Title: "Oblivion"
Author: Demeter
E-Mail: Demeter918@AOL.com or ladydemeter@hotmail.com
Warnings: Takes place during the nighttime scene after they first learn about the Three Unforgivable Curses. Neville POV. Angst. Dark.
Disclaimer: All rights and privileges to Harry Potter are trademarks and property of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Brothers, Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books and associated parties. The author claims no legal responsibility for problems associated with using this work. No money is being made and copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The original story and characters and relationships within the fic are copyright of Demeter.
~*~*~*~*~*~
I walk day by day, through the very twilight of dark.
Gee.
And here, everyone thought I was a fat, useless crybaby who wouldn't know poetry if it hit me on the head with the speed of an imp. I do know poetry. Infinite poetry.
Endless verses of the most inane usage of celebrated words.
Poetry ranks.
I think my life, if told in lyrical form, could have formed poetry that rivaled Chaucer or even Dante's works on purgatory and hell. Philosophy in my life has rarely gone past the ideas of Nietzche or even Aristotle. They are all idealists. Once again, in a way.
But I digress.
Life as a Hogwarts student hasn't been easy… but for me, it hasn't been hard either. I manage to get through life cleanly. I stray not from the path, but settle in the middle. I take neither right nor left. I keep neutral. In that way, no one can sneer at me for being a 'know-it-all' or 'moss-covered-stones' or 'an arrogant prick'.
I may fail miserably at Potions, as Snape at his kindest would say, but I succeed easily in Herbology. Most view that as a fluke of mine, an abnormal fate that managed to land 'poor Neville' with passing grades. I don't dissuade giggles and teasing statements like that; they add to my image as someone who 'just makes it' through Hogwarts.
Silly fools.
They don't understand that the ones famous for their works, the ones that show off their intelligence, the ones that have all the glory and prowess in the early days, the youthful era, will be the ones marked for later study and observation. They'll be the poor gits targeted by the Death Eaters in hopes of eliminating the 'stars' and breaking the backs of the side of 'good'.
They don't know how to hide their attributes. It's times like this when the Slytherins obviously shine above the Gryffindors. Only thing is that this brilliance is so subtle, that no one notices. All of the Slytherins hide their true abilities, willing to shy away from very public accolades. Only the most confident and cunning dare showcase their faces in the Daily Prophet.
They are careful of whom they trust and whom they associate with.
Most are content in achieving above average grades that are well and good, but not astounding so that all eyes are upon them.
Because of that, we Gryffindors sneer at them, boasting that they have the grades, the popularity, the people who win the Quidditch Matches. The Slytherins are sometimes silent, mostly distant, something mocking of the 'better' house's brains, flying skills, looks, even bloodlines. But never, *never* have I ever seen them jealous or envious.
They know.
The Slytherins know that they can bide their time and in the future, they will be the safer ones, that they can, if they so choose, be the ones who work undercover for Dumbledore… or perhaps become the most prolific Death Eaters. That they will have the last laugh if they play their cards correctly.
I fear the Slytherins… yes, but I also respect them.
Alastor Moody was… no, Barty Crouch Jr. was correct. Trust no one but yourself. Constant vigilance. But always, always respect your friends and your enemies. Then you will be sure to never underestimate them. Then you will never be caught off-guard if one of them betrays you.
My family had made the same mistake. The identical mistake as the Potters. We trusted. They trusted. Where, in the end, did it give them?
My father… Gryffindor at the heart. My mother, Ravenclaw at her paramount. They were a popular couple, from what my Grandmother has proudly told me. The society pages loved them because they were beautiful together, strong as a duo. Their wands were unforgiving toward all Death Eaters and many considered them the finest in the art.
The very, very best.
And where did that get them?
In St. Mungoes. Hospital. For. Magical. Maladies. And. Ailments.
The loony ward, that's where.
I'm forced to smile sadly whenever someone comments ever so sorrowfully that it was such a pity, such a waste, that it was all the faults of the Death Eaters and You-Know-Who that my parents are now insane.
Bullocks.
They chose their roads. They had made their own beds and for all I cared, they could sleep in them for eternity.
But I cared in another way.
They left me alone. Abandoned me to the mercy of my grandmother. Why they couldn't have been a little more discreet, a little more careful, a little more responsible? Why couldn't they? Because they enjoyed the honor and power and popularity more than their own *son*!
They *should* have prepared more defenses! They should have *known* that the Death Eaters would be after them! They *should* have!
But no, they were being idiots, all puffed up in their own glory and self-righteousness that You-Know-Who was dead. They forget that it was at the price of so many fucking wizards and witches… and in the end, it left Harry and me both orphans.
Orphans.
Why? Why did they have to be so concerned about being the best of the best of the best? Why couldn't they have stayed as mediocre Aurors? Why didn't they choose a secret-keeper like Harry's parents? Why couldn't they have chosen the same road I chose and remained in blissful obscurity?
