Written for Quidditch Leauge for the Falmouth Falcons.
I do not own Harry Potter.
Beater 2 Prompt: Write about a character who looks innocent on the outside but is evil on the inside.
Additional Prompts:
Song: Sail (AWOLnation)
Word: coincidence
Object: telescope
T/W: References to mental illness. The opinions expressed by characters in this work regarding mental illness do not reflect the views of the author or the Falmouth Falcons. The author would like to note that Tourette's Syndrome is actually a disorder, rather than a mental illness, and persons with Tourette's Syndrome are in no way 'mad' or 'insane.'
"And for how long have you been experiencing these… outbursts?"
"Two weeks exactly. SAIL!- first time it happened was when I was boarding -SAIL!- train to visit my Grandmother in Yorkshire."
Neville Longbottom shifted in his plush leather chair behind the imposing mahogany desk of his office. This was the third patient this month who had come in spouting off the same sorry story. It was practically an epidemic. Poor, suffering sobs.
The patient was still talking, bouncing his heels on Neville's expensive burgundy carpet. "-at first I chalked it up to a symptom of my A.D.D. I was diagnosed as a young boy, you see. But when it kept happening, I realized I was wrong. This isn't A.D.D."
Neville looked up from where he had drawn several swirly storm clouds on his ledger paper to the graceful salt-and-pepper hair of the muggle seated on his leather couch. "Mr. Greenstone, isn't it?"
Mr. Greenstone nodded sharply, apprehension shining from his intelligent grey eyes. "William, if you please."
"William, then. I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news for you. You are suffering from a condition known as 'Tourette's Syndrome.' There is no easy cure." He studied the man's face as it fell in reaction to the diagnosis.
"Please, Doctor Longbottom- if I don't figure out how to stop -SAIL!- screaming, I'm bound to be sacked. I already haven't had a sale for weeks."
Neville's head bobbed in an empathetic nod. "I understand it must be difficult. There is hope, however." He pulled out a sleek business card and poised his pen over it. "Come and see me once a week. We will work out a therapeutic program and try to get to the root of the problem. Can I assume that Mondays work well for you?"
"Yes, Mondays are -SAIL!- best day for me. -SAIL!- car lot is always very busy on -SAIL!- weekend, so I have -SAIL!- first of -SAIL!- workweek off."
"Excellent." Neville lips twitched upward as he scribbled a time and date on the back of his card and handed it to Mr. Greenstone. "I'll see you in a week."
As William Greenstone turned to exit from the heavy, hardwood door of Neville's office, the wizard allowed his mouth to twist upward into a sideways smirk. The door clicked shut, and he slid open the hidden compartment under his desk to pull out his wand and began watering the half-dozen plants scattered around his office with a quick Aguamenti.
Who was next on the roster today? Ah, yes, Mrs. Wormwood. He'd met her last year after she had returned from a holiday in Ireland. It was unusual for him to see a patient who had children; he hadn't known that about her until their third or fourth session. It hardly counted, though. She had disowned her only daughter when she'd fallen pregnant at the age of 15. Neville could hardly consider her a mother at all, really- what kind of parent abandons their child in a time of need?
Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.
A brightly painted wooden bird shot out of the antique clock hanging above Neville's aloe vera plant. It was nearly noon. He shoved his wand into the holster hidden in the long sleeve of his crisp button-down and headed for the lifts. It wouldn't do to be late for his lunch with Auror Potter.
He watched the number on the muggle elevator slowly decrease until it reached 'one' and strode out of the posh office building and down the street to the Leaky Cauldron. A thrill of nervous excitement pushed his heart rate from a walk to a trot as he spotted Harry, already seated in the busy pub.
"Harry! It's truly a pleasure. It's been since, what, last Christmas?"
Harry's lips tightened into a thin line as he stood to clap Neville on the shoulder. "Hello, Neville. Looking sharp as ever, I see." Harry's eyes traveled to the gold designer watch adorning Neville's wrist.
