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It had not been a great week. The Enforcement job wasn't the problem, at least he hoped it wasn't. It was a lot of hours, and with very little training it was hard to keep up with how things were done. From a purely practical standpoint he was even better trained than some of his colleagues - Frank had made sure of that - but things like protocol and procedure were almost always over his head. He did his best, though, and no one had any real complaints that he could tell, and he was at least earning money now. He'd even made a couple of friends, young men around his own age or older, some who had managed to escape the Academy and the camps, but others with similar stories to his own.
No, the job was fine. He even still got to see his parents since they were around all the time. He lived with them in Ministry-funded accommodation, which if only a temporary situation was at least comfortable and somewhere to come home to at the end of the day.
The nightmares were back. They hadn't been so bad, out on the road, but as though sensing that he was now much too settled into a routine, they returned with a vengeance, so that he slept badly and was irritable in the mornings and tired in the afternoons, and yet it was an effort to go to bed at the end of the day, knowing that the whole cycle would simply begin again. Later he wondered if on some level he had known what was about to happen. It would be just the sort of twisted thing that always seemed to happen to him.
He came back from a job feeling tired, dirty and sweaty, but satisfied. Petty crime was now more of an issue for the New Ministry than anything more sinister, but occasionally they got a real win. This time there had been a tip off about a group of former Ruling Class hiding out in Wales. He hadn't got to personally arrest anyone, but breaking in and guarding all the exits had had its own special brand of satisfaction. He high-fived and punched shoulders with his colleagues as they tramped mud into the common room.
"Hey did you guys hear?" one of the more experienced officials who had helped to bring in the prisoners waved as she headed for the exit. "They caught the guy who was head of MLE!"
Neville's hand fell in mid-high-five, and a chill went up his back. "What?"
"Crouch, the MLE guy. Been in hiding for nearly three years?"
"I thought he was dead," someone laughed.
"Guess not. He's - hey!" the girl had to dodge out of Neville's way as he charged past.
He headed for the area where arrests were processed, but luckily there was security on all the doors, and they grabbed him as he tried to burst through. Still, as they held his arms and tried to hold him back, he got a glimpse of the man being paraded down the line, and he saw red. "Crouch!" he yelled, fighting and kicking to get to him. He was going to kill him, he was going to rip him apart with his bare hands. "Come back here and face me you bastard!"
Crouch's gaze flickered over to him, and he smiled. Neville felt a chill like someone had doused him in ice water, and he went still, glaring. The guards dragged him out of the room and sat him on a bench until someone came to yell at him. He didn't hear any of it. His head was too full. His hands were red hot. It took all his willpower and whatever mental capacity he had left to keep from exploding.
Eventually someone must have realised they weren't getting through. They left him alone for a minute, and then his father came, and took him home. Neville didn't listen to anything he said, either, or his mother when she tried. They wouldn't let him go to his room, but made him sit in the living room where they could keep an eye on him. All he could do was rock back and forth, his hands in tight fights around his knees. Vaguely in the background he could hear low voices, and the sound of the Floo in the kitchen, but it was all just noise. He was trapped, trapped inside his own head, and he had no idea how to get out.
No, the job was fine. He even still got to see his parents since they were around all the time. He lived with them in Ministry-funded accommodation, which if only a temporary situation was at least comfortable and somewhere to come home to at the end of the day.
The nightmares were back. They hadn't been so bad, out on the road, but as though sensing that he was now much too settled into a routine, they returned with a vengeance, so that he slept badly and was irritable in the mornings and tired in the afternoons, and yet it was an effort to go to bed at the end of the day, knowing that the whole cycle would simply begin again. Later he wondered if on some level he had known what was about to happen. It would be just the sort of twisted thing that always seemed to happen to him.
He came back from a job feeling tired, dirty and sweaty, but satisfied. Petty crime was now more of an issue for the New Ministry than anything more sinister, but occasionally they got a real win. This time there had been a tip off about a group of former Ruling Class hiding out in Wales. He hadn't got to personally arrest anyone, but breaking in and guarding all the exits had had its own special brand of satisfaction. He high-fived and punched shoulders with his colleagues as they tramped mud into the common room.
"Hey did you guys hear?" one of the more experienced officials who had helped to bring in the prisoners waved as she headed for the exit. "They caught the guy who was head of MLE!"
Neville's hand fell in mid-high-five, and a chill went up his back. "What?"
"Crouch, the MLE guy. Been in hiding for nearly three years?"
"I thought he was dead," someone laughed.
"Guess not. He's - hey!" the girl had to dodge out of Neville's way as he charged past.
He headed for the area where arrests were processed, but luckily there was security on all the doors, and they grabbed him as he tried to burst through. Still, as they held his arms and tried to hold him back, he got a glimpse of the man being paraded down the line, and he saw red. "Crouch!" he yelled, fighting and kicking to get to him. He was going to kill him, he was going to rip him apart with his bare hands. "Come back here and face me you bastard!"
Crouch's gaze flickered over to him, and he smiled. Neville felt a chill like someone had doused him in ice water, and he went still, glaring. The guards dragged him out of the room and sat him on a bench until someone came to yell at him. He didn't hear any of it. His head was too full. His hands were red hot. It took all his willpower and whatever mental capacity he had left to keep from exploding.
Eventually someone must have realised they weren't getting through. They left him alone for a minute, and then his father came, and took him home. Neville didn't listen to anything he said, either, or his mother when she tried. They wouldn't let him go to his room, but made him sit in the living room where they could keep an eye on him. All he could do was rock back and forth, his hands in tight fights around his knees. Vaguely in the background he could hear low voices, and the sound of the Floo in the kitchen, but it was all just noise. He was trapped, trapped inside his own head, and he had no idea how to get out.