Neville
May 3, 1998
Neville kicked a rock lightly, the sound of the pebble clattering against the stone courtyard echoing far more loudly than it should’ve. Blood stains littered the cobblestone, but he made no effort to avoid them. Death eater, teacher, student, none of it mattered anymore.
They were all dead, just the same.
Some bodies had been claimed, but most had been moved to the Great Hall. He wondered briefly how the school would move on and function, without seeing death and destruction at every turn. He looked at the spot where Tonks had fallen and his heart lurched as he thought about Teddy coming here one day. How would he do it, knowing this is where his parents had fell? How would any of them?
He heard the sound of cracking apparition in the distance, the wards having been temporarily lifted to allow both ministry officials and families unrestricted access to collect their dead. He wondered if maybe they should have tried to clean the area first, wondered what it would feel like as a parent to step over the bloodstains that may have been your child. A blonde, curly haired woman collapsed to the ground as she entered the courtyard, screaming, and Neville flinched. Lavender’s mother. She looked just like her mother. Used to look. She looked like nothing now. Just.. dead.
He'd seen Lavender die. Seen how Greyback had torn her throat out, her blood dripping from his teeth. He’d been close enough to hear how her scream gurgled and died as he eviscerated her and to see her eyes go from terror to agony to nothing. Nothing had been a relief, when her eyes lost the lustre of life, glazing over and rolling back. Death was a relief.
Sometimes he envied them.
He wandered into the school. He remembered how grand it had felt at eleven, how overwhelming and terrifying it had seemed. He remembered getting lost countless times in its many corridors, how he felt as though he’d never be able to find his way around.
He hadn’t realized how small it truly was.
A white-hot rage filled him, burning him up as he passed the grand doorway to the Great Hall. Small cots, borrowed from St. Mungo’s covered the room end to end, and he knew in only a few minutes the room would be filled with the sound of screaming, mourning parents. Lavender’s mother. Colin’s parents. So many other unnamed children.
Children.
He watched as Madam Pomfrey flitted from cot to cot, her normally kind face twisted in a sort of haggard grief. Watched as she closed eyes that were still wide-eyed in terror, brushed back hair that was matted with blood, clasped hands that hung limp off the side of the cot and his heart broke. How many times had she stitched up these children? How many times had she eased tummy aches, or bandaged scrapes? She had loved them all so much.
He jumped, as the doors to the school opened and families began to pour in. A small, mousy blonde couple walked in, clutching the hands of a young Dennis Creevey tightly. Parvati, leading her two horror-stricken parents. A young looking woman who bore a striking resemblance to Katie.
He wanted to look away, to leave this entire fucking school behind and forget about everything. He didn’t want to be here for this.
But he’d promised.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. And stepped forward, smiling as kindly as he could, trying to convey every thought, every condolence, every apology with that one act.
“Mr. and Mrs. Creevey? Dennis? I’m Neville. I knew your son, Colin. I can take you to him, if you’re ready.”
May 1, 1999
“It’s not that we don’t want you there.”
Neville inhaled deeply, steadying himself as Kingsley spoke.
“But you must understand the mass hysteria this would cause. People barely believe he’s gone as it is, and that’s without adding the knowledge that he split his soul seven times to cheat death. If people were to learn about the horcruxes it would do nothing but incite panic.” Kingsley clapped Neville on the shoulder. “You know what you did.” He said earnestly. “Harry knows what you did, the entire ministry for magic knows what you did and we are all indebted to you. But I cannot allow this information to get out. Do you understand?”
Neville sighed and smiled weakly.
“I do.” And he truly did understand it. He’d seen the articles questioning the validity of Voldemort’s death. It was understandable, given that he’d already died and come back once before. He knew that the fragile glimmer of hope that the public clung to would disappear if they learned of the life-preserving measures he’d taken.
But it still stung.
“Anything you need, Neville, anything that the ministry can do for you, you need only ask.” Kingsley said.
