Originally written for the "I Can Do Better - Voldemort Wins" challenge in October 2005. Rewritten in February 2006 to comply with HBP canon. Dedicated to Ashre.
Author: furiosity"Bring him in." Lord Voldemort's cold voice resonated through the dark chamber.
There they stood, a score all told, wearing dark cloaks and Death Eater masks. Neville shifted his weight, uncomfortable. His Dark Mark was burning and he rubbed his forearm surreptitiously. The heavy cast-iron doors swung open, and a bent figure of a man stumbled in, two masked men ushering him forth along the corridor formed by the ranks of the Death Eaters. Unlike the Death Eaters, the prisoner was not wearing a mask. Neville regarded one of the men who were escorting the prisoner -- he held himself straight but walked with a bit of a swagger. There was something vaguely familiar about that walk, but Neville didn't have time to reflect on it, because the Dark Lord spoke again.
"So. Here you are, my little serpent. Any last words before your judgement is pronounced, traitor?"
Neville bent a little bit forward to try and make out the prisoner's face. The Death Eater beside him inclined his head. "Don't break ranks," came a hiss from under the mask.
Neville straightened up, a frown going unseen beneath his own mask.
The prisoner was silent and Voldemort spoke again.
"Why did you do it? Why? You could have had the world beside me. You could have had everything. Why did you give it up? Answer me! Imperio."
The prisoner began to shake slightly, but made no answer.
"Ah. You think you are being brave, churl? Perhaps we should bring the Hogwarts Sorting Hat in here to see if you'll fit into Gryffindor at death's doorstep?"
The prisoner stood very still and spoke no words. Neville patted his Dark Mark absent-mindedly.
"Snivellus, they called you -- a snivelling, greasy git -- did they not? They mocked and humiliated you, made you feel worthless, and yet you betrayed the trust of your Lord and played spy to that old fool and his deluded lackeys. Where is your precious Dumbledore now, Severus?"
Neville shivered. Snape had murdered Dumbledore himself, which was what made this situation -- ironic? Sad? He hadn't been able to find out much, but apparently, Dumbledore had been dying anyway, and Snape had only shortened his life by mere days, if that. It had all been planned. The only thing no one had planned at that point had been Harry Potter's death. He had gone mad -- snapped, they had said -- shortly after Dumbledore's death, for reasons known only to him and Snape. He had called the Dark Lord to duel atop the Astronomy Tower and lost. Like Dumbledore, he had fallen from the top of Hogwarts onto the ground below. His body had been hauled into the Forbidden Forest and left to rot. Voldemort spoke again and Neville snapped out of his reverie.
"You really thought you would get away with it, didn't you? You thought you had picked the winning side. Crucio."
Snape toppled to his knees, his back unnaturally straight, but he made no sound. He merely twitched like a rag doll shaken by a petulant child. Voldemort laughed, harsh and mocking.
"Let this be an object lesson to all of you. No one escapes my vengeance. No one can betray me and live to tell the tale. Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light erupted from the Dark Lord's wand, hitting Snape square in the chest. Snape remained impossibly straight for a split second, toppled sideways, and moved no more. Neville felt an odd twinge of satisfaction then; it comforted him strangely to know that his former Potions master could never torment him again.
"The trial has concluded, the sentence carried out. Remove this filth. You may carry on with your duties. I shall expect you all back here in a week's time, and mind that you bring me good news." With that, Voldemort rose from his seat and strode towards the back of the cavern. After going four paces, he turned around and made a series of hissing noises, at which a great serpent issued from under the Dark Lord's seat and followed in his wake.
The Death Eaters began to file out of the chamber to reach the castle grounds -- the castle's location was secret to all but a few trusted members of Voldemort's inner circle, and the only way to get there (and leave) was through Portkeys held by said members. Neville followed the Death Eater who had hissed at him before, falling into step beside the swaggering prison guard. As they left the castle and reached the lush green lawns in front of it, Swagger removed his mask, revealing a shoulder-length mane of silken silvery hair. Draco Malfoy.
Neville removed his mask as well and peered up at the other young man, grinning easily.
"Why, it's Longbottom. What a pleasant surprise. I didn't think you ever made it to the meetings," Draco drawled with a smirk.
"Hullo, Malfoy. Was it you that caught Snape?" Neville asked.
"No, it was Zabini and Pansy. He was trying to sneak onto a boat headed for the shores of France, after we disabled Portkey travel out of the country. He was supposed to be meeting those filthy half-giants there, the former Mistress of Beauxbatons and that oaf Hagrid. My team wasn't able to intercept them, unfortunately, but at least we got Snape." Draco spat the name like it was a curse.
Neville sneered. "You weren't at the headquarters today; there was a sighting of the Mudblood Granger near Hogsmeade."
"Oh? What would she be doing there, do you know?" Malfoy stepped closer to Neville, lowering his voice. The two of them were in charge of tracking down Hermione Granger and stopping the band of renegades she was reported to be leading. She was the only surviving Muggle-born witch who hadn't been Obliviated to relieve her of all memories of the wizarding world, replacing them with fake Muggle memories.
"No. We think she might be trying to retrieve Potter's body, or whatever's left of it, from the Forbidden Forest. I don't see why, really, Potter's wand was taken and snapped before they hauled it away, and he didn't have anything else on him that might be of use."
The Dark Lord himself had taken an interest in Hermione Granger, and was very keen to see her brought before him for judgment - since reports started pouring in of a renegade pack of wizards who still opposed Voldemort, he deemed that she was to be found and destroyed. "The Last Mudblood", she was called by all and sundry. She was considered highly dangerous and unstable, and the wizarding community had been advised to exercise constant vigilance.
"She probably wants to give him a proper burial." Draco sniffed with disdain. "As if half-blood scum deserve proper burials. But then, she is a Mudblood. There's too much Muggle weakness in her, sentimental rubbish. We'll catch her soon."
