Christmas Eve This Year
by Charis
Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me, except the story itself. Characters are property of J. K. Rowling.
Author's Note: Title is inspired by "Halloween", from Rent. And yes, it sucks; I can't do titles to save my life.
I also know that Neville's wand in the books is his father's and not new-purchased, but I'm quietly ignoring that fact for the flow here.
Written pre-Order of the Phoenix, and therefore AU, if only because I think they mention Neville having seen his grandfather's death there. Oh, well.
He's been quiet ever since our last visit - more quiet than usual, spending all his time out in the garden with his textbooks. Meals have been strained and formal, increasingly awkward. He doesn't want to talk about them, and I haven't the heart to complain. It hurts me too; we just cope differently. I retreat behind a shell; he only retreats.
The old hag and the terrified boy. What a pair.
I have not been a good mother; I never expected to be one again. My husband was dead in the early Years of Terror, a senseless casualty in the battle between Aurors and Death Eaters. Frank was still at Hogwarts, no longer a boy but not yet a man. Between my own grief and his absence, we grew apart ... and when he told me he was planning to become an Auror himself, I was furious. I had lost his father; I could not stand to lose him as well. We were still coolly cordial when he married Alice in 1978. It was Neville who brought the family back together two years later, with the charm only an infant can have. For a little over a year, we were a family again ... until that night when a pair of Aurors showed up on my doorstep, and I knew before they spoke that something was dreadfully wrong.
Frank and Alice in St. Mungo's. And a weeping, wailing, uncomprehending Neville come to live with me.
He had so little of his father in him. The same colouring to hair and eye, but Alice's features. His mother's love of growing things, but none of Frank's talent for magic. Nearly a Squib, we used to think, but I remember too well that moment in Ollivander's shop when he first held his wand - the glory of light and sparkles before half the wands in the shop went flying off their shelves. No - certainly not a Squib, not with such spectacular mishaps. Seeing that day what my grandson might one day be capable of, I felt cold fear touch my heart. I had already lost husband and son; would I be doomed to lose Neville as well?
He sits on the other side of the table, picking at his potatoes and not meeting my eye. My little boy is finally growing up, and now more than ever I see his mother in him ... and his father. What can I say now? Be careful, Neville, don't make the mistakes your father did? Frank's only mistake was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I have been a poor parent; I have no right to advise, caution, warn.
Be careful, Neville ...
And now they say that Voldemort is back, and Death Eaters are on the prowl again. Some may deny, but I have known Albus Dumbledore long enough to know that this, of all things, he would not lie about. At the school which ought have been the safest place, a boy died last year. And soon I will have to send this boy, the only remnant I have of husband and son and happier days, back to a place that has become increasingly less safe since the Ministry's involvement. I give him into your keeping, Albus; don't betray that trust.
Sad, solemn eyes, too old for his years, look at me as I set down fork and knife. For a split second, the masks fall away and we are connected, close - understood, if only in our shared pain.
"Happy Christmas, Neville," I say.
"Happy Christmas, Gran," he echoes, as we perpetuate the lies, pretending that all is well.
Be careful, Neville. For the love of god, be careful. You're all I have left.
- finis -