Author's Note: Trigger warning for mentions of alcohol abuse and vomiting.


CHAPTER TWO

Rock Bottom

The man paces his office, restless. He rolls his wand between both fingers and thumbs as if he were rolling a cigarette. On nights like these, he's often tempted to pick up a smoke or a drink and dive into a new addiction. A crutch, oblivion, how nice that would be. Even for a moment.

He pauses by the window and glances out. Still raining. It was raining that morning as well. When the first echoes of violence struck the warm spring air. Five years on and he can still smell the wet soil, along with the stench of death.

"Neville?"

He jerks from the window, heart thudding. A quick glance behind and he visibly relaxes. "Ginny...you scared the shit out of me." He twists his wand and lets out a hard breath.

Ginny Weasley raises a brow as she drops into his office chair. She grabs the report off his desk and idly flips through it. "Nothing new...as per usual..." The red head clicks her tongue.

"No, nothing new. But nothing is good." Neville gives his lieutenant and friend a tight smile and turns back to the window.

"How do you figure?" Ginny asks, tone dry.

"Nothing means there's no-one dying, Ginny."

There's an irritated sigh behind him. The creak of the chair spinning from side to side. "I don't like it. It's been months since we last saw any Death Eaters. Longer still since they've attacked anyone. Something big's coming. Neville. I know it."

The Snake Killer's fingers turn white around his wand. He rests his forehead against the cool window pane and closes his eyes. After a moment of silence, he finally responds. "Sometimes, I imagine he's just on the other side of his window. And all I gotta do is open it and reach through. But even in my fantasy, I can't. I'm just rooted to the spot. Frozen. And I'm just confused and terrified and furious and-"

"Neville." A warm hand rests on his shoulder. Gently pulls him away from the window.

He turns and faces his friend, gives her a weak smile. "Sorry. I know you hate being reminded of him. I just..." Lips twist at the red head's stony expression. "Sorry."

Despite her stoic countenance, Ginny's brown eyes burn with a pure, clean fury. The kind of anger that cleanses than embitters. She gives her comrade a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and nods. "I'm about to head off to the meeting. Are you going to join us?"

Neville lowers his eyes, stomach churning. He gives a reluctant nod. "I better. McGonagall would be disappointed if I didn't go."

"You are her right hand, Neville," Ginny says, shifting on her feet impatiently. "I know today's going to be hard, especially at the Memorial Service, but we all need you with us."

The man frowns, though he gives another slight nod. "Alright. I'm right behind you," he says, softly.

As he follows the woman out of his study, Neville Longbottom takes another glance out the window. For a heart-stopping moment, he thinks he sees Harry Potter standing in the street, barely discernible in the flickering street light. And he's almost certain he sees the same figure disappearing as Harry often did under his Invisibility Cloak.


When was the last time the ground was solid beneath his feet? He wonders this as he leans against a brick wall. The cobblestones spin in a dizzying arc before resetting and spinning again. Every time he moves his head, bile rises up the back of his throat.

There's someone beside him, touching his waist. At first he thinks it's help. But when they disappear, so does the weight in his pockets. He can only hope that they left him his wand.

The next spin takes him to the ground, knees banging off the cobblestones, hands scraping along the wall. His breath comes heavy and laboured as he tries to keep the nausea at bay. Vomiting might help. He's heard that from someone. Was it Gideon? Or Jobe? Ah fuck it.

It comes in a hot, acidic wave, splattering his front and the ground before him. His hands slip off the wall and into the fetid puddle. Harry distantly notes that it's all liquid.

An ear shattering crack jerks him around, causes him to smash his head into the wall. Ears ringing, Harry lets out a loud groan as he clutches his head. That sounded like a gun...or a car backfiring...could it be...?

It doesn't take long for him to pass out. And when he does, it's bliss.


The next morning, he wakes in his own vomit, now dry and crusted over. He has no time to react before the first hard throb of pain erupts in his head. It's a good pain though, not the sickly kind from his scar. It's the kind of pain Harry rather welcomes, if he were to admit it.

The spring sun is strong and bright, the heat sending a frenzy of flies and other such insects to keep Harry company. The streets are quiet as it usually is at this time of day. Most muggles are at school or work. Most muggles that is. Gideon and Jobe would be panhandling outside the train station or getting high in Faulkner's Park.

"Nothing better to do", they once told Harry, "and nothing we'd rather do".

Harry picks himself up with a muttered curse, not bothering to brush the dirt from his vomit-soaked clothes. He checks his pockets and his fingers find the familiar wood of the wand tucked in the back of his jeans. Draco's wand, to be exact, but he doesn't like to be reminded of its previous owner.

With some labour, he fights against the lingering nausea and staggers out of the alleyway. He's in Aldeford, a nothing town in a nothing part of the country. It's the kind of town that has a pretty face, but rots from the inside. Corruption, addiction, crime, and poverty runs rampant in Aldeford, but if there's anything the English are good at, it's how to ignore a problem.

Harry found himself here on the night of his escape, half-dead and delirious with fever. He doesn't remember the events that led him to this backwater town. When he finally came to his senses, he found himself in a small room in a bed and breakfast that smelt rather pungently of talcum powder and roses.

Margaret Aldeford, of Mrs. Aldeford's B&B, is a prickly woman with a soft heart. She recognised a soul in need and let the boy stay without paying while he was ill. Now, he worked for his food and board, running chores and cleaning the establishment for the old woman.

Harry grimaces when he wonders how Margaret might react to his current state. It has been an issue before, but whatever Harry did in his own time was none of the old woman's business.

He approaches the B&B now, a massive brick building with white trim around the large windows. The garden that encircles the building is beautiful and abundant, vines creeping up the face of the B&B as if left untended. But knowing Margaret, everything was grown to plan. While appearing wild, it is a meticulously crafted wilderness.

Harry smiles despite himself and he lets himself in through the main entrance. The lobby is cool and the smell of roses linger in the air. Thankfully, no guests nor old woman meets his entrance, so Harry quickly steps towards the stairs. A long hot bath is much needed.

"Tom? Is that you?"

Harry freezes halfway up the stairs. Behind him, Margaret appears, arms akimbo. He senses her presence before even laying eyes on her. He turns, reluctantly, and prays that the woman doesn't notice his soiled clothes.

"Mrs. Aldeford..." he says in greeting, forcing a smile.

The old woman has none of it. Stern grey eyes flit over his clothes and she clicks her tongue. "What a mess you are! I should have you thrown out!" She frowns and beckons the raven haired man impatiently. "But as it were, you have a guest."

"A...guest?" Ice grips Harry's heart, freezes his organs. He grasps the railing as he's overcome with a sudden dizziness.

A tall, handsome man glides in from the drawing room, dressed in an impeccable black suit. His all-too-familiar white hair is slicked back, pale face expressionless. A mirthless smile touches his lips as he approaches the bottom stair.

"Hello Tom. I think you have something of mine."