiating warmth and peace as she always had; Ginny, wife of his best friend and the girl he had shared his first dance with; Dean, his Gryffindor roommate and advisor on all things Muggle, decked out in his favorite West Ham gear; Hermione, the best and brightest of his class, and the woman who was the big sister he'd always wanted.

To his right, his parents, as they had been before 1981, as they should have been for all his life. His grandmother, proud as ever. Colleagues, former students, others who had shaped his life and had gone before him, all here to see him off. He even spotted the stern visage of Minerva near the back, looking happier than he had ever seen her in her lifetime.

And at the forefront of them all, the man he considered a brother in all but blood. The hero of all those assembled here, and countless others, as well as the first true Mage since the time of the Founders. The Master of Death himself, Harry James Potter. The hair had gone gray, the face had long lost its boyish quality, but the eyes had remained, two emeralds blazing with power, even now.

"They're here to guide you on. Any last requests?"

One last sweep of the room with his eyes, a final confirmation that he had done everything he wanted and could do.

"Make it quick, if you would."

Harry smiled. "Sure thing, Nev. Take my hand, and be free of this life."

As Harry reached out his left hand, made skeletal by the powers that he commanded, Neville began to feel the pull on his soul. That moment, the last time he would have to be brave, was here. Though, he mused as he reached for Harry, this could have been much worse….

Agony.

Ecstacy.

Contentment.

And thus did Neville Franklin Longbottom breathe his last.