Neville could not ignore the sunbeam on his face any longer. It was burning through his eyelids, treating him to a vista of red rivers on orange fields that made continued sleep impossible.

Still, he could pretend. He burrowed into the silk bed sheets with a contented little sigh. It had been so long since he'd had a deep sleep like this. He normally was in the laboratory at half six, which had destroyed his ability to lie in on weekends, and he was such a light sleeper that the slightest thing woke him anyway -

He was supposed to be somewhere at nine. What time was it now?

His lashes fluttered, and he reluctantly opened one eye to peek at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

It was not there.

And he did not own silk bed sheets.

He was very suddenly and sickeningly awake, sitting bolt upright with adrenaline coursing through his veins like icy water. His eyes had not had time to focus before a hand was on his shoulder, and through his gasping, he could hear a maddeningly calm female voice repeating, "Steady there. Calm down. You've been very distressed, but everything is fine."

Slowly, he began to take control of himself again, and he gulped great breaths as he looked to his right at the owner of the voice, seated in a chair by the bedside. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes as her father, the same prominent nose and pale complexion. Just in time, he stopped himself from trying to say her name.

She introduced herself anyway. "I'm Gloria Lancaster. It's good you're finally awake; there's a lot to do." She gestured at a narrow door on the other side of the small room. "There's a bathroom through there. The drawers hold the clothes you'll be wearing during your stay. In one hour, a house-elf will be here with your breakfast. An hour after that, you will be led to your laboratory. You'll find that we've relocated all your samples and equipment as well as your research materials. Your meals will be brought to you. If you require anything else, tell my father tonight when he summons you. You are not to leave your laboratory until then." She did not bother to ask if he understood; she simply rose and left the room.

The bathroom was the same stark white with black accents that his room had been. Neville turned the tap in the shower to as hot as he could stand, and then he let the water run over his shoulders and back while he tried very hard not to think. It was pointless, of course; his mind raced as the useless adrenaline went sour and left him feeling shaken and weak. He felt no cleaner as he toweledtowelled himself dry and brushed his teeth.

The clothes were the barest of necessities: white cotton pants, trousers, and undershirt, with white laboratory work robes over the lot. Atop the chest of drawers was his wand, and he was immediately shamed by the wave of gratitude he felt toward his captors for allowing him to keep it. He chided himself. That was the first step to a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome, and if he was supposed to be undercover...

Except he wasn't undercover. To be undercover, he had to have some sort of control over the situation. He possessed absolutely no control - none, not even a speck.

He clasped his hands together to stop their trembling and gave himself a mental shake. This was no different than years ago at Hogwarts. In fact, he was in a better situation now: the Lancasters did not want to kill him, and he no longer had any family left alive for them to use as coercion. He had something they wanted, and only he could give it to them. While that held true, he did have control.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to get him through breakfast without gagging, and it was with a straight back that he followed the nameless Brotherhood lackey through the winding halls of the Lancaster Estate to the greenhouse in one of the inner courtyard gardens.

 

 

"I can't do anything unless you allow me to write," was the first thing Neville said that evening when Lancaster lifted the Stifling Curse.

"I'm afraid not," Lancaster said, gesturing for the house-elf to pour him a brandy.

"Then you'll get nothing of quality. I need to make notations. I can't keep track of four hundred seedlings in my head, not with all the variables I have to monitor, and if you want me to deliver, you have to give me the tools I need." Neville's stomach quailed - making demands of Lancaster was akin to suicide. His voice remained surprisingly steady.

"Might I suggest you use smaller sample sizes, then?" Lancaster replied laconically. He took a sip of his brandy. "You abused my trust two nights ago, Mr Longbottom. I have to assume that, if I give you the slightest leeway, you will abuse it again. Neither you nor I can afford that."

Two nights ago? So he'd been out cold for a whole day and two nights. Surely Harry and the rest of the Auror department - along with everyone else in Magical Law Enforcement that Harry had sway over - were trying to figure out a way to extract him. "You have a guard watching my every move," Neville pressed, forcing his stomach to lie still. "I have no doubt the greenhouse is warded, too. I can't sneeze without you knowing it, and you'll know in about three seconds if anyone else lifts the Stifling." He took a deep breath. "I can't do what you're asking without proper notes. Be reasonable."

Lancaster studied him with chilling, emotionless blue eyes until Neville had to look away. "Very well. I will consider your request." He took a long, slow sip of his brandy. "And are the facilities up to your requirements?"

