Pain had happened.
That was the only thing he knew for sure. He wasn't even sure where he was. He had passed out in the dungeon in Malfoy Manor, but what did that prove? He didn't seem to be there anymore. The ground was softer, for one thing. Earthier. Grass?
He couldn't think. His head was pounding. His back felt like it had been ripped to shreds, naked flesh exposed to the air with no skin to protect it. He could feel congealed blood on his hands and around his waist where it had pooled around the edge of his thin cotton trousers. How many lashes before he had passed out? Forty? More? Why wasn't he dead? Bitch probably slipped him a healing potion again…
He thought about opening his eyes. Nah, that seemed like a bad idea. Maybe he could go back to sleep, and if he slept long enough maybe he could just die, peacefully…
"Oh HELL."
A voice, unfamiliar, on the edge of his hearing. It was swearing, mumbling curse words, coming closer. He tried to move, to get away from the voice - it didn't matter who it was. The chances of them not wanting to hurt him were slim to none. And he didn't think he could take any more pain…
"Hermione? It's me. I've got another one. It's really bad. No, worse than the last one, I'm not kidding… there's blood everywhere! He needs a healer! Fuck. Yeah, I'll meet you there. Okay."
He moaned and flexed his fingers, trying to drag himself up, but suddenly the voice was right next to him. "Don't move. It's all right, I've got you..."
He took a sharp breath and his eyes came open of their own accord. The view was fuzzy with the pain. A man was bending over him, holding a wand.
"Don't…" he begged, hoarsely. "Please…" He hated begging. He only did it when there was nothing left, no fibre of resistance left in his body.
"It's all right," the voice said again. "You're safe. I'm going to Apparate you to the St. Mungos. Take my hand."
He had no intention of doing any such thing, but rough, strong fingers were already being forced between his, and then…. no, please no, he was dying. He couldn't breathe, his chest was being squeezed in a vice, his head was going to explode…
~*WWW*~
When he woke the next time, he was lying on a bed. This was amazing in itself. He couldn't remember the last time he had had his own bed to sleep in. The next thing he realised was that he could think, marginally clearly, for the first time in days. He opened his eyes to a white ceiling, and turned his head to see a row of beds. A hospital, maybe. Definitely not the dungeon.
"He lives."
He jumped at the voice and looked quickly to the other side. The movement jarred his back, and a lance of pain went through him. He was used to pain though, and only grimaced as he squinted at the owner of the voice.
There was a young man lounging on the bed next to his. He didn't seem to be injured. He was fully dressed in long, dark robes and tall, expensive-looking boots. He had dark, loosely-curled hair and was looking at him curiously. He was really familiar, but he couldn't think where he had seen him before.
"Kneazle got your tongue?" the man asked, raising both dark eyebrows.
He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a hacking coughing fit.
The man seemed unimpressed at watching him hack up his lungs onto the clean white sheets. "Merlin. I hope you haven't got some kind of plague."
He ignored the man, concentrating on breathing between violent coughs. "Fuck," he managed to splutter hoarsely when it was just about over. "Why aren't I dead?"
"You look dead. Less dead than when they brought you in, but still." The man shifted on the bed.
He realised with a shock that the suave man was handcuffed to the bed he was sitting on. The handcuffs were red - enchanted? They'd have to be, to hold any kind of decent wizard.
"Are you… a rebel?" he asked, eyes wide. Was it possible the man had just been captured? Had he been on the outside this whole time? He didn't look like a slave, more like a Pureblood, with his fancy boots and well-kept hair. But why else would he be a prisoner? "Why are you…"
"Oh, this?" The man shook the handcuffs and shrugged. "Guess they're afraid I'll make a break for it. They've all gone for food. Nice of them to leave me behind to watch you, eh? You've been out for hours. I wouldn't move too much, by the way - "
He had tried to sit up, and fell back with a groan. His back burned with the fire of a thousand hot suns. He cursed, loudly.
