The End of the Beginning

Chapter Eight: Hero

The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else.

--Umberto Eco

*

Time really had no meaning in the planes that existed beyond death. One could go from form and flesh to wispy conscious and never realize how many eons had passed them by. But one soul knew. For he had never died, and he was about to be born again.

*

Neville threw a book across the library, putting his head in his hands, ignoring Dobby's muttered words as the house elf went chasing after the book, properly shelving it. Dobby really hated library duties, especially when Neville was working, late at night. The boy had a tendency to throw things, and didn't care much where the item landed. Dobby was already sporting a large bandage on his nose.

"Another sir?" Dobby asked, gesturing to the Restricted Section.

Neville nodded and waited for the next book to land in front of him before disappearing into it's depths, searching for anything. He was getting rather desperate. A murder, in their own front yard, a disappearance from the very halls of Hogwarts, more dark skulls hanging over empty homes, and now...Now Lucius Malfoy had officially declared war on the wizarding world. Well, he declared war more on Hogwarts then the wizarding world, but really it was a first step. Voldemort's plans in reverse.

It had been what Draco had called a childish move, a nod back to the old wars, a young boy had come, bearing Lucius' missive. Percy had to actually step in and stop Draco from harkening back to an even earlier time and killing the messenger. It was a sarcastic letter, a needle to Dumbledore and his new 'hero', nothing more then a pithy gesture, which garnered the wanted reaction of anger, fear and hated.

Neville banished the new book, attempting to banish his thoughts with it, nearly pulling out a lock of hair as he ran his fingers through it again. He stood, knocking over his chair and strode to the Restricted Section, pushing Dobby out of the way as he searched the selves himself, scanning the dark and deadly volumes, desperate for something to reach out and grab at him.

*

Cotty pulled his cloak closer around his small body, stairing up at the stars above him as he leaned back against a tree, tears drying on his face. His left hand absently rubbed over his right wrist, feeling the shiny scars that wrapped around them, permanent pink snakes to mark him as a prisoner.

The stars twinkled down at him, smiling, dancing, cheering him. He was free...for a moment. The visions had left him for the day, his mind exhausted, his sight blurred from the haze of smoke and blood that he saw on another plane. The blonde man had told him his eyes would probably never fully heal, that he would forever see the world as a field of colour instead of anything true.

Cotty feared for what he saw, the bloody, the death, the bodies of his mum and uncle, but here he was safe. He wasn't at Hogwarts, where the ruins would be, he was still breathing while others weren't. He didn't know if what he'd seen had come to pass yet, time means little to a child, but he knew that some of it had. The girl who had screamed in his sleep was in the paper. He had seen it on the blond man's desk when he had been taken out of the closet.

Seamus had been there too, but even his cousin Seamus couldn't see through invisibility cloaks, and no matter how much Cotty screamed to him, it's rather hard to move a taped mouth.

Seamus still had blood on him from the screaming girl, not that that seemed to matter to the blonde man as they kissed. Cotty shuddered as he remembered what he had been forced to watch. The only thing that made that memory good was the fact that his cousin Seamus had pleaded the blonde man to find him, something about a promise.

*

"Welcome, Neville." Dumbledore said, not bothering to rise as the young man stepped into the large room.

It had once been a ballroom, back when Hogwarts held balls, but now it was a dust filled and desolate room. In the center, in a raised platform, a small pedestal lady, an ancient symbol carved at it's center. At the top was a slit so that something could be slid into it.

Neville nodded to the aging headmaster before raising his eyebrows at the cloaked figure standing next to the pedestal, blond hair peeking out from beneath his hood.

"Neville, this is A'haradlink."

The cloaked figure gave a soft chuck, pushing back his hood, his bright blue eyes sizing up Neville, weighing the boy's worth in his mind. "Most just call me Link."

Neville nodded in absent greeting, his eyes flickering back to Dumbledore. "You called for me, Headmaster?"

"Yes, Neville. Some of our newest...allies wish for you to be tested."

"Tested?"

"Your strength, your courage, they are not willing to align themselves with us unless you are proven worthy."

"I'm not..."

"Everyone is looking to you as the new leader, after all, you saved us once before. No matter your feelings, you are their choice as a leader."