October 12, 2001
CONTROVERSIAL WEREWOLF PROTECTION ACT OFFICIALLY LAW
Golden Girl Hermione Granger has finally done it. After years of work, the controversial werewolf protection act known as Lupin’s Law has been passed, granting people affected with lycanthropy official classification as human. The act, which has been the subject of much controversy and scrutiny will allow lycanthropy-affected individuals to hold down jobs, to open a bank account, and to attend schools. When asked how she planned to keep the public safe during the full moon, Miss Granger stated that all werewolves who sign the Werewolf Registry will be provided with Wolfsbane potion free or charge and allowed free access to a large plot of warded land. Children affected with lycanthropy will also be provided with the potion and allowed to freely roam in a protected area of the Forbidden Forest whilst at Hogwarts.
The act has come under fire from many, particularly from a local parents group called Parents Against Werewolves, spearheaded by Marigold and Archer Brown, parents of Hogwarts student Lavender Brown who was slain by notorious werewolf and Voldemort supporter Fenrir Greyback.
“Our daughter would still be alive if it weren’t for werewolves.” Stated a tearful Marigold Brown. “She wasn’t just killed, she was eviscerated. Allowing those beasts to integrate into society, allowing them in our schools will only subject more people to my daughter’s fate, and I will never stop fighting against that.”
Neville put down the newspaper. An angry Marigold Brown angrily pointed a finger towards him as she shouted words he couldn’t hear, tears streaming down her face. On the other side of the paper, a smiling Hermione Granger waved, an unmistakeable look of pride gleaming in her eyes.
He grinned.
She was falling out of favour, and quickly. Between Lupin’s Law and the integration program she was spearheading for former death eaters, the public were quickly becoming fed up with the Golden Girl.
Neville, though, was proud.
The only way to prevent history from repeating itself was to dismantle the prejudices and structures that had allowed it to happen in the first place. It would be painful and difficult as she tore open wounds that were still raw, but necessary.
People would come around.
They always did.
An owl pecked at the window, and Neville looked to find a golden-brown owl with large eyes staring at him, a small envelope clamped in its tiny beak. He opened the window and retrieved the letter, tossing an owl treat towards the creature, who gobbled it gratefully. He slit the envelope open and pulled out the letter.
Dear Mr. Longbottom,
My name is Callista Cowell and I am a healer in charge of medicinal potions at St. Mungo’s. I’m sure by now you’ve heard about the passing of Lupin’s Law, a truly momentous step forward for all those affected by lycanthropy.
It is because of this act that I am writing to you now. As you may or may not be aware, the act seeks to provide Wolfsbane potion to every person registered as a werewolf. Unfortunately, the reserves we have are not sufficient, and our supplier is not exclusive to us and therefore cannot guarantee adequate supply regularly. As a result, we are searching for someone who would be willing to work alongside us, growing and maintaining our supply of wolfsbane. I understand you are not working in any official capacity as a herbologist, however your name has come to me highly recommended by Poppy Pomfrey, as well as Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger.
If you are interested in the position, I’d love to meet with you as soon as possible. As I’m sure you can imagine, we are somewhat pressed for time and would like to secure this position as soon as possible.
I’ll look forward to your response.
Callista Cowell
Neville stared at the letter for a moment.
Herbologist for St. Mungo’s.
But he wasn’t a herbologist. And although he’d had an aptitude for it during his time at Hogwarts, this was a lot. This was more than the gardens at Hogwarts, more than his little patches of gardens at home. Peoples lives depended on this. If he messed it up..
Another owl tapped on the window, and Neville saw a small, sprightly white owl perched next to the golden brown one. He took the letter, tossing an owl treat towards it and opened it.
Neville,
I know you must have received Callista’s owl by now, and I know what you’re thinking. However I wanted you to know that I do not give recommendations that I do not wholeheartedly believe in, and I would certainly not place my bets on someone I didn’t believe in for something of this magnitude. It will be a massive undertaking, with huge ramifications for everyone involved, and I know that frightens you. However, aside from possessing a skill and aptitude for herbology that neither myself nor Pomona have ever seen before, you care, Neville. And that is just as important as the skill. A person who doesn’t care about werewolves won’t put the effort in that I know you will. You have the capacity to make a monumental difference for a large group of people, a difference that will affect the future of the wizarding world.
Take the job, Neville. I have never been more confident about something in my entire life.
All my love,
Poppy.
Neville swallowed hard, fighting back the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to overtake him. The small owl hooted softly, as if it understood exactly what was going on. Neville grabbed a small bit of parchment and summoned a quill.
