Title: Glass Jar
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns everything in the HP universe.
He wasn't like the other boys. The other boys grabbed their spending money from their mother's hands and dashed away, plotting and planning how to spend the small amount of money. He saved his carefully, dropping it into a small, glass jar which he hid in his sock drawer. The others always asked where his spending money had gone to and he had flushed and stammered out that he had somehow managed to lose it. It was a lie, but a believable one. Good old Neville always lost things, so it wasn't surprising that his spending money always seemed to disappear as well.
Every week, he would take the jar out of his drawer and set it on his bed. It was a jar, green and bumpy on the outside, but smooth and sleek on the inside. He let his fingers run over the surface once before tipping the money out onto his bed. He was good at counting and his hands quickly shifted through and sorted the money every week until he knew exactly how much he had. Every week, he would tear a scrap of parchment from one of his notebooks and scribble the number onto it. Every week, he would think about how much closer he was.
Every week, Neville went with his grandmother to visit his parents at St. Mungo's. They always went on Saturday afternoon and they always stayed for exactly two hours. His grandmother spent the time reading and watching Neville, while Neville spent it watching his mother.
He longed to see them more often, but he knew better than to ask. He knew, even at the age of eight, that money was tight and that they couldn't afford to ride the bus out to London more than once a week. He knew also that his grandmother only went because Neville wanted to go- he knew that she thought that there was no hope for his parents, but Neville always went, searching their faces for some change. He never saw any.
Every so often, however, he would count his money and smile. He never spent a bit of it until he had managed to earn enough for a bus fare. Clutching a worn bag in which he stored the money to his chest, he lied to his grandmother and told her that he wanted to go on an overnight with one of his friends. He knew that she didn't believe him and yet she always nodded curtly and reminded him to be home in time for tea the next day.
He always ran from their home, feeling the weight of the bag thump reassuringly against his thigh. He would run until he had reached the bus station- a little more than a mile away from his home- and would dash the money onto the counter, asking for one ticket to London. The woman behind the counter always smiled at him, reminded him that he had to be careful of whom he gave his money to, and told him to get moving because the bus would be leaving soon.
Neville always curled himself into one of the back seats, far from the curious eyes of old ladies, wondering why the little boy was riding the bus alone. Whenever someone would ask, he would reply that he was going to see his father and would sometimes receive a cold response about the state of marriages these days. He didn't really understand, so would sit quietly until they lost interest and left him alone.
He knew the nurses at St. Mungo's well and they always greeted him fondly. On the occasions when he came alone, they would slip bits of food into his hands and offer him candy to take home with him. He always accepted their offers and was grateful that they cared.
He would always arrive in the evening, in time to hear one of the stories that the nurses always read to his parents. They hoped that the interaction would crack the sound shell surrounding Frank and Alice Longbottom, but the most they ever received was nervous laughter from Alice as she tried to ease herself away from the nurses. Yet, they kept it up, never knowing when Neville would appear and want to listen to their stories, too.
After the nurses would leave, Neville climbed into bed beside his mother, curling up against her and resting his head on her chest. She would flinch and wince as he did so, fluttering her hands uneasily until he was settled. After a few minutes, though, she would calm down and rest comfortably against her son, sometimes even leaning her head against the top of his.
Neville never really expected anything to happen. Oh, he hoped for it and, after listening to one of the Muggle boys, he would sometimes pray in hopes that something would help. Of course, nothing ever did, but that didn't stop him from wishing.
However, one night, when everything had been going exactly as it always did, Neville felt his mother's hand comb gently through his blonde hair. Looking up in confusion, he saw that his mother's hazel eyes were clear, no trace of the foggy, unfocused look that they usually held. There wasn't even the pained, hunted look they held whenever Neville knew that she was aware of the outside world.
His mouth opened in awe and he sat up, eyes never leaving his mother's. He had never seen them so clear and so warm. The corners of her mouth turned up in a ghost of smile as she ran her fingers through his hair again.
"Mum?" he whispered, barely daring to say it.
She continued to stare into his face, seeming to memorize every feature. Her own eyes looked sad, as though she had seen pain beyond what anyone else could ever image. Neville felt a whimper escape his throat and felt her arms, so frail and bony, circle him.
"My Neville," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "My baby."
He held her tightly and gradually felt her arms go limp around his body. He pulled back, eyes darting frantically over her face.
But, the years of confinement in her own head had forced her back into the vague, unknowing state that he had always seen her in. Neville watched as the hazel eyes which had been so open and coherent for just a moment in time gazed back into his in confusion, then fear. He pulled himself back, not wanting to frighten her.
"It's OK, Mum," he whispered. "Everything will be all right."
He went home early that night. His grandmother was surprised to see him, he knew, but he told her that he had been feeling sick and thought it best to come home. She accepted his story willingly and sent him up to bed. He didn't see the alarmed look on her face as he climbed the stairs and he didn't know that she had contacted St. Mungo's immediately after his door shut, wanting to know the current status of Frank and Alice Longbottom.
When he was in his room, he pulled the jar out of his sock drawer again. There was no money in there now and he gently traced his fingers over the bubbling pattern on its sides before gently setting back into the drawer.
Undressing and getting into his pajamas, Neville climbed into his bed, turned off the light, and thought about his mother's eyes as he waited for sleep to come.