Fic: "the time has come, the walrus said", for remarked
Title: the time has come, the walrus said
Author: blithelybonny
Recipient: remarked
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Bellatrix Lestrange
Warnings: Character Death, Torture (non-explicit)
Summary: "They never talk about the war and their failings. It just doesn't seem right, not since they are reminded of it practically every second anyway."
Author's notes: This fic contains allusions to many different works of literature, theatre, and music, so I have included a list at the bottom to cite. I don't think I missed any, but just in case, I don't own anything about this except the way it was pieced together. I hope remarked is pleased with the result! Many thanks to C for the once over and H for the beta read.
the time has come, the walrus said
Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, that same screeching, keening, sending shivers up your spine sound that makes him want to pop his eardrums rather than be forced to hear anymore of it. Bellatrix Lestrange is that hideous, kinky witch, with her eyes like pools of murky water, wide and penetrating. He is sure that she can see down to his very soul, no matter how he cowers and hides and covers himself up.
Harry Potter never thought he was going to be like this. Never, never, not in a million years, did he ever think that he was going to be the one locked up. Never thought that they were going to get him. It just wasn't built into his consciousness. Never once, since he'd first become aware of the fact that he was going to have to be the one to save the world, did he ever consider the possibility
that he would fail.
"Whatever Bella wants, Bella gets…" she screech-sings, taunting the three of them through the bars of their cell, but when she stops getting a response, she quickly grows bored and moves on to the next one. Harry isn't sure who is in the next cell, but the mournful moans and screams of 'no please don't, stop, AHHHHHHHH!' lead him to believe that it is a newly-arrived pretty young woman who cannot handle her Cruciatus.
There is not so very much to do here, he notices, as the days blend together so much so that he no longer has any idea if time is passing at all. He thinks to himself there are others here, and it becomes a game to try to guess who is in the surrounding cells and to make up the stories of how they got here.
Harry knows how he got here, that is for certain, but it is a story he rarely thinks about anymore. It is too depressing and too painful, especially considering his history with the Dark Lord. He always used to come out on top, but not this time, nope. Not this time.
So instead he is forced to just sit there, watching as Neville wrings his hands raw trying to 'out damn spot!' the crimson Gryffindor blood on his hands.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of Harry's mind, he misses Ginny. He misses her so very, very much. That deep dark recess even causes him to cry himself to sleep, when he allows it to take the forefront of his attention. Those are the bad nights, the nights where his screams drown out everyone else's, and Bellatrix comes by to cackle and taunt like a caricature of a human being rather than the living, breathing she-devil that she actually is.
Neville did away with Ginny, and that is why he slips further and further away from reality. Harry doesn't blame him, exactly, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. But it's something that no one talks about. They don't allow themselves, never, ever, ever. In fact, they never talk about the war and their failings. It just doesn't seem right, not since they are reminded of it practically every second anyway.
The gaunt, once-quite-handsome, true Gryffindor, ghost of Neville sits there, muttering to himself in the corner, always. "Crucify him, crucify him, crucify, crucify, crucify him." He repeats the singular phrase over and over again, until Harry is certain that if he hasn't already lost it, he is going to very, very soon.
"Boil that dust speck, boil that dust speck, rah, rah, rah, rah, beezlenut oil." Luna's voice wafts over from the other corner, and with a wry smile, Harry realizes that Luna is, in fact, the sanest of them all.
---
"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away," Luna sings in a ghostly whisper. "I do so love the Beatles." She then gets up and begins to dance in the middle of the cell, twirling and twirling in circles. She pulls Harry to his feet and forces him to dance along with her. "Come now, Harry, it isn't so bad."
Her optimism makes him want to vomit, but he manages to contain himself. That might be because he hasn't eaten in days - if it has been days, he doesn't know - and he doesn't have anything to empty his stomach of. "Luna," he says, "loony, loony, Luna Lovegood."
She just grins at him and continues to twirl. And then suddenly, "Quiero enseñarle español."
He gapes at her like a goldfish in a bowl and steals a glance back at Neville. The boy hasn't moved, he never moves, he just will not move, and then looks back at the blonde thing he cannot figure out for the life of him. To him, it sounds almost like gibberish or gobbledygook, except those are real languages, and this cannot be.
"I want to teach you Spanish," she repeats, in a language that Harry actually can understand. "Would that be all right with you?"
Harry sits down in the middle of the cell, falls back to floor and stares up at the ceiling. "Yes, I think that would be all right."
