1,159CHAPTER 4: A Man of Wealth and Taste (Part 3)
The words on the parchment were beginning to drip into each other, melting and moulding themselves into an unreadable mess. His eyes were drifting, his vision turning blurry, and though he was still going through the lines in the parchment, he wasn't reading any more. With a groan, he leaned back against the couch, craning his neck until he was staring at the ceiling. The parchment was ripped out of his hands, its snap echoing across the entire living room, and even though Pansy hadn't huffed or scoffed, Harry could tell she was still angry at him.
"It's not as easy as you make it seem, you know? This is NEWT-level stuff."
"You don't see me complaining," Pansy reminded him stiffly.
"Yeah, because you've been taking Arithmancy for three years now."
"If Dumbledore gave you this, it's because he thought you could handle it."
"Dumbledore didn't give this to me. It was the other one."
"Aberforth?"
"Yeah."
"Isn't he Dumbledore's brother?"
"Oh, that's not what you meant."
She rolled her eyes at him. Pansy was the type of girl that always had that one look on her face. The one that told you she would hit you if you just breathed the wrong way, and having been around magic all her life meant that she rarely used her hands for it. Most of the time she wouldn't, that hateful glint in her eye was just something she was born with, like that big, weird, most likely cancer-filled mole Blaise had on the back of his neck. Harry wasn't too sure of that now. But he hadn't gone through hell and back just to fail at some stupid Arithmancy test Aberforth was forcing on him.
"Can't you just read through it and give me a summary? Maybe reword it so that someone under the age of a hundred can understand."
"I'm supposed to be helping, remember? Not doing the entire work for you."
"This is helping me," Harry pushed. "If I don't understand this stuff, Aberforth will keep stalling and I won't get anything done at Grimmauld."
"Then pull yourself together and read the stupid parchment," Pansy snapped at him. "I gave you my Arithmancy books, read those if you don't understand."
"I'm here because you told me you would help."
"With words or specific concepts, not with the whole thing. You're the one learning all this stuff, it's not on me to babysit you."
Pansy turned away from him, and Harry wanted to sigh with frustration. He'd never been great with women, or just people in general, even during those months with Susan it was hard for him to reach out in the way he knew she wanted. Logically, he knew she would appreciate something to show his support. A touch, an arm around her shoulders, anything, but despite knowing it he still couldn't bring himself to do it.
"I tried asking, you know I did. But it's too big of a risk, your grandfather said so himself."
"This isn't about that," she scoffed.
Of course, it was, but out of self-preservation, Harry didn't say it out loud. The truth was, as much as Pansy wanted to join his sessions with the Dumbledores, Harry knew Bedivere wouldn't allow it before he even asked him. Something was going on between Dumbledore and Bedivere, it had become apparent once he noticed both men trying to covertly ask him about the other. A cold war between the two people Scrimgeour relied on the most, and one he was stuck in the middle. Involving Pansy in the lessons was too big of a risk for both of them, not even Hermione managed to convince Dumbledore to be involved, and she had an actual relationship with the Order. Even if Pansy knew the rationale behind it, Harry doubted she'd be pleased or willing to let it go.
"I'm taking notes, trying to catch everything Dumbledore and Aberforth are saying. Just because you can't be there doesn't mean I'm shutting you out from it."
"I know," she said, the heat from her voice dissipating as she lost the stiffness in her spine. "I know that, and I don't mean to be ungrateful."
"I'm sure you don't."
The words escaped from his mind before he could block them, and Pansy turned back to him with a glare.
"But it's hard sometimes," she continued. "I've been working my whole life for an opportunity like this. To be tutored by Dumbledore himself, and not just him, but his brother as well. I've taken every class I took, aced every assignment, every exam. I'm the one who's actually taking Arithmancy and enjoys the subject, but instead of being able to go with you, I'm stuck here. And then, you come back from these lessons, these once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that I would kill for and all you do is complain about it. And I understand why, but it still…"
"It still seems unfair," Harry finished for her, and she nodded. "I know what you mean, trust me, and if it were up to me, you'd be the one taking these classes."
"No, I understand why it has to be you-"
"Yeah, I know, but it's still a waste. Politics and bullshit aside, you're the one who's actually qualified for these lessons. It would be faster, and it would help me more if you were the one taking them rather than the other way around, but at least for the moment, this is the best we can do. It may not be first-hand like you wanted, but you're still learning this, and maybe, once I have a stronger hold at Grimmauld, I could get you involved too. Maybe even Theo, if Dumbledore is feeling generous. But first I have to make progress with this, alright?"
She looked at him, a little longer than she usually would, before letting out a large sigh and throwing the parchment back at his face. "I'll get my books."
