A/N: A short one-shot on the torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
It was the first time his grandmother had allowed him to come to visit his parents. She had always brushed his pleading aside. She would refuse to tell him what had happened to them, as 'he was too young to hear of such things'. But now, after much begging, she had reluctantly agreed to take the nine-year-old along. When his grandmother had apparated to 's he had accepted it with slight surprise. When she had entered the Mental Ward, he had been taken aback. When she had strode past the section of Curable Mental Diseases, straight into Permanent Patients, he had been devastated. But still he followed on, wary as to what he would find.
"We can still go home. You don't understand. Sometimes...it's better not to know," his grandmother said, but Neville firmly shook his head.
"No. I want to see them. It's always better to know," he replied, and he steeled himself as she opened the door to his parent's room.
She was lying in her white hospital bed, a blank expression on her face. Sometimes she would stir slightly, and every so often she would jerk her head towards her husband. His dad. Lying in the cot next to her. He was mumbling right now, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, as his eyes focused his wife's pale, slender hand.
"Eight pounds and four ounces. Just born. Yes, James. I'm very, very proud. Isn't that right, Alice?"
His grandmother stayed standing stiffly at the door. Her collected composure wobbled slightly, but she pushed back the oncoming sobs. A lump formed in Neville's throat, and his eyes itched. He dragged a chair to his mother's side and stroked some hair out of her eyes. Her eyes wandered to his face. Neville slipped a candy out of his pocket and into her hand. Slowly, very slowly, did she place the sweet in her mouth. She stared at him once more and a small smile graced her face. Neville breath caught in his throat. Did she recognize him? She sat up. Neville allowed his mum to take his right hand in hers. She pressed a candy wrapper into his palm, then settled back into her bed, pulling the blankets up and staring at nothing at all. Neville's heart sank. His father continued to mutter.
"Of course, Lily. We'd love to. How is Remus doing by the way, haven't seen him in a while..."
Neville fingered the small crinkled paper in his hand, disappointed and yet touched. He stood up, and pressing a kiss to his parents' foreheads, headed out of the mental ward. His grandmother exited soon after. She gripped his hand tightly, hard enough to make his hand ache, the way she always did when she was upset. She started to walk briskly down the white hallway, ignoring the familiar greetings of 'Mrs. Longbottom' and 'Augusta' sent her way by most of the hospital staff.
"Hurry up, Neville," she snapped, when he turned his head for one last look at his parents. But the door had already been closed. He heeded his grandmother's words and blinked away the tears gathering in his eyes. Maybe she had been right. No. No, she had been wrong. But...
He understood now.
Blonde hair skimmed over a lacquered wood surface. Twisted like a restless snake. Gleamed in the evening's dusty light. Arms and legs thrashed wildly, splaying over the floor in odd positions. Her back and waist, curled, stretched, rotated as she convulsed. Fists clenched and unclenched wildly. Almost like a pumping heart. Her head whipped from side to side violently. Tears of pain clawed their way out from the corner of her eye to the floor where the sunlight still dallied. They sparkled innocently, and yet watched the woman's writhing figure in passive interest. A most beautiful dance.
Now, the pale skin of her arms swept the floor like angel's wings. Her eyes were wide, and brushed the area around her restlessly, yet did not see. Blue eyes, almost indigo, the color of the darkening sky. Sweat shined from her crinkled forehead. Teeth bit down on painted lips, red lipstick smearing on white, and then blood bubbling up from under the pressure to join it. It dribbled along her chin, streamed down her neck in a thin, elegant line, and blossomed on the collar of her fine, white blouse. A most beautiful image.
The woman could not hold on for much longer. Bellatrix could feel it. So she tightened her grip on her wand, and waited with breathless anticipation.
The woman's mouth opened, her shoulders shook, she shuddered as she sucked a painful breath into her lungs. And screamed. Yowled, screeched, howled, cried. Her voice echoed in the otherwise silent house, tore the previous silence. Whimpers scrambled into the air, yelps of pain leaped up from her throat, shrieks barreled through the hallway. The light was finally frightened away, and shrunk back, fleeing behind the nearby hills. The woman's husband joined in a few moments later, a deeper, baritone voice. A duet. A most beautiful song.
