Hi!
With a bit of delay, here comes the new installment the "Worth it" serie.
As usual, I'm French and have no beta, so every mistake is my own. If one bugs you, don't hesitate to tell me!
Also, if you have an idea about this serie, I take prompts.
Enjoy the read :-)
The last stand
"Hey! Wait up!" He yelled when the lad turned around. He couldn't let him leave without…
I kissed him. I did. I kissed him.
Neville's thoughts were running in circle, for a good reason. He kissed a boy. And he liked it. He so liked it, he wanted to do it again. The boy, in front of him, was looking at him with shock. Neville felt the shame rising in his stomach. He squashed it ruthlessly. He did nothing wrong.
They were about to die, for Merlin's sake! It was now or never! He was done being ashamed of who he was. Last year showed him that he was worth as much as anyone. People looked up to him now, even. All thanks to the boy in front of him.
Who looked shocked, but not repulsed. Neville felt hope. That, he didn't squash. He smiled.
And the boy smashed his lips against his own.
For a few seconds, and eternity in the midst of war, heaven joined earth. Neville's hand was in his unruly lock of hair when he had to break the magic to breath.
The Boy-Who-Lived was very much alive, wonder on his face. His own hands were all over Neville, and for an instant, he forgot that Voldemort was waiting for him in the forbidden forest. He forgot anything but…
"Wow." The sound escaped his mouth, his eyes gazing at Neville's. It was all the young Longbottom needed to get closer again. The hour, that fateful hour where the future of the wizarding world seemed to be in the balance, passed in the blink of an eye for the two teenagers, their minds on much nicer preoccupations. Hormonal as they were, they were careful, reigning in their impulses as much as they could, enjoying the exploration, the slow rhythm of their touch.
Harry was tentatively sliding his hand in his partner's underwear, his own trouser half undone, when the cold voice reverberated in the castle, filling the air like a chilling threat.
The voice was high pitched, filled with promise of death and destruction, as distorted and unnatural as Voldemort's body and soul were. The Dark Lord was standing in front of the castle, taunting Harry and the wizarding world about his cowardice.
"Fuck!" The lad said, running towards the monster. In a show of reckless bravery, or outright stupidity, he jumped out the window, flying before the most feared wizard of his generation, in a cloud of broken glass. He didn't know how, but he even managed to land one knee on the ground, like a super-hero of one of Dudley's prised comics.
He stood up in front of Lord Voldemort, eyes blazing, wearing only a pair of worn out jeans and battered shoes. His naked torso, and all the scars he collected during his -short- existence, for all to see.
It didn't matter. The crowd, gathering near the entrance of the ruined castle, watched the show in awed silence. Harry Potter, seventeen, stood his ground before the madman who, in his reign of terror, managed to make people even fear the mention of is made up name. He was standing, taller than his stature should allow, simply standing. His wand was nowhere to be seen, somewhere in one of the fifth-floor rooms along his T-Shirt, but it didn't matter. Harry wasn't there to fight the usurper. In a cry of hope, Fawks flamed over him, holding the sword of Gryffindor in his claws.
Harry extended his hand, snatching the falling sword. He looked at it, calmly, and threw it behind him. It didn't matter, Fawks was too late. The battle was already over, Harry wasn't here to fight anymore. Not that kind of fight.
All to focused on the confrontation between hero and villain, nobody registered the half-controlled plunge Neville took after his lover. He positioned himself at his right, three steps behind, not knowing what else to do. He too, wore only shoes and pants. He too, had his fare share of scars, bruises and healing wounds. He too, didn't care about his appearance. His only preoccupation was Harry, and Voldemort. He didn't know what exactly, but something was happening, something… as if it was the moment where the balance would tip, one way or another, definitively, irreversibly. He felt the tendrils of Fate cajoling him, breathing at his soul. There was no other way to describe it, and never again would he feel it that way.
When the sword clattered on the ground, Neville frowned. Harry was unarmed. Voluntarily.
The Boy-Who-Lived talked. No, not the boy. He didn't face Voldemort as a boy, but as a man, holding his own, fully aware of his actions and their consequences.
"The diary." He said, opening his hands, and the ghost of a black notebook, a hole at it centre, rose from it.
"The ring." Two halves of a ring took form next to the book, and they started to slowly turn in a circle.
"The cup." A half-crumbled cup, something sticking on its side, joined the circle. The slow movement of the ghostly green shapes was hypnotic, and Voldemort was staring at them, horror on his face. Those objects, they were important. But why? Neville felt something brush his cheek. He shuddered. Fate was smiling upon them. It scared him, even more than the Dark Lord and his cohort of murderous bastards. The litany continued.