Over the next few hours, they went through Aberforth's reading. Pansy struggled to keep her patience in check, often devolving into mumblings of how daft he was any time he asked her a question. He had to hop between her Arithmancy books, trying to connect and understand all the basics involved until he was able to rewrite Aberforth's parchment into something that a normal fifteen-year-old could understand. The final test would be handing it over to Theo and seeing if he could make sense of it.
By the time they were done, it was nearly midnight, but just as he was packing his stuff and readying to apparate back to Blackstone, Bedivere knocked softly on the door. He was wearing his Unspeakable robes, looking a little worse for wear than he usually did. The war was starting to get to everyone, and even Bedivere, with his almost ethereal presence, didn't seem immune to it. Harry had always accepted there was something wrong with himself, after the life he'd had, it was to be expected of it, but having the highest point of his life being the start of a war only cemented that in his mind.
"Harry, Pansy, we were hoping you could join us for a moment or two."
"Posse meeting?" Harry asked lightly.
"Should we call Theo?"
"No," Bedivere shook his head. "You two can brief him tomorrow morning."
They followed Bedivere through the manor and down the stairs that led to the dungeons where they had kept Rookwood. The place was still mostly the same, only the row of cells that had been empty a few months back were now filled with a few cloaked figures they'd managed to capture and sneak away without the DMLE noticing. All snatchers, unfortunately, Voldemort's pantheon had been determined lately, proving why they had been chosen above the others. The snatchers were all on the ground, unconscious, Harry assumed, as Bedivere wasn't too keen on being possibly overheard whenever they had their meetings. They walked past them, neither Parkinson offering them a glance as they made their way to the adjacent room, where the others were already waiting for them.
Rookwood stood alone in the corner, his face a mask of stone, as always. Yaxley was taking the piss out of Kieran, instigating an argument just to pass the time, something Harry always found amusing. And though normally he would join in, instead he went to greet the other person in the group.
"Marcus."
"Potter," the Flint boy grinned. "Good showing with Scrimgeour the other day. Even Dumbledore seemed impressed."
"I'm surprised he hasn't got used to it," he laughed. "How's Michael doing?"
"Annoyingly cheery," Marcus huffed. "That boy wouldn't shut up even if he had his mouth vanished."
"Let's make sure he stays that way."
"He's made it this far."
Bedivere cleared his throat, raising his wand and conjuring a mass of blue light. It began forming in the air, shifting and turning until it became an exact copy of the map in Parkinson Cottage. A three-dimensional model of Great Britain, with six masses shining brighter than the rest of the map. Two in the North Sea, one at Hogwarts, one at London, one at Parkinson Palace, and one at Blackstone.
"Pansy, your assessment about the Horcrux was indeed correct. It'll take us a while to determine which vault it's being held in, but given how it was Lucius who was given possession of the Dark Lord's diary, it would make sense for the vault to be in the vault of another inner circle Death Eater."
"Do we know the identity of everyone?"
Yaxley snorted. "We don't even know the identity of half."
"We'll start with the ones we know and hope we get lucky. With the Dark Lord as he is right now, it's dangerous to unnecessarily incur his wrath."
"We're all in his crosshairs regardless," Rookwood said darkly.
"Dumbledore is having all of us review the Death Eater files from the last war," Marcus spoke up. "I could bring a copy, make a list of all the potential and accused Death Eaters in the country."
"Malfoy was one of the accused. Maybe we'll find the other one there as well," Yaxley shrugged.
"Well over a third of the country was accused back in the day," Rookwood said. "Not even the Unspeakables have a reliable list of potential Death Eaters."
"What about your contacts with the Knights?" Pansy asked Yaxley.
"Burned, little girl. And before you think it, I won't be going back there to snoop."
"We'll cross that bridge if we get to it," Bedivere spoke, his tone calm yet final.
"I'm going to Diagon Alley tomorrow with Pansy and Theo," Harry announced. "We could stop by Gringotts, maybe try to use a bit of the pull I have to get the goblins to help."
Yaxley snorted. "It doesn't work that way, kid."
"Goblins have no interest in fame or human affairs," Bedivere explained. "Even if you were their most valuable client, they would never break their confidentiality agreements and reveal anything about their other customers. Even the Minister doesn't have that kind of power."
"What you should be focusing on is finding the Horcrux at that shiny manor you're sleeping in," Rookwood said coldly.
"I'm doing everything I can, but I don't have a lot of time. The house is too large, there are a million stupid trinkets in every room, and Longbottom hasn't even left his bedroom since we came back from Hogwarts. I need more time, more people to help me search, hell, I need something to bring Longbottom out of his room and distract both him and his grandmother."
