Dearest

by mypetelephant

In the horror of his seventh year, Neville finds the greatest comfort in a cry no one else can hear and a room no one else can see.

This story was written for Horror Fest 2014 over at the hp_darkarts LJ comm. Huge thanks to Shan for coming in at the last-minute to help beta, as well as to the mods for their patience and help (especially with pointing out those massive points of canon I forgot about).

Warning: This story involves infanticide and deals with issues related to mental illness.

I hope you enjoy the story!

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The house is charming. She never would have bought it, but her husband insisted it would be perfect. There's a little cobblestone path that leads up to the door, surrounded by grass on both sides and a garden that is constantly full of chirps. There are curtains colored in a pale blue, which are pulled only to hide the soft white couches and the light gray pillows.

She hates it.

She'll be able to leave soon, and her body will be free to do as she pleases. She just needs a few days.

But the baby has other plans. She feels a pressure inside her, and she knows that whatever hope she had that the baby would wait has failed her. She clutches the side of the expectant crib in pain, then again as the pain doubles. Her husband isn't here, and maybe that's for the best. This is her work, and she will see it through to the end.

The pain goes on for hours, and it's just her in the nursery waiting for brief moments of relief as she cries and screams and yells. She tries to breathe, but it's so much harder than the Healers made it sound. And it is hours of this as she lowers herself to the ground and grips the sides of the cradle, grips them so tight they leave sharp indents in her palms.

By the time the baby arrives, the sun has started to set over her perfect little charming house with its perfect little charming nursery. And the crying starts, so loud and persistent as if it will never end.

She holds the baby in her arms, and she wants for a second to stop everything. She looks at his little brown eyes, and counts his fingers and toes. She stops herself before she gets carried away.

The cradle rocks from side to side, but the baby isn't in it. She keeps pushing the cradle anyway. She likes the sound each sway makes, forming a beat that measures the sound of the child's breaths until finally, with a snap, there are no breaths at all.

She places the baby in the cradle, and she instinctively places a blanket over him, even though she knows it cannot make him warm.

It was the lack of voices that struck Neville first when he stepped onto Platform 9 ¾. There were sounds-trolleys wheeling across pavement, engines sputtering, and the occasional sound of clanging bells-but everyone's words were whispers, and no one seemed to want to say good-bye.

From a distance, Neville heard the boisterous laugh of a delegation that seemed determined to show just how above the melodrama they were. Students accompanied by parents whose sleeves peeked up just enough to show the curled end of a tattoo. Neville's hands curled into fists as they approached, but he reminded himself that Gran was with him. Now was not the time.

"Such awful posture," Gran said in a loud whisper as they passed. "You'd think they'd stand up a little straighter if they're going to be so proud."

One of the fathers turned his head to look at Gran. Gran sent him a steely gaze back, lips pursed as she scrutinized his posture. Neville had to hide his smile when he saw the man's back straighten.

His mood sobered quickly when he saw the nervous face of a young student trying to navigate around the group of Death Eaters. Neville thought back to his first year at Hogwarts, and he remembered all the anxiety of school and friends, and wondering whether he would have friends at all. But he'd also been excited. His parents had been to Hogwarts, and he'd always felt that the school would be the closest he would ever come to knowing his parents outside of stories and visits to St Mungo's.

At the thought, Neville patted a pocket on the inside of his bag. There was a rectangular lump covered with the fabric of the pocket, and Neville relaxed knowing that it was there. He was sure that Gran noticed, but she didn't say anything. She just patted him on his arm, then asked if he was sure that he had all his books.

A loud voice announced that the train would be departing soon. Slowly, with last minute hugs and waves, students started to surge towards the doors of the train. Neville turned to Gran and gave her one last hug. "Stay safe, Gran." Neville couldn't remember ever telling her to stay safe.

"Don't get yourself killed," she countered, full of her usual tact. She touched his cheek, an unusual display of affection from her. "You'll be fine. I know it." She smiled, and Neville wasn't sure what was more surprising: her vote of confidence, or the fear she seemed to hide under it.

"Have you heard from them?" Luna asked the question so quietly that Neville barely heard it over the sound of the train moving along tracks. They were sitting in a compartment with Ginny and Seamus. No one needed a clarification on who "them" was.

Ginny shook her head. She offered something of a strained smile, the sort of look that hoped that no news really was the best news. The posters declaring Harry Potter a wanted man had been hung everywhere, even in the corridors of the train, and in a way, it made Neville less scared. He didn't know what Harry was doing, but he also knew that Ron was definitely not stuck at home with spattergroit.

Wherever Harry was, Ron and Hermione were with him. That was more than most people could say these days.

Seamus stayed quiet. There was no wanted poster for Dean, just a line on the Muggle-born registry with his name on it. Would they even hear if anything happened to him?

They passed the beginning of the ride playing card games. The Weasleys had designed lines of specialty playing cards, and between trying to figure out which ones exploded and which ones changed suit, they were all temporarily relieved of worries they had no control over. Neville began toying with the watchband on his wrist, reflecting light around the compartment

"Oh, Neville, what a beautiful watch," Luna exclaimed, grabbing his wrist to examine it further.

Neville flushed. "Thanks. It was my dad's. Gran gave it to me. You know, for my birthday." The silver color of the band encircled a face that was simple: a navy blue spotted with stars. The first night he'd had it, he had stared at it for hours and tried to see how much of his father's personality he could discern from it.

There must be a few boys in their year with new watches, Neville thought. What a time to come of age.

People pass by their door, and Neville noticed a few double takes when people saw Ginny. But if she noticed, she didn't say anything. Instead, she chose to carry on a debate with Seamus about the Holyhead Harpies and their chances of making it to the league championships, punctuated by Luna declaring that snitches were part of a dragon conspiracy

Neville closed his eyes, relaxing as the voices of his friends made the train ride to Hogwarts feel almost normal.

When he opens his eyes, he's in a nursery. He has few standards for what a nursery should look like, but this seems about as nice as any. The crib has white lace along the side, and there were blue curtains that let a soft ray of light into the room

A woman comes in, her features obscured by a long wave of dark hair. Neville can't see her face, but she moves gracefully. She scoops the baby into her arms, cooing as she brings it closer to her body. The baby gurgles in delight, and Neville stands transfixed as the woman sways back and forth while rocking the child

"Would you like to hold him?"

Neville doesn't register her voice at first. Both her voice and her face seem familiar, but they seem to be missing something. He feels like he just isn't seeing her clearly enough, but the more he squints to focus on her face, the harder it is to see her.

The woman holds out the baby for him. "Don't worry, he'll be fine."

Neville takes the baby into his arms. He's rocking the little boy before he even knows what he's doing.

"See, he likes you," the woman notes, as if proving Neville wrong on some point. "Such a shame though. Will you do it?"

Neville raises his head in confusion. He doesn't know what the woman is talking about, but he is sure that he doesn't want to do it.

The woman seems displeased with his response. "That's what I thought," she says, and the disappointment in her voice makes Neville consider giving in. Anything to make her happy.

She takes the baby from his arms, and with little fanfare, snaps his neck. In that second, Neville realises that he knew what she was going to do all along.

She must see the horror on his face because all she says before leaving the room is, "Really, dear, there's nothing to it. You'll be ready soon enough."

She slams the door behind her.

Neville woke to the sound of the compartment door shutting loudly. The dream left him unsettled, but he couldn't remember why. He had little time to think about it though because Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in their compartment. Ginny seemed steadfast in her refusal to respond to their presence, but Luna and Seamus were glaring at them.

"Aw, is this the Future Dead Ex-Boyfriends Club car?" Pansy drawled pointedly towards Ginny. "I mean, you've got Harry Potter and Dean Thomas. You might need to do this year all over again with all the funerals you'll need to attend."

Seamus's face went bright red, but before he could do anything, he was blasted towards the other end of the compartment. Crabbe's wand was out, and he seemed rather pleased with himself.

Luna and Ginny stood up immediately, wands out. Neville was the closest to Crabbe and Goyle, and while he stayed seated, he shifted his weight forward.

"I hope you're not planning to use those," Pansy said. "I don't think blood traitors are allowed to use their wands on the train."

"And you are?" Seamus demanded.

"Of course," Crabbe said. "Gotta protect ourselves from bad elements like you lot."

"Of course," Ginny said. "Wouldn't want to get mixed up with the wrong people. Speaking of future dead ex-boyfriends, how's Malfoy doing, Pansy? Is he joining us this year, or has You-Know-Who decided to home-school him?"

Pansy strode to meet Ginny, and her wand was still out and ready. She pressed the tip against Ginny's forehead. "Look, Weasley, I don't know what you think this year is going to be like, but it's going to be different. Your Dumbledore isn't here to protect you, your Potter isn't here to make anyone give a shit about you, and at the rate your family is going, all your brothers will be dead. It's a shame we only got the ear for now."

Pansy turned then, and seemed to realise Neville was sitting there for the first time. "Aw, look at little Longbottom. Remember our first year, when you were terrified of just going to class? It's going to be just like that, but so much more fun." With a flick of her wand, she summoned his bag towards her and then flipped it upside down so that the contents spilled out onto the floor. Quills and parchment and books were scattered everywhere, but Neville's heart stopped when he realised that the small book from the side pocket had fallen out with the rest.

"What is this? Some kind of diary?" Pansy reached for the book. "Ooh, this is our lucky day. Maybe we'll find out just what poor unfortunate girl captured his heart." Neville leapt up and tried to grab the book from her hands, but he was quickly shot across the room next to Seamus.

She began flipping through the pages, but seemed disappointed. "It's all blank. Maybe Longbottom is just as boring as we thought."

"Maybe it's got a code or a password," Goyle offered.

She pondered his suggestion, then brought out her wand again. She mumbled a few spells and peeked inside to see if there were any changes.

"Oh, look at that Goyle, you can be useful."

Neville felt his stomach sink. He didn't want her to read it. It wasn't hers to read. And Gran had explicitly told him to make sure no one else got a hold of it.

Pansy started flipping through pages. "I don't think this is his. Did you steal some poor girl's diary, Longbottom? Did you-" But she didn't get to finish her question. The pages of the book seemed to be coming alive, like something rooted in the letters was seeking air. Branches that were as black as the text began to come out, twisting and turning slowly. Pansy tried to let go of the book, but it seemed determined to remain in her hand.

"Do something," she yelled. But Crabbe and Goyle stared as transfixed as the rest of them.

The branches grew and grew until they went from little stubs to extended lengths that encased her arm, then creeped up past her elbow. She was trying to cast spells at it to make it let her go, but the branches didn't seem to care. They had a purpose, and Pansy's desperation seemed to only make them more determined.

Gran hadn't warned Neville about this, but maybe she had known it would do this. She did say that she hadn't been allowed to read the book, and maybe that meant that what was happening to Pansy now had happened to her once. But how did she know that Neville would be allowed to read it then?