Neville sighed, running his hands through his hair. "So, what is this test, a duel, a battle, multiple choice?"

Dumbledore smiled and there was the sound of a blade being pulled free from it's sheath. Neville turned to look at Link who was now holding an almost purely silver sword. The only colour was on the hilt, where sapphire blue leather and silver wire wrapped around it. "All you have to do, child, is pull this sword, out of that stone." He nodded to the pedestal.

Neville raised his eyebrow again. "Excuse me?"

Link smiled and went to slide the sword into the slit on the top of the pedestal when someone behind Neville cleared their throat. The three men turned to see Draco, leaning against the doorway. "Perhaps, given your history, someone else should slid the blade in."

Link looked at him, then the sword, and nodded. "Perhaps it would be wiser." He offered the blade to Draco who excepted it, and slid it in, watching as the stone sealed around the blade. He stepped away from the pedestal, moving to stand next to Neville.

"So, you are telling me, that I have to pull the sword from the stone, in order to prove my worth?"

"An ancient test, given at the proper age, to determine a leader." Percy said from the shadows. "As it was once done, so shall it be."

"Great, more ancient mystical crap that enjoys biting me in the arse." Neville muttered before moving to stand next to Link. "All I have to do is pull it out? I don't have to fight anything with it, kill anything?"

"Just pull it out," Link confirmed.

Neville took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly, ignoring the way his cheeks bulged out as he did so. He wrapped a hand firmly around the handle, shivering a bit as the cold metal wire touched his skin. His eyes closed and he pulled.

A warm breeze whipped around him, tugging at his clothes, his hair fluttering. His eyes jerked open and colours rushed past, forming scenes and memories and a number of things. Battles, blood, death and victory all played out in front of his eyes. It felt as if he were rushing past them all, though still standing still.

They halted with a bright flare of colour and light, leaving Neville blinking, temporarily blinded. He opened his eyes as the spots started to fade. Link still stood beside him, but the others were gone. Instead of a dusty, nearly empty ballroom there were people. The room was filled with people, all talking in low whispers to their neighbor, most looking at him.

Neville closed his eyes tightly before slowly opening them, cursing under his breath when they didn't disappear. He removed his hand from the entombed sword and stepped back from the pedestal, trying to take it all in. A hand reached out to steady him and Neville turned, looking into Harry's pale eyes. "What..."

"It's more of a where, really." Link said, looking at Neville. "Perhaps I could have been more specific when I told you, you just had to remove the sword."

A man stood from the chair he had been sitting in, moving closer to the sword, running a ghostly finger over the rounded end, before looking up at Neville, his brown eyes full of sorrow. Neville knew that face, he had seen it every day for the past seven years in his common room. But in the tapestry, Godric Gryffindor had been a smiling man, and the ghost in front of him probably hadn't smiled in centuries.

"We are here to give you a choice," Godric said softly, still running a finger over the cool metal of the sword. "One we were all given." His eyes flickered to Harry who snorted. "Well, most of us," he turned back to Neville. "A choice to take this sword, or to walk away."

"I don't...I don't understand," Neville said softly.

"They call this a test, those who don't understand." A voice said to his left and Neville turned, seeking out the new speaker. He was a tall, muscular blond man whose hand rested on the shoulder of a smaller, younger blond. The seated man wore a small circlet of cold around his head while his companion, the one who had spoke wore blood stained armor. They shared a glance before the knight spoke again. "But it is, in it's reality, a choice. A crossroad."

Neville was looking more and more confused, and it was probably only going to get worse. Harry smiled softly and took Neville's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"There is a time, in everyone's life, when they must grow up. Long ago, these times were marked by Rites of Passage, challenges, journey's, quests they must fulfill. To complete them meant you were an adult, with all the rites and privileges that came with the title. To fail, meant you were cast aside."

Both boys stared at Link as he spoke, not to them, but to the sword, as if lost in his own memories.

"For a few, the challenge was different. They were the choosen, set aside by Destiny. They were the ones labeled as heroes, those who fought." He blinked and looked up at them, his eyes shadowed by the past. "They were born into their roles, and often played their fate before they could walk. Often they, we, never knew anything else then what Destiny had written for us."

