The Breaking Point

by Acacia Carter

It was the biggest secret of Auror training, and everyone knew about it. There are so many triggers in here you can't swing a cat without hitting one, so read at your own risk.

Author's Note:

No, seriously, I'm not kidding about triggers. This is, to date, the darkest fic I've ever written. It was for a challenge, otherwise I probably wouldn't have written it. It's rated M for violence, mental instability/illness, graphic torture, and language. If you're looking for something fluffy, I'd suggest you head somewhere else. The happy ending isn't even really that happy. Abandon hope all ye who enter here!

---

14 March 2001

9:14 am

It was the biggest secret of Auror training, and everyone knew about it.

Nobody talked about it, of course. It was a secret. Neville wasn't even entirely sure how he had learned about it, if nobody talked about it, but the information was there, in his head, and as time went on and nothing happened, every summons he received filled him with dread.

That was how it started. An innocuous summons, for a progress review or after a particularly impressive performance in a field exercise. Just like Neville was headed to now. But you opened the door to your superior's office and –

Neville's breath caught. Auror Simmons wasn't behind his desk.

This is it, he thought, bracing himself even as he felt the nonverbal stunner crackling through the air. It's my turn for the anti-torture training.

14 March 2001

Late Morning

He was blindfolded and gagged. He'd expected that. His wand holster felt empty at his side; he'd expected that too. He hadn't expected his arms to be bound behind him, or his legs to be bound to the legs of the chair, but perhaps he should have.

"Good. You're awake."

Neville knew the speaker wasn't expecting an answer. He remained silent, but that voice...

"You do know why you're here, right?"

That did require an answer. Neville nodded.

"And you probably think you know what is going to happen."

Neville nodded again. From what he'd heard – or thought he'd heard, anyway – there was a fairly standard procedure.

There was breathing right next to his ear and he tried to jerk away. "Forget everything you thought you knew about this place, Longbottom." The blindfold fell away from his eyes and Neville got the first glimpse of his host – and felt the blood drain from his face.

It's Polyjuice potion, or a Metamorphmagus, he thought madly to himself, forcing his hands to stay still and not fight the binds. It's got to be. There's no way they'd let... no way...

"So," Amycus Carrow said, lifting a wand. "Shall we pick up where we left off, so long ago?"

It's all just psychology. They have my file, they know what scares me. The whole point is that they're trying to get me to crack. That's not Amycus Carrow.

The man – for lack of a better term, Neville filled the name in as Carrow – raised his wand. Neville reflexively screwed his eyes shut and ducked his head, but the expected Crucio did not come.

"Legilimens!"

He couldn't move. He was frozen, caught in a well-placed Body-Bind, and all he could see was the dancing, flickering flames before his face. The heat was blistering, it was impossible to inhale without scorching his throat, and he could feel the fire surrounding him, inching ever closer, searing his skin more with every second –

"NO!" he tried to shout, but all it made was a pathetic muffled sound against the gag.

Carrow – that isn't Carrow – chuckled. "Oh, I am going to have fun breaking you."

14 March 2001

Afternoon

He refused to open his eyes. Maybe if he kept them closed, kept his chin tucked against his chest, shoulders slumped, they would finally decide they were finished, finally leave him alone, call it done.

"Are you giving in, then? Should I call you broken?"

The tiny tendril of anger curled at the bottom of his stomach and Neville wrenched his eyes open to glare at the man who wasn't Carrow.

There was the smallest hint of grim satisfaction on the man's face as he lifted his wand. "Legilimens –"

He couldn't move. He was frozen, caught in a well-placed Body-Bind, and all he could see was the dancing, flickering flames before his face. The heat was blistering, it was impossible to inhale without scorching his throat, and he could feel the fire surrounding him, inching ever closer, searing his skin more with every second –

And then it was all gone – the heat, the fire, all of it. In fact, it was downright chilly, his shirt soaked with sweat and sticking to his skin, cool in the drafty white room.

"You're not even fighting anymore." The man had a dead, flat voice, his eyes disinterested as he looked disdainfully at Neville. "You are letting me put you in pain. You are letting me replay that memory." He raised his wand. "Again. And again. I can do this all day."

