Author's Note: Written for Round 2 of the QLFC 6 — Jurassic Fever

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 1

Prompt: Triceratops: write about a 'light' character protecting themselves

Prompts Used:

4 (colour) turquoise

6 (word) proof

15 (object) Philosopher's Stone

Add'l prompts:

1 (work) ancient

2 (colour) forest green

9 (colour) light grey

Word Count (excluding Author's Note): 1706

A/N: AU — Alice Longbottom's history is unwritten or hinted at by the author, so while all of this could fit into cannon, I have no way of knowing that it did so. This is only my thoughts on how she might have been as a person, and how she and Frank might have experienced their last days together.

Parrishis a reference to Maxfield Parrish, the early 20th C. painter and illustrator who was known for using a very distinctive shade of blue in his works that was named for him.

Turquoise, as a stone, is an opaque blue-to-green mineral forming crystals in a massive, nodular habit. While my prompt asks for use of the colour, I am also incorporating aspects of the gemstone as part of Alice Longbottom's interpretation of the stone in her pocket. Since she is unable to see it clearly, and experiences a failing sense of reality during the course of this story, her first impressions of the Philosopher's Stone is based on how it resembles a stone she is already familiar with; in this case, turquoise.

The Philosopher's Stone, in medieval lore as well as Rowling's universe, was thought to extend life and change (or transmute) certain other metals into gold. Here I focus on it's life-extending properties.

Finally, there are many definitions for the word, proof. I have focused on the following definitions.

Proof: 1) evidence sufficient to establish a thing as true, or to produce belief in its truth.

3) the act of testing or making trial of anything; test; trial

8) Mathematics, Logic: a sequence of steps, statements, or demonstrations that leads to a valid conclusion.

The Long Goodbye

Alice couldn't say when she first noticed it. In the tumult of being kidnapped and the subsequent days of torture, it hadn't exactly been the first thing on her mind. The lump in her pocket; heavy, hard, conspicuous — when one was conscious, anyway.

Every time she pried her eyes open and peered into the gloom, her first thought was always of Frank. He lived; as did she, much to her added confusion. At least that was how it appeared in the darkness. She could be imaging the ever-so subtle rise and fall of his chest, but when she dared endure the screaming of her own muscles to reach out and place her hand on his chest, she was rewarded with the confirmation of his respiration. It eased her pain, if only in the smallest way.

They had always known that what they fought for was serious; that their opponent was equally serious. Alice never had any delusions of grandeur when it came to her abilities, and Frank was equally pragmatic — and she loved that about him. Wizards far better than they had already given their lives. Witches with far more experience and skill had been tricked and trapped. Still, Alice and Frank Longbottom chose to serve rather than to stand by and watch. They chose to be part of the solution, no matter how small they perceived their contributions to be. Certainly, Albus and the rest reassured them that they were valued members of the Order, but sometimes — well, Alice had her doubts. It might have been the first time in her life.

Proof was immutable. Unassailable. Definite. And from the time she could remember, long before she had become an Auror, or a Longbottom, or even a witch, it was something Alice was always striving for. Growing up, she detested fairy tales. They never made any sense! And even at Hogwarts, she eschewed the less tangible subjects of study, like Divination, in favor of solid, practical magic. Care of Magical Creatures. Herbology. Potions. These were things Alice could dig into; things she could put her hands on.

And, then there was Frank.

She understood her parents' hesitation over the marriage. They were so young; just out of school and barely able to do a load of laundry between the two of them. Yet, Alice had known since the moment she'd met Frank that there wasn't anyone who she'd love better. She could not be swayed. And what was more, she was unfailing in her belief that anyone could love her better than Frank Longbottom. His ability to talk with her, to share her burdens and support her passions was matched only by those she was closest to in the world — her family. In Alice's mind, the proof was plain.

In the end, it was her father who completed the equation.

"You are sure?" he asked.

Alice only beamed, looking at him through smile-squinted eyes. "You know me, Da."

It was all the proof he ever asked for. He did know her.

Now, as they lay here, in a cold, damp dark, covered in their own filth, enduring endless days and nights of interrogations and indignities at the hands of Death Eaters, she wondered if it made any difference. She wondered if this was the proof of their folly in believing anything they did mattered.

Her world shrank to what she could see and feel. She wasn't sure how long they had been imprisoned or where; she only knew that with every passing moment she was drifting away — losing parts of herself in the darkness. She had only the pain in her chest when she breathed, and the hope that she'd see Frank one more time. Passing thoughts of her dark-haired boy, and terror.

Then, there was this rock.

