Fic: "What Remains?", for msmoocow
Title: What Remains?
Author: neko_chelle
Recipient: msmoocow
Rating: G
Character(s): Mostly Neville, with Seamus, Ron, Dean, Gran, and Great-Uncle Algie making appearances.
Summary: Neville Longbottom is a difficult name to leave behind.
Author's notes: For msmoocow, who wanted something post-HBP. I hope you enjoy it. Much thanks to my beta, for patiently putting up with me. :)
The title is pilfered from Ivanhoe: "What remains?" cried Ivanhoe; "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name."
What Remains?
***
All who pass through life leave traces of themselves behind. Names on dust-coated trophies or long-forgotten plaques. Names secretly carved on cornerstones or into the trunks of ancient trees. Names shouted beyond the horizon for all or none to hear. Names for awards, recognition, posterity, infamy.
Neville Longbottom is a difficult name to leave behind.
***
Silence. Then scratching. Then silence again.
"Oy, Ron," Seamus grumbled into his pillow. "Could you keep your rat quiet? Sounds like he'll be tunneling straight into the girls' dorm soon, the way he's going at it."
"S'not Scabbers," Ron mumbled back, defiant. "He's dead, remember? Hermione's bloody cat got to him..."
"You don't know that for certain yet," Dean's sleepy voice interrupted, perhaps with more whining than he'd intended.
Neville froze, pinning his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard. He'd be caught, flagged for disobedience as sure as the Howler Gran sent that morning. He strained to catch more of the conversation outside his bed curtains, but it sounded like the other third-years had chosen sleep instead.
Neville drew in a long breath and took up his pocketknife, edging himself towards the nearest post of his bed. With precision rivaling his attention in Herbology, he continued with his task, his silent attempt at rebellion, his name gouged forever in the hard wood of the baluster. In tiny block letters, NEVILLE.
The knife tip cut out haphazard shapes only partially resembling readable text. Each E he pressed into the wood tumbled out, leaving behind tiny pockmarks among the carefully slit lines. His name was nearly indistinguishable from the nervous chew-marks of Ron's pet rat.
This was wrong.
Before this moment, Neville Longbottom had never intentionally caused damage to property. He'd envied Fred and George and their fearlessness. They actually reveled in the danger of capture, in the anger of professors, and in the admiration of their peers.
And this morning, as a Howler transmitted Gran's amplified voice for the entire school to hear, Neville detested the attention. He bolted from the Great Hall, and yet...this prank would go unnoticed. He had no flair for it, no drama.
He closed the knife and shoved it beneath his pillow, all the while wondering why he nicked it from the greenhouse in the first place. If he were lucky--and he usually wasn't--then Professor Sprout wouldn't notice one missing blade.
It was still wrong. He rubbed his thumb against the scratches, desperate to remove them from the wood, but no matter how hard he pressed, the marks remained.
The sight of his unfinished name mocked him every evening before he slept and every morning when he rose. The marks loomed over him without purpose, without value, without meaning.
He was relieved when the house-elves finally discovered his only attempt at vandalism and mended the mistake without complaint.
***
September arrives without the frenzied rush of previous years. No last minute packing of his school trunk, no panic to find Trevor, and no swift visit to Madam Malkin's to get his schoolrobes lengthened. He finds the change of pace refreshing, though Gran still tries to keep to a set routine. She sees no need to alter her day to day plans despite the dangers of war.
"Little wonder you like Herbology, lad," Uncle Algie jokes, comparing his height with his grand-nephew's and chuckling. "Seeing as you've grown like a weed."
"Stop blushing, Neville. That's as close a compliment as you'll get out of him." Gran brushes a few stray strands of lint from Neville's shoulder. "Now, are you sure you wish to go?"
He nods. He's been absolutely sure of so few things in his seventeen years of life, but this errand is definitely one of them.
"I'd rather you Floo there, you know," says Gran. "Frank could never Apparate close enough in one go. Always had to take two or three hops."
"Augusta." Algie's eyebrows raise in warning.