"As are you." Neville slid gingerly into the grimy booth Potter had picked. He wondered if it would leave his suit pants sticky. "How's the family? Didn't little Albus start Hogwarts this year?"
Harry's shoulders relaxed at the mention of his middle child. "I can't believe how quickly the time's gone." His expression turned ponderous as he eyed his companion. "I thought I saw you there at the train station when we dropped him off. I didn't think you knew anyone at Hogwarts this year?"
"I don't. I was there on business."
"That's very interesting. It was that same trip to King's Cross that triggered my current investigation. I ran into a Muggle on my way out- he was displaying the strangest behavior."
Neville's responding smile was icy.
That particular business trip had landed him a rather annoying patient by the name of Ferndown. Neville suspected he might be making a full recovery sooner than expected. He shuddered as the barmaid came around to take their lunch orders.
The pair sat in tense silence until the barmaid settled platters of Witch and Chips in front of them. Harry dipped a chip into a paper cup of rather soupy ketchup and lifted an eyebrow. "I couldn't stop thinking about the muggle's behavior. Did you know there's been a sudden increase in the number of cases of 'Tourette's Syndrome?' Tell me, Neville: you're a psychiatrist. What do you think is happening?"
Neville shrugged. "Muggles are funny creatures. Who knows what causes their madness? All I can hope to do is help them find their way through it."
Harry set his glass of pumpkin juice on the wooden tabletop with a clunk. "Seems a bit odd, though, doesn't it? I've done the research- adult onset of Tourette's is rare. And all these cases with the same bizarre tic within the last few years?"
Neville's face was a blank mask as he stared back across the table. "Have you ever heard of the dancing plague of 1518?"
"You mean when all those muggles danced themselves to death?" Harry's eyes narrowed into slits. "Neville, that is widely believed to be caused by a wizard with a vengeance."
Neville shrugged and fought back a smirk. "Or maybe it was simply a… coincidence. Muggles are weird. They have weird disorders."
Harry's eyes seemed to bore right through him as he settled the lunch bill and rose from the bench. "I'll be in touch, Dr. Longbottom.
That night, Neville settled down in his plush velvet armchair next to the potted nightshade plant in his study. The ice cubes crashed together in his tumbler as he stared out through the enormous picture-glass window overlooking the small muggle town of Bakewell.
He tipped back the last of his firewhiskey and set the glass down on a wooden coaster before moving over to the magical telescope positioned in front of the window. He fiddled with the lens, adjusting it to focus on a spot several blocks away- the home of a Mr. Robert Treebark.
Mr. Treebark had been Neville's first patient. Neville had just completed his Ph.D. in psychology, or so it appeared. The muggles didn't need to know that he had relied heavily on magic to accelerate the completion of his degree. Idiots. They'd never know the difference.
He smiled as the yellow light from a familiar living room came into focus through the viewfinder. Robert hadn't drawn the curtains yet tonight. He could see him relaxing on his sofa, a head of long, blonde hair leaning against his shoulder. He flipped a switch on the side of the telescope and it began to relay the sounds from Robert's living room.
"I've had a wonderful time, Robert. Do you suppose we could meet again?"
"I'd like that. Most people run -SAIL!- other way as soon as -SAIL!- first tic comes out. I appreciate you sticking with me; giving me a chance."
Neville kicked at the ground and shut off the sound. How was it possible that this crazy muggle could charm a date, yet he, a perfectly normal wizard, was destined for loneliness?
He slumped back down into his armchair.
These muggles didn't deserve to find happiness. Was it too much to ask that someone should be held accountable for his parents' descent to madness? His parents had been tortured into insanity to save the hides of these ungrateful, oblivious muggles. Surely at least a token few should have to suffer as Frank and Alice Longbottom had.