The branches seemed to have reached their goal as they crept along her shoulder. Pansy's breathing was coming fast, but when she realised that the branches had stopped, she calmed down a little.

"What are you waiting for? Come help me out."

Crabbe and Goyle hesitantly stepped forward and inspected the cage along her arm. It was an intricate braid of dark twists and knots, and it didn't seem clear what they should do. Crabbe finally reached a hand out to touch it, and with a sudden jerk, the branch lashed out and shot Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle through the door and into the hallway. Three thuds sounded as they landed on the ground. The branch vanished into thin air, but they seemed unwilling to challenge it again.

Pansy stared at the book, her eyes wide. Then with a shake of her head, she stood up. "Hmph, this is getting boring," she said with an air of feigned impatience. She looked down at Crabbe and Goyle, who looked around like they had never seen a train before. "Are you two just going to sit there? Let's find someone more interesting to talk to." Crabbe and Goyle quickly scrambled to their feet and followed her down the hall.

Luna and Ginny helped the boys to their feet. Neville could feel a few bumps where bruises would surely form.

"I hope I don't have any classes with them," Luna said.

"I hope I do," Seamus responded angrily. "Every single one, just so I can 'accidentally' hex them or poison them or something."

They all helped Neville get ahold of his belongings, gathering the papers and notebooks that were spilled around the compartment. Neville grabbed the diary first, and stuffed it back in his bag.

Ginny noticed, and she looked at him warily. "Spelled diaries aren't something to mess around with, Neville," she said softly.

"I know," Neville said, avoiding her prying eyes.

"Is it yours?"

"No."

"Then how do you know it won't hurt you?"

"Because," Neville said quietly. "It's my mum's."

The Sorting Ceremony would have felt like a farce if it weren't for the petrified faces on the first years. In the past, their nerves served as an amusing tradition, and upperclassmen prided themselves on coming up with outlandish stories of just what the ceremony entailed. But black flags emblazoned with the Dark Mark decorated the Great Hall, and there was little mirth to be had under those sinister skulls. Every first year sorted into Gryffindor felt like a victory, not necessarily against the other houses, but for their own sake. Each new Gryffindor filled a seat in the Great Hall that might have been left empty by a friend on the run.

They were half-way through the P's when Neville heard the crying. It was quiet at first, a few light sniffles. For a second, he thought it was just a first year who was afraid. He looked around to see who it could be coming from, and he realised that he seemed to be the only one who was bothered by the noise. The sound grew into the throaty wail of a newborn, refusing to be drowned out by the shouts of the Sorting Hat and the applause of any house that acquired a new member.

Neville turned to Ginny while politely clapping for a new Ravenclaw. "Do you hear that?" he asked in a low voice.

"Hear what?"

"That sound. It's like someone's crying."

Ginny looked around the room. "I don't think anyone's crying."

"Are you sure?"

"I can't hear it," she said, looking at Neville nervously.

"Hm," he said, maybe a little too casually. "Must just be the wind."

But the cries persisted through the ceremony, and then through the dinner. He was sipping on his pumpkin juice while the wails bounced around in his head.

"Are you okay, Neville? You look a little pale."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Neville lied. "It's just a headache. I'll go to Madam Pomfrey after dinner."

Neville considered following through with the idea, but by the end of dinner, the sound seemed to have died down. In the silent pauses between conversation, Neville was left with the notion that maybe he had imagined the crying. The only evidence that he'd ever heard it was the faint ringing in his ears, but he found it easier to pretend that wasn't real either.

By the time he was curled up in his bed, Neville had decided that the crying was just an accident of his imagination. Any other explanation inevitably led him to the observation that no matter what the cause-even if it were just the stress of starting school under a new authoritarian regime-Neville had heard something in the castle that no one else had heard.

No, it was better to pretend that he'd never heard the sound.

Neville brought out the little black journal. He still hadn't read it. Gran had given it to him that morning as he prepared his trunks for Hogwarts, providing only a brief explanation and promise that the book was meant only for him, that his mother would want him to read it.

Still, after seeing what had happened to Pansy that morning, Neville felt apprehensive about whether this was really what his mother would want. As far as Neville remembered, his mother barely knew him. She certainly couldn't recognise him anymore. How would a diary know?

But Gran had pressed the book in his hands and promised him that the diary would know. "You're her son. How could it not know?"

It sounded more convincing when Gran said it. Now that it was just diary and him in a seventh year bedroom that would have been full of raucous celebration had it been any other year, Neville felt far more uncertain. The worst the book could do to Pansy was throw her; the worst it could do to him was confirm a fear he'd never really come to terms with: that his mother didn't know him.

Neville gave himself a countdown to open the book. Three seconds to gain his composure and muster up his courage. Three, two, one.

He opened the book.

Dear Diary,

I'm leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow! Mum gave me this diary as a gift because she says I'll want to write down everything that happens. Dad laughed at her and said she's trying to turn me into a Herbalist like her, always writing notes on everything. I already told them that I'm going to grow up to be an actress. I want to be famous, like Penelope Purpsnout. It'll make that foul Nicholas Mann down the road shut up about how my hair is too flat and my teeth are too long.

I'm too excited to sleep. My books are all packed up, and I have my wand all ready. I can't wait to learn all about Charms. When Daphne Norris came back last year, she said Charms was her favorite class. Apparently the Transfiguration professor was very strict, and History of Magic was the most boring class of all.

I wonder what house I'll be in. Mum was in Hufflepuff, and Dad was in Ravenclaw. They both say their house was better, but I think they would say that even if their houses were exactly the same.

-Alice

Dear Diary,

I am officially a member of Gryffindor house, and I'm very glad to hopefully never have to wear a mind-reading, talking hat again. One of the sixth years said that we have to wear similar hats for exams, but one of his friends said that he's a liar. The other people in my year are really nice. The Muggleborns keep asking us about Chocolate Frogs and the paintings and photos, but I never even thought to ask how those things work.

-Alice

Dear Diary,

I think Daphne was wrong. Charms is fun, but the best class by far is Defense Against the Dark Arts. I think Professor Higgins is trying to start us off slowly so as to not scare us, but I hope we'll learn more about Headmaster Dumbledore. I can't believe he really took down Grindelwald! Mum says he was about as bad as it gets. I can't imagine how powerful Dumbledore must be to take on someone so awful.

The worst class has to be Potions. I just don't understand what's so exciting about making an elixir to cure dragon pox when you could use a simple charm to get rid of the symptoms. Miriam Longthorpe is one of our Prefects, and she says that we'll learn more potions that can do things spells can't do. But until that happens, I've decided to hate Potions.

-Alice

His mother's name was signed in the deliberate flourish of a young girl's hand, with a long tail at the end of the "e" that swept back to form a curved line underneath her whole name. Neville looked over the letters again, marveling at the way they connected and represented someone who had grown up to be his mum.

He turned the page, reading on as she described her new classes and friends with such detail that Neville couldn't help but feel that his grandmother must have succeeded a little in her original purpose of getting her daughter to write notes about everything. He fell asleep with the book open on his chest, with the comforting sound of silence to keep his dreams pleasant.

With a few notable exceptions, the seventh years entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom with reluctance. It seemed unlikely that they could drop the class on the grounds that their professor was a murderous agent of Voldemort. It was only the third day of classes, and while it was the first time they would have a class under one of the Carrows, the Death Eaters' educational philosophy was becoming well known. At first, Neville and his friends had brushed off the rumors by dredging up memories of Umbridge's reign and hopeful statements of, "Well, no one can be as bad as her, right?"

And then Lavender Brown had ended up in the infirmary with a red lash across his cheek. Punishment, apparently, for her confusion telling the difference between Alecto and Amycus Carrow.

Harry never would have stood for it, Neville knew. Harry would have come up with a retort about how it was impossible to tell the Carrows apart if they were wearing their Death Eater masks, only it would be more clever than what Neville had thought up. Maybe not exceptionally witty, but that never mattered when Harry took a stand.

Amycus stared at them from the front of the classroom as if waiting for them to be quiet. The room was already deathly silent though, so he merely gave the impression of having no idea what he was supposed to say.

"Welcome," he finally said, his voice stretched out in a gravelly whine. "It's quite an honour to have some of our finest pure-bloods in here." His eyes scanned over to a corner full of green. Crabbe and Goyle seemed particularly attentive to the compliment until they realised Professor Carrow wasn't limiting his compliments to them. Neville could feel Carrow's eyes slide over to him. He chose to stare back.

There was something slippery about Carrow's voice. Like if you really listened to him, his words would slide into your mind and make you believe things that weren't true. And yet there was nothing particularly convincing about him. He would giggle at odd moments—like the decapitation of Septima the Sinister, which prompted a fit of laughter that seemed to shock even Pansy Parkinson—and his figure was constantly slumped as if he expected to curl up in a ball and roll away. But as he began to write up a list on the top ten Dark wizards of history, it seemed to Neville that Amycus Carrow's position under Voldemort was largely the result of that slithering, creeping voice.

They had reached what Carrow called the Modern Triumph of Dark Magic when Neville heard the crying again. It was the first time he had heard it since the Sorting, and in the overwhelming rush of classes, he'd almost completely forgotten about it. This time, the crying didn't start slowly. It was piercing, the sort of loud wailing one only heard from children in the throes of a tantrum.

Neville looked around at the rest of his classmates, but just as at dinner, none of them seemed aware of the sound. They were dutifully copying down notes on massacres and genocide, their quills transcribing gruesome details of destruction. Why couldn't they hear the crying? What if someone was in trouble?

"Longbottom, is there something wrong?"

Neville snapped back to the present as the sound of Carrow's voice temporarily cut through the distant wails. Grim, dark eyes were glaring at him, and Neville stared back, remembering just how much he hated this man. "No, nothing is wrong."

"Then I will ask you to pay attention like the rest of your classmates."

"I'd rather not, if that's alright with you," Neville calmly said back. He wasn't sure where that had come from. But the crying had started sounding in his ears again, and it was drowning out the angry scowl stretching on Carrow's face.

"I'll have ten points from Gryffindor for that."

Neville shrugged. "Really quite a devastating loss."

"Let's make it fifty."

"Sure, why not? My friends are all on the run from your lot, but house points are my top priority right now."

Carrow continued to eye him with contempt for several seconds. Then he strode over to Neville, his brisk pace filled with purpose. Neville willed his hands to stay still, but just as Carrow reached his desk, the crying in his head reached an all-out scream.

Carrow grabbed Neville's wrist with one hand, then took Neville's quill with the other. He jammed the quill into Neville's palm. "Look, boy," he said in a malevolent whisper, "you may not care about some house points, but there are plenty of other things in your life to lose. So take the damn notes or the next time, I'll be more creative."

