Fic: "A History of Violence" for blithelybonny
Title: A History of Violence
Author: amidalashari
Recipient: blithelybonny
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Neville Longbottom
Warnings: Character death
Summary: A brief summary of the life and times of the Boy Who Might Have Been.
A History of Violence
Water.
Neville’s very first thought, once he had got past the blind panic, was that there was an awful lot of water. It was not, of course, incorrect; but neither, as thoughts go, was it particularly insightful. He was drowning, after all.
It was wet, he thought. Wet, and heavy. And … watery. And everywhere.
And then there were no more thoughts, but only oblivion. Neville knew something of death then; far more than a child should know, if not more than he would develop. But only for a moment, and then he was saved. Or, more accurately, he was simply not killed.
Neville was glad of it, if no-one else was.
***
"Meringue, Algie - oh!"
Neville thought he felt his uncle’s grip on him slipping a moment before he fell, but that might have just been his imagination working backward. Whatever the case, by the time he realised what was happening, it was too late to do anything. He fell; but instead of plummeting straight down and stopping, like he would have thought - if he had time to think about it at all - he …
Well, he bounced.
It took him quite a while to stop bouncing; when he did, the house seemed quite far away. He sat up, not quite sure how he was able to, but thankful nonetheless. He had no bruises; no scratches, or abrasions, or broken bones. He looked back at the house; had he really fallen that far? It just didn’t seem possible.
Not without magic.
Neville was still a little too shocked to smile, or laugh, or celebrate. But this time, he was not the only one glad to see him alive.
***
Dear Mr Longbottom,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later then 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Neville read the letter four and a half times before the green-inked words finally sunk in. He was going to Hogwarts.
Then his gran took the letter, and gave a little "hmph" sound. "I suppose they take all kinds at that school," was all she said, but Neville imagined that she was smiling.
She took him to Diagon Alley the next day for school supplies, and Neville remembered the first time he had got anything there, when his Great Uncle Algie had bought him Trevor. Trevor would be coming with him to school, he thought. Trevor would like it at Hogwarts.
"You can use your father’s wand," his gran said, when Neville stopped outside Ollivander’s. He tried not to frown; he had hoped that, since he was going to school, he might get his own wand. He had never felt good enough for his father’s wand, somehow; had always felt he shouldn’t be using it. The wand had never seemed to like him much, at any rate; or perhaps, he thought dismally, he was just not a very good wizard.
That night, his new school books already packed in his trunk, Neville lay awake in bed. He was going to school, he thought sleepily. He was a wizard, and he was going to Hogwarts.
He would make his parents proud.
***
"We were all in the DA together. It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-Who, wasn't it? And this is the first chance we’ve had to do something real - or was that all just a game or something?"
Neville’s voice was quiet; even he didn’t know how he managed to sound so calm. All year, he had worked for this; to fight, to honour his parents, to avenge them. That sounded silly, even in his head, but he supposed it was the truth. They - he - had a chance to really do something here, and he was not going to back down.
So he followed Harry to the Ministry of Magic. He had stood in the room with the frighteningly unmarked, revolving doors. He had seen rooms full of brains, and prophecies, and seen why it was called the Department of Mysteries.
He had faced down Death Eaters, and thought that the strange doors were really not frightening after all.
He had run, and known he could never run fast enough. Hidden, and known he could never hide fully enough.
Fought, and known he could never fight well enough.
But it wasn’t about being good enough; he had known that the instant his father’s wand broke. Perhaps he never had been good enough - for the wand, for his gran, for his classes - but that wasn’t the point. The point wasn’t winning, it was fighting.
Neville didn’t feel the pain as his nose was broken. That would come later. All he felt was the rush of adrenaline as he decided - truly decided - to fight; the swell of pride as he knew he was doing something his parents would have understood; the certainty that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was doing something important, something right.
"Whatever you do, Harry," he said, "don’t give it to him."
He did feel the pain of the Cruciatus. Of the million unfinished thoughts that rushed through his head, almost all were of his parents.
