The dim light of the crescent moon and the smouldering embers of the fire beneath the great cauldron illuminated the pale figure of Voldemort pacing impatiently to and fro amongst the silent graves. Only the swish of his black robes and the low moans of Pettigrew could be heard. Neville, his eyes focussed on the body of Cedric, made no sound.
Voldemort did not have to wait long. Soon, dark figures began to emerge from out of the gloom into the middle of the graveyard. Their robes were hooded and their faces masked, and they approached in silence as they formed a ring around Voldemort, waiting for him to speak.
Voldemort prowled around the circle, staring at each Death Eater in turn. “My old companions,” he said at last, “welcome. It has been too long since we were all last gathered together, too long. I offer my… regrets for my enforced absence. But now that I have returned, what do I find my loyal followers have become in that time? What indeed?”
His red eyes flashed. “A bunch of cowardly, weak-willed, useless, incompetent failures!” he snarled. “None of you tried to continue our great work after I was gone, or fought on in my name. No, each of you fled and hid back in your own petty lives, as if your allegiance to me meant nothing to you. None of you tried to find me or bring me back. Were you all so foolish as to believe I was truly dead? Death cannot claim me, you should know that. I have power over everything, even death.
“Only one of you sought me out in the end, and that was because he had nowhere else to go.” Voldemort stopped in front of the prostrate form of Pettigrew, who was still sobbing quietly. “I know you bear me little loyalty, Pettigrew, but you have at least done me service, which is more than can be said for anyone else here. Get up.” Pettigrew slowly got to his feet and Voldemort seized his injured arm. He pointed his wand at the stub and from the wrist grew a silver hand.
Pettigrew flexed the fingers and looked at it in amazement. “Thank you, my lord,” he said.
“You are now truly one of us, Pettigrew,” replied Voldemort. “Never forget that.” He turned back to the other Death Eaters. “See, Lord Voldemort is a just lord,” he said. “He rewards those who serve him, and punishes those who seek to be his enemies. Where will each of you stand?”
Suddenly, one of the Death Eaters gave out a piercing cry of shock. Neville looked up to see a giant snake curling itself about the feet of the hapless Death Eater, hissing and baring its fangs. “Do not be alarmed, Macnair,” said Voldemort casually. “That is only Nagini. Her bite is fatal, but she is completely under my control. She will do exactly as I tell her.” None of the Death Eaters looked reassured by Voldemort’s words, and each stiffened nervously as the snake slithered on, winding its way around the circle between their legs. Each knew that at a whim, Voldemort could order the snake to strike.
“So, will you serve your lord once more, Macnair?” asked Voldemort. “What about you, Goyle? Or you, Avery? Crabbe? Nott? And what about you, Malfoy?
Voldemort had stopped in front of a tall Death Eater who, when he replied, spoke in the unmistakeable silky tones of Lucius Malfoy. “My lord, I have never ceased to believe in our cause, and it pains me to hide each day behind the mask I must present to the world. I gladly return to your side. But forgive me, I truly thought you were lost to us. All of us did.”
“Not all, Lucius. Some fought on, knowing I would return, and died or were imprisoned in my service. Which brings me to your old friend here…” Voldemort moved on from Malfoy to stand in of the Death Eater next to him. “Of all my former servants, I did not think that you would dare come here tonight, after your crimes,” he said, and pointed his wand at the man. “Crucio!”
The Death Eater fell and writhed on the ground in agony as Voldemort kept the Cruciatus Curse on him for several seconds. His hood and mask slipped from his head as the pain overwhelmed him. Eventually, Voldemort stopped. “Get up, Snape,” he said.
Neville gasped in shock. The Death Eater got to his feet, and it was indeed Snape. He pushed his matted greasy hair away from his face and bowed his head before his master. “Do you seek my forgiveness, Snape?” asked Voldemort. “Lord Voldemort does not forgive likely. I know what you did after I was gone. What excuse can you give for the betrayal of your friends?”
Snape looked up and almost imperceptibly raised an eyebrow. “Friends, my lord? I was not aware that we were supposed to all be friends together. My loyalty is to you alone. Like Lucius and the others, I truly believed you were gone. The Ministry were hounding us, and there was no safe place to go. I did the only thing I could, and what any true Slytherin would do. I looked after myself.
