Author's Note: And ... well ... I have no excuse, except ... I wrote this once and was seriously considering posting it, but it reminded me of one of those old Perry Mason episodes ...

"Flavia ... Flavia ... Charles killed Flavia ..."
"Ma'am ... who is Hope Sutherland?"
"She's one of the models ... :crazy evil woman face at widower: IS THAT WHY YOU KILLED HER? :sob: Oh, Flavia, Flavia. Charles killed Flavia."

You didn't want that now did you?

9. Justice

He blinked several times, sliding the frames to the end of his nose.

"I don't know," he mumbled, nodding his head back and forth, testing the lenses. Moving the newspaper a little closer, the words came into focus. "Aha."

"What was that?" Luna queried, coming in from the kitchen.

"Oh, these buggering glasses," Neville explained. "I've been home a week and, if losing fourteen years and gaining two children wasn't enough, I now have to wear reading glasses." He furrowed his brow and tilted his head back a little to peer through the lenses at the Daily Prophet.

"I think they're adorable," his wife gushed, grinning.

Dropping his head, he glared at her over the rims, which only made her smile more.

"Yes, just like that."

There was a reflective flash on the wall and both turned to the window. Neville couldn't see much as he was sitting, but Luna's smile suddenly faded and she stepped toward the window.

"What? What is it?" he wanted to know, standing. A car much like the one that Gregory had picked him up in at the hospital was rolling to a stop in front of the house.

As if reading his mind, she muttered, almost to herself, "That's not Gregory or Favian."

The engine was cut-off and the door swung open.

They pushed their doors open and stepped out into the evening. A wedge of light appeared on the front stoop as the front door opened, only to be blocked a moment later by a silhouette. The women in the entryway looked from the man beside him, then to his own eyes as they approached.

A lean black man exited the car and observed the house for a moment before making his way to the door. Luna beat him to the punch and flung the door open. A deep chuckle reached Neville's ears.

"I should have you drawn and quartered, Dean Thomas!" his wife declared. "You scared me out of my wits, driving up in that damned car."

Neville watched as Dean, still laughing, embraced her.

"Surely you know me well enough, dearest Luna, to know that if something had happened to your boys, I'd have long been dead."

"You better," Luna nodded, pulling away and turning to her husband.

"Well, well," Dean sighed, smiling. "It's about time you came home."

"Yes, it's been awhile," Neville agreed, stepping forward and offering his hand. Dean shook his hand and there was a moment of awkward silence. "I, uh, saw you at the funeral."

"Yes, tragic, did they ever find out what happened?"

Neville shook his head and Luna put her hand on his arm, standing on her tip-toes to whisper in his ear, "I'm going to take the kids over to Ginny's for awhile, alright?"

"Okay, maybe I'll come over later," he told her as she kissed his cheek and started for the stairs. Motioning vaguely over his shoulder, he offered, "Would you like a drink?"

"Would love one, actually," Dean agreed, following Neville to his study.

"Sorry if I seem a little out of touch."

"No, no," the man waved him off. "I've just come by to see how you are."

"I'm getting better," Neville told him, picking up a tumbler and studying Dean for a moment. There seemed to be something tugging at the back of his mind, but he couldn't bring it forward. Holding up a bottle of firewhiskey, he queried, "Are you on duty?"

Dean chuckled, "Rarely anymore. I'm the head of the training academy."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed that since you work with me sons that you were still an auror." Neville handed him the tumbler and sat on the edge of his desk.

"Well, classes are only in session six months out of the year, so I do a lot of work with your boys in the raid squads."


"I didn't say he worked with the victims; only that he was there. Three times as a witness and once on the raid squad."
"Wrong place, wrong time."
"That's one hell of a coincidence. Do you know what he did when he got out of school?"
Neville shook his head.

He closed his eyes to clear his thoughts, but his heart began to pump a little faster, the memory leaving him confused.

"... of my best students, those two. Actually, they're probably two of the best aurors in the Ministry right now. We're looking for Ewan to continue the Longbottom tradition."

"Yes, he just turned in his application the other day," Neville mumbled, seeing flashes behind his eyes and feeling dizzy.

"Oh, I know. I reviewed it this morning, though I don't know why I waste my time. I've known for some time that he'd be more than qualified." Dean turned his head a little and scratched the back of his neck. Neville noticed an odd, yet familiar scar on his left temple.