Hermione Granger had been caught once, by none other than Lucius Malfoy -- back when Harry Potter had still been alive. Lucius had tortured her using the Cruciatus Curse for several hours in the Hogwarts dungeon to get information about Potter's whereabouts, but she had refused to talk. Lucius had left her locked in a cell, intending to return later to try again, but when he'd returned, she had been gone. This had happened four days before Potter came to challenge him for the last time. Everyone had been so preoccupied with Potter and the prophecy that Granger had been forgotten until her ridiculous attempt at a revolt.
Neville grunted again. "I don't understand how she ever got away. Could you go over it with me once again? I need to make some notes; I might have to question the blood traitor Weasley again, but I shouldn't like to request permission to visit Azkaban on frivolous grounds."
"Of course. Let me find Father, he has a Portkey to get us out of here. We can go straight to headquarters and talk; I've got some time tonight."
"I'll wait here," Neville said, and watched as Draco walked away, swagger back in his step.
Neville leaned against a willow tree, kicking the grass at his feet with a booted foot. The tree bark felt cool and refreshing against the back of his head, and he turned his face sideways to feel it on his cheek. It felt a little like a cat's tongue -- rough, just barely south of painful. A slight breeze blew from the north, and Neville breathed in deeply, tilting his head back to take in the star-studded sky.
A sudden noise came from his left and he turned sharply, whipping his wand out. He saw a mouse making it through the grass, heedless of the peril leaning against the willow tree. Neville waved his wand lazily, concentrating. A moment, and he was walking over and picked up the snuffbox he'd just transfigured the mouse into. It was a perfectly ordinary snuffbox, and it didn't have a tail or whiskers. Grinning, Neville pocketed it.
Participating in the DA under Harry Potter's tutelage had really paid off for Neville. Though Harry and his friends had once again cast Neville aside in sixth year, Neville had used the time wisely. Determined to prove his worth, he had practised and practised until he brought his Transfiguration up to par with his Charms and Herbology, despite being unable to take N.E.W.T. level lessons. He'd even maintained a good grasp on defensive and offensive spells, which had enabled him to fight alongside Harry's friends once more. Neville bowed his head, smiling privately, but looked up a split second later as he heard his name called.
"Longbottom! Neville! Come on, I found Father, he's on the other side of the castle, he says we'd better not keep him waiting!" Draco yelled.
Neville detached himself from the willow tree, using his right elbow for leverage, and trotted off towards Draco, who had already turned and was walking rapidly towards the castle wall. Neville caught up with him a moment later, and soon they were rounding the corner of the castle, heading towards Lucius Malfoy, who stood on the cobblestone sidewalk beside an ornate statue of an angel, tapping his foot impatiently.
"Hurry, boys. We are entertaining the Notts tonight, Draco, will you be joining us?" Mr Malfoy asked, fixing his son with an inquisitive stare.
"Father, I don't think I can quite face the Notts after what happened to Theodore," Draco answered, bowing his head.
"Never show weakness, son, haven't I taught you anything?" Lucius glared at his son, his disapproval clear in the crease of his brow.
"And I've been a willing pupil, Father, but I do not wish to be charged by Theodore's father again. The man seems to think that it was somehow my fault that Potter killed his son. What was I supposed to do, throw myself in the way of Potter's Killing Curse?" Draco was sneering now, upper lip curling in disdain.
"Ah, of course, I'd forgotten all about that incident. Yes, I suppose it's better if you do not attend tonight's soiree." Mr. Malfoy reached into his pocket. "Here it is. I shall take us to Malfoy Manor, and from there you'll be able to Apparate into headquarters."
He held out a thick black leather belt, and the two boys grabbed onto it. Neville felt the now-familiar jerk behind his navel, suppressing the temporary bout of nausea that invariably hit him when using Portkeys. A moment later, they were on the grounds outside Malfoy Manor. Lucius immediately set out towards the intricate wrought-iron double gate, with an oriental-looking dragon on each side, the dragons' tongues connecting in the middle. Neville watched as Lucius performed the numerous unlocking spells on the gate and the dragons. Half a moment later, the gate was shut again, and Lucius was headed towards the sprawling mansion visible in the distance. Draco elbowed Neville in the ribs. "C'mon, let's Apparate to headquarters."
Neville carefully concentrated on the office of the headquarters for the Mudblood Manhunt, and Apparated. The office, which was on the sixth floor in the renovated Ministry of Magic building, was a mess, with rolls of parchment strewn about everywhere and maps covering every bit of wall. The village of Hogsmeade was circled with a thick red line on one of the larger maps; Neville had drawn the circle just that afternoon. Draco collapsed into a chair and put his feet up on the adjacent table, unceremoniously pushing a heap of parchment aside and causing an assortment of quills to flutter to the floor. Neville watched the quills fall as he took a seat at his own desk.
"I swear, my father doesn't know anything about priorities," Draco spat.
Neville looked up at him with a smirk. "If you want, you can stay at my flat tonight, in case the Notts' visit is too lengthy."
Draco grinned, and shook his head, just as Neville had known he would. "Nah, I'm going to Zabini's -- he's throwing a party for the Slytherins in our year." He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples lightly. "You'd be welcome to come, if you want, you're as good as any Slytherin," he added.
Neville shook his head, "Thanks, mate, but I need to get some sleep. I haven't had any since the Hogsmeade sighting yesterday; we combed all the shops and the Shrieking Shack, and then I had to go to the trial. I need my beauty rest, after all."
Draco chuckled with amusement. "Why, Longbottom, I never knew you had a drop of vanity in you."
Neville grinned back, and scratched the back of his head absentmindedly with the tip of a quill he'd picked up in the meantime. He rummaged among the parchment, fishing out a blank scrap, and pulled an inkpot from his desk drawer. He wrote the date at the top of the parchment. "Right then, I promise I won't keep you long."
Draco nodded, twirling a lock of blond hair on his index finger, looking distracted.
Neville squinted at him. "So, back to the day Granger disappeared from the dungeon. You were at Hogwarts, right?"
Draco shifted in his seat and re-crossed his legs on the desk. "Yeah. I was sent by Father to bring the Mudblood for another round of interrogation. I didn't see or hear anything unusual on my way down to the dungeons, nothing at all."
Neville made a note on his parchment. "Then what?"