“For the price of telling the Ministry what they wanted to hear, I bought my freedom. If those I named were either foolish enough to believe they could escape, or sought noble but useless martyrdom, that was their problem. I do not regret my actions. With my freedom, I decided to obey your last order to me, and so I became a teacher at Hogwarts. I did not know you had survived until your attempt on the Philosopher’s Stone three years ago. Since then, I have eagerly awaited your return.
“I would not be so presumptuous as to ask for your forgiveness, my lord. I can offer only my loyalty and my usefulness. I am yours to do with as you see fit.”
Snape had spoken stiffly, through the pain inflicted by Voldemort’s curse, but calmly and clearly. Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed as they stared at Snape. “You speak well, as always, Snape,” he said at last, “but trust cannot so easily be earned. Are we to believe that you have spent thirteen years at the side of Albus Dumbledore and still remain loyal to us? Perhaps you are here on his orders. Perhaps he hopes you will somehow save the boy.” He gestured in Neville’s direction.
“Dumbledore does not know I am here,” replied Snape. “After all, if he did, every available Auror would be Apparating here at once. I snuck away as soon as I felt the Mark burn. As for the boy,” he turned to look at Neville for the first time, and Neville saw that his dark eyes were cold and pitiless, “kill him.”
“The boy is nothing,” Snape continued. “He is weak and talentless. He has been nothing but a hindrance in my classroom since he came to the school. To tell you the truth, I would be glad to see the back of him even if he wasn’t the so-called ‘boy-who-lived’. In fact, I will kill him myself, if you would allow me.”
Neville looked into Snape’s cold eyes in horror. He knew that Snape meant every word that he had said. Neville had always disliked and feared Snape, but he had never imagined that Snape would so casually wish him dead. How could Dumbledore have been so wrong about this man?
“That will not be necessary,” said Voldemort. “It must be me who kills the boy; I understand that now. But you are wrong about one thing, Snape. He is not nothing, pathetic though he may be. You know that better than anyone. He is a symbol. A symbol of all those who oppose me, of all those who believe they can defeat me. And so, when I take his life, they will see that resistance against me is in vain.”
He brandished his wand at Neville, and the ropes binding Neville to the tombstone were sliced through. “Get up, Neville,” snarled Voldemort. “Pick up your wand and come face me.”
Trembling, barely able to stand, Neville got to his feet and picked up his wand. He stumbled forward into the circle of Death Eaters. He did not know what he was doing; the only thought in his head was the hope that his death would be quick.
“Behold a blood traitor,” said Voldemort. “This pure-blood boy comes from an ancient line of wizards, and yet I have learned he is fascinated by Muggles and consorts with Mudbloods. The pollution of our noble blood must be fought in the heart and mind as well as in the body. We must demonstrate the superiority of our cause. Here, now, you will see not just Neville Longbottom die, but the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived die with him. This will act as a warning to all other blood traitors to repent of their mistake. Come, Neville, duel with me.”
With no idea what to do, Neville limply raised his wand, expecting the green light of the Killing Curse. But Voldemort had a mind to play with his victim first. “Crucio!” he cried, and pain shot through Neville’s body from head to toe. He screamed in agony and fell while around him the Death Eaters laughed.
When Voldemort released him, all resistance in him had gone, and instinct took over. He turned and ran, diving behind a tomb to hide. “Come out and fight, you coward!” screamed Voldemort. “Your parents at least died like the fighters they were. How do you want to die?”
At those words, Neville, cowering in terror behind the tomb, had a sudden memory. A memory of something Moody had said to him, months before.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what were my parents like?”
“They were soldiers, my boy. Fighters on the front line. Always first into the fray and the last to retreat.”
His parents had been soldiers. They had known how to die. They understood that, no matter how inevitable the outcome, their stand mattered.
A resolve grew within Neville. He knew he had never been able to live up to his parents’ example in life. But at least he could do it in death. One last stand by the Longbottoms. He stood up.
Calmly, he walked forward to face Voldemort once more. Voldemort’s lips cracked in a mirthless smile as he pointed his wand. Neville lifted his own and cast the only spell he could think of. “Stupefy!”
