The Spark of Rebellion
Neville felt them now before he saw them. As he stood looking down at his trunk, half packed with school books and clothes, he felt a dark chill roll over his spine. He shuddered, wrapped his arms around his chest and rushed to the window to look outside.
He didn't really need to look anymore. He knew what was happening. But, not looking felt cowardly somehow. If he didn't watch it happen, he could pretend that it wasn't happening. He could pretend that nothing had changed. That was not something Neville ever wanted to do.
So, steadily, almost defiantly, he swallowed hard and stared at the two black figures gliding down the street. They were followed by two large, cloaked men. One of the men held his wand aloft and a silvery white crow had emerged from it, flying back and forth guarding the wizards against the dark presence of the Dementors.
They stopped in front of the house directly across from Neville's own. Neville's heart sunk as the second wizard walked up to the door.
Old Mr. Timmons tonight. The same Mr. Timmons who had lived across from them ever since Neville could remember; the Mr. Timmons who had visited every day after Neville's granddad had died; Mr. Timmons who used to have an almost never ending supply of sweets for Neville from his pockets.
Neville couldn't help but wonder how the old man had lasted this long.
Mr. Timmons did not seem alarmed when he saw the men there. It was as though he was expecting them. He didn't fight when the man at the door took his arm and forced him between the two Dementors.
Before the men prodded him down the street, Mr. Timmons did pause for one moment. He looked to Neville's window and met his eyes. Amazingly, Mr. Timmons lifted his hand to Neville and waved.
Neville felt his eyes widen. A sense of being utterly helpless filled him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to yell at the men standing casually behind the Dementors. He had a sudden reckless urge to rush down with his wand and try to fight them.
But, Neville knew that was impossible. He couldn't overcome two grown wizards on his own, there was no possible way he could fight Dementors and no one seemed to be able to fight the ministry.
Instead of fighting or screaming or banging on the window sill, Neville simply opened his hand and, still looking into the old man's eyes, raised it to Mr. Timmons as he had done a million times before.
Mr. Timmons gave Neville one last good natured smile before being prodded to move by the death eaters at his rear.
He watched them as they walked down the street and pressed his hand against the glass so hard that it nearly stuck when Neville moved it as the strange looking group turned a corner and out of sight.
Neville cursed under his breath as he went back to packing.
He reached down and shoved his clothes and books into his trunk as forcefully and angrily as he could. It seemed that was the only outlet for his frustration.
Of course, he could whip out his wand and break the lamp by his bedside or the picture frame on his desk but, his Grandmother would give him hell for that. She'd forbidden the use of magic in her house even though it was permissible now that Neville was seventeen.
He'd agreed to the rule with nothing more than an eye roll. Fighting his grandmother never ended well. It was usually best just to go along with her.
Neville slammed the trunk shut and it made a satisfyingly loud clunk. He hoped, in vain, that the death eaters down the street had heard it. If they did, he hoped they had correctly interpreted it as an act of defiance. Though, he knew this was beyond ludicrous, it made him feel better to think about it.
"Neville? What was that noise?" His face flushed as he heard his grandmother's voice call up the stairs.
"Nothing Gran," Neville said, "I just tripped over my trunk."
It was an easy enough lie. He had tripped over various objects more times than he was able to count.
"Well, hurry up," Gran said with a resigned tone. "we've got a long journey ahead of us."
"I'll be down in just one minute," Neville said.
The truth was, the journey to the Leaky Cauldron in London should not have been that long at all. But, security at the little bar had apparently reached a high point and people were getting held up and searched regularly by guards posted outside. Searches got more thorough as the sun went down.
It would be best to get there when it was still light out.
So, Neville went quickly beneath his bed and removed the small box that did not belong in his trunk. This emerald green box edged with gold always stayed in the pocket of his robes. It held his most cherished possessions and he always like to have it near by.
With a feeling of recklessness, he opened the top of the box though he realized that he truly didn't need to. He knew all the contents from memory. Just inside the latch was a small picture of his parents waving and smiling at him. Just beneath that was a single gold galleon.
It looked completely unremarkable and even a little tarnished. But, when one bent forward and took a long look at the roman numerals edging at the bottom, one would see just how truly remarkable this galleon was.
The roman numerals on this coin were not a serial number at all but a date. This gold piece was one of twenty-eight created by Neville's friend, Hermione Granger. In their fifth year at school, Neville had joined Dumbledore's Army. A secret club named for their then disgraced headmaster.
There, they learned all sorts of defensive spells which they would need to fend off dark magic.