Gran finds it quite unnerving to catch traces of her dead husband in the lined face of his younger brother. "Or," she continues calmly, not allowing her momentary lapse to faze her. "Use a Portkey."
Neville freezes as his grandmother continues to fuss over him. He reckons that this is how she expresses love. No long embraces or soft kisses on the cheek, just the dogged determination to keep up appearances.
As long as the youngest Longbottom has each hair in place and every pleat creased, the world will still look well upon the family. Quite a decent name, Longbottom, used to appear in the Prophet's society page fairly regularly. Those days have long since fled, but Gran still clings to it, a bit of normalcy in an upturned world.
"I...I think I can take care of myself, Gran. You don't need to fuss so."
"No one is meant to be at Hogwarts now that the school's closed. You will return home afterwards." From Gran, this isn't so much a question or a simple request. It's an order.
"Yes, Gran."
"Straight away."
"Yes. Straight away."
"And Neville?"
"Yes, Gran?"
"Stay safe."
***
Neville stands on schoolgrounds untended since summer, evidence of neglect clear to his learned gaze. Weeds have choked out much of the green, replacing the soft blanket of grass with wild, ragged shapes. He's used to the boisterous sound of student life, but today silence presses against his ears and upon the world.
He's not meant to be here.
It's wrong.
Hogwarts shuttered its doors after Dumbledore's funeral, after war scattered all the students into chaos. Some sided with the Ministry against the Death Eaters. Others, like Neville, joined underground resistance groups intended to fight the ruthlessness of You-Know-Who and the ineptness of the Ministry. Still others stepped into darkness, with no hope of escape.
It's still too soon to know whether he's joined with the winning side, but at least he knows it's the proper side.
White marble catches and reflects sunlight towards his eyes, the flash of it drawing his attention. He approaches the tomb slowly, reverently, unsure of his footing amid the bramble. A ripple on the surface of the lake distracts him for a moment, rushing him back to the funeral, when the merpeople sang their condolences in their eerie, other-worldly voices. His chest tightens, his memory of that day interlocked with the crush of his broken ribs, a reminder of the battle of Hogwarts.
Of the night Albus Dumbledore fell.
A thick net of greenery surrounds the crypt, the plants seemingly eager to reclaim the space. No ordinary ivy, this. It shares aspects of Devil's Snare and Creeping Crabgrass. A mutation called up by magic, by the immense energy still seeping from the body. The mesh seems decades in the making rather than months, and thorns jut out from tendrils. And from the blood-colored blossoms flows the subtle yet unmistakable stench of death.
He's definitely not meant to be here.
A spell lingers upon his lips, the tip of his wand aimed squarely on the tomb. Two brief words would spring it all aside, leaving the crypt scrubbed clean.
Sometimes magic made things much too easy.
He pockets his wand and wraps his fingers around the vegetation, tugging off the plant with his bare hands. The tendrils rasp against his palms and his fingertips, cutting swathes of red against white. He winces and grunts against the pain, anxious to finish what no one else dared start.
They all fought for his ideals, yet no one cared for his crypt?
Slim branches pile up at his feet as sweat beads on his face and the sides of his neck. Finally, his palms touch marble, the stone cool despite the warmth of the afternoon. It soothes his scrapes, numbs the sting. He finally uncovers the epitaph, each letter embossed deep in the marble surface, and unlike Neville's aborted attempt in third year, names in stone don't clear away as easily as names set in wood.
"Professor Albus Dumbledore," he reads softly, his shoulders suddenly hunched to duck imaginary jeering. Who dares invoke the name of the venerable headmaster? Longbottom? What's he done, other than nearly fail Potions? He's unworthy of dusting Dumbledore's portrait, let alone tending to his tomb!
"I-I'm sorry, sir." He flinches, disappointed that his first words to the headmaster are an apology. He straightens his shoulders and continues to address the ALBUS part of the tomb's inscription. "I hadn't thought about whether this place needed a good weeding or not. Everyone's been a bit busy. What with...things happening."