"It's not worth it," Kieran said. "A house like that, the elves are always watching. They could even be protecting the Horcrux, moving it around whenever you're looking for it."
"I can take control of the elves," Harry insisted.
"Augusta won't agree to that," Pansy spoke.
"I'll make her agree."
"You'll fail," Yaxley said. "Just because Augusta agreed to her demands doesn't mean she'll cede all control. The elves are so much more valuable to her than her pride, they have enough power to help you take over the entire House. Forcing her into that situation will only make her lash out quicker and more violently."
"There's still a strong chance Longbottom might bring the Horcrux with him back to Hogwarts when he returns at the end of the summer. It's best to wait before doing anything rash, you two and Theo will have all year to handle both of those Horcruxes."
"So we can't retrieve the Horcrux at Gringotts. We can't sneak into Azkaban for the ring or the snake. The one Longbottom has is too well-guarded, and we can't access Hogwarts until the next term starts. What are we supposed to do until then?" Marcus asked.
"We play the cards we hold," Bedivere waved his wand in a sideways arch, and the lights making the map began moving together, forming a large globe in the centre of the room as it began growing brighter and brighter until it exploded and revealed a locket floating mid-air. "The Dark Lord already knows about us. He knows we're hunting his Horcruxes. There's no reason to hide it now."
"You want to destroy it?" Harry asked.
"As soon as possible," Bedivere nodded. "Destroying another piece of his soul will weaken the Dark Lord. It's exactly what we need to do now."
"You do remember what it takes, don't you?" Yaxley said, almost derisively. "It's not just about blowing the locket into pieces."
"It needs to possess someone, we're aware."
"There are nearly a dozen snatchers in the other room," Harry shrugged. "One of them will do."
"There's a reason why that diary didn't possess the Weasley girl," Rookwood reminded him. "It won't possess just anyone. The Horcrux looks for a worthy host, it won't weaken itself unless the risk is worth the reward."
"Yeah, none of these muppets will cut it," Yaxley said, a sardonic smile on his face.
"If Potter was the one the diary chose, what kind of person would it take to appease the locket?" Pansy asked.
"No one so extraordinary," Rookwood said. "A witch or wizard well above average in intelligence, ability, or power, but not near the levels of Potter. There should be well over fifteen thousand candidates in the country alone."
"Some high-level Ministry chump ought to do it. I could go and try to find one if you like," Yaxley said.
"No!" Harry yelled out, uncaring that he was raising his voice. "We're not picking out people who aren't involved in this war."
"Everyone is involved in this war, kid."
"Not like that. Not unless I say so."
"The priority is destroying the Horcrux," Rookwood snarled. "All those people you're protecting. They won't matter in the grand scheme of things. They're disposable."
"If we're going to start using disposable people, then let's start with you."
Yaxley barked out a laugh. Rookwood's eyes darkened with rage, his hand already twitching over his holster. Aurora's name was at the tip of Harry's lips before Bedivere stepped in between them.
"Picking out someone at random like that is idiotic, we don't need that type of attention. Corban, Augustus, make a list of people the Horcrux would attempt to possess. Someone whose absence can be excused and wouldn't make any waves, preferably someone deserving of this fate."
"Yes, sir," Rookwood gritted out, giving one last hateful look to Harry before storming off.
Bedivere didn't keep them there for longer, and soon enough, he was saying his goodbyes to Marcus and Yaxley. But as everyone began stepping out of the room, Bedivere called out to him. "Harry, a moment, if you will."
"Anything I can help you with, sir?" He asked calmly.
"Nonsense," Bedivere waved him off, inviting him to take a seat, but Harry politely refused. "I wanted to ask you about your wand. Have you made any progress?"
"I'm working on it. The one I have is enough, for now anyway."
"It's important to make sure you're back in shape. I could help if you'd like. I don't have much spare time, but I can have a few Unspeakables try their hands at it. We'd need a feather from the bird, of course, and a piece of your wand, but it would be well worth it."
Harry smiled. "I appreciate the offer, but don't worry, sir. I know how busy the Unspeakables are nowadays."
"Not busy enough we couldn't lend a hand. Trust me when I say, the Unspeakables know how important it is to make sure you're ready for the coming war. Even with the Horcruxes gone, you'll need your own wand if you want to finish the job."
Bedivere was pushing, there was something tense about him despite how calm he appeared to be. It was funny to Harry that he'd had almost the same conversation with Dumbledore just a few days ago. But even if they were really trying to help, he was well aware of the value those feathers held.