"But you did." A woman said softly and many turned to look at her, moving aside so she could stand before Neville. "You knew a life that wasn't based on fighting and dying. Of standing as a figurehead. You were free of Destiny."

"But Destiny and Fate have now claimed you, and so you stand before us."

Neville blinked at the man, distractedly wondering if he was really just wearing a sheet.

"And here, is where Free Will, takes it's stand." A young boy said. He was sitting on a table, kicking his feet, looking young and innocent, looking free. As Neville and Harry once looked, as they all once looked, a long, long time ago. Before time had hardened them, before they had grown-up.

"There are hard times ahead of you, Neville." Harry said, squeezing his hand again. There are good times too, but there will be points when those good times seem few and far between."

Neville bit his lip, reminding Harry forcibly of the young boy who had lost his toad on that train ride seven years ago. "What's going to happen?" He asked softly.

Harry shook his head. "Wish I knew, but not even the Gods know for sure. There is a reason, why there are few seers in the world, and why even those few rarely see the truth of events. The future hasn't happened yet. No events are set in stone."

Neville frowned. "But prophecy..."

Harry smiled. "We do get glimpses, from time to time, of events already set in motion. I can't tell you what will happen, but I can tell you a great deal of it will be unpleasant and hard."

"What a surprise," Neville muttered. He looked at the sword, then at Link. "So this choice..."

He nodded. "You now have to choose, between taking up this sword, and all the responsibilities that come with it, or leaving it, and your destiny behind. You'll fade away into history, nothing more then a name."

"It is not a choice to make lightly, son." The seated, blond man said, taking his knight's hand. "Both roads have rewards, and both have pain."

"Can't you tell me..."

The woman shook her head. "The choice is yours and yours alone. We cannot make it, for it is not our path."

Neville moved closer to the pedestal and the sword. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his mind turning the choice over and over in his head.

Take the sword, live by it, die by it, figuratively (or perhaps not). To take the sword meant to spend his life fighting. He wasn't a fool. Lucius was only a small problem in the grand scheme of life. There would be others behind him, picking up the pieces, struggling to take his place. There would be others waiting to fight Neville, to destroy him. It didn't sound like that great of a life.

He didn't enjoy it already, waiting for the next battle, the next duel. The weight of his world resting on his shoulders. This wasn't his destiny, not originally. He was supposed to be in the shadows, but somewhere along the line, the shadows had parted.

But could he leave the sword?

Could he turn from it and walk away. Fade into shadow again and live his life, not fighting, not caring, just existing. He would be allowed to love again, without watching that love fail. He could be free. He would have no responsibility, save to himself. He could rest.

No one would judge him, no one would hold it against him. After all, this wasn't his destiny, it belonged to a dead man.

It was his choice. A choice between chains or freedom. If he picked up the sword now, he would never be free of it. There were no second chances at this.

He stared at the sword, trying to ignore the feeling that it was staring back at him, waiting.

He had made this choice before.

He made it when he stood before Hermione, Ron and Harry when they were eleven and about to do something stupid.

He made it when he was fifteen and stood up to fight.

He made it when he was sixteen and swallowed his fear to become a solder for Dumbledore.

He made it when he picked up the forgotten scroll and trapped Voldemort in a small wooden box.

He made it every morning he woke up and faced the world around him instead of hiding in his curtained bed and sobbing.

His choice never changed.

He reached a trembling hand out and wrapped it around the hilt of the sword, swallowing. He pulled and with the grinding sound of metal and stone, the sword slipped free. A light flared around him again and he blinked. The ghosts were gone and he was once again in a draft, dusty ballroom, while those closest to him looked on.

There was a long stretch of silence before the sound of soft clapping reached his ear. He turned to look at Link, his grip on the sword tightening.

Link gave him a crooked grin, his hands dropping back to his sides. "Out of all the heroes who faced this test, not one of them has ever left the sword," he said, holding out his hand for it. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me.

Neville stared at that pale hand, outstretched before him, his grip tightening until his blood rushed away from his fingers, leaving them pale and white. A cry retched itself from his lips and he threw the sword with every ounce of strength and emotion, sending it flying across the room, clattering against the wall and floor.

