Plot Bunny #3
His Pet Phoenix
Summary: Harry runs away from the Dursleys and Neville gets a mysterious pet phoenix while the Wizarding World tries to deal with losing its savior.
Pain filled his world, and he didn't know if he could take it anymore. Whenever the slightest thing went wrong such as a dish being dropped, his cousin's grades falling, if even the weather wasn't perfect, severe punishment was dealt to him. He didn't know why. It had always been that way, so he supposed it was always going to be that way. Every day he was beaten, every day abused in a never ending continuation of torture; only giving him a few hours each night to rest. Each day he thought the pain would lessen from the repetitive abuse, but it didn't. Each day he wondered if he would die from the pain, but he didn't. Today was just another day of pain.
"Freak," bellowed the familiar, deep, enraged voice, "I just know you made that thunderstorm ruin my meeting with the Minister! This family could've been living in luxury from now on but that blasted storm came at the right moment to throw my car keys into the Minister's face! It's entirely your fault, I know it!" He had long ago lost the will to argue with the violent man, and laid there as each blow connected with a part of his broken form. "You little… freak!" Another blow hit him, this time his leg, the last blow hitting his arm. His arm once again became a target for the large man standing above him, and the resulting crack only encouraged an even harder beating for his legs. "This is what you deserve, freak!"
Freak was repeated to him every day, the only thing he was ever addressed as other than some other derogatory term he didn't know the meaning to. Never was he told his name, nor did he know if he even had one. He once found a letter that he knew was about him, but was unable to read it as the letter was snatched from him and thrown into cold, unfeeling embers. As the flames had eaten away at the paper his last hope of some semblance of an identity had disappeared. After the paper had turned to ash he was given a beating that had surpassed any he had had to endure before. Any urge to discover who he was had been tortured, tormented, and suppressed to such a miniscule part of his mind he had forgotten it was ever there. He snapped out of his train of thought as a strong blow impacted against his right temple, next to a scar he didn't even know he had.
Suddenly, flames similar to the ones that had charred his hope erupted in front of him, and he soon saw nothing.
It had been five years, five years since the disappearance of Harry Potter. The Wizarding world searched and searched, but no one could find their savior. Three years after he had gone missing, everyone believed the Potter boy dead, even if no one would voice those terrible thoughts. No one knew what had happened; couldn't even guess. After Voldemort's defeat the army of Death Eaters had scattered. Many were caught, some even turning themselves in. There were those who escaped the clutches of the authorities but no attacks had been executed since their Master was defeated. Not even one attack.
This sudden event of the savior's disappearance baffled the Wizarding population and the blame was spread out throughout the magical community. Most blamed renegade Death Eaters, forming their last bit of revenge for their Master. Others simply blamed purebloods as a whole, the Dark ones avenging the Dark Lord and the Light ones for envying the child's glory. A few even blamed Dumbledore, after it had been revealed where the Boy-Who-Lived was left to be raised.
It was now the year Harry Potter was supposed to start Hogwarts, and those joining Hogwarts had to join one of the greatest magical schools with a depressing atmosphere greeting them. Joining the community of Wizarding scholars wasn't as exciting as it would have been, and there was little anticipation in the eyes of the children. The normally bustling and noisy platform for the train to Hogwarts was uncharacteristically subdued. The upperclassmen had been affected, many apathetic towards a new year of learning and a new generation of students joining the school. Most of the eleven year olds weren't happy at joining Hogwarts that year, all except for one.
Neville Longbottom was ecstatic at joining Hogwarts, and was oblivious to what had been going on recently. He lived in the outskirts of Britain, far from most of the news circulating the magical world. Confidence emanated from him, and those around him were either disbelieving of such a cheerful personality amongst so much depression, or were affected by his contagious happiness. His trunk was proudly dragged behind him, the young wizard loving the atmosphere of the magical world. It was his first time seeing so many witches and wizards, and the diversity astounded and delighted him. There were tall and short people, light and dark skinned people, big and small people, a whole variety of people he had never seen before. Excitement filled his veins, and his hand instinctively went to the cage attached to his trunk, petting the bird inside the covered cage.
Augusta Longbottom smiled at her grandson, proud of him. The boy was shorter than average, but was able to maintain average weight. In his younger years the boy had been like his father, a bit on the rounder side, but the boy had been able to grow out of it. Especially because of his bird, that lovely animal that had changed her grandson's life, enabling her grandson to have a fun and happy childhood. For the first few years of Neville's life the old witch thought him a Squib, but now she knew her grandson would grow up to be the best wizard he could be. She cherished her grandson now, and could still remember the day both Neville's and her life had changed…
"Grandma, please let me down! I'm scared! I… I don't like heights!" proclaimed the high pitched voice of a child. Up in the boughs of a tall oak tree was a six year old boy, holding onto a thick branch as if it was the only thing anchoring him to the living world. In a way, it was, as the boy was chubby and did not have an inherent sense of balance. Below the branch were only thin sticks poking out of the tree and would never be able to catch the boy if he fell. A little less than fifty feet separated him from the ground and the branch he was clinging to. The branch was beginning to bend with the unnatural weight of a human on it, and was already shaking with the movement of the trembling boy. That tree wasn't meant for a kid to be holding onto for dear life and it was straining not to have its limb break off.
