Author's Note: Written for Round 11 of the QLFC 6 — Who's Afraid of the Dark

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Add'l Prompts Used:

4 (word) pattern

5 (object) a torn dress

13 (location) St. Mungo's

*11 (colour) lilac

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 2424

A/N: AU — Buffy the Vampire Slayer was a movie, a comic book series, and a well-loved TV serial. Within the Buffyverse, the origins of Slayers is explored and explained — and the mythology defines how the original Slayer was created, how the next Slayer is designated from the Slayer (blood)line and that only one Slayer exists at a time. Until it doesn't — the fallout of the technical death of Buffy that triggers the investment of a new Slayer despite the fact that Buffy is resuscitated. And then there were two.

It is this part of the Buffy mythology that I am inspired by — the idea that instead of there only being one "chosen" according to Trelawney's prophecy, that maybe there were two. It's pretty close to what Rowling herself was doing when we first encounter how the prophecy could also have involved Neville Longbottom in canon. And what we know is, ultimately, Neville was chosen — he was an essential part of the defeat of Voldemort. I'm going to explore the idea that Neville was aware of his status as "chosen" and how that may have became a part of his character growth from shy, tentative boy to defiant, principled young man.

Finally, I haven't nailed down the timing here, although there are allusions to Autumn and Neville's coursework, as well as a specific reference to his age as 15. I am not certain if Advanced Charms would be available to Neville in his Fourth Year, per se, but since it is only a quick reference to a canonical argument between Augusta and Minerva, I thought it made for a nice little addition.

Beta Love: Story, Please and crochetaway

The Chosen Two

"Don't dawdle," Augusta Longbottom chided. "We have much to discuss."

"I just don't understand why we needed to come here though, Gran." Neville dreaded these visits to St. Mungo's, especially now that his grandmother had, suddenly and inexplicably, increased their frequency. He felt as if he spent every free moment away from school stuck under the green haze of hospital fluorescents. He gazed longingly back towards the soft lilac dusk that was settling over the city on this particular autumn evening, and sighed before shuffling along at a nominally faster pace.

Augusta flinched, evidently resisting the urge to grab him by the sleeve. "Some things should be discussed with your parents," was all she said in reply as she resumed her brisk pace, her heels clacking loudly in the barren hall. Neville knew all too well that some things should not be pressed with Augusta once her mind was made up — but he had never quite been sure what she thought she was sharing with his parents, exactly. Broken as they were, Augusta Longbottom seemed incapable of accepting that they were no more than shells of flesh. She dutifully dragged Neville to this very place to update them on everything: his grades — his course selections — his growth spurts — his friends. Even his first kiss (much to Neville's eternal embarrassment)! She would sit beside her son, Frank, and prattle on as if they were all three together, amiably chatting about her only grandson rather than the reality — that she was talking to herself.

Neville could only shrug his shoulders as he shoved his hands further down into his trouser pockets and trudged along behind her.

Augusta had already assumed her preferred seat in the common room of the Janus Thickey ward. She chose a somewhat private enclave area by a bay window overlooking the gardens. It had been her place of choice for the past year or so; and, particularly when there was important information to be shared. They were ensconced between a thickly populated bookcase and the nurse's station, creating an illusion of privacy. Considering the condition of most of the patients, Neville wondered if it mattered, but he daren't say anything aloud.

He carefully moved the overstuffed lounge chair he usually occupied towards the edge of the circle, just beside the bookcase. It gave him a view of the gardens and access to the occasionally interesting reads that were kept on the shelf. Today, however, he would not be left to the peace of reading.

"No, no, boy," Augusta piped up before he could sit. "I want you right here." She patted a similarly appointed chair next to her own. "By me." Neville stared for a moment, flustered. Augusta was never one to feign affection; she was always honest in her feelings. And from what Neville could tell, she felt a healthy amount of disappointment about her son's son. He moved, reluctantly, and sat down to await the arrival of his parents.

Within minutes, Miriam Strout arrived, cheerfully pushing along Alice and Frank Longbottom, each strapped in to their wheeled chairs and arranging them across from Neville and his grandmother. "Always good to see you, Madam," she piped happily. "Will this do?" she asked of the physical arrangement.

"We have some delicate matters to discuss today, Miriam," Augusta answered. "If you would move them a bit closer..." Miriam looked over at Neville and made a face, but moved the chairs all the same.