It was suffocating to feel the weight of so many people's eyes on him. He'd never been looked at like this—mocked for a mistake, sure, but there was a different sort of anticipation in the room right now than he was used to. And while Neville had long become familiar with the low expectations held for him, it was frightening now to feel that maybe his classmates' expectations were too high.

At that moment, he heard a woman's voice singing. It was a soft voice, but full of a gentle caress that soothed and warmed Neville's heart. The crying seemed to subside as the voice carried out a gentle lullaby that Neville had never heard before.

The cry turned into a delighted gurgle, and then into contented sigh.

And then there was silence, and the entirety of that space was filled again with Carrow's voice. Neville looked down and was surprised to find that he had acquiesced to Carrow's demands. He was taking notes dutifully with the rest of his classmates, filling his parchment with a list of spells that they would learn through the year. He had failed to make the stand he wanted to make, and even when his hand faltered at "Cruciatus Curse," Neville felt disappointed in his obedience.

The crying started as his last class ended, and the moment Neville heard it again, he knew he had to find it. He knew that it was never a good sign to hear voices no one else could hear, but he also knew he had to find out if he was really making the sound up or if there was someone in need of help. He wasn't sure how he could even really tell where the sound was coming from, just that it seemed to draw him. He walked by classrooms and paintings until the torches started to become more sparse, and the hallways emptier. As he drew closer, the crying became louder and louder until it seemed to reverberate through his body.

And then he was in a hallway with no paintings and no statues. There was only one room, tucked in a dark corner. Neville tried to remember if he'd ever seen this room before, but there were so many corners of Hogwarts, and he could barely remember the ones he went to on a daily basis. No, this room was new. He began to walk towards the room, gripping his wand tightly.

"Neville!"

Neville snapped his head around. Hagrid was staring at him, a giant bag slung over his shoulder. Neville quickly hid his wand away. "Hagrid! How is everything?"

"Good, good. What are yeh doin' here? There aren't any classes here."

"I thought I heard something," Neville said. "I thought I heard someone here."

"Here? I'd doubt it," Hagrid responded. "I've got a cupboard full of extra food for Fang around the corner, but this hallway don't have much in it for people to be flocking around."

Neville stashed his wand, giving the room at the hallway one last look before he turned back to Hagrid. There was a room at the end of the hall, and he knew it, but Hagrid seemed to not see it.

Hagrid seemed to follow his eyes. "Yeh okay, Neville?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Yeh look kind of green, like yeh might be sick..."

"Just a little tired, Hagrid. No need to worry."

"With the way this castle is being run, all I can do is worry."

By the end of the first month, three students had left Hogwarts. A fifth year in Ravenclaw, a third year in Hufflepuff, and a first year in Gryffindor.

"Left," perhaps, was too nice a word. "Dragged out by the Carrows shouting vehement accusations of impure blood" seemed more appropriate. The other professors tried to stop the Carrows, and Neville was sure McGonagall would have turned them both into frogs if it weren't for the words they spoke to her—too quiet for anyone to hear, but their expressions spoke loud enough to suggest a threat to the rest of the students. The defeat on her face reminded Neville of the night Dumbledore was killed.

"I can't believe it," Ginny whispered over lunch. Meals were usually held in whispers now, except for the raucous gossip that came from one end of the Slytherin table. "I mean, I guess I can. Did you hear that the third floor dungeons are being turned into the new Dark Arts classrooms? Apparently, they think prisons will enhance the crucio experience."

Neville stabbed his potatoes. "I hear they're going to start sending students to detention there. To the classes, I mean. As practice."

"Are you sure?" Luna asked.

Neville nodded grimly. "One of the third years in Slytherin is being sent there for detention tomorrow. Apparently, she was caught sleeping in McGonagall's class."

"And McGonagall is sending her to the dungeons for it?"

"I think she just meant to come in and do extra work, you know, typical McGonagall stuff. But Alecto saw her writing in the classroom that night and decided there were better forms of punishment."

"How do you know all this?" Ginny asked.

"I heard them arguing. I've never seen McGonagall try to take back someone's punishment before."

"What were you doing out?"

"Oh, nothing. I thought I heard something," Neville said. He kept his voice level, hoping that if he kept his voice casual enough, his friends wouldn't think he was crazy. "You know, from that empty corner in the fifth floor?"

"You mean that corner that has nothing in it? When have you heard something from there? I didn't think you had any classes on the fifth floor."

"No, while I was out earlier that day," Neville explained. "I just wanted to check back and see what it was."

"What did it sound like?"

Neville swallowed. "Nothing. It was nothing," he said, waving his hands. "You know this castle, there are all sorts of noises everywhere."

"Are you okay?" Luna asked.

"Yeah, of course." But Neville wasn't sure he was. It had been a whole month since he'd first heard the crying, and he was still the only one who had heard it. He couldn't figure out why. The crying would just start, sometimes followed by the lullaby, sometimes not. All Neville knew for sure was that no one else heard it. And no one else had seen the room.

He hadn't meant to go back. He had tried to stay away. But there was one day where the cries were so loud, so aching, that they left a pain in Neville's head he couldn't ignore. He tried to go to Madam Pomfrey, but her remedies did little to ameliorate the feeling that his head had cracked in two. That night, he'd lain in his bed, hearing the cooing lullaby in his mind fail to soothe the imaginary crying, and through the slivers of silence left in his mind, decided to go back. He didn't know why, but it seemed important. To see the room. Maybe even walk through the door. And so he'd gone through the halls, navigating them with only the cries to guide him.

The crying had slowed to a hiccup by the time he touched the door's handle.

But his body had gone still, afraid to open the door. And when he would go back, he would feel the same fear and the same reluctance to open the door. Sometimes, he would just sit in front of the room, staring at the door until the cries faded, and his head was quiet enough to return to bed.

And in the morning, he would wake up and remember that there was a cry in the castle that no one else heard. A room no one else seemed to see. And it was only the promise of more horrors during the day-real horrors, wrapped in curses and slippery promises of the Dark Lord's benevolence-that put the fear of his own mind at bay.

"I heard the fifth year had a gash down his arm," Ernie Macmillan said at dinner that night. He was surrounded by a mixed group of different houses, and he was seated at least a table away from Neville, but his voice was loud and carried over. A few hours from lunch, and all everyone could talk about still were the expelled students. "They only let Madam Pomfrey treat him when spots on his skin turned black, and she said it might be the pox."

"Are you just spreading rumors?" Ginny asked. "Because we've got enough to worry about in this school without made-up stories of pox."

"I'm not!" Ernie protested, getting up from his seat to argue his point to her. "I didn't see everything because I was running to get my camera."

"When did you get a camera?"

"Over the summer. But that's not the point. I was going to get my camera, and when I got back to the main hall, Pomfrey was yelling at them to make sure she got a chance to take care of the kid. I've never seen her like that."

"Did you get any pictures?"

"No. I forgot to check the film first."

"It's probably for the best," said Luna, who had joined them at the table. "If the Carrows caught you taking pictures—"

"So? Someone's got to know. They can't just treat us that way."

"What were you going to do?" Ginny asked angrily. "Just send the pictures out? It's not like the Prophet is going to publish them."

"There's other newspapers too. Maybe the Quibbler would want them. I'm sure the pictures of the dungeons alone would be enough for people to become angry."

"I don't know how you'd send them out. I think they're reading my mail," Luna replied. "The last time I tried to send a letter to father, he wrote back asking why my letter was so short."

"Harry wouldn't stand for this," Ernie said pompously, ignorant to Ginny's quick look away. "He'd take the picture and print it up on a flag or something for everyone to see. Then punch Malfoy in the face. Maybe even Snape."

"I don't think Harry's ever punched Snape in the face," Luna pointed out.

"Yeah, well I bet he would if he were here now. Just walk right up to him and punch him."

Neville didn't really think Harry would do that. He would certainly have done something to get in trouble, but Hermione would never let him punch a professor in the face, even Snape. She'd at least make him use his wand. But as he considered arguing with Ernie over the legacy of someone Neville felt he knew better, Neville also realised something.

"You're right, Ernie," Neville said.

"You think he'd punch Snape?" Ernie said with frightening enthusiasm.

"No," Neville said impatiently. "But he'd be doing something."

The next morning, the usual chatter of students greeted Neville as he walked towards the Great Hall. He was exhausted, and the talk was nothing more than a mass of sound that remained unprocessed. But as he got closer, the noise took on a different cadence. There were pauses, questioning rises, doubtful falls as students crowded around the entrance. Their chins were all lifted, their gazes set upon the ceiling. Neville didn't have to look to know what they were staring at.

The black flags that lined the ceilings had been replaced with long drapes of red. And where the Dark Mark had once flashed and glittered ominously from above, there was now simply a lightning bolt emblazoned in bright gold. Or it seemed simple until you walked past the flag, and the lightning bolt shifted and morphed into two letters: "DA".

It was impressive really, Neville thought as he admired the results wrought from a night of hard work. And as he watched the Carrows and Snape fluster about trying to figure out how to deal with the various curses and hexes, he felt like he had at least done something.

It took the Carrows a week to figure out that every time they tried to destroy the banners, a new one would pop up in its place to replace its fallen predecessor. It took them another week to realise that "Dumbledore's Army: Still Recruiting" was beginning to appear in other corners of the castle, infrequently at first, but then with an increasing presence that even Neville, Ginny, and Luna couldn't entirely claim credit for.

Despite the delay, or maybe because of it, the Carrows countered this rise in insubordination with increased measures of cruelty. The stories of punishments being doled out at the end of a Cruciatus Curse were no longer whispered rumors, but statements of fact. And it was obviously beginning to take its toll on the professors. Professor Sprout had to grow so many healing herbs that she was often too busy to have a lesson plan in place. Neville had started coming in to the greenhouses in between classes to help maintain the crops. The work made him feel defiant. It wasn't quite as daring as storming the Ministry to steal oracles, and it didn't have the spark that vandalising walls of Hogwarts did, but Neville reminded himself that fighting wasn't always supposed to feel glorious.

He ignored the voice in his head that said he was only there because it kept him from the room at the end of the hall. Because Neville was finding it harder to avoid the room. Sometimes, he didn't even try to resist at all. He would let the telltale cry lead him through the halls, and then he would sit outside the door. Each time, he waited closer and closer to the door, until one day, he was standing right outside it, his hand touching the cool brass of the handle. He had this feeling, like if he just turned the handle and opened the door, he would be safe. And that was the most unsettling feeling of all. Because anything that promised safety in this castle had to be a lie.

He opened the door once, but only just a crack. He could see nothing past the small opening, and he considered whether he should open the door further. All he would have to do is pull the door just a little more.

But something came from behind the door. Something the room had never given any indication of possessing. A woman's voice, drifting from the other side.

