Heart of a Gryffindor
With the dawn of his seventh year, Neville Longbottom found himself doing a lot of pretending.
As he rode the crimson Hogwarts Express to Hogsmeade, he tried to tell himself that its abnormal emptiness was simply the result of a number of careless students missing the train. Perhaps traffic had been especially dreadful today, and surely his friends and acquaintances would be arriving at the school by other means soon enough.
At the start-of-term feast, Neville worked very hard to pretend that Snape's greasy and wholly unwelcome presence in the headmaster's chair was some kind of cruel joke. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore was simply hiding under the table, waiting to jump out and make some nonsensical comment about lemon drops.
Lying in his bed in Gryffindor tower, Neville attempted to ignore the fact that three of the room's five beds were empty. He chided himself for being so depressed, and tried to reassure himself that the absence of Ron's characteristic snoring probably just meant that he had finally found a magical snore cure, something for which Neville should be grateful.
When he received his class schedule, Neville rationalized that the absence of the words "defense against" from "the dark arts" was some kind of magical typo.
But Neville knew that the missing seats on the Hogwarts express belonged to those deemed unpure to attend this year, many of whom were probably already dead.
He knew that Dumbledore's brilliant blue eyes lay unseeing in the marble tomb by the lake.
He was sure that the lack of Ron's snoring was due to the lack of Ron, not a magical snore cure.
And he was quite confident that DADA would this year stress the latter DA much more than ever before.
Neville knew that Hogwarts would not, and could not, be the same as the home he had grown to know and love.
The morning of Neville's first Dark Arts lesson of the fall dawned rainy and chilly, much colder than would normally be expected for early September, although eerily reminiscent of Neville's mood. As he half-heartedly ate breakfast and walked sluggishly to the appointed classroom, Neville made a silent promise to himself to keep his head down and behave. Ginny, Luna, Seamus, and the rest of what was left of the real DA still needed him. And Neville didn't doubt that Amycus Carrow would not hesitate to harm him. The man was, after all, a Death Eater before he was a professor.
But as Neville had done so frequently since departing Platform 9 and ¾, he was lying to himself, for not five minutes into the first Dark Arts lesson of the year Neville had managed to do something that violated this oath.
"You have had a string of dismally incompetent instructors in this, the purest and most beautiful of all branches of magic," began Amycus, his voice dripping with cruelty, a twisted smile on his lips.
"I can only hope that this will be balanced by the few worthwhile experiences you have had in the subject, namely from my dear friend, Barty Crouch Jr. May his soul rest in peace. I dare say it will be avenged when we manage to dispose of Potter and all his blood traitor and mudblood friends once and for all!"
Neville knew who Crouch was, knew the role he had played in the torture of his parents. With no thought for the consequences, Neville stood up abruptly, looked Amycus in the eye, and shouted loudly.
"That man's soul burns in hell, and we can only hope that you'll join him soon, you and all your de-"
But Neville was interrupted when, with a flick of his wand, Amycus Carrow silenced Neville and forced him back into his seat.
"Well, Well, Longbottom," muttered the death eater, that same cruel smile plastered on his fat face. "I wish I could say that I didn't expect such insolence out of a noble pure blood like yourself. I suppose you will have to be taught some manners, will you not, boy? As we all know, your parents didn't get much time to teach them to you. Surely they would be disappointed."
Neville tried to respond, but found that he was still silenced.
"Let me see your time table, boy," demanded Amycus.
Neville saw no point in disobeying further, and handed the parchment over. Amycus prodded a spot on the next afternoon with his wand, from which the words "transfiguration" disappeared, to be replaced with "detention."
"I'm sure dear Minerva will understand," he muttered, handing the schedule back to Neville.
"Now as I was saying…" he continued, launching into a passionate speech about the glory of the dark arts. Neville sat in his magically imposed silence, making to himself a new vow, one that he thought he could actually keep.
"This year," he thought to himself, "I will make my parents proud. I will make the stand that Harry would make if he were able to be there. I will be as good and loyal a friend as Ron to all around me. I will do my best to channel Hermione's cleverness to protect those around me. I can't let them down."
The next day's weather was equally gloomy, matching Neville's demeanor as he trudged down the stairs to "Professor" Carrows's office.
Neville opened the heavy wooden door. Amycus practically giggled with glee at Neville's arrival, and pulled him by the arm to the adjoining classroom, which was filled with Slytherin seventh years.
"Please, do sit," the death eater instructed, gesturing to a chair near his desk. Neville obliged, apprehensive about what was to come. What sort of detention was observing a Slytherin dark arts lesson?
"Welcome to Dark Arts," Amycus began. "Having met your counterparts in the other three houses already, I daresay the school's standards have slipped in recent years. However, I also know that you, members of the most noble house of Slytherin, will be up to the challenges this year will present better than any of your lesser peers. As such, we shall begin with a quick review of a subject you all should be familiar with, before moving on the more advanced magic befitting your purity and talent."
Amycus stopped to clear his throat, and glanced fleetingly in Neville's direction.
"The Cruciatus curse is most useful, as many of you are well aware. It can even be fun, at times! Mr. Longbottom here has so kindly volunteered to assist us in mastering this indispensable curse. First, I will demonstrate. Crucio."
The pain was unbearable and unending. Neville fell from his chair and began to twitch on the floor.
"Don't…scream…don't…let…win…" Neville's body was on fire, and his mind was struggling to continue. Nonetheless, Neville concentrated every ounce of power he had not to scream, biting his lips so hard he could taste the salty blood. He thought of his mother and father as he wirthed on the floor, confined to a hospital, unable to recognize their son or the world around them. Unable to feel joy, locked in themselves. For them, Neville knew he could stay strong.
And then it stopped, and Neville could breathe again.
"You will line up and each, in turn, will attempt to place the curse on Mr. Longbottom here. Remember that he is a filthy blood traiter, and a dear friend of Harry Potter. He is a disgrace to all you stand for. This should help you cast the curse."
And so the Slytherins lined up, and, one after another, placed the curse on Neville. None could compare to the well rehearsed work of Amycus, and with each student the pain was lesser and short lived. And still, Neville would not cry out.
Finally, only three students remained to try their hand at the Cruciatus. To his horror, Neville realized that these were Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle.
"Bloody fabulous," he thought. "A death eater and his cronies. Surely they've had sufficient practice already."
Malfoy went first, drawing his wand and hesitating momentarily.
Neville braced himself.
"Crucio" Draco whispered, so softly that the incantation was barely audible.
The wave of agony Neville had expected did not come, rather a harsh jerk that was little more than mildly uncomfortable.
Amycus seemed to notice this, placing his hand on Malfoy's shoulder, a gesture which seemed almost fatherly.
"Seems your…err…extracurricular activities are taking a bit out of you, eh son?" suggested Amycus jovially.
Malfoy, looking even more pale than ever, didn't answer. Rather, he returned to his seat and hung his head in silence.
Neville was momentarily confused and relieved by Malfoy's mercy. For a second, he even dared to hope that Crabbe and Goyle, whose shared intelligence failed to equal that of a chipmunk, would prove incapable of this cruel but demanding bit of magic.
But Neville was wrong. Goyle cast the incantation first. Neville, caught off guard by the fury of the spell, which nearly equaled that cast by Amycus Carrow, screamed.
After seemingly an eternity, Goyle lifted the spell and stepped aside for Crabbe to take his turn.
A split-second later, Neville was again drowning in agony. Unable to contain himself, he screamed loudly and struggled wildly. And then, all went dark.
Reviews are welcome and encouraged. Expect another installment soon…