Neville bared his teeth at him around the gag, rubbing his wrists against the bonds that kept his hands tied behind the back of the chair. "So can I," he tried to say.

Apparently it was somewhat intelligible, because the man – not Carrow, no matter what he looks like – smirked. "I doubt it."

14 March, 2001

Late Afternoon...or Evening...

The last spell had been a stunner. Neville hadn't been expecting it, had been bracing his mind against being invaded again, and he woke with a start in a cold sweat.

He was on a thin mattress, only slightly thicker than the blanket that was over him against the chill. Next to him on the floor was a glass of water and a bowl of stew.

The stew was cold and congealed. It was the best thing Neville had ever tasted. As he spooned it into his mouth, he looked around the room.

It was only barely long enough for him to lie down on the mattress, with no doors or windows to be seen. It definitely was not tall enough for him to stand straight. The bare gray walls glowed with their own dim illumination, with no source Neville could see. Aside from the mattress and blanket and the glass and bowl, there was nothing in the room except a drain in the middle of the slightly sloping floor.

Trying not to think of what the drain was for, he stretched out on the mattress and positioned his forearm over his face to block out the light. Tears inexplicably pricked at the corners of his eyes and he blinked them away angrily. This was just something that had to be done. All Aurors went through it. Were you expecting tea and biscuits over a pamphlet?

Now, at least, he understood why no one talked about it.

He turned onto his side facing the featureless gray wall and closed his eyes, determined to get what sleep he could. He was on the verge of dropping off when the walls of the room rang like a massive bell and he sat bolt upright, breathing heavily as his heart raced.

They're not going to let me sleep, he realized dimly. That's part of it. I have to face it all again tomorrow with no sleep.

Even knowing now that someone was watching him, he felt only a little ashamed to curl his knees against his chest and bury his face in his hands to let out the few sobs that were building in his chest.

15 March, 2001

Morning, or something like it

A space opened in the wall. Neville raised his head, eyes gritty with weariness, and he stood as best he could and stretched. Through the hole, which had stretched to become a doorway, he could see the stark white room.

I could just not go through. I could stay here and refuse to move.

Who am I kidding?

He ducked to step through the doorway, which closed behind him to a smooth wall as soon as he was through.

There was no sign of the man, but a disturbance in the corner of the room hinted that someone was there, concealed. Probably the Selection Committee, he thought bitterly. They want to see what happens when I break. This isn't training, it's profiling.

Fine. I'll show them I'm just as tough as my parents were. The thought build a warm feeling of resolve in his chest, and he could feel himself stand a little straighter.

The door on the other side of the room opened, and Neville looked over apprehensively. It was not the man who masqueraded as Carrow. It was instead a white-blond witch, her hair pulled into a severe bun, her eyes a shade of violet that suggested she was not entirely human. She raised a pale eyebrow imperceptibly when he seated himself in the same chair to which he'd been confined the previous day.

"Welcome back, Mr Longbottom," she said in an expressionless tone. Neville shrugged. She walked forward slowly and leaned down until their cheeks were brushing, making gooseflesh erupt on his skin.

"Today he is going to ask you your middle name," she whispered in his ear. "You are not to divulge this information under any circumstances."

She straightened, turned, and left without another glance in Neville's direction.

Neville took a sharp breath as the door shut behind her with a note of finality. So. This was it. They would be pumping him for information today, information that he knew as well as – well, as well as his own name. Knowing that he could make it all stop if he just told them. If he just gave in.

Abruptly the lights were extinguished, plunging him into a darkness so complete it felt heavy. Neville did not flinch, or even blink. He was rather proud of himself for that until he did jump, terribly jolted, as a wall of fire sprang into being around him, instantly seeming to sear at his skin. He sprang up from the chair and in his haste knocked it into the wall, where the metal sagged and melted like ice on summer pavement. He licked his lips, dry already in this heat, and his mouth was dry as well, for entirely different reasons.

"I opted to skip the pleasantries today," came the man's voice from outside the walls of fire. God, it sounded just like Carrow's. "I hope you don't mind. You were so obliging yesterday that I just couldn't wait to get well and truly started."

"You're a sick fuck," Neville spat, and the man laughed.