Nearby was a mansion, not a huge castle but clearly not an ordinary house. It had two stories, and even from outside you could tell there were more than a few rooms on each floor. Standing on a balcony connected to the second floor was an old woman, the 'Grandma' the child was addressing. A frown marred her face, and the wrinkles adorning her withered face revealed that the frown was a frequent expression for her. Out of her mouth came negative words that matched her expression, "Get yourself down! You're the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom, Neville! If there's an ounce of magic in you I know you can do this," her angry tone shifted into a disappointed tone, as she tried to convince herself that her grandson was not a Squib. There had never been a Squib in the Longbottom line and the line was long. Having her son and lovely daughter-in-law insane had already ground out most of her positive emotions, her grandson starting to turn out as a Squib not helping at all. She was losing her ability to care for her grandson like she used to.
Then, a cracking noise was heard and the branch was no longer able to hold Neville up. A sharp yell of surprise erupted from the boy's mouth and an emotion Neville's grandmother hadn't felt for a long time overwhelmed her; fear. The boy was falling quickly and the witch had left her wand in her bedroom on the first floor. She was obviously in no condition or position to physically go and catch her grandson and regretted putting him in the tree. Memories came back to her of all the other horrible things she had done to the poor boy to try and force some magic out of him. Various risky things had been attempted, some she couldn't comprehend why she had tried them in the first place. Guilt flooded her senses as time seemed to slow down, her aged eyes watching Neville fall inch by inch, each second passing by as the ground got closer and closer.
Suddenly, just before the boy hit the ground, a bright light and a flash of flames surrounded him. The flames disappeared, but a small dome of light encompassed the area where Neville had landed on the ground. Panic and worry now filled the old lady and she went downstairs as fast as she could at her age. When she reached the yard the light had left her grandson and what she saw astounded her.
There lying on the ground was her grandson Neville, perfectly fine after falling about fifty feet. The boy had landed on his back and on his stomach was a pile of ashes. A small chirp erupted from the ashes and stunned Augusta Longbottom, Neville's grandmother, into another bout of shock. A tiny bird's head poked out of the small pile of ashes and had a tiny zigzag mark on its head. Bright green eyes peered from the baby bird's head and when its eyes met Augusta's it was as if the bird could see right into her soul. No words could explain the elderly witch's feelings at that moment. Her grandson's life had been saved by a phoenix, and it had caused the bird to go through the process of a burning day. She didn't know what this could mean, and told herself to remember to ask Albus Dumbledore about it later, the only other known owner/friend of a phoenix.
A groan escaped the body of her grandson and Augusta snapped out of her shock. She ran inside the house, getting her wand, and levitating her son to the couch inside their living room. Thousands of thoughts were running through the old grandmother's mind. It didn't seem correct to floo or apparate her grandson to St. Mungo's as she didn't know how this would affect the phoenix. Having a St. Mungo's healer come here didn't seem right either as word would spread that her son was saved by a phoenix and she would never have a day's peace. Making up her mind Augusta decided to solve two problems at the same time by contacting Dumbledore. He would know what to do about the phoenix and was trustworthy enough to keep a secret.
Frank and Alice dying had caused many people to mourn, but since the same night had been the night the Boy-Who-Lived gained his glory no one came to give their condolences. Barely anyone showed up at the funeral as it was forgotten among the celebrations of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's defeat. It was at that time Augusta didn't want anything to do with the rest of the world, telling herself her son and daughter's sacrifice and her grandson were just as important if not more so than that of the Potter's and the Boy-Who-Lived. She didn't want anyone suddenly showing up at her house, suddenly caring about her family. Dumbledore was one of the few who did not attend celebrations of the Dark Lord's defeat, and had actually attended and given a speech for Frank and Alice's funeral. People slighting her family so had been one of the reasons why she pushed Neville to show some magic, to prove he was powerful and important too, that the Longbottoms were worth being cared about.
Throwing some powder into the fire she contacted Dumbledore and he quickly arrived throw the Floo system. He examined Neville, and had a twinkle in his eyes when he told her, "Your grandson is very lucky, Mrs. Longbottom. Young Neville now has a phoenix for a familiar."