He tries to imagine the jovial voice, the crinkles about the eyes, the faint scent of sherbet lemon that permeated wherever Dumbledore walked. He tries to imagine Dumbledore like he imagines his parents, well and whole and conversing with him about mundane things like the weather and what they had for breakfast that morning.
Death and madness. Not much different to those left behind.
Everything abandoned apart from the names.
"We'd called it after you, you know. Our group." Hadn't Harry already mentioned that Dumbledore knew? Neville can't quite remember. "Still call it that. Sort of. I do, anyway. Sometimes." He toes the tumble of branches with the tip of his boot, attempting to make the stack a little neater.
"I don't know how I could've survived fifth year without Dumbledore's Army. Not sure how any of us will now. I'd figured you'd be here longer than you actually were."
He coughs, uncertain about his reasons for speaking with the dead. It seems more futile than speaking with the insane.
"Why'd you leave us?"
ALBUS, a silent presence etched in cold stone, gives no answer.
"Gran says I shouldn't leave flowers cos it'd be a sign that I'd been here, but..." His eyes flick to the tangled web of vegetation next to him. "I think I've made a hash of that already." He attempts a grin, then realizes his heart can't quite support it. "Sorry."
Another apology. He ought to be outlawed from making apologies.
His fingertips, still raw from the effort of clearing off wild growth, cautiously trace each letter of the headmaster's name. What if he felt it, wherever he was? What if the dead knew when the living remembered them?
What if that were the only thing the dead sensed in their void?
"I'll remember." Neville promises, his voice whisper-quiet. His memory may be faulty, but his word is as true as his name. One can always trust a Longbottom, as Grandad was fond of saying. "Everything you stood for, sir. This... this war, we'll win it. We've got to."
Names hold much weight in life, following all from birth to death, and even beyond. Change the name and change the man; Tom Riddle transforms into Lord Voldemort.
Neville is a Longbottom. He cannot change that aspect of his identity; he can only embrace it. He can mold its meaning into something significant, build upon what past generations contributed, leave behind much more than letters desperately etched in wood.
He will always stay a Longbottom, and he will always stay worthy of the name.
Author: neko_chelle
Recipient: msmoocow
Rating: G
Character(s): Mostly Neville, with Seamus, Ron, Dean, Gran, and Great-Uncle Algie making appearances.
Summary: Neville Longbottom is a difficult name to leave behind.
Author's notes: For msmoocow, who wanted something post-HBP. I hope you enjoy it. Much thanks to my beta, for patiently putting up with me. :)
The title is pilfered from Ivanhoe: "What remains?" cried Ivanhoe; "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name."
What Remains?
***
All who pass through life leave traces of themselves behind. Names on dust-coated trophies or long-forgotten plaques. Names secretly carved on cornerstones or into the trunks of ancient trees. Names shouted beyond the horizon for all or none to hear. Names for awards, recognition, posterity, infamy.
Neville Longbottom is a difficult name to leave behind.
***
Silence. Then scratching. Then silence again.
"Oy, Ron," Seamus grumbled into his pillow. "Could you keep your rat quiet? Sounds like he'll be tunneling straight into the girls' dorm soon, the way he's going at it."
"S'not Scabbers," Ron mumbled back, defiant. "He's dead, remember? Hermione's bloody cat got to him..."
"You don't know that for certain yet," Dean's sleepy voice interrupted, perhaps with more whining than he'd intended.
Neville froze, pinning his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down hard. He'd be caught, flagged for disobedience as sure as the Howler Gran sent that morning. He strained to catch more of the conversation outside his bed curtains, but it sounded like the other third-years had chosen sleep instead.
Neville drew in a long breath and took up his pocketknife, edging himself towards the nearest post of his bed. With precision rivaling his attention in Herbology, he continued with his task, his silent attempt at rebellion, his name gouged forever in the hard wood of the baluster. In tiny block letters, NEVILLE.
The knife tip cut out haphazard shapes only partially resembling readable text. Each E he pressed into the wood tumbled out, leaving behind tiny pockmarks among the carefully slit lines. His name was nearly indistinguishable from the nervous chew-marks of Ron's pet rat.