Why?
If they had, then I could be sitting with them, right here, right now, always and forever. I would be a whole little boy, intent on enjoying their attentions and devotions, never once believing that anything else could surpass me in their eyes. I would have remained ecstatically unaware that they still loved their jobs as Aurors better… because at that time, there would be *no* Aurors!
But they didn't go down that winding path.
If they had, they would have been known as cowards, spineless individuals that didn't deserve a single picture on the front page. But since they were heroes, Aurors who sacrificed themselves for the side of 'good', they were revered beyond their wildest dreams. That had been their life's goal at times. To win the stunning accolades that only wizard's of Merlin's class received.
Their insanity warranted a front-page article, a garish photograph, a respectful obituary, and weak condolences from those around me, because most wanted to forget that there was anything to mourn for in the first place.
No one wanted to remember that Harry and I would be deprived of parental love for the rest of our lives. That we were going to be mocked for years on our parentless state. That we were wretched, pitiful fools since we had no parents.
What did we get for sacrificing that? Nothing? What did the magical community get? Only more hatred and prejudice.
My parent's were almost single-handedly guilty of creating a wave of crucifixion that rippled through the community and stayed there, festering like an old wound without any hope of a cure. And how did people decide to fix that wound? Since there was no hope, might as well make it even shittier.
How many innocent people had been accused of being Death Eaters? I know, I only know so well that the ministry is not perfect. They are so much less, that I want to retch at times. That they caused many, so many people to suffer needlessly because they felt that the community, the public wanted justice… wizarding *justice* they said.
There had been several Slytherins who had confronted me during the first few weeks after the Welcoming Ceremony, after my name had been mentioned. Each accusing me with a heavy silence, with angry eyes, with twisted hands, asking with quiet words why their parents had to die, why they had to be caught in Azkaban for no reason, no reason at all. I had no answer; I was only a first year then. Perhaps the worst was that it wasn't just Slytherin.
Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, they all came to me, asking me, sometimes with unshed tears in their eyes, why? Why were my parents more important then theirs? Why was a Gryffindor never hurt? Never blamed for any crime other than bravery. Why were we so favored, so protected, when they were cast out of the warmth, forced to watch their parents suffer for other people's sins.
To them, the justice handed out only heightened their hatred of the Ministry.
The 'justice' came in the form of the mugglesque witch trials and lynching.
How many 'witches' were bound and killed because they were thought to *maybe* have magical powers that muggles supposed them to be dark, evil and associated with Satan? You would think because of all the hatred the Death Eaters had professed toward muggles, because they were considered to be inferior… only for the reason that they had no magical ability, that we would know better.
We should have known better!
How many 'Death Eaters' were caught unaware by the Ministry and forced to 'confess' about crimes they didn't commit? How many followed in the paths of those Russian souls who worked to the bone for Stalin, to only see him turn his back on them, condemning them to the worst possible fates?
How many went to Azkaban heedlessly for the public's eager thirst for 'justice'?
My parents, the self-pontificating fools caused this and more because they weren't who they were supposed to be. They had become the Longbottoms. The powerful minions of the side of light. They were no longer just 'Frank and his Wife'. They were Aurors.
They were never the parents, the father, the mother. They never left me any sign of their love because their confidence in their power assured them that they would never die deaths like so many of their friends and colleagues. That they would have plenty of time to 'make it up' to me as I grew older.
Well, look at that? I don't have anything. Nothing. Zilch. Diddly zero.
Because they got so very careless.
Got themselves submitted to the Cruciatus curse. I admit, I was unearthly curious of the curse that I had heard drove them insane. I had convinced myself that a single curse couldn't, wouldn't have caused such chaos in my life. I insisted Moo – Barty Crouch Jr. to show it to everyone.
To see what really happened to the spider.
And the spider rocked.
Writhed.
Arched.
Shuddered.
Twitched.
Screamed in voiceless pain.
That was what happened to my parents. That was what caused them to go insane. That was why I was practically an orphan, spending my young life in the dark hallways of my grandmother's house.
Why had I insisted on seeing that? No one else would have known; Cruciatus is much too feared to be ever spoken of ever again. God, why did I have to dredge up all these memories of solidified history that I no longer need?
Look at what it's done to me. I can't even sleep properly at night anymore.
Sometimes, I lay awake at night, still half-heartedly keeping up the snores in order to give the impression that I was sleeping. I never felt like talking to anyone about what happened. Not only that, I hate taking potions to get to sleep, as would be the prescription Madam Pomfrey would give me.
And dirty laundry should be kept inside, a saying muggles taught me a long time ago.
This time, however, I'm so very tired. I ache to the bone. I know Harry's awake beside me. I've been listening to him toss and turn for the last hour. He's remembering the same thing. Only it's for Avada Kedavra. The notorious Killing curse.
