AN: For mrsremusjohnlupin, who is lovely and wonderful. I started out writing Neville, but Hannah worked so much better. Hope you don't mind. :)
And, for the record, being locked in somewhere is terrifying, especially when you're under the age of ten. My cousins (who were seven and eight) locked me in a boys' bathroom at our family reunion when I was six. I was traumatized and still cringe when I see urinals.
Oh, and I don't know what my deal with being alone and stuff is lately. Sheesh.
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
When Hannah is five years old (or maybe four, she can't really remember), her cousin locks her in the basement, with all the lights turned off.
(Later, the seven year old will claim it was an accident—of course she didn't lock Hannah in the basement, and how dare you accuse her of that?)
Hannah screams herself hoarse, but nobody hears her, and she sits huddled on the couch and wraps her arms around herself and tries to sing the song Mummy always sings when it thunderstorms, but her voice is gone, so she can't. She cries instead, while the adults search frantically for her everywhere, and when someone—Daddy—finally realizes where she must be and unlocks the door and lets light come streaming in, Hannah looks up, irrationally terrified, and he comes running and grabs her and Hannah feels safe.
She's not claustrophobic, because cramped spaces don't really bother her, but she doesn't like the dark, and she keeps a light by her bedside even when she goes to Hogwarts.
She can't shake that feeling of being abandoned and it's not so much the dark that bothers her (because there's really nothing to be scared of, in the dark), rather that feeling of being the only person who is alive, the only person on this planet and that scares her, even five, ten, twelve years later.
With the soft light from the little lamp her mother bought her the day after she got locked in the basement, she can see her dorm mates' faces and she is not alone.
It's funny, because it is a week after her mother has died before Hannah really realizes that her mother is dead, and the only thing she can think of when Professor Sprout pulls her into her office and sits her down and says would you like some tea and tells Hannah her mother—well, the only thing she can think of is that being dead must be really lonely, if there's no heaven.
(That's why Hannah starts believing in heaven. Because she just can't afford to be afraid of death, and the only way she's going to be brave enough to live without her mother is if she has faith she will see her again someday. Plus, it's a lot easier to stand up to the Carrows when death doesn't feel like abandonment and feels more like coming home.)
She leaves the light in her mother's casket, just in case, because if death is dark and lonely, she wants her mother to know she's not alone.
Hannah is not brave. She is several things—loyal, nice, kind, friendly, and sweet—but she is not brave and standing up to the Carrows will be the bravest (and also the stupidest) thing she's ever done. She's not eager to repeat the experience, but that night Neville stands in front of them and says he's so proud to be their leader, and that they need to keep on keeping on for Harry and by the end of it, Hannah (and Susan and Padma and Parvati and Lavender and everyone) will follow Neville to the ends of the earth and back again, Carrows be damned.
(Neville is brave. He's also loyal, nice, kind, friendly, and sweet, along with a plethora of other adjectives, but he is mostly brave, and that's kind of why Hannah starts to fall in love with him, because he keeps standing up to the Carrows and keeps them standing up to the Carrows, when Hannah would have just stayed in the background. She is a Hufflepuff, after all—they are the background, and Neville lends her a bit of crimson for awhile, to sacrifice a bit of herself for the war.)
Hannah is not brave, but Neville is brave enough for all of them.
Little Meredith Anderson's screams will probably haunt her dreams—nightmares, but when reality is a nightmare in and of itself, you have to differentiate somehow—for years to come.
Hannah holds Meredith like she imagines she might hold her children one day, her face pressed into the girl's brown hair that still smells like smoke, while Meredith shakes and trembles into a restless sleep.
(The Room of Requirement is dark, because everyone is trying to sleep, and Hannah holds Meredith closer, because it's really not the dark she's scared of. She wishes for the light that's buried in a graveyard somewhere, and squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out the darkness. Someone comes to sit next to her and she jumps, because, well, they're in a war, and there's a deep chuckle and someone's arm around her shoulders and the smell of fresh dirt and sweat and peppermint, and Hannah realizes it's Neville. He whispers that he saw she was awake, and she smiles gratefully at him, for lending her a little bit more of his crimson courage. After awhile, he squeezes her shoulder and walks off to check on someone else, but when Hannah glances down at the spot he was sitting, there is a dully glowing globe of light and Hannah squeezes it in her hand, and is thankful.)
She doesn't realize she's singing the thunderstorm song until she's finished it, and her tears seep into Meredith's hair, Neville's light clutched in her fist.
After the war is harder than she thought it would be, because it's not like anyone said "oh, well, the hard part's killing off Voldemort, once you've done that, you've got it made," but they all just kind of expected it.
It's not like that. Not at all; reconstruction is painful. It's like rebreaking bones, to set them properly, and a part of Hannah just wishes they'd have let them be, because this hurts.
(Neville says it's a good hurt, and squeezes her hand when they bury Ernie and Colin and Remus and Tonks and Fred. They all couldn't survive this war, and this is part of the healing process, ripping away scar tissue where they've let those wounds just scab over quickly. "Things need to heal properly," Neville whispers in her hair, "or they just cause problems down the road." Hannah knows he is right—her grandfather's trick knee is proof of this—but it doesn't really make it hurt any less, and she tells him so. He smiles sadly and shrugs. "Well, no. But at least you know things will get better eventually." Hannah clings to that, when she has to talk about her mother's death. Things will get better eventually, she repeats to herself. They will.)
The last funeral is five weeks after the war, and Hannah goes home and burns all of her black clothes. Neville asks languidly what she's going to wear to the Memorial service and Hannah tells him she's going to wear something bright and obnoxious. She will not mourn anymore. She will not.
This morning is the 20th anniversary and Hannah checks the clock before snuggling back against her husband. She has approximately 7.5 minutes before their three-year-old decides it's time for breakfast and she is going to enjoy it.
(Neville snuggles into her hair and she smiles, patting his arm. "Iyuhoo," he mutters, and Hannah smiles. "I love you, too," she says, and her eyes find the tiny globe of light sitting on her bedside table. The arms around her tell her she is never alone, never abandoned, but it never hurts to have a little reminder.)
Hannah wears pink to the 20th anniversary service and carries a small light in her pocket. She is never alone.