Neville let out a long sigh as he surveyed the room around him. It was one of mixed emotions, of heavy conflict, of happiness, of brokenness.
The final battle had been fought, and the Dark Lord killed. The horcruxes found, the blood shed. But it had happened at a cost. The Boy, who lived, didn't.
Neville took a sip from his butterbeer without tasting it, he had been alone for the past hour, mulling things over, letting himself feel guilty. Harry had told Neville it could have been him, and somewhere deep inside Neville for a few brief moments Neville felt upset. He could have had the glory, the riches, and the popularity. But soon after Harry had said that to him Neville began to think differently about everything, he began to feel his life was something he should treat with respect. Harry's life was fore tolled to a point of it not being Harry's own life, but Neville, Neville had the choice.
He sighed again. It didn't matter if he had a choice, because Harry was dead. And it would never be the same. Harry could have been in Neville's position and still be alive. Neville knew he had no control over that, but he couldn't help but feel guilty at it.
Neville didn't think he was special, nor did he imagine he could have ever had been.
Somewhere, in a distant world it seemed to Neville the Wizarding population lifted their glasses in unison.
"To the boys who lived and died."