A/N.
This story is dedicated to a friend of mine at eHPF.
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Neville hurt. The hellish pain in his legs, both broken, was consuming his nerves and he wanted to cry out loud. Honestly, what kind of twisted mind except the Carrows could possibly find it entertaining to cast a "Reducto" on a living person, just to see how much damage it could cause?
Tears were falling from his eyes; he didn't even try to hide them. No one could see him, anyway. No one cared for him here. Tears of pain. His whole body ached. Although since September he'd been having frequent encounters with the Carrows' professorship methods, he could not bear THIS much pain. Tears of disappointment. He failed to stand up for himself, like so many times in his short life; yet again a disgrace. He should have killed Amycus that night, a week ago, when he caught the bastard instead of Stunning him. Tears of remembrance. Now he understood bloody well what his parents had been through on that fateful day, seventeen long years ago. He wished, as he was periodically sliding in and out of consciousness, that he could join them now, in the Restricted ward of St. Mungo's, completely unaware of the horrors of the world around him. Tears of joy. He could hold up the bad guys, giving enough time for Ginny and the two first-years to escape into the safety of the Room of Requirement. At least they can't be hunted down by the Carrows.
Blood still oozed from the deep gash on his left cheek. Even in his miserable condition, he managed a half-smile. At least he got that stupid Goyle, and got him for good. A year ago, he would have never believed that the disgusting, eerie sound of a skull cracking against a wall would deliver him satisfaction. Boy, was he satisfied! Even if Goyle survived this day and a double skull fracture, he'd never be able to look into a mirror again without retching.
Neville tried to move, tried to find a more comfortable lying position on the slippery, mossy floor of the ancient dungeon. From the whistling sound of his breath he deducted that some of his ribs must also be broken and they were puncturing the tissue of his badly bruised lungs, oozing blood into his chest cavity. For a brief moment, he was asking himself if this was the end.
He was blinded by a red and golden flash of light. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Fawkes landing on his chest, looking him into the eyes. Then, the bird's head drew nearer and a single teardrop landed on the cut on his cheek. The torn flesh sissed for a short while, then the cut closed, without leaving a trace.
The magnificent bird emitted an excited trill.
"A brave Gryffindor you are, Neville
Longbottom."
Neville heard the words loud and clear
in his head. Several times, he opened an closed his mouth, unable to
utter a word, before he found his courage to speak.
"Wait a second, you are Fawkes, right? Dumbledore's bird?" he asked, in a weak and hoarse voice.
"I am known by the name 'Fawkes', correct, but I'm not Dumbledore's bird. Phoenixes do not belong to anyone. Phoenixes bind their souls to a person they consider worthwhile. I bound my soul to Albus Dumbledore 97 years ago." This time the thrill was longer and louder, with a mixture of hurt and pride.
"I apologize, Fawkes," Neville responded with a grimace on his face, his legs were getting worse.
"No offense taken, Neville Longbottom," sung the phoenix in a melodic pattern and the pleasant harmonics in his song soothed Neville's troubled mind. "It's rather uncomfortable to sit when you have a parcel tied to your leg, you know. Can you do me a favour and untie it?"
The dungeon was barely lit, only two magical torches on the opposite wall provided some weak light, so it took Neville several tries before he could remove the packet from the bird's leg. The small wooden box contained two vials. One, Neville recognized instantly from its colour, must have been Skele-Gro. On the other one, a crystal-clear, deep blue potion, he gave up. With a Potions Master as Professor Snape, he'd never been too keen on the subject.
"The 'Dreamless Dream', as Madame Pomfrey calls it." This time, the phoenix's trill had an urging tone. "I would drink both, and right now, if I were you."
Neville let a smile form on his bruised, cracked, dry lips. He uncorked both vials, and with a mischievous glance in his eyes, raised both to his lips.
"Cheers, Fawkes!" he joked and downed the content of both vials in a gulp. His eyelids became heavy, they closed down and his troubled face smoothened. Within seconds, his pain was gone and he was soundly asleep.
Fawkes emitted a victorious cry, grabbed the boy with his talons and in a red and golden flash both were gone.
*******
Neville loved
Greenhouse #3. Pomona Sprout kept here the most interesting - which
was almost always equal to "most dangerous" - plants;
Devil's Snare, Mandrakes and the like. He lovingly eyed the pots with
the young Mandrakes; for an observer from outside it may have seemed
he was talking to them. Nodding in satisfaction, he stepped up
to the cupboard and opened it. He searched for something only he knew
for a while, then, with a groan, he slammed the door close. "Almost
ripe, they are." He was caught unaware by the beautifully
feminine, yet timelessly old voice, echoing in the greenhouse, as it
seemed, from everywhere; from the ground, the water, from the air.
