Chapter Eight: Broken Thoughts
“Drink with me to days gone by. To the life that used to be.”
~Prouvaire, Les Misérables
~ ~ ~
School started the next day. Everybody was relieved to get out of the house, especially Neville and Harry. Trunks lined the walls of the hall; they were assured that the trunks would be magically moved within five minutes. Neville stood at the entrance, in his grandmother’s sweater, waiting for everybody else to come down. They were to take a Portkey back to the school, and not tell anybody about what they did over the holiday.
Once everybody had gathered in the hall, Lupin held out an over sized spoon and everybody put a finger to it. Neville slid a glance to Harry, who glared back at him in return. He didn’t even hear Lupin mutter the warning count down before he felt the world around him violently. It was only a matter of seconds before they landed noisily in Dumbledore’s office. Dumbledore was sitting in his arm chair, scribbling furiously on a piece of parchment.
“Ah,” he said, putting his quill down gently. “Did you have a good holiday?” Everybody mumbled their yes, before Dumbledore continued. “The students haven’t arrived back yet, so perhaps you should wait in here until they do.”
Ginny was the first to sit down, leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around her knees. Harry followed, settling under Fawkes’s perch. Neville was next, sliding down the wall so he was sitting next to Ginny. Hermione and Ron, however, continued to wander, only their musty footsteps breaking the silence.
Once all of the other students arrived, they shuffled, silently, out of the office and into the Gryffindor common room, each making up their own story of what they did over the holiday. Neville decided that, like always, he could be secretive. Usually, he spent the holiday with his parents, but never told anybody; why would this time be different? The silence was unsettling as the next few days passed. Neville hardly said anything to anybody, not even Ginny. The first week back passed painfully, and Saturday could not have come at a better time.
There was a Quidditch game that day, Gryffindor verses Slytherin. Neville settled in the lower stands, sporting a large Gryffindor flag. Once Ginny had become a new Chaser, he had become much more enthusiastic about Quidditch. A whistle blew distantly, and all of the players kicked up into the air. Ginny grabbed the Quaffle immediately, and sped towards the Slytherin goal posts. “GO GINNY!” Neville shouted, waving his banner.
A Bludger went zooming her way, but she dodged narrowly. Again, the Slytherin Beater smacked a Bludger her way, but Neville never found out if she managed to dodge or not, (although a large “OOH!” from the crowd told him that she either made a spectacular dodge, or she got hit.) Professor Proditirus, or Rabastan Lestrange, stood at the lowest part of the stands, watching the game with a dismissive air.
Anger flared in Neville’s eyes as he dropped his flag, and pushed his way passed Dean and Seamus. “THERE! THE SNITCH! POTTER AND MALFOY BATTLING IT OUT FOR THE SNITCH!” Lee Jordan shouted from the stands. Neville paid no notice; he pushed his way passed some Hufflepuffs, until he was right behind Lestrange. “Y-you dirty liar!” he shouted, and with a leap of faith, tackled Lestrange from behind.
Being rather scrawny, Rabastan fell quickly to the floor, yelling in pain as his head made a nasty collision with a Slytherin flagpole. “Get off me!” he shouted, shoving Neville’s shoulder.
“You liar!” Neville shouted even louder, suddenly overcome with more courage than he could ever remember having. “G-get out of here, or I’ll tell everybody who you really are!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he hissed.
With as much strength as he could manage, Neville pulled his fist back, and struck Rabastan hard in the eye. It began to bruise immediately. His eyes widened as he saw what he did, but he continued to shout. “If you don’t get out now, everybody will know who you are! And-and they’ll send you back to Azkaban where you belong you piece of dirt! You--”
But before he could finish his sentence, somebody grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up. Neville struggled tirelessly against whoever was holding him back, until he heard Dumbledore’s voice whisper in his ear, “Calm down, Neville…” He obeyed and took a step back from Rabastan who was struggling to get to his feet.
“Mr. Longbottom!” Professor McGonagall’s voice snapped from behind him. Neville didn’t turn around; he just stared at Rabastan furiously. “Mr. Longbottom I am talking to you!”
Neville spun around, face growing a deeper shade of red. “What?” he snapped. Dumbledore fixed him with a look that quieted him immediately.
“I think we need to go up to my office,” he whispered.
~ ~ ~
Teachers were packed into Dumbledore’s office. Even Fawkes seemed a little unsettled by the amount of people crammed into the office. Rabastan Lestrange sat in Dumbledore’s chair, applying the same vibrant ointment that Madam Pomfrey used to his black eye. Neville sat in a stiff wooden chair opposite Dumbledore’s desk, staring forcefully at his lap.