"Very well — that's fine," Augusta said, brusquely. "You can go." Neville cringed at his grandmother's rudeness, but when he met Miriam's eyes, she gave him a wink and departed with a spring in her step. Neville envied her ability to let things roll off her back.

"Good," Augusta began, inching her chair even closer to her son and daughter-in-law. Neville, too, leaned in. He was so close to Augusta, he could see the distinct dots of colour in her Donegal tweed skirt. "This must be for our ears, and our ears alone," she whispered conspiratorially. "I was told this on pain of death by someone I trust."

Neville could feel his palms sweating — he felt off, as if something terrible was about to happen, but he couldn't quite justify the notion. Nothing in Augusta's demeanor on their travels to the hospital had lead him to believe that this was anything but a mundane visit to see his parents. He had even assumed that Augusta would be taking the time to complain about Professor McGonagall's interference in his course scheduling for next year — approving his request to take Advanced Charms against her express wishes.

He wondered if he would've rather have had that conversation than whatever was about to be discussed. Neville found himself looking at his mother's face as she stared off into nothing — it was somehow comforting.

"No, Frank, this is not one of my 'bridge buddies'," Augusta sniped. Neville had long heard her talk to his parents as if they were talking themselves. It was just something she did. "I can't say who it is, but you can be rest assured, they are amongst the highest echelons of the Ministry." Augusta prided herself on her connections. It wasn't hard for Neville to imagine her with friends deeply embedded in the Ministry's administration — he'd tended to tea for the likes of Walburga Black and an even elder Malfoy matriarch at Augusta's bridge table.

"There are whispers," she continued, breaking into Neville's own thoughts, "about the Prophecy." She paused to look around before she continued. "Trelawney's prophecy — the one they assumed was about the Potter boy…" She waited, as if one or the other of her children were speaking. Neville waited too; he didn't dare interrupt the illusion Augusta had created for herself.

"Precisely, Alice," she said to her silent daughter-in-law. "It may not be about Potter alone. Or even, at all." Augusta's eyes drifted to Neville, and he flinched. He didn't enjoy being under her scrutiny for too long; she was like to find something lacking.

"It turns out that it isn't all that clear," she continued. "I guess that shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. You are right about that, Frank," she said, nodding in agreement.

Neville felt the lump in his throat growing. Should he be worried? Why would she care about some prophecy anyway? Despite all his best instincts, Neville heard his voice break into the silence of the gathering. "What do you mean, Gran?"

She whipped her head around to look at him. "It means that the Prophecy, as it stands, could as easily have been about you as it might be about the Potter boy." She grasped his hand and squeezed it as tightly as he could ever remember her doing. "You could be the one," she said in a low voice.

"The one for what?" Neville squeaked out, wincing as her grasp tightened even further.

"To meet the Dark Lord in battle and defeat him." A self-satisfied smile came across Augusta's face, as if she was already proud of the deed yet to be done. She was gloating in advance. Neville could only look from the vacant stare of his mother to the balding, drooped head of his catatonic father, and back. Neither of them seemed to register a thing about what had been said — as they had not for as long as Neville could recall.

"I—in—in b—ba—battle?" he stammered out.

"Yes, of course," Augusta replied, her voice raised, anxious. "There will, inevitably, be another war —" She lost her thread as she looked at her son. The last war had cost Augusta dearly — in some ways, it was more than she was willing to part with. She had never given up on her son, or his wife, instead choosing to maintain a regular visitation schedule to St. Mungo's in the fervent and unwavering belief that they would, eventually, return to her.

Now, as she considered the prospect of another war, the fright of what could be seemed to settle on her suddenly. Her face went pale as milk. Her silence frightened Neville more than her usually incessant chatter.

"Gran?" He reached out, missing her as she rose from her seat and crossed to Frank. Neville hadn't ever seen his father animated in any way. He had photos, of a certainty, and that provided a bit of what he knew about his father's mannerisms — the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed or how he didn't seem able to talk without using his hands — but it wasn't the same as actually interacting with him. Not really.

