Title: Badge of Courage
Author: Carolare Scarletus
Music Composition: Colors of the Windsung by Tori Kelly; Sound of Music sung by Lady Gaga
Pairing: None in particular, though Canon pairings apply, as well as Canon storyline.
Characters: Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Hermione (Granger) Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Ron Weasley, Hannah (Abbott) Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, Astoria (
Universe: AU (Can be considered Canon in respect for the ending of the Seventh Book).
Summary:
Follow the incredible journey that one troubled war hero takes to finally realize that his part in the Final Battle meant more to him that he wants to admit. Several years after the Second Wizarding War, he confines in his psychologist of his arresting inability to accept what others have deduced. From the scrawny first year to the strong man that he has grown into, Neville Longbottom finds what he is worth and discovers a part of him that he never knew.
Disclaimer (because I always forget)- I do not own Neville Long- I mean Harry Potter. Any usage of stunning wizards is strictly for recreational purposes and not to drool over in secret :O
I'm looking all of y'all cD!
As always, enjoy.
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Badge of Courage
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Have you ever listen to grappled cries of the fallen?
Or felt the warmth of their blood stained cheeks?
Can you feel all the anguish of all the people?
Or come to terms of the broken siren?
Could you paint yourself with the colors of courage?
Could you accept the badge of the brave?
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London, England
2013-Present time.
Neville Longbottom sat there nervously with his palms on his trousers, a distinguishable look of discomfort blooming across his features as he ran his hands up and down to get rid of the moisture. The restricted supply of oxygen was wreaking havoc on his already fragile mind and if he didn't get seen soon, there was no telling what he would do. The walls were caving in slowly. The very roof seemed to be giving way. He had been waiting for nearly half an hour and it looked like he was finally going to meet the end of a seemingly long wait. He never wanted to admit that he had a problem, or that there was something psychologically wrong with him. Anyone who had served during the war was faced with a multitude of problems, and his just so happens to be anxiety and Posttraumatic Stress Disorder. For years, he has been crippled with nightmares and flashbacks and the only thing that he could do to numb the feeling of it all was talking about it. It hadn't come easy. Everyone dealt with it in their own unique way; he just so happened to have a penchant for numbers.
There were exactly one thousand, three-hundred and ninety-four stitches in the cloth that he held in his hand and it had not been washed in weeks. It was a dull peach-colored cloth that had become some sort of security blanket over the years. It had been something he picked up during his travels as an Auror and he still couldn't quite place why he has held onto it after all this time. He really hoped he could address that as well, if it wasn't too much of a problem for his psychiatrist.
After a while, even travelling had become too much and he resigned. Teaching, he supposed quite ironically, was his calling. Herbology, to be specific. He always liked Herbology.
Along with the cloth, there was something else that was keeping his mind at bay. The windows had just been cleaned; there was a slightly cheerfulness akin to sunshine to the waiting room that he hadn't noticed and there was a little boy who hadn't stopped staring at him since he arrived.
With a heavy sigh, he placed the cloth back into his pocket, drew his elbows to his knees and leaned forward. He winced at the soreness that ensued from stretching his tired muscles. He hadn't been to the clinic in weeks, and he was beginning to think that his Psychiatrist thought he forgot about him.
After so many years, he's had trouble sorting out the lies from the truth. He hardly knew which way was right and if it wasn't for the urgency from his friends, he wouldn't have bothered coming to the clinic at all. He was only buying time then, something that he had mysteriously ran out of as the years escaped him. At the well-rounded age of thirty-three, he never imagined that his life would turn out the way it did. No one did.
The muscles in his arms tensed and he winced.
For a moment, he let himself slip back into another frightful episode, remembering only then what his doctor said during their last appointment.
He stared unmoving out at the open horizon. The air around him remained eerily quiet, reminding him of a time that chaos had reigned. It still ranged disturbingly in his ear like a whisper from the past, only that it would never truly go away. This nightmare played over and over again. The blood, the decay; all he had to hold onto was what had just happened along with the weight of the Sword of Gryffindor.
Voldemort was dead.
That was all he could process at the time.
"You did a remarkable thing," Harry told him soon after the collapse of Voldemort. His deathly spirit lingered like an obnoxious fume as everyone tried to piece together the remains of their lives and structure of their beloved home. "You took down one of the most ruthless wizards of our time."
"Then tell me why I feel so torn." He bit out angrily. "I don't feel like I did anything to deserve credit. It was all you, Potter."
The dark-haired hero looked taken aback. Never in the years he has known him did Neville ever refer to him with such hatred. There was such venom in his words that he didn't know what to say other than," It wasn't all just me you know, Neville. When you figure out where you stand in all this mess, I'll be there to help you."
It's been years since he's told him that, and he still couldn't grasp the meaning of what he meant.
When he opened his eyes, he was transported back to the same old clarity of the waiting room. Only this time, Neville hadn't realized that there was a nurse waiting on him.
"Mr. Longbottom?" she asked with a smile. "They doctor will see you now."
He had half a mind to tell her something that even he still had trouble coming to terms with. Instead, he stood, dropping the rolled up newsletter onto the chair he had occupied and gave the little boy who had been staring at him a small nod.
Just like all his other appointments, it never came easy reverting back to what he once was.
Author's Note: I want to put it out there that the dates that are provided are in regards to the events that take place during Neville's appointments with his psychiatrist. They will go in relative order, and eventually end with their current appointment. I'd like to point out that Neville is probably my absolute favorite character as to development and not because he took a magical potion to turn him into the stud he is today. (Who hasn't taken a potion?). I just really respect him. :)
There was a Drabble piece written that would work wonderfully for this short multi-chapter work. I don't know if I'll use it, though.
Note 2: This might be the opposite of what some of my readers are used to in regards to description. That's not what this work will be about. It's not everyone's cup of coffee, so don't be offended if I don't focus on that as much as I do in other works. Thank you!
-Carolare Scarletus