Disclaimer: I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

In the arms of her snake slayer

prologue

He was born the very day Harry Potter was born. And then the death eaters had come for his parents. Gran had been able to save him. But his parents. Perhaps he will never get to hear their voice. A child bullied and made fun of, still, he had stood his ground. Respected and showed compassion whenever required. No one knows, how deep the years of torture went. Scaring his mind. He was an example of Carrow's handiwork.

He had stood in front of the vile evil. He had reminded others why they had vowed to fight in the first place. But when he had swung the sword of Gryffindor and had cut the head of that hideous snake Nagini, in that instance, Neville Longbottom had shredded his old skin. And had grown up. Or grown quiet. No one played much attention. And he was fine with that. It helped to reorganize. To watch from the shadows, to understand the changing dynamics of this new world. He might not be as sharp as Granger, as quick as Malfoy, as brave as Harry or as strategical as Ron was- but he was all of it, given a little time and by invested a little thought and effort.

Interestingly nothing escaped Granger. But she was a confidant he could count on. And he was numb. Numb to the flashing light bulbs, numb to the questions been thrown at him. His soft friendly hazel brown eyes had grown hard, like flintstone. The boy that stuttered had suddenly developed the aura of making people grow quiet with unease.

And right before the war had ended, they had killed his Gran. The Parkinsons. Pretended to be neutral but acted as Voldermort's reserved foot soldiers. It was good for them the aurors had captured them soon and they would get the Dementor's Kiss, like Lucius Malfoy. But he was not at peace with the daughter, once his batchmate, getting thrown into Azkaban. Though rumours were ringing loud enough.

Neville had never asked for much. He truly never had much. But now he was tempted. By the ministry of Magic. By the public. By the fame, he had risen to. Harry Potter seemed to have guessed this all and had rightfully vanished. He was sure, the best place to hide for his fellow Gryffindor was among the muggles. That man was much in need of peace. And Neville would always be loyal to friends' best interests. At least he would make sure that the world should believe in this version of the story.

So, when the beguiling representative from the Ministry of Magic, had dropped in, soon after he was back burying Gran, he was prepared. The day before the requisition forms of the newly passed Magical Marriage Law had been owled to him. Then yesterday's Prophet had declared the fate of the Parkinsons were decided by the Wizengamot, they would get the Kiss by the end of the day and their daughter would get a right for a trial, but clear enough that witch too would be put in Azkaban forever.

He had stood tall, still in all black, his shoes caked in wet mud from his Gran's grave. He had his back turned to the sweet spoken ministry official who had once again tried to make him accept the huge sum of money as a compensation for a war veteran. They had already given him Merlin's first class.
"Mr. Longbottom, we are truly aggrieved for your recent loss. It is a fact each one has lost someone or the other in that blood affair. But life goes on, sir. And money does make things smooth."

"I am aware, Mr Sickletonk. But there is something more valuable than money. A woman's honour. I am afraid you cannot help me save that one."

The official had left in a hurry. He had gone to his superiors and who in turn had gone to their head of the management. That evening a harried Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had knocked at the front door. The moment he was allowed in, without much preamble he had solemnly asked, "Longbottom, whose honour do you wish to save?"

"Pansy Parkinson."

"How? And Why? Are you holding a personal Vedanta against the girl?"

Neville had simply stared back. His unobtrusive stare had given Shacklebolt a feeling, that this was no more a naïve boy. This was a commander, who had earned his respect in a very hard way.

"No. I will not, never, ever disrespect my future wife…", he had placed the folded paper on the minister's hand, Pansy Parkinson's moving picture staring back at them.

"Neville, I really can't…"

"And you don't need to…I wouldn't ask you to…I know how the algorithm and the arithmancy formulas work."

Throwing his hands in exasperation the minister had bellowed, "Then how can you make this mad demand?"

Waiting for the elderly ex auror to calm down, Neville had walked back to the table and had poured two glasses of firewhiskey. He had come back and given one to the minister, he had taken a swig from his own tumbler.

"You can stall her trial…that will make her stand innocent till proven guilty, and all innocent wizards and witches within the age of 17 and 45 are bound to sign up the requisition form."

"But how are you sure you will get her?"

"I will, you will recall, what all I have said, two night before...your system is based on the same prototype, Granger and I had worked on while in school."

"I see, and the money…?"

Giving a quick glance at his already filled up form, the young man had handed it over to his esteemed visitor.

Walking up to the door, intending to see the Minister off, Neville Longbottom had surmised in an uncharacteristically grave voice, "War has left behind orphans to feed and to be taken care of. And there are still many martyrs to be buried and given a fitting farewell. Your honourable Mr Sickletonk is a smart man, he believes- 'Money does make things smooth.'"