"Of course I am. That's why they get me to do this." With a lurch that made Neville's stomach drop, the walls constricted toward him just slightly. He swallowed.

"You can't actually hurt me," he said, his voice wavering just slightly. He cleared his throat. "I know the rules. I can't come to any harm here."

"Wrong," the man said, and the flames jumped closer – uncomfortably close. "You can't come to any lasting harm. I can heal you to good as new and then start all over again." He was nearly purring, and a cold prickle of fear snaked down Neville's back.

He's bluffing. He has to be. There's no way the Ministry would allow actual damage during training.

"Now." The voice was moving; the man was obviously circling him. "As I understand it, you have information pertinent to my interests."

"Maybe." Neville closed his eyes. If he couldn't see the fire, he could pretend it was just a furnace, just a boiler. He regretted knocking the chair over in his haste to stand; his knees were starting to quake ever so slightly.

"I don't suppose you'd like to indulge me?" The voice was behind Neville now, and he resisted the urge to spin and face it.

"You know how bad I am at Occlumancy," Neville retorted. "Why not just find out for yourself?"

"It's the principle of the thing. I want nothing more than for you to fall all over yourself to give it to me." The heat grew stronger and Neville's eyes flew open against his will and his stomach churned. When he'd closed them he'd been in a space the size of a lift car; now he'd be hard pressed to spread his arms to either side.

"You remember what it's like, don't you, Longbottom? Feeling the fat melt away, the skin curl and blister?"

"I've sat through Cruciatus before," Neville said shortly. "Fire doesn't scare me." An outright lie, and it made the man laugh.

"Oh, but fire damages, Longbottom. Fire eats away. Fire consumes. You don't really want to feel that again, do you?"

Neville did not answer, screwed his eyes tightly shut. They couldn't hurt him. It was against all the constraints of the exercise, that was why they used Legilimens, they couldn't do anything to actually harm him –

He cried out before he could clamp his mouth shut. His skin had begun to blister as the walls jumped forward again, and he knew if he opened his eyes the air would shimmer with the heat. Panic, not willing to be held at bay any longer, burst from within him and he began to shake violently.

"Starting to realize I mean business, are you? Starting to dawn on you that the Ministry doesn't actually care what goes on in this room, so long as it gets results? This is where we do real interrogations, you see. No one actually knows you're here. They just know the room is in use, if they even know this room exists."

The circle of flames constricted even tighter and tongues of fire caught at Neville's clothing. The dry fabric took flame immediately.

Neville screamed.

15 March (?)

Time Indeterminable

"There you are, love. All pink and new again. I've always been good at healing burns."

Neville reluctantly opened his eyes. he'd expected to hurt all over, expected the agony he'd had upon blacking out to continue unabated, and he felt pain – but it was a phantom pain, like the pain one felt in the minutes after a Cruciatus let up.

"Yes, that was intense, wasn't it? Glorious."

Neville passed a hand before his eyes. If I've been out for any length of time, I should feel more rested, not – no, wait. I've just been Healed. That saps all the energy you've got on a good day. He shook his head groggily. "You're not Carrow," he said stubbornly.

The man threw back his head and laughed. "Are you sure about that? Absolutely, one hundred percent sure?"

"Yes." No. The Ministry is burning me alive and doesn't care, of course they could put Carrow in charge of – no, they wouldn't stoop to that. He's a convicted Death Eater.

So is Lucius Malfoy and he's walking free.

It's not Carrow.

The man leaned down to whisper in Neville's ear. He cringed, but hurt too much to move much more than shutting his eyes tightly.

"If you're ever lonely again, maybe I'll have another go at you in the dungeons, you little pouf."

Neville's eyes flew open again as his chest constricted.

Oh God. It is Carrow. I never told anyone that he did that to me, I never –

"That's right," Carrow said as he straightened. He unbuttoned his collar casually. "It's a mite warm in here. Or is it just me?" A tiny flame began to flicker at the end of his wand and he studied it. "Interesting. It must be me." he held it down in front of Neville's face. "You see that? Such a little thing. Very pretty. Amazing that it can hurt this much." And without any warning, he jabbed the wand forward into Neville's cheek.

