The Lion Within
How would one describe Neville Longbottom?
Draco Malfoy had always found it all too easy. Fat, stupid, cowardly; these were but a few of his favourite adjectives to apply.
Draco hated Gryffindors – it was practically in his blood. But there was something you could respect and even, yes, envy about Perfect Potter and his ridiculous trained retrievers. But no one knew why Longbottom had been put in Gryffindor.
Admittedly, he couldn't very well have gone to Ravenclaw, for obvious reasons. Slytherin would have eaten him alive (and Draco occasionally almost wished for that most hilarious of outcomes). But why not Hufflepuff? As far as Draco saw it, no one of real worth ever came out of Hufflepuff; Longbottom would have fitted right in.
But Gryffindor? Full of self-righteous heroes who, despite having all the tact of a bludgeoning hex, generally got results through sheer bloody-minded idiocy and luck. Longbottom certainly didn't.
Draco couldn't remember, even if he tried, all the times he had done something to Neville. There had been a lot. Crabbe and Goyle had usually been right behind him, but he never thought that made a difference. He was more talented than Neville, better at every subject except possibly Herbology, and that didn't exactly make him quake in his boots.
He possibly should have considered that times, that people change. That Neville Longbottom had been put into Gryffindor for a reason.
He had been confined to the Manor for months when the Carrows arrived. With them came the first notion that Longbottom mightn't be the same person he was at eleven. It was during what (the thought was tinged with some bitterness) should have been Draco's seventh year.
He never thought he would regret that. Everything had seemed so simple before...
But Draco tried not to think about his sixth year.
The Carrows had brought surprising news...
"How is teaching suiting you?" Draco's aunt, Bella, had asked, sounding bored.
He liked it when Bella was bored. When she found something interesting it usually meant that terrible things were going to happen to someone else. Which meant another night of no sleep and vomiting for Draco. Had he once wanted this?
Alecto Carrow snickered in vulgar amusement. How had he automatically known her amusement was vulgar? It always was.
"Pretty damn good," she cackled. "Them li'l shits are def'nitely learnin' somefin'!"
"No's fast as I'd like," growled Amycus, and spat – yes, spat – into his own cup of tea. He had learned the hard way the consequences of spitting on the floor of Malfoy Manor.
His mother, Narcissa, just a year ago, would have been scandalised. Now, however... her face remained an expressionless mask, only the slightest flicker of her eyes indicating that she had noticed.
"Problems, Amycus?" Bella leaned forward slightly in her chair.
"'S that bloody group o' midget rebels," he muttered. "Dumbledore's Army, they call 'emselves." He spat into his tea again and then, to Draco's horror, took a swig.
"Would you like another drink, Amycus?" asked Narcissa, sharply. "Something stronger, perhaps?" she added, with sugar coating every word. She almost succeeded in disguising her contempt and disgust.
Carrow, not noticing or not caring about her insincerity (Draco was fairly certain it was the former) nodded his consent and accepted a glass of hundred year old scotch, which he downed in one.
"These bloody kids're causin' all sorts o' trouble for me and mine," he went on.
"I thought the DA was just a Defence study group?" Draco spoke up, confused. As far as he remembered, they just got together to learn defensive spells. Them training themselves had been a slightly intimidating thought, and Merlin knew that Umbridge had thought it something worse, but that didn't seem to be what Carrow meant.
Alecto snorted in derision. "Maybe tha's what it was when Potter was in charge under the pr'tection of that ol' bastard," Draco tried not to flinch at the mention of him, "but not any more. They's organised."
Potter had always been the Gryffindor golden boy, the ringleader. But neither he, Weasley or Granger had come back to Hogwarts that year. A lot hadn't come back... So who could lead them?
"By whom?" Draco answered sceptically, making sure to slip in the grammatical 'm', and rather hoping Carrow noticed. He seemed to require reminding of the class and elegance of Malfoy Manor, that 'he and his' were besmirching with their presence.
