In Their Right Mind by Vicki Turner

Prologue - Twelve

Neville Longbottom, Professor of Herbology and Head of Gryffindor House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, entered his family rectory from the attachment to the greenhouse and staggered toward the nearest available chair.

Distracted from her calculations, Hannah looked up from the Leaky Cauldron's ledger and considered the man sprawled across the armchair; he appeared as depleted as any of her daytime drunks. "That bad?" She whispered, pitching her voice low to avoid waking their four-year-old son in the next room.

A weary moan emanated from her husband's chest. "Twelve."

"Twelve?"

"Twelve."

...

Twelve.

The number fascinated many fervent disciples of Arithmancy. Twelve was the first abundant and superabundant number. Twelve was sublime, semiperfect, and superfactorial. Twelve crept amid the inner workings of spelling crafting, curse breaking, and the mysteries of time. Legend had it, an ancient mage once became obsessed with twelve's infinite complexities to the point that he refused to let any part of his brain think about less significant things, like breathing. He died twelve minutes after midnight on the the twelfth of December, 1212.

But for simpler folks, and Neville Longbottom counted himself among these, twelve was no mystery. Twelve was just a dozen. A dozen roses, a dozen eggs, a dozen chocolate frogs in one pack. Twelve divided the days into hours, the years into months. Neville couldn't have thought of anything more prosaic than twelve until Headmistress McGonagall announced that the magical census revealed that there were only twelve first-year students enrolled for September. Hogwarts had never seen such low enrollment since the founding of the school.

As Head of Gryffindor house, Neville had been called away to countless meetings over the summer to brainstorm how to accommodate such a small number. In the end, they patched together a schedule that had all students attending each subject together, despite the house system. Although the extra planning period was nice for the professors, a melancholy tide overtook Neville when he thought about the upcoming year.

"I still can't wrap my mind around it," Neville bemoaned one night to his wife as he sat on the edge of the bed pulling off his socks. "How could there only be twelve?"

Hannah, who for weeks had patiently borne his bafflement with sympathetic murmurings, tonight surprised him. She closed the Cauldron's ledger with a snap. "You're asking the wrong question: How could there even be twelve?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did we wait three years to have Grant? We both wanted to start a family as soon as possible."

Neville frowned, caught off guard by his wife's tone and the change in the conversation's direction. "You know-I was an underpaid Herbology field assistant and your shifts at the Leaky Cauldron were inconsistent. It wasn't a good time."

"Exactly. And around twelve years ago Voldemort took over the Ministry of Magic. Who in their right mind would decide to have a child then?"

"It does seem crazy when you put it that way," Neville admitted.

"I wouldn't have," Hannah said. "All week I've been trying to think of one good reason to bring a child into such a messy situation, but there's none." She sighed. "I don't know why I'm bothered by it, but I can't fathom what went through their heads; having children isn't a decision that should be made lightly."

"I know," Neville agreed, finally seeing the larger context of their conversation. Over the past few months, he had hinted while she had determinedly dodged this very conversation. He didn't want to waste this opportunity. "And Hannah, love, it's okay-I'm okay. We don't need to rush." He leaned over and kissed his wife's cheek. "We still have plenty of time to have more children."

Hannah froze and Neville frowned. "What's wrong?"

"When we got married, I told you that I planned on having an outrageously large family. Dozens of children." Hannah wrung the edges of the comforter between her hands and studied the flower design, not meeting her husband's concerned gaze. "You said you wanted that, too."

"I did," he confirmed. "I still do."

When she looked up, her eyes glistened. "But I don't."

Neville's chest tightened. "Oh."

Tears started to fall down her face. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I don't, I just don't. I love Grant more than I dreamed possible, but he gives me a run for my money every day, and Father's health is continuing to fail, I'm always hosting Gryffindor events here, I'm picking up more shifts at the cauldron, I want to take over one day, and-I don't want another child." Her voice broke into sobbing.

Neville immediately climbed onto the bed next to his wife and enveloped her shaking form in his arms."Shh..." he soothed as he rocked her back and forth. "It's alright." Memories of sleepless nights cradling an infant came unbidden to his mind and Neville ferociously pushed them away.

"It's not alright!" Hannah hiccuped through the tears.

"Of course it is," Neville said. He then forced himself to say the words he believed would become true: "Yes, I wanted more children, but I don't need more. We have Grant. He's more than enough. You're more than enough."

To Neville's dismay, Hannah's crying increased.

"I love you," Neville insisted, "more than any future child."

"Shut up," Hannah struggled to get out of his embrace.

"It's true! I love you!" Neville held on tighter, "I couldn't care less about having more children. That doesn't matter-you matter. You're my wife."

"Shut up!"

"I'm not upset. I'm okay, yeah? I'm okay with it."

"I'm pregnant!"

The unexpected words knocked him off balance, and he let go of her.

"You're what?"

"And I don't want it," Hannah confessed.

"How long have you known?" Neville's voice was hoarse.

"I don't want it."

"How long have you known?"

"Does it matter?" Hannah tried to wipe the tears away but water continued to leak from her eyes. "A week or so…"

"Hannah."

"Twelve days, okay? Twelve days."

"Why didn't you tell me?" His chest seemed to collapse into itself, compressing his heart into an increasingly smaller cage. He hadn't felt rejection this intense since visiting his senseless parents as a small child. He wished the blistering pain of betrayal would freeze into a cold, righteous anger, but the sight of Hannah's tear-stained cheeks and trembling body held him fast over the flames of his own pity. "Why did you try to face this alone?"

"I don't know," Hannah cried, but after a moment she amended her statement. "I wanted to have an abortion."

"And are you going to?"

"As if you don't already know."

"I wish I did, but I don't," Neville tried to keep his voice steady. "How do I know what you're thinking? I didn't even know you were pregnant. So, no, I don't know if you are going to have an abortion."

"How could I? You won't let me, you bastard."

"What do you mean I won't let you?" Neville frowned. He always treated their marriage as a partnership of equals, and her accusation wounded him. Frustration bled into his voice."Who do you think I am, Hannah? I'm your husband, not your jailer. I'm not going to imprison you until you give birth, and I'm not going to follow you every second of the day. If you want to abort our child, there's nothing I can do to stop you."

"But you already have."

"I don't understand."

"Our child. Why did you have to say our child?"

Silence stretched over them, like a tightly pulled tarp, as if any second the fabric would tear and unravel. But, the silence held as Neville considered what he'd say, what thread he'd pull to bring them back together. He knew the moral lecture his grandmother would have unleashed. He knew the tactful courtesy society would suggest. He even knew what phrases of tacit permission would ease Hannah's heart. Neville also knew he couldn't say any of that and mean it. He'd be a hypocrite and therefore a coward. He took a steadying breath.

"Because it is our child," Neville confessed.

"I hate you." Hannah croaked, but sorrow overshadowed her anger. She reached out towards Neville and he moved closer. Burying her face into her husband's shoulder, she muttered, "I hate you so much."

"I know," he whispered, "I know."

"I really do hate you."

He kissed the top of her head and held her in his arms until she fell asleep.

Hours later, when drowsiness began to surpass his anxiety, Neville remembered the discussion that sparked the night's revelations. He had been so focused on the children, he had forgotten about their parents. Each child represented a difficult decision, like the one made tonight. His last waking thought was that he didn't envy those twelve brave and very foolish couples.