Now, as he watched Augusta place her small, wrinkled hands on her son's face, lifting his head so she could look into his vacant eyes, Neville could only wonder what it might be like to hear his father talk, or laugh, or even cry. Anything. It was only as his own sadness pressed heavy against his chest that he noticed Augusta's tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I know, Frank," she was whispering. "I know. I promised to keep him safe. I did…" Her sobs came heavy now. "But wha—what can I do? If he's the one?" Frank's head bobbed as Augusta withdrew her hands abruptly, dashing from their nook in her overwhelming grief to leave Neville alone with his parents for the first time in his memory.

He was fifteen.

In Augusta's rush to flee, she dropped a crumpled piece of parchment she had been clutching. Neville reached down to retrieve it and recognized it for notes; notes she had been keeping for herself. Only parts of it was still legible, some of it fading with age, some of it being smeared. Still, he tried to read it. "— parents— three times defiant. Born — sev- -nth— Marked as his equal (by taking his parents?). One must die."

Neville let the paper flutter back to the floor as his knees gave out and he stumbled. His head ended up in his mother's lap, his hands clutching at her dress — his fingers dancing anxiously over the tatters along her hem. What he wouldn't have given to have felt her fingers in his hair. Just a single reassuring touch in his moment of despair. He looked up at Alice, to find her staring back down at him — a split second of clarity in her eyes. Neville grabbed up her hand and held it to his own face. He wanted so much to remember what she felt like, what she sounded like — before he died.

He squeezed tight until he was sure he'd felt her squeeze back.

"It's not up to Gran anymore," he started to say after a long while. "It's not her job to keep me safe. Her job is done." He looked up again and thought he saw a smile on his mother's lips. "It's my turn to protect her now. I might be the only one who can."

"Then again, you might not be." Miriam Strout had returned on silent feet to reclaim her charges. "Not all by your lonesome, anyway." She hesitated, her face downcast, embarrassed. It was clear she shouldn't have said anything. "I should probably take them back to their rooms so they can rest," she said, changing the subject hurriedly.

Neville scrambled to his feet, roughly brushing his tears away with the sleeve of his woolen jumper. "Yes, of course. I'm sor—"

"There's no need to be sorry," she interrupted him as she bustled about to get Alice and Frank ready to move. She took her position behind Alice's chair before she paused to look at Neville again. "You grandmother is here frequently. I hear things," she said, her eyes looking downcast. "I know I shouldn't but—"

"Gran is loud," Neville provided. He smiled sheepishly at Miriam and she nodded in agreement.

"She can be," Miriam agreed. "And she has been somewhat animated of late. Since this whole 'Prophecy' thing came up." Neville shifted slowly, regaining his footing. He found himself at eye level with the assertive Healer. "Prophecies are frequently difficult to understand," she continued, her eyes locked with his. "People get into trouble trying to make this prophecy happen or trying to make sure that other one doesn't happen…it's all nonsense." Miriam kicked off the brake of Alice's chair and began to move her.

"But what if it's true?" Neville found his own voice raised, his body, somehow, impeding Miriam's forward progress. He's eyes drifted, again, to the rip in his mother's gown, the slight smile on her face. "What do I do?"

"What can you do, but go forward?" Augusta piped up behind him, and Neville turned. "You will be a Longbottom, and if it is your fate to be chosen, then so be it." Augusta had never been what Neville would have called affectionate, but she had always cared for him — and she had always made it clear that she loved him. For the first time, though, he thought, just maybe, she was proud of him. Her hand reached for his own, and she squeezed it, however briefly.

"And Harry?" Neville asked.

"What of Potter?" Augusta asked. "If it is his fate, I'm certain he will need all the help he can get. Just the way you will if it is your burden to bear." She stepped in, placing her hands on his shoulders and staring into his eyes. "Be there for him, Neville. Be his friend when he needs it most and he will do the same for you. No matter what comes next." Augusta's gaze could not help but drift to Frank, and then to Alice; the consequences, even unspoken, were there for all to see. Nothing would come without a price.

"Come, then, Neville," Augusta commanded, her composure returning. "It's time we put you on the train." She nodded curtly at Healer Strout and headed towards the exit. Neville lingered listening to his mother hum.

"Well, she's never done that before," Miriam said, her eyes wide and smiling. "This whole day has been full of surprises, hasn't it?" The healer seemed to take up the tune as she went about guiding the couple back towards their rooms. Surprises, indeed.

As his train pulled out of the station, he sat alone, looking out the window as the parting fog gave way over a sunlit valley of autumn leaves — and he found himself serene. Come what may, he would play his role; one of the chosen two.