"Nice language," sneered the man on the bed. "Didn't your mother ever teach you not to swear like that? Or don't you have one? Only two of us has real parents, so far, and apparently mine don't count."
He felt a rush of anger that momentarily outweighed the pain. He glared. "Don't you dare say anything about my mother!"
The man seemed unfazed by this. "Only if you don't say anything about mine. What's your name?"
He blinked, wondering if he should tell him. He still didn't know where he was. Had he been kidnapped? Or rescued? It seemed unlikely. Maybe he should be trying to keep his identity a secret. But then, that was stupid. Anyone could find out his name. He reached under the covers with his right hand for his left wrist, the silver band encircling it tightly, too tight to move more than half an inch in either direction. "Neville," he muttered.
The man blew a lock of hair out of his eyes, apparently annoyed. "I know that," he said. "What's your last name?"
Now he was thoroughly confused. If he knew one name, he would know the other, surely? "Er… Longbottom."
"Damn. So are all the others. Guess I'm just special." He grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm Neville Lestrange."
He felt a chill go down his spine at the name. "L… Lestrange?"
"Yeah, most people have that reaction. I was adopted. Never thought about it much until I came here - don't!"
He had scrambled to the other side of the bed on his elbows. His back screamed protests of agony, but he couldn't afford to think about that now. Lestrange was just playing games with him now! "Where is she?" he demanded.
"Who?" the man frowned. "My mother? Back home, probably. Somehow I doubt she's pining with too much worry about me. Oh, stop that." He sighed. "I'm told she's dead here. She's not going to do anything to you."
Neville thought his head was going to explode. "What… what the hell is going on? Where am I? Who are you?"
"You're in St Mungo's, that's easy enough to answer. As to what the hell is going on… well, your guess is as good as mine. Me? I'm Neville. So are you. There are five of us now, if you count the original one from this world. They call me Neville C." He made a grimacing expression at this as if to show just what he thought of this unoriginal moniker. "You'll be Neville E, I guess. Hermione will explain it better than me."
"Hermione…" Neville felt his heart lift a little despite the pain, the confusion and the rising nausea. "Hermione's here?"
"Yes - not your Hermione though, the Hermione from this world. Get it?"
"No. What do you mean, this world?"
"There's more than one. Apparently. Same people, different lives. I grew up as the heir to one of the most powerful wizarding families in Britain, and you… were fed to some kind of wild animal, I'm assuming?"
Neville glared. He decided he did not like this man. Even if he was another version of himself, which was impossible… wasn't it? He frowned and tried to focus on the features. The man's face was much better fleshed than his own, his skin better coloured, his hair richer and healthy-looking. Perhaps it was possible that if he, Neville, hadn't been locked inside for four years, if he had washed properly at all in that time, or spent any time in the sun, or eaten properly… maybe he would look like that. Maybe.
"Oh, you're awake!"
Neville looked up quickly to see a tall, bushy-haired woman hurrying into the ward. There were a few more people trailing behind her, but he was so glad to see her that he barely looked at them. The last time he had seen her… well, she had been a lot thinner, for one thing. Her hair had been cropped short, and she had been looking at him through bars. This was the girl he remembered from before the war, Ron's girlfriend, the one who had helped him with his Charms NEWT, before everything had gone to hell.
"Hermione!"
She smiled at him. "I'm so glad you're all right, we were so worried - he hasn't been saying anything horrible, has he?" She gave the man on the bed - Neville C? - a dirty look, and he raised his non-cuffed hand in a kind of mock surrender.
"N-no…" he looked between them with confusion. "He was trying to explain… I still don't get it…"
"Never mind that right now, we have to make sure you're not going to collapse again! How's your back?"
Neville moved gingerly, testing. He realised that there must be bandages on under his clothes - white hospital pyjamas, not too unlike his uniform in any case - because there seemed to be a lot of padding back there. He couldn't reach to feel, though, and every movement sent another wave of searing pain up and down what had been raw flesh. "Better?" he said.
