Hello Dear Readers,

I hope this update finds you all well.
So…
Who is excited for Season 7 of The Walking Dead?! ME! I am! Oh my gosh! OHHHH MY GOSH!
It's finally here… *breathes out*
I have no one around to talk to about my insane geeky love of The Walking Dead (or other pop-culture stuff for that matter) so I've had to contain my squeals today. I am both terrified and excited. Please, please don't let Daryl, Glenn or Michonne die. Please. *sobs*

Okay. Okay. I'll be fine.

Well, hope you all enjoy this update.

Have a wonderful week,

Cheers,

Haruka-Shir

23/10/2016

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Chapter 11

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The white walls. The perfect beds. The clean windows with pretty curtains. Washed carpet under Neville's heavy, dirty boots was pristine. This room was far too untouched for the new world. It was all strange, foreign and oddly sickening. It was made all the worse by the fact that it was Muggle, and he had never been in a place that was all Muggle before the infestation of the undead. It left Neville confused. All he had known of the Muggle world had been a world in ruins. To be thrust into a Muggle world looking so—so—so—undamaged—it felt like a dream within a dream.

Neville clenched his fists. This place was untrustworthy in its perfection.

Michonne's touch fluttered softly over his shoulder, making the tension he felt uncoil. He glanced up from his spot leaning on one of the medical beds. She was just as worried as he was, for her brow was knitted in long, deep lines that where usually only shown whenever she was truly concerned for their welfare.

"Why does the air taste weird?" he inquired.

"That is the antiseptic."

"The…the what?"

She smiled, brushing back his long hair from his eyes, briefly pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It destroys germs, keeps things sterile. It is used often in hospitals and medical places. I am not surprised, considering your upbringing, that you have never encountered it."

"It stinks." He crinkled his lips. "And I can taste it too."

"Perhaps you are more sensitive to it."

"This whole place gives me the creeps."

"I like it here." Andrea's murmur bought them both instantly to her bedside.

Neville grabbed for her hand under the bedspread and grasped it tightly to his cheek. She was still pale, but a flush had returned to her cheeks. No longer was the fever burning her up. The Muggles had done what he had been unable to do, and he supposed, for that, he should have been grateful—but he just—he just could not bring himself to like them.

Perhaps he was too much like Draco Malfoy after all.

"You're only saying that because they helped you," he grumbled.

"And you're being a snobbish little lord."

"So? I am a Lord. If I think a place is not worthy of my vassals, then it isn't."

Andrea brushed his cheek. "You are the sweetest, Neville."

"I just…want you both safe." He bowed his head. "You're…all I have."

Andrea opened her mouth, "Nev—"

The door to the room opened. Neville watched Michonne reach for her sword, coming up short for it, and heard her hiss in frustration. He was just as irritated that his array of weapons had been gutted from his person. He felt naked. It was that horrible, plummeting feeling of being without a wand all over again. His hands twisted into fists as the Governor stepped into the room. He was proud, aloft, owning the very ground he walked on. He put pureblood wizards to shame with a simple tilt of his chin.

Neville cocked his head, an echo of his grandmother's voice resounding in his mind, telling him to throw back his shoulders and glare down his prey. There was time for stalking like a lion and time for frontal approach, she would always say. This called for a glare.

The Governor entered with two other men. One had been with him in the clearing with the downed helicopter, by the way he held himself, he must have been some sort of military man, or at least a second-in-command sort. The other was, well, Neville raised an eyebrow just slightly—he was almost looking at himself if he had never been flung into the wilderness and landed amongst Walkers, having to learn to defend himself without a wand. The man was a skittish, worried, bubbling mess of nerves and it was truly terrifying to behold someone like he had use to be—what was he even doing alive?

"Governor. Thank you for your hospitality." Andrea shuffled up further in her bed, smiling brightly at the Governor.

Neville repressed the urge to vomit then and there. Morgana, please—did—did Andrea like him? No. Nope. NO. Scrub that image from his head before he died on the spot.

"It is not a problem. Our home is open to all those who need aid."

"So, our weapons?" Neville tapped his belt. "And my med-kit, some of the stuff in there is really…ah…volatile."

"He's a chemist," Andrea offered quickly.

"Bit young to be a chemist." The skittish man inched forward, pushing his glasses gently with his knuckles in a nervous habit.

Neville flashed him a glance. "So? Your point?"

"We will return your medical supplies to you, young man, but your weapons will have to be stored. It makes our people very anxious," the Governor interjected.

Neville frowned at the sickly sweetness behind his tones, how he pressured the words about his people, and their anxiety, as if they were more important than he was. Morgana, this man made Snape seem soft in his adoration for Slytheirns.