"Come in, dear. We've been waiting for you."

Neville closed the door and fled. The day after he heard the woman's voice, he decided it was time for a firm decision: no more mysterious doors. No more acknowledging the shrieks of an imaginary baby, and no more wandering thoughtlessly through halls to sit in front of a room that only he seemed to be drawn to. There was work to do, and Death Eaters to rebel against. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by the possibility of his own mental breakdown.

The greenhouses made it easier than he thought it would be at first, and it made him question why he had ever found the room intriguing in the first place. All he had to do was work and keep his mind focussed on the things that were happening around him. But it was harder at night, when there were no distractions except the sound of Seamus's uneasy tossing from the other side of the room. In the worst moments, the woman's voice would come back whispering to him.

"We've been waiting for you."

The one thing that helped was his mother's diary. The notebook was deceptive, hiding multitudes of pages that documented her years through Hogwarts. Neville learned that his mother hated pumpkin juice, was allergic to Pygmy Puffs, and was scared of flying. He learned that when she was eleven, she was impatient with people she felt took too long to understand Charms. But by the time she was sixteen, she had figured out that for all her cleverness, she wasn't particularly good at Arithmancy or Runes.

And when she was seventeen, she had decided that she was going to grow up to be an Auror. Her mother objected, but if Neville had learned anything about Alice Longbottom, it was that when she had made up her mind, there was nothing in the world that could make her change it.

She didn't explain much about why she wanted to become an Auror. She said only that she hated bullies, and she hated anyone who would use magic to hurt people. But between the lines about school gossip and classroom trials, Neville could feel the troubling rise of Voldemort in her history. She didn't refer to him by name for a while, but there had been a story about a Muggle family who had lived near her family disappearing during her fifth year. The pages describing her worry for them almost felt wet as he brushed his fingers across them.

The only thing holding her back, she wrote frequently, was her own fear. She wanted to make sure that she never let her fear control her, and so she made herself learn how to fly. With the help of one of her Quidditch-playing friends, she dragged a broom out to the Quidditch pitch one night and made herself rise above the ground. One inch, then two. Then a whole foot. She didn't like the feeling of air beneath her feet though. None of the poetic words about the freedom of flight meant anything to her as she tried to get a whole body length above the ground.

But she made herself go out, night after night, until finally she got it. The night she was able to fly above the stadium, her entry consisted entirely of, "I DID IT!" in large letters that covered two pages. It didn't make her fearless, she wrote, but it made her stronger.

By the beginning of December, Neville's back had started becoming stiff from repeated abuse in class. He knew he had it good-he was pure-blood after all, and that meant everything to the Carrows. But he was also starting to worry that the Carrows' already limited patience would start to wear thin.

One night at dinner, he tried to move a spoon, but found his shoulders unwilling to move far enough to get gravy to add to his potatoes.

"I heard they were trying to teach the first years how to get a stick to whip you using Wingardium Leviosa," Ginny said as she helped Neville with the food. "But the story in Hufflepuff is that they hung you up in a dungeon overnight."

"Nope," Neville replied as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth. "Just the standard 'Official Crabbe and Goyle Punching Bag'."

"It's nice that those two have found their calling," she said sardonically. "And we thought they would get through Hogwarts without any sort of education."

"And how are your nightly detentions going?" Neville asked, looking at the red welts on her arms.

"Madam Pomfrey says that at the rate I'm going through the Dittany supply, they might have to rename it after me. It's Luna I'm worried about though." The Quibbler had been quickly banned in the beginning of the school year, but students had found ways to have it delivered to them in secret. And yet for all Luna's insistence that her father was safe, Neville noticed that her eyes had dark circles forming under them.

"She still wants to go through with stealing the sword tonight," Neville said. Stealing the sword of Gryffindor had been a vague plan for three weeks until the Potterwatch radio show had started coming in. The more the three of them listened to speculation about how Harry was doing, the harder it was to stand by and not do something.

He felt his heart pounding as he considered what they were actually planning to do. He'd managed to avoid Snape's wrath so far this year, which hardly felt like a relief given that he was still at the Carrows' mercy. But he was nervous to invite that possibility back into his life.

A plan was a plan though. And for most of the night, the plan seemed to work fairly well. Armed with some of the Weasley twins' finest inventions, they had a watch set up outside of Snape's door. They had taken shifts to follow Snape closely for weeks to memorise his schedule and figure out his password. And by the time they were in the office, Neville was almost convinced that they would succeed.

In retrospect, he decided, that confidence should have been the first clue that everything was going to go wrong. If they had more time and freedom, maybe they would have figured out that there was a charm around the sword that blared when it was touched. They might have also devised a better exit strategy that would let them evade the professors gathered in the hallway.

"A week in the dungeons with only supper," Alecto demanded immediately.

"It's my office," Snape drawled. "I believe I should be the one deciding the punishment."

Neville felt his whole body tense up. The idea of Snape being in charge of his punishment scared him more than the Carrows' fondness for dungeons. A part of him felt like an idiot for ever thinking this was a good plan in the first place.

"A night in the forest," Snape said sharply. "Hagrid will watch them. It should teach them not to go where they're not invited."

The three of them stared at Snape. The Forbidden Forest was hardly pleasant, but with Hagrid watching them, it would be almost like a vacation compared to the dungeons the Carrows had in mind.

The Carrows misunderstood the confusion on their faces though. They even smirked in approval. But Neville couldn't feel too victorious; he knew that they had ultimately failed.

All that work, and he'd done nothing that could help Harry.

Later that week, Neville was struck by a simple, obvious thought: he could open the door.

He could open the door, and peer inside and see what was in there. He could see the thing that only he could see, and maybe he could figure out why he was the only one who could hear it.

All he had to do was open the door, and he could learn whether or not he was really losing his mind.

(He wasn't losing his mind, he reminded himself. He was not crazy. He was not crazy. Please, don't let him be crazy.)

From the other side of the door, the crying and the singing mixed together to form the now familiar harmony. Neville touched the door handle, ignoring the cool metal, ignoring the beating of his heart. It took him time to open the door.

There was a creak that told Neville he had pushed the door open. Only a small bit. Only enough to see a tiny crack of dim light, and against a wall, a cradle. There was no crying now, and the singing had stopped. The only sound now was the pounding of Neville's heart. He pushed the door further, and saw some toys littering the ground.

"Come in," said a voice from the corner. "Just be quiet, and don't wake him."

Neville stayed at the door, frozen as he stared towards the direction the voice came from. There was a woman, her face shrouded in black, holding something Neville couldn't quite make out. It must be a baby, Neville thought. A baby, swaddled in cloth. But there was no reason for a baby to be in Hogwarts. There was no reason for there to be a nursery in Hogwarts.

"Oh, don't tell me you're still afraid, dear. We've been waiting so long."

He couldn't make out the woman's face, but there was something familiar to it. Like a dream he couldn't quite remember, or a memory he wasn't quite sure was real. He tried to think of something to say to her, and he was seized with the desire to say something-something that would impress her. Not to make her swoon, but to make her proud. But he could think of nothing.

He remembered a time when he was young. When he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter. Gran had taken him to visit his parents in St Mungo's, and she had insisted he show them the letter. His parents had stared blankly at it, even as Gran repeatedly told them how exciting this news was for their son. But Neville had a feeling if he had the letter now-or something, anything, quite as important-this woman would know what to say. She wouldn't nod her head as if she understood, and then say nothing. She wouldn't walk around as if it didn't matter. She would know, and she would tell Neville how happy and proud she was.

That was what standing at the edge of the door felt like. It was what staring at the woman holding the baby felt like. It felt, Neville thought, like what having a mother should feel like. It felt warm and safe, and like the most important place in the world.

The woman kept rocking back and forth, humming the tune to the baby. She seemed to be waiting for Neville, but he wasn't sure what she was waiting for him to do. He was here, wasn't he? He was waiting at the edge of the room. The room with the blue curtains and a broomstick mobile hanging above the cradle.

There wasn't space for him here, he realised. There was no space for him in a room made for a baby.

There was no space in the woman's heart for a son who wasn't her own.

Neville stepped back, away from the edge of the room and into the hall. The woman's humming stopped, and the bundle in her arms shifted.

He took one more step back. And then he ran. He ran through halls and past paintings, fast enough to keep his mind from catching up, so that the thoughts racing through his head were almost outpaced by his feet.

It wasn't real. It wasn't real.

Neville was panting by the time he got back to the common room. He felt adrenaline course through him as the pounding of his heart became even louder in his ears.

It wasn't real, he kept saying to himself. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. There was no room that felt like home. There was no woman who felt like a mother.

There was just him.

Neville curled up in a ball that night, clutching his head as if it would shut out the sound of crying in the distance. But it never stopped, and it never left him alone.

He felt relief when it was time to go home for the holidays. He wanted to leave the castle. He wanted to get away from his classes, from his detentions, and from the room. Just stepping onto the train felt like freedom.

Luna had left to see where the food cart was, leaving Ginny and Neville in the compartment. They both knew that something was wrong when the heat of the DA coin flashed. Without saying anything, they quickly dashed to the other end of the train, racing through train cars to see where the trouble was.

"Let me go!" Luna shouted. Three Death Eaters surrounded her in the corridor, their wands sourcing the ropes that held her wrists together.

There were other students on the train, their eyes transfixed on Luna's struggle. Neville didn't pay them any attention. He was too focussed on using his wand to cut the ropes while Ginny hexed the Death Eaters. One of the holds on Luna's wrists loosened, and she scrambled with her free hand to reach for her wand.

A boot stepped on her wrist before she could grab the wand. A hard crack sounded, and Luna let out a strained cry.

"Tsk, tsk, little girl," came the dark voice of Bellatrix Lestrange, and the boot pressed even harder. Luna's right hand hung limp against the floor, the other wrist still bound with rope.

Ginny was engaged in a full battle with one of the Death Eaters now, and Neville found his attention divided between trying to help her and Luna.

"Stop fighting, children," Bellatrix demanded. "There's time to play later. Let's get this one back." She kicked Luna's body.

"What about these two?" one of the men asked, dodging one of Ginny's hexes.

Bellatrix Lestrange stared at them both, then fixated on Neville. He found it hard to look away as her face widened into a disturbing imitation of a smile. "Not this time, no," she said. "Just the Lovegood girl for now. We don't need to threaten their parents yet."

He broke his gaze away, looking back at Luna. He raised his wand again, refusing to give up, but just as he was about to shoot the curse towards the Death Eater, they vanished, taking Luna with them.

Neville and Ginny stared at each other in silence, their chests heaving with the strain of a battle lost.

"I didn't think they'd take Luna," Ginny said softly when they were alone. The word had spread throughout the whole train, and they had quickly retreated to their own compartment to avoid questions and Pansy Parkinson.