She must've rolled over onto it, at first. Or been flung back into their cell in such a way that she landed on it. She could not remember how it had happened. She only found her hand slowly creeping its way down to the throbbing agony at her hip. When her fingertips alighted on the protrusion, Alice started. She thought it was a broken bone; her leg coming through her skin or some other grotesque injury. She could not fathom, once she had managed to maneuver the stone out of her pants and into her hand, how it had gotten there. In the weak light, it looked to be any regular stone and yet, it was something entirely more. It was in turns as pink as a sunset, and the deep green of a forest in shadow, or the light grey of a rainy morning. It was the deep turquoise of a Parrish-invented sky, and the sweet blushed gold of a ripe pear. As feeble of mind as she was, she was no longer sure she could trust her eyes. And so, she used her other senses.

It felt rounded, but still gnarled; like a piece of petrified wood. Just large enough to sit in her palm. And it was warm. It radiated heat just like the sun-baked pebbles she and Frank had plucked from the beaches of Majorca on their honeymoon. It soothed her to touch it, to rub her tender nerve-endings along its nobby bits and bumps in the quiet moments of consciousness that she still had. It focused her; helped her to remember, to think.

Without proof, she started to suspect it was helping her stay alive.

She wasn't sure how or why or even if that idea was correct. She only knew she was drawn to touch the stone. She knew that she felt better — stronger — when she did so. She knew that it had never been discovered by her jailors, nor had it fallen out of her clothing despite the damage that was done to them constantly. Alice no longer thought in terms of time; there was no time — only consciousness, unconsciousness, and torment. So, she suspected that it was more than just magical in nature; it was ancient and, perhaps, self-willed. She had heard of things like that, somewhere. Alice thought she remembered a bit of a story someone had told her, long ago, about Godric Gryffindor's sword. That it would be there when it was needed by one with the courage to wield it. She hadn't believed it (How absurd!). Yet now, as her thumb made small, slow circles around one of the nodes of the stone, she began to wonder if there wasn't something to that idea. That inanimate objects could be imbued with more than just magic; that in the right hands, they could be given a sense of self-awareness, of a kind.

It wasn't the sort of thing Alice dwelt on long. There was never time.

In the end, she clung to her life, and her stone, for Frank. He had so much stamina, so much strength. He held up surprisingly well under duress. Even their tormentors had noticed that his body withered, but his mind remained sharp. Alice knew that they took him more frequently; she would awake to find herself alone and could only press her eyelids back together in a feeble attempt at prayer that he would return. And, for a time, he did.

Still, she was sure that he would expire if she did. So she clutched that rock ever tighter, clutching at whatever protection she could for herself; and for him. She scrapped and she clung and she fought for every breath; and she rubbed at the lovely, warm, living stone in her pocket. She knew, if nothing else, that she would do all she could to live, if only one more moment. For him.

It was never quite clear what the endgame was for their captors. They seemed only to desire destruction and anguish. Although, there were times when one of them seemed to pick up the mantle of leadership, of a sort. In those brief instances with the tall, dark shadow, their suffering seemed to be more directed towards a goal of collecting information. Unfortunately, there were many more times where the point was clearly only to break them. And break them they would. Alice was sure of that now. Every day was a struggle just to hold on to the pieces of herself that made her Alice. Her once short, modernly-styled hair was falling in her eyes. Her clothes were mere tatters, providing neither warmth nor modesty. Her mind was slipping more and more, racing away like autumn leaves rushing down a swollen stream; pieces of her going with it. She could no longer remember the color of her baby boy's eyes. Frank's middle name. Where she was born.

When they returned Frank to her and his eyes no longer had any light in them, she let the rock go. And with it all her pieces went, too. She had done enough. They had done all they could.

The mystery of the gum wrappers had been something of small phenomenon at the Janus Thickey ward for years now. While the severity of mental maladies was their specialty, it was rare that the healers there encountered enough recovery to measure fine motor skills, much less to have enough evidence of it to indicate communication. Yet, for quite a while now, Alice Longbottom had been observed forming and shaping gum wrappers in her hands and, when able, she tried to give them to people. In particular, her son, Neville.

On more than one occasion, Miriam Strout had pondered the oddness of it. Alice wasn't crushing the foil; she had no strength for that. Still, that also had not seemed to be the purpose. Her movements were by no means deft, but they were careful. She only ever wanted to form a mound, of sorts. It was lumpy and misshapen, but never pressed tightly into a ball; and never, ever uniform. Miriam had picked up so many of them over the course of time, she hardly noticed just now much they resembled tiny little rocks.

Miriam frowned as the let the little foil sculptures fall from her hand into the wastebasket at her desk. She decided it was time to write yet another memo to the staff about chewing gum at work.