Dedicated to AscendFlySoar, for getting eight of the fourteen Animagi in the story Random Thoughts.
He hissed in pain as he felt the blade slice his skin. Contrary to popular belief, those that engaged in acts of self-mutilation hurt, each time, just as much as the first time.
It was probably why so many participated in it.
It was an escape, the pain. It controlled your mind, to the point where everything else disappeared and all you could think of was that pain. It hurt, but those that chose to do it had far more hurtful things in their life, things that haunted them to the point of forcing them to injure themselves to forget about it, even for just a short while.
It was addictive, like the rush he had been told you could obtain from drugs. The blade called to you, whispering promises of at least a few minutes of relief from the nightmares that lived and thrived in daylight.
He didn't do drugs. As far as he knew, there were no ways to acquire it where he was. It was a dangerous business, one that required much stealth to upkeep. By the time you realized how hard it would be, you were hooked, with no chance of leaving.
He didn't want that.
His choice was cutting. A rather crude method, but an effective one. There were makeshift weapons everywhere you looked; you just had to be able to recognize them.
He'd gotten his knife from the kitchens. Easy enough.
No-one had noticed. No-one. They were all too busy with their own preconceptions of him to notice any change in him. It saddened him.
He smiled, watching the blood drip slowly to the floor. One more cut-one more beautiful slit of the skin.
Maybe he would die, right there and then, on the tile floor. It could happen. The blood was pouring steadily from his arm.
Who would miss him? He had friends, certainly. And his family, too would miss him. Or so he could only hope.
They boy who had killed himself
He wasn't a true Gryffindor-in his heart, he knew it. Would any pure Gryffindor do what he had done, hurt himself, all to flee the burden he carried?
His parents would be disappointed, he knew, if he could properly speak to them.
But he couldn't, one of the facts that had driven him to the act.
He closed his eyes. He was a coward, to abandon life so easily, without a fight. He knew it.
He was numb now, floating. It felt nice. No thoughts plagued him.
For a moment, he was detached, looking down on his own prone figure. Then he slammed back into his body in those few final seconds, feeling his life slowly drain away.
For the first time, he felt powerful. He was like God. He had been the one to decide to die, and to go through with it. All by himself.
He smiled, and died.
He was found by another boy who had the misfortune to stumble upon his corpse. He paled and ran, screaming for help.
Screamed. Like a little girl.
The doctors diagnosed it as suicide. His guardian did not cry upon hearing the news, but took it bravely, with anguish in their eyes and a stern expression on their face.
The school reacted near the same. Those that knew him grieved, and those that hadn't were grim. Some cried; others did not.
His funeral was short, with eulogies given by his family and closer friends. He was given a proper burial, his casket sealed with stone and magic and the tears of the loved.
Life went one. He was remembered with fondness by those who had memories of him.
The war ended. Light won, as it was expected, for good always won in the end.
But not for the boy who had died. Not for the countless others who had died in the war. There would be no happy ending for them. There would be no watching the Wizarding World restore itself to its former glory, no seeing families rejoice over their new found freedom in years to come.
All they had was the memories left in the living. It wasn't much, but it was something. They passed down stories of them, to their children. They passed them to their children.
Until their stories were seen as untouchable, as close to a myth as any true story could come.
Some were forgotten. Those that had not been cared for, those that had remained neutral, happy to stay on the sidelines until they were forced into battle, they were forgotten.
Those that had made what was seen as a wrong choice, joining the Dark- they were remembered. Yet they were looked upon with distaste, a model of what never to do for others.
It was not fair, truly. For many had made a simple mistake, and had paid dearly for it. And yet they were viewed with hatred, with disgust, with revulsion, seen only for the mistakes in their lives.
The truth about life was that it was all about choosing the right mistakes to make.
The heroes of the war were exalted, and they became figureheads and legends to many, a sign against all evil.
They had happy endings; these were blown up, publicized, a symbol of hope and healing.
But the boy who had killed himself in one last attempt to leave his mark on the world, he didn't get a happily-ever-after. Nor did countless others.
He was forgotten by all but a few in the aftermath of the Final Battle.
Still, every year, those few would gather together on the date that he died, and raise their glasses, declaring compassionately,
"To Neville Longbottom!"
Bet you didn't see that one coming!
I churned this out in an hour or so for PULL. I wanted to do a story on one of the characters, giving them a different fate.
The Golden Trio have all been analyzed deeply; I knew I couldn't do them. I wanted to do someone who had played a large part in the war. Luna I couldn't do; it would just ruin her very essence.
Neville, in my opinion, is seen as brave and compassionate, yet there haven't been many in-depth studies of him. I imagine he has far more depth than portrayed in the books.
Review, pleaz!
Doctor Pepper