Nobody

Additional Disclaimer: The poem at the end is titled "I'm Nobody! Who Are You?" by Emily Dickinson.

It was a joint funeral, with several hundred in total attendance, due to the number of tragic deaths in during the war. "In Memory of Lost Souls," the banner above the cemetery gates read; the words weren't written in colour-changing ink, but in bold, black writing that let visitors know that this was not for the faint of heart. The cemetery was centuries old; some headstones were covered in vines and their markings were faded, but still, some names and dates were so recent that they seemed almost unreal.

A large group gathered around a monument in the centre, whispering and crying, but Luna Lovegood stood to the side, just inside the gates, taking in the surreal feeling of loss that hung in the dry cold of the winter air. She was used to being alone, of course. After all, she had been alone ever since her mother died when she was only nine years old. But she never thought the day would come when she felt quite as alone as she had then.

Suicide. She could say the word now, though it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. For too many years, she had called it an accident--a potions experiment gone terribly wrong, but now she was old enough to understand. She understood her mother's reasons for blowing up the cauldron and dousing herself in flesh-eating potion, dying in the most painful way possible. She understood, but that didn't mean she agreed with it.

Now Luna was alone again; all of her friends were gone. Friends. She had always dreamed of having someone to call that. But now they were gone, living behind the veil with Professor Dumbledore and Sirius Black. Luna watched the families standing around various headstones, comforting each other. She knew that she would never have that. She had no mother, no father, no friends... She really was alone.

At long last, Luna stepped away from the gates and walked along the path, scuffing her best Mary Janes against the cobblestone. Many people, Luna noted, had brought flowers to lie on the graves--mostly roses and lilies (the flower of death, as Professor Trelawney had called it)--but still some just came to pay their last respects. Around the monument--a statue of a young warrior, that Luna assumed was supposed to be Harry, with his wand at the ready--people were crying and speaking in hushed voices about the wonderful Harry Potter, the one who saved the Wizarding World. Still, Luna couldn't understand it; they didn't know him, they didn't watch the light leave his eyes, and they certainly weren't his friends. Part of Luna wanted to lash out at each one of them, but something held her back. They were grateful--grateful for a boy who had given them hope for a better tomorrow--why did she hate them for it?

An incomplete ginger-haired family gathered around several graves, but Luna didn't stop to say hello. It didn't seem right of her to disrupt the peace between all of them at this time and place. For the first time in a long while, the third eldest Weasley brother was at peace with his family. She silently slipped past them, seeing the tears pouring down poor Mrs Weasley's face at the sight of her two youngest children's headstones. Luna stopped at a lonely grave marker.

It was new, but already the vines were reaching out to attack it and cast it into the shadows. Had she not set off with the intent to find this very grave, she might have even missed it. It was nothing compared to Harry's grand monument; there was nothing extraordinary about it--just a name, a date, and a poem.

Out of thin air, Luna conjured a white iris--beautiful but untraditional, the only thing that she could think to give him. Luna rarely showed her emotions; it was one of her many talents. After her mother's death, she had only cried when she was concealed in her room, hearing the sobs from her father in the next. But today was different; he was different. A lump formed in her throat just thinking about him--an inclination that had never aroused even during her own mother's funeral. The tears came out one by one. She knew she had no reason to cry. They had barely known each other. They were complete opposites: he blended into the background while she stuck out like a sore thumb.

Yet, there was still one thing that made them alike: they were misfits. They didn't belong to a group, like the fabulous Golden Trio; they didn't try to be people that they weren't, like the Slytherins. They were nobodies. She was a nobody. He was a nobody.

He was a nobody; but to her, he was everything.

Neville Allen Longbottom

July 30, 1980--December 24, 2001

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!