"Perfecto!" she exclaims and claps her hands.
Perhaps this is some alternate universe, he thinks, raising his hand in the air and staring at it for several long moments. His fingernails could use a cutting.
---
There are some nights when Harry lays his head in Luna's lap. She idly strokes his hair and tells him stories of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, Snozzberries, Star-Bellied Sneetches, and the Whos down in Whoville loved Christmas a lot, but the Grinch who lived just north of Whoville did not, and Harry decides that this is what having a mother must be like. He often asks Luna about her mother, but she declines to tell him. He doesn't know why that is because they don't exactly have hundreds of other things to talk about, but he respects that she isn't interested in the subject and moves on to something else.
"Your eyes are very verdant," she says to him, as if this is suddenly some other world again and nothing is so important as the adjectival value of his ocular region.
Neville's eyes tell an entirely different story, Harry knows because Luna often comments on that as well. I KILLED HER, HARRY, they say in big, mournful, terrified letters. Harry often wants to add 'but you had to' but somehow, he just cannot bring himself to. Perhaps it is because he doesn't actually believe it. He doesn't really know what he believes anymore, though, so his reasoning is faulty.
Somehow, though, Harry also knows that it will be Neville who saves them. He can tell that somehow, someday, sometime soon, Neville will snap on that hideous, kinky witch and save he and Luna from whatever horrible thing is to follow their stay in Azkaban.
And yet, even when it happens, Harry is surprised.
Day in and day out, Neville sits muttering to himself in the corner of their cell, and then suddenly, today, "OUT DAMN SPOT!" he shrieks,
and the madness that has been threatening to wholly overtake him erupts like so many destroyed potions over the years as pure and unbridled rage. How he manages to do it, Harry will never know, but Neville's rage is so apoplectic that when he punches the solid stone wall, his fist actually cracks the supposed impenetrable fortress.
"WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FOUL WHORE?" he shouts through the bars, as Luna and Harry sit nearby just watching. "WHERE ARE YOU?"
Harry looks at Luna, who grins back at him, as if she already knows that something amazing is about to happen. He slowly smiles back at her, a subtle upward curving of his lips, baring teeth as sharp as razorblades - a razorblade smile, he has - and then crawls over to her side of the cell to watch the show.
It doesn't take long for Bellatrix to get there. Neville stands at the bars to meet her, practically snarling with rage. It is something that Harry has never in his life seen before - he supposes the battle in the Department of Mysteries was just a warm up for this boy, no, this man Neville.
She grins, wide and toothy, vile and hideous. "Is ickle Neville finally weady for a widdle Kiss?" she teases. For a moment, Harry almost feels sorry for her. Obviously, she has absolutely no idea how horrible her death is about to be. "Time to join your parents, ickle Neville-kins!"
"Open the gates and seize the day," offers Luna, ethereally.
"I'll kill you for what you did to my parents," says Neville, and it is the most clear, calm, and concise thing he has ever said, at least since they came here. And then calmly, collectedly, Neville manages to strike with the precision of an adder. His fingers clasp around the witch's robes and pull her tight up against the bars. "I - will - kill - you."
Those murky pool eyes widen, and is that fear for a brief second? It must be. Neville steals her wand and opens the door to the cell. Then, while the others sit idly by, talking of shoes and ships and ceiling wax, Neville kills Bellatrix Lestrange in cold blood and with no regret. Luna comments on Harry's eyes, and Harry remarks back that the weather outside is frightful, he can feel it in his old, old bones.
Neville peers down at the body and frowns.
---
"I have never been on an airplane," says Luna.
"Neither have I," Harry comments.
"Nor I." Neville's eyes constantly return to the scene of the crime, though the body has long since been disposed of. Not a one of them can forget the look of sheer gratitude expressed wordlessly by the nameless, faceless Death Eater person when he was sent to investigate the disturbance. They all know that it is the very reason that their cell door has mysteriously remained unlocked now, for going on five days/weeks/months/minutes. How long has it really been? Time still passes indiscriminately.
"Well, that settles it then," she whispers. "And I know where we shall go."
The three link arms, a new Trio, a strange and wonderful, beautiful Trio, Harry thinks, and they rush-dance out. Luna sings, "Ding, dong, the witch is dead!" and they skip, skip, skip down the halls of the prison, wassailing among the leaves so green and verdant as Harry's lush eyes.