"Do you think it's because of everything we do in school? With the DA, I mean."

"You heard what Bellatrix said. They're threatening her father. It has to be about the Quibbler. At least," she said, "that means they'll keep her alive. It's the only way to get him to do what they want." Her voice was edged with awareness that there was little comfort in that thought.

"Harry broke up with me," she continued. "You know, to protect me."

"Sounds like something he would do."

"I didn't tell him that I didn't want to break up. I figured it wouldn't matter if he's on the run anyway." She tucked her legs up and rested her chin on her knees. "But I guess he was right. I mean, the last thing he needs to worry about now is whether they've gone after some girl he likes to kiss."

"It's what they do, isn't it? They like to make you feel like a burden. It's the best way to make everyone feel alone."

"Do you feel like a burden?"

"I used to, when I first got to Hogwarts."

"And now?"

Neville thought for a few seconds. "I worry that I'm going to get people into trouble. Like if I could somehow fight the Carrows on my own, that would be less dangerous for everyone. But Dumbledore's Army was the first time I felt like I wasn't alone, and I guess the point is that we're all trying to do this together."

"I think sometimes we're not," Ginny said bluntly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, everyone at school is trying to just survive. And there are ways we can help each other, and then there are ways where…we can't."

"Why not?"

"It's just the way things are." Ginny paused, looking unsure of how to proceed. "It's the way our own battles are. I remember my first year with the Chamber of Secrets." She fell silent again, and Neville realised this was the first time he would ever hear her talk about that year instead of hearing stories full of gossip and distorted truth. "That year, it felt like I was fighting myself. And even when I had myself back, I was petrified. I was scared of everything I did."

"You weren't yourself," Neville said.

"And that was the worst part of all. Do you know what that's like? To know you aren't yourself?" She looked him directly in the eye. "Once that happens, it's like you can't ever be sure of yourself. Like if there's space in your head for more than one version of you, how can you know which version is real?"

"You never seem confused."

"Because I'm not anymore. Most of the time at least. There's a difference between knowing yourself and believing yourself. And I woke up one day, and it was like something clicked. I just finally believed myself when I said I was me."

"And what do you do when you doubt yourself?"

"I remember how angry I am at everything that hurt me. And how angry I am at everything that's trying to hurt people I care about. There's no room for doubt when you're angry." Neville believed her, even if he knew he couldn't understand completely what she meant.

"He'll be okay, you know," he said. "Harry's going to be okay. Whatever it is he's up to."

Ginny smiled, and it seemed genuine, almost happy. "I think you believe in Harry more than anyone."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"You know that prophecy we tried to steal from the Death Eaters?"

"Of course."

"Gran said it could have had something to do with me. She didn't have any of the details. She just said that when I was born, Dumbledore had warned my parents that they might need to go into hiding like Harry's parents. I guess You-Know-Who decided to go after Harry instead though."

"When did she tell you all this?'

"Only last summer. Dumbledore had told her to keep what she knew a secret. But I guess, you know, with Dumbledore gone, she must have decided it was time to tell me. I guess it was good You-Know-Who chose Harry. If he'd come after me instead, he'd probably have taken over years ago."

"Neville, you're more capable than you know."

"I'm not Harry though."

"You're not supposed to be."

"No, but I bet Harry would have been able to save Luna." The words came out in a torrent. "I bet Harry would think of ways to beat the Carrows, and I bet Harry would be able to take care of his friends. And one day, the Carrows are going to realise that I'm just some second rate Harry that even You-Know-Who knew could never be a threat to him."

The room was quiet, and Neville felt his chest heaving and his face flush.

"Sorry," he said more meekly. "I should stop talking about Harry."

"No, you shouldn't stop. Look, Harry's just like us. I didn't realise it when I first met him, but he really is. He can do some things that we can't do, but that's it.. He gets scared and he's not particularly brilliant, but he figures out what he needs to do and he does it. And that means You-Know-Who has no idea what he's in for. The people who doubt Harry are the people who only think of him as the Boy-Who-Lived, not as Harry."

"I don't doubt Harry," Neville protested.

"Then why do you doubt yourself?"

"Because I can't protect people."

"Neither can Harry. The only way he can protect me is by not being with me and trusting me to take care of myself. He trusts us to protect ourselves. He trusts you."

The Ravenclaw table seemed especially quiet the first day back from the holidays. Neville was struck by just how little he knew about Luna's friends from her own house. He had never sought Luna out when she was surrounded by people he didn't know. He did know that her house had not always been kind to Luna, and when he saw someone he didn't know mention her name with worry, he felt an angry urge to interrogate them-to find out if they had treated her well enough to deserve their sadness now that she wasn't at Hogwarts.

Neville did nothing to resist the cry on that first night back. He was tired, and the room promised rest. The woman was there, the baby on her lap chortling as Neville opened the door. He felt warm again. The woman was singing a lullaby, and Neville had a feeling that the lullaby was for him. He quieted the voice in his head that told him he was doing something dangerous. How could something that felt so safe, so comforting-how could something like this be dangerous?

The bed was soft, and Neville couldn't remember getting into it. And like a dream, he couldn't remember where the room ended and his mind began.

He woke up to a gentle tap on his shoulder.

"Wake up, dear. You'll be late for class."

The tap startled him more than the voice. The woman was kneeling next to the bed, her face behind the shroud. But even though he couldn't see her face, Neville knew she was smiling. He tried to see if he could make out more of her features, and yet while he had this feeling that she was pretty, he couldn't see anything to explain why he should feel that way.

"You don't need to know who I am, dear," she said gently. "I'm here to take care of you."

"Why?"

"Because you need me to." She said that in a sing-song way, as if the last words were supposed to be, "Of course, silly."

"But why me?"

"Because I want to." The playfulness was still in her voice, but Neville felt like it was more of an act this time. Yet he still believed her. There was something about the room that just made it obvious that she wanted to take care of him. Or maybe it was just the part of him that was desperate to believe. And that was the part that was most scared of what the room seemed to offer.

"I can't come back here," he said quietly. "This isn't real."

"Of course it's real," she said." You can see me, can't you?"

"That doesn't mean you're real. It just means I'm crazy."

"And would that be so bad, dear?"

"Stop calling me that!"

"You're upset, dear," she replied calmly. In the corner, the baby stirred. "Oh, look what you've done," the woman scolded. "You've woken the baby."

"There is no baby!" Neville said louder. And as if on cue, a baby's wail emanated from the corner. Neville covered his ears and shut his eyes, trying to block it all out. But the woman's voice seemed to speak from inside his head.

"If this is all in your head, then perhaps your mind is a better place to be."

"No, it can't be."

"Why not?"

"I told you already. It means I'm crazy."

"And do you think you're above that? You've seen your parents. Where do you think they are all day if not in their own minds?" Neville only tried harder to shut out the voice, but it still came unbidden. "I only want to care for you, dear. To see you through all this."

"What if I don't want you to?'

"You wouldn't be here right now if that were the case."

"And if I leave now?"

"Then you will come back. You will always come back."

The woman's last words stuck in Neville's head through the rest of the day. The words were true, after all. He would go back. Maybe not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow night. But he would go back.

"Where were you last night?" Seamus asked during lunch.

"Last night?" Neville said. "I was in bed."

Seamus disregarded Neville's obvious lie. "I told McGonagall that you must have been stuck in the showers when she came to check us in for curfew."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. I thought you'd be a lot more careful after what they did to Luna, but this is only the first night back."

Neville stayed quiet. Seamus had a point, and Neville knew it. If they took Luna, the Death Eaters were only going to get more vicious against the students. He was in more danger than he'd been in only a few months ago. And he'd risked what little safety he had for the unknown comfort of his own growing insanity.

"I'll be more careful, Seamus," he said finally. "I promise."

Neville's dreams that night were filled with the woman.

"It will get worse," she promised. "It will get worse, and I will make it better."

And he believed her.

Frank and I are getting married! We decided last night. I have to admit that I wasn't sure whether we should do it. I mean, we're both finishing up with training, and we're going to be starting with the Order in a few months. It seems weird to start a family in the middle of everything that's going on. But it also seems right. Who would have thought that hexing your training partner in the face on your first day of training could lead to a wedding a few years later? Frank says he can still feel his jaw click from where the hex hit.

Mum is frantic to plan everything. We want to keep things simple, but I think she's going to invite everyone I've ever talked to. We're going to go through the trunks in the attic tomorrow to see if I can wear her dress. I've only seen it in pictures, and it's perfect.

-Alice

It's official. I'm an Auror! I'm all done with training and exams. I thought I was going to fail the Extreme Disturbances section for sure, but I think my strategy for dealing with a poltergeist infestation made up for that. Frank had more trouble with the Identifying Poisons test (he can never keep his herbs straight). But we spent a whole week going over potions and antidotes, and it seems like that all paid off.

The best part is that we never have to take exams again! Who knew the Auror exams would make NEWTs look easy? Well, everyone, I guess. We're going to find out our assignments in a week. I hope I get to work for Moody. I know he's intense, but he's the best.

-Alice

One day, Neville decided. One day he would be as unafraid as his mother.

The students were getting more and more restless. Everyone knew that Luna was one of Harry's friends, and every new issue of The Quibbler that came out in favor of the Death Eaters was a reminder that the school was more than just a glorified prison now. And Dumbledore's Army could no longer just recruit; it had to fight too.

McGonagall had taken to hosting daily detentions for the increasing number of Gryffindor students who were found to be acting outside the Carrows' restrictions. And for the students who were called out for extra punishment, there was a roaring underground trade in home remedies. Madam Pomfrey's beds were always full, though there seemed to be more than enough chains in the dungeons to accommodate the Carrows' whims.

Neville had lost count of the number of times he'd ended up in the dungeons, just as he'd lost count of the number of times he'd been used as practice for any number of curses. Compared to the beginning of the year, he found it easier and easier to mouth off in class. He was just so tired-tired of everything that was happening to his school, to his friends-that the sarcasm came to his voice before the sentences even formed completely in his mind. At some point, he thought, he had become somewhat of an expert on defying the Carrows' commands.

The consequence was that he was now familiar with every sound that came through the dungeons. He knew what it sounded like when someone was having a nightmare while in chains; he knew what it sounded like when rats scurried along the sides of the wall; he knew every drip, clang, and scream. Sometimes, Neville found himself wishing he could hear the crying again. At least the crying wasn't real.

The rescues started out so casually that it almost felt like a child's game, something to be played on an open field: kids stuck in a corner that was designated prison for the game, a few intrepid kids trying to tag their friends out of prison until the sun set and mothers called for supper. Only the prison was real, and there was no call to end the game.