This was wrong.
Before this moment, Neville Longbottom had never intentionally caused damage to property. He'd envied Fred and George and their fearlessness. They actually reveled in the danger of capture, in the anger of professors, and in the admiration of their peers.
And this morning, as a Howler transmitted Gran's amplified voice for the entire school to hear, Neville detested the attention. He bolted from the Great Hall, and yet...this prank would go unnoticed. He had no flair for it, no drama.
He closed the knife and shoved it beneath his pillow, all the while wondering why he nicked it from the greenhouse in the first place. If he were lucky--and he usually wasn't--then Professor Sprout wouldn't notice one missing blade.
It was still wrong. He rubbed his thumb against the scratches, desperate to remove them from the wood, but no matter how hard he pressed, the marks remained.
The sight of his unfinished name mocked him every evening before he slept and every morning when he rose. The marks loomed over him without purpose, without value, without meaning.
He was relieved when the house-elves finally discovered his only attempt at vandalism and mended the mistake without complaint.
***
September arrives without the frenzied rush of previous years. No last minute packing of his school trunk, no panic to find Trevor, and no swift visit to Madam Malkin's to get his schoolrobes lengthened. He finds the change of pace refreshing, though Gran still tries to keep to a set routine. She sees no need to alter her day to day plans despite the dangers of war.
"Little wonder you like Herbology, lad," Uncle Algie jokes, comparing his height with his grand-nephew's and chuckling. "Seeing as you've grown like a weed."
"Stop blushing, Neville. That's as close a compliment as you'll get out of him." Gran brushes a few stray strands of lint from Neville's shoulder. "Now, are you sure you wish to go?"
He nods. He's been absolutely sure of so few things in his seventeen years of life, but this errand is definitely one of them.
"I'd rather you Floo there, you know," says Gran. "Frank could never Apparate close enough in one go. Always had to take two or three hops."
"Augusta." Algie's eyebrows raise in warning.
Gran finds it quite unnerving to catch traces of her dead husband in the lined face of his younger brother. "Or," she continues calmly, not allowing her momentary lapse to faze her. "Use a Portkey."
Neville freezes as his grandmother continues to fuss over him. He reckons that this is how she expresses love. No long embraces or soft kisses on the cheek, just the dogged determination to keep up appearances.
As long as the youngest Longbottom has each hair in place and every pleat creased, the world will still look well upon the family. Quite a decent name, Longbottom, used to appear in the Prophet's society page fairly regularly. Those days have long since fled, but Gran still clings to it, a bit of normalcy in an upturned world.
"I...I think I can take care of myself, Gran. You don't need to fuss so."
"No one is meant to be at Hogwarts now that the school's closed. You will return home afterwards." From Gran, this isn't so much a question or a simple request. It's an order.
"Yes, Gran."
"Straight away."
"Yes. Straight away."
"And Neville?"
"Yes, Gran?"
"Stay safe."
***
Neville stands on schoolgrounds untended since summer, evidence of neglect clear to his learned gaze. Weeds have choked out much of the green, replacing the soft blanket of grass with wild, ragged shapes. He's used to the boisterous sound of student life, but today silence presses against his ears and upon the world.
He's not meant to be here.
It's wrong.
Hogwarts shuttered its doors after Dumbledore's funeral, after war scattered all the students into chaos. Some sided with the Ministry against the Death Eaters. Others, like Neville, joined underground resistance groups intended to fight the ruthlessness of You-Know-Who and the ineptness of the Ministry. Still others stepped into darkness, with no hope of escape.
It's still too soon to know whether he's joined with the winning side, but at least he knows it's the proper side.
White marble catches and reflects sunlight towards his eyes, the flash of it drawing his attention. He approaches the tomb slowly, reverently, unsure of his footing amid the bramble. A ripple on the surface of the lake distracts him for a moment, rushing him back to the funeral, when the merpeople sang their condolences in their eerie, other-worldly voices. His chest tightens, his memory of that day interlocked with the crush of his broken ribs, a reminder of the battle of Hogwarts.
