Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness, page 13
"Are you guys going to kill all the Death Eaters?" The question was barely above a whisper, and Runcorn's swarthy face had fallen pale.
"We're at war, and people die in war." Neville decided not to make any effort to shield the truth. "But after that, if we win, it will be like last time. Your Dad and all the others will get trials, not summary executions."
"If I fight with you, would that help my Dad at his trial?"
Neville thought about it a moment, then nodded. "Probably. It certainly wouldn't hurt."
The shaking had become harder, and now when Runcorn looked up, his eyes were shining over-bright in the flickering candles of the Room of Requirement. "I hate this. I hate all of it. It's not fair. I hate Mudbloods, I hate the Dark Lord, I hate you, I hate this stupid war...I hate...." His voice choked off, and he cuffed his fist hard against his eyes.
Ignoring the use of the slur, Neville nodded sympathetically. "None of this is fair. You're fourteen years old. You shouldn't be having to make these kinds of decisions."
"I'm only three years younger than you!" There was a fragile defensiveness in the declaration that made him seem even younger, but Neville felt no urge to smile. It was all too true.
"Yeah, I shouldn't be here either. But if we stick together, maybe we'll all grow up, and then you and your Dad and me and my Gran can hate whatever we want to, even each other."
"I lied."
The confession took him by surprise, and Neville blinked. "About what?"
His voice was stronger now, but still shaking, the hate making the words seem to burn off his lips. "It wasn't my Mom who wrote to me. My Mom died when I was six. Mrs. LeStrange wrote that letter. She said she wanted me to know that my Dad had been weak, and weakness was punished. She said I'd better learn from his mistakes and be careful and...he's not weak!"
"Bellatrix LeStrange," Neville allowed his own pronunciation of the name to come like venom, infusing it with all the hate and revulsion he had ever felt for its owner, "is a sick, foul, twisted, sadistic excuse for a woman and a witch. Don't you ever believe anything she ever says or writes to you." He locked his eyes with Runcorn's, allowing him to see the honesty behind his words. "If your father is anything like you, Renny, he's not weak at all. And I think he'll be proud of you in the end."
There was a pause, and then it was all too much. With a shuddering, choking gasp, Neville found his arms full as Runcorn collapsed against him. He stroked the smooth emerald fabric of the hood on the boy's back, and he was still burning, aching, throbbing from the pain of the flogging and the long hours chained to the wall, but he was making hushing noises and comforting a young Slytherin, the child of a Death Eater who's strong body was trembling violently as he wept hot, bitter tears against Neville's chest.
It should have been twisted, surreal, but he felt no hesitation as he whispered into the dark chestnut hair. "It's okay to hurt. None of this is fair. None of this is fair at all."
Chapter 5: The Sword of Gryffindor
The next few weeks passed relatively uneventfully. Snape was enraged by the leaflets, but his efforts to trace even a single one of them to their source met with complete failure. In his fury, he even confiscated Neville's wand, along with a dozen others, but the charms had been in the leaflets themselves, and Priori Incantatem revealed nothing, forcing him to return the wands to their owners in defeat.
He had retaliated by reinstating Umbridge's ban on teams, societies, and clubs, but that had done nothing other than bring howls of outrage from the members of the now-disbanded Quidditch teams. The D.A. continued to meet a few times a week in the Room of Requirement, practicing spellwork and preparing their plans for the raid on Snape's office to retrieve the Sword of Gryffindor. As Colin had defiantly pointed out, they were a military force now, not a homework club, and so he had been able to look the Carrows in the eye and swear without a moment's guilt that he belonged to no such organizations, nor did he know anything about them.
Neville and Ernie had recovered fully from their punishment, and he had even joked about it with the Lieutenant, who insisted that the network of thin white scars that now crossed their backs would only prove their bravery and therefore be extremely attractive to witches. Susan Bones certainly seemed to agree with this theory. She and Ernie had finally gotten together, and were taking every opportunity to make Ron and Lavender's antics from the previous year look subtle. Neville had only barely convinced his friend that sending a thank-you note to Filch might not be an altogether good idea.
