WHO: Neville Longbottom (and Augusta Longbottom) WHEN: Wednesday, May 3; Late Afternoon WHERE: St. Mungo's SUMMARY: Neville wakes up and Augusta thinks she's helpful in filling him in. WARNINGS: TW: talk of death, obviously.
Neville had been prepared to die for what he believed in. On two occasions during the most recent battle, he had even been completely certain that death was no longer a possibility, but an inevitability. It was something he had made peace with long before this school year had even begun, back when he'd gone to the Ministry with Harry and faced off against dark wizards much more talented than himself. The thing was, that was the kind of bravery he possessed, a bravery fueled by loyalty and hope. He was loyal to his friends, the peace he knew his world needed, the cause that had taken his parents' sanity. It wasn't a cause he supported to prove himself, or because he needed to be a hero, or because he wanted the glory of being victorious or of dying in honor of it. It was a cause he fought for because he so vehemently believed in the equality of his magical peers, the fair treatment of magical and non-magical beings alike, and the right to feel safe in one's own skin without the threat of persecution due to mere existence, that he was ready to defend that belief, whatever cost he had to pay.
He had not, it turned out, been prepared to wake up to a world where others had died. That was not a cost he was certain he'd been willing to pay. It was an inevitability of war. He knew that. He'd lived with loss his entire life, even if that loss manifested in living parents who would never know him, or love him, or really see him. Neville had been raised knowing exactly how much his parents and his parents' friends had sacrificed for him and his generation. And, yet, waking up that Wednesday morning in a hospital room that was too white, too cold, and too antiseptic, Neville was wholly unprepared for the price they'd actually paid for their shared beliefs.
It had been an hour since he'd slowly broken through the dreamless sleep he'd been put in and blinked against the fog of wakefulness. Every part of his body ached and continued to feel out of place and it was that feeling that brought back the memories of the fight against Travers with Ron, and Dean. That memory had spurred those of the rest of the battle and Neville had found himself in a stretch of sheer panic at the uncertainty of how he'd gotten here and what was happening out there.
It was fortunate, then, that his gran had been sleeping in a chair right next to his bed and had woken at the sound of his restless stirrings. It was less fortunate, however, that she'd always be a no-nonsense sort of woman and had gone straight into the outcome of the war, boasting primarily Neville's own feats and regaling the tale of her duel with Aberforth Dumbledore and the defeat of the Lestrange brothers. She pressed on through the retelling of Harry’s victory against Voldemort--It was very impressive, yes, but not quite as impressive as fighting You Know Who with a sword! Though I still don’t quite understand going after the snake, Neville, honestly--and then at least had the decency to hesitate before moving on to the list of known casualties on the student journal network.
Neville had laid there through the whole story, his body pressing uncomfortably back into the stiff hospital bed as if he could melt into it and disappear. If Augusta noticed the way he didn't respond as she checked off each item on her her mental list of news to catch him up to speed, she didn’t show it. What could he really say? He wasn’t grateful to know the outcome of the war. It seemed wrong to feel thankful for anything in that moment, even if he knew he’d be grateful for a lot of things later. Even if he knew victory was the only outcome they could have hoped for.
His heart clenched at the sound of Lavender’s name, and he stared at the ceiling wondering why it wasn’t cracking apart and falling in around them. And it’s just awful about Remus Lupin and his wife, Nymphadora--but he’d known about that last one, could still picture the moment she’d fallen lifeless to the floor, with him having been unable to do anything about it. Of course, his gran wouldn’t know that. She hadn’t stopped long enough to ask where his head was. He’d known about Fred, too, having seen his body in the Great Hall briefly, though the knowledge of it had done nothing to prevent the way his eyes stung, or the way his heart broke for Ginny and her family.
So many students. The list his gran gave him was mostly students. Where were the names of the Death Eaters? Were they dead? Arrested? Neville couldn’t be sure what he really hoped for them, so he pushed his thoughts away from it and back to his gran, wishing she’d be done already.
And then--
Seamus.
Neville’s breath caught in his throat and his weak fingers curled as tightly as they could muster into the thin fabric of the blanket covering him. That wasn’t right. His gran was wrong. She’d read the name wrong, mistaken his friend for someone else. There was too much life in the boy he’d only just had the opportunity to become so close to that past year for him to be gone. Turning his head to the side, he searched her face for some semblance of uncertainty, some inkling that he had heard her wrong but she just continued scanning through his journal, not even noticing the change in him.
“Stop,” he whispered, a finality in the word despite the quietness of it. Augusta glanced up at him, startled by the sudden reaction.
“What was that, my boy?”
“Stop!” The word was louder this time, more forceful and he was too lost, too overwhelmed, too much to feel bad about the affronted look on his grandmother’s face.
“Neville, that’s hardly--”
“Please stop talking,” he pleaded, blinking back hot tears.
“Neville--”
“Just this once, Gran, please. Do what I need you to do, not what you want to do,” he asked, turning away from her, but not pulling his hand away as she set the journal aside, laid her own hand atop his, and sat next to him, silent for the first time Neville could remember.
He could almost conjure up an image of Seamus walking through the door right then. Is tat any way to treat family? Look, get your lazy arse outta tat bed and quit feelin’ feckin’ sorry for yourself. It felt almost real enough for Neville to will his friend to walk in and say exactly that, but the accent wasn’t just right and Neville chided himself for not remembering the nuances of it. He hadn’t imagined a world where he’d have to memorize the way Seamus sounded or the expressions Lavender made when she was annoyed or excited. He hadn’t prepared for this.
He’d been willing to pay for victory when the price tag had been his own life but this payout--this was too much.
Neville’s bottom lip quivered and he let out a troubled breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and quit fighting against the tears that wanted to fall.
He was feckin’ sorry, alright, it just wasn’t for himself.