"The locket." Neville supposed that the two things showing in midst of the circling objects were two halves of a locket. Some ornery S engraved on one of its faces tugged at his memory, not managing to reveal itself.
"The diadem." Here only a cloud of dust came to complete the round of clearly damaged things turning over Harry's hand.
"Gone. As you will be, soon." The Man-Who-Lived stated, and the images vanished.
And Voldemort eyes shone with fury, before he regained his composure. It had been so fast, and so strong, that Neville didn't know if he should doubt it. Voldemort didn't seem so afraid or angry right now.
He was laughing, in fact. A cold, loud, horrific, disturbing laugh, screeching at his ears like a demented thing. Neville felt no joy hearing this laugh. It just felt wrong, dangerous, impossible.
"Nagini." Harry told.
Voldemort closed his mouth. His demeanour became menacing, somehow, more than before, like a snake ready to strike. His wand jumped into his hand, as pale as his fingers rolled around it. It seemed off, for some reason, to Neville, like it didn't belong there.
"The last one is the snake." Harry didn't budge, and still had something to say. "Someone will kill it, and you'll be as everyone else. A mere mortal. You are not the Master of Death, just a frightened child who's afraid of the dark. Your only way forward is to repent, Tom. See the errors of your way, and you may live. Otherwise, you won't see the day." Harry's words resonated in the night.
"Now, will you uphold your side of the bargain? You told everyone that you wouldn't hurt them if I gave myself to you." The barely legal man continued. "Here I am. Unarmed, ready to face my fate. Hold your promise. Keep your vow. Don't perjure your word."
"I did promise." Voldemort aknowledged, smiling again. Fate shifted around him. Neville's eyes flickered between the two forces in front of him. Someone screamed in the crowd. But it didn't matter, Harry had made his choice. Neville took a step forward, picking up the sword.
"But you won't be there to see them suffer, because you'll be dead. So naïve." Voldemort's green curse struck true, right at Harry's chest. Neville saw something moving at the corner of his eye, and he slashed it by reflex with the freshly acquired Gryffindor's sword.
Harry Potter fell like a puppet who's string had been snapped. Voldemort too, Neville registered in his hurt.
It didn't matter. He run forward. He wouldn't let him get back up. He pushed the sword with all his might, cleaning his head off. And the world erupted around him.
Battle cries were heard in the distance, soon overwhelmed by the spectators turned fighters in the blink of an eye. Neville wanted to scream, to tell them to stop, that he was dead, that it was over. The Dark Lord was gone, his body lied lifeless on the ground, trumped by combatants, neighbours against neighbours, friends against foes, and more bodies went to litter the battered grass. Somewhere near, Nagini's remains were torn apart by stray curses. Neville wanted to brandish Voldemort's head over the battle field, to show them, to stop the war. But he couldn't. He was too busy fighting himself, against deadly opponents. Some lost their masks, physically, figuratively. People he thought were on his side were killing with abandon, others who didn't speak their mind before were taking them down. He slashed, hexed, cursed until the world stopped again.
Harry was standing next to him, a new scar on his sternum, holding Voldemort's white wand, everything frozen as far as he could see.
"I call on Lady Justice to weight the souls of the living, and Lady Death to carry the judgment." He said as the timid sun began to clear the sky. Neville felt his skin tingle, his body losing mass for a split second, before blood rushed back to his ears and his heart bit wildly behind his unmoving but breathing lungs.
"I call on Lady Magic to see her gifts, and Lady Fate to settle the score." Neville, not even sure that he wasn't losing his mind anymore, felt the ethereal embrace of Fate fading, its tendrils brushing his shoulders in a fond farewell.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Voldemort, is dead. I wish for all his bindings on Earth to be undone." Whatever was keeping them immobile stopped working at Harry's last proclamation.
Some people fell, dead. Neville noticed that other rose, other who shouldn't have perhaps. Wizards and witches weren't the only ones concerned, every living being present for the final battle had been touched by the Ladies' intervention. Some shone briefly, some clutched at their hearts, some cried, some whooped, all marked or freed by the Ladies.
Harry staggered when he broke the wand on his knee, burning the pieces with a flick of his hand. Neville came to stabilise him, but was swept in a tight embrace and fierce kiss by the dark-haired teenager.
Harry had died, Neville knew that intellectually. But the man in his arms felt very much alive, and he could do nothing else than kissing him back with all he had. Now that he found him, truly found him, there was no way he would let him go again.
Harry, in his fevered state, thought the same. Dying for the ones he loved, was worth it. If he had anything to say about it, he'd be at Neville's side until he died for good.
Living for him was worth it too.