Their ordeal had also, Neville discovered, stripped away the last few pounds of lingering baby fat, and he was beginning to look forward to the training sessions with Bagman. They still left him sore for days afterwards, but it was a different kind of pain, and it was more than countered by the feeling of accomplishment as he watched himself and the other young men of the D.A. push their limits further and further, achieving levels of strength and endurance he would never have imagined himself capable of. Watching them, he felt a tremendous sense of pride, as well as a vindictive pleasure at the very unpleasant surprise they were preparing for You-Know-Who and his followers.
Six days before Halloween, the Saturday of their first Hogsmeade weekend dawned crisp and clear. The trees surrounding the grounds had erupted into a riot of color, and Neville smiled as he made his way down the stairs to join the cluster of students waiting to go into the wizarding village. He fingered the handful of money in his pocket that he had saved up from the allowance his grandmother sent him, deciding that he would probably grab a butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks before embarking upon proper shopping.
Greengages had recently gotten in a shipment of Egyptian Moon Lilac seedlings, according to their advertisement in the Daily Prophet, and he figured he might drop a few Sickles on those. A new quill and a few fresh bottles of ink were a necessity, as his N.E.W.T. year was proving to involve an alarming amount of homework, and the rest of it, he knew, would almost certainly be left at Gladrags Wizardwear, considering the dwindling amount of clothing he had that still fit him properly. He shook his head as he added up Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Maybe no butterbeer after all. It was a marvel that adult wizards ever had two Knuts to rub together, given how quickly it spent.
"Neville!" Luna bounced up on the tips of her toes, waving to him above the crowd. Beneath her winter cloak, she was wearing a very fuzzy sweater almost the exact same shade of pale blue as her eyes, and an enormous tam of the same wooly knit was perched atop her blonde hair, threatening to slip down and obscure most of her face. In place of her usual necklace of butterbeer corks, a large amulet shaped almost like a Snitch hung from a chain around her neck, and he peered at it curiously as she darted over to him.
"What's that?" He motioned at the necklace, and she fingered it, smiling dreamily.
"Daddy sent it. It's a billywig. Helps me maintain an elevated frame of mind even in the worst situations. I've been thinking that we should get them for everyone, what do you think?"
Neville cleared his throat, trying not to make eye contact as he searched for a gentle way to tell her that most of the students at Hogwarts would not be caught dead wearing such a ridiculous charm, but he was thankfully saved by the arrival of Hannah Abbott. "So, are you two going to Hogsmeade together today, or can I tag along?"
He was staring, he knew, but he couldn't help it, and he felt his cheeks beginning to flush in the kind of sheepish embarrassment he hadn't felt for weeks. Hannah was wearing a simple heather-gray sweater and blue jeans, her sandy hair loose rather than tied back in its usual pigtails, but she was practically unrecognizable. In her robes, she seemed quite plain, even a little dumpy, but he now realized that the loose black garments were simply extremely unflattering to the rather extraordinary figure they had been concealing. With a great effort, Neville tore his eyes upward to hers. "Um...." To his horror, he found that he was completely unable to remember what she had asked.
The knowing glitter in Hannah's eyes told him that she had not in fact missed where his attention had drifted, and she giggled. "I said, can I tag along?"
"Sure." He wanted to say more, but his brain seemed to be malfunctioning due to the Confundus Charm that had clearly been placed on Hannah's sweater.
Filch had to tell him twice to empty his pockets, and he turned the wrong way under the Secrecy Sensor three times before he finally made it through the heavy oak doors and down towards the winged boars that stood sentry at the gates of the school. Some part of him was, he knew, making completely empty-headed noises of acknowledgement at the conversation the two girls were attempting to have with him, but the majority of his attention was focused on the argument that had erupted in his own head.
Hannah's PRETTY.
She's my friend, I've known her since we were eleven.
But look at her!
She doesn't know me as the hero of the D.A.. She knows me as the guy who's barely been able to keep from jinxing himself into the hospital wing for most of the last six years. I'm the sweet, kind of stupid, kind of chubby little kid who can't remember anything for more than two minutes, partners with her in Herbology, and barely belongs in the same House as the Almighty Harry Potter.