"Mostly." If he was honest with himself, he'd once have sold his soul to work in a laboratory of this calibre. Now that he actually had sold his soul for it, he was keenly aware that it had not been worth it. Neville hesitated for a moment before adding, "But the greenhouse is freezing. There's only so much I can do if it's too cold for seeds to germinate."

Lancaster nodded thoughtfully. "I'll have the heating charm refreshed on it tomorrow. It's been years since we've used that greenhouse for anything but storage." He set his brandy snifter down delicately and clasped his hands together. "Do you understand what it is you'll be doing for us?"

"Not... not exactly, no." Neville licked his lips. "You asked me to propagate a variety of Euphorico fatalis that's even more dangerously addictive than it already is. But I'm afraid we never got down to the specifics."

"Specifics." Lancaster sounded amused. "Those will be granted on a 'need to know' basis, Neville." The hairs on the back of Neville's neck prickled as Lancaster used his given name. It somehow reminded him of rough hands catching on silk. "For now, what you need to know is this: we require a compound that will hook its user after a single encounter. We must be able to distribute this compound without the intended user being aware of it, and we shall need enough for seventy-seven initial doses, after which point, a more... traditional means of distribution will be required."

"Impossible." Neville fought the urge to clap his hand over his mouth. Lancaster's face remained impassive, but the nearly imperceptible twitch of a single eyebrow spoke volumes. "Do you know the logistics of refining narcotics? I can get maybe half a dose from a dozen plants, and it takes weeks. You can't use duplicating spells, because it won't duplicate the ley matrices that make the compound a magical narcotic in the first place. I'd need -" he did some quick calculations, nearly forgetting where he was for the moment - "eighteen hundred plants, give or take, and that's assuming they all produce viable seed pods, so bump it to two thousand. And that's assuming..." He trailed off as Lancaster held up a hand.

"How it has to happen does not interest me in the slightest," the man said calmly. "Just see that it does."

"I'm saying I can't." A flutter of panic licked at the bottom of Neville's ribs. "It isn't logistically possible."

The blue eyes bored into Neville's, and he could not look away. "You will make it possible." Lancaster looked down to cut the end off a cigar. "You will be furnished with whatever tools you require to do so. If it is manpower you need, I can provide you with house-elves that will do exactly as they are told. But you will have seventy-seven doses of the compound I require ready for me to use by the Spring Equinox."

"By the..." Neville pressed his palms to his eyes before dropping his hands incredulously. "That's nine bloody weeks! I won't even have proper specimens for grafting by then! I don't know how you got wind of me, but somebody vastly overestimated my capabilities!"

The expression on Lancaster's face did not change. "These are the terms of our agreement. Seventy-seven doses by the Spring Equinox."

"And if I can't deliver?" His breath was coming more quickly now, to match the tattoo of his heartbeat.

"You don't want to learn the answer to that question. If I were you, I'd dismiss that question entirely and put all your mental energies towards your current project."

"I'm - I'm not some Herbology genius!" Neville insisted, voice breaking on the last syllable. He swallowed hard and continued desperately. He had to make Lancaster understand. "I'm just a bloke who's good with plants! I can't do what you're asking of me!"

"Do you know what your problem is, Neville?" Neville nearly winced as Lancaster spoke his name again. "You get overexcited far too easily. I think you need a solid night's rest."

Before Neville could speak another word, the Stifling Curse had hit him again - the bastard must have cast it from beneath his desk. Still doubled over with the force of it, he felt a firm hand on his arm begin to tug him out of the room.

He allowed himself to be lead to his quarters, numb with disbelief. The click of the deadbolt on the door registered somewhere, and he knew he was alone in the dark room, without a lamp or candle. The small window let in a little light, which illuminated a flask on the bedside table. Neville immediately recognised the effervescent pale turquoise of a Calming Draught. Without a single thought for his safety, he popped the cork out of the neck and tossed the entire flask back in a single swallow.

Tendrils of warm well-being curled within his torso, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.

He could handle this. It would take a few days of frenzied grafting, but he could potentially have the specimen he needed in three weeks, now that he knew which variables needed manipulating. From there, it was a matter of volume. He sank down onto the edge of the bed, threading his fingers together to cease their trembling as he let the potion work its way through his system.

He'd handle this. He'd make it work.

He didn't really have any other options.