“Indeed, it was very rash,” he heard Dumbledore say softly to Professor McGonagall. “But I think that he had some good reason for it…” He cleared his throat loudly, and Neville tore his eyes off of his lap and stared into Dumbledore’s eyes. “Why did you attack Professor Proditirus?” he asked calmly.
“B-because he’s a liar! He’s not who he says he is! He’s-”
“I assure you,” Rabastan said slickly, “that I have no idea what this boy is talking about. I’m sure his imagination must have taken control… I don’t blame the boy, however.” A cunning smile spread across his face. “I’m sure it was just in the heat of the moment.”
“Even so,” Snape piped up, striding from the corner of his room until he was towering right over Neville, who tried desperately not to quiver with fear. “He attacked a teacher.”
A mutual sigh was shared with Neville, Dumbledore, and McGonagall. Dumbledore glanced down at his desk and then back at Neville; his eyes seemed oddly hollow. “We cannot ignore this,” he finally said after a suspenseful silence. “The only fair punishment…” he paused for a moment, in which Snape and Rabastan leaned forward expectantly.
“Suspension. For two weeks.”
Neville sunk back in his chair, turning maroon in anger. He couldn’t say anything; he knew if he did, he’d lose control of his temper, which was slowly bubbling to the surface. All eyes seemed to turn to Neville, as though waiting his response. “Fine,” he finally said, resigned.
~ ~ ~
Neville landed noisily in the hall of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. Immediately, the portrait started screeching, and a group of wizards filed out through a door too small for the large numbers trying to squeeze though at once. “What is this racket?” a grubby old man who Neville didn’t recognize asked.
Lupin entered last, looking over an extremely old roll of parchment. He glanced up, and quickly dropped them all. “Neville?” he asked incredulously. “Neville, what are you doing here?” Neville didn’t say anything, but swallowed a lump rising in his throat. “Neville,” Lupin said again, but couldn’t finish until Neville interrupted.
“Professor Lupin,” he said staring straight into his face. “I was suspended.” There was an extended pause, in which everything stopped moving, and all eyes focused to Neville. “For knowing the truth, and acting upon it.”
Tonks broke the silence before Lupin could respond. “I’m sure that wasn’t why you were suspended,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “You must’ve done something.”
“Well, yeah,” Neville admitted with a shrug. “I tackled Professor Proditirus, but--”
“You what?” Mrs. Weasley’s jaw dropped to the ground as a pile of books she was holding did also.
”I-I said I tackled Professor Proditirus, but I didn’t--”
“Neville,” Lupin interrupted, his face becoming suddenly painfully serious, “you can’t draw so much attention to yourself. Now you’re a part of the Order.”
“I know, but I--”
“This is very serious,” Mrs. Weasley continued.
“I KNOW!” Neville finally shouted, fighting back the temptation to stomp his foot on the ground. “I just “ I can’t “ I mean…” He trailed off, and stared at the ground for a moment before beginning to run towards the stairs. He didn’t look back to see everybody’s eyes glued on him, but continued running, his feet pounding on the stairs so loudly that the portrait woke up again.
He swung the door to his room open and threw himself on his bed furiously.
“Little Longbottom is angry…” a raspy, high pitched voice said from the corner. Kreacher, the house elf, crawled out dusting his wrinkled knees off. “Kreacher would be wondering why.”
“It’s none of your business, Kreacher,” Neville snapped.
The elderly elf shrugged and began to walk out of the room. Once he slammed the door, Neville let himself fall onto the bed. His eyes fluttered closed, and he slowly drifted off to sleep…
~ ~ ~
The next morning Neville woke with a start. The sun was extremely high in the sky, telling him that he must have been sleeping for quite some time. He slumped against the wall in his pajamas. Fatigue was slowly closing his eyes, until the door opened rather quickly. “Neville?” Mrs. Weasley said cautiously. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” he grunted.
Heaving a great sigh, Mrs. Weasley bit her lip, and muttered, “Well, I don’t want you to start beating yourself up over this,” and shut the door.
Neville did not move the entire day; he just sat, vegetating. His eyes glazed over, and he was immersed in his own thoughts. He didn’t even notice when Kreacher crept in and began changing the bedspreads. Finally, a gentle knock at the door brought him to his senses.