"I reached the Mudblood's cell and unlocked the door. At first I thought she was collapsed in a corner, as there was a dark shapeless pile there, but it was just old rags with a cloak thrown over them."
"Were the rags there when Granger was first brought there?"
"I don't know, you'd have to ask Father. He locked her in there in the first place. She had been wrapped in that cloak when he threw her in. At any rate, she wasn't there when I went to collect her."
Neville nodded and scribbled "L.M." in the margin beside his earlier notes. He leant back in his chair, rubbing his forehead with the back of his left hand. "Do you know where Weasley was around that time?"
Draco arched a white eyebrow. "Which one? The Weasley clan must have produced at least eighteen foul offspring." He smirked, eyes glittering malevolently in the soft candlelight.
Neville smirked back. "Potter's best friend, of course. The other Weasleys were all dead by then, if I'm not mistaken."
"He was being hunted at the time. I imagine he was with Potter, though the circumstances of his capture would suggest otherwise."
Neville nodded. Ron Weasley had been caught while trying to sneak into this very building, not too long after Potter's death, and he hadn't known that Potter was dead, then. When his captors had delivered the news, Ron had seemed to lose all will to move of his own accord, and let himself be dragged off to Azkaban pending further questioning.
"So it could have been Weasley, then. He and the Mudblood had... something, didn't they?" he asked Draco.
"Ugh. Don't even go there. It's sick enough thinking of the Weasleys breeding, I don't want to think about one of them rutting with a Mudblood. But there were rumours of something, yeah." Draco conceded, obviously noticing that Neville was giving him the evil eye.
Neville sighed and scratched another note onto his parchment. "Looks like I'll have to get permission to visit Azkaban, then. If it was Weasley that got Granger out of that dungeon, he might know where she's holed up now."
Draco sat up, eyes narrowing. "Have you tried the old headquarters of Dumbledore's Order of the Addle-brained Mudblood-lovers?"
Neville flinched slightly. "Yeah. Unfortunately, we can't get in there -- or even near there -- at all."
Draco heaved his legs off the desk and sat up even straighter. "Why not?"
"It's protected by a Fidelius charm. Dumbledore had been the original Secret Keeper, and by rights the charm should have dissolved with his death, but they'd been quick to cast a new one. The Secret Keeper lives, and we do not know who it is." Neville frowned.
Draco chewed on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. "What if we get Weasley to take us there?"
Neville nodded. "That could work. Even if we can't see it, we can simply decimate the entire city block. The place may be protected by charms from being seen or plotted, but it's still there. If we destroy the area, that place will be brought down just the same as the Muggle buildings around it."
Draco looked at Neville, eyebrow raised. "By any means necessary. Are you sure you were sorted into Gryffindor?"
Neville ignored him, pressing his palms to his temples in an effort to concentrate. "I detest the paperwork," he muttered, pulling a green request slip from a stack of parchment.
"You need permission to go to Azkaban?" Draco asked, grabbing a bowl of Every Flavour Beans from the desk.
"Uh-huh," Neville mumbled, filling out the request slip laboriously.
Draco popped a bean into his mouth, bit down, and grimaced. "Horseradish," he clarified, spitting into the bin at his feet. "Well, have that filled out quickly and I'll get you a signature tonight, if you don't want to deal with the clamouring unwashed masses tomorrow morning. As I understand it, everybody and their horned toad wants to visit Azkaban these days, since we chucked so many blood traitors in until further notice."
Neville blinked at him. "How are you going to get a signature?"
Draco wiggled his fingers at Neville in an almost girlish manner. "Hello? Pansy Parkinson is my girlfriend, and her father is in charge of the Azkaban guard. Have that filled out and I'll sort it."
"Thanks," mumbled Neville, bending down and scribbling furiously on the green parchment. When he was finished, he blew on the parchment hastily and waved it around in the air, waiting for the ink to dry. Once done, he rolled up the parchment, sealed it with a soft wax seal and used his family ring to imprint his insignia onto the wax. Neville was proud of that ring, a hefty chunk of sterling silver with a thick top engraved with the Longbottom coat of arms. His gran had given it to him after his parents had perished in the St Mungo's fire a year ago. Neville's shoulders tensed at the thought of his parents, and he shook his head firmly. He handed the completed request to Draco, who winked and Disapparated with a loud crack.
Neville stared blankly at the map of Hogsmeade that was directly in front of him, and popped an Every Flavour Bean into his mouth. It tasted -- and worse, smelled -- like horse manure. Neville almost choked, and spit the stinking brown mess onto the desk, surprised. He'd never got one of those before, and heaven knew Neville was fond of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Neville shook his head, took out his wand, and muttered "Scourgify," pointing at the desk. The mess vanished, and Neville leant back in his chair.
Something dug into his side and he remembered his snuffbox. He took it out of his pocket and put it on the table. He waved his wand and a moment later, the snuffbox was a mouse again. Neville grinned with satisfaction. Transfiguration had always been one of his most difficult subjects, and being able to do it so well was immensely satisfying. He waved his wand and pocketed the snuffbox once more. He'd been careful to make sure the snuffbox wasn't perfectly transfigured both times. If he tried too hard to make it perfect, he wouldn't be able to make it into a mouse again.
Neville wandered around the office, straightening out stacks of quills and parchment on the various desks, making the maps hang just right on the walls. He bent down to pick up the quills that Malfoy had dropped earlier, and noticed a pink piece of parchment that said "THE HOUSE OF BLACK" on it in big letters, followed by several dozen exclamation points. He checked the desk from which the paper had fallen -- it was a spare desk, so there was no way of knowing who had written the note. Neville folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket. Suddenly two loud cracks split the air behind him, and he dropped the quills he'd been gathering, causing them to flutter pell-mell onto the desk.
"Well, this place looks better than the last time I saw it," Draco quipped. Neville turned to him, not particularly surprised to see Pansy Parkinson with him.
"Hi, Neville," Pansy cooed. "Draco tells me you don't want to come to our party, why not?" she simpered, batting her eyelashes. Neville flushed, suddenly uncomfortable. This was certainly different from the way she'd acted towards him back in their school days.