 

 

It was two days before he walked into the greenhouse in front of his guard to find three eagle-feather quills in a neat row on the desk. His heart leapt at the sight, and he hurriedly took one up and experimentally scribbled his name on a scrap of paper. The relief at his hand remaining free of the debilitating cramps was profound to the point of moving him nearly to tears; he blinked hard before forcing himself to lay the quill back down on the desk for the time being. Now was not the proper time.

Nor was it the proper time as the house-elf removed the lunch tray a few minutes past noon. Anxiety was beginning to fray at Neville's nerves, made all the worse by his inability to let it show. He calmly went through the motions of grafting seedling after seedling, the movements automatic and requiring little thought. He instead bent his entire mind towards what would happen a few hours hence, should the occasion arise.

Twilight had begun to darken the edges of the sky when he took a steadying breath and began tidying the potting bench of his clippings. Heart in his mouth, he strode over to the cages of test subjects that lined one wall of the laboratory, scanning until he found the one that held a single fat brown rat.

Rat in hand, Neville sat at the desk and pulled one of his numerous notebooks toward him before depositing the rat on the desktop, bending his head over a page.

Test subject 1A currently showing no signs of withdrawal.

This wasn't test subject 1A. Neville had named this rat long before he realised how egregious that error was; when he had found that he couldn't bring himself to actually test dangerous narcotics on the chubby and feisty rodent, he'd reassigned Rascal to be the mascot of his laboratory instead. It was likely Neville's imagination, but Rascal seemed much cleverer than the placid white and black rats that occupied the other cages.

Well, here was the chance to test that.

After a few more minutes of writing a completely false report in the notebook, Neville stole a glance at the guard slumped on a stool in the corner. The timing was perfect; the guard was more interested in watching for the house-elf that would bring the dinner tray for them than watching his charge. Neville turned back to the notebook, and on the bottom corner of the page, he wrote two words.

Neville did not dare turn around again to check if the guard was watching; that would look far too suspicious. Instead, very carefully, he tore the corner of the paper away, rolling it between his fingers into a miniscule scroll.

Now was the tricky part. Rascal had sat on his haunches, watching this all progress with what Neville decided to believe was patient interest. Almost holding his breath, Neville drew his wand.

He wasn't certain this would work. He'd never had the opportunity to cast the Imperius Curse before, and he wasn't altogether confident it could even be cast nonverbally. He didn't even know if the Stifling would allow him to give direction once he'd cast it. But, unless Harry saw fit to smuggle him an owl, this was the only option Neville could come up with.

He pointed his wand at Rascal, who sniffed the tip curiously. Imperio.

Rascal grew very still, his eyes glassy.

Take this. He offered the tiny rolled-up paper in his open palm; Rascal grasped it in its forepaws and stuffed it into its mouth. When it gets dark, leave this place. Give that to the human that smells and looks like this. He tried to impart the image of Harry as he would be seen by a six-inch-tall creature, along with the scent of his aftershave.

"What are you doing?"

Neville nearly jumped out of his skin. The guard had risen from his stool and was slowly walking over to the desk. Mind racing, Neville grabbed a quill. Diagnostic spells, he scrawled on a blank page, heart pounding.

The guard gave him a considering look, and then he turned to go back to his seat. Neville only barely held back the sigh of relief as he rose and returned Rascal to his cage, carefully leaving the door unfastened.

There were a lot of things that could go terribly wrong. Neville tried not to think about them as the house-elf appeared with the dinner tray, but his mind refused to obey. Rascal may not be able to find a way out of the greenhouse, let alone the estate. Despite the indelible ink, the paper might grow too soggy for the message to be read. Rascal might offer the message to the first black-robed, Silk Noir-scented wizard he came across.

But, if everything worked exactly right, then sometime tonight, Harry would be reading two very important words, and he would hopefully understand what they meant.

The first wasn't really a word; it was Neville's badge number from years ago. He hoped Harry would remember that, and - paired with his handwriting - know that Neville was at least safe enough to send a message.

The second word was what sent chills up Neville's spine whenever he thought of it. Because, of course, seventy-seven doses by the Spring Equinox could only be intended for one group of people, and he suspected that Lancaster knew Neville would work it out. Hopefully, Lancaster didn't know that Neville would also work out a way to tell the Aurors who the Brotherhood's plot was targeting.

Neville chewed a bite of chicken that tasted like ashes. In his mind, he could still see the two words in the bottom corner of his notebook, in tiny precise lettering:

300780NAL
Wizengamot