Neville didn't know what to do with the sword. He'd known somehow to reach into the hat, and pull it out, and somehow he'd known how to swing it, with the rubies like a fistful of pebbles in his sweaty grip helping him keep hold. He'd known what to do in all the fighting, against the trolls, the dementors, the Death Eaters. But now all of that was over, and the fires had been put out, and the sword was still here.
He'd tried to shove it back in the Sorting Hat, but it wouldn't go. Harry had stared at him and said, "No!" in an almost savage way, when Neville offered it to him. And he couldn't just leave it lying around.
So for the moment he was carrying it around with him. Luna had wandered over to him earlier that afternoon and given him a scabbard for it, and a belt, although he felt a right prat wandering around with the thing slung at his waist like something out of King Arthur. It dragged at his shoulder and hip, so he had to walk straighter, work to keep his shoulders level.
He was starting to get used to it.
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