He bolted up from his chair and marched to his coat rack. If Robert wasn't going to pay the price for his parent's sacrifices, somebody else would have to.
The overcast sky obscured the stars as Neville arrived at King's Cross station. Only a few trains were running at this time of night, but there were still a handful of muggles scurrying about the platforms with their ridiculous rolling suitcases.
He scoffed as a tall, handsome man in a well-tailored suit held a muggle mobile to his ear next to platform eleven. He had set his briefcase down by his feet, and a closer inspection revealed the name "James Rosewood" in gold embossed letters.
Neville approached platform eleven armed with a mobile of his own. He stared down at the screen as his ears perked up to listen in on the man's conversation.
"Yes, Mother; I'll let you know as soon as I arrive." The man paused as the tinny voice rambled into his ear. "No, she wasn't interested. Something about focusing on her career."
This was sounding promising. Neville preferred his patients to be alone. He considered himself a man of morals. Even a muggle child didn't deserve to be cursed with the heartache of watching their parent slowly descend into insanity.
"I don't know. And if you keep pressuring me, you may never have grandchildren at all!"
There it was. The words to seal this man's doom. Normally Neville liked to spend a bit more time with his potential clients, but tonight he was feeling impatient; unsettled. He glanced around the station and pulled his wand out of his long shirtsleeve.
A foggy haze drifted from his wand point as he waved it in a complicated swirling motion. "Reponere."
His mark startled slightly, and Neville muttered additional memory and befuddlement charms under his breath to ensure the man wouldn't discover the trigger. Such a simple spell- child's play, really. Every time the muggle tried to say "the", he would be forced to scream "SAIL" instead. Just like autocorrect on those ridiculous- yet, even he had to admit- ingenious- muggle calling devices.
The man was still carrying on with his obnoxious conversation. "I have to go. -SAIL!- train is-" The man recoiled, his eyes wide as galleons and eyebrows reaching for his hairline. He tried again. "I don't know, Mother. I apologize. But I really must be going; my ticket for -SAIL!-" He clapped a hand over his mouth and his phone clattered to the ground.
Neville smiled towards his phone. This was one of his favorite parts- they were so funny when they first realized their lives were falling apart. He was so wrapped up with listening to this muggle's panic that he didn't hear the soft footsteps closing in behind him.
Suddenly a wiry hand closed tightly around his bicep.
Crack.
The suffocating squeeze of apparition sent shockwaves through his system. He hadn't quite recovered himself when he landed on the hard tile floor of a small, windowless room.
He blinked up at the messy-haired wizard standing before him. Harry Potter had the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers, his wand held at attention in his other hand. "I hate this," he muttered into the deep scarlet of his Auror's robes.
"Neville Longbottom, you are under arrest for the improper use of magic against muggles." Harry dropped his hand to his side and looked into his former friends' face. "But why, Neville? Was it about the money?"
Neville glowered. "I think you, of all people, would understand. Your aunt and uncle mistreated you endlessly. Don't you think they deserved to be punished?"
Harry stiffened. "Is that what you were doing? Punishing? But why so many?"
"You tell me, Harry: how many muggle minds are Frank and Alice Longbottom worth? How many threads of sanity would I have to collect to repay the debt the people incurred when my parents lost their minds to protect them?"
"You're insane!"
Neville's responding laugh was cold and maniacal. "How convenient, then, that I have the degree necessary to fix myself."
Harry sighed, his shoulders falling with his breath. "Oh, Neville. The only fixing you'll be doing for the foreseeable future will be fixing the sheets on your cot in Azkaban." He held out his left hand, his wand still clutched tightly in his right. "Are you going to hand over your wand willingly, or are you going to make me curse you?"
Neville smiled grimly for a moment before passing the cherry wood wand to Harry's waiting hand. He hadn't quite reached his goal, but at least he would have his memories. Forty-two muggles' lives had crumbled under his ingenious little spell. Their faces would keep him company for many lonely nights to come.