Awakenings
Battle of Hogwarts
Stupid. That was stupid.
Ginny Weasley chided herself for being momentarily distracted by a curse that blasted a hole in the cold stone wall halfway across the Great Hall. The split second had been enough for Bellatrix Lastrange to gain an advantage. An insurmountable advantage.
Ginny retreated, her steps backing her into a corner, fighting panic like ice flooding her veins. Shit. Shit! She's too strong. I can't…
Molly Weasley turned to see her youngest in deadly duel with the dark haired, heavy-lidded witch. The words that tore from her lips at the top of her lungs, with hardly a thought to her audience, roared through the chamber, "NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!" and she advanced on the Death Eater with malice entirely her own, fueled by unimaginable grief.
Within a minute, Lastrange was a memory.
St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Fourth Floor, Janus Thickey Ward
Off-white.
She'd been staring at the wall when her eyes suddenly…focused. The walls were off-white.
It was that tedious, boring color she had always despised, the one color she had refused to let occupy her home. She'd never been demanding about a great many things; perhaps her clothes were always a bit plain, and her cars, always sedans, a tad predictable. She'd never known why, but this was different—something inside compelled her to take a stand on this tiny, inconsequential thing. Before she and Frank had even moved in, she'd insisted the insipid off-white walls of the home were painted over and replaced by a cheery color, canary, tangerine, lime, something…anything else but that banal, God awful, off-white.
Where am I?
Memories tumbled back to her, a jumbled mess of incoherency, and then a recollection of a pain so terrible, a lancing pain had that bitten her mind clean through, giving it no choice but to retreat into a corner and simply stay there, disconnecting itself from the world.
She turned to look over her shoulder and saw the one person she desired to see most: her husband. "Frank…" Her word escaped as a croak, as if she hadn't used her voice in, well…years.
"Alice…?" Their eyes locked, in them the understanding that they were both…here. Wherever that was.
And alive.
His question hung in the air. It was Frank, she knew, he just didn't resemble the Frank she remembered. His hair had begun to thin; he was pasty, as if he hadn't seen sunshine in a very long time. His once lean, muscular body was enfeebled and he was wearing…a hospital gown.
"Bellatrix…"
This was no question, however.
Alice moved to get up from her chair, and stumbled. She put her hand to her mouth as a half sob, half cry exploded from her lips, her last clear memory surfacing: her husband writhing on the floor in excruciating pain, desperately trying to survive the torture of the curse that enveloped them both. Embroiled in her own fight, she had been powerless to do anything to help. She bent double and began to cry, still covering her mouth with her hand, the other reaching out toward Frank.
A healer strode into the room, her eyes concentrating on the clipboard in her hands. She looked up to see Frank Longbottom supporting Alice in a fierce hug, as she sobbed violently. Frank looked over his shoulder and met the healer's eyes. "The year….what year is it?" he asked in a fierce whisper.
The healer's clipboard clattered to the floor, the sound echoing around the room like a boomerang.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Great Hall
The brown owl soared through the destruction, rubble and smoke obscuring the familiar alcoves and shapes of the battered castle. If any of the dazed and battle-weary noticed the owl, none commented or bothered to follow its path with their eye.
It knew its destination. The recipient of the post was seated on a mangled bench; in one hand, he held the Sword of Gryffindor, in the other, Luna Lovegood's hand. The bird dropped the post in front of the couple, and took off quickly through a now-shattered window. Luna bent to pick it up.
"Look, Neville, a post. It's for you," Luna chimed in a singsong voice. She held it up for him to take.
"You read it, Luna," Neville responded without turning his head.
"Okay." Luna hummed as she opened letter, stopping when she began to read the contents. "Neville, I think you'd like to read this one. It's from St. Mungo's."
He took it from her, confused. He couldn't imagine any post from St. Mungo's that he would like to read. "Holy shit…" he muttered.
"Right? I think you need to go. We'll be all right here." She smiled at him rapturously.
He looked her in the eye. "Come with me, Luna."
"Okay," she responded airily, and they moved towards Ron and Hermione, seated on a nearby bench.
"Can you hold this for me? I want to give it to Harry but…" Neville looked around. "I can't find him right now." He handed them the sword.
"Neville, are you all right?" Hermione asked.
"I…I'm not sure. My…parents...they just woke up from the curse. I have to go…"
Hermione gasped. "Neville, that's…wonderful."
"Yeah…"
Hermione looked to Luna. "Oh, I'll go with him, don't worry," she responded to the unasked question. "I'll make sure he gets there."
St. Mungo's Hospital
"We're here," commented Luna breezily, as she and Neville turned the corner to the ward on the fourth floor. The corridors below had been strangely deserted, almost eerie: any available mediwizard had been called to Hogwarts to assist the injured. Here on the fourth floor, only one mediwitch, familiar to Neville because of his many visits there, had been left to tend the entire floor. She looked up as they rounded the corner.
"Neville," she said, greeting him, voice filled with emotion. "I can't explain it. Your parents just…awoke." In response to the question he hadn't posed yet, she added, "and they seem to be fine. Absolutely…fine."
Neville responded only by holding on to Luna's hand even tighter, and resumed walking down the hall.
He looked and his parents—long ago lost to him by their courage—were seated on his father's bed, holding hands, looking at him expectantly. They were beaming at him.
The light in their eyes had returned.
Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter are the express property of J. K. Rowling.