Chapter 3: Black Forest
October 29th, 2004 – 11:54 PM
Neville
Neville awoke.
He knew not where he was. It was an unfamiliar place. He knew naught what force brought him here. There was a blank. There was a scent, however, that was familiar. Intimately. The odor assaulted his nose savagely, as though a lion might assault an antelope, not out of malice, but out of the fear of its own death – for survival. It was the smell of the forest, dark and malignant as the tomb of any man who lost his life senselessly, without purpose.
He recalled what had happened. He had survived. Moreover, he was angry. This wasn't right. He had done nothing wrong. The shame surfaced within him, eating away at what was left of his pride. This wasn't merely a wound, a blow. It was annihilation, a sort of genocide of self. What had he done wrong?
Classes had ended. Neville recalled his plans for the night; he went to get dinner, like any other student. Yet he supposed he wasn't like any other student. He knew better than to sugar coat the truth. Neville was fat. He didn't know why he was fat anymore than he knew why God had decided for boys like him to have so much girth and so little luck. He always thought he had accepted it – there was little to be done, after all. For all the magic and wonder of Hogwarts, no wand or incantation could make him thin. So he tried to get along as gracefully as a large boy can.
This particular night had started out rather normally. He had visited the dining hall, and gotten his meal. As he tried to find a seat, he ran into them. He thought it was probably the oldest story in the world. Every fat boy in the world had them. They might be different, sure; different attitude, different voice, different method of torture, but they were still them.
For Neville, they, them, were Draco Malfoy and his cronies, Crabbe and Goyle. Neville might have considered Malfoy his nemesis, if he didn't know better. He was nothing to Malfoy. The incessant abuse, both physical and mental, seemed like a chemical reaction. For all the pain he caused Neville, all the suffering and sleepless nights, he knew he was nothing in the eyes of his torturer. For all the thought Neville put into avoiding Malfoy, into wondering what was next, what new, sinister humiliation, Neville knew Malfoy never considered him. Probably. More likely than not, he thought.
He remembered the night's confrontation well, recalling the dull, blistering heat of a fresh wound brought back to life in the dead still of deep concentration. He hadn't noticed them until it was too late. Someone, probably Malfoy, had stuck his leg out. Neville had dropped his tray and fell face first into his beef Wellington, pâté covering his amble face. He remembered the feeling of a rough hand pushing his face further into his ruined meal, the voice behind the hand growling in a low pitch.
"Bet it still looks good to you, huh fat boy? Blimey!" Neville had known the voice. It had belonged to Vincent Crabbe It had sounded full of triumph. "Should we make eat the rest of eat, Malfoy?", Crabbe cried. "Should we?" Malfoy replied, in the coarse, gravelly voice Neville had grown to hate, "No. Pick him up, both of you. Let's go somewhere more quiet. He was brought to his feet brutally by Crabbe and Goyle, who had his arms in a lock. He thought for sure his bones would snap. They began to drag him to a dark corridor, secluded and somehow terrifying to Neville, who had only wanted to eat his meal and peace before retiring at his leisure to his room.
As they forced him along, he heard the shrill, mocking voice of Pansy Parkinson from somewhere back in the dining hall. "Where you going, fat boy? Don't you want to stay for dinner? You can sit with us!" A host of female laughter erupted from one of the Slytherin tables. The laughter hurt, but the sound of it receding as they went further down the corridor hurt him more. He knew he wouldn't get off easy.
He recalled the way they had pushed him against a wall, wordless, soundless. He had been too afraid, too terrified to even consider trying to comprehend their voices. It was like a dream. Malfoy had said something to one of them, and it was he and Goyle holding him against the wall. Vincent Crabbe had muttered something, chuckling as he did it, and suddenly bloodied Neville's nose with surprising grace. It was a swift motion. Neville didn't feel the pain, but screamed. He was bleeding quite a lot.
He remembered breaking free. He had ran, and conscious thought had rushed back into him like a bullet entering his large brain. His size had offered no advantage that day. His synapses were sluggish, his movement brazen but futile. They had called after him, shouting threats and obsceneties, intermingled with laughter like guests at some hellish cocktail party, where the only topic of discussion was the assassination of his character.
Their words had claimed they would get him, as if they gave chase, but they did not. Neville hadn't noticed. He had rushed out of the school and sought shelter as though his life was about to end. He remembered being sure such an outcome was the only possible one. His nose was still gushing. Somehow he'd found his way outside, and rushed into the forest, ignoring all common sense, every voice in his head screaming that there was no threat, that they weren't after him, but he was sure it was a lie, their lie, it was them, them, and they were after him.
Them.
That was when he had fallen asleep. Neville looked around. He knew where he was, but that didn't do a lot of good. He was in the forest, but so what? Without knowing which way to go, he could find himself face to face with something that made Malfoy and his chums look like kittens. He had been safe so far, though. He considered staying where he was. It was a small grove, and the trees around him gave him a sense of security, looming about as if they were soldiers, at a post intented for his protection alone. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed or how long he was asleep.
It might only have been a few minutes. If I go back, who's to say they aren't waiting for me? Them... they might wait for me. Just for fun. If it's been longer, maybe a few hours, I could just wait here…the sun might come up soon, maybe even in a few minutes. I've got my robe to keep me warm and no creatures… or worse… have found me yet.
He didn't want to think about that, though. He found his mind drifting to the dream he had. It was hazy, in the way that dreams often were just upon waking him. He wanted to hold onto it, as if it held crucial signifigance to his life, and more importantly, his current situation. But what had it been about?
He considred it intently, with the look of a scholar, some great mind long forgotton, pasted upon his chubby face. If anyone had been around to see him, they'd have thought the look quite fanciful. Until he screamed at the sight of them.
Core.
Core? What core? That's a stupid thing to think about. Had he dreamed about apples? He could think of no other type of core. Unless…
"Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeville!"
"Oh God, Oh God, they've found me…", he was muttering under his breath. He neither noticed nor cared he was speaking aloud. He heard something, not a voice but a distant rustling sound. It was getting closer. It's them, it's them, it's them, it's them, it's them… He knew it to be so. He rose quickly, and begin shifting restlessly, turning his head in every direction, as if he hoped to maintain 360 degrees of sight to elude his enemies, to elude them. While he thought his concentration was on this kind of mental scouting, he knew he was focused solely on maintaining his calm, to keep from screaming and screaming, leading them right to him. He didn't hear the footsteps of the three figures that had gotten behind him. A hand fell upon his shoulder.
Neville screamed.