Draco rolled his eyes and slapped Neville on the shoulder. "Don't pay attention to her, she's a flirt."
Pansy pouted, and swatted Draco lightly on the back of his head.
Neville grinned, and raised an eyebrow quizzically at Draco, who produced the green roll of parchment from the pocket of his robes. "Sorry it took a bit of time, but Pansy here couldn't leave without her face on," he mimicked, raising both his eyebrows until his forehead was a mess of wrinkles and making an exaggerated pout.
"Ugh, Draco, stop doing that, you look ridiculous," said Pansy, voice suddenly sharp.
Neville laughed in spite of himself. "Thanks for the signature, you two. It's time for me to hit the sack if I hope to make it to Azkaban tomorrow."
"Are you sure you don't want to come and stay for a spell?" Draco asked from under Pansy's arm as she tried unsuccessfully to put him in a headlock.
"Certain. Thanks for the offer, though." Neville concentrated on his flat, tried in vain to ignore the impossible pressure of Apparition, and then he was in his living room.
Sighing, Neville detached the Death Eater mask from his hood and flung it into the armchair. He fished the pink slip of parchment out of his pocket and took off his cloak, throwing it on the sofa. He walked to the fireplace and muttered, "Incendio."
He tossed the parchment into the fire and collapsed onto the sofa, which immediately adjusted to his form. He stared into the dancing flames, going over the evening's events in his head, fiddling absently with his family ring. He felt like he was walking a tightrope, only he'd just reached the middle and realised there was no safety net to catch him. Neville straightened up, planting both feet on the floor, and balanced his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his large hands. He sat motionlessly for a while, hiding his face, listening to the merry crackle of the fire. After about twenty minutes of trying to shut down his fevered mind, Neville walked over to the fireplace and dipped his fingers in the Floo powder that was set out in a bowl on a small metal table.
"Good thing they're not watching my fireplace," he muttered, smearing the fine powder against the pads of his fingers. He was very well connected at the New Floo Network. All he'd had to do was to pull a few strings and Obliviate a few key people, but he had got what he wanted. Neville smiled bitterly, thinking back to Malfoy's suggesting that he, Neville, would belong in Slytherin. "Now I would, Draco. Now I would," he said out loud.
Neville shook his head and grabbed a handful of Floo powder. He tossed it into the flames, stepped in, and said "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place." He tucked his elbows firmly into his sides, his hands balling into fists instinctively. Neville had always hated travelling by Floo powder, and even more so since the fire at St. Mungo's destroyed his parents...
He didn't have time to finish the thought, because he'd arrived at his destination. He tumbled out into the sitting room, coughing and wheezing -- he'd been holding his breath the whole time he'd been in motion.
The door opened, and Lavender Brown appeared in the doorway, wand at the ready. She saw Neville and lowered her wand immediately. He just stood there, suddenly unable to speak. He must have looked pitiful because her eyes filled with tears and she rushed over to give him a clumsy hug, her wand still clutched in her hand. After a moment, she pulled back and took a long look at his face.
"Neville, you look terrible. What happened?"
Neville just looked into her eyes, trying to find his grounding in them, like he used to be able to. She looked at him, obviously trying to appear calm, but he could see her tears. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead against her shoulder.
"I can't do this, Lavender," he mumbled.
She stroked his hair, lightly, just like gran used to do when Neville had been very small, before everyone had started to say he was nothing but a Squib... Neville felt a lump forming in his throat and tried to think about something else. "I don't know how much longer I can manage," he breathed, wrapping his arms tighter around Lavender's waist.
"Aren't you ever going to read Hogwarts, A History?" called a shrill voice.
Neville and Lavender broke apart, exchanged glances, and rushed into the drawing room. In a cushy red armchair, there sat Hermione Granger, dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, knitting. There was a large wicker basket at her feet, full of multi-coloured miniature hats decorated with bobbles. Neville tried to smile at her, but managed only a grimace.
"Poor Crookshanks, that witch said he'd been in there for ages; no one wanted him," Hermione said, looking up from her knitting.
Crookshanks, who had been sitting inside the basket amidst the elf hats, jumped into Hermione's lap and curled up. Hermione paid him no heed. Neville turned to Lavender.
"No change?" he asked.
Lavender shook her head sadly.
Neville sat down in a chair opposite Hermione's and watched her knit. Clickety-clack, clackety-click -- went the needles. Hermione didn't even seem to be paying any attention to what she was doing, yet the elf hat under the needles was turning out to be quite decent. After all, Hermione had had lots of practise in the past years. She hummed tunelessly to herself, looking around, occasionally stopping to peer at Neville. Lavender sat down cross-legged on the floor and buried her face in her hands.
Neville wished there was something he could do. Ever since he'd brought Hermione, broken and bruised, to the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, she hadn't been herself. The bruises and cuts on her body had healed -- she was a witch, after all, Muggle-born or not. Her mind, however, seemed to have gone completely. She had retained basic hygienic practises, proper table manners, and her ability to knit, but she didn't understand a word people said to her, and while she did talk sometimes, her phrases seemed to be scraps of conversations she had had in years past. Neville knew what had done it to her -- Lucius Malfoy's Cruciatus torture. Hermione shared her fate with Neville's dead parents. White-hot anger flared up inside him again.
He had gone undercover immediately after the death of his parents in the St Mungo's fire, visibly denouncing the Order of the Phoenix. Augusta Longbottom had turned him out of the house and nearly everyone had turned their backs on him. He had gone straight to Malfoy Manor and made a right little speech about how if incompetent Mudbloods hadn't been allowed in the wizarding world, his parents might still have been alive. He'd strung together a lot of white lies, expertly avoiding the major issue -- that his parents had been in St. Mungo's because of Death Eaters.
Nobody asked, either, because Neville Longbottom had turned out to be a very talented actor, not speaking of his progress at Occlumency. Like any clannish, fanatical group, the Death Eaters were hungry for validation, and Neville gave validation aplenty to those who would listen. He had practised his interrogation speeches painstakingly in front of his bedroom mirror. He'd learned to say the word "Mudblood" without flinching. He'd learned to be at ease and laugh with the people he hated. He'd learned to lock away his thoughts and push them far away, to wear a mask without having to don a Death Eater's hood.
