Chapter 2
1999 - Neville
He didn’t feel it when she died. It seemed impossible, when they told him later. How could he not have known, when such a bright spark had been stolen from the universe? But the muggle police were certain. She was dead. She was dead and he was alive.
They had knocked on the front door. A quiet but firm knock. Neville had stood and looked at the table. His wand lay, the pale wood a stark contrast against the black of his side table. He looked away. Moved towards the door. His chest was tight, breathing unsteady but he persisted. Pulling the door open, he stopped, previous anxiety forgotten as he stared at the muggle police. He greeted them cautiously but amicably. He had no reason to fear them. Well, no reason to fear them until he saw their taut expressions. Neville had seen those before. He had worn those before. He choked, seeing the moment they knew that he knew. One of them stepped forwards.
“Mr Longbottom. We are sorry that you have to hear it from us, but a young lady whom we believe to be your girlfriend passed away earlier this morning.”
Neville hadn’t realised that he had a hand gripping the side of the door until he swayed, knuckles gripping white.
“Luna?”
The man nodded. “We really are very sorry for your loss.” A pause and then, “If you have a few seconds, we could go over what our usual protocol is for situations like these.”
He stood aside to let the two policemen in, not really knowing what else to do. The conversation passed by in a haze. Neville remembered nodding. A lot. He didn’t remember what he was nodding in response to, but he was nodding. The movement of his head reminded him that he was present. That he was alive she wasn’t .
Neville made the police officers tea. That he did remember. They said he didn’t have to, that they would only be in for a moment. He told them that it would help with his shock, the act of making tea. In reality, it didn’t help with the numb feeling that was slowly spreading through his body. It didn’t help with the scream that was building inside his throat. It helped with none of those things. But it stopped his fingers from shaking. It stopped his grandma’s voice from ringing through his ears. It stopped the ghost of Uncle Algie’s hand from colliding with the soft flesh of his cheek. He couldn’t explain that to the officers though. So, the tea helped with the shock.
The conversation finished before the tea did. One of the officers chugged the rest of his tea before standing. The other left his half-finished on Neville’s coffee table. They thanked him for his hospitality and told him to get in touch if he needed anything. Neville nodded once more.
They left. The door closed and Neville waited a moment, one hand still on the door handle. A car door slammed, engine turning on. He listened as the purr slowly faded as the car drew further away.
He collapsed.
Neville didn’t cry. He never cried. But he sat, slumped, on his uneven stone tiles and stared. His eyes were absent, a pale haired girl dancing across his vision and giving him a vague smiling before skipping off. Neville choked on a sudden lump obstructing his throat.
He opened his mouth and screamed. He screamed a horrible soundless silent scream that tore at his vocal cords. The strain tore at his throat but still he screamed. He screamed for Luna. He screamed for all of his friends that used to be alive but now weren’t. He screamed those that were left behind.
He screamed and screamed and screamed and once there were no screams left in his body, Neville stood up and returned to his apartment. Yellow stained the walls, a bright, cheery shade that tore at his eyes. He sat at the table. One chair too many now. He stood up. Sat back down again. What was he supposed to do? Nothing had meaning, not anymore.
A shock of pink tugged at his gaze and Neville turned, not having the strength to resist. A brilliant pink chrysanthemum sat on the windowsill. The petals wavered in the breeze, the stalk gently waving side to side. In another world, it might have been waving at him. It was as though, at that moment, the barriers between this world and the imaginary world that Neville so wished was real was fading. Neville could almost hear the playful piano humming through the air. Pale fingers coated in dirt brushed past his soil encrusted hands. A tinkling laugh as she almost dropped the pot. The chrysanthemum was her baby. Her first flower that had ever survived for longer than a week. Her black thumb was growing a slight greenish tinge and Neville loved the smile that grew on her face every time she looked at it.
Now, he looked at it and felt rage coursing through his bloodstream. His veins pumped with it and Neville stood up. One step, two steps and he was at the window sill. He watched as his hands wrapped around the flower head and squeezed. The juice ran down his wrist like pale blood dripping, or like the tears he wished he could shed. His grip slackened and the dead flower tumbled down to the ground, the smushed pink staining the dark floor. Neville stared at it for a moment before turning away. He had no more need for long life and joy, not anymore.