Neville folded his arms stoutly. "Couldn't care less about your people." He wanted so badly to sneer, but he kept back the snark with an upward tilt of his head, hoping it would be just as off putting. "Makes me anxious to be without my knives."

"Neville, we are guests here." Andrea touched his arm lightly. "And they've helped me."

He sighed, flapping a hand about in dismissal. Fine. He would submit. Honestly, he was such a pushover for his substitute parents.

He just barely caught the tiny smirk on the Governor's lips and had to supress the urge to snarl. There would be hell to pay if the man dared to think he could touch Andrea in her weakened emotional state. If he had his wand right now this conversation would have already been over.

"So, I believe introductions are in order." The Governor raised his hand. "I am the Governor."

"Just, the Governor?" Andrea tested.

"Yes."

"Okay. Well, I'm Andrea, this is Neville and Michonne. Thank you so much for your help. We are incredibly grateful, aren't we Neville?" Andrea stressed his name.

Neville rolled his eyes. "Yes, we are so grateful."

Inwardly, he supposed he was somewhat grateful for the care they were giving Andrea, because he was unable to cure her with his measly potion skills and he had no wand, but he hated the feeling that they had just walked themselves right into a mouse trap.

The Governor held out a hand to him, as if he was the man of the house and needed to be the one addressed. It was most hilarious, considering Michonne usually always got in the last say on any of their little group debates.

He took the offered hand anyway, feeling the scarred texture of the Governors skin. He was no pansy, that was for sure.

"You are a long way from home, lad."

"Because I'm British?" Neville frowned. "You do realize it is possible for me to have been here when the undead started rising. I was here on a school trip. As Andrea likes to remind me, I'm a rich, snobbish little British lord."

The Governor wandered around the room, and Neville followed his movements with sharp eyes. He was being equally studied, which surprised him that the Governor was so obviously doing thus. Did the man actually see him as a threat—him—little Neville Longbottom. Neville raised an eyebrow, well, perhaps in the year and a half that had passed since he had been flung away from his friends he had changed a bit.

Maybe—maybe more than a bit.

Would they even recognize him now?

"The rest of your classmates then?"

He hated having to say it when it bought back the memories. "We got separated in the chaos."

"I see."

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"Really, the way you talk, I would have thought you older."

"I was trained to be an annoying arse when I wanted to be, sir, a perfect gentleman when I needed to be, a child when it was called for, and at the moment, I'm surviving. You wear whatever mask fits for the occasion, wouldn't you agree?"

The man's lips tweaked with the thinnest of smiles. It disguised something slimy, an undercurrent of patronizing snark. This Governor felt like the worst combination of Dumbledore's all-seeing eyes, Professor Lockhart's narcissism and Professor Snape's intimidation tactics. Neville rubbed his thumb and fingers together, hiding the building sweat. Draco would have been so much better at this, but at least he had managed to hold his own against a man who surely had the same training as pureblood wizards. Whoever the Governor had once been, he had obviously been someone who knew how to hide his true nature. With the collapse of the world—perhaps his real nature had come out.

Neville rolled his eyes. "Have you finished your twenty questions, Governor?" He rather liked how the title rolled over his tongue in a mockery, his accent only adding to the snide. It was so delightful, channelling his inner Snape.

The Governor sugary smile blazoned far to brightly, forced until his lips reached his cheek bones. "Yes. Yes. Sorry. It is just always interesting to have new people around."

Neville inwardly snorted.

"So, may I ask a question, where are we?" he queried.

"Of course, terribly sorry…" The Governor walked a few paces toward the window, the blinds shut against the daylight. He swept them open and Neville squinted as sunlight spread into the room. Michonne followed him as he hesitantly stepped toward the view into the outside world yonder the glass panels. He hesitated to call it a thriving, it was not a thriving street like Diagon Valley had always been a bustling hive, nor even remotely like the streets of the wizarding towns his grandmother and he had enjoyed frequenting, but in comparison to what he was used to in the new world of the dead—the street outside was thriving.

"Welcome to Woodbury." The Governor sounded so proud, there was no denying the joy in his words.

Yet it made Neville's skin crawl, the false normality of the single long street. People mingled together, doing—well—he supposed things that Muggles did, but he had never really seen Muggles do anything before the rising of the undead. He had no bearing to judge them on, and yet, the whole set up felt like they were playing house. It was as though he was standing in the middle of Malfoy Manor, trying as hard as he could to pretend he was not in enemy territory, and Draco Malfoy was talking to him like he was his best friend, and he in turn, was doing the same.

"Well, this is shit," Neville muttered.

Michonne glanced toward him with a frown, but from the look in her eyes, she was just as uncomfortable as he was.

The Governor stepped back toward the door, inclining his head.

"You are welcome to stay here, please, feel free to roam during the day, but we have a curfew at night, for the safety of our people, you understand."