Neville let out a shout that was half a sob and pushed himself aside, realizing for the first time that his clothing had apparently burned clean away.

"Of course, you've realized by now it's not about the pain. You're good at ignoring pain, aren't you? Just like your dear parents." Carrow stood and began a slow walk to Neville. Neville scrambled backwards on his elbows, pushing with his feet, until his back was against one of the cold tile walls and Carrow was in front of him, looming. "No, it's about causing fear." He pointed his wand and the tiles at his back grew suddenly very warm. Neville yelped and launched himself away from the wall, and would have knocked Carrow over if he hadn't stepped smoothly out of the way. "Of course, you can stop it, you know. Just tell me what I want to know. It's so easy."

"No."

The walls of flame were back, circling around him, blazing with white heat.

"Every time I hear something I don't want to, this is going to happen, Longbottom."

"I don't care."

The flames leapt closer.

"I can do this all day, too."

"So can I." No I can't. Not this time. This is – I can't shake this off. This is real. This man enjoys hurting me, he doesn't care if he gets his stupid information or not.

I don't trust him to stop even if I tell him. So I may as well just not tell him. It's my only way to fight back.

"You are one tough nut to crack, Longbottom."

"Study some etymology," Neville retorted, a great deal cockier than he felt. "And you'll see just how ironic it is you're calling me by my surname."

I know it sounds ridiculous, Gran had once told him, when he was very young. But 'bottom' is a very old word for 'staying power.' A Longbottom is a person who doesn't give up.

Apparently, it's also someone who mouths off to torturers. The look on Carrow's face chilled him to his marrow, and the blazing circle did not jump forward so much as rush inward.

It caught him at the end of his sentence, and so it was a moment before he'd inhaled enough to scream.

March

Night, presumably

He did not want to open his eyes. Everything hurt, his skin prickled, and if he kept his eyes closed maybe they would think he was still unconscious and he could steal some sleep –

The walls rang and the only thing that startled him more was the sound of someone else in the room jumping.

He opened his eyes, groaning at the stabbing light, and pushed himself up. He still didn't have any clothes, didn't think he'd be able to stand the friction of them if he did. He looked over and his eyes widened.

"H – Harry?" The miserable figure on the other side of the room nodded. Really, his broken glasses were all that made him recognizable – his face was a mess of cuts and bruises, and his body language was all wrong: he was hunched, drawn into himself, rubbing his upper arms as though he was cold. "Blimey, what have they been doing to you?"

"Holding me back." He sounded raw, as though he'd been shouting. "They..." He ran a hand over his face, finally looking up at Neville. "God, Neville, they're making me watch. They've got me in that corner and they're making me watch." His voice broke on the last syllable.

Neville had not truly appreciated how sick this training was until this moment. It's perfectly tailored. Of course Harry's greatest fear is to stand by, helpless, as a friend is tormented.

"I assume they want my middle name from you, too." Harry nodded. "You know it. Just give it to them."

Harry shook his head brokenly. "They're not going to let me go. They told me. They're not going to let me go until you give it to them." He took a shaky breath. "That's why I'm here. I'm supposed to tell you to just give up."

Neville licked his lips. They were dry and chapped beyond belief, but there was no evidence of a glass of water for him. "And it sticks in the craw a bit, doesn't it?"

"No," Harry said simply. "It's just a training exercise, Neville. For fuck's sake, please, just give them what they want."

"You're not real." It was suddenly clear as crystal. "You're not actually Harry."

"What? I'm right here –"

"No. You're not Harry." Neville tried to stand up to pace, forgetting about the low ceiling and cracking his head. He settled himself with bringing his legs to his chest and pressing his forehead against his knees. They're surrounding me with ghosts and making me think they're all real. You're not Harry, that's not Carrow, this isn't the Ministry, it's not training, it's all real and it's not real at the same time and it is Carrow out there somehow

"Neville, it's me. Please, just look at me."

"Prove it!" Neville spat, glowering at him. No, that won't do, Carrow proved he's Carrow but I don't believe him, I don't believe any of it

"I – How? How the hell am I supposed to prove that? I know what they're doing to you, but –"

"You have no idea what they're doing to me!" Neville bellowed, burying his head in his arms, pounding his forehead on his knees again. "You're not real!"