He had wanted to be like them, after all.
***
"I’m not going back to school."
Those were, Neville thought, perhaps the six most difficult words he had ever said to his gran. He had been practising them in the mirror for a week.
He wanted to say more; she was just looking at him, disapproval written more clearly across her face than he had ever seen. But he really didn’t want to make her any madder.
"Don’t be silly. Of course you’re going back to school. What would your parents say?"
"My parents," Neville said, trying very hard to remain calm, "would tell me I was doing the right thing." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. "They fought him, too."
"That’s what you’re doing, then?" she asked, and Neville couldn’t read her expression. "You’re fighting him? You’re putting yourself in hospital right alongside them?"
Neville reeled as if she had struck him. Why couldn’t she understand? He wished, for perhaps the billionth time, that he had his parents. They would understand; they had made the same decision.
And if he paid the same price as them, it would still be worth it. People had always wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps.
"Yes," he said. "If I have to."
***
It was supposed to be the final battle. The Boy Who Lived versus Lord Voldemort, and the smart money was on Harry Potter. They were the good guys, after all, and the good guys were supposed to win.
This time, Harry hadn’t escaped with a scar.
It wasn’t over after that; Voldemort hadn’t won. They were still fighting him. But with Harry gone, it just didn’t - just couldn’t - feel the same. Ron was reckless; Hermione was inconsolable. Neville remembered the girl who had helped him through seven years of potions homework and missing frogs, and he wished he could comfort her. But he didn’t think he was very good at that sort of thing.
Instead, he focused on what he could: he focused on fighting. He practised what Harry had taught them during DA meetings back at Hogwarts; he practised what he had leaned since. While he rehearsed curses and counter-curses, he didn’t see Harry’s face. He saw those of his parents. He saw the wrappers his mother had passed him, remembered how he had sometimes hoped that there would be a secret message scrawled on one of them. That she and his father were okay; that they were just deep - very deep - undercover. That one day they would both get better, that they would take him back to his real life, that the past eight, eleven, fifteen years had all been some kind of dream.
It was hard to feel too much sympathy for Hermione Granger, whose parents were probably sitting in their living room somewhere, unaware that there was even a war going on.
So he fought, and he improved. For the first time, he almost wished he still had his father’s wand. He might be worthy of it, now.
***
"I’m not the Boy Who Lived."
It was a nonsensical statement, if you thought too hard about it; Neville tried not to. He was a boy - well, maybe a man, now. He had lived.
"I’m not the one in the prophecy."
"How do you know?"
Neville turned his head away. How could anyone even suggest that? That he was the one who was supposed to defeat Voldemort?
Was that supposed to make his parents’ suffering okay? Did that excuse the last eighteen years of his life?
What did that make Harry?
Neville wondered if they actually believed what they were suggesting, or if they only wanted to. He hoped they didn’t; he hoped they were only clutching at straws, and knew it; he hoped they were only using him, creating one last hope, even if it was a false one. He’d rather believe that than the alternative.
Not that it mattered.
He didn’t mind feeling like a puppet, after that, except that he wished he wasn’t paid quite so much attention. He didn’t mind being asked if he was sure, if he really thought he could do this, if he wanted to go through with it. Neville was used to people doubting him.
The day the war really ended, Neville had never expected to win. He had never even expected to live. Had he been able to, he later would have wondered if that would have made a difference.
He had gone to do only one thing: to fight. To make his parents - or his made-up version of his parents - proud. The second time he was crucioed, he kept that thought firmly in his head. It wasn’t difficult; Bellatrix Lestanrange’s laughter, echoing in his head, ensured that. The third time, he didn’t think much. He had underestimated the pain. He had never, he realised - a realisation which did not hurt nearly as much as the very physical pain of the Cruciatus curse - really understood his parents.
After the fourth time, he lost count.
He wasn’t the Chosen One. And nobody could really say they were surprised that Neville Longbottom had lost the war. But he had been marked by Voldemort, nonetheless.
He had always wanted to be like his parents.
