I read somewhere, "a child has been dictated over in his childhood, repressed puberty, and a fumbling transition between childhood and adulthood, under the conditions, if he is exposed to depressing, threatening life-changing events, he will have confusing ways to deal with the world for some time. the Neville we are familiar with would cry his heart out at the death of his Grandmother, but mine is too quiet for comfort.(np)

The regular disclaimer stays


Chapter 14

She had been haunting him for quite some time.

Many of the sympathizers of Harry Potter, Dumbledore's Army and the young members of the Order of the Phoenix were now hiding in the Room of Requirement. And those students had equivocally voted Neville Longbottom as their leader. It was mostly the three houses. Camping, on their guard, barely sleeping. The estranged brother of Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth, the keeper of Hogsmeade Inn, was the one to help them smuggle in food and water. And the elves could only help, as long as they could go undetected. Though many of the Hogwarts elves had broken rank and had joined the party of young witches and wizards.

And it was one such mixed party of a few elves working as scouts, a handful of students, who were just returning after making the arduous trip to the Hogsmeade village down the hill. Neville had insisted to take the rear guard while returning. And Spots, one of the defacto elf had been by his side. Most of the members of this close-knit troop had safely returned. But an incident had deterred Neville for a while.

In one of the empty and abandoned corridors, he had stumbled upon a ghastly event about to take place. Fenrir Greyback had a trembling Pansy Parkinson backed up into an alcove. And the girl was worst to wear. The beast-like man was chuckling brutishly. But Neville could detect the torture the mute victim was suffering. With Spots in tow. He had devised a plan to help the girl. She might not have reciprocated the gesture if the tables were ever turned. But Neville was the son of two respected Aurors and a Gryffindor. His sense of justice had made him convince Spots to distract the werewolf long enough. Disillusioning himself, He had crept into the alcove, and had picked the girl in tattered robes in his arms. The castle had responded to his quiet plea. It had opened a pathway to one of the prefect bathrooms near the Slytherin common rooms. By the time the death eater had made back to where he had left his prey, she was long gone.

Though Neville was a gentleman enough, not to pry, he could read the telltale signs of molestation, or attempt to assault. The Carrows had made him see stark examples. He had made a rule for every student to carry a small bundle of necessary potion phials. And these were stupendously delivered by the most trusted elf of the headmaster, death eater, Severus Snape. He had left a bottle of silver and a potion phial of dittany tucking them inside of Pansy's feeble hands. Before leaving, he had felt the need to whisper words of encouragement. "Be safe. Hope. I will save you."

Mr. Longbottom had his newly married wife pressed against the wall, her chest heaving against his own. Had he ever thought, he would once in his life, think, Pansy Parkinson, stinks so horribly, that she will need a thorough bath accompanied with rigorous scrubbing? But this fiery witch had called him delusional and he should have a wordy reply. He smirked, "You stink."

There he had said the word, that broken her resolve in pieces. And it was beyond his imagination how a woman could still be so desirable. Like a veela or a siren.

He thought what harm will it be if he kisses her. She was his legal wife. Till now, He had not kissed really. So, he dared. he had leaned forward. And then she had kicked him hard. If Hermione knew how to throw a punch, sure why not, Pansy could knee. He had tumbled back growling in pain. Free from his hold, she had made a dash for the nearest open door. Growling in pain, but not too hurt, Neville had lunged after her.

The sooner she had made past the door, she had realized her mistake. This was a bedroom. Turning she had found Neville standing, blocking the doorframe. Terrified and at loss, she had started whimpering.

"Please, please, I will be good. Please don't…please…"

He did step inside the room and has softly closed the door to his bedroom. But he simply kept staring at her. She wasn't able to understand what exactly he wanted from her. Was he enjoying the chase, just like Fenrir did? Was he getting high from the pleasure of the hunt? Then confused, alone, she couldn't take it anymore. She had ripped off her tunic. Bared herself to him.

And her body had given Neville the answers to his question. Her body had series-long claw marks, not deep but bad enough. That monster had enjoyed tiring her skin. Leaving long steady bruises that had not healed properly. She would not bleed. But if he was to lay his eyes on her, he would get his sadistic fill. Neville's personal experience under Alecto Carrow was proved enough.

Pansy was reeling in grief. Her world was now drawing to an end. Death was merrier. She was barely able to keep it together. As a last stand of defense, she had yelled at him, "what, don't like what you see! What too sully for a Gryffindor now, you are all high and mighty now are you?"