Perhaps there are others here, but none of them notice as they go merrily along. All they can think of is leaving this place, all they really want is to leave this place behind and forget that they were ever there to begin with. Where they are going, Harry cannot say, but he doesn't care, as he can think of nothing but the looming horizon. So it will be an adventure for all of them, but it is the kind of adventure they feel they are meant to have.
---
Harry doesn't know where Luna found the knee-high stockings with the elephants and giraff--jirafas on them. En español, he has to remind himself. If they are really to be free, he must embrace
la lengua so that they may blend in as inconspicuously as possible. Y, español es tan hermoso de todos modos.
Luna smiles at he and Neville and says, in her voice still light as a feather, "Bienvenidos a México, mis amigos."
Harry says nothing, but Neville, finally and intensely, looks around out at the desert that stretches before them and smiles. "Freedom, Harry, this is… this is freedom." This man Neville, this grown-up savior Neville knows. He knows, and Harry and Luna grin like fools.
"Luna?" he then continues, looking pensive, "do you suppose they'll forgive me? Do you think they'll forgive what I have done, forgive what I've become?"
"Oh yes," she replies airily. "Your parents will forgive you. And when you meet with them again someday, I expect they will tell you first thing!"
"En español ahora," Harry says mischievously, before laughing, laughing, laughing at her. He giggles madly, and suddenly they are all laughing. Porque este es la libertad, he thinks. This is freedom.
-----
the time has come, the walrus said - Lewis Carroll, Alice In Wonderland
whatever Bella wants, Bella gets… - Jerry Ross and Richard Adler, Damn Yankees
out damn spot - William Shakespeare, Macbeth
crucify him, crucify him, crucify, crucify, crucify him - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Jesus Christ Superstar
boil that dust speck… beezlenut oil - Dr. Seuss, Horton Hears a Who
yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away - The Beatles, Yesterday
snozzberries - Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
star-bellied sneetches - Dr. Seuss, The Sneetches and Other Stories
and the Whos… North of Whoville did not - Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas
open the gates and seize the day - Alan Menken and Jack Feldman, Newsies
shoes and ships and ceiling wax - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
the weather outside is frightful - Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne, Let It Snow
ding dong the witch is dead - Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg, from The Wizard of Oz
Author: blithelybonny
Recipient: remarked
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Bellatrix Lestrange
Warnings: Character Death, Torture (non-explicit)
Summary: "They never talk about the war and their failings. It just doesn't seem right, not since they are reminded of it practically every second anyway."
Author's notes: This fic contains allusions to many different works of literature, theatre, and music, so I have included a list at the bottom to cite. I don't think I missed any, but just in case, I don't own anything about this except the way it was pieced together. I hope remarked is pleased with the result! Many thanks to C for the once over and H for the beta read.
the time has come, the walrus said
Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, that same screeching, keening, sending shivers up your spine sound that makes him want to pop his eardrums rather than be forced to hear anymore of it. Bellatrix Lestrange is that hideous, kinky witch, with her eyes like pools of murky water, wide and penetrating. He is sure that she can see down to his very soul, no matter how he cowers and hides and covers himself up.
Harry Potter never thought he was going to be like this. Never, never, not in a million years, did he ever think that he was going to be the one locked up. Never thought that they were going to get him. It just wasn't built into his consciousness. Never once, since he'd first become aware of the fact that he was going to have to be the one to save the world, did he ever consider the possibility
that he would fail.
"Whatever Bella wants, Bella gets…" she screech-sings, taunting the three of them through the bars of their cell, but when she stops getting a response, she quickly grows bored and moves on to the next one. Harry isn't sure who is in the next cell, but the mournful moans and screams of 'no please don't, stop, AHHHHHHHH!' lead him to believe that it is a newly-arrived pretty young woman who cannot handle her Cruciatus.
There is not so very much to do here, he notices, as the days blend together so much so that he no longer has any idea if time is passing at all. He thinks to himself there are others here, and it becomes a game to try to guess who is in the surrounding cells and to make up the stories of how they got here.
Harry knows how he got here, that is for certain, but it is a story he rarely thinks about anymore. It is too depressing and too painful, especially considering his history with the Dark Lord. He always used to come out on top, but not this time, nope. Not this time.
