It was over.
There was blood everywhere-some his own, some his allies' and some belonging to his enemies. It struck him that now, in the aftermath, he couldn't tell the difference.
He was tired and sore, hit suddenly by the sort of weariness that soldiers must feel after the war. It was not only from the battle. The last year had been spent in the barracks.
Years, he realized. How long had he been preparing for this?
He idly reached into his pocket and dug out the grimy, ratty photo he now carried everywhere. His gran had given it to him at the start of the year. "You will have to remember them," she had whispered, touching her forehead to his as if she could shield him from the dementors lining the train platform. "Now more than ever, you must remember what you came from." His parents stood proud-young, no more than a couple of years older than he was now. Now and again they would whip out their wands as if preparing for imminent danger, then laugh together. His hand clapped over her back and she leaned into him.
Now she didn't recognize the husband she had once so loved.
"I know you'd be proud, Dad," he whispered. "Mum, I'm glad you don't have to know."
It struck him that no one had made a sound as Voldemort went down. There had been cheers and screams, later, but in that moment, everyone had stood stone-still and merely felt.
Allies and enemies alike, he was sure, had all endured the same force of catharsis. It was over. The war had finished. Untold suffering, pride, sacrifice, and sweat had all led to this.
There would be services soon, he knew, for the dead lined shoulder-to-shoulder in the Great Hall. Statues would be erected to honor those who had made the ultimate sacrifice.
But who had sacrificed more, he wondered, the dead or the living? He paced the halls looking from face to face. Lavender Brown looked, despite the deep, jagged wounds down her abdomen and the unnatural pallor, almost the way she had on the occasions where she had fallen asleep in the Common Room: there by accident, but still in a place where she belonged.
What had she felt before her death? What had she to grieve for now, when she could feel nothing?
Neville could feel nothing. Soon, he knew, the hurt would come. It would bubble under his skin until it threatened to burst and cause him to bite his lips until they bled. He knew, between pain and nothing, which he would choose, but fate had not chosen that for him.
The hand on his shoulder made him twist reflexively, aiming his wand at the other's throat. He relaxed marginally when he saw that it was Luna.
"Come on," she whispered. "The House Elves have kindly prepared a feast. You're a hero, Neville."
"We're all heroes," he murmured, "and none of us are." He saw his gran perhaps thirty yards away, holding the sword he had handed to her after the battle. Had he earned it, a true Gryffindor at last? Or did the sword give him the courage to kill the snake?
It didn't matter now, he supposed. The battle was won; now they had only the dark in their own hearts to contend with.