“Neville?” It was Dumbledore. Neville didn’t answer, just stared up at the ceiling. The door creaked open, and Dumbledore glided in and sat down on Harry’s unoccupied bed. “Good day,” he said, his subtlety calming smile spreading across his face.
“Hi,” Neville replied flatly. He turned his gaze off the ceiling and to the elderly wizard in front of him. He had some sort of box next to him.
“I think,” Dumbledore began, his eyes cast towards Neville’s, “that it is time to tell you something.” Neville didn’t respond, but stared at his bare feet. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows half a centimeter, before continuing. “Before the fall of Voldemort, a prophecy was made.”
Neville looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the light from torches on the wall. “And?” he asked, intense curiosity growing.
Dumbledore closed his eyes, and began to recite. “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...” With a solemn look on his face, he opened his eyes and stared intently at Neville.
“Th-that’s about H-Harry?” Neville stuttered.
“And Voldemort.” Neville shuddered at the name.
“It-it sounds familiar.”
“I’m not surprised. Last year at the Department of Mysteries, I’m aware that you dropped it.”
“Oh… right.”
“But,” Dumbledore raised a hand to stop Neville’s thoughts right there, “when this prophecy was made, we were not positive who it was about.” Neville didn’t respond. “Can you not think of anybody else who was born at the end of July and whose parents defied Voldemort three times?”
Neville again, couldn’t respond. He knew who it was, but he couldn’t say it aloud.
Dumbledore seemed to respect this, and stood up gracefully. “You may find this useful,” he said, gesturing towards the box he had laying on the bed he had been sitting on.
Neville didn’t acknowledge him, but let his eyes glaze over. A tall, blurry figure leaving the room signified Dumbledore’s exit. Once the door clicked, he stood up, blinking blurriness out of his eyes. He made timid movements towards the box, before stopping in the center of the room. “M-m-me!” he whispered, eyes growing wide with astonishment. “Me! I-I could have been there!”
He turned forcefully to the box on the bed, curiosity suddenly flooding over him. He reached a shaky hand towards it, and pulled a rather large basin out from it. It was heavy, a lot heavier than it looked. He placed it on the desk against the wall and leaned slowly over it. “It’s a Pensieve!” he muttered, with an understanding nod. He had, of course, seen Pensieves before. His grandmother had used them late at night, and occasionally, he would watch her sobbing, and watching her thoughts swimming through it.
Taking his wand, he placed the tip to his head and shut his eyes. Dumbledore was right, he really did need it. He pulled the wand from his head and placed it in the basin. The silvery substance of his thoughts swirled in the Pensieve, and began to take shape before him. Neville, unable to stop his curiosity, leaned in.
It felt like he was free falling from a great height, gathering momentum. He landed loudly in the hall of his old home and stood up, brushing off his pants, as though they had gathered dust. He looked around for a moment, and trotted over to a doorway and smiled. A younger version of him, one year old, chubby and giggling, sat on his mother’s lap while his father made silly faces at him.
The cheery mood continued for about thirty minutes. Neville frowned as his first memory played before him. He knew what was going to happen next, and wanted to cry out “No! Leave the house now! Run! Go to somewhere safe!” but knew that nobody would be able to hear him.
His heart sped up, and before he could enjoy his last moments with his parents, a loud bang made Alice, Frank, baby Neville, and sixteen year old Neville jump. Bellatrix Lestrange entered first, her eyes glittering with malice. Three men followed, Rodolphus Lestrange, Barty Crouch Jr., and Rabastan Lestrange. Neville’s eyes flared when he saw Rabastan enter.
Neville watched painfully as his father headed them off while Alice grabbed Neville and ran into another room. Neville followed, knowing that his memory followed his own path, and he would soon be forced to go back to his own thoughts. He stole one more glance at his father, squaring off with Rodolphus, Crouch, and Rabastan before running after his mother.
He never figured out how Bellatrix got there so fast, but once he rounded the corner, Alice was shielding him from Bellatrix. She laughed her harsh cold cackle and pointed her wand at Alice, whose face turned a deep maroon in response. “You think the Dark Lord will take pity on you or your boy?” Her laugh filled the room, again, and she pointed her wand at Alice. “Crucio!”
Alice’s knees collapsed, and she hit the ground with a thump! She wasn’t screaming, but Neville could tell how hard she was fighting it. A minute passed, Alice did not scream, and Bellatrix showed no sign of raising her wand. “LET HER GO!” Neville shouted, but nobody responded; of course nobody responded, he wasn’t really there.