Ginny was the first to dash to the dungeons. A second year from Hufflepuff had been thrown in there for asking how Muggles could be so bad if they'd survived so long without magic. Ginny had managed to stun the students on guard and work fast enough to get the girl. But when she got back to the common room, the sedate celebration behind her, all she could say to Neville was, "There were still so many other students."

It wasn't enough.

Sometimes, on the nights it seemed like half of the school was in the dungeons, they didn't even try to get anyone out except the youngest. It was too risky. Those nights, all they could do was provide temporary reprieve. One or two DA members would go to the dungeons armed with Polyjuice Potion and some strategically dispensed Memory Charms. They would bring with them food, water, and a small radio in the hope that Potterwatch might be on that night. There was a sort of stasis to this sort of life, a regular rhythm of imprisonment and defiance that they could all schedule their day around.

That rhythm ended the night Michael Corner was caught trying to rescue the first year.

When Neville got to breakfast the next morning, Corner was at the front of the Great Hall. His face was swollen and purple, and his clothes were ripped at points that turned a brownish red color. His hands were chained.

Neville knew it would only get worse when Amycus turned to the other professors and said, "Remember what we told you. Not a word."

McGonagall's hands were already trembling. For the first time he could remember, Neville realised that she was old. Not old like the aged, stern professor she usually was. But old the way he sometimes saw Gran when they left St Mungo's.

The students were all quiet. Neville wanted to do something-dash to the front of the room and grab Michael, turn his wand at the Carrows-and by the look on Ginny's face, he could tell she wanted to do something too. It was only by reminding himself of why Ginny shouldn't do anything that he remembered why he shouldn't either.

He couldn't do anything for Michael. He couldn't do anything to make it right.

When the first curse hit Michael's back, the ceiling of the Great Hall turned red, and the air hung still except for the sound of one boy's screams.

The Healers say the baby is doing well, but in a few months, I will probably have to cut back on field work. Frank will be relieved, but I admit that I'm having a hard time thinking of sitting still. We were able to save a Muggle family being chased by a pack of Death Eaters-and the idea that I won't be able to help anyone for a few months makes me feel guilty, like I'm being indulgent. Of course, it's hard to feel too indulgent when I'm spending my mornings vomiting.

It's good to have a sympathetic ear in Lily. She says James keeps giving her belly unsolicited lectures about Quidditch strategy.

It's strange to find such good friends in such horrible times. Even stranger, I suppose, to bring a child into it. I'm afraid of so much that I'm almost starting to feel like a walking cliche. Will I be a good mother? Will I raise a good son? Just when I think I've understood one part of being a mother, a million more questions come up. But Frank is with me, and I think we'll do all right.

-Alice

I'm so confused and overwhelmed that I don't know how to describe what is happening. Dumbledore says there is a prophecy. He won't tell us much, only that it could be our baby or the Potters', and that Voldemort might target one of our sons because of it. I trust Dumbledore; we all do. And I trust him when he says that he cannot give us more information than that. But the whole thing is so absurd. Our son isn't even born yet, and he's already in danger?

-Alice

"So we're in agreement then?" Ginny's voice was firm in the common room that night. "No more dungeons."

The faces around the room nodded solemnly.

"Is Michael okay?" The first year Corner had tried to rescue was sitting in a corner, his knees tucked into his chest. "He'll be okay, right?"

"Madam Pomfrey is taking care of him."

"But will he be okay?"

It was hard to say what the first year wanted to hear. Everyone in the room was slumped. Some of the younger girls had their heads rested on each other's shoulders, while others rested against walls with their arms crossed.

"We don't know," Neville said, even though they all knew.

"This doesn't mean that we quit fighting," Ginny said, the firmness in her voice resounding through the room. "We just have to be more careful. We have to stay safe."

"How can we fight and be safe if we can't depend on anyone getting us out of the dungeons?" another student asked.

Ginny swallowed. "I don't know," she admitted. "But we have to find other ways to protect each other. If you're plastering anything up on walls, make sure you have a good escape plan. That goes with anything else. Double check and triple check to make sure you know which hidden passages the Carrows have found out about and which ones they haven't." She smiled. "I'm looking forward to putting some itching powder on the Carrows seats tomorrow. Fred says the latest batch burns right through the pants."

There were a few giggles, which jolted the group out of their solemn stupor. The conversation turned to increasingly elaborate and outlandish ways to prank Snape and the Carrows. At some point, Neville was certain that every plan involved Blast-Ended Skrewts.

When the meeting ended, Neville went to the room. The woman had always known he would come back. It was like the room had been made for a day just like this.

He couldn't remember if there had been always been a bed for him, but there was one now. The woman sang him to sleep, and as a lullaby wrapped his mind like a blanket, the thought of Michael's face when the first, second-all the way through the last-curse hit him, those thoughts faded.

"Stay here," she said. "I'll make it all better."

Her hand was soft on his forehead. She felt like the room, and Neville was beginning to feel like he had always been meant to be a part of the room as well.

Over the next few weeks, he became good at sneaking into the hallway at night. He knew the path now like the back of his hand. It was so easy to go to the room. So easy, he thought, that he wasn't sure why he hadn't done it before. He had wasted so much time staring at the door, and he could have had all of this so much sooner. The easing tension in his limbs, the ability to sleep without waking up in nightmarish landscapes-the room was doing that for him.

Nothing outside the room was enough. But when the baby climbed in his lap and demanded attention, and when the woman said something that made Neville smile-that felt like enough.

I still don't know what to think. Dumbledore assured us that Voldemort isn't going to come for Neville after all. But it's hard to feel relieved when he's still targeting the Potters. Harry and Neville are only a few months old. What could Voldemort possibly want with Harry?

I still worry sometimes that we were selfish to bring children into this mess. But Neville is worth everything, even the exhaustion. At least he's easy to entertain-all you have to do is wave a Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper in front of him when he cries and he instantly starts laughing. Frank's mother is coming to stay with us next week, supposedly to help. Well, maybe we'll get lucky, and Neville will burp onto her vulture hat again.

-Alice

Lily and James are dead, and the rumors say that Voldemort has fallen. Harry survived somehow, but Sirius says Dumbledore won't let him take Harry in even though he's Harry's godfather. Dumbledore always has his reasons but it's hard to think of what those reasons could be when you look at Sirius.

There are fireworks and cheering. I can only hold on to Neville and Frank. I hope that if Lily and James had to die, they are at peace knowing their son survived Voldemort.

Sirius just left. I lost count of how many drinks he's had. At least enough to knock over four chairs and two shelves. He kept saying that everything is his fault, and that he wants to make everything right. We don't know what he's talking about. Even with the way the past few years have been, I've never seen a man so broken. We tried to stop him from leaving, but he just stormed out and Apparated before we could stop him. Frank is going to look for him and make sure he's safe.

-Alice

It didn't take long for Harry's escape from Malfoy Manor to become legend. By the end of the Easter holiday, everyone had heard some whispered story about how Harry, Ron, and Hermione had just barely escaped from the Malfoy's grasp. But the moment he heard Ron's name in the story, Neville knew that Ginny would be going into hiding.

The night before he returned to Hogwarts, Neville heard a tapping on his window. An unfamiliar brown owl was flapping its wings outside his room. He let the owl in and unwrapped the parchment wrapped to its letter was unsigned, but Neville recognized the handwriting.

"Stay safe."

"Of course you'll be safe here, dear." The woman drew him into a hug, her hands stroking his head. It was the first night back from the holiday. "No one will come after you here."

Rounding up the last Death Eaters is beginning to wear us all down. I knew winning wouldn't mean our work was done, but I didn't know it would be so much more complicated than fighting the war. I don't know if Crouch is doing things right, but you can't disagree without sounding like you sympathize with the Death Eaters. Sirius should have had a trial. I don't think I would have been able to watch it, but there are so many things we don't know now that he's in Azkaban.

But what do I know? I've been trying to track down the Lestranges for two weeks, and each time I think I have them cornered, they manage to escape. Sometimes I think Bellatrix only lets us get close to see if she can get any information about whether Voldemort is alive from me. She believes he will come back, and I find her faith even more troubling because Dumbledore seems to agree.

She asked me about Neville the last time. She asked when his birthday was. I wish my hex had hit her right in the chest.

-Alice

Ginny wasn't the only one who didn't come back after the holiday. With fewer and fewer students in the castle, Neville felt the target growing on his back.

McGonagall began sending him worried glances during class, and Sprout started insisting that he spend more time in the greenhouses. Soon, he was sporting a gash on his cheek that had been etched slowly and deliberately by Amycus. He spent that night in the infirmary, a pungent grey potion spread across his cheek. Madam Pomfrey had tried to give him something to numb the pain, but as the potion seeped into the deep cut and stretched the skin, Neville had to grit his teeth to stop from screaming.

"They wanted to leave a mark," he thought he heard McGonagall say to Madam Pomfrey later, but his mind was in a haze, and he couldn't be sure.

In his dreams, a hand stroked his cheek, calming the nerves along his skin that seemed on fire only seconds before.

"Let me take care of you, dear," the woman said. "That's what mothers are for."

I think I know why Bellatrix asked about Neville. One of my sources says she was pregnant, and she was due around the same time. The baby was stillborn. It makes sense given how inactive she was at that time. I confess that I can't imagine her as a mother. Some of the Death Eaters I can, loathsome as they are. But her heart seems so full of Voldemort that there is no room for anyone else, even herself. But perhaps she could have surprised us.

-Alice

The Lestranges are playing with us, and there are times when I feel like I can keep up, and there are times I'm worried that I don't know what game it is we're playing.

-Alice

I may ask to be taken off the Lestrange case. I had managed to corner Bellatrix alone today, and I was ready to take her in. But she looked at me and said, "I'll come for you first. You and your husband. But don't worry about your son. I'll make sure to take good care of him."

I've never frozen up like that. I don't know what I was thinking. I almost had her, and all it took was five seconds for her to turn it around on me. And somehow she got loose.

I will sleep better when Bellatrix Lestrange is in Azkaban. I just worry about the people who will get hurt if I can't get to her first.

-Alice

He got the message from Gran in the book they used to contact each other. She wrote the words in her copy, and the warning materialized in his own.

"Sent a few to St Mungo's today. Hide now."

It took him a week to get ready. He snuck food from the Great Hall every night, and he gathered his essentials in a trunk. It was best, he decided, to not let anyone else know. Sneaking away was easy, but only when he didn't think of it as hiding. A part of him wanted to make a dramatic exit straight from the Weasley twin playbook. If he had more time and a lower risk of being killed, maybe he would have done it.

The first night, he slept badly. A constant worry nagged at him, though he'd spent so many nights in the room before. This was the first time he'd done it with purpose, and it seemed to give the room an intimidating validation.

The room was real. It had to be; it was the only thing keeping him safe.