"Did you see his scar?"
"What scar?"
"The one on his temple."
"Wasn't paying attention, I'm sorry. Things on my mind."
Harry nodded, "I know. You might want to look when you see him next, though."

"Neville?"

"Er, sorry. Still having bouts of light-headedness, please forgive me. More whiskey?"

"Oh, thanks," Dean agreed, returning the glass. "I was thinking as I looked over Ewan's application – Why weren't you an auror, with your parents and all?"

Neville paused, pulling the stopper off the decanter, vision blurring as he considered his answer.

"When I learned that there was a herbology division in the Department of Mysteries, my options were simple," he stated, trying to focus on the drink he was pouring. "And you know as well as I do, Dean, that I couldn't have been an auror."

"That's strange," Dean muttered, and Neville went to hand him the tumbler, again noticing the peculiar scar.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, it's nothing, really. It's just, your test scores …" he stopped and seemed to rethink his approach. "I was just looking through some stuff and I found an applicant that was accepted, but never enrolled. Thanks," Dean winked, taking the drink. Neville let the words sink in for just a moment before shrugging and moving to sit behind his desk.

"I'm sure people do that all the time."

"Sure, sure … but not when their parents were two of the best aurors England has ever seen. Gosh, they grow up fast, don't they?" he gestured toward the wall of pictures over his shoulder, turning and admiring the framed progression of Longbottoms, Potters, and Weasleys.

"How did you find my O.W.L.s?"

"It's the Ministry. Everybody's are somewhere," Dean remarked as if this explained everything, facing forward.

"The auror lifestyle was not desirable to me."

"What lifestyle is that?"

"The one that put my parents in a closed ward at St. Mungo's for over 20 years."

"You were in one for 14. They were heroes, Neville."

Neville pursed his lips and Dean spoke again, almost absently, "Luna said Harry visited you often."

"Yes, everyday they tell me," he responded carefully, a dull ache behind his eyes. He rubbed his temples and opened a desk drawer. Luna had always kept a simple draft for headache relief in small vials around the house for him. It didn't occur to him until he found nothing that he hadn't used his study in many years. The frayed end of a tattered drawstring caught his eye, and he withdrew a small leather pouch.

"So many children, Neville."

In spite of the pain, he smiled at the mention of his babies. Only half interested, he queried, "Yes, do you have any?" as he struggled with the knot in the drawstring.

"No. Married to my work. Never thought I'd have the patience for a wife and a child."

"Ah, yes, well …" Still, he fumbled with the string, trying to remember any spell that would help. All in all, he decided quickly, it would be easier to just untie it himself.

"Then again …" Dean went on, "patience is a funny thing."

"'Tis a virtue," Neville mumbled, wincing when a sharp pain seemed to split his skull. As quickly as it had come, it was gone and he shook his head a little, going back to the knot. He finally loosened it. "Aha," he smiled, looking up, quite pleased with himself.

Dean had drawn his wand. Neville dropped the bag with a dull thunk, the contents emptying onto the desk.

"Er, uh …" Neville's mind raced for an explanation; an escape. "Forgive me if I don't know what I've done."

Dean flashed a dry smile, "Harry … Harry thought I was a Death Eater, didn't he?"

Neville didn't answer, keeping his eyes on the wand pointed at him, and even more so, the orange flicker at the tip.

"That's alright, I suppose," Dean muttered, thoughtfully. His eyes shifted back and forth momentarily before he shook his head, wand-arm dropping to his side. There was a burning sensation in Neville's chest and he released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The relief was short lived, though, as the wand was raised a second time. "No. No, it's not alright. Why does anything viewed as unfortunate by theM have to be attributed to Voldemort and his cronies? I work for only myself, and I work alone.

"I guess it was my fault. I was the only witness with Ministry credibility at the early incidents and I never argued. They will always point the finger at Voldemort, probably for years to come, even though his supporters were captured and executed. I don't think many of them will ever believe he's gone away completely. Fools."

Neville listened carefully, still watching the wand in Dean's hand.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid Harry Potter. Me? A Death Eater? My father rejected them, and I wouldn't even consider the offer. Though, why would they want me: a mere half-blood?" With a pointed look at Neville, he added, "You were always the one most likely to end up in that crowd."

"I would never," Neville spoke slowly, but fiercely, standing up and coming around the desk, fists clenched. Dean met him, pressing the tip of his wand into Neville's chest.

"Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Pray tell, what would you do if you were me, Dean?"

"I'd let the wizard with the wand do everything he came to do."

"What is it, exactly, that you came to do?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm tying up loose ends. I'm not a fool, you know." Neville doubted that statement, but thought it best to not voice his opinion. Looking at him closely, Dean told him, "I never once believe in your … 'illness'. No, no. Too coincidental."

"Coincidental?"

"Neville, stop it. This is getting old. You don't have to pretend for me. I know just as well as you do that St. Mungo's was your front. Only Harry Potter could have arranged that. Normal folk have to go into hiding, relocate, and use secret-keeper charms to achieve even a sliver of security. Not you, though. You received frequent visits from your best friends and family in a lavish hospital."

"Have you ever been to St. Mungo's?"

"Shut up. I'd have finished this nonsense years ago if I'd been able to … if Harry had let me. But no, he covered everything. The little information I could get from loose-lipped mediwitches was enough to determine that you were well protected; the only patient in a ward serviced by healers who were Ministry-trained as aurors."

"What reason did I have to be in hiding? Let alone under such guards? I am a herbologist; nothing more."

Again, Dean's arm dropped to his side, this time out of exasperation, "To hell with loose ends, I should kill you just for provoking me."

"It's not intentional. I don't know what you're on about," Neville stated, crossing his arms. "The way I see it, to kill me is a waste of resources."

"Bollocks. Once you're out of the way, I can finally get back to work unhindered."

"Nonsense. I was never in your way. I was in hid-"

"You admit it."

"I'm only repeating you. Why didn't you just go after Harry? He was your obstacle."

"Go after … Harry Potter?" Dean scoffed, laughing a little. His face went serious. "One doesn't just 'go after' Harry Potter. He was different. The entire wizarding community would have been up-in-arms, and I wasn't ready for that kind of publicity. That's another problem with 'hero' types, and do-gooders like yourself. To kill your leader would have been only reason to work harder; for the good of the cause; 'Harry would have wanted it this way'." He made a face of disgust and waved his hand. "Eliminate the grunt workers, cripple the leader. It would have been pointless to kill Harry, especially with you still around."

It was Neville's turn to laugh, "Me?"

Dean cut him off, "Yes. There's more to you than meets the eye. I have never met someone so bumbling … so blithering … so foolish." He jabbed his wand at Neville's sternum. "Too bumbling … too foolish. Less is more, old friend. I dare say you would have done well to 'grow out' of that."

"Do not call me 'friend'." There was a heat emanating from the wand that could be felt through his shirt.

Dean feigned sadness, "Tut, tut. I did so hope that you and I could work something out."

Neville narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry, Neville. They won't die alone. Gregory and Favian are inseparable."

His heart stopped at the mention of his children.

"Pity … oh, and to think … poor Luna. She's really very pleasant, you know. I'll miss her."

"Don't speak her name. You'll not touch her."

Dean paused and thought for a moment. "You have a point. To leave her without a husband or children old enough to care for her would lengthen her torment. Maybe she could use a friend like me."

His captive lurched forward, but the word left Dean's mouth first.

"Crucio!"

Neville fell to the ground, spiting syllables as he writhed in pain he'd felt before, but would never get used to. His head seemed to split and images flooded his mind's eye.

"What was it again? Sorry, I've forgo-"
Dean cut him off with a pleasant chuckle and a wave of his hand, "Some things never change, do they? The Hearth and Grate."
"Yes, that's right. Thanks." Stepping into the fireplace, Neville took a fistful of floo powder, stating clearly, "The Hearth and Grate."

"Neville?" he asked, helping him to his feet and dusting his jacket off.
"Harry, what are you - what happened?" Neville asked, noticing the overturned tables and bottles littering the floor. The walls and bar were charred and smoking. The lightning and rain could be seen outside through broken windows.
"Not sure, but whatever it was it didn't happen very long a-"
The floorboards creaked above them and there was the sound of muffled voices.
"There somebody up there," Neville stated unnecessarily as Harry drew his wand.
"Ron," he told him, creeping toward the stairs, "but it sounds like someone is with hi-"
One of the voices started shouting, but was quickly silenced and Harry bolted up the stairs with Neville on his heels.