"I. Am. Not. A. Hero!" He ground out, ignoring the way everyone took a step back from him. His eyes locked on Link's and he gave almost a low growl. "You think this is a test, a way to prove myself worthy, this is nothing. I am a man. I am nothing worthy of greatness. I am human, with all the frailties that lie within. I am a person, struggling, fighting, and drowning. I did not ask for this, I did not want this."

"But you..."

"Yes I passed your stupid test, I pulled the god damned sword out of the fucking stone. There is no other path. You say that no hero has left the sword, but that's because we have no other fucking choice. I am not a hero. I fight because I have to, because I am too scared to die. I am nothing more then a coward to stands in the way. Some call that bravery. But they are the same fools who look to a boy to embody all that they would also call good. I'm not a figurehead, I am not a monument, I am not a leader. I am just me, Neville Longbottom. I screw up, I fail, I trip and fall and more often then not land on my arse. The only reason anyone looks to me for anything is because I picked up a stupid piece of paper and read off of it. Because I walked out of this castle and returned alive. Because some idiot thought she saw something while smoking a pipe."

Neville closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, slowly blowing it out. He repeated the gesture before opening his eyes and looking at Link again. "I have fought, and will fight, only because there is nothing left for me to do. And I will die, because I was stupid enough to stand in the way." He pulled the hood of his cloak up and spun on his heel, turning his back on his friends, striding away from them, from the room, from the stupid pedestal and sword. He paused in the doorway, resting a hand against the worn wood. "The world needs their heroes. They need to belive in what they think they embody. I understand that, just as I understand the reason they look to me for that title. And I'm sorry you have come here, looking for that man. But I am not he." He left the room, leaving the others to stare silently after him.

*

Neville sighed, rubbing his neck as he dropped his cloak on the floor of his sitting room. He moved past the armchairs and couch, nudging open the door to his bedroom, peeking in.

Candle light fell softly into this room, barley piercing the darkness, a thin strip of it laying over the bed. He smiled softly, watching the man who slept in his bed, studying him.

The other man was younger then Neville, barley fifteen, his dark black curls brushing over his boyishly handsome face. He was curled around a scarlet pillow, hugging it tightly. A book lay open next to him, turned to some ancient drawing.

Neville moved closer, closing the book carefully, sliding a string between the pages to mark where the boy had left off. He pulled the covers up more around his guest, tucking them in, careful not to disturb his slumber. He brushed a curl away from the sleeper's face, his finger drifting slowly across the smooth cheek before moving away. Neville cupped his hand behind the last lit candle and blew it out, heading for the door. "Sleep well, Tom."

*

Harry drifted silently through the halls of Hogwarts, his mind turning over and over what Neville had said. He didn't notice where he was going, didn't pay attention to direction. He had gone this same path many times since returning here after his death. He knew where his destination lie.

Neville had trapped Voldemort's...whatever in a box. But Harry was it's guardian. As long as Harry was here, haunting these halls, the box was protected. Or at least, that was the way it was supposed to work. Neither could truly die, as long as one existed, just as neither could exist together.

He sighed, passing through the locked door, rubbing his temples. Voldemort, it seemed, had his revenge after all. The once Dark Lord could never be killed, and now Harry could never rest.

He blinked, un seeing at the small table in front of him, the only piece of furniture in the room. Neville's words haunted him. Because the boy was right, he wasn't a hero. The destiny he now carried had been Harry's. The fight, had been Harry's to fight. Heroes weren't supposed to outlive their usefulness, but they weren't supposed to die before their job was done either.

But Harry had died, and Neville stepped in his place. So the lines of Fate and Destiny had been re-written for another, and time moved forward.

Harry shook his head, trying to shut up his inner voice. Things such as Destiny, Fate and Life confused him. They always had. It was easier, most of the time to put it simpler. The Dark Lord equaled Bad. Harry equaled good. Thus Harry fought the Dark Lord and all was well with the world. It was easier to think of it that way...wasn't it?

Shaking his head again Harry blinked, focusing on the table again. He frowned, blinked again and suddenly found himself several feet from where he was, standing right next to the table.

The empty table.

The table, that upon which should have rested a brown, wooden, slightly worn box. A box that contained whatever it was that made Voldemort. A box that was now missing.