Callista,
I’d be happy to meet with you. Let me know when and I’ll be there.
- Longbottom.
May 12, 2004
Ronald Weasley had grown into his looks.
In his mind, Neville imagined the young man as a slightly older version of his teenage self; tall and gangly, with a mop of poorly cut hair on top of his head.
But that was not the Ronald Weasley that he saw now, slouched in a booth in the back of the Three Broomsticks, already two firewhiskeys deep.
The Ronald Weasley he saw now was broad with long, muscular arms that bulged under the knit sweater he wore. His face was still sharp and angular, but not quite as thin, and he possessed a trimmed, well-kept beard. Altogether, the adult Ronald Weasley was far more put together than he’d been in his youth.
It was a good look.
He had not, however, grown into his temper.
Neville could see the white-knuckled grip he had on the glass tumbler, and he wondered how exactly he was not shattering the small glass. As he banged it onto the table after draining it, Neville realized Rosmerta had probably charmed all the glassware in the pub to be unbreakable.
Smart.
Neville tipped his glass up, emptying the remaining butterbeer into his mouth. He should really be getting home. The wolfsbane was ready to harvest and he had an early delivery to make in the morning. He really shouldn’t have even stopped in.
He stood, aiming for the door. He’d pay and leave, spend his evening collecting and preparing tomorrow’s wolfsbane delivery, and maybe if he was lucky have some time to read a bit before bed. He really needed to get going.
He glanced back towards the back corner again.
No. He had to get home. He had no time for whatever existential crisis Weasley was going through.
But still..
“Take it easy, mate. Last I recall you weren’t that great at holding your liquor.”
Neville liked Ronald.
Really liked Ronald.
Really really liked him.
He was stubborn. And explosive. And more than a little immature.
But Neville could see beyond that, past all the things that turned most people away from him. He saw the heart, the deeply loving, loyal, unwaveringly supportive heart. He saw a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve – all of them, not just anger – and who felt things deeply, and Neville loved that about him.
It didn’t hurt that he was also attractive.
They’d been spending more time together as of late. Since the first time the man had apparated unexpectedly into his yard, they’d gotten together on almost a weekly basis, chatting about everything. Ronald was surprisingly open, answering Neville’s questions with unfiltered honesty. He talked about his family, about his time during the war and hunting horcruxes. He confessed – somewhat shamefully – how he’d abandoned Harry and Hermione and how he’d regretted it and came back. And he talked about their falling out and how they no longer spoke.
He said it all, not hiding his shame, his embarrassment, or his anger.
He was unapologetically him.
And Neville could not lie to himself anymore.
He knew that they were different, that their desires were different. He’d known that he was different for a long time, since the night of the Yule Ball when Ginny had tried to kiss him in the corridor, and he’d skirted her advance. She’d flushed, furiously humiliated, which quickly gave way to a rage that he now knew ran in the family. Somewhere amidst her furious, tear-filled yelling and his desperate pleas he’d confessed.
The truth.
He hadn’t admitted it since that day. Not to himself, and certainly not to anyone else. Even to her, it had only been a half truth.
“I don’t like girls!”
She’d fallen silent, the other half of his confession frozen on his lips. She’d stared at him, wide-eyed as he looked back at her horrorstruck. He wanted to take it back, wanted to swallow those words and bury them deep inside him. But he couldn’t. So instead, he did the only thing he could think to.
He ran.
Tears had filled his eyes as he ran down the corridor, past entwined couples lurking in corners, past teachers enjoying one too many glasses of elf-wine, past everyone and into the dormitories where he collapsed onto his bed, flinging the thick, velvet curtain around it. He buried his face in his pillow and cried desperately. They’d all know by morning. They’d all know he was different. They’d all know he was a freak.
But morning had come, and no one said anything. In the Great Hall no one looked at him funny, no one whispered, no one said anything.
When he finally went to bed that night, his stomach twisted in nervous knots, he’d found a small bit of parchment on his pillow, folded neatly into a small bird.
I won’t say anything.
G.
PS. It's alright.
He felt the fear, the embarrassment, the trepidation fade from him, ebbing away in waves as he reread Ginny’s words.
She wouldn’t say anything.
His secret was safe.