"Like Rookwood said, destroying the Horcruxes is the priority. Let me worry about my wand."
Harry had never come to Diagon Alley this early in the summer - not in this lifetime, at least. In the past, it had only been after he had got his book list for the upcoming year that he finally decided to make the trip back into the Wizarding World. He'd buy his books, get everything he needed, and leave as soon as he could. There was no aimlessly walking around or wandering into all the shops in the street just to see if he found something worth buying. He was quick, efficient, and left as soon as he had everything in his bags. Today, though, he had no list. There was no rush, nothing to get done, his only reason for being there was to pass the time with his friends.
He was the last to arrive at the Leaky Cauldron, Blaise and Theo already having finished their second butterbeer by the time he crossed the door. And as soon as he stepped inside the room, the crowd all swarmed him. Even after his last weekends at Hogsmeade and that scene at the platform, Harry hadn't gotten used to the amount of attention. Everywhere he walked, if there was a witch or wizard less than half a mile away, he would get noticed. He took what he learned from those around him - his other father, his other self, Theo, Blaise, and even a bit of Draco's weirdly compelling cockiness - and did his best to act like them.
His distaste for these people constantly clashed with how he had wanted this from the start, ever since he watched the power of Longbottom's fame during their fourth year. To be known by people all over the world, revered and venerated and respected, it was everything he had ever wanted. He still remembered how much he hated Longbottom back then, how the coward shied away from the praise and tried to escape from the cameras. He had always thought it to be stupid, self-righteous, as if Longbottom believed himself above that. All those nights he had dreamt of being respected like that, and now he had it. Now, Longbottom could be a bum in the street compared to him, and he would not waste it. Not like the moron did.
So he put up with it. Put up with them, and realised that if he just spent a few minutes dancing to their song, stroking their ego, they would leave him alone as soon as he asked. Daphne looked practically hungry whenever he handled the crowds, Draco too in an eerily similar fashion, but the others had just gotten exasperated about it by this point. By the time he made it to the table, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were trying to ignore the gaping from the entire pub while Draco and Daphne preened in their seats, looking like some sort of wild animal trying to captivate a potential mate.
They stayed there for over an hour, eating and drinking as they pleased and when Harry asked for the check, Tom, the barkeep, merely gave a gracious smile and told them it was on the house. As they all started clearing out of the pub, Harry shook the man's hand and channelled his father's charm as much as he could as he thanked him.
His reception in Diagon Alley wasn't any different from the one he received at the Leaky Cauldron. People thanked him as he walked by, pushing through as they tried to get an autograph or share a few words with him. Out in the open, it was harder to handle the amount of people, but he did it as best as he could while keeping up with the others. The group made their way as slowly as they could, window shopping as they discussed what store they should go to at first. But with Pansy wanting to go to Flourish and Blotts, Theo and Draco wanting to see the new broom models, Blaise whining about needing a haircut, and Harry dealing with the crowd, Daphne abruptly cut through the conversation as she grabbed Pansy's arm.
"We're going to Madam Malkin's. We'll see you boys later."
And before anyone could complain, even Pansy, Daphne pulled them through the door to the shop and disappeared into the mass of people. And as the others stared at where the girls disappeared, Harry was more concerned with how Madam Malkin gazed out the window, looking directly at him.
The girls' absence gave the Quidditch maniacs the majority, and since they promised Blaise they'd go to Madam Snelling's after they were done, Harry had no choice but to follow the group into Quality Quidditch Supplies.
"I swear, mate, Daphne gets fitter and fitter with every bloody day," Draco suddenly said.
"Oh, Merlin, I thought I was going mad," Blaise gushed. "That woman cannot be denied, I swear."
"Daphne's pretty fit, I'll give you that, but there are better birds out there," Theo said.
"Like the Weasley girl?" Draco sniffed.
"Oi, Potter's gotten pretty close to her recently," Blaise smirked. "He might be willing to help you out with her. Put in the good word."
"Oh, no, no, no," Harry shook his head. "We're not doing this girl shit again. I thought we were done with that after last year."
"Done?" Blaise laughed out. "We never even started, mate."
"Yeah, all that scheming and violence made us ignore the true beauties of life," Draco drawled.
"Last year alone I had Davis drugging my food, Granger using Skeeter to spy on me, Augusta Longbottom help in my kidnapping, and Daphne being… Daphne. I think that's enough girl trouble for me."
"You only say that because you actually got to sleep with Daphne," Theo nodded sagely.
"Having the Bones girl around also seemed to do you some good," Blaise added.
"Even before the fame and glory, you still couldn't leave any for the rest of us," Draco finished.