The baby rarely cried now. Sometimes he wandered into Neville's lap and grabbed curiously at Neville's ears. The woman watched, and sometimes she even laughed. It was a sound that Neville liked hearing. It meant that he had done something right, or at the very least that he had not done something wrong. So he kept playing with the baby, making cartoonish faces or rolling a ball across the floor for it to chase. He wasn't sure, but over time, it seemed like the baby was feeling like family. Neville had always wondered what having a sibling was like. Maybe it would have made him tougher like Ginny.

"Be careful," the woman said once, "or you'll spoil him."

The room provided everything he needed except for the food. And over several days, he found it easier to sleep. He didn't close his eyes to thoughts of the Carrows finding him, and he didn't open his eyes to the nightmares of his friends being tortured. The few times he felt a creeping fear linger too long, a warm hand would press at his head, and he would feel his thoughts fade as if he'd never believed them.

"What's his name?" he asked her one night, the baby gurgling in his lap.

The woman was rocking in a chair that stood in the corner. She looked up and seemed confused. "I don't know," she said. "I never gave him a name."

"That seems wrong, doesn't it?" Neville asked, feeling surprisingly glib. "How could you not give him a name?"

"Because I knew he wouldn't need one."

"Well, of course he needs a name. Everyone needs a name."

"They don't." She said this with a harsh timbre to her voice. Neville felt like he was being scolded.

"We should give him a name," he pushed back. The baby needed a name. The woman didn't know it yet, but Neville was sure. "I think he seems like a David."

"Stop," she said, her voice rising. "He doesn't have a name."

"Why not? It doesn't have to be David. It could be something else. Like Robert or-"

The woman lunged out of the chair and grabbed the baby from Neville's lap. The baby began crying, but the woman paid his wails little attention. "He doesn't have a name."

For the first time, the room felt cold and cramped. It felt like there was no space for Neville, and he had a strong desire to open the door. The woman must have seen the look he gave the door because her voice softened, and she said, "I'm sorry, dear. I just don't want you to spoil him." She knelt by Neville and stroked his hair.

Neville knew she hadn't meant to be angry. It was only because he had messed up. As long as he didn't make another mistake, she would be happy.

He developed a compulsion for checking his watch, but only when he thought the woman wasn't looking. She frowned whenever she saw Neville checking the time. He couldn't see the frown, but he knew it was there. Just like he knew she wasn't smiling when he reread the message from Gran, or when he started talking about his friends, or when he brought out his mother's diary. There were so many things he found over the course of several days that made the woman unhappy.

He spent those days figuring out what would make her happy. He transfigured one of his books into flowers. She hugged him and set the flowers by the bed. Another day, he asked her to read him a story from The Tales of Beedle the Bard. Each step seemed to go a little further to convincing her that he was worth keeping, and yet each time she became upset made him feel like he had set himself back to the beginning.

I thought the end of Voldemort would bring some relief or at least some feeling of safety. But I think I'm more scared now than I was before. Every night I hold Neville and tell him that he'll be safe, but I worry that will never be true, that nothing we do will be enough to promise him some more peace than we were given.

He seems like such a worried baby. Frank's mother insists that he cries every time we leave the house, and that he doesn't stop until we come back. Frank assures me that she's exaggerating, and it's the sort of thing she would say to get one of us to stop working so much. But we've gone too long fighting to stop now. We've lost too many friends to ever feel that we can just stop.

I've put Neville to sleep. I hope he can always be as content as he looks right now.

-Alice

They say the Lestranges are coming after us. We don't know when, but our sources say it will be soon. I think Bellatrix has decided to give up on playing with us-she just wants to come straight at us and see what we know. If we're lucky, maybe we can use her desperation to capture her. Every time I see her, she seems more and more unhinged. We left Neville with Frank's mother until we know that he can be safe with us. I cannot sleep without him here, but he will be safer away from the path of Bellatrix Lestrange.

I shudder to think of what Azkaban could do to her, but I would rather see her there than have her hold my family at her mercy. I've heard her repeat Neville's name over and over in my nightmares, and I will not let

The diary ended there. Neville looked at the date, and a shiver ran through him. The lines that formed his mother's last written word trailed into the empty space, and Neville's mind rapidly tried to fill in the blank page with words-anything that gave his mother time to say something more than the screams implied by the blank page. He wanted to go back to the beginning of the entry and tell her to flee, to run away with his father.

"Why are you reading that, dear?" the woman asked.

"I'm sorry," Neville said dutifully. "I know you don't like it, but-"

"It's not that I don't like it," she said. "It just always makes you sad." She sounded sincere, and Neville felt worse for thinking she could be upset for any other reason.

"Well, there's nothing left to read," he said bitterly. "This is where the diary ends."

"It's for the best. You don't need that anymore. You're here after all."

"Of course," he said.

The woman said nothing, only rocked back and forth with the baby in her lap. The rocking went on for a minute at least, and Neville felt a pit in his stomach as he raced through what she could possibly be thinking.

"You're not angry, are you?" he asked.

Her voice came distant. "Of course not."

"I don't want you to be upset. I like being here."

"And we like having you here."

"You won't make me leave, will you?"

"Of course not. But you have to do something for me."

"Anything."

She considered him. "I don't think you're ready."

"I'm ready! I promise, I will do anything." And he would. He'd done so much just to survive the past few months; surely he could do whatever the woman asked.

"Not yet." Then she smiled. "But soon."

Neville felt relieved. The woman was smiling, and that was the most important thing in the room.

He had stopped counting the days. It was easier to do nothing each day when he stopped watching the time on his watch. Still, he knew the food supply was beginning to wear down, and it would only be a matter of time before he had none left. The baby never ate, and neither did the woman, and he was worried that maybe she had forgotten that Neville did.

"I need to get more food," he reminded the woman one day.

"I know, dear," she said, "But it's so dangerous out there. Why don't you wait until it's safer?"

"How will I know that it's safer?"

"I'll tell you, of course."

He should really get food, he knew. But she promised.

He wasn't sure, but it seemed that he was starting to sleep longer. And even when he woke up, he would spend hours just laying in bed and daring himself to get up. The longer he stayed like this, the more he felt like he really did belong to the room. There was comfort in knowing he would wake up each day and the room would be unchanged. And after several days, there was comfort in not knowing what was happening outside. All Neville had to do was nothing, and nothing felt like relief.

The woman would rock back and forth, humming a lullaby, and that was everything that mattered about the room.

She never seemed to say more than she needed to, but her presence filled the room with warmth. All Neville wanted was to keep her happy, because if she was happy, the room would stay warm.

She never slept. The baby would sleep, and Neville would sleep. But the woman always kept vigil. She was keeping them safe.

"Do you think you're ready now?" she asked one day.

Neville had not gotten out of bed yet, but he nodded into his pillow.

"If you do this, then you can stay here always," she offered.

"And if I don't?"

"Then you don't really want to be here. It means you don't care enough."

"I want to stay," he promised.

"Good."

"Then what do I have to do?" Neville asked.

"Don't you know already?"

Neville stared at her, trying to figure out what he was supposed to know. Would she make him go if he couldn't figure it out? She was staring at him expectantly, and it magnified his nerves. He felt a familiarity with the woman at that moment that preceded the first time he had ever investigated the room. And the more he sought out the memory, the more he kept himself from remembering, until finally some part of him won and another part lost.

"I know," he told her.

"Then you know what you have to do to stay?"

He returned her hard stare, hoping he looked as certain as she was. He got out of the bed, feeling full of purpose.

"How should I do it?" he asked. This was all new to him.

"That's up to you, dear," the woman said. She sounded excited, and Neville worked to make sure he didn't do anything to displease her.

Neville walked over to the baby, who was sleeping in his crib. He wasn't sure of how to do this. A curse would be easy, but in his dream, the woman had used her hands. Even if she had given him free reign, he wanted to do it right. He grabbed the baby from the crib. What had the woman done then? Grabbed the neck?

But the baby didn't even have a name, Neville remembered. Was there even a name on his tombstone? Did he even have a tombstone?

"It's his own fault he has to die," she said. She seemed almost contemptuous as she stared at the bundle in his arms.

"But why? Why do you have to kill him?"

"Oh, I've already killed him," she said, tenderly stroking the baby's head. "It's your turn now."

"Why?"

"So you can take his place, of course. So I can take care of you."

"Can't you just take care of both of us?"

"I've only ever had one son."

"That doesn't make sense."

"I've only ever had one son," she repeated unhelpfully. The words seemingly meaning a lot to her.

"I don't have to do this," Neville protested. "If this is all in my head, I don't have to do it."

"If this is all in your head, then why should it matter if you do?"

"Because. Because...I don't want to."

"Even if it makes me happy?"

There was a heavy silence in the room.

"This is all in my head," Neville said again, and the words felt as important to him as the notion of having one son was to the woman.

"You keep saying that as if it means something."

"Of course it means something. I can control this."

The woman let out a laugh. It was still her usual soft laughter, but the softness felt dangerous-like a pillow that could suffocate. "Of course this is all in your mind, dear. But that doesn't mean you're in control."

"How can I not have control?"

"By losing it, of course."

"I haven't lost control," insisted Neville.

"Of course you have. It's the deal you made to stay here. To be safe."

"That doesn't make any sense. How could I just make myself safe?"

"I never said you did."

Neville felt a coldness start to seep into the room, like a winter settling into its first onslaught. "You're not just in my mind, are you? Somehow, you're real."

The woman smiled slyly.

"And he is too?" Neville nudged the baby in his arms.

"He's dead. I told you," she said, perhaps responding to the look on Neville's face. "It was his fault."

"Who are you?"

"Don't you know? I thought that diary would surely tell you."

Neville stared at her, and a realization began to form, starting as a small seed of darkness that turned into a wave that advanced and swept through his mind. He should have known. It was in the diary, it was in the room, and it was in the woman. All of it had been all around him, and he had kept himself from seeing it. He had blocked it, trying to keep the awareness from crashing down on him until he couldn't ignore what he knew.

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Your parents could have done well to pass some cleverness on to you, but I suppose they didn't have enough to save themselves."

"You can't be Bellatrix. You're always here, and she's out there."

"Who do you think I am, dear? I know magic that most witches only know in their nightmares. To be in your head and out in the world, it's nothing."

"Don't call me that."

"What? Dear?"

"Yes."

"Oh my. I suppose I should expect you to still be sensitive. I only want to take care of you though, I promise."

Neville felt repulsed, but a part of him wanted to believe her. She had promised after all.

"Come, dear," she said in that soothing voice that seemed incongruous with everything Neville had ever known about Bellatrix Lestrange. "I know what you want. You want to be safe. You want a home, and you want to be cared for. And I've given you that, haven't I?"

"Yes," Neville said quietly. She had given him that after all.

