And then – and then they are swarmed.

Dozens, hundreds, crush upon crush of people are on them, upon Harry, and Luna is pressed between them – the air is filled with the steam of hot breath and sticky sweat, the bittersweet mixture of elation and grief; it's all so heavy she feels crushed by it –

And then they are wriggling free; she, Neville, and Ginny – and now Ron and Hermione have joined them, the first exhilarating gasp of fresh air rushes into her lungs, and in the relief, everything she was using to hold herself up sinks away; her leg buckles and her whole body goes limp; rather than any of the others, Ron is the one to catch her before she can hit the floor.

Soon, though, the hordes of people sweep them all apart. Luna finds herself pushed away from Ron, not walking on her own but simply riding the waves of people and euphoria, until finally, she finds herself sitting alone on a bench. Her left leg is bent normally; her foot rests firmly on the ground, but her right leg is still sticking straight out; the scrapes have stopped bleeding, though the flesh still looks mangled. It hurts more than ever, but she can't see bone, and she doesn't want to waste treatment. The more seriously wounded are being transported to St. Mungo's.

She doesn't want to go. She wants to stay here, where the battle has been won; where everyone is; where Ginny is, where Neville is.

She hears footsteps; from the way the weight hits the ground she can tell that it's Harry. "Hi," she greets him quietly, looking up as he sinks down beside her, but he says nothing; merely lets out a heavy sigh.

She looks over at him. His face is pale and drawn; his eyes are sunken in his face. His forehead is creased with exhaustion and something else; lines which weren't there last year, and which shouldn't be on the face of any seventeen-year-old. He looks around at all the masses, at the people who are, even now, on their way over to the bench, with something like dread.

"I'd want some peace and quiet if it were me," she offers sympathetically.

"I'd love some," he murmurs, drawing a hand over his face and closing his eyes, looking as though he yearns for nothing more than a long sleep, to lie down and simply shut his eyes to the world for awhile, to, if just for a few hours, forget, so that he can open his eyes to a new world once again.

"I'll distract them," she promises, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. "Use your Cloak."

She looks out the window for some way of distracting anyone near him and sees a strangely-shaped bird. It's not quite a Humdinger, but it looks close enough, and it'll work for a quick distraction.

"Ooh, look," she says loudly, pointing out the window at the bird flying by, "a Blibbering Humdinger!"

Not many people can hear her, but those who do, those who were on their way to Harry, turn around, and she watches Harry disappear under the silvery fabric. She hears his footsteps as he stands, and then they fade, disappearing into the distance until she is alone again.

Her eyes find Neville – he's never too far out of her sight. He is sitting at the Ravenclaw table – her table – beside his grandmother, and the Patil twins, and Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein, eating; the light reflects off of the gleaming rubies on the handle of the sword of Gryffindor, and Luna watches him, feeling as though there's a beam between her eyes and him, connecting them, drawing them together –

He turns.

His eyes meet hers right away, as though they were waiting there for her the whole time, all day, all his life, all hers. Warmth spreads through her, from the roots of her hair to her cheeks to her shoulders, to the tips of her toes. She smiles at him, and he stands.

He makes his excuses to the twins, to the boys, to his grandmother, and he turns, turns to face her, and he walks slowly, dreamlike, across the hall to her; his eyes are locked on hers the whole way.

"Hi," he breathes when he reaches her, standing in front of her bench.

"Hi," she replies, calmly despite the fact that her heart is beating out of her chest and her blood is pounding through her body at twice as fast as usual. Despite all the time that they've had together, it feels for some reason brand new. Just like everything.

"It's over," he murmurs, looking surprised despite the hours that they've had to digest it. Luna understands how he feels; part of her wonders if it will ever sink in. Tomorrow, maybe, after she's slept, or after her leg has been healed, or maybe in a few weeks, after the castle has been repaired, or maybe when she's grown and has the chance to live her own life without the constant fear of always having it taken from her – or perhaps they will simply never sink in. Perhaps she'll wake up tomorrow and have to remind herself that she's safe, and then again the next morning, and then again, and again, and again . . .

But for now, as Neville says, it is over.

"Yes," she agrees, reaching out and taking both his hands, drawing him down beside her on the bench. "It's over. Or, at least," she corrects herself, "parts of it are."

"Parts of it?" Neville smiles at her, slightly confused, but his smile is still everything that she wants, everything she needs. It is slow, but it lights up his face from within; his brown eyes are warm and dancing.

"Yes," she murmurs absentmindedly, turning his left hand over in hers. She traces her finger along the lifeline of his palm, wondering if it has been extended now that this battle has been fought and won. "Parts of it. This battle is over, the war is over, but life is not." She flips his hand over again; this time, she laces her fingers through his. "Some things," she smiles slightly back at him, "are just beginning."

"Yes." He squeezes her hand; his smile is a beacon of light, drawing her in. His right arm reaches out and wraps around her shoulder, drawing her closer to him. His warmth fills her, sunshine rising up through her body and almost spilling over. In this moment, she is perfectly content.

Neville leans down; his lips brush lightly, softly, against her forehead. "Yes," he repeats. "Yes, they are."