She kissed you.
She was grateful that I'd saved her from the Carrows. That's all. Besides, she didn't kiss me the way Parvati did. There's no way she'd be into me like that. She knows too much.
"So shut up!" There was a stunned silence as Hannah and Luna stopped talking abruptly and turned to look at him, matching expressions of confusion on their faces, and Neville was horrified to realize that he'd said the last bit out loud. Feeling as though his face was about to burst into flame at any moment, he ducked his head, avoiding their eyes. "Just...thinking about...Snape," he mumbled.
He received a long, hard stare, but then Luna shrugged, and they resumed talking about the best way to combat Lacewing Flies on Dirigible Plums. Apparently, Luna's father grew quite a large patch of them at their House, and she was eager to glean tips from his fellow star Herbology student.
As soon as they reached the village, Neville made a hasty, muttered excuse about needing to see to a few things alone and maybe meeting them later at the Three Broomsticks or something. He tried not to notice the look Hannah gave him as he dashed away, or how very much it seemed to resemble disappointment. Staying with them was simply not an option. It made his brain hurt too much.
Then he collided with someone, hard, and staggered back, the breath half knocked out of him. "I'm sorry!" he gasped, "I wasn't watching where I was - Ernie?"
"Neville! Just the man I was looking for!" Ernie was utterly unfazed at having been nearly knocked over, and slung one thick arm jovially over Neville's shoulders. "Join me in the Broomsticks, my good lad? There is a matter of the utmost importance before us!"
"Of course." He fell into step beside his friend, turning down the cobblestone alley towards the main road that led to the little pub.
Hogsmeade had changed, Neville noticed now. More of the stores were boarded up, posters of 'Undesirables' hung everywhere, offering reward money for information or capture, and he was both dismayed and rather proud to see that at least half of these bore Harry's familiar bespectacled face with the dour caption "Undesirable Number One."
The people had also changed. The locals he recognized seemed subdued - even frightened - and he spotted half a dozen witches and wizards unashamedly clad in Death Eater robes striding down the street as though they were the Lords and Ladies of a feudal kingdom. His jaw clenched as he watched them pass. Enjoy your little power trip while you can, he thought with bitter satisfaction, because your days are numbered.
The Three Broomsticks was still as bustling and packed as ever, though conversations were more cautious, and there were a greater number of rather unsavory-looking individuals scattered among the usual crowd. Ernie slipped away towards the bar to order for them, and Neville managed to find a single small table crammed into a corner that was unoccupied, unclasping his cloak and tossing it over the back of the chair before he sat.
Ernie was back shortly, and Neville blinked in surprise as he looked at the two tall pewter tankards that he set on the table in front of them. "What's this?"
"Don't worry about the gold, it's on me." He made a dismissive gesture, then lifted his tankard, taking a sip and smiling in satisfaction. "Hot oak-matured mead with a goodly toss of the best aged firewhisky in it to give it a nip."
As he stared at the drink, Neville realized abruptly that he had come of age since the last time he had visited Hogsmeade, and that Ernie had actually turned eighteen only a few days before. Not wanting to seem naïve, he tried to appear simply surprised at the indulgence as he raised his own tankard to his lips. "Uh, thanks, that's really nice of you."
He took a swig, then coughed as the liquid scorched down his throat with alarming violence. Tears came to his eyes against his will, and his breath burned as he gasped for air. Ernie looked at him with confusion at first, then laughed. "Galloping Gargoyles, Neville, have you never -"
"If you would keep your voice down," Neville hissed through clenched teeth, "I happen to live with my Gran, who happens to be a bit of a teetotaler, and I also happen to be almost a year younger than you. I didn't turn seventeen until the very end of July...so no, as a matter of fact, I have never."
"Blimey, I'm sorry. Would have ordered you something a bit gentler." Neville shot him a filthy look, and Ernie grinned, showing off a little as he took another deep draught of his own. "Just take it careful," he advised sagely, "if you don't know what kind of a tolerance you have for the stuff yet. I don't want to be holding your head over the gutter."