"I'm going to try to resuscitate him," Harry said, putting his wand into his pocket and dropping to his knees.
"Without your wand?"
"The non-magic way. We had to learn this in training. I don't know what was used on him, so I don't know what to do to fix it," he explained, tilting Ron's head back and opening his mouth.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Kill anything that moves."

"We have to get him out of here," Harry managed between coughs.
"But you're-"
"I'm fine. I need to get him out of here," he insisted, hefting Ron into his arms and drawing himself up as best he could. It wasn't a second before he was falling forward, gasping for air. Neville caught them both and held them up.
"I'll take him. Quickly now. This place is crumbling."


"Harry …" he whispered, grabbing his friends wrists.
"No, get it off him! Get it … get it … what is that?."
Neville fought with him for a moment before managing to push Harry away from the convulsing body. They watched helplessly as the blood vessels in Ron's body showed blackened and charred against freckled skin, raising blisters on his forearms. His chest heaved, arching him off the ground, trying desperately to take a breath. The body dropped and shuddered, coughing with a death rattle. The stench of burning flesh enveloped them and they covered their mouths and noses to keep from gagging.

Neville lay gasping as the pain in his body ebbed. The image of Ron on the grass remained vivid in the front of his brain while his eyes worked at clearing. He used his old briefcase, covered in dust and sitting in the far corner, as his focal point.

"Get up," Dean ordered, nudging him with his foot. As he raised himself up, his vision was still blurry, and though he didn't trust himself to stand, he forced his joints to lock.

"You will leave my family alone," Neville stated firmly, masking his physical weakness quite well.

"You're willing to entertain my conversation, then … friend?"

"Whatever - just leave them alone."

Dean smiled and tapped Neville on the head with his wand, "Ten points for Gryffindor." The smile morphed into a sneer and he commanded, "Sit down."

Neville's jaw tightened, but he sat on the edge of his desk without protest as Dean found the chair he'd been sitting in before. The wand was still pointing in Neville's general direction, but the grip was lackadaisical and loose, the glow gone.

"Where do you keep them?"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"Your notes, your samples, your work, Neville: where do you keep your work?"

"I haven't been into the laboratory in over a decade."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I know that, you dunce."

His anger was growing, but he kept his voice steady, "I left everything in the Ministry when I was admitted."

"'Admitted' …" Dean snorted, taking pause to evaluate the former Unspeakable.

"No one makes a discovery of that magnitude and doesn't publish something about it. A paper, a text - something."

"Only private sorcery is protected and possessed by the 'discoverer'. Anything made in the Ministry is owned by the Min-"

"'… Ministry, with the exception of commissions contracted to civilians, who, while using personal expertise, are encouraged to work within the Ministry of Magic, thereby making full use of available resources.'"

"They stopped that practice after the Second War."

"'Until it became necessary to seek outside assistance in Case UC-685.039876. All progress made thereafter (i.e.: counter-curses, dousing potions, etc.) is the sole property of Neville Uly' - I must say, Neville … 'Ulysses'? Your parents … they disliked you, didn't they? Where was I? Oh, yes '… the sole property of Neville Ulysses Longbottom, who has granted the Ministry of Magic liberal employment (including appending the curricular textbooks distributed to all students enrolled in the Academy of Magical Law Enforcement accordingly) of any and all resulting substances, incantations, techniques, etc. upon completion of all research per Form CR-685.039876, signed Amelia Bones, Minster of Magic and Neville Longbottom.'"

Confused, Neville objected, "Harry and Ron didn't even know about that." Immediately, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

Dean gave him a look of mild interest, "Yes, you kept them well-informed, didn't you?"

"I only meant that those documents were highly classified," he corrected. Dean made a noise of disbelief, but Neville ignored it. "No one was privy to that information outside of the Minister and myself. That includes aurors. I don't know how you got your hands on those documents, let alone long enough to memorize it. I wasn't even aware they were kept at the ministry."

Dean smiled in such a way, it gave Neville goosebumps, "They weren't."

"I left everything in the Ministry when I was admitted," Neville repeated, choosing to not pursue an explanation. "For all I know, the work was finished by another Unspeakable."