What a pair, aren't we?
We're both stuck with this knowledge that all these curses that had scarred our own existence, happened so long ago, that even the simplest attempt to try to think it through will not work anymore. We feel useless, hopeless, wondering if our parents had ever made a right choice. At least he knew that they died to protect him.
All I knew was that mine were insane, laughing their queer little laugh inside the padded walls of St. Mungoes, never knowing when I visit, never even acknowledging that they had once a son called Neville Longbottom.
They have regressed back to childhood. Grandmother is no longer 'mummy'. She's too old now. The lines that run over her face are as deeply grooved as – gods forbid – Professor Snape's.
I hate Death Eaters.
Hate them.
Despise them.
Wish they would burn in hell. Oh, wait, they already are. They're with bloody Voldemort who technically is worse than the Devil. Why? Because the devil doesn't inflict pain because he has sadistic impulses. He does it for punishment, under orders of his "God".
Lucifer wasn't stripped of his beautiful wings because he wanted to hurt people.
He had wanted the same thing as me… to be beloved by a parent, by parents that seemingly cared for only the others, the ones that they deemed to need protecting. God loved the humans first, angels second. Lucifer couldn't stand it and he rebelled. He didn't believe how unfair it was, to be supposedly blessed with the iridescent wings and the silken robes… yet to be cursed forever in being locked in doing one thing, following God one way, never having the choice of choosing.
I can relate to him. I wish he won.
My parents created me. I should have been their treasure, their most precious. Yet, they devoted their lives to them first. Not me. Them. I had been handed the gilded cage and locked in… always looking outward, eating from my marble plate, playing in my gem-encrusted pen… but never, never able to join them, never able to eat and drink with them.
Never having the choice to choose. To choose whether I wanted to have parents that abandoned me for fame, for power, for recognition, for a painting that will never touch me, hug me, pat me on the head, feed me pudding and cookies, shake my hands after a Quidditch game, teach me how to fly, teach me how to cast spells… for a painting that smiles grandly… but only that.
No one asked me if I wanted to be Neville Longbottom.
But I'm getting tired. I need my sleep. This year will be a long year. If not just because I have this gut feeling that Harry's going to somehow get involved in the Triwizard Tournament. He will, if I know him correctly. And I have… after all… been likened to him since I was young. He was The Boy Who Lived.
I was the Boy Who Seemed To Be A Squib.
But we were alike… in so many ways that I would rather ignore the similarities and curse at the differences.
When the storm has swept by, the wicked are gone, but the righteous stands firm forever.
That's from Proverbs 10:25, you know? According to that, my parents should have stood. Yet, He was wrong again. Everyone said the devil fled in the dawning light and that Harry Potter won.
Then where in the hell was God? Why did He let my parents go insane? Why did He let Harry's die? Why in the fucking hell didn't He help us? Why didn't He *help* us? I'll tell you why. Because the great Book says that punishment will come down on the wicked and suffering of the innocents will be revenged.
Because in a way, I'm glad, glad, glad, glad that they got what they deserved. Only the duly wicked abandons their child to the sacrifice. Abraham didn't have to sacrifice Isaac to God. His dutiful goes on how about it was only a test of Abraham's faith. Bullocks. Abraham was a sniveling coward who chose the same path my parents did.
They got what the deserved. They earned the right to be tortured by Cruciatus.
And I'm glad.
Pleased to see them insane. In. St. Mungoes. Without. Any. Chance. Of. Recovering.
Bugger.
But it's not like I'm letting Voldemort off. He deserves the ten levels. All levels. The center ice and fire. He took something of mine. Took something that I wanted. Which means that I will live to see the day he dies, the day he begs for mercy in front of Harry… or even better, me. And then I'll laugh. I'll laugh that queer laugh my parents laugh.
And then, only then, will I claim the name Longbottom. Not Neville.
But Longbottom.
~*~ FINIS ~*~
Okay, obviously that was a bit confusing, maybe even OOC. I sort of took references from all over the place. Lucifer had only occurred to me in the middle of the fic. Personally, I felt sorry for that guy; watch Dogma to get my reason why.
Neville's seen as a total klutz throughout the first three books, but when we get through the fourth one, we realize with a chill that he really NEVER mentions his parents throughout the other three. (Great planning on Rowling's part) We immediately feel guilty for thinking all those thoughts about him before.
This is only my thoughts of what he may have been feeling that night as he lay on his bed next to Harry. It may not have been this dark, but certainly, it would have been far more depressing. Either way, I think Neville needed a bit of time in the spotlight. People don't really concentrate on him very much unless it's as a secondary character.
His status isn't just 'Neville'. There is something else about him. Something a bit more important. I'm not really sure what it is at the moment, but I think I'll work for that and leave it there.
Demeter