Disclaimer: Any characters and events that look familiar - probably not mine. Let's just say that if they were, my bank account would have a lot more zeros in all the right places.
Note: This story goes with the assumption that all the epilogue didn't happen, and that no-one heard Harry mention the Elder Wand during his confrontation with Voldemort. Will have a homosexual relationship. Enjoy!
Chapter 1
A cacophony of cheerful chatter and raucous laughter assaulted Neville's ears as soon as he stepped into the pub.
The Hog's Head was still the same dingy and run-down shack it used to be. In fact, since the ownership of the Three Broomsticks had changed hands from Madam Rosmerta to a young migrant Polish couple, the new renovations made the contrast even more apparent. However, for all that the younger students of Hogwarts never missed an opportunity to crowd into the friendly warmth of the Three Broomsticks, the people of Hogsmeade seemed to seek out a certain comfort and familiarity that was unique to the Hog's Head. For Neville, the establishment gave him a reassuring sense of survival and perseverance – proof that the some things stayed the same even in the wake of the violence and destruction that had wrought the small village.
Catching sight of Aberforth, Neville made his way to the bar. "Hullo, Abe. Business booming, I see?"
Aberforth looked up from the dusty glass he was wiping. "More trouble than it's worth, if you ask me," he grunted. "Can't lock up at a decent hour anymore, what with the older kids flocking around here at the end of the day."
Neville laughed at his peevishness and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, I just thought I'd come by to say hi before I returned home for the night. It's good to see you, Abe."
As he turned to leave, Aberforth suddenly cast him a shrewd look. "You know Harry Potter, don't you? Friends, if I recall right."
Neville blinked in surprise. "Er, yes, though I haven't seen much of him lately. Any message you'd like me to pass on to him?"
Aberforth snorted. "Kid's been in here since morning. I gave him a private booth in the corner" – he jerked his thumb to the far side – "and he hasn't moved a muscle since. Do me a favour and check that he's still alive. I've got enough to do as it is without having to lug out the kid's body."
Frowning, Neville nodded. "Of course, Abe, I'll make sure he's alright."
As he walked toward the table, he couldn't help the tendril of worry that wormed its way into him. He had told Aberforth the truth; he had seen neither hide nor hair of Harry in the last few months – the last year, even. After the war, Harry had retreated into the manor at Grimmauld Place and lived the life of a recluse. He rarely stepped out of the house, except for occasionally poking his head into Hogwarts or the Burrow, and the dwindling visits to the Leaky Cauldron for their monthly DA reunions.
When the new batch of Auror trainees had come and gone with nary a sign of the boy hero, wizarding Britain had been rife with wild speculations. When the next batch was once again devoid of Harry Potter, the rumours got louder and more outlandish. Some said he was amassing and training an army of house elves to take over the Ministry. Others said that he was going Dark, living in seclusion in the Black manor and practicing rituals of great evil.
Of course, Neville knew that it was nothing of the sort. Ron and Hermione had told him that Harry had taken to the Black library with a previously unseen fervour, learning everything he could about the Healing Arts. Given that he had only passed Potions because Hermione had badgered and tutored an 'Acceptable' out of him, this interest had initially come as a surprise to him.
But, as usual, Luna had summed it up quite nicely in that airy tone of hers, saying, "It's Harry's turn now."
The last he had heard, Harry was studying laboriously for his N.E.W.T.s so that he could sit them with the current seventh years, together with Hermione and a reluctant Ron.
As Neville approached closer, he realised that Harry was staring fixedly at the table in front of him. No … he was staring at the wand placed on the tabletop, brows furrowed as he contemplated something in a way that, given his propensity to act first and damn the consequences, Neville had rarely seen.
"Hey, Harry."
Harry jerked and shook his head, looking up slowly as though coming out of a trance. "Hey, Neville. Fancy seeing you here. Come by for a drink?"
"Nah, just thought I'd check up on you – Abe's getting a bit worried. Everything alright?"