Of the night Albus Dumbledore fell.
A thick net of greenery surrounds the crypt, the plants seemingly eager to reclaim the space. No ordinary ivy, this. It shares aspects of Devil's Snare and Creeping Crabgrass. A mutation called up by magic, by the immense energy still seeping from the body. The mesh seems decades in the making rather than months, and thorns jut out from tendrils. And from the blood-colored blossoms flows the subtle yet unmistakable stench of death.
He's definitely not meant to be here.
A spell lingers upon his lips, the tip of his wand aimed squarely on the tomb. Two brief words would spring it all aside, leaving the crypt scrubbed clean.
Sometimes magic made things much too easy.
He pockets his wand and wraps his fingers around the vegetation, tugging off the plant with his bare hands. The tendrils rasp against his palms and his fingertips, cutting swathes of red against white. He winces and grunts against the pain, anxious to finish what no one else dared start.
They all fought for his ideals, yet no one cared for his crypt?
Slim branches pile up at his feet as sweat beads on his face and the sides of his neck. Finally, his palms touch marble, the stone cool despite the warmth of the afternoon. It soothes his scrapes, numbs the sting. He finally uncovers the epitaph, each letter embossed deep in the marble surface, and unlike Neville's aborted attempt in third year, names in stone don't clear away as easily as names set in wood.
"Professor Albus Dumbledore," he reads softly, his shoulders suddenly hunched to duck imaginary jeering. Who dares invoke the name of the venerable headmaster? Longbottom? What's he done, other than nearly fail Potions? He's unworthy of dusting Dumbledore's portrait, let alone tending to his tomb!
"I-I'm sorry, sir." He flinches, disappointed that his first words to the headmaster are an apology. He straightens his shoulders and continues to address the ALBUS part of the tomb's inscription. "I hadn't thought about whether this place needed a good weeding or not. Everyone's been a bit busy. What with...things happening."
He tries to imagine the jovial voice, the crinkles about the eyes, the faint scent of sherbet lemon that permeated wherever Dumbledore walked. He tries to imagine Dumbledore like he imagines his parents, well and whole and conversing with him about mundane things like the weather and what they had for breakfast that morning.
Death and madness. Not much different to those left behind.
Everything abandoned apart from the names.
"We'd called it after you, you know. Our group." Hadn't Harry already mentioned that Dumbledore knew? Neville can't quite remember. "Still call it that. Sort of. I do, anyway. Sometimes." He toes the tumble of branches with the tip of his boot, attempting to make the stack a little neater.
"I don't know how I could've survived fifth year without Dumbledore's Army. Not sure how any of us will now. I'd figured you'd be here longer than you actually were."
He coughs, uncertain about his reasons for speaking with the dead. It seems more futile than speaking with the insane.
"Why'd you leave us?"
ALBUS, a silent presence etched in cold stone, gives no answer.
"Gran says I shouldn't leave flowers cos it'd be a sign that I'd been here, but..." His eyes flick to the tangled web of vegetation next to him. "I think I've made a hash of that already." He attempts a grin, then realizes his heart can't quite support it. "Sorry."
Another apology. He ought to be outlawed from making apologies.
His fingertips, still raw from the effort of clearing off wild growth, cautiously trace each letter of the headmaster's name. What if he felt it, wherever he was? What if the dead knew when the living remembered them?
What if that were the only thing the dead sensed in their void?
"I'll remember." Neville promises, his voice whisper-quiet. His memory may be faulty, but his word is as true as his name. One can always trust a Longbottom, as Grandad was fond of saying. "Everything you stood for, sir. This... this war, we'll win it. We've got to."
Names hold much weight in life, following all from birth to death, and even beyond. Change the name and change the man; Tom Riddle transforms into Lord Voldemort.
Neville is a Longbottom. He cannot change that aspect of his identity; he can only embrace it. He can mold its meaning into something significant, build upon what past generations contributed, leave behind much more than letters desperately etched in wood.
He will always stay a Longbottom, and he will always stay worthy of the name.