THE DARK TOWER, UNPLOTTABLE
Flashback: a year before his rescue
Neville wondered, not for the first time, if he was going crazy. Like his parents. Enduring the Cruciatus Curse every day was hard enough, but the knowledge of what it could do to him forever sat like a cannonball in his gut. Bellatrix, especially, was relentless and seemed to have made it her personal mission in life to drive him to that terrifying end. The pain was interspersed with questions, always the questions, but Neville didn't know the answers. He wondered sometimes if the pain would stop if he could give them the information they sought. It was a good thing he didn't know anything, he decided, because he was very afraid that he would have cracked otherwise.
Time meant little to him, everything was just...endless...but one day, his captors hauled him up and pushed him roughly out of his solitary cell. Neville struggled his feet, his head down as he shuffled forward with an awkward gait. The light from the flaming sconces along the hallway hurt his eyes and he struggled to keep his feet under him with each step. He didn't recognize the Death Eater grumbling at his side nor the one prodding him along, but he didn't waste any thoughts on them. When they reached their destination, one of the robed men opened the heavy iron door, pushed Neville in, and then shut the door behind him with a loud and resolute clang.
Neville was no longer in a dark cell. And he was no longer alone.
He stared around at the small groups of people lining the walls. Some of them stared back at him, curious, but many didn't notice his sudden presence. Bemused, and still blinking against the painful light from lit sconces in the large cell, Neville forced himself to look around. He needed to know where he was and find some clue as to what was going to happen to him next. A few moments later, however, his legs gave out on him and he ended up in an undignified heap on the cold flagstone floor.
Neville leaned his head back against the door, closed his eyes, and fought against his body's urge to fade into the promise of sleep.
A girl crept over. "Merta, do you still have water?" she called out to a middle-aged prisoner with a salt-and-pepper braid down her back.
"Tak (Polish: yes), yes, I do." Merta approached and handed over her cup, which had a few sips of cool water left.
The girl, Charlotte, or as most people called her, Charlie, studied the young man's face with concern. He was chalky white under the heavy growth of his beard, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and he had deep purple bruises under his eyes from exhaustion. She started when he opened his eyes, but then smiled gently. "Here, have some water."
He grasped the cup and she helped him to hold it steady.
"Where am I?" he rasped after sipping the cool water, savouring its icy path across his tongue and down his throat.
"This is a sort of commune for outcasts, I suppose," Charlie answered, "though really we're all just survivors. When they move on to newer prisoners, anyone left they're tired of gets shuffled in a room like this; if they don't just kill you, that is. The stronger you are, the more useful you are to them," she added, her tone bitter, "so they keep us alive."
Neville closed his eyes, relief flooding his senses, making him dizzy. "Thank you," he mumbled before he drifted off to sleep, "for the water."
"Up! Up, you worthless filth!"
The sharp insult cut into the edges of Neville's consciousness and he tried to open his eyes. His body reacted to the sound out of pure instinct, flinching back against the wall and rising to his feet before he had even managed to blink. He swayed a bit and someone stood close to him, helping to support him and keep him upright.
"One bowl each and then it's back to the mines with you lot."
No sound met this order besides the shuffling of feet and the choking down of a gruel that would be more aptly named cruel. Neville blinked down at the bowl that someone handed him before tilting it into his waiting mouth. He didn't even taste it as he swallowed the lumpy mess down. His stomach protested very audibly when there was not even close to enough in the bowl to satisfy his hunger pains. Several people were licking their bowls clean around him and, with no dignity left to speak of, Neville proceeded to do the same.
"We'll get a bit of bread later," the girl at his elbow reassured him.
"Where are we going?" Neville asked in a whisper, wary of the Death Eater standing in the doorway with a bored expression on his face. There were very few things more dangerous than a bored Death Eater.
"Well—" the girl started to answer, but the Death Eater at the front started hustling people out the door.
Neville tried to get in the middle of the line, to make himself less conspicuous, but he was shoved back and elbowed in his ribs several times. Giving up, he filed out towards the end. The girl and an older woman stood behind him, bringing up the very rear.
The line of prisoners followed the lead Death Eater as quietly as possible, no one wanting to incur any wrath. Neville felt the hairs on his neck standing up as another Death Eater followed behind, only a few steps away from him.
The path was only lit intermittently. The single-file line ahead of him moved at an even pace. They had probably walked this route every day for months. Maybe years. Neville tried to keep up.
The trek seemed to take forever and Neville's energy was flagging long before they reached their destination. He forced his feet forward, mindful of the Death Eater a few steps behind him. He could not turn back and he could not stop; there was only forward and whatever it held. As they continued to descend into the dark, Neville stumbled and a gentle hand rested on his elbow, offering him support. Neville didn't have to look to know it was Charlotte. He swallowed, his throat feeling thick, and then took a steadying breath as they continued down the corridor.
It was easier once they passed through an antechamber and began to descend a massive, winding staircase. It put Neville in mind of Dumbledore's office, but he fought that thought back. It did no good to think about anything from...before.
The sight that met him in the depths of The Dark Tower took Neville's breath away.
What had to be miles of well-lit tunnels snaked this way and that, in every direction. A large group of people were gathering at the bottom of the winding stairs, their shift complete, waiting to go back up, back to their cell.
"Welcome to the catacombs," Charlotte told him with a wince and a smile, handing him a pickaxe. "C'mon." She nodded to the older lady at her side with the salt-and-pepper braid.