Neville's newfound passionate opinions on the importance of purity in the wizarding world, his seemingly ardent fervour to do everything and anything to eliminate the Muggle-borns and blood traitors had earned him a reputation among the Dark Lord's supporters, and when Neville had requested the Dark Mark, he had been granted an audience with Voldemort himself. By that time, Neville had been as accomplished at Occlumency as his teacher, Snape, who had trained him for months prior to Neville's integration into Death Eater circles. Neville had gambled on the day of his meeting with the Dark Lord -- the stake had been his life. One wrong move, one careless thought, and he would have been dead. However, the Dark Lord had suspected nothing and Neville had been branded with the Dark Mark and received his second mask on that day.
Draco Malfoy had been at Neville's induction. He had come up to Neville afterwards, extended his hand, and offered his friendship, citing bygones. Neville detested Malfoy from the bottom of his soul, but he knew that despite his youth, Draco had influence, and could be very useful to Neville. He'd shaken hands with Draco Malfoy and he spent that night crying softly into his pillow, his quiet sniffs and sobs echoing in his empty flat. He had been completely isolated from the world as he'd known it, and he had been absolutely terrified that he wouldn't be able to keep up the charade. His every day was spent battling that fear, even as he derailed the Death Eaters' plans left, right, and centre with subtle alteration of facts and outright misinformation. Blinded by their own loyalty, they kept writing it off to "Potter's accursed luck," which was "bound to run out one of these days."
The only people who had known the truth had been Snape, Harry and Hermione. Now, Snape and Harry were dead, and Hermione might as well have been. Neville was utterly alone -- and had been alone all this time. Not that he'd minded. People had generally ignored him most of his life, except if he had chosen to tag along on an adventure and got himself injured, then people had taken care of him. Neville wasn't stupid; he'd always known that he would never be popular. He would never have the spotlight, but he didn't want the spotlight. He was simply desperate to be a force of change in any way, desperate to make sure that his parents' plight and their deaths did not turn out to be in vain.
When Hermione had been captured by the Death Eaters, Snape and Harry had already disappeared. Neville had known that things would come to a head one way or another -- either Harry or Voldemort would win. That would have meant either the end of the war and total exoneration for Neville or the beginning of a greater war and no hope of comfort or rest for him. He would have been forced to work with Snape... Neville flinched. Hours earlier, he'd felt a kind of pleasure at seeing Snape tortured and finally dead. Neville had feared Snape during most of his time at Hogwarts, but where had that shapeless, terrifying glee come from? Perhaps lying down with dogs did give one fleas.
Neville knew that his time with the Death Eaters had changed him; the enjoyment of watching Snape suffer hadn't been his first indication, nor would it be his last. He'd experienced a cool detachment from everyone around him since his parents' deaths; he felt like he was watching life unfold from the sidelines, an idle observer and not a participant. He had on multiple occasions caught himself enjoying the company of Draco Malfoy. The very thought of it -- enjoying the company of a man who could laugh and have fun and act like a spoiled brat so easily while war and despair ruled the world outside -- made Neville shudder inside. He looked up at Hermione, who had finished knitting the purple hat and was now studying several bunches of wool, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
She must have felt Neville's gaze; looking up, she gave him a beatific smile.
"It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, and make the 'gar' nice and long," she said, beaming, and turned back to her wool. She picked out the canary yellow and started knitting yet another elf hat, nimble fingers manipulating the needles as professionally as you please.
Neville bowed his head, glancing at Lavender. She was still sitting on the floor, but no longer hiding her face. She smiled weakly at him, but her eyes were haunted. Neville thought about the day he had shown up at the front door of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, carrying Hermione in his arms. He'd knocked on the door, and Lavender had opened it, her mouth open in a wordless "O" of surprise. She had immediately reached for her wand.
"No, Lavender, please -- Hermione -- she needs help, I can explain, Please..." Neville had gasped, and Lavender's hand had faltered. "Look, you know the rules of the Fidelius charm! Just let me in and I'll explain!" Neville had pleaded. After a moment's hesitation and a quick glance around, Lavender had stepped aside, letting him carry Hermione into the house.
They'd had a long talk that night, after they'd tended to Hermione's injuries and put her to bed. Hermione had been unconscious the whole time, and they hadn't even thought about what the torture might have done to her then.
After that night, Lavender had become Neville's only ally on the Order's side. Harry and Snape had been gone. Ron had disappeared some months earlier. Then Harry had died, and Neville never had found out what Ron had been looking for at headquarters on the night of his capture, why Ron hadn't known of Harry's death.
Hermione had woken up several days later, but she had not been Hermione anymore. Lavender and Neville, the last surviving members of the Order of the Phoenix, could do nothing now but sit near Hermione for hours at a time, trying to talk to her, whispering her name, all to no avail.
The first thing Hermione had said when she had woken up had been "It's S-P-E-W. Stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."
She had then stormed through the house, finding the wicker basket of wool with two knitting needles stuck in one of the rolls, and then her knitting had begun. In the weeks since Voldemort's victory, she must have knitted several thousand of the little hats. Lavender emptied the basket every once in a while. There was a room upstairs where one might have made a comfortable bed using nothing but the hats.
Sighing, Neville told Lavender about what had happened that day -- Snape's execution, his conversation with Malfoy. Upon hearing Malfoy's name, Hermione looked up, frowning. Lavender and Neville looked at her, holding their breath.
"Twitchy little ferret, aren't you Malfoy?" Hermione intoned acidly. She was knitting a blue hat now; the yellow one perched on top of Crookshanks, who was still in her lap.
Neville shuddered. For all the loss of mental functions, Hermione seemed to see right through him. He had a plan, a last desperate plan to help Hermione. He had given up all ambition to end the war or even aid in ending the war -- the Order was no more, there was no one to help them. They'd just have to make do on their own somehow in the new world where Voldemort had the power and purity of blood was a prerequisite for being part of the magical community.