Harry turned to glare at him. "That's because I don't base my entire existence around them. You should try that instead of drooling all over yourself every time a short girl with a perky arse walks past you."
Draco shoved him against the wall, only for Harry to pull out his wand and launch a stinging hex at him. "Oi, that's not fair! I can't use my wand yet!" Draco shouted, and Harry smirked as he chased him out of the store with more hexes, while Blaise and Theo laughed.
They headed around a few of the shops before finally joining Blaise as he got his hair fixed. Once Theo and Draco had resupplied their stock from the joke shop, Blaise had bought the new cage for his owl, and they all finished their ice creams, they headed back to Madam Malkin's shop where the girls were still trying on new robes. They were going for more formal fits, more elegant and tighter around the curves of their body. Harry wasn't the only one who couldn't help but gaze appreciatively at both girls. But it was Daphne who turned back to him and gave him an impish grin.
He had never been more eager for the day to end.
Theo smirked and nudged his shoulder. "Oh, trust me, mate, your girl trouble is only just starting."
"Mister Potter," Madam Malkin's voice from behind managed to startle the four boys. Harry heard Daphne giggle in the background, and he could almost feel Pansy's smile as well. "So wonderful to have you at my shop."
"Thank you," he said politely.
"I was wondering if I could have a word with you."
"Oh, don't worry, Madam Malkin's. I'm all set with my robes at the moment. I'll come back next month."
She smiled at him, and it almost felt predatory. "Oh, don't worry, it's not about that. Quite the opposite, actually." She nodded back to her office. "Why don't you join me for a moment? I think you'd be quite interested in what I have to say."
Harry turned to the others, who merely shrugged, before he gave a curt nod. And as he followed the woman into her office, his hand never hovered far from his holster.
The Entrance Hall of the manor was empty by the time they all stepped out of the green flames. As pristine and expensive as it was cold, but none of them seemed bothered by it. They had all grown up in places like this, palaces and large estates, all devoid of any sort of warmth or familiarity. This could have been the hall of any rich family, and no one would have known which one from plain sight. The essence of the people who lived in it lay more in the nuances of the place, the things the owners did without even being aware of it. Their preferences and personality bled into the carpet, sanitized to the point where no one could see the stain, but the people who had cleaned it knew it was there.
"So this is Longbottom Manor," Draco whistled. "I suppose it's adequate enough, for a family of this stature, anyway."
"Is that your way of saying it's bigger than Malfoy Manor?" Daphne arched her eyebrow.
"It's around the same size, I'll give it that."
"What do we do with our shoes?" Theo asked. "Is there some place where we can leave them or…"
"Nah," Harry waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Worst case scenario, the elves will take care of the mud."
He gave them a tour of the house, showing them through the dozens of rooms and feeling a surge of pride as they all seemed thoroughly impressed. He hadn't built this, it wasn't his yet, not on paper. To everyone else, he was nothing more than a ward staying at the house because of an old lady's kindness, but he knew the truth. As long as he had Augusta in check, this was his manor. All the furniture, every priceless piece of jewellery and every Longbottom family antique. From the ballroom to the master bedroom, and from the stables to the Quidditch pitch, it all belonged to him now. He was the master of the state now, and he'd taken it with a cold ruthlessness befitting the house itself.
"Are you finally going to tell us what Madam Malkin wanted with you?" Pansy asked him as the rest of the group split up to explore the grounds.
"She just had an offer for me. Something she thought would pique my interest."
"And did it?"
"You'll find out soon enough," she rolled her eyes at him but stayed close by. "It was something I needed, a solution to a problem I was having trouble fully figuring out. It even gave me a few ideas about what else I could do."
Pansy scoffed.
"I'll even make it worth your while if you drop that glare from your face."
"First make it worth my while, then I'll decide if I still want to kick you in the balls."
Harry let out a laugh. "Just give me a few days, will you?"
They went all around the house, and after spending the rest of the afternoon playing Quidditch and flying across all over the Blackstone Estate, they finally headed back into the manor. Harry wasn't surprised to find Augusta at the door already waiting for them, Neville meekly by her side. He had spotted her during one of his flights nearly half an hour ago, and she hadn't moved a muscle since.
"She isn't going to… you know… kill us, is she?" Draco asked.
"At most, she'll kidnap us and snap our wands," Pansy said.
"Oh, don't you guys worry about a thing. Augusta Longbottom can be quite understanding once you give her a chance," Harry grinned.
The Slytherins all gave their polite greetings, thanking Augusta for hosting them in her home, even as she chose to ignore them. With a few nods and gestures, Harry instructed them to all go inside and wait for him there. They were all nosy gits, but went inside anyway. Augusta still had a reputation, after all, strong enough to make their self-preservation instincts kick in.