"Stop saying that!"

"Then stop it!" That makes no sense, but none of this makes any sense. Not anymore.

"Neville, I'm trying to –"

Neville pressed his hands against his ears. I don't want to hear anymore, I don't want to be here anymore with Not Harry and Not Carrow except God it is Carrow, maybe it's really Harry? Maybe I'm really actually here and this is really happening and that's Harry? But no, that would mean it's really Carrow out there

The illumination in the room suddenly dimmed to nearly nothing and his heart jumped wildly as he jerked to his feet, cracking his head on the stone ceiling again. There was a flash of bright white before his eyes just before the pain registered, and then his vision began to blacken at the edges. God, let that have knocked me out, please.

If there was a God, he was listening this time.

March (?)

"Sleep well?" Carrow asked sweetly.

"Fuck off."

"Language, Mr Longbottom. We're both gentlemen here."

"Fuck. Off."

"You'll notice there's no shield over the corner today. Hopefully that will let Mr Potter see what's happening more clearly."

Neville didn't answer. That wasn't Harry in the corner. It was just another tool, another way to try and break him. Just like the man in front of him, the man that had to be Carrow, couldn't possibly be anyone else.

"I'm bored of fire by now, Mr Longbottom. I was thinking that today we could get just a little more... personal."

Ropes blossomed from nowhere and bound Neville to the chair. Neville was almost grateful; it was an effort to stay sitting up. He sagged against them and kept his gaze on the floor until a single, small sound raised his hackles.

A belt buckle.

And he broke.

All the fatigue, all the helplessness, all the anger, ignited inside him and spread outwards. His bonds snapped as he launched himself from his chair, tiles cracked as the wave of primal magic swept out from him, knocking Carrow from his feet and sending his wand flying.

Neville did not go for the wand. A wand would do him no good now. His vision was tinged a bloody red and he kicked Carrow in the side, felt his bare foot connect with ribs and it hurt, but the hurt was distant and not worth noticing. His next kick was square in the groin, forcing Carrow to curl up and howl and Neville stomped hard as he could on his face, twice, grinding his heel.

"It's Augustus," he found himself saying through teeth clenched so tightly his jaw hurt, "It's Neville Fucking Augustus Longbottom and you are never –" stomp – "doing that" stomp "to me" stomp "again!"

He overbalanced and fell to the ground, but he wasn't done, would never be done punishing this twisted waste of flesh. He found his fingers closing around Carrow's throat, and he was lifting and crashing his head against the tile floor, over and over –

And he suddenly wasn't Carrow any longer.

Someone wrenched Neville backwards by his shoulders and Neville tried to turn and swing a fist at them, but he overbalanced again and fell off to the side.

And there were people, from nowhere, dozens of people with wands pointing at him and at Harry, who was holding his arms pinned against his body and he couldn't stand it, couldn't stand not being able to move and he struggled, and someone was saying "Criminy, he's dead. He killed him, with his bare hands."

"Calm down, Neville," came Harry's voice in his ear, and Neville's knees buckled and he landed on the tile floor.

"Are you really Harry? Is this real?" He blinked, everything a blur, and he wanted sleep so very badly, but now wasn't the time, was it? Of course it's not the time, it'll never be the time, they're never going to let you sleep again and they'll just keep sending you ghosts and imposters and none of this is real

Someone tapped a wand on his forehead and he nearly sobbed as he felt the warm, delicious blanket of sleep shut him down.

24 March, 2001

3:45pm

"We'd normally have offered you an Obliviate, to take the edge off," Auror Simmons was saying. Neville was staring out the window. It was a nice window, overlooking a balcony with vines growing on terraces. He liked vines. "But we can't use Pensieve memories in a trial if they've been altered."

"There isn't an Azkaban anymore," Neville said absently. "Where are you going to send me?"

"We're not sending you anywhere," Simmons said gently.

Neville didn't stop gazing out the window. "I killed a man. I wanted him to die, and I did it. I made him not real anymore. I made him Not Carrow."