Bellatrix let out a pleased sigh. She let her eyelids droop, her shoulders untense, her concentration slip. She heard the song fade away, saw the image lose itself to the dark of night, saw the dance wilt to mere fluttering tremors. Now it was someone else's turn. She pressed her back against the hallway's wall, and watched silently as Rodolphus took an eager step forward and drew his wand.
"Crucio," he whispered.
He watched helplessly as she writhed under Bellatrix's unforgivable. Eyes full of infinite horror and shock, then flooded with fathomless hatred as he snapped his eyes to the two Death Eaters digging their fingernails into his arms. They held him with firm, unwavering grips, and one of them grasped his chin roughly, turning his head towards his suffering wife. Frank thrashed against their hold angrily, desperately. He wrenched his right arm free of the man's sweaty grip, who gasped out a curse as Frank drew back his elbow sharply into the Death Eater's gut. Adrenaline sharpened his reflexes, and he managed to get in a biting punch to the second man's face. Frank's hand immediately responded with a bitter sting and throb, blood creeping and twisting down to trace the lines of his palms from his skinned and swelling knuckles. But the Death Eater had already grabbed hold of him again, this time slamming his face against the wall as he struggled to keep him under control.
A pained cry came from the other man. His prized white mask had been crushed around his nose and near his left eye. Dark liquid seeped from the cracks and chips. He had brought his hands up to his face, trembling with pain. Another muffled whimper rose from the man as he tore at the mask urgently, finally ripping it off with a scream. Red paraded down from his smashed nose. A few white shards were embedded deeply into his pale cheek. A white powder littered his straw-like hair, and mixed in with the blood. His agony rapidly turned to a smoldering anger. "RABASTAN, YOU INCOMPETENT!" He roared. Rabastan cringed, but the straw-haired man dismissed him, turning his furious gaze to Frank.
"Barty?" Frank wheezed. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's son. Crouch's son was a Death Eater. Ridiculous. Laughable. Completely and utterly absurd. "Impossible," he murmured.
The man sneered, glaring at Longbottom murderously. His hand flew to his wand, and he held it in front of him menacingly. Frank's nerves suddenly exploded with a sharp, burning pain. His skin felt like it was being scraped off his body. His organs squirmed into new and painful positions. Pressure wrapped itself around every inch of his body, pouring down upon him until he was sure his bones were going to disintegrate. The fire rocketed through his veins. He was sure the wetness creeping down from the corners of his eyes was blood.
His voice was already hoarse from screaming, but he didn't even realize it.
Augusta Longbottom sat down in a wooden chair next to the crib. She was supposed to babysit until her son and his wife came back from dinner. She allowed a small measure of fondness to soften her normally strict face as she stared down into the child's face. Soft blond hair, and light brown eyes. His nose was small, his cheeks pudgy. His mouth was set in a little pout. Wrinkles of baby fat gathered on his arms and legs. Neville. Little Neville.
She could imagine him at his Hogwart's graduation many years from now. Standing tall, broad shoulders, strong jaw. Radiating confidence like his father. That charming smile his mother had would be spread across his face. He'd be hard working and determined like his father. Kind-hearted and witty like his mother. And brave. Definitely brave. Like them both.
Neville started to bawl. She let out a weary sigh and peered down at her grandson. "Shh. You've been fed and I've changed you only ten minutes ago. Shush." When he didn't quiet down she placed a wrinkled hand on a side of the crib and gently rocked it back and forth. "Shhh..." Neville's cries grew softer until only barely audible whimpers rose to meet her ears.
"Mamm,"
Augusta froze.
"Mamm..aa. Mammma. Mama," Neville snivelled. Augusta turned a shocked gaze towards the little boy. His first word. "Pap. Papaaa." He continued on. His second word, she thought, stunned. Then she smiled.
Frank and Alice would be so proud.