"Good, you're home early," Harry said cheerfully, breaking the ice. "My friends are going to stay for dinner, so have the elves set up some extra seats, won't you? You can stay in your cupboard, the elves can bring you food there, or if you'd rather you could go out to eat, but your presence will not be required in the dining room tonight. Blaise and Draco are also staying over, but I'm sure you won't mind."
"Very well," Augusta said tightly.
"Oh, and while I have you here, I was looking to host a party next Friday. Something like your New Year's balls. I know, it's a little bit of a rush, but people will come once they hear my name. I'm sure you can handle all the preparations. Don't cheap out on anything, will you? Let's use some of that Longbottom money you so flaunt and put it in for a good cause. Who knows, this might just be the first step in getting your family out."
"I'll see that it's done."
"Aw, thank you," Harry reached forward and pinched her cheek. Augusta immediately backed away from his touch, glaring at him like never before. "You're so kind, as always, Augusta. I really do not know what would have been of me if you had never taken me in." He turned to Neville and smiled at the fuming boy. "You're welcome at dinner if you'd like. I'm sure the guys would love to catch up."
After pulling them in for a quick, strong hug, Harry put his hands in his pockets and began whistling that tune he'd grown to adore. And as he left to join his friends, the last thing he heard was how Augusta yelled at Neville loud enough for the entire manor to hear.
He didn't want to be here. Having Potter strutting around his own home, ordering his grandmother around in a way no one had ever talked to her before, all with that large, gloating smirk on his face was torture enough. If it had been up to him, he would have never left his bedroom. Starving himself was bad enough, but preferable to the alternative, and even as the stack of letters from his so-called friends kept growing, he would have gladly ignored their pleas to join them in these stupid lessons. He was adamant, unwilling to change his mind, at least until Dumbledore himself showed up at his door.
How the bastard managed to convince his grandmother to let him inside, Neville did not know, but he was there. For the first time in well over a year, Albus Dumbledore had shown up to him and asked him for a few minutes. That would have felt like a blessing only a few months ago, he had wanted nothing more than for Dumbledore to stop ignoring him and tossing him aside. But things had changed, and now that he got what he wanted, Neville realised he didn't want the old man there. Dumbledore had shown his true colours, he had shown that the only reason why he even entertained Neville for all those years was because he was useful to him.
The moment he wasn't, he forgot about him. Potter was his new fascination, the one who received everything Neville should have. It was he who stopped Voldemort from getting the stone. He who killed the basilisk and destroyed that blasted diary. He who watched his friends die and was forced to duel Voldemort on his own. But now none of that mattered, all because a bird chose someone else. He gave the world everything he had, took it all with stride, and all he got for it was humiliation, suffering, and death.
Everything he wanted to say to the man, all the vile and agony he wanted to spew got stuck in his throat. Dumbledore took his lack of a response as an invitation to come in, and Neville had been left standing, looking like an idiot, as his shadow laughed behind his back.
"Not so tough when you come face to face with the man, are you?" It mocked him. "Maybe you could call Potter over. He put the bitch in her place easily enough, maybe he can do the same with the old fool."
"What do you want?" Neville asked, not moving from the door. Not even closing it. Dumbledore had already stayed long enough.
"How are you doing?" Dumbledore asked calmly. "I know after what happened, it can't be easy-"
Neville snorted bitterly. "As if you care."
"I do ca-"
"Just say what you want to say so that you can leave already, yeah?" He snapped.
There was a glint in Dumbledore's eye. It was quick, didn't last long, and it looked unnatural on his face. "I know the Weasleys and Miss Granger have told you about the lessons I arranged with Harry. I was hoping you would be willing to participate in them-"
"Participate?" His hands were shaking, his throat burning. He felt a little bit of that anger that had been trapped inside him clawing its way out. "With what hand, old man? So that Potter can show me up any time he wants? And all for what? So that Potter can laugh at me? Mock me? Have my friends laugh with him?"
"I've asked Harry to be reasonable. He'll be patient. Your friends will be, too."
Neville scoffed. "I won't do it. You have your new golden boy, go order him around. He's the one that matters in the end, isn't he? Stop wasting your time with me."
Dumbledore took in a deep breath. "Things have changed, and I know it feels like I've abandoned you, but you are still very much in danger. Just because you are not the prophecy child doesn't mean Voldemort will forget what you did to him. It is because of your injury that you should be training, not the other way around." He stood up and looked down sadly at Neville. "I can't force you to take these lessons, and I do not wish to involve Augusta and have her force you. But these lessons are to make sure you're still safe. Please, remember that."