"That's nine months between us, not nine years." Steeling himself, Neville picked up the tankard again and took a hefty swallow himself. It was easier this time, both because he was ready for it and also because his throat seemed to have gone slightly numb. A warmth was beginning to spread through him, rather like Pepper-Up Potion, and the tips of his fingers and toes had begun to tingle pleasantly. "So," he asked, "what's this big important thing you had to tell me?"
Ernie fished in the pocket of his robes a moment, then pulled out a small crystal box. Setting it on the table in front of him, he tapped it with his wand. The crystal shimmered and flushed to a lovely rose shade, unfolding like the petals of a flower to reveal a ring nestled on a tiny cushion of white satin, a rather impressive diamond glimmering brightly even in the dim light. "Goblin-made, cost enough that even I felt a bit of a pinch. What do you think?"
Neville stared in amazement at the ring, then looked up at his friend, eyes wide. "Susan?"
"Who the bleeding hell else?" Ernie seemed rather offended at the question.
"But you're...I mean, really, Ernie, don't you think you're a little young? And you've been seeing her less than a month!"
"Yeah, I know." He tapped the box with his wand again, and it folded back in on itself as he picked it up and returned it to his pocket before leaning in across the table, his face intent. "But it's there. I mean, I've certainly had my share of dalliances in the past, but this is different, and I do not refer merely to the vast improvement in the quality of the snogging. There's something real between us, and I'm going to marry her over Christmas if she says yes. That's why I asked you here. I want you to be Best Man."
Neville shook his head slowly, taking another pull of the mead to buy himself time. Whether or not he had ever had something like this before, he knew that he hadn't drunk nearly enough to account alone for the sense of disorientation he felt. "You're still taking this way too fast if you ask me."
Ernie's expression darkened, and he tugged the collar of his robes, pulling them away enough to expose a few tendrils of scar tissue that had curled onto the top of his shoulder. "I thought you would understand better than anyone that we might not have the luxury of years to wait." He let go and took a drink before continuing. "Odds are she'll be my widow within a few months of being my wife anyway."
"Are you coming back to school?"
"Of course. I made a promise to the D.A., and I intend to keep it. It won't be easy, I know, but we're in the same House at least, and I'm going to want to keep it a secret from the Carrows that we're married."
There was something in Ernie's tone, a deep certainty, and Neville knew without quite knowing how that this whole thing had been thought out a lot more than it had first seemed. He nodded, extending his hand across the table and grasping his Lieutenant's firmly. "Congratulations, then. Best of luck to the both of you, and I'd be honored."
"Grand. Of course, it will all be a moot point if she says no." He shuddered a little at the thought, fingering the box in his pocket.
Neville thought of what Parvati had said the previous month, and he shook his head. "I'm pretty sure you won't have to worry about that. She went half-mad when we were...you know. According to Parvati, she's been in love with you for ages."
"Then here's to hope, and here's to love, and damned if You-Know-Who can stop us in either." Ernie raised his tankard, and Neville clanked his own against it.
"To hope and love." As he drank, Hannah seemed to appear out of nowhere in his mind's eye, glowing and laughing, her sandy hair framing her pretty face in shining waves, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dismiss the image with another gulp of mead. He'd gotten her out of his mind once, it was no good getting stupid again.
By the time they left the Three Broomsticks, sunset had turned the sky to the west to a vivid orange. The two young men had discovered that they both favored Puddlemere United, and they were singing the fight song together at the top of their lungs, their arms across one another's shoulders as much for support as for camaraderie.
The world didn't seem to be particularly inclined to remain level or steady to Neville, but it also seemed like a much better place overall than when he had gone in. A second tankard of spiked mead had gone down so much easier than the first, and everything had taken on an immensely friendly appearance, if also somewhat blurry. Vaguely, he was aware that he had once intended to do things, and that he was also more than probably drunk, but it didn't really seem to matter. Shopping could be tomorrow. Today, there was friendship, there was the prospect of said friend getting married with himself as the Best Man, and the entire world was grand and worth celebrating.