"Neville, Unspeakable Ross broke several laws, both in using that form and in what – what he did to you. It's never supposed to go past Legilimancy. There is no excuse. The entire Wizengamot agrees that you were provoked beyond any reasonable expectation of control."

"None of it was real." They were Blue Creeper vines, he was fairly sure. He'd have to check the undersides of the leaves. Maybe they'd let him go outside today.

"It was real. That's why we need your consent to take those memories, for the trial. But you need to do it, which means – you'll need to relive them, while you're giving them to us."

"It wasn't real. I can't give you what's not real."

"Then give us what you do remember." He was almost begging. Neville looked away from the window a moment, then pointed.

"That's my mum and dad over there, you know."

Simmons did not look happy. "I know. We've met."

"I'd like to go outside. I want to know if those are Blue Creepers."

"Give us another few days," the lady was saying to Simmons now. "He's been showing some recovery. Getting those memories right now might speed up the trial, but it'd likely break him entirely."

Simmons nodded. "Thank you, Healer. Please keep me updated."

"Of course." To Neville, "You'd like to go outside?"

"Yes, please, ma'am." Neville grinned at her. She was real.

22 June, 2001

1:30pm

"Hey." Harry had his hands shoved in his pockets. "I heard you were out of the hospital."

Neville nodded and stepped aside to let him into his flat.

It was very clean, the cleanest it had been since he'd moved in after leaving Hogwarts. Bookcases lined the walls, most of them full. One of them stood in front of the fireplace. It couldn't be flush against the wall, unless Neville wanted to remove the mantelpiece, but he couldn't bring himself to stay near the ashy hole for very long, not even to scrub it clean like the rest of the flat.

"Are... you here alone?" Harry asked tentatively.

Neville nodded. "Most of the time." He tried for a smile. "They've termed me 'Mentally Disoriented – Not a Danger to Self or Others.'" He held up his wrist. "See? I've even got a bracelet saying so. First time they've given me a souvenir for leaving that ward."

"You seem... better," Harry ventured. Neville shrugged.

"I am. A bit." He cleared his throat. "I'd offer you tea. But –" He shot an apprehensive glance at the stove in the kitchen. Harry followed his line of sight and his eyes grew tight.

"God, Neville." He stepped forward and Neville started. "Sorry. Can – can I hug you? You seem like you need one."

"I'd prefer not," Neville said, swallowing hard. "I don't like people touching me. It's – it's not that it's you. It's just – it's warm." He licked his lips, hoping Harry would understand.

Harry nodded, looking terribly sad. "I wanted to ask you a question," he said as he sank onto a couch. Neville sat down next to him. "Are you going to hate me if I don't resign?"

Neville blinked. "After all that, you still want to be an Auror?" he asked, and for the first time in months he felt a lick of anger at the back of his throat.

"There are people out there who will do... that... to innocent civilians. Children, mothers and fathers. I... feel like it's my responsibility to stop it." He cleared his throat. "Hermione's introducing legislation to the Wizengamot about laying down laws against..." he trailed off. "And the Aurors aren't doing it anymore. The training. Shacklebolt was horrified when he found out it was going on – he was trained in Africa you know, and he didn't know..."

"Can we not talk about this?" Neville could feel his chest constricting. "I'm better, but I'm not that better."

"Right." Harry held up his hands. "Change of subject. I've got some spare tickets to the Harpies game on Sunday. Do you want to come? Ginny's second string for this game, but the Harpies are a fun team to watch."

"I..." Neville could hear the Healer's voice telling him that he should do as many normal things as possible. "Okay. Sure."

"Great." There was silence for a time, and Harry's expression grew slightly anguished. "I have to know," he said finally, studying his hands. "Do you blame me? For... any of it?"

Neville laughed ruefully, running his hand through his hair. "Harry, mate, I'm still not entirely convinced you were actually there."

Harry bit his lip and nodded. "Right. Okay." He stood. "I'll come by at four on Sunday?"

"Yeah. Sounds good." He stood as well, and after a moment's consideration, opened his arms. Harry looked perplexed for a moment, then stepped into them to give Neville a quick squeeze. Panic bit at the base of Neville's stomach but he ignored it.

He'd get better, with time. Someday, he'd no longer be broken.