When Dumbledore left, he kept his word. No one came to bother him. His grandmother didn't shout or berate him, nor did Potter come to gloat. And in that silence, Dumbledore's words continued running through his mind. He was now a cripple. Useless with a wand or anything that had to do with using his hands. It had been over two months since he lost his arm, and he still hadn't gotten used to grabbing the fork with his left hand. He needed to practice. Even if he never got in a fight again, he needed to know he could at least aim his wand properly. So he gave in, arriving mid-session to the room where Potter had taken his friends there.
They all welcomed him warmly, Ron and Hermione sticking by his side at all times. And even though Potter brought him in without complaint, starting his lesson from the beginning, Neville wasn't fooled by his act like the others.
He was different now than when he had squirmed his way into Dumbledore's Army. Everything about how he taught had changed, all to fit this new persona he was propping up to the world. He used to be brash, callous, and cruel with his teaching. A young version of Snape, belittling and humiliating his students in a subject he was far superior at. Only now his jabs weren't as vicious, and instead of making people feel stupid or ashamed, they laughed and even looked more relaxed. Same words, even the mannerisms stayed the same, but it was all just different enough to the point where it didn't feel that way.
It was with the Weasleys he was most open, laughing and joking around whenever they messed up. He'd seen him like that with Ginny, how they used to hang out over the winter break at Grimmauld Place, but seeing him like that with Ron when just a few months ago he hated Potter as much as Neville made him sick. With Hermione, it was different. He was calmer, nicer, or at least he was trying to be, but Neville could see how quickly annoyance rose through Potter. Though at times, it was Hermione who looked the angriest. Not at Potter or anything he did, but at herself. Instead of seeing how patronizing Potter was being, how high and mighty he was while she struggled to even utter a spell, she blamed herself for not being able to cast it.
Neville wasn't as naive as them.
While the Weasleys had been allowed to have small duels with each other and even Hermione was given more advanced curses she could try to practice, Neville was removed from the rest of the group. He was put in his own corner of the room, left with nothing but a bullseye taped to a wall and the instruction of trying to land stinging hexes on it. Potter hadn't smirked or mocked him, but his actions spoke well enough on their own. Singling him out that way, pushing him aside and treating him like a child, it was all intentional. He loved the power he had. Loved showing just how above Neville he was now. He'd done so the moment he stepped into the house, and hadn't stopped since. He didn't even bother with the target practice.
"Yes, why even bother," the shadow smirked. "It's not like you were going to hit it anyway."
He ripped it off the wall with a snarl, crumpling the paper in his hand before letting it drop to the ground. The sound around him stopped, but Neville ignored that as he began storming out of the room.
"Longbottom, what the fuck?" Potter called out.
"Save it. I don't even know why I bothered to come down here."
"What's your problem."
"My problem is you," he yelled. "Target fucking practice. If you want to humiliate someone, get one of your Slytherin cronies. I'm not going to be your fucking clown for the day."
"You lost your bloody arm, Longbottom, you can't aim for shit! And you want to duel and cast curses around the room like that?"
His wand was in his hand before he could stop himself. Neville turned around and launched a powerful gust of wind that blasted Potter across the room. He hit the wall hard, before falling to the ground, and when he looked up to glare at Neville, there was blood trickling down from his mouth. And for a moment he saw the old Potter again. The one he remembered from those early months of his fifth year. The one who fought side by side with him against Voldemort at the Ministry. The hatred in his eyes was refreshing, but it was gone entirely too soon. And instead of pulling out his wand, he dusted himself off and scrubbed the blood off his lips.
"Go find yourself a new teacher, Neville. You're not welcome here any more."
His arm still burned sometimes. Like being stabbed by a million syringes, injecting liquid fire straight into his bloodstream. Some days, he would even swear the pain was worse than during that fateful night. He remembered it all. Every vivid detail of it. From the start, it felt like damnation. Like God himself had descended from the heavens and raised hell to earth. The beginnings of the Great Tribulation. And as the city fell and the flaming animals rampaged freely, it wasn't just the sinners who burned, but the saints too. His friends. His neighbours. His own family. They were blasted apart, tortured, and mutilated by the devils in the dark cloaks. But when the fighting stopped and the fire demons went away, he realised this wasn't God. It wasn't the Devil.
It was witches. Wizards. Those who had taken witchcraft and enslaved them all. Just as it was the figures in the black cloaks who controlled the fire demons and tortured them with the sticks, it was the figures in the blue cloaks that built this city back up in just a few days. It was the figures in the purple cloaks who kidnapped the living and made them forget. He watched them from below - hidden in the sewers, covered in shit and piss and barely clinging to his own life - and saw how they wielded their power, reshaping their world, their lives, their entire reality as if it was a nine to five job.