“Avada Kedavra!” cried Voldemort.
The red jet of the Stunning Spell and the green light of the Killing Curse burst from their respective wands and headed for their targets. But as they approached in mid-flight, suddenly they were pulled together, crashing into one another and merging.
The spells were locked. A jet of flame connected Voldemort’s wand to Neville’s, and would not be broken apart. Angry and confused, Voldemort thrashed his arm around trying to prise away his wand, but to no avail. Neville just held on for dear life, since every second that he remained alive seemed like a miracle to him.
The Death Eaters around began to murmur in concern and some drew their wands, but Voldemort ordered them to stop. Neville looked over at Snape, the only Death Eater not wearing his mask. He had a look of utter bewilderment and surprise on his face. No one knew what was happening.
Then, seemingly from nowhere, a sound grew in Neville’s ears, a gentle sound that spoke of something Neville thought had been lost forever: hope. He was sure he had heard it before, but he could not place it. The sound warmed his heart and strengthened his aching limbs, and for the first time a quiet voice spoke deep inside him: maybe all is not lost.
Voldemort’s anger and frustration that he could not break the link was visibly growing, and he seemed to be struggling with his wand. Then, there was an abrupt flash from the wand’s tip. The sound of agonised screaming began to pour from the end of the wand, filling the graveyard with its ghostly wail. There was a pause and then the screaming started again.
As it died away, the strange ethereal image of Pettigrew’s new silver hand rose up from the wand and curled around Voldemort’s head as it rose into the sky. It was followed by another, larger form. Neville was amazed to see the ghostly figure of Cedric appear, floating in the air above them. He seemed more substantial than a ghost, but less than alive, like an image in smoke. Cedric smiled down on Neville and whispered, “Hold on.”
A strange wisp of cloud came next from Voldemort’s wand and curled itself like a fog around the head of the image of Cedric, obscuring his face for a while before it faded. Next came another person, an old Muggle man that stirred a memory in Neville of a dream he had long since forgotten. Cedric and the man stood either side of Voldemort, silently watching him, and at the sight of his returned victims, for the first time Voldemort looked afraid.
The next figure to emerge was a woman, and Neville knew her at once. He had only ever seen her in pictures, but she had a face he would recognise anywhere, for it was so much like his own. It was his mother.
The spirit of Alice Longbottom floated to Neville’s side. “Keep fighting, Neville,” she urged in her soft Welsh tones. “Don’t give in now. Be strong. We’re with you.”
Neville looked again at Voldemort, and saw a last image rise from his wand: Neville’s father. Frank Longbottom, his thick hair parted in the same odd way as Neville’s, came to the other side of his son. “Just a little longer,” he said in a broad Northern brogue. “When I say, pull your wand away. When the link breaks, we’ll have a moment to distract Voldemort, and you’ll have to run. Get to the Cup as fast as possible.”
“Take my body with you, please,” begged Cedric. “Let my parents bury me.”
“Give Mad-Eye our thanks,” said Alice. “Remember, we’re always with you.”
“Are you ready?” asked Frank. Neville didn’t want to be; he wanted to stand there forever with his parents, looking into their faces, but he knew he could not. He nodded. “We fight side by side one more time,” continued Frank. “The last stand of the Longbottoms will not be in vain. Now!”
Neville pulled away his wand and the connection was broken. The four ghostly victims of Voldemort descended upon him, surrounding him in mist and smoke. Neville did not stop to look back. He ran, ran for all his life, ran as fast as his short legs could manage. He fled from the Death Eaters and the treacherous Snape, ignoring their cries and their desperately flung curses that missed wildly.
The Triwizard Cup was lying close by the body of Cedric. Neville seized Cedric’s cold hand, pulled his body forward a few inches and stretched out his other hand to touch the Cup. As his fingers made contact with the metal and he was whisked away from the graveyard, he heard Voldemort’s loud cry of anger and rage behind him.
Neville Longbottom and the Goblet of Fire by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Voldemort meets with his Death Eaters and forces Neville to duel with him.
Chapter Endnotes: So, what do you think of Snape now? Tee hee...