Edged in gold on the coin just as it was in his memory was the fateful night the coin was last used. Only he and his friend Luna had answered the call then. Only he Luna, Ginny, Hermione, Ron, and Harry were awake to fight the death eaters who had invaded the school.
Only he and his closest friends were there to learn that...
Neville tried to push all thoughts of the night aside. He instead forced a smile as he remembered the look on that horrible Zacharius Smith's face when Neville had managed to disarm him for the first time in the room of requirement.
Beneath the galleon sat other objects which would appear just as odd to the untrained eye. Nearly fifty bubblegum wrappers created a cushion for the gold coin. Neville found that he could not even force a smile when he looked at these.
They were gifts from his Mother.
She did not live with Neville of course. Now, she lived at Saint Mungo's hospital for magical maladies and injuries along with Neville's father. They had both been tortured to insanity by Death Eaters when Neville was only one-year-old.
Since then, every Christmas and holiday when he and Gran went to visit, Neville's mother would give her son a bubble gum wrapper. It was the only acknowledgement Neville had ever received from her.
Of course, Neville hadn't kept all of them. Only about seven years worth.
Gran didn't know about the wrappers or his box. No doubt she would think it extremely silly for him to be so sentimental about such things.
He took the small box and deposited it in the pocket of his robe. He made to stand before something else caught his eye beneath his bed.
It was a faded, crumpled newspaper. He checked the date and realized that it was August second. One week ago. Just after the Ministry had been infiltrated.
"Harry Potter: Wanted for Questioning in the Murder of Albus Dumbledore" the headline blared.
When he'd received it by Owl, Neville had given it one disgusted look and tossed it beneath his bed. His Gran had canceled their Daily Prophet subscription two years before.
But, Neville had grown rather tired of showing up to school without having any knowledge of what was going on.
Now that he looked at it, despite knowing that it would put him in a more foul mood than he was already in, he decided that this year wasn't any different. He had to know what these people were saying about his friend. Even if it enraged him.
So, he turned to the article on page five and began to read.
Harry Potter, the young Wizard famous for his mysterious defeat of the Dark Lord, has long been lauded as a hero and role model for the Wizarding world. However, recent events, namely the mysterious and untimely death of Albus Dumbledore have cast a pallor on Potter's squeaky clean image. On Saturday Evening at 9 pm following the resignation of Rufus Scrimgeour, The Ministry for Magic issued a warrant for Potter's arrest in connection with the death of Albus Dumbledore. "We only want to question him for now," Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse said regarding the warrant, "though, as new evidence comes to light, we may be taking further action."
As revealed by Rita Skeeter in an interview about her upcoming book "The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore", Potter was seen running away from the Tower where Dumbledore fell on the night of his death. Potter is now thought to be on the run possibly with one companion. The Ministry is encouraging anyone with information regarding Potter's whereabouts to come forward.
Neville swore, crumpled the paper and threw it to the ground. He had been right not to read it in the first place.
All it had done was give him more evidence that you know who had completely taken over the ministry. As if Dementors and Death Eater squads rounding up his neighbors wasn't enough of a tip off.
Wanting to do something with the freshly renewed anger surging through him, he went over to his closed trunk and kicked it forcefully. It slid across the floor and smashed into the back wall of his room.
"Neville!" Gran's voice called up the stairs, "what in Merlin's name are you doing?"
"Nothing, Gran!" Neville called feeling his cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment. "I'm coming down now."
"You had bettered be," Gran said, "and if you're not here within two minutes, I'm coming up there to fetch you."
"Ok," he called back.
There was nothing for it now but to hurry. He still felt angry and restless but, those feelings would have to be set aside for the moment.
He picked up his trunk and dragged it to the door of his room. When he reached the door, however, he caught site once again of the crumpled newspaper. A rebellious urge surged through him. He reached down and grabbed the paper.
Pulling out his wand from his robes, he muttered
"Incendio."
The paper immediately caught fire he threw it into the bin, and with a satisfied smirk watched the words "Daily Prophet" char and cur as they faded to black.
"Neville!"
He could hear his Grandmother's footsteps clomping up the stairs.
"Aguamenti," he muttered quickly.
A burst of water spilled over the fire. Neville put his wand back in his robes and dragged his trunk to the door just as his Grandmother was opening it.
"I'm ready, Gran," he said, "I just had to grab a couple of things."
Neville's Gran gave another of her long-suffering sighs before saying.
"Come on then. It's almost dusk and we want to get there before dark."
She turned and moved down the stairs. Neville took one last look at the newspaper, now reduced to ash in his trash bin and, with another smile, followed in his Grandmother's wake.