"Thank you so very much for your hospitality." Andrea practically gushed.

Neville bit his lips, trying not to barf.

"Once you are feeling better," the Governor opened the door, and like an obedient puppy the timid little man behind him followed, "we will move you to a better location, but I for now, I think it best you remain in the infirmary. Get better soon."

The door clipped shut. Neville glared at the departure of the three men. He had a sinking feeling that they would continue to be watched from somewhere and his hand twitched, wishing for his wand. He could feel his magic burning under his skin, needing to be released in a spell of privacy.

He just could not take this—

"Neville." Michonne's hand settled on his shoulder and Neville startled. His whole body felt a sudden, dramatic rush like a flood of water released from a dam, flowing out of his feet, into the ground. He sagged heavily against the bed, exhausted.

"Sorry." He squinted, rubbing at his eyes.

Michonne tweaked his chin fondly.

"We can't let them know about your magic Neville." She stepped away from the window.

"Are we going to be suspicious of everyone?" Andrea shuffled in the bed, eyeing them both with aspiration. "This could be a good thing?"

"Andrea." Neville frowned. "Don't you sense it? This place is…there is something very wrong here."

She sighed. "Alright, alright, if you're both that freaked out, I'll listen, but I want to rest up first." She settled back into the pillows.

Neville beamed happily, skipping to the bed and grabbing the covers, wrapping her up. "Thanks Andrea."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Whatever. We finally find a place that could be nice and you both decide to be all doomy about it. Sheesh."

It did not take long for Andrea to fall asleep. Even if she had not felt safe, which Neville was sure she did feel weirdly safe in this Muggle place of perfection, her illness clung to her body and had to be exhausting. He watched her chest rise and fall in solid breaths. They had been so frightfully wheezing for months now, and just seeing her lungs fill up with air without stuttering made him lightheaded.

Neville slid free of his seat by the bed, eyeing the door. He had no weapons, but it was highly unlikely anyone in this place would attack him, and even if they did, Michonne had taught him enough self-defence to get by. His curiosity was heightened now. He had to know what this strange Muggle town was like.

"Be careful Neville." Michonne watched him slip out the door. He tipped his head to her before vanishing into the corridor beyond. While they were in what the Governor had called the infirmary, it was likely the house they were in had several purposes, it was the only way they could have been keeping so many people in the small community. He could not hear that many voices murmuring from beyond the several doors off to the side, so not much must have been going on. Cracking open the entrance, Neville peered out onto the main street, still finding himself thrown by the idea he was not carrying his weapons. His whole body was in overdrive, watching for Walkers, trained to hear the slightest sound, catch a movement out of place, and it was driving him mad already to be surrounded by a town full of such freedom.

These people were so—so—stupid. It was like they were playing house, pretending that what was outside could not hurt them—or—so it seemed.

What was it that he could not see underneath the smiles that greeted him.

Even the children that laughed, kicking balls across the street, riding cycles, seemed to hide something eerily sinister. He could not shake it. Was it his magic telling him he was in danger?

Neville tipped on his heels, striking up a path toward the barred entrance of the main town street. Huge iron gates had been erected. They were impressive, and he was sure the guns the military looking folk standing aloft the giant muggle trucks were also supposed too impressive but he really had nothing to judge them on. Neville studied them thoughtfully, wondering just were the Governor had come across such arsenal. Perhaps they had been lying around nearby, that was possible right? So much had been discarded by the muggle military.

His brow furrowed. Now that he thought about it, what had happened to that man they had seen survive the helicopter crash? He had been muggle military hadn't he? Neville swung around and almost ran face first into a man's chest. How in the hell had he not heard someone sneaking up on him?

He lunged back a few paces, taking a fighting stance.

The man started chuckling, waggling the contraption that replaced his hand in the air.

"Tut, tut, kiddo, not paying attention."

"I…I was…"

Merle, that was his name. Merle. The playful shine in his sharp blue eyes hid the natural instincts of a hunter, that much Neville was sure. He had been unable to sense the man because the man was far more skilled than he was. Mud was caked to the man's clothes and skin, like he simply forgot to wash, but oddly enough, he didn't stink, at least, not in the sense of a foul stench. Neville frowned, slowly relaxing his defensive posture. He had smelt this scent before—pine needles crushed under his boots, mixed with moist air lazily clinging to his ankles—the Forbidden Forest.

Earth-magic.

This man smelt like earth-magic, the deepest sort of magic a wizard or witch could tap into. How was that even possible? Neville squeezed his wand hand, feeling it ache enough that he bit his lips.

"Shouldn't be hanging around here, kiddo." The gravelled voice levelled at him.

Neville tipped his head up, releasing his lips from his teeth, feeling the skin pull away with a sharp pain. "I'm just admiring your incredible walls, they're very impressive."