Neville wasn’t sure how long it took, before Bellatrix finally lifted her wand. Alice was on the ground, crumpled up. Her eyes were wide open and glazed over; life was missing from them. “Mum…” he whispered, hoarsely. Bellatrix’s laugh brought him to his senses and he turned sharply to see the tiniest bulge under a table cloth that was draped over a coffee table. In all of the hustle, Bellatrix did not even see it before turning around and leaving the room.
The door slammed, and baby Neville pushed up the table cloth, tears streaming from his eyes. Neville watched his former self crawl over to his mother, who was staring blankly around the room. “Mama!” the infant cried, pushing her arm lightly. “Mama! Mama!”
The memory faded to black, and Neville was being jerked up into reality. He stumbled backwards and hit the wall, panting. The door open quickly, and Mrs. Weasley sprinted in, panting just as hard as Neville was. “Neville are you okay? I heard a crash and came running-”
“Yes -- yes, I’m fine,” Neville muttered.
“Are you sure, because--”
“Yes! I’m fine!”
“Neville, I don’t want you to--”
“P-p-please… leave me alone…”
Mrs. Weasley, so obviously taken aback, stumbled a few steps backwards before turning around. Her ears were very deep shade of red as she shuffled out of the room and shut the door with a subtle click!
Frustration rising, Neville picked up the Pensieve. It was surprisingly heavy. With a small sob, he threw it across the room; the clay basin cracked in half as it hit the wall. He stumbled backwards as he anticipated the results of what he had done.
Fog of all different colors began seeping out of the fragments of the Pensieve. Neville jumped onto the bed, wondering if the fog was somehow poisonous, but watched with unblinking gaze. It wasn’t long before the fog began to take shape all around the room. The first image he recognized was what looked like a younger version of Snape. He was hanging from something, but Snape was the only thing he could recognize. His robes had fallen over his head to reveal something that Neville never wanted to remember again, all tinted in a dark grey. Then, Sirius Black, eyes wide open, falling behind the veil came into view tinted green. In a light blue, Professor Lupin was slowly transforming from human to wolf under the full moon.
Before he could let it continue, Neville dashed out of his room and down the fire. He took a handful of Floo Powder, and threw it into the fire, exclaiming, “ST. MUNGO’S!” The trip to the hospital was much more violent than it usually was, probably because of the excess of Floo Powder. He landed noisily in the fire place and ran up the stairs to his parents ward.
He reached it in a matter of seconds, and panted heavily as he ran over to his mother’s bedside. She was wide awake and staring at the ceiling. “Mum…” he whispered, a tear working its way down his face. Alice turned to him and smiled. He put his head on her shoulder and let tears fall freely, while his entire frame shook with sobs.
Hours passed, and nothing happened. No healers walked by, and Lockhart didn’t say a word. After what felt like seven hours, footsteps in the hallway made Neville raise his head and rub his eyes.
“Neville?” It was Professor Lupin. He peeked his head in the door and let out a sigh of relief. “Oh thank G-d.”
“Who else is with you?” Neville demanded, standing in front of his mother defensively.
“Nobody, I’m alone,” Lupin said briefly, before continuing. “You scared the hell out of us, Neville. What are you doing here? We spent the last six hours looking for you.”
Neville let his head droop and squeezed his mother’s hand tightly.
“Neville, you cannot run away like this, anymore. It won’t accomplish anything, and it scares the rest of us to death.”
“I-I-I…” Neville didn’t know what to say. He just stared at his shoes and followed Professor Lupin out of the hospital.
~ ~ ~
The rest of the two weeks slowly dragged by. Neville tried running away one more time through it, but Tonks succeeded in finding him at the fireplace and talking him out of it before he put a toe in the ashes.
Finally, the day before he went back to school, Tonks pulled him aside again. “You may,” she began, in an attempt to be serious, “want to keep that temper of yours under control.” Her face split into a grin. “Try not to attack anymore random teachers, alright? We’re trying to keep a low profile.”
“It wasn’t random though!” Neville protested. “And that teacher is not Tiberius Proditirus. His name is Rabastan Lestrange, and he was a Death Eater! He was one of the guys who-who… you know.”
Tonks raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “I-I don’t think so,” she said quietly. “I have seen pictures, and that man looks nothing like him. Besides, Dumbledore would know if something was up.”
“But--”
“C’mon, dinner’s going to start in a few minutes, let’s go help.”