Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter series or any of its characters or plot.

Son of the Aurors

A fool. Gran would have called him a fool. An idiotic, unthinking, reckless fool who just couldn't stay put for one more minute. Sure, it was brave. Sure, it was what any worthy Longbottom would have wanted to do. But it was hardly practical, and since he had no real plan or strategy it was just plain suicidal. He could feel Gran's gaze on him even now, frightened and proud and exasperated at the same time.

But Neville did not regret a minute of his actions. His heart was pounding and his ears were ringing and his grip on his wand was far too tense to be very useful, but he didn't regret it. Not at all.

"The thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when you did it, Harry."

And besides, it was true. He would never join Voldemort, not even if hell actually did freeze over, as a matter of fact; not even if he died in this battle too, not even if his parents were insane, not even if he didn't know who else had gone, not even if Harry was dead and the urge to scream was bubbling up in his throat like Firewhiskey.

"We're all going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?"

"Yeah, I—"

Stupid! What had the prat been thinking? How could Harry have surrendered, how could he think that he could just run off and die, after all they'd worked for, after all they'd done? How could he leave them, after all that hope, after all that determination, after going off on all those mad adventures, each year, after bringing the DA together, after all those illegal meetings that, for quite a while, had been the only thing Neville felt he had to live for? How could he give up when everyone else had fought so long and hard, and were fighting still? How could he?

"It's all part of the plan. There's something I've got to do."

And how could Neville not have realized? It had been there, right there in front of his eyes and he hadn't seen it—the desperation, the slight slump of Harry's shoulders in that final conversation… and that small, defeated smile.

"Harry! Harry, you're not thinking of handing yourself over?"

"No, 'course not. This is something else. But I might be out of sight for a while."

I might be out of sight for a while. How casually, how offhandedly had Harry dismissed his own death. Harry had seemed so untouchable in their school years, every insult and every blow sliding off his back like water. And yet now, even as the water had turned into a torrent and Harry had drowned beneath it, he had betrayed nothing, not fear nor frustration nor weariness. It awed Neville and made him want to throw up at the same time.

I might be out of sight for a while.

Damnit, Harry.

Now, Neville saw, there was an old, rumpled, but ever familiar object in Voldemort's fingers, who held it up by one end, sneering down at the treasured artifact so that Neville felt an urge to immediately knock it out of his hands, but he knew he would be dead before he could even take another step. Both sides of the war were watching him.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts School," said Voldemort, and in his mind Neville vowed to stop that single 'rule' if nothing else. "There will be no more Houses. The emblem, shield, and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville Longbottom?"

Neville could think of a thousand things to say to that, of course, but before he could open his mouth, his arms snapped to his sides and he couldn't move, he was stuck—and then, before Neville could figure out what was going on, a cloth had fallen over his eyes and head, reeking of magic and age and the very castle itself: Voldemort had placed the Sorting Hat upon his head. His heart began pounding even faster. What was Voldemort trying to do?

Well. So we meet again, Son of the Aurors.

If the Body-Bind had not been holding him in place, Neville would have jumped. The Hat was speaking to him now? Really?

Whyever shouldn't I? Think, Neville Longbottom. You must not panic at this crucial time.

What the hell do you mean? Neville thought, gritting his teeth. He just hated it when people (well, things, in this case) spoke in riddles. He had the feeling that if they weren't in the middle of a bloody battlefield, the Sorting Hat would have smiled.

A mere Dark Lord matters not, Neville Longbottom. Hogwarts is on your side.

Hogwarts is on your side. That calmed Neville more than anything, despite the fact that it made absolutely no sense. The castle was close to destruction. The very spot Neville stood upon was battered and dead.

Ah, but its magic will not fade, Mr. Longbottom. Not now, and not ever.

"Neville here is now going to demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me," said Voldemort, and, snapping back to horrific reality, Neville struggled to move. Oddly enough, he found he could now wiggle his fingers and toes a little, but even so his heart had not slowed one bit.

Now, Neville, you must stay calm. Hogwarts is on your side. Stand ready.

What—

But then there was heat all around him, heat and fire and flame, and he could hear screaming and sobbing, and Neville shut his eyes, feeling smoke entering his nose and his hair turning to ash and his heart thudding ever louder in its panic—help me help me Mum Dad—

Neville. The Sorting Hat kept murmuring unceasingly in his ear. You must stay calm. Have you not realized what to do?

And then everything was clear.

Ah. Good. Finally. Time to act, Son of the Aurors!

Right.

He brought his arms up—easy, how had that been so easy, hadn't he been in a Body-Bind—and the Sorting Hat fell off his head even as uproar rose around him—Neville thought it might actually be smiling, even as it was aflame—and then the sword of Gryffindor was in his hands, a blade of rubies and iron—

Time to act, Son of the Aurors.

"Kill the snake?"

"Kill the snake."

Nagini was close and so was Voldemort, but Neville ignored the latter if only for a moment as he drove the sword forward, slicing the snake's head off in one rapid motion, its blood splattering his robes, his face—

And the for the shortest and longest second in his lifetime he and Voldemort were staring at each other, Voldemort furious, mad anger in his eyes, and a scream from the Dark Lord's throat as Neville raised his chin defiantly—and he realized, then, that he didn't care if he died anymore; he'd done what he was meant to, what he had to—

But then a sharp blue shield sprang up between them, and Neville took the opportunity to run, taking the Sorting Hat with him, whose flames had somehow died down on its own and which Neville would never allow to be destroyed; but he didn't see who had done it, didn't see who had saved his life—

Everyone was shouting: The giants were making the ground shake with their steps alone, and he could see the centaurs aiming and shooting, and in the bellows of battle cries he realized reinforcements had come and they actually stood a chance, a real, solid chance, finally, maybe—

And then Neville heard Hagrid's voice, which should have been lost in the noise and yet seemed louder than ever—

"HARRY! HARRY—WHERE'S HARRY?"

Neville blinked even as he recovered his wand. A small stupid slip of a hope rushed through his heart—stop it, stop, don't set yourself up for any more grief, Neville—but all of a sudden he thought he might know where Harry was.

It's all part of the plan.

He shook his head before charging back into battle, bringing a Death Eater down while he leaping away from a curse at the same time.

This is for you, Harry Potter.