"I bloody well know's tha' Longbottom brat," said Amycus, clearly not caring about the grammatical snub. Or once more, Draco suspected, not noticing the difference."But no matter what we do –"
"Longbottom?" said Draco, and actually laughed for the first time in almost a year. "Neville Longbottom? He's the most idiotic and cowardly Gryffindor who ever lived!"
"Yeah? Yeah?" said Alecto. "Seems to do damn fine at it, bloody fool. Insults me during classes, he does! Right smug little bastard, he is!"
"And you let him get away with that?" asked Bella, the mad glint of vengeance beginning to alight in her eyes. Draco glance her way uneasily.
"Not much we c'n do," muttered Amycus. "Tried Crucio on 'im, a lot! But the brat's a Pureblood, there'd be uproar if we did perm'nent 'arm to 'im. But 'e won't e'en be'ave right after a bout o' torture! Jus' does it again!" Amycus's voice was rising. "And we've been finding slogans painted on the damn walls! And names... all the names of the bloody mudbloods, as well as fuckin' Harry Potter!"
This did not sound like the same person Draco was picturing in his head; the small fat little boy, who never spoke much, who was terrified of Professor Snape? Who shook like a leaf whenever he entered Potions?
Professor Snape, who Draco knew from third year rumour was Longbottom's Boggart, was Headmaster now. Why would Longbottom draw attention to himself?
"What does Snape do about all this?" Draco asked, cutting through the tail end of Carrow's rant.
"Jus' tells us to keep on punishin' 'im," Amycus said, shrugging. "Tried to 'ave a liddle 'chat' wiv 'im near the beginnin'. Seemed to think the brat'd be intimidated." Amycus sneered slightly. "'Parently, the idiot spat right inna Headmaster's face! Right inna face! Bloody 'ell, was Snape furious!"
Draco heard snippets of conversation over the next several months. Events in Hogwarts appeared to have escalated. Apparently Dumbledore's Army had become harder to squash than ever. It was only when torture became more extreme that things seemed to die down.
But they apparently couldn't control Longbottom. He just kept trying. Kept causing trouble.
Draco almost didn't believe it still. He began to think of the Longbottom he had known and the Longbottom the Carrows talked about as two different people. One of them was still a joke who wet his pants at the thought of Snape catching him breathing wrong. The other was a daredevil, a leader.
Draco had hated how Potter always seemed to weasel his way out of trouble. But Longbottom took his punishment, and still continued. And though they were working towards completely different ends, and a great deal of mutual contempt still existed, Draco felt oddly proud and elated when he heard about Hogwarts students rebelling against the Carrows, rebelling against what he could not, what he had once supported. The Carrows began to represent everything that was now wrong with Draco's world, and the DA became the hope for things to return to how they once were.
But a group of teenagers could not match three grown Death Eaters whose power they were ultimately under. Apparently they went into hiding, in the Room of Requirement. The Carrows at first seemed sure they could easily catch the children once they had to leave for food or other necessities. Draco knew better than to underestimate the magic of that room. But the small-scale war within Hogwarts soon petered out, when punishments became worse, the consequences more dire.
Draco soon realised that his father had been right, the only thing that any sensible person could do when confronted with the might of the Dark Lord was conform, or hide. It was a realisation a long time in coming, but had been thrown off track somewhat by the rebellions at Hogwarts. Longbottom had given up, and hidden. A badger cannot change it's stripes. A lion never needs to.
Draco found it strange, near the end, wandering the halls of Hogwarts after a year away. He had Crabbe and Goyle by his side once more. But things were not at all like they had been. Crabbe seemed less subservient, less devoted. Goyle was following a new master, now.
Hogwarts was fast becoming like a war zone. Teachers and older students were all rushing to and fro, some faces fixed in grimaces of panic, others determined.
The three of them moved under their disillusionment charms, passing Professor Sprout and Neville Longbottom running past with various dangerous plants.
Draco barely looked at Longbottom, distracted as he was, but the thing he did notice was height – he was taller than Draco, now, and heavier set. His expression showed no worry, no panic. Nothing but grim purpose.
