The Aftermath

The one where the Boy Lived

Chapter 1, The Aftermath

He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. His tie hung crookedly around his neck, the ends uneven

Behind him, Augusta Longbottom, his grandmother's sharp eyes were focused on him as she waited patiently.

"Neville," she said in that stern voice he knew all too well. "You need to learn how to do this properly. If you're going to carry the Longbottom name, you need to look the part."

Neville didn't respond. He didn't really care about looking the part, or anything about today for that matter. He just sighed and kept staring at his reflection, half-heartedly trying to fix the tie.

A few too many days had passed since he cared how he appeared before anyone, a few too many weeks had passed since he feared his grandmother, wanting to be the perfect "son" for her, and a few too many months had passed since he grew out of his shell, Now he remained uncaring for most things.

Augusta moved closer, her fingers quick and precise as she adjusted the fabric around his neck. "When you're in situations that matter," she continued, her tone sharp and stern, "you have to follow my lead. The little things—like a properly tied tie—can make all the difference." She stepped back and inspected her work, nodding in approval.

Neville glanced at her through the mirror, his expression blank. He didn't want to argue, so he just gave a small nod, though he wasn't really paying attention to her words. For now, all he wanted was for this to be over.

Augusta's gaze grew more serious as she straightened up, fixing Neville with a firm look. "You must follow my lead, Neville."

"The Wizengamot doesn't care about your feelings, only what you can offer. I've been through it all, and I know how this game is played. After everything that's happened, the political power coming down on you... it's not something you can ignore. You're going to need every ounce of strategy and control if you want to survive this. Trust me on this."

An owl swooped in, dropped an official envelope on the kitchen table, and then flew off. Neville eyed the letter warily. Another gringotts letter.

He glanced at the sword by the fireplace—a goblin-made weapon lent to Godric Gryffindor centuries ago. Goblins never sold their weapons; they lent them, expecting their return eventually. Now, Neville bore the consequences of that ancient arrangement..

The letters came regularly. Neville gave a small smile, a rare occurrence these days.

Neville's hand hovered over the letter. He just didn't want to deal with it again, not now, not ever. He was ready to deny any further negotiations and ignore the request altogether, but before he could speak, Augusta was already picking up the letter.

"You'll follow through with this," she said, her voice firm, not giving him a chance to protest. "The goblins don't forget. And neither should we."

Neville didn't argue. He couldn't bring himself to. He was tired for another argument. He simply nodded, knowing she would not understand, watching as she turned and walked out of the room to pen the response and Neville's gaze drifted once again to the sword, resting in its place by the fireplace.

The sword had been with him for too long perhaps, a relic of the past seldom had someone seen it in the last 900 years, now following him like a puppyThe first time he held the sword, he was a frightened boy, standing over Bellatrix Lestrange's body—, the woman who had caused so much pain to so many, it was a miracle he survived, and overall a good thing for the world he killed her, even if at that time he received criticism for it.

Live was precious, but the value of individual life depends on the eye of the man with sword in his hands.

Now, no one will believe if he said the sword acted like a puppy.

Wherever he went, it followed. When he flooed, it was there. When he apparated, it appeared. Even when he simply walked through the house, he could feel its presence behind him, as if the sword was always meant to reach the places he went, just as he was meant to hold it.

Augusta returned after a few minutes, holding the Daily Prophet. Her face was more tired than usual, more sad. Without saying anything, she set the paper down in front of Neville.

Neville glanced at the front page.

The first headline: *"Will Boy Who Won's Children Be Heir Black? Black Lordship Uncertain!"* He stared at it, the words sending a wave of unease over him. Everyone knew that Malfoys had a better claim, everyone thought they knew, given Neville himself knew of Sirius's heir was Harry, this could be resolved in time, no worries- he thought.

Before he could process it, his eyes moved to the second headline, and a chill ran through him: *"Susan Bones Found Dead—Suicide Suspected."* For a long moment, he couldn't speak.

Susan Bones had gone into hiding long before the war's full horror unfolded.

The Bones were a powerful ancient family, her aunt, Amelia Bones, had hidden her behind the strongest wards, willing to give up her own life to protect her niece. Even Voldemort's Death Eaters could not attack Bones Manor successfully. Yet, even the impregnable wards could not banish the dread of Voldemort's return, Rumors aside, the Dark Lord was a powerful wizard, and when he himself took actions against the DMLE director, one of the few ones in the Ministry that took a stand against the monster...

Everyone assumed that Susan had died along with her aunt.

Rumors had it that Susan's fate was sealed along with her aunt's, but as investigations unfolded, whispers emerged of starvation behind enchanted barriers—of a girl trapped and forgotten. Later, the painful testimonies and memories of house-elves painted a darker picture.> Consumed by the constant, paralyzing fear of Voldemort's looming presence—even under hiding and security—Susan ordered her loyal house-elf, Creaky, to end her suffering. This was no ordinary suicide; it was an act of desperation—a final escape from the relentless terror that haunted her every waking moment.

The irony was not wasted on the elf, a creature bound by eternal servitude to its masters—given orders to kill the master.

Creaky obeyed, his confusion and fear mingling as he carried out her command. In her last moments, Susan was not at peace but was overwhelmed by a terror that only death could hope silence. The tragic end was shared by both Susan and the tortured elf who, in a desperate act of guilt and despair, broke down under the weight of his own servitude.

The house-elf, who had obeyed its master's final wish, should have had its head hanged as trophy, a symbol of respect for following the order of one it was bound to serve.

But instead, in a desperate act of guilt and confusion, the elf broke its own skull in shame, torn between the duty to obey its master and the realization that the order was one that went against its very nature.

It was a tragic end for both Susan and the creature who had served her.

The Floo fire flared suddenly, casting a flickering light across the room. From the swirling green flames emerged Hannah Abbott, her face streaked with tears. Without a word, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Neville, burying her face in his chest.

Augusta opened her mouth as if to speak, but at the sharp look Neville gave her, she stopped herself, sensing the unspoken message. Not now.

Once, Neville might have blushed at the such a thing. But now, all he did was gently pat Hannah's head, offering silent comfort as she clung to him.

The weight of her grief seemed to settle over them both, and they stood there, unmoving, for what felt like an eternity.

When Hannah finally pulled back, she rubbed her eyes and took a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. She didn't say anything, just offered a sad, fragile smile, the kind that spoke volumes of the pain she was carrying.

Neville gave her a small nod. "We'll meet after the Wizengamot."

Hannah nodded in return, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears, before stepping back to the Floo. She gave him one last look, and with a swirl of green flames, she was gone.

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