"Mm." Hermione seemed unconvinced. "You were almost dead when Neville brought you in. Do you remember what happened to you?"
Neville suddenly felt sick with humiliation. Of course he remembered. The same thing had happened almost every night for the last week. If he hadn't been so stupid, it would never have gone so far. If he had kept his mouth shut, he could have spared himself.
Hermione seemed to accept his silence as explanation. She waved forward one of the people she had brought with her. "Could you just check? We need him to be able to think clear enough for this conversation - I don't want to put him though anything like this if he's in pain…"
Neville looked up at the man she brought forward, and blinked in surprise. He looked just like the handcuffed man. Perhaps not quite as suave, not as well dressed - he was wearing jeans and a green T-shirt, Muggle clothes he hadn't seen the like of in years - and not in quite as good shape, physically. But they definitely could have been twins, if not brothers.
"Er… are you Neville too?" he asked nervously.
The man smiled. It was a much kinder smile than Neville C's. "You're catching on. I'm Neville B. I'm a Healer. Is it all right if I check you over, quickly? It won't hurt."
Neville felt like a child being fed a nasty tasting potion. He swallowed. "I… I haven't had a healer… in years. I…"
"Don't be afraid. It'll help." The man sat beside him on the bed and put a cool hand on his forehead. Neville closed his eyes. It seemed to happen automatically, as though he hadn't consciously made the decision to do so. At first nothing seemed to happen, then it was as though something gentle was stroking at his mind. It felt weird, but it didn't hurt. In fact, after a minute he felt relaxed, then peaceful. As though all the pain and terror of the last few days were slowly being extracted through that cool touch. The throbbing pain in his back slowed, then faded.
When he opened his eyes, Neville B was looking at him with tears visible in his eyes. "Who did this?" he asked hoarsely.
"Neville," Hermione said warningly.
Neville B looked up at her and nodded sadly. "He's all right for now. He needs rest, but…"
"Can I talk to him?"
"I'm still here," Neville reminded her. He shuffled up into a sitting position. His back twinged, but didn't ache as much. "That's… much better." He looked at Neville B. "Thank you."
The man nodded, then looked away as though he couldn't bear to meet his eyes for too long. He sat on the bed next door, keeping as far away as possible from the handcuffed man, Neville noticed. Hermione and the third man sat on the bed on the other side.
Neville turned his attention to this man for the first time. It was definitely another Neville. He looked more like Neville B than Neville C, but still nothing like Neville E. He looked like he had grown up eating proper food, and he was wearing good clothes. Or they would have been good, if there wasn't blood all over them.
"It's yours," said the man, noticing him looking. "You popped up in my sitting room and bled all over the carpet."
"Oh." Neville wondered if he was meant to feel guilty about that. How could he help where he bled over? Even Lestrange didn't punish him for bleeding. She liked it when he bled.
"Neville, this is Neville A," Hermione said gently. "The… original Neville. That is, he's the Neville for the world we're in at the moment. Do you… know about the related worlds?"
Neville stared at her. "No?"
"Right. Well… it's a bit complicated, but long story short… there are hundreds of worlds. Some of the similar ones are connected, and those worlds are called a world series. There are usually nine to a series. The connected worlds can be observed by the others, to some extent, usually only in dreams or magical trances. The related worlds usually have a lot of the same people in them, but because the worlds are different, the people are different, too."
"So…" Neville tried to force his brain into some kind of order. New information was not something he was used to dealing with. He couldn't remember the last time he had learned something new. It was always orders, do this, do that, don't scream until I tell you to… "There are nine versions of me?"
"Theoretically, yes." Hermione agreed. "Though in your case we know at least one is dead, so no more than eight."
"How do you know one is dead?"
