He ran down the pavement, not bothering about how he must look to the muggles. His hair and robes were a mess. He'd pushed his broom as fast as it'd go over the French countryside and then across the English Channel. Once the owl had arrived, he hadn't even bothered to tell the others where he was going. He'd lifted his wand, screamed "Accio Broom!" and took to the skies.
The chilly rains of London barely even slowed him down as he came slidding to a stop infront of the empty boutique.
"Frank and Alice Longbottom!"
The mannequin turned its gaze onto him and then granted him passage. He by-passed the reception witch without a second glance. He entered the lifted and almost cracked the button he pressed it so hard. His foot tapped anxiously at the slow progress the metal cage made up the shaft. When the gates started opening, he forced them all the way open so he could squeeze through. He paused only for a moment before opening the door to the ward.
The curtains were pulled closed around their beds, but he could see shadows moving behind them. Neville forced the lump on his throat down before slipping through the fabric. There they were, looking every bit like they always did, but at the same time, nothing like he'd always known them.
There was a young woman, a witch around his age sitting between the two, looking utterly exhausted. A tray of differing potions and ingredients floated near her shoulder, looking like most the bottles were now empty. Her wand hung limply in her hand, a faint purple glow coming from the tip, as if it had been casting a spell for so long it was admitting magcal residue. There was a glisten to her paling skin. Her brown hair was lack-luster and frizzing out, vaguely reminding him of Hermoine's.
Madam Josefina grabbed the woman's elbow and lifted her to her feet. She swayed for a moment, and may have fallen if it wasn't for the healers strong grip. The Madam pulled the woman from the curtained off room. He couldn't see her face from the bangs hanging haphazardly in the way. He watched her go, knowing she must be the one responsible.
"Neville..."
Neville turned around, staring at his mother. If it hadn't been for the voice being female, even gravely from nonuse for over twenty years, he wouldn't have known it was her. His throat became tight, constricting his breath. But even so, he walked to stand between the two beds. Both sets of eyes were clear for the first time that he could remember. He had been so strong for so long. He had fought in the Great War, beheaded Voldemort's snake, and now was beginning his career as a teacher. But all of that idn't stop his knees from giving out. It didn't stop the tears from falling or the loud sob to escape when he felt both of his parent's frail arms wrap around him in recognition.
Omg I can't believe I just did that. Is it bad that I wrote it yet I'm slightly tearing up? I've always wanted this to happen, for someone to discover a cure for madness and fix Frank and Alice. 'Cause honestly, to me, Neville's story is the saddest out of all the characters, even more so than Harry's. And I mean, come on. It's a world full of wizards and witches. Think of all the spells and potions they have. And NOONE has discovered how to fix madness? I mean, they figured out the Wolfsbane potion, didn't they?