Author: amidalashari
Recipient: blithelybonny
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Neville Longbottom
Warnings: Character death
Summary: A brief summary of the life and times of the Boy Who Might Have Been.
A History of Violence
Water.
Neville’s very first thought, once he had got past the blind panic, was that there was an awful lot of water. It was not, of course, incorrect; but neither, as thoughts go, was it particularly insightful. He was drowning, after all.
It was wet, he thought. Wet, and heavy. And … watery. And everywhere.
And then there were no more thoughts, but only oblivion. Neville knew something of death then; far more than a child should know, if not more than he would develop. But only for a moment, and then he was saved. Or, more accurately, he was simply not killed.
Neville was glad of it, if no-one else was.
***
"Meringue, Algie - oh!"
Neville thought he felt his uncle’s grip on him slipping a moment before he fell, but that might have just been his imagination working backward. Whatever the case, by the time he realised what was happening, it was too late to do anything. He fell; but instead of plummeting straight down and stopping, like he would have thought - if he had time to think about it at all - he …
Well, he bounced.
It took him quite a while to stop bouncing; when he did, the house seemed quite far away. He sat up, not quite sure how he was able to, but thankful nonetheless. He had no bruises; no scratches, or abrasions, or broken bones. He looked back at the house; had he really fallen that far? It just didn’t seem possible.
Not without magic.
Neville was still a little too shocked to smile, or laugh, or celebrate. But this time, he was not the only one glad to see him alive.
***
Dear Mr Longbottom,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later then 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Neville read the letter four and a half times before the green-inked words finally sunk in. He was going to Hogwarts.
Then his gran took the letter, and gave a little "hmph" sound. "I suppose they take all kinds at that school," was all she said, but Neville imagined that she was smiling.
She took him to Diagon Alley the next day for school supplies, and Neville remembered the first time he had got anything there, when his Great Uncle Algie had bought him Trevor. Trevor would be coming with him to school, he thought. Trevor would like it at Hogwarts.
"You can use your father’s wand," his gran said, when Neville stopped outside Ollivander’s. He tried not to frown; he had hoped that, since he was going to school, he might get his own wand. He had never felt good enough for his father’s wand, somehow; had always felt he shouldn’t be using it. The wand had never seemed to like him much, at any rate; or perhaps, he thought dismally, he was just not a very good wizard.
That night, his new school books already packed in his trunk, Neville lay awake in bed. He was going to school, he thought sleepily. He was a wizard, and he was going to Hogwarts.
He would make his parents proud.
***
"We were all in the DA together. It was all supposed to be about fighting You-Know-Who, wasn't it? And this is the first chance we’ve had to do something real - or was that all just a game or something?"
Neville’s voice was quiet; even he didn’t know how he managed to sound so calm. All year, he had worked for this; to fight, to honour his parents, to avenge them. That sounded silly, even in his head, but he supposed it was the truth. They - he - had a chance to really do something here, and he was not going to back down.
So he followed Harry to the Ministry of Magic. He had stood in the room with the frighteningly unmarked, revolving doors. He had seen rooms full of brains, and prophecies, and seen why it was called the Department of Mysteries.
He had faced down Death Eaters, and thought that the strange doors were really not frightening after all.
He had run, and known he could never run fast enough. Hidden, and known he could never hide fully enough.
Fought, and known he could never fight well enough.
But it wasn’t about being good enough; he had known that the instant his father’s wand broke. Perhaps he never had been good enough - for the wand, for his gran, for his classes - but that wasn’t the point. The point wasn’t winning, it was fighting.
Neville didn’t feel the pain as his nose was broken. That would come later. All he felt was the rush of adrenaline as he decided - truly decided - to fight; the swell of pride as he knew he was doing something his parents would have understood; the certainty that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he was doing something important, something right.
"Whatever you do, Harry," he said, "don’t give it to him."
He did feel the pain of the Cruciatus. Of the million unfinished thoughts that rushed through his head, almost all were of his parents.
He had wanted to be like them, after all.
