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Neville Longbottom was born at the end of July, which might have meant nothing – technically, it didn’t mean as much as it could have, anyway.
As the seventh month died, two boys were born; three months later, Tom Riddle chose which one the story would remember.
Malfoy had been there for one of the earliest humiliations, taking the Remembrall and sending it flashing through the air.
He acted like fear was funny, and forgetting was a public failing – it was one of those memories that persevered (which was rude, considering).
A giant snake’s head flying off should have been the end – should have meant no more, not again.
The end never came, because Draco fucking Malfoy somehow stunned a Death Eater, told him to go, and gave Neville one more thing to remember about him.
Ginny understood better than most people did. She had loved the Boy Who Lived once, before she understood that living was not the same as being allowed to stop dying for a cause. Neville was different; he’d saved them, but not for any reason. Just because he was there.
When the message came about Fletcher, his wife asked, “This again?” with a sigh.
She was standing in the kitchen with Winnie on her hip and flour on her face, looking at him like she almost wished they were back in the Room of Requirement.
Neville didn’t ask why it was always him. He kissed Winnie’s hair, then Gin’s mouth, and took his wand from the table.
Wouldn’t take long to fix the thing someone more forgettable, more slippery, and considerably less useful had fucked up.
The Death Eater turned too late.
Neville lifted his wand – Petrificus Totalus – which made the corner of his mouth lift despite everything.
By the time Draco arrived, Neville was standing over the body in a mud-marked coat, feeling tired, annoyed, and yet still alive.
“Dung fucked it up,” he said, because there was no point dressing it up. “I fixed it.”
Then he asked after the girl who’d once put him in a Full Body-Bind – the wife of the blonde man who wore Death Eater robes, but wielded his wand for the Order.