So instead he is forced to just sit there, watching as Neville wrings his hands raw trying to 'out damn spot!' the crimson Gryffindor blood on his hands.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of Harry's mind, he misses Ginny. He misses her so very, very much. That deep dark recess even causes him to cry himself to sleep, when he allows it to take the forefront of his attention. Those are the bad nights, the nights where his screams drown out everyone else's, and Bellatrix comes by to cackle and taunt like a caricature of a human being rather than the living, breathing she-devil that she actually is.
Neville did away with Ginny, and that is why he slips further and further away from reality. Harry doesn't blame him, exactly, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. But it's something that no one talks about. They don't allow themselves, never, ever, ever. In fact, they never talk about the war and their failings. It just doesn't seem right, not since they are reminded of it practically every second anyway.
The gaunt, once-quite-handsome, true Gryffindor, ghost of Neville sits there, muttering to himself in the corner, always. "Crucify him, crucify him, crucify, crucify, crucify him." He repeats the singular phrase over and over again, until Harry is certain that if he hasn't already lost it, he is going to very, very soon.
"Boil that dust speck, boil that dust speck, rah, rah, rah, rah, beezlenut oil." Luna's voice wafts over from the other corner, and with a wry smile, Harry realizes that Luna is, in fact, the sanest of them all.
---
"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away," Luna sings in a ghostly whisper. "I do so love the Beatles." She then gets up and begins to dance in the middle of the cell, twirling and twirling in circles. She pulls Harry to his feet and forces him to dance along with her. "Come now, Harry, it isn't so bad."
Her optimism makes him want to vomit, but he manages to contain himself. That might be because he hasn't eaten in days - if it has been days, he doesn't know - and he doesn't have anything to empty his stomach of. "Luna," he says, "loony, loony, Luna Lovegood."
She just grins at him and continues to twirl. And then suddenly, "Quiero enseñarle español."
He gapes at her like a goldfish in a bowl and steals a glance back at Neville. The boy hasn't moved, he never moves, he just will not move, and then looks back at the blonde thing he cannot figure out for the life of him. To him, it sounds almost like gibberish or gobbledygook, except those are real languages, and this cannot be.
"I want to teach you Spanish," she repeats, in a language that Harry actually can understand. "Would that be all right with you?"
Harry sits down in the middle of the cell, falls back to floor and stares up at the ceiling. "Yes, I think that would be all right."
"Perfecto!" she exclaims and claps her hands.
Perhaps this is some alternate universe, he thinks, raising his hand in the air and staring at it for several long moments. His fingernails could use a cutting.
---
There are some nights when Harry lays his head in Luna's lap. She idly strokes his hair and tells him stories of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, Snozzberries, Star-Bellied Sneetches, and the Whos down in Whoville loved Christmas a lot, but the Grinch who lived just north of Whoville did not, and Harry decides that this is what having a mother must be like. He often asks Luna about her mother, but she declines to tell him. He doesn't know why that is because they don't exactly have hundreds of other things to talk about, but he respects that she isn't interested in the subject and moves on to something else.
"Your eyes are very verdant," she says to him, as if this is suddenly some other world again and nothing is so important as the adjectival value of his ocular region.
Neville's eyes tell an entirely different story, Harry knows because Luna often comments on that as well. I KILLED HER, HARRY, they say in big, mournful, terrified letters. Harry often wants to add 'but you had to' but somehow, he just cannot bring himself to. Perhaps it is because he doesn't actually believe it. He doesn't really know what he believes anymore, though, so his reasoning is faulty.
Somehow, though, Harry also knows that it will be Neville who saves them. He can tell that somehow, someday, sometime soon, Neville will snap on that hideous, kinky witch and save he and Luna from whatever horrible thing is to follow their stay in Azkaban.
And yet, even when it happens, Harry is surprised.
Day in and day out, Neville sits muttering to himself in the corner of their cell, and then suddenly, today, "OUT DAMN SPOT!" he shrieks,
and the madness that has been threatening to wholly overtake him erupts like so many destroyed potions over the years as pure and unbridled rage. How he manages to do it, Harry will never know, but Neville's rage is so apoplectic that when he punches the solid stone wall, his fist actually cracks the supposed impenetrable fortress.
"WHERE ARE YOU, YOU FOUL WHORE?" he shouts through the bars, as Luna and Harry sit nearby just watching. "WHERE ARE YOU?"
Harry looks at Luna, who grins back at him, as if she already knows that something amazing is about to happen. He slowly smiles back at her, a subtle upward curving of his lips, baring teeth as sharp as razorblades - a razorblade smile, he has - and then crawls over to her side of the cell to watch the show.