Hours later, Draco's world was in turmoil. He had watched his best friends (so they had once been, when none others were to be had) turn on him, saw one of them die in flames. He was pleading for his life with a fellow Death Eater -
- 'a fellow Death Eater'. Had he ever truly been one? Or was he just an amusing way to punish his father?' –
- when he had been saved – and then punched – by his worst enemies. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Back to be leaders in arrogance and ridiculous had lain there, on the ground, for several minutes before recovering his wits and rising. But someone else came thundering along the corridor at that point. Neville Longbottom. Draco knew that he looked terrified, that his nose was bloodied from Weasley's fist, and that he desperately wanted his mother. He had a feeling that Longbottom knew all this too.
"All right, Malfoy?" the other boy called as he ran towards the thick of the battle, wearing an amused smirk on his grime-covered and strangely scarred face as he passed the prone Draco. He was almost unrecognisable, in both appearance and attitude.
When the battle began in earnest Draco had frozen, unsure where to run or who to fight. He had no idea who he wanted to win this war. Did he want things back the way they were, despite the cost to his family? Or did he want to live in constant fear of the Dark Lord punishing his failures? Did he care enough to risk his life for either side?
But Neville Longbottom, it seemed, had no such doubts. He was dragged in front of the Dark Lord.
"I'll join you when hell freezes over," Draco heard him spit at He Who Must Not Be Named. "Dumbledore's Army!"
This cry incited an echoing roar from the defiant crowd around Draco, breaking past the Dark Lord's silencing spell. Neville Longbottom, it seemed, truly had risen to the status of a leader, a hero.
Or a martyr, Draco thought as he watched a boy he had never liked, who he had mocked and looked down on, burn on the ground for his beliefs.
Suddenly the crowd roared again, silencing spells once more failing. Longbottom had pulled the burning hat from his head and pulled a sword - a sword with a ruby in the hilt, that glinted silver in the light – from inside. Oddly like a children's magic trick, Draco thought, stunned by confusion and terror. But this is no party, he thought as his eyes followed the rising sword. Longbottom sliced through the neck of the Dark Lord's snake eliciting a howl of fury from monster that was Draco's master.
Nagini had been huge. Nagini had been terrifying. And every Death Eater, at some point or other, had hoped for the snake to be killed in a fight – none of them dared even think of killing her themselves.
Draco didn't even have the guts to run away from his master, never mind kill his beloved pet.
But Neville Longbottom had cut off her head, while standing right in front of the Dark Lord. He was covered in soot and blood, the sword looked too heavy for his hands and, beyond his look of anger and determination, terror flashed in his eyes.
Yet this was a Gryffindor, a hero. Someone worthy of respect, if not admiration.
It was strange, how perceptions could be altered so much. Draco would never have imagined when he was fourteen, or even sixteen, that he would ever live gladly in a world where the ideals of Albus Dumbledore were held as great, where Hermione Granger worked in an important ministerial position, where Weasleys were war heroes. A world where he would nod to Harry Potter when he saw him (though never willingly speak to him, of course. There are some depths that one should never sink to), and actually respect Neville Longbottom.
But he did, because the alternative was so much worse. And if respecting Longbottom was the worst thing he had to do – not kill and maim and be tortured and die – in this new world, then he thought he could deal with that.
A/N: Written for the POV Challenge. I had to write about Neville Longbottom from the point of view of Draco Malfoy. Originally thought of writing about the earlier years of Malfoy's contempt, but I decided that I couldn't ignore Neville's character development, or the fact that he's proven himself a true Gryffindor.
This was really hard to write, so please review? Let me know where I went wrong, right and somewhere in the middle. I aim to improve. Even some approval or disapproval would work. 'Good' would be fine if you don't have time. 'Bad' if you must, but if I did something wrong I would rather specifics.
Thanks for reading!
PS: Apologies for the bad language. Despite being rather foul-mouthed myself, I rarely include it in my writing to this degree. It seemed necessary for Amycus Carrow though xD Not the type of man to censor himself.