***
"I’m not going back to school."
Those were, Neville thought, perhaps the six most difficult words he had ever said to his gran. He had been practising them in the mirror for a week.
He wanted to say more; she was just looking at him, disapproval written more clearly across her face than he had ever seen. But he really didn’t want to make her any madder.
"Don’t be silly. Of course you’re going back to school. What would your parents say?"
"My parents," Neville said, trying very hard to remain calm, "would tell me I was doing the right thing." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was low. "They fought him, too."
"That’s what you’re doing, then?" she asked, and Neville couldn’t read her expression. "You’re fighting him? You’re putting yourself in hospital right alongside them?"
Neville reeled as if she had struck him. Why couldn’t she understand? He wished, for perhaps the billionth time, that he had his parents. They would understand; they had made the same decision.
And if he paid the same price as them, it would still be worth it. People had always wanted him to follow in his father’s footsteps.
"Yes," he said. "If I have to."
***
It was supposed to be the final battle. The Boy Who Lived versus Lord Voldemort, and the smart money was on Harry Potter. They were the good guys, after all, and the good guys were supposed to win.
This time, Harry hadn’t escaped with a scar.
It wasn’t over after that; Voldemort hadn’t won. They were still fighting him. But with Harry gone, it just didn’t - just couldn’t - feel the same. Ron was reckless; Hermione was inconsolable. Neville remembered the girl who had helped him through seven years of potions homework and missing frogs, and he wished he could comfort her. But he didn’t think he was very good at that sort of thing.
Instead, he focused on what he could: he focused on fighting. He practised what Harry had taught them during DA meetings back at Hogwarts; he practised what he had leaned since. While he rehearsed curses and counter-curses, he didn’t see Harry’s face. He saw those of his parents. He saw the wrappers his mother had passed him, remembered how he had sometimes hoped that there would be a secret message scrawled on one of them. That she and his father were okay; that they were just deep - very deep - undercover. That one day they would both get better, that they would take him back to his real life, that the past eight, eleven, fifteen years had all been some kind of dream.
It was hard to feel too much sympathy for Hermione Granger, whose parents were probably sitting in their living room somewhere, unaware that there was even a war going on.
So he fought, and he improved. For the first time, he almost wished he still had his father’s wand. He might be worthy of it, now.
***
"I’m not the Boy Who Lived."
It was a nonsensical statement, if you thought too hard about it; Neville tried not to. He was a boy - well, maybe a man, now. He had lived.
"I’m not the one in the prophecy."
"How do you know?"
Neville turned his head away. How could anyone even suggest that? That he was the one who was supposed to defeat Voldemort?
Was that supposed to make his parents’ suffering okay? Did that excuse the last eighteen years of his life?
What did that make Harry?
Neville wondered if they actually believed what they were suggesting, or if they only wanted to. He hoped they didn’t; he hoped they were only clutching at straws, and knew it; he hoped they were only using him, creating one last hope, even if it was a false one. He’d rather believe that than the alternative.
Not that it mattered.
He didn’t mind feeling like a puppet, after that, except that he wished he wasn’t paid quite so much attention. He didn’t mind being asked if he was sure, if he really thought he could do this, if he wanted to go through with it. Neville was used to people doubting him.
The day the war really ended, Neville had never expected to win. He had never even expected to live. Had he been able to, he later would have wondered if that would have made a difference.
He had gone to do only one thing: to fight. To make his parents - or his made-up version of his parents - proud. The second time he was crucioed, he kept that thought firmly in his head. It wasn’t difficult; Bellatrix Lestanrange’s laughter, echoing in his head, ensured that. The third time, he didn’t think much. He had underestimated the pain. He had never, he realised - a realisation which did not hurt nearly as much as the very physical pain of the Cruciatus curse - really understood his parents.
After the fourth time, he lost count.
He wasn’t the Chosen One. And nobody could really say they were surprised that Neville Longbottom had lost the war. But he had been marked by Voldemort, nonetheless.
He had always wanted to be like his parents.