Neville knew the gist of Voldemort's plans. It was intended to let things go back to business as usual -- instead of destroying all the Muggle-born and half-blood witches and wizards, he had simply Obliviated them (Neville thought bitterly about Dean Thomas and little Hannah Abbott) and planted false memories in their minds about their lives since they'd entered Hogwarts. The idea had actually been Neville's, who had mentioned it in a conversation with Draco. Draco had told his father, and Lucius had suggested it to the Dark Lord as his own idea. Neville hadn't minded. In this strange new world, the means no longer held any importance, only the end mattered.
The Dark Lord had thought the idea ingenious; it would cause much less alienation in the wizarding community than outright murder would. The Dark Lord's plan didn't include merely the magical community in britain - not at all. He wanted power over everyone - wizards, Muggles, goblins, giants and all other sentient creatures. In Britain, the first phase of the war was drawing to a close. The decimated wizarding community was cowed into submission and too fearful of Azkaban to oppose Voldemort. Next, the Dark Lord had set his sights on the British Muggles -- he would seize and hold power over them in such a way that they would not need to find out about the wizarding community at all. Voldemort's business was corrupting the hearts of Muggles now, and all the plans at the New Ministry were being drawn according to this. The Muggle world was ruled by money. If Voldemort's plans worked as intended, there wouldn't even be need for open war of any kind.
No, Neville wouldn't be able to stem the tide of change that threatened to eventually sweep over the entire world. But he could try and help those near him, even if he could not be with them all the time. He felt personally responsible for Hermione's plight, because damn it, he was a Death Eater, and he could have prevented her torture by Lucius. If he had sat down for ten minutes, he could have come up with the perfect glib lie about why Hermione shouldn't be hurt in any way. But he'd been too busy elsewhere, and he hadn't even been aware of Hermione's capture until she'd already been thrown into the cell. He had rushed to Hogwarts then, stealthily crept into the dungeons and taken Hermione out. He had had a Portkey with him that took them right to the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Then Hermione wasn't herself anymore and Neville felt like he was losing himself in time.
"Just because it's taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn't mean no one else has spotted I'm a girl!" Hermione said sharply, and Neville jumped in his seat, startled.
Hermione looked disconcerted for a fleeting moment, and she levelled her gaze on Neville, ceasing the clickety-click of her knitting needles for a moment. Her eyes widened with unmistakable recognition and she looked like she was on the verge of saying, "Hi, Neville!" but then the moment was gone, and she smiled blithely, going back to the (now maroon) elf hat. Neville heard Lavender release her breath in a shuddering gasp.
"You saw that, didn't you, Neville?" she asked.
"Yeah. Yeah. I did."
If he'd had any doubt before, now he was firmly resolved to carry out his plan. He stood up abruptly and realised just how tired he was - his vision suddenly darkened and he couldn't feel his legs for a moment. Steeling himself, he extended his hand to Lavender to help her get up.
"Do you have any food?" he asked sheepishly, and the girl broke into a wide smile. She hugged him quickly and turned to Hermione.
"I'll be right back," she said.
Hermione kept humming her tune, which sounded awfully similar to "Weasley is our King," and her nose bobbed along with the incessant clicking of her needles.
Lavender turned and looked at Neville "I think she understands, you know?"
Neville's eyes stung and he nodded, unable to say anything.
They went downstairs to the kitchen, tiptoeing past the row of house-elf heads on the wall and a portrait that looked like a rampaging werewolf had ripped it to shreds. At the elf-heads, Neville paused, noticing the head of the last Black house-elf, Kreacher. He hadn't believed the stories until he'd seen it for himself. He'd heard that Harry had physically strangled Kreacher in a fit of rage, blaming him for the death of Sirius Black, then he'd severed the house-elf's head and hung it on the wall.
Neville looked at the wretched creature's face, which differed from the other elf heads on the wall markedly - its eyes were bulging out even more, and it had an expression of surprise rather than extreme smugness. There were bloodstains around the head on the wall, and despite all the gore he'd seen with the Death Eaters, Neville felt nauseous. Kreacher had no plaque. Instead, below his head, a message appeared in an angry scrawl, scratched into the very paint: KREACHER KILLED HIS MASTER.
Neville wondered whether the deaths of Sirius and Dumbledore had been the reason why Harry couldn't defeat Voldemort. Perhaps he'd been so overcome by bitterness and blind anger that he didn't really care whether he defeated Voldemort or not. Everyone had known about the Prophecy, and Neville could certainly understand if Harry had decided that they could take their Prophecy and shove it. Neville knew about losing loved ones. Neville remembered Harry Potter then, as he'd seen him for the first time on the train, when he'd caught the Snitch in their first year - picture after picture of a smiling, triumphant Harry zoomed around Neville's head. A cold, invisible fist closed around Neville's throat and he tried to ignore the lump in his throat.
He must have been wearing an absolutely gloomy look when he walked into the kitchen, because Lavender's smile turned to a frown immediately upon seeing his face. She put down the loaf of bread she'd been cutting and came closer to him. Cupping his face with her hands, she tilted his head and peered into his eyes.
"What is it, Neville?" she asked, her voice soft.
Neville looked into her eyes and saw nothing but his own reflection, tiny and altogether insignificant. He felt small and useless, and above all he was filled with unending pity for Harry Potter, whose life had ended because people had cared too much. Harry had cared too much about Sirius; Dumbledore had cared too much about Harry. The road to hell was truly paved with good intentions. Neville embraced Lavender fiercely, taking comfort in the warmth of her body, pressing the side of his face to the top of her head. When he finally let go, Lavender's eyes were misty.
"I just remembered Harry," said Neville, bowing his head. "The way he used to smile."
Lavender burst into tears. They embraced again, and soon they were both crying quietly.
Upstairs, Hermione stopped her knitting and a shadow of fear passed over her face, and she heard Harry's (Harry, no, please, not Harry!) voice screaming indignantly about being left out of everything, and the raucous laughter of Fred and George (both killed by Death Eaters in their joke shop) as Mundungus Fletcher (tortured and killed by Death Eaters) told them a story about purloined toads. She saw Ginny (gang-raped and left for dead by Death Eaters) rolling Butterbeer corks on the floor for Crookshanks, and Ron... Hermione's face snapped back to her bland expression and she went on with her knitting. The wool was bright red this time, and the strings of it looked like rivulets of blood on her hands.