"You think so, do you?"

"Yep." Neville flashed his best boyish grin. "Must make everyone feel really safe."

Merle snorted. "No one's safe."

"No." Neville shrugged. "No we're not."

"Anyway, you shouldn't be here, come on." A firm hand was placed on his shoulder and he could not shake it off. It felt as though it was lodged there by some kind of heavy weight. Merle lead him back through the street and he noticed that the towns people seemed to step away from them deliberately, as though Merle was terrifying to them, a stain on their perfect, imaginary lives.

He noticed the crowd begin to split, making way for the Governor, like he was some kind of powerful, revered figure. Following along behind him once more was the little mousey man, who only raised his head when the Governor finally stopped in front him and Merle.

Neville noticed the slight tensing of the heavy set warrior beside him and felt his own body react. If a man tuned with earth-magic so naturally was wary of the Governor, then Lady help them all.

"Your medical-kit." The Governor handed his potions-kit to him and Neville raised an eyebrow as he opened it, snorting through the contents within.

"You guys went through it I see?"

"I'm a…ah…scientist." The skittish man lingering beside the Governor murmured. "I was…curious…"

"I see." Neville shrugged the bag over his shoulder. "No harm done. Did you find anything interesting, Mr…?"

"Milton Mamet. Milton."

"Mr. Milton then." Neville inclined his head.

"I am not entirely sure how you could be making anything good out of the contents of your medical kit."

Neville grinned. "Oh, I assure you, my form of chemistry is an ancient art passed down through generations. I am not as skilled as I want to be, but current events have caused me to have a bit of a crash course."

Milton nodded. "Perhaps you could show me someday."

Neville inclined his head. "Perhaps I could. How is the man from the helicopter, Governor?"

"Doing fine." The Governor waved absently. "No need to worry."

"It is just, the man was from a military establishment, and surely he was not alone."

"Do not worry, we shall see to his return."

With the amount of military equipment, he had seen in just the short stroll through the town, Neville was positive that they would indeed see to the return to the helicopter pilot.

"Sure you will." Neville murmured. "Sure..."

"So, yeh really a lord?" Merle eyed him.

"Indeed, I am. My Grandmother was head of our family, but she must have died during the…outbreak?" Neville shrugged. "That therefore makes me Lord Longbottom, not that it does much these days, does it?" He glanced toward the Governor. "Titles are just for throwing around and lording over people."

Merle laughed. Neville never expected his hair to be suddenly ruffled. "He sees right through yeh, Gov."

The Governor's lips pressed together ever so subtly. "Indeed."

Neville ducked his head away, pretending to be suddenly shy.

"Well, Merle, perhaps you should take Neville back to his guardians. They are sure to be getting worried about him, and we don't want him missing curfew."

"Sure thing, boss."

Neville knew he should have found the hand that settled on his shoulder disturbing, but it wasn't. Merle's heavy, scarred hand reminded him of a thick oak tree, its roots going deep into the earth, searching for water. The man gently tugged him away from the shadowy, choking presence of the Governor and he was grateful to be away from the overwhelming sensation of being watched like he was some sort of bug to be squished.

"Honestly kid," Merle murmured to him softly, "yeh need to learn when to shut yeh mouth."

Neville glanced up at the hardened man. "Why do you put up with…him…"

"Saved my guts." Merle shrugged.

"Your guts have to be telling you he is a shitty overlord."

"I ain't got nowhere else to be."

Neville snorted as Merle lead him back to the door of the house that worked as the makeshift infirmary. "You're a druid," Neville turned, looking down at Merle, over his nose, putting every effort, every forceful tone into his voice that he could muster, wanting to appear every bit of the young lord he knew he was. "You belong to the earth. You belong to no one. You are the first of the magicals. No one, and I mean no one, tells you what to do."

"What the fuck, kid?"

Neville smirked. "I haven't properly introduced myself." He touched his chest. "I am Lord Neville Longbottom of the Ancient House of Longbottom, Wizard."

He expected Merle to shrug him off, or to tell him to go shove the light-where did-not shine—he did not expect the warrior-hunter to just stand there, eyebrow raised, and actually take him dead serious.

"Okay."

"You…believe me?" Neville blinked.

"Kid, I have seen far too many things in this world not to believe you." Merle shrugged. He shoved the door open. "You're a wizard. Whoopie. I once saw a Skinwalker. Was trippy. Also saw a werewolf, that was hellish, almost got bit too. Forests are full of weird and wacky things. You respect that shit."

Neville followed Merle into the house. "All right then. Well. Don't tell your landlord."

"Your secret to keep, but he'll figure it out eventually."

"Hopefully by then, we'll be out of here."

Merle looked back toward him, his gaze suddenly serious. "No one leaves Woodbury, lad, no one."