It was as if Harry was only just noticing him for the first time. His eyes seemed to sharpen into focus, the green irises shining more intensely. Neville fought the urge to shiver under the unblinking gaze – he felt like a moth trapped in a blazing bonfire.
"Take a seat, Nev. You don't have anywhere to be, do you?"
Neville took his direction and sat down, wondering where this was going. "No, just some homework to mark for Pomona."
Harry looked at him consideringly a moment longer, before nodding his head decisively. "You know the Invisibility Cloak, right?"
Neville certainly knew. In fact, by the end of their third year, it had become something of an open secret in the Gryffindor tower. No one else had owned one – in fact, only those with Auror parents had ever even seen one – but rather than begrudge him this prize, it was considered as just another quirk of the enigma that was the Boy Who Lived.
"Yes," he answered cautiously. "They're on sale at Daly's Detection and Concealment if you wanted to replace yours …"
Harry's eyes seemed to twinkle for a second. "No, the Cloak is fine for some years yet. Actually, first I should have asked you—you're familiar with 'The Tale of the Three Brothers', aren't you?"
Neville didn't know what a kid's book had to do with anything, but he decided to humour his admittedly slightly barmy friend. "Er, from The Tales of Beedle the Bard? Yeah, Uncle Algie used to read it to me all the time, especially around Halloween."
Leaning forward on his elbows secretively, Harry spoke, sotto voce. "What if I were to say that the story was real? What if I were to tell you that my Invisibility Cloak was the Invisibility Cloak – one of the three Deathly Hallows?"
"I'd say you're barking," Neville replied instantly. Maybe he needed re-evaluate Harry's judgment and bring in Hermione – this was starting to sound like he'd had one Confusing Concoction too many.
"So if I said that my Cloak used to be my father's, and had been passed down over generations, you wouldn't believe me?"
"I—" Neville paused. The look on Harry's face indicated that he needed to reflect on the question a little more before carefully before answering. However, what Harry was saying was just impossible. What sort of cloak could resist wear and tear for centuries and still be in good shape?
Hmm, Death's cloak, perhaps? A voice in the corner of his mind suggested.
That was just silly. The Deathly Hallows, real? Hogwash.
But seeing Harry wait on his response with an expectant air, he realised that at the very least, his friend believed what he was saying.
"… Alright. Let's say that you're right. Let's assume that 'The Tale of the Three Brothers' is not a myth or a child's tale, but the account of an event that truly happened. What then?"
"Well …" Neville recognised that look. It was the same look, a mixture of sheepish and determined, that he had had on his face when he had taken Neville aside, summarised the events that had occurred in the Chamber of Secrets, and then – with no clue about the havoc he was wreaking on Neville's sanity – requested that he keep an eye out for Ginny.
He winced, bracing himself for whatever earth-shattering announcement was coming his way.
Fidgeting in his seat, Harry said, "Well, what if—what if I were to say that this wand" – he waved the wand in his hand ineffectually – "is the Elder Wand?"
Neville could not form a single word. Surely this was taking it a mite too far? The Elder Wand, the Deathstick, just centimetres from him, sitting innocently in the palm of his friend's hand?
Nope. Not a chance. He was prepared to ascribe this to anything from an overdose of Essence of Insanity to Luna's Wrackspurts. Sure, Harry had been skewered by a basilisk fang and made it out alive, sure, he had died – twice, his mind supplied helpfully – and survived, but this … A line had to be drawn somewhere, and for Neville, it was right here.
Except … Except Harry was looking at him, hope receding from his eyes and a familiar dull shine of defeat taking its place. "Forget it, Ne—"
"Fine." There was no plausible way this conversation would have been taking place if he had not been friends with Harry, and Neville wondered if he should be worried that he didn't care. "Fine, that's the Elder Wand. Anything else? No Resurrection Stone to complete the set? Maybe you're the Master of Death too?" The hysteria in his voice was escalating as he realised that with Harry, any and all of these were statements that could potentially come out of his mouth.