Downstairs, Lavender wiped her eyes as she placed a plate with some pieces of bread and marmalade in front of Neville, smiling apologetically.
"We weren't expecting company," she said between sniffs.
Neville smiled weakly and patted the chair beside him, inviting her to sit down. "I don't know when I'll see you again, Lavender. I might see you tomorrow or never again," he said, using a butter knife to spread a thick slab of marmalade across a piece of bread.
"Why?"
"I have to do something. There is one thing that I think might help Hermione. But it's dangerous, and I might not succeed. So if I don't come tomorrow, then I'm most likely never coming back."
"Please don't. Hermione might still get better. You saw her today, she almost had that Hermione look again!"
"Yes, and I think I know what caused it. I can't tell you what I'm planning, because I am not even sure myself, but in the event that I am caught and somehow they find out about you..." -- he shuddered -- "if they find out about you they will come for you and they will destroy you both. They won't care that you're a pure-blood. Hermione's wanted, I've told you all the stories I fed them. You'll just be seen as aiding and abetting. If I don't come tomorrow, please get Hermione out of here, take her someplace safe, someplace they won't find her."
Lavender nodded, her face grim. "I hope you come back."
"I hope so too."
They finished the impromptu supper in silence and headed back upstairs. Neville did not look at the grotesque head of Kreacher as they passed it.
He walked into the drawing room whispered "Good night" in Hermione's ear. He carefully picked up her wand, which was tucked, knitting needle fashion, into a bunch of wool. Neville put the wand in his pocket and straightened up. Hermione barely looked up from her knitting. Neville looked at the wicker basket, which was filled nearly to the brim by now, and fished out a blood-red elf hat. He regarded it for a moment and then pocketed it. "For good luck," he told Lavender, who gave him a wan smile.
Neville went back to the sitting room and moments later, he was stumbling out of the fireplace in his own empty, draughty flat. He picked his cloak up from the sofa, reached into the right pocket and fished out the snuffbox, setting it on the coffee table. He took Hermione's wand and the red elf hat out of his robe's pockets and placed them beside the snuffbox. He lowered himself onto the sofa and cast his cloak about himself, using the armrest for a pillow. He lay awake for several hours, looking at the three things in front of him, his vision blurry, because tears were running down his face for all the smiles that had been left behind. When Neville finally fell asleep, he did not dream.
When he woke the next day, there was an eerie silence all around him and he was filled with a sense of foreboding and dread that nearly overtook him, sapping him of energy and the will to fight. He felt weak and listless, and it was only with great effort that he got up from the sofa, staggering. His neck ached horribly from the uncomfortable angle of the armrest. Neville shivered and put on his cloak. He picked the Death Eater mask up from the armchair where he'd flung it on the previous night, attaching it to his hood. He placed Hermione's wand and the snuffbox in his left pocket and placed his own wand in the left. He fingered the red elf hat with a wistful smile, remembering the story of a second-year Gryffindor at Hogwarts who had pulled the Sword of Godric Gryffindor out of the Hogwarts Sorting Hat.
Neville fumbled for the rolled-up Azkaban permission slip and found it. With the air of a swimmer about to take a twenty-foot dive, Neville Apparated to the gates of Azkaban. He immediately felt the coldness of the Dementors attacking his soul, and he cast around for an especially happy image to keep in mind. The only thing he could remember was the radiant smile on the face of Harry Potter, Gryffindor Seeker, when he'd caught the Snitch in the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match during their first year. Neville filled his entire mind with that image, using what he'd learned in Occlumency, and he suddenly had to fight the desire to grin stupidly at everything around him. He walked up to the guard at the front door and presented his permission slip. The guard motioned for him to attach his Death Eater mask and allowed him inside.
Neville found himself facing a seemingly endless hallway. On either side of him there were several dozen wizards sitting at desks, looking more like scribes than guards. One of them rose and approached Neville, raising his hand in greeting. Neville nodded in return, and the guard motioned for him to follow, taking his permission slip away. They walked for what felt like miles until they reached a door marked with a number in the Goblin runic system, at which Neville had never been particularly talented. The guard opened the door and motioned him inside. Neville walked in, and the door slammed behind him.
Ron was sitting on a low cot, looking every bit the hounded animal but still scowling. Neville removed his Death Eater mask, and Ron didn't hesitate. He flung himself at Neville, snarling. Neville had the advantage of being well-fed and not under the influence of the Dementors, so he was able to restrain Ron, who struggled violently but uselessly in Neville's grip. His eyes were burning with so much loathing that Neville was having trouble keeping Harry's smiling face in his mind to fend off the Dementors.
"Listen to me, Ron. Just listen," he hissed.
Ron wasn't having any of it, though -- as soon as Neville's grip on his arms loosened a bit, he started trying to break free with renewed fervour.
Neville got straight to the point. "Bloody hell, Ron, do you want to help Hermione or not?"
Ron froze. "What do you care about her, Death Eater? You're not worthy of speaking her name."
"My name is Neville, and I am a Death Eater. I'm also the Death Eater who's going to get you out of here so you'd better listen."
Ron snorted, the hatred in his eyes tempered for a moment by disbelief. Neville let go of him, and Ron flung himself onto the cot, looking mutinous. "You'll get me out of here? Why? So you can make a sport of me with your friends, like you did with my sister?"
Neville winced. "I wasn't even a Death Eater then, remember? But whatever - you want to blame me for everything that's happened to your family, you can bloody well go ahead, after I get you out of here." He fished out the elf hat from his pocket and offered it to Ron. The bobbles swung a few times, then stopped. Ron's eyes suddenly glazed over and his lower lip began to tremble. He grabbed the elf hat from Neville, crushing it in his fist.
"Where did you get this? What have you done with her?"
"Hermione knitted that yesterday in the drawing room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
Ron gasped. "He knows, then?" His jaw tightened.