"But it wasn't, because it couldn't. I read the entire thing, Neville. It's all there. 'If Mr. Longbottom becomes unable to finish this study due to injury, sickness, etc., research will be halted and he is granted leave until he is able to return, with reasonable, necessary accommodations made for the Longbottom family.' Nice clause, by the way," Dean admitted, with a nod. "'Only in the event of sudden death is permission given to the Minister of Magic to appoint another (designated by Mr. Longbottom in Section Three) to thenceforth take up post until such a time when all data pertaining to Case UC-685.039876 is compiled and a definite counteraction is defined.'" Dean made a face. "It's Section Three that confuses me," he stated, thoughtfully. "It would have seemed more appropriate to leave it to Hermione, or even, Luna if you must. At least they showcase a talent for research; a knack for figuring things out, albeit Luna's are a bit far-fetched. Ginny is far too emotional … not enough logic and foresight. Not to mention, she's nearly as foolhardy as her brother and her husband."

"She is more than qualified for the assignment. You're just put out because you couldn't make her forget about Harry."

Dean leapt from his seat and held his wand at Neville's lips, the orange glow lighting his face eerily.

"I have more important things on my mind than relationships," he hissed. "All you purebloods are the same. You think that almost everything revolves around you, your bloodline, and how to further it. If it doesn't, then obviously, you're the ones obligated to find the remedy."

Neville quirked an eyebrow, "You say 'pureblood' as though we're unclean."

"Unclean, eh? Like muggle-borns and half-bloods? No … You're more than that. You're like a plague. One that I'm more than willing to eradicate."

"You're a nutt-"

He was cut off by the wand-tip being forced between his teeth. The warmth from it burned the inside of his mouth and Neville suddenly realized what was about to happen.

"I am indignant and I am driven. However, you have persuaded me from my course. I don't need you to do or give me anything, all I need is for you to be non-existent. There are simpler ways, and I suppose I should have taken them years ago. It's unlikely that anyone will come calling for you, or Ginny, or Hermione for awhile; a few weeks, anyway. That will give the area plenty of time to clear off. Seeing as Harry made this acreage unplottable and set-up heavy guards against unwanted eyes, I don't believe anyone will ever see the black cloud rising over the ashen remains of you and your homes."

Dean's face contorted as the incantation formed on his lips, but the door flinging open interrupted him. Neville tore the wand out of his hand when Dean turned his head and was poised a half-second later when he looked back.

"Exuro!"

Neville watched Dean inhale the column of fire that erupted from his own wand and was confused when he saw flames flickering at the man's back. The flame quickly spread over the body, until the only thing untouched by the flame was his face. As his body crumbled around him, he opened his mouth and let out a cloud of black smoke. Covering his mouth and nose, Neville continued to observe the flames until all that was left was a smoldering pile of ash. Through the haze, he make out someone walking to the window and open it.

"Here. Close your eyes and mouth and spray it onto your face twice," said a voice, and a small vial equipped with a finger pump was tossed to him. Neville caught it and did as he was told. When he opened his eyes, he saw that an invisible shield was keeping the acrid smoke away from his face. "You can walk around in it. It can't get to you. The repellant will remain effective for an hour. By then, we should have this cleared out."

Neville squinted as the man approached him. Soon, he was close enough to identify.

"Hiya, Dad."

"Gregory? But … how did you know? And where'd you get this?" he asked, holding up the bottle.

He hesitated before giving an answer, "That's a long story."

Waving his hand absently through the smoke, Neville replied, "Everything is a long story in this family."

Gregory chuckled and nodded, "I suppose you're right. But first, can we clean this up?"

Neville frowned, "Exactly how do we go about cleaning this up?"

"Like this." With a wave of his wand at the pile of ashes, Greg spoke an incantation Neville wasn't familiar with and the ashes were immediately surrounded in a glistening film that looked much like cellophane. He patted his pockets and sighed. "Wait here, I'll be right back." His father blinked as he ran out and, after a few moments returned with a bottle in his hand. Scrunching up his nose, Gregory admitted, "I forgot to bring this."

Neville grinned and patted his son on the shoulder, "I don't know what it is, but I understand. So … what is that?"

He received a triumphant grin in response as the younger man pulled the cork from the opening and set it on the desk. "I have to say, I'm just a little pleased with myself for this one." He tapped the rim of the bottle once with his wand, a small spark dropping into the cobalt-coloured liquid. As it began to shimmer and mist, the black smoke slowly dissipated.

Neville watched it for a moment before his questions got the better of him. Raising his eyebrows, he made eye-contact with his son.

"Explanations. Now."