Hands closed around his trembling ones, and he looked up to see Harry's eyes shining with concern. "Hey, Nev, it's okay. I'm not the Master of Death – I don't see how that part can be valid, really. And I don't have the Resurrection Stone – well I did, but I threw it away" – Neville very firmly did not think about what that meant, no sir, he most certainly did not – "so it's just these two."
He hesitated, clearly wondering if he should go on. "I had been thinking about this for a while, actually" – Neville was just about ready to collapse with trepidation – "but I need your permission." Hearing no protest, Harry continued. "This wand used to be Dumbledore's, you know. I've only used it twice, to defeat Voldemort and then to repair my holly wand, before I put it back in his grave. But recently …" His eyes darted to Neville's face and away, and his words came out in a rush. "I was reading books on mental conditions and their cures and was surprised at how little the magical world was able to do about such ailments. So I read everything I could get my hands on – a regular Hermione I was," he chuckled, "but there was barely anything! The few cures I did find all involved spells, so I thought, what if what was needed was more power? Maybe something could be done if a group of witches and wizards performed the spells together? But apparently that had been tried, and had failed miserably – something to do with the arithmetic strength of the spells, which didn't really understand.
"That's when I remembered this wand. Only I knew where it was – even Ron and Hermione thought I'd broken it in two and thrown away the pieces – so it would still be there. I had retrieved it and was halfway to St. Mungo's before I realised that there's no way I could try anything without asking you. So … could I?"
Now, Neville was no Ravenclaw but he was not stupid, not by any means. But even he couldn't read Harry's mind without employing the judicious use of Legilimency, which he barely understood, let alone practiced. "Could you what?"
"Oh. Er, could I cure your parents? That is to say, could I try to cure your parents?"
Neville gaped at him as the meaning of the words sunk in. Uncharacteristically, a wave of fury rose within him. How dare Harry suggest something like this? He had tried everything, everything, known to mankind, both wizard and Muggle, to no avail. What gave him the right to give him hope where there was none at all?
But that sly voice was back in his head. What if? This is Harry, after all. The Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, He Who Vanquished. The one who emerged victorious against all odds. When has he ever gone back on his word?
But it just couldn't be! Suspension of disbelief could only be stretched so far, and this circumstance had far exceeded its bounds. However, the seeds of hope had been planted in his mind and taken root with more force than he expected.
"You—you—" he stammered in a way that he hadn't since fifth year. He couldn't believe he was actually entertaining the idea as a possibility. "Y—you're serious?"
Harry didn't crack so much as a hint of a smile. "Deadly. I wouldn't joke about something like this, Nev."
Neville took in a deep, shuddering breath as he rubbed a hand down his face.
Sensing the impending defeat, the voice was becoming more insistent. What could it hurt? Worst case scenario, your parents stay in the same state they've been in for the past seventeen and a half years. And if it works … you have the two people you've been wishing for more than anyone back in your life again.
"Alright," he croaked. "Alright, you can give it a go. It won't hurt them, will it?"
He was almost blinded by the beaming smile Harry flashed him. "No, it won't hurt at all. It's nothing complicated, just—well, you'll see." There was a slight pause. "Would you like to come with me?"
"You mean to try now?"
The expression of bemused confusion on Harry's face was almost … cute. Cute? Where did that come from? Brushing his thoughts aside, he focused on Harry's words.
"Well, yes. That is, if you don't mind?"
The question left Neville stumped for a few seconds. There really was no reason to delay, he realised. Involuntarily, a glimmer of excitement was starting to flutter in his stomach.
"Yeah, let's go."
Walking along the familiar corridors of St. Mungo's, Neville had to force his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. The butterflies had multiplied until it felt like there were hundreds flitting back and forth inside him.
Harry's footsteps followed sedately behind him, despite knowing where they were headed. Probably to give him some measure of control over this utterly incomprehensible situation, he realised.