Neville had kept staring. Quietly. Waiting. She had sat down on the ground overwhelmed. Holding herself in her arms, she had cried and hiccupped mercilessly.

Then suddenly, she had felt him. He had slowly knelt before her. She had closed her eyes in disgust. And that made her hear his breathing loud and clear. So much in control. Could she ever have thought of a day like this one? She had felt something heavy being wrapped around her. Startled she had looked about. He had placed a blanket over her.

Yes, this was the Neville she was familiar with. The one that carried for his fellow classmates. Not just Gryffindors, but others too, provided they were cordial enough. But she could not remember one instance, where she was even a fraction of a spoon nice to him, in all those seven years.

Pansy thought, burying her shame, her honor deeper into the warm blanket, values of life were truly a kaleidoscope. And Neville Longbottom was citing an image of perhaps several such parallelly existing game of glass pieces inside strips of mirrors facing each other.

Baffled and bewildered, she had jerked back a little, when she had felt him cradling her bruised palms in one his larger ones, for closer inspection. He had already started showing his evening stubble. A long nose and a stout chin, eyelashes not quite dense. But eyebrows thick, defining the arch of his temple. His ears wear still red.

Sitting there on the floor, crossed legged, the man had held her hands like she was made of glass. A menagerie. Fat tears were still rolling down her almond-shaped cheek when she had tensed at the sight of a scented healing balm beside him.

She had often seen him tend to samplings. Quietly singing to them, when no one was looking. In the same, caressing brush of his fingers, he was applying the salve over those singed marks. As she had studied the slowly healing palm, Neville had let his gaze run over her exposed calf and thigh.

Turning his face to his task at hand, he had gritted his teeth. And a feeling of rage, guilt and remorse had churned up in his stomach. He would not lose it in front of her. She was already paranoid. It would do her no good if he was going to behave like a raging Spanish Bull. An expression he had picked up from the late Colin Creevey. No, he would not gain anything from dwelling in the past. If he could help in securing the present, he mused to himself, as he got up from the floor, now was the best time.

Before Pansy could realize, she was lifted off the floor. By natural instinct, she had wound her flail arms around his neck. And accidentally, her nose had brushed against the side of his neck. He had peered at her with hooded eyes, for a couple of minutes and then in long strides had walked ahead. Standing beside his bed, he had softly placed her on it.

Feeling the soft bed and the down pillows below her after several days, the first thought had been, this is bliss. But with Neville still lingering and hovering about, studying her minute reaction, Pansy had grown alert. Trying her best to crawl after from him, she had started pleading again, "Please…"

In a blink of an eye, he had backed off, turning on his heels, he had walked off of the room. Baffled, she had leaned off the bed, trying to see what he was up to now. The moment she had heard his food steps, after several tense minutes, she had crawled away.

He had brought a tray. There was a jar of water, with an empty glass beside. A bowl of steaming hot soup and half a loaf of freshly baked bread.

He had placed the breakfast tray on the bed itself. When he had heard the soft "oh!" Looking up, his eyes had met with those pair of dark chocolate ones of his wife, selected by the ministry. He had given her a small smile, and nodding at the table, had softly whispered, "Eat!"

One sentence had got itself logged in her brain, "He got me food, He went and got me food." But her dormant Slytherin traits had kicked in, eyes still wet with tears, she had crooked her head and had studied him. Testily, she had asked, "Are you planning to fatten the hen and then kill it?"

There were already a set of cutleries placed beside the bowl and the side dish. Now Neville had brought out another set his pocket, smirking at her, he had dipped the spoon in the soup and had slurped it. Next, he had torn a piece of a loaf and had placed it inside his mouth. Slowing, tenderly, he had chewed on them. Pansy had licked her cracked lips. His flint stone eyes, had not left her face for a single second. The seconds ticked. They both kept their vigil. Then the wife had pounced on the tray. Out of habit, she had picked up the spoon and had cried out in pain. In utter dismay, she had looked up! With her bruised palm, how was she about to eat. Those would still take another hour to heal.

In his much familiar genial voice, Longbottom had shrugged and had sat down beside her, "It is alright. Here, I can help you with that. And please, no more crying. Can we agree on that? Please…"

Gawking at him, like she must have imagined him with three heads, Pansy had gulped down the offered food. Half an hour later, the emotionally and physically exhausted new wife, had laid down on her husband's single bed. And the man in question had tucked her in. Brushing her hair gently off her face, he softly asks her, "I had said, Hope. I shall save you. Now, get some sleep."