It doesn't take long for Bellatrix to get there. Neville stands at the bars to meet her, practically snarling with rage. It is something that Harry has never in his life seen before - he supposes the battle in the Department of Mysteries was just a warm up for this boy, no, this man Neville.
She grins, wide and toothy, vile and hideous. "Is ickle Neville finally weady for a widdle Kiss?" she teases. For a moment, Harry almost feels sorry for her. Obviously, she has absolutely no idea how horrible her death is about to be. "Time to join your parents, ickle Neville-kins!"
"Open the gates and seize the day," offers Luna, ethereally.
"I'll kill you for what you did to my parents," says Neville, and it is the most clear, calm, and concise thing he has ever said, at least since they came here. And then calmly, collectedly, Neville manages to strike with the precision of an adder. His fingers clasp around the witch's robes and pull her tight up against the bars. "I - will - kill - you."
Those murky pool eyes widen, and is that fear for a brief second? It must be. Neville steals her wand and opens the door to the cell. Then, while the others sit idly by, talking of shoes and ships and ceiling wax, Neville kills Bellatrix Lestrange in cold blood and with no regret. Luna comments on Harry's eyes, and Harry remarks back that the weather outside is frightful, he can feel it in his old, old bones.
Neville peers down at the body and frowns.
---
"I have never been on an airplane," says Luna.
"Neither have I," Harry comments.
"Nor I." Neville's eyes constantly return to the scene of the crime, though the body has long since been disposed of. Not a one of them can forget the look of sheer gratitude expressed wordlessly by the nameless, faceless Death Eater person when he was sent to investigate the disturbance. They all know that it is the very reason that their cell door has mysteriously remained unlocked now, for going on five days/weeks/months/minutes. How long has it really been? Time still passes indiscriminately.
"Well, that settles it then," she whispers. "And I know where we shall go."
The three link arms, a new Trio, a strange and wonderful, beautiful Trio, Harry thinks, and they rush-dance out. Luna sings, "Ding, dong, the witch is dead!" and they skip, skip, skip down the halls of the prison, wassailing among the leaves so green and verdant as Harry's lush eyes.
Perhaps there are others here, but none of them notice as they go merrily along. All they can think of is leaving this place, all they really want is to leave this place behind and forget that they were ever there to begin with. Where they are going, Harry cannot say, but he doesn't care, as he can think of nothing but the looming horizon. So it will be an adventure for all of them, but it is the kind of adventure they feel they are meant to have.
---
Harry doesn't know where Luna found the knee-high stockings with the elephants and giraff--jirafas on them. En español, he has to remind himself. If they are really to be free, he must embrace
la lengua so that they may blend in as inconspicuously as possible. Y, español es tan hermoso de todos modos.
Luna smiles at he and Neville and says, in her voice still light as a feather, "Bienvenidos a México, mis amigos."
Harry says nothing, but Neville, finally and intensely, looks around out at the desert that stretches before them and smiles. "Freedom, Harry, this is… this is freedom." This man Neville, this grown-up savior Neville knows. He knows, and Harry and Luna grin like fools.
"Luna?" he then continues, looking pensive, "do you suppose they'll forgive me? Do you think they'll forgive what I have done, forgive what I've become?"
"Oh yes," she replies airily. "Your parents will forgive you. And when you meet with them again someday, I expect they will tell you first thing!"
"En español ahora," Harry says mischievously, before laughing, laughing, laughing at her. He giggles madly, and suddenly they are all laughing. Porque este es la libertad, he thinks. This is freedom.
-----
the time has come, the walrus said - Lewis Carroll, Alice In Wonderland
whatever Bella wants, Bella gets… - Jerry Ross and Richard Adler, Damn Yankees
out damn spot - William Shakespeare, Macbeth
crucify him, crucify him, crucify, crucify, crucify him - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Jesus Christ Superstar
boil that dust speck… beezlenut oil - Dr. Seuss, Horton Hears a Who
yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away - The Beatles, Yesterday
snozzberries - Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
star-bellied sneetches - Dr. Seuss, The Sneetches and Other Stories
and the Whos… North of Whoville did not - Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas
open the gates and seize the day - Alan Menken and Jack Feldman, Newsies
shoes and ships and ceiling wax - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
the weather outside is frightful - Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne, Let It Snow
ding dong the witch is dead - Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg, from The Wizard of Oz