Two chapters today, because this one here isn't very long. Next one up soon.
Disclaimer: JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter.
Chapter 2
We've Won
5th May, 1998
When he was younger, he hated visiting his parents. He had hated hospitals with a passion ever since he could remember, but St Mungo's was the worst. The embodiment of everything that was terrible in a hospital. The floors were clean, the smiles were forced, and the people were too busy to bother with you. When he was six, he got lost here, and he had had to ask three people before someone – not even an employee, but an elderly woman visiting a sick nephew – took his hand and brought him back to the Janus Thickey Ward. Ever since, he had been scared of St Mungo's. It wasn't a very Gryffindor feeling, and he had kept it from his grandmother.
Growing up, the forced visits – monthly at the least, sometimes weekly; later, only during school holidays – had become more and more bearable. Maybe it was because his parents had started to come back. They would never be truly sane, he knew it (although he had clung to the hope for years), but they had made progress. His mother no longer spent most of her time hugging her knees and crying. His father had stopped suddenly putting his hands on his ears, blocking out silent screams and looking off into emptiness. Alice had learned to smile; she was very pretty when she smiled. Once, he heard her laugh. She started eating the sweets his grandmother made him bring to them, and she liked them. She always gave him back the wrappers, and once he thought she might have said "Thank you" (although his grandmother heard nothing of the sort). Both of them would smile when they saw him come in, and he could sometimes hug his father good-bye.
So now St Mungo's wasn't his least favourite place in the world. It almost felt good to be back in the polished halls which held so many memories, and in which he hadn't set foot in over a year. The desk clerk had given him a little wave when she saw him come in, and the salesman at the visitors' shop had struck up a conversation when he bought a box of chocolate there. His father loved chocolate, and the shiny gold wrapping paper would fascinate his mother.
He caught a glimpse of a swinging blond ponytail and a hurried step that was only too familiar. Aminta nodded her recognition when he caught up with her, and he smiled back. The nurse slowed down, along with the trolley she was pushing ahead of her, and stopped to talk to him.
"It's been a long time since I last saw you," she said. "They've missed you."
Aminta was the only one who really understood his link with them, the only one who had never pitied him.
"I couldn't come last year," he said, looking at the door behind her. "I've missed them, too."
"They'll be happy to see you," she said warmly, then checked her watch. "I wish I could stay, but... since the battle, we have had so many patients and I feel like I'm always late for something or other. We'll catch up soon, okay?"
"Of course."
She started pushing the trolley forward again, a little faster this time.
"I haven't told them yet, you know," the nurse called over her shoulder. "I thought you would want to be the first to tell them."
"Thanks," he called back.
"You'll have to tell me all about it, too, of course," she said, before disappearing around the corner of the hallway, along with the trolley she was pushing. "Don't you think you'll get out of it, Neville!"
He grinned, but the smile soon faded as he stared at the door. Behind that door were the parents he hadn't seen in over a year. But they weren't parents who had thought and worried about him for a year. They weren't parents who would leap up and cry and take him in their arms when they saw him. Most of the time, they were parents who didn't even know they had a son.
He knocked on the door, which was kept locked shut like a prison's.
His parents were painting when he came in. They had paintbrushes in their hands and tubes of paint beside them and a canvas before them, but the canvas was blank and instead they were using the brushes to flick paint at each other, at the walls, or onto their sheets. His father had an artistic splatter of blue drops across his nose, and his mother was laughing. The nurse who was keeping an eye on them didn't seem to mind; she was smiling as she watched them, a tender, indulgent smile. Elisia was an insightful woman whom Neville admired very much.
"Sit down," she told him, not looking away from Alice, who was squeezing yellow paint out onto her paintbrush. "Just look at them – aren't they beautiful?"
He had to admit they were. His mother had drawn closer to her husband, who was standing quite still, and was lightly caressing his face with the paintbrush, weaving patterns of yellow across his cheeks. She dipped the paintbrush in red and started again, creating bright flames; then blue, then green around his eyes.
"When did they learn to paint?" he asked Elisia.
"They didn't," she said, still watching Alice's slow, careful movements. "I just thought it might be an interesting idea. They seem to be having fun."
His mother turned around and smiled that bemused but effortless smile, the one it had taken years to coax out of her. The one she now bestowed upon almost everyone she met, like she was constantly happy.
Insanity is one of the body's defense mechanisms, a Healer had once told a much younger Neville. His parents had retreated into their minds first to avoid the pain, and later so they would never have to face the terrible memories. And that was why no amount of coaxing could get them back. Neville liked that explanation better than others. He had once heard someone say there was no-one "in there" anymore and that it was a shame, such a shame to have lost them. Lost them, as though they had died. Most people – family friends and such – talked about them like they were dead. Poor boy, poor orphan, they said, meaning him, and the one time he had spoken up to say that he was not an orphan, they had shaken their heads sadly and had said such a shame again.
Neville had never thought that the sometimes vacant look in his mother's eyes meant there was no-one "in there." And he had always clung on to the fierce, impossible hope that enough good news, enough good memories would be able to erase the fear of the bad and bring them back. Every good thing that happened, he told them, going into great detail. He described every beautiful thing he could think of, from butterfly wings to rainbows to Ginny's hair. His mother liked stories, so he read beautiful passages from books, too; and sometimes he brought children's picture books, so she could turn the pages and stare at the illustrations. She had liked his copy of Beedle the Bard very much.
He should have guessed she would like painting.
They seemed to have finished now; both of them sat down on the bed and looked at Elisia and him, still smiling. His father was very colourful, which might have made anyone else look foolish. But the grin that revealed his teeth and crinkled the corners of his eyes was the only thing that really mattered. Neville suddenly wanted to tell them, tell them everything.
"I can give you a little privacy," Elisia said, standing up. "Just don't let them eat the paint, and knock when you're finished."
He flashed her a grateful smile.
"Good-bye," Alice said, a few beats after Elisia had closed the door, and he looked at her in shock. His parents rarely chose to speak, even though he knew they could.
"Hello, mum," he said after a moment. "Hello, dad."
His parents listened to him; their eyes were on him and focused.
"I'm sorry I haven't come here in a while," he went on. "This year has been very busy. But I have some news for you today – good news. Do you want to hear?"
"Yes," his mother said, making him start and stare again.
How much had he missed, in the year he had been absent? How vocal had his mother become, how calm had they both become, how much had they changed? The laughing woman with a paintbrush in hand would never have been so controlled and yet carefree just a year ago.
He shrugged it off, struggled to gather his wits again, and continued in a bright voice. He skimmed over undesirable details and talked about bravery and friends. About Ginny and Luna. About Hermione and Ron. About Harry, who had finally done it. Who had killed him.
"He's dead," he said. "Dead and gone, and I promise you, he'll never come back. No-one will ever hurt us again."
He handed the chocolate over to his father and watched Alice avidly unwrap the golden paper. His parents had been excellent Aurors. He felt sure that, deep down, they understood. And cared.
"We did it," he said. "We won, mum! Dad, I – we accomplished what you wanted to do. We've finally done it. He's gone for good. We've won."
His mother smiled down at the paper in her hands, then at the smile on his face. She gave him the ball of tightly-rolled paper, said "Thank you," and drew him into a hug.
His parents had been excellent Aurors, and he would do them proud.
Believe it or not, this was the last chapter I wrote. The story was finished when I came back and added this in. It wasn't that I didn't want to write it or only got the idea then. It was that this was a hard chapter to write, and I'm still not sure if I pulled it off correctly. I'd like to have your opinion.
I love all the Harry Potter characters (with the possible exception of Crabbe), but Neville is exceptionally fantastic. Who agrees?