He stared at the baby in his arms, and the images of what he had to do to kill him came unbidden. He knew where to put his hands and where to apply pressure. The thoughts were so vivid that for a second, Neville thought that he'd actually done it, that the feeling of bones snapping was real, and more than just the woman sending him silent instructions.

But he did have a hand around the baby's neck. And he was so tired of fighting. This war would never end. It hadn't ended when Voldemort was first defeated, and it hadn't ended when Bellatrix was thrown into Azkaban. It would be so much easier to stop fighting entirely, to accept defeat. Nothing he'd done that year had mattered anyway. No one would know he was missing. His parents wouldn't even know.

The baby wasn't real, he reminded himself. The baby wasn't real.

"He would be the same age as me, wouldn't he?" Neville asked, remembering what his mother's diary had said. The information felt important, like he had a kinship with this baby that went beyond hallucination.

"To the day."

"Is that why you killed him? Was it the prophecy? The one they said could be about Harry or me, did it have something to do with when we were born?"

The woman's smile faded. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches," the woman said, and from her distant voice, Neville could tell she was quoting what she knew of the prophecy. "Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies." She paused. "I am the Dark Lord's most trusted confidante. What he doesn't tell me, I learned how to find out."

"But the prophecy says you would have thrice defied him."

"I have not always obeyed my Lord as I should," she said ruefully. Her head hung with a hint of shame. Neville doubted that whatever infraction she felt she had committed, the prophecy had never referred to her son. But this was Bellatrix. It was easy to believe that she would jump to that sort of conclusion.

"But it was Harry. The prophecy was about Harry all along."

The woman disregarded Neville's pronouncement. "My son was due in August. If he had only waited, he would still be alive to fight alongside the Dark Lord." It was unclear whether the sadness in her voice was for the loss of her son's life or for the loss of a future Death Eater.

"How could you do that to your son?'

"The same way I could dispense of any enemy of the Dark Lord."

"Then why do you want me?" he asked.

"Because," and her head snapped back up, held with rigid pride. "I am still owed a son. And I promised your mother."

Neville's fists curled up in rage. "You tortured my mother."

"Yes, dear."

"And now you think you can just replace her?"

"I already have."

Neville wanted to retort, to protest her claim. But the fight died on his lips. She was right. In a way that would only ever make sense to them, there was truth in her words.

She looked at him knowingly. "See," she said, "isn't it so much easier to give in to the madness? Your parents knew it, and so do I. It's your turn to take up the family mantle."

The whiteness of the walls made Neville think of the cold, sterile smell of St Mungo's. Maybe this was where he was meant to be, laid down in a trap constructed out of his own weakness. A war was raging outside, and no one would ever know that Neville had lost a battle all on his own, on a field of his own making.

Her hand slipped around his, tensing fingers around the soft neck of the baby. "Just do it," she whispered into Neville's ear, the words lingering on his cheek.

Neville pulled away. "No," he said firmly. "I won't do it."

"Oh?"

"I'm not going to do it." And then he came to a decision. "I'm going to leave."

"You are?" she said, her voice terrifyingly level.

"Yes."

"Well, that's an admirable plan. But tell me, dear, through which door are you planning to leave?"

Neville looked around to see where the door had always been, but the space has now covered by wall. He ran over to where he knew a knob should be and frantically ran his hand along the stone. There was nothing.

"What did you do to the door?" he begged. "You can't just make doors go away." But of course she could. She could do whatever she wanted.

He sank to the floor. "I'm not going to do it. I don't care if this is all some mind trick. I'm not going to do it."

"Then I suppose I'll have to make you."

"Don't," he said. He didn't know what she was going to do, but tension began to build up in him. More than anything the Carrows had done to him this year, this terrified him. "Please don't."

"You're a child, dear. Let me tell you what's best for you."

Neville closed his eyes. The room was silent. "Please," he whispered again.

The silence was pierced by a scream. Two screams, Neville realised. The hoarse low scream of a man, and a higher pitched yell from a woman. He had a feeling of who the screams belonged to, and he commanded himself to keep his eyes closed. The sounds pierced through him, and the room was no longer the baby or the woman. The room was the screams ringing in Neville's ears until there was nothing else. The woman was doing this to hurt him, he tried to remember. She was deliberately trying to unsettle him and goad him into giving in.

But the screams echoed in his ear, louder than the cries of the baby ever had. And Neville's eyes were too wet to keep shut. He opened them and saw the blurred vision of what had been his first home. A woman-the woman-cackled as she conversed with her conspirators.

The screams stopped and the woman was now demanding information from a pair of slumped bodies. They gave no response, and Neville blinked away his tears fast enough to catch a glimpse of defiance in his parents' eyes.

"He's dead," Neville's mother said in between struggling breaths. "A little baby defeated him. That's how weak your lord is."

This earned a hex to the cheek that sliced through and left a red gash.

"Don't mock the Dark Lord," the woman snorted back. "He is not dead, and I know you know where he is."

"He's gone." This time Neville's father spoke up. "You won't find him anywhere in this world."

The hex sliced his cheek even deeper. The Cruciatus Curse hit them both at the same time. Neville watched aghast as his parents' bodies trembled and spasmed in front of him. The woman's voice grew into laughter, and she seemed consumed with joy as she unleashed the curse. Neville tried to glance around the room, to experience anything but the incredible wish that he could protect his parents from something that had already been done to them.

But all he saw were signs of a family that he couldn't remember, that they wouldn't remember. His toys were strewn across the floor, his parents' feet skimming above them as their bodies were levitated into the air. Frames of photos adorned the walls until his parents' bodies were sent crashing into them over and over again.

This was how it happened. Neville knew it. The woman could embellish if she chose to, but Neville believed her. She has always been honest in her own way.

Aurors came storming into the house. But as his parents' bodies fell with a thud to the floor, Neville knew it was too late. The vacant looks in their eyes were so familiar to him that it felt like the first time he truly recognised them.

The woman was still cackling, and whether it was coming from the memory or the room, Neville could hardly tell the difference anymore. He glanced around at the remains of his family's home. Shattered glass and blood littered the floor along with the remains of broken chairs and shelves.

A small notebook caught his attention. It was open, and a quill was sitting on the pages. Neville had a feeling that he would know what the words on the open page said. He stared at it, the one familiar artifact left in the room.

"You took me from them," he said quietly. "You took everything from them."

"That's the whole point, dear."

It was worse to hear it out loud. "You haven't won yet though," he said, his eyes fixed on the diary. He felt a new connection to the scene around him, one that wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange's cruelty. The diary-he'd spent as much time with it as he had the room. Maybe it could-

She cut his thoughts off with an explosion that ripped the diary apart. Neville watched aghast as the pages that had belonged to his mother were shredded into charred bits. Decades of her story spilled around him, and he felt a new loss as the loops that made up her writing disintegrated into nothing.

"You should be less obvious," she said as she picked up one of the smoldering pieces that blew her way. "It's sweet though, that she kept a diary. I never had the patience."

Neville watched her gleefully flick the paper away from her body. His surroundings became confusing, a combination of his parents' home and the room he had known. The only constants were the woman's cruel mirth and him.

He watched the scene flicker, and as he did, the torn pages that had made up the diary seemed to become more and more prominent in his mind. These were his mother's words, he reminded himself. He didn't need a diary to remember them, to remember what it felt like to read them.

These were his mother's words, and the woman couldn't take them from him.

He felt the anger take root, and as if on cue, the ink from the pages began to rise. Little branches from around the room began to grow. The scene from his parents' home faded away, and now it was just the room and the little branches, curling and growing in dark, twisted ways that took the woman aback.

She stepped back away from the paper, but the branches followed her until they captured her ankles and crept around her body.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Stop this!"

"It won't," Neville said. "You shouldn't have attacked her diary."

The woman's eyes flashed, and before the branches could reach her arms, a new bang cut at the branches. "You forget, dear," she stated triumphantly. "Your mind is mine to control."

But her words didn't prove true for long. The black branches had recoiled at her blast, but they recovered quickly. They took the same path up around her ankles and then up her body. She squirmed, but no amount of movement helped her escape. The branches had made it down her arms, and then around her neck. She was gasping for air.

The baby in the corner started laughing. He seemed quite pleased to watch her struggle. He even reached up as if to grab one of her dangling feet.

There was no final throw, the way there had been on the train. The branches had a hold on the woman, and the woman was beginning to lose her hold on Neville.

"No one will care for you," her voice seemed to say in Neville's head. "No one will care for you like I do. I promise."

Neville believed her. But he did not care. The woman's limbs were trapped in the branches, and slowly, the whole room seemed to be caught in them as well. Only Neville was left untouched, sitting on the ground as he watched the product of his mother's diary take over the room.

For a moment, he considered taking back the branches. The room had been safe, and the woman had been caring.

And in the next moment, Neville let the branches destroy the room. There was a cry and a woman's wail, and then the next second, the room was gone.

All that was left was a room that was bare except for his belongings. The diary was still there, its pages intact. He sank to the ground and began to breathe deeply, surveying the room he had turned into a home.

He gathered his things, and went to the door. Bellatrix Lestrange was still out there, he knew, but the woman was gone. She was gone from the room, and she was gone from his mind. There was no way to know for sure, but Neville took refuge in silence and the belief that he would not hear the crying again.

He touched the handle to the door knob and paused, then pushed it wide open. Stepping out into the hall felt like going into sunshine after a day spent in darkness. He turned back to see if the room was still there, but there was nothing. Another one of Hogwarts' secrets, he supposed, and one he might be happy to never know again.

He knew where he had to go. If he had been less desperate for the home and comfort the woman provided, he might have gone there before.

Carefully, he wound his way through the Hogwarts corridors and staircases until he was on the seventh floor. He crept to the left hall and walked past where the Room of Requirement was three times.

"I need a place to stay safe," he thought, then quickly amended that. "I need a place where my friends and I can fight."

A door appeared before him, and with no hesitation, Neville walked in. He was ready.

Epilogue

The first day at St Mungo's after the Battle of Hogwarts felt like a return to a strange memory. The whiteness of the walls reminded him of the room, and when he sat with his parents, Neville felt resentment that they couldn't hear him. The woman would have listened to his stories and smiled, he thought, but then quickly shook the thought away.

Even if his mother couldn't hear his stories, there was something in knowing he was able to tell them to her. There was more to his parents losing their sanity than just staying in St Mungo's and never recognising anyone. There was so much they didn't know about the world they helped make. They would never know that Harry defeated Voldemort. They would never know their son had helped.

Before he left, his mother stopped him. She held the bubblegum wrapper out for him, just as she always did. He smiled and took the wrapper, and when she smiled back, Neville hoped he wasn't making up the happiness in her eyes.

He had survived, and she had survived. She would have been proud of him, and even if she didn't know that now, it meant something.

It would never be enough, but he supposed nothing was supposed to be.