"Well, I'm getting ahead of myself really. This all started a month or two ago. Neville B here," she gestured to the healer. "Appeared on our Neville's doorstep without any idea how he got there. You all seem to come through near our Neville, for some reason. Three more have arrived since then, including you. I'm trying to figure out how to sort all this… I've been doing a lot of research into the related worlds and trying to contact them. I got through to one world in a trance, but I couldn't find their Neville because he was killed when he was sixteen."
"Oh," Neville couldn't think of what to say to that. "But… why is this happening?"
"No one knows. There's some kind of instability in the related worlds that's led to all of you being shoved into the one world. It sounds insane, at first, I know…"
"It still sounds insane," yawned Neville C, tugging at his handcuffs. "Can someone take these off now?"
"No," said Hermione and Neville A, together.
Neville C rolled his eyes. "They all hate me. It's not fair."
"But…" the conversation from earlier was coming back to haunt Neville with a vengeance. "He said his name was Lestrange… that can't be…"
"It is," said Neville A, darkly. "He was adopted as a baby. In his world, Bellatrix Lestrange rules wizarding Britain, and she's his mum."
"It's not like I asked to be adopted," Neville C growled.
"You're a Dark Wizard," Neville A said shortly. "The handcuffs stay on."
"I told you, I'm not even in the army, I've never killed anyone -"
"Shut up."
Hermione shook her head. "Will the two of you stop? You're scaring him."
Neville was shaking. "N-no, I'm fine. Just… being Lestrange's son… I'd rather die…"
"Tell me about it." Neville A looked exhausted.
Neville C made a grimacing, sulking expression and stopped tugging on the handcuffs.
"There are some things you all have in common so far," Hermione continued, giving her Neville a warning look. "You're all called Neville. Your parents - biological parents," she added, rolling her eyes as Neville C looked about to protest. "Were - or are - Alice and Frank Longbottom. And you're all the same age, that is, from the same time in your relative timelines. It was April fourth for you, wasn't it?" she asked, with typical Hermione-ish thoroughness.
Neville hesitated. "I'm sorry, I… I don't know," he said eventually. "I'm twenty-one, I think, if that helps… sorry…"
Hermione looked at him sympathetically. "All right. Don't worry about it. Now, it's going to take some getting used to, I'm afraid. There are probably a lot of things that are different here to your own world. There might even be some people alive who are dead in your world, or vice versa. Some people might not have been born. We're keeping you all in a safe place until we can figure out what's going on and how to reverse it…"
"What?" Neville gasped. "Reverse it? You're going to send me back?"
"Er…" Hermione looked a bit shaken. "Well… everyone else has wanted to go back, so far…"
"I don't! You think I want to go back, to that… that place, that house, to be enslaved, and tortured…" Neville felt hot tears come to his eyes, but he would not cry, he hadn't cried in years, and he was not going to do it now. The pain was coming back with a vengeance, his back fired up and he bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. "I won't go back!"
"Oh dear." Hermione looked at a loss for words.
Neville B leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder. Neville tried to shake it off, but the man had a surprisingly strong grip.
"Let me go!"
"You need to rest." The voice was very commanding. Hard to resist. The cool hand came once again to rest on his forehead, and he was vaguely aware of a wand in the man's other hand. "Sleep."
"No… don't send me back… please… Lestrange…"
"Shhh. It's all right. Sleep. You're safe, now."
He didn't want to sleep, he wanted to argue some more, but sleep was taking him over all the same. He let his head fall back with a soft thud onto the pillow, and and felt gentle hands straightening his arms and brushing his unruly straw-like hair out of his eyes.
"Sleep..."
Notes:
The related worlds is an idea created by Diana Wynne Jones in the Chrestomanci series. The Nevilles are all characters I've played in various role play games, and Neville A is also the canon one, of course. I thought it might be fun to try and write them all at the same time. I have some ideas, but whether I get far with it kind of depends on whether people are interested enough, so please let me know if you would like more of this story :)
Oh, and Neville D will make an appearance eventually. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you with five of them in one go, and he's a bit complicated...