"No, he doesn't know anything. I know. I always knew." Neville reached into his pocket and pulled out a loose, fraying piece of parchment, handing it to Ron. "This is my writing."
Ron peered down at the parchment, his mouth falling open. "The Secret Keeper's hand. This -- you --" He broke off and looked at Neville as though seeing him for the first time in his life. "Snape," he whispered. "You're doing the same thing Snape is doing."
"Was doing. Snape is dead."
Ron's face crumbled, which was a rather startling reaction to someone who knew Ron's opinion of Snape. "Blimey, Neville, I'm so sorry," whispered Ron. "No one told me..." He sprang up from the cot and threw himself at Neville, only this time it was an embrace. Relief flooded through Neville. He had feared that the Dementors' hold on Ron would prevent him from seeing clearly.
"Ron. We don't have a lot of time. I believe Hermione needs you, she's very ill, Ron. She's not... herself," Neville said, disentangling himself from Ron, whose freckled face was screwed up in a pained look, like he was trying not to cry.
Neville led him carefully back to the cot and sat him down, the image of Harry's smile brightening in his mind once more. He extracted the snuffbox from his pocket and put it on the cot between himself and Ron. He started speaking urgently, knowing that the guard would soon check in to see if everything was all right.
"I need you to listen very carefully right now. I know that your mind is weak from the Dementors and it can be difficult to concentrate, but please listen carefully."
Ron nodded.
"This snuffbox was a mouse once -- I'm going to turn it back into a mouse." Neville did so. The field mouse he'd picked up outside Lord Voldemort's castle last night looked no worse for the wear, but much more frightened. Neville seized the animal in his left hand, where the mouse squirmed unhappily.
"Now I'm going to turn you into a mouse, and then a snuffbox, and I'm going to put you in my pocket."
Ron gaped at him. "Are you mad? You can't transfigure a person into a snuffbox!"
"That's right, you can't. But you can transfigure a mouse into a snuffbox, and you can make sure that it doesn't turn into a dead snuffbox. You just concentrate a little less on converting living matter to nonliving matter, and you're fine. This mouse," -- he stuck the animal under Ron's nose, which promptly wrinkled -- "was a snuffbox twice. I can do it. I just need you to trust me."
Ron sighed heavily. "Well, it's either go with what the nutter says and have a shot at getting out, or rot in here. Fine, do it. But if I die, I'll come back to haunt you."
Neville didn't laugh. He pointed his wand at Ron, and transfigured him into a mouse -- Hermione suddenly remembering Draco Malfoy, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret had slid that piece of the puzzle into place last night. Ron the mouse had a smattering of red patches on his back. He sat on the cot, blinking furiously, seemingly frozen with fear. Neville pointed his wand at the Ron mouse and transfigured it into a snuffbox, taking care not to be too accurate. The resulting snuffbox had whiskers and a tail, but Neville didn't mind -- the Dementors would sense a non-sentient, barely living thing, they wouldn't see its whiskers. He put the Ron-snuffbox into his pocket, along with the red elf-hat, and reattached his Death Eater mask.
He released the wriggling real mouse onto the floor he slammed himself hard against the door and yelled "IMPEDIMENTA!"
The door swung open and the guard rushed in, looking around wildly.
"The blood-traitor is an unregistered Animagus!" Neville bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Turned himself into a mouse and -- THERE HE GOES! STUPEFY!" The jet of red light issuing from his wand hit the fleeing critter right in the midsection. The mouse flopped over and lay quite still.
"WHAT KIND OF BLOODY PRISON IS THIS?" Neville shouted. "YOU DIDN'T CHECK IF HE WAS AN ANIMAGUS? HAVE YOU IDIOTS FORGOTTEN THE BLOOD TRAITOR SIRIUS BLACK?"
"Sir, we're sorry, sir, we didn't even think -- a Weasley -- they never... so sorry..." the guard stammered, lips trembling.
Neville advanced on the guard, glowering. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the other guards were rushing to see what the commotion was about. He whirled to face them. "Which one of you is responsible for checking prisoners' innate abilities upon admission?" Neville tried to think of every single thing that's ever made him angry and soon he was shaking with real anger. The guards looked taken aback.
"Which. One?" Neville growled, a sound made even more menacing by the Death Eater mask.
One of the guards stepped forward, and stammered, "There isn't any one person, sir, please -- whoever is on duty."
"I WANT TO KNOW WHO WAS ON DUTY WHEN THIS PRISONER WAS ADMITTED!"
"Which prisoner, sir?" the braver guard ventured.
Neville strode over to where the field mouse lay on the floor and picked it up by the tail. "THIS prisoner, you half-wit! He's an Animagus! Transformed himself into a mouse and tried -- to get -- away!"
There was a collective gasp from the guards.
"Now he's dead! I shot a Stunner at him, hoping to just graze him, but I hit dead centre; now he's dead, and how do you suppose I get my questions answered by a dead rodent?" Neville stomped towards the first guard, who backed away from him slowly.
"The Dark Lord will not be pleased by this! Out of my way, incompetent fools! I must speak with my superiors. I'm taking the corpse as evidence." He waved the mouse in front of the braver guard, who flinched.
"But-- sir-- we didn't--"
"SILENCE, BLATHERING TOADIE!"
Neville swung his cloak around him and stalked down the corridor, muttering under his breath, the dead mouse swinging by its tail in his right hand. His soul was singing. He'd got away with it. The dead field mouse had been transfigured several times, which is all that they could lift, evidence-wise, and they'd conclude the same thing he had "concluded." Animagus magic didn't work like spells cast by wands: a dead Animagus could never be reverted to human form if he or she died in their animal form. Ron Weasley was dead to the world, but alive for those who mattered. Inside Neville's mind, Harry Potter looked at the Snitch in his hand and broke into a dazzling grin.
In the draughty drawing room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Hermione Granger, the last Muggle-born witch in England with any chance at getting her magical powers back, looked up from her knitting and peered up at Lavender.
Hermione gazed into Lavender's eyes for a few long moments and said, "That's the trouble with Quidditch, it creates all this bad feeling and tension between the Houses."
[end]