By the time he reached the entrance into the Janus Thickey Ward, his heart was pounding painfully against his ribs. He wiped his clammy hands onto his robes before pushing the door open.
Alice and Frank Longbottom were in their usual positions – laying at the far end of the ward on their standard hospital beds, which had been set on a comfortable incline.
Neville jumped when he felt a hand on his arm.
Harry was looking at him solemnly. "If—if this is—if you're having second thoughts, I won't blame you Neville."
Neville was shaking his head before Harry completed is sentence. "No—no, it's fine, I promise. It's just surreal even considering that this may be the last time I see them like this – lying prone and immobile, at the mercy of the Healers and their various potions. Merlin, they may be speaking to me in a few minutes!" The thought caused him to plop down into the nearest chair. "What if—what if they're disappointed? I only got five N.E.W.T.s and I'm not an Auror, just an assistant profess—"
"Neville!" The stern tone broke him out of his panicked babbling. "Neville, they'll love you. And if for some reason your worry about being 'just an assistant professor' continues to persist, remind me who killed Voldemort's gigantic snake and destroyed a part of his soul? They're your parents, I'm told loving is what they do. They'll be proud no matter what you've done," he said with finality.
As Harry turned away, Neville caught sight of a fleeting glimpse of … something in his eyes. The tendons of his neck stood out slightly, as though he was holding his body stiffly.
"Harry?" he asked softly, getting up and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"
Harry nodded and faced him again, smiling thinly. A sheen of moisture glistened in his eyes, but he blinked it away rapidly. As Neville replayed Harry's last words, understanding dawned on him.
Of course it was hard for his friend – probably as hard as it was for himself, if in a different way. Here he was, offering to cure the parents – to essentially return his parents to him, when Harry would never have the option for himself. Harry would never be able to wave his wand and talk to his parents again.
His throat was suddenly thick with emotion, and he squeezed Harry's hand in gratitude and support.
Flashing him a small smile, Harry took out the wand from his pocket. He fingered it contemplatively for a few moments before pointing it at his parents.
"Episkey! Episkey!" he casted in quick succession on each of them.
Neville stared at him in disbelief. Episkey? The spell used to heal a paper cut or, at most, a broken nose? That's the 'nothing complicated' spell that Harry meant?
A sound to his left had him turning mechanically, almost against his wish. In front of him, Alice Longbottom was struggling out of the bed and slowly shuffling in his direction. He stood rooted to the spot as, inch by inch, she lifted her hand to his face.
"N– " She coughed. "Neville." Her voice was filled with a tearful sort of awe. Her thumb stroked his cheek gently as she drank in the man before her.
"M—Mum?" His voice cracked, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation. "Is it really you?"
He scooped her tenderly into his arms, half-afraid her frail form would evaporate before his eyes.
"Hmm," she sighed, smiling affectionately, the top of her head barely reaching the middle of his chest. Her warm brown eyes, so like his own, were still watching him, showing more life than he had ever seen.
A light touch brushed his shoulder, so brief that Neville thought he imagined it. His father – the man whom his grandmother had regaled him with numerous valiant tales of – was standing beside him, looking fit to burst with pride and love.
'They'll be proud no matter what you've done.' Harry's words floated across his mind.
Harry! He had nearly forgotten about him! Glancing around quickly, he spotted him leaning against the doors of the ward, a fond smile gracing his lips. Neville couldn't help but notice that he was all but shining with happiness and contentment, a strange softness surrounding him.
He looked back at his parents, feeling like his face would break in two from how wide his own smile was growing. "Mum, D—Dad, this is Harry," he gestured—
But when he looked up again, Harry was gone.
A/N: This won't be a very long fic - most likely just one more chapter to go. My priority is 'Don't Judge a Master by Its Death', so an update might not appear for a while (or it might come in a few days, heh - depends on my very flighty inspiration).
Please review! :)