He tried to make people see. Tried to convince them once he returned to the surface. But they all called him crazy, and told him his injuries had made him hallucinate. Imagine things. They even put him in one of those mental hospitals for the demented and deranged. Popped him full of pills and told him that his wife never existed. That his daughter never existed. If only that had been true, he would give anything from having to relive what they did to them every single night. Even his father had come one day, a woman by his side, and they both pleaded that he calm down. That he go through the process and fix himself so that he could come back to them.
He didn't know who had it worse. His father, who didn't know he had lost his wife. Or the woman, who didn't even know she wasn't his mother.
He would have still been at that madhouse if it hadn't been for his benefactor. The mystery man who saw things as they really were, who had realised they were at war and needed every soldier. He was a man of wealth, enough to have him walk out through the front door and into a fancy, black car. They drove him back to his house and left without a word, but when he opened his door and walked inside the house, he found a computer waiting for him at the kitchen table. And written on a post-it note beside it read: Fear not, brother, you are not alone.
There were others like him. People who knew the truth. Who had seen everything and hadn't let themselves be brainwashed by these witches. They were an army. Countless. He chatted with them, and then he met them. They were soldiers. Veterans in the same war he lived through, and just like him, they all had their scars. It wasn't just in Great Britain, either. All over the globe, people were beginning to wake up. But it wasn't quick enough. Not for him. They were all still scared, terrified of the people in the cloaks. And the ones who weren't were weak, unable to do what was necessary.
They talked about ways of avoiding them. Of staying below the radar, hidden, claiming the witches were still out there, hunting down those that remained. Other bullshit reasons. They were scared to attack. Scared to start a war. They didn't realise the war had already ended, and they had lost. This wasn't about finding peace, it was about earning freedom, and if none of them had the balls to join him, he'd have to force their hand. He wasn't going to die on his knees. He wasn't going to forget what they did to his family.
So he started watching. He started walking through London, and he never stopped, and he began finding them. It was the people dressed in weird clothes, those who still wore old-fashioned robes and even sometimes had those goofy hats on their heads. He started trailing their steps, finding where they met, what they did, where they went. It wasn't easy, they were slippery fuckers, disappearing in the middle of the street or walking into a place he couldn't quite see and never coming back out. But he started taking notice, finding patterns, places where there would be more of them than there were of real people. And after weeks he found the place, the one where the most seemed to come and go from.
He scouted the dumpy street for weeks, trying to find the store or place where they entered, but he couldn't. It was hidden, there was some sort of magic there, and he could feel it. Something pushing him away, something making him go and trying to make him forget. Trying to make it all go away. But he could never forget. He told the others. Messaged them the location, but none of them would come. They wanted to avoid the place like the plague. To never go near that district again. They tried to convince him. Some of the guys whom he had grown close with had even begged him to stop. Everyone had turned their back to him. Everyone but his benefactor, who left him a second gift outside his door.
You know what you have to do.
He wore a large coat. It was bearable, despite the summer heat, but more importantly, it was necessary. He took the tube all the way across the city, and for the first time since that fateful night, he felt calm. His head was clear, his breathing steady. Even the constant aching in his left arm and chest was barely there. There was nothing inside him other than the sheer determination he felt as he used his pockets to hug the coat to himself.
The doors opened at his station and people began flooding out. He stayed hidden in the crowd, head held high, as he walked closer and closer to his destination. And as he started walking down Charing Cross Road, it didn't take long before he found them. A group of six, maybe more, men and women with a few kids trailing behind them. It was their funny clothes that gave them away, how they tried to pretend to be normal like the others but couldn't manage it. They weren't normal. The kids weren't normal. They were all filth. Demons. Monsters. And he was going to put them down.
He grabbed the handle, pulling out the long rifle he had wedged into his coat. There were screams beside him before he had even raised the barrel. The crowd dispersed around him, running away as fast as they could, but the witches barely managed to look up before his finger hit the trigger. A hail of bullets rained down on them, and even as the knock back of the gun pushed him back, he kept moving forward. The bullets ripped through their skin, shattering their bones and sending blood flying everywhere. The ones in the front fell first, shaking and screaming out in agony. He stepped over them, their bones cracking under his feet as he began aiming for the rest.
A pair of arms wrapped around him and tried to tackle him, but he stayed on his feet long enough to keep firing. By the time his knees hit the ground, and he was fully pinned down, the witches had dropped, but the screams hadn't stopped.
Thank you for reading! Hope you guys enjoyed this new chapter.
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