With a speed even he didn't know he was capable of, he turned around,
and in a smooth movement, drew his wand. When he saw the speaker, an
elderly, yet seemingly extremely powerful woman, something he didn't
understand made him lower his wand and he just stood there, eyeing
the newcomer with a quizzed look. She was dressed in a dark
green robe, made of very soft velvet. The robe was constantly
changing its colour, like wind sweeping through a field of young
barley. With a warm smile on her face, she stepped to the young
Mandrakes and lovingly caressed their bluish green leaves. Neville
could have sworn that the young plants purred with pleasure at her
touch. "Almost ripe, my children are. You've been taking
good care of them, young Longbottom," she "Will I
seem too impolite if I ask who you are, Madame?" he inquired
curiously, stepping closer. "I don't think you will,
young Longbottom. Which of my numerous names do you wish to hear?"
the matron replied, still smiling at the boy. "Whichever
you prefer, Madame. I can see that you're no ordinary person, so I'll
leave that to you," Neville nodded, carefully weighing his
answer. "Well, in that case, you can call me Mother Earth
or Gaia, young Longbottom, although I have a name of my own in all
6192 living languages of this planet, and many, many more in
languages, no longer existing," she answered, this time
seriously, and her voice multiplied, echoed again from all corners of
the greenhouse. "You've been taking good care of the
plants here. They are all healthy and well; they tell me that you
have a certain affinity with plants other people here do not have,"
she went on. "I do my best, Gaia," with a genuine
smile on his badly bruised face, Neville admitted. "Plants are
wonderful creatures, you know; you feed them, water them, re-plant
them, whenever needed, get rid of their parasites and they are
thankful. They present you with their beautiful flowers, they allow
you to eat their delicious fruit, they provide you with ingredients
for medicines and potions. They are thankful, very much unlike
people." "What is it that makes you sound
so..sorrowful, young Longbottom? I feel endless pain in your voice,"
she inquired, and touched the bruise on his right cheek with a
feather-light finger. The pain Neville was feeling ever since he'd
been beaten up by Crabbe and Goyle was instantly gone, leaving a very
pleasant sensation behind. "Why should I not feel pain
and sorrow with so much suffering going on these days?" snapped
Neville. The matron nodded, smiling understandingly. "Let
me tell you a secret, my child. Where there's pain, death and sorrow,
there's always Faith, Belief and Love. These three are my most
beloved, most cherished children," she whispered into his ear,
pointing to the entrance of the greenhouse with a wide
gesture. Three beautiful creatures, three young women
materialized seemingly from nowhere and with dancing steps they made
their way towards the duo. When they caught up, they kissed the
matron on her cheek, one by one, then, with an ethereal smile on
their perfect faces, stood there, observing the boy. "My
dearest children, this is young Neville Longbottom, greet him
properly!" Gaia smiled at her daughters. Swaying with her
hips, the first one, a thin girl with china-white skin, waist-length,
raven-black hair, wearing a simple white tunic, went up to Neville
and kissed him steadily on his cheek. "I'm Faith, young
Longbottom. Pleased to meet you." Walking with steady
steps, generously smiling, the second one, a long-haired, blond girl
with a freckled face, wearing a richly embroidered, golden dress,
went up to Neville and caressed his face with her Seductively winking at him, the third one, a
well-shaped, curvy redhead, wearing nothing but a skirt made of palm
leaves, threw her arms around Neville's neck and pressed her
magnificent, ripe body against him, causing him to moan with
pleasure. Brushing his lips with hers, she whispered in his ears,
"I'm Love, my dearest Neville. Feels so good to have you in my
arms, at last." "Go away! Don't ... just leave me
alone! You don't exist! You are only a product of my imagination!"
Neville cried in frustration. "Where were you when my parents
were tortured to insanity? Where were you when so many men, women,
children were murdered in cold blood, just for fun? Where were you
when so many lives were ruined, so many fates broken? You are
unreal!" "Does it seem unreal to you, Neville, that
a certain Harry Potter is hiding out there, somewhere in the woods of
England, calling out my name every night?" asked Faith, and the
power of her sweet voice made Neville's legs tremble. "His faith
is strong enough to carry on with the task laid on his shoulders 17
years ago." "Does it seem unreal to you, Neville,
that a certain Ginevra Weasley prays to me every night for the safe
return of her beloved Harry Potter?" asked Belief, and the power
of her singing voice sent a cold breeze across the greenhouse. "She
believes that their love will keep him out of harm's way and return
him to her safely, when this war ends." "Does it
seem unreal to you, Neville, that a certain Hannah Abbot goes to
sleep every night, mentioning YOUR name in her dreams?" asked
Love, and the power of her seductive voice cracked the glasses of the
greenhouse in their frames. "Have I not heard YOU numerous times
calling for her when you were in pain and desperation, when you were
alone?" Neville flushed red, but answered nothing. The
three graces giggled in a rather Earthly manner, then formed a circle
around him, danced an ancient dance and sung an ancient song in a
language Neville had no knowledge of. He just stood there in
amazement, enjoyed the beauty of their perfect bodies and wished this
dance, this song would never end. Seeing their gracious moves,
hearing their ethereal voices filled him with certainty, with joy,
lifted a stone from his heart, soothed his pain. When the song ended,
the four waved a last goodbye to the now smiling boy, blowing him a
last kiss through the air, then dissolved just as suddenly as they
had appeared. "Remember, young Longbottom, we shall
always be with you on your path, no matter where it might lead you,"
their last word was ringing in the boy's ear as he, still shaking his
head, just stood there, between his beloved plants, where he
belonged.
Neville stood in front of the Dark Lord himself. Behind him, in the defenders' line, stood those, who, just like him, stood up for what they believed in, stood up against the terror, the deaths, the suffering. The Dark Lord spoke, but Neville didn't hear him, didn't pay attention to his words.
He smiled. Suddenly, the Sorting Hat flew towards him and landed on his head, in flames. The flames couldn't burn him, couldn't harm him.
He smiled. The song of the three echoed in his mind. Faith. Believe. Love. Worth to live for, worth to fight for, worth to die for.
He smiled. He shook off the Full Body-bind curse Voldemort had put on him and reached for the Sorting Hat, in which he felt something hard and cold. He grabbed the handle of Godric Gryffindor's sword and the next second Nagini - and together with it Lord Voldemort - were history.