Chapter Twelve

The Confusion of a Century

Neville Longbottom, was by all means, a simple boy.

Sure, being the heir to a very wealthy pureblood family and to become a lord at age seventeen was not what one might consider normal, but looking past all that, Neville was a simple boy.

That wasn't to say Neville was stupid; far from it; in fact, he was a Herbology prodigy. He did all sorts of experiments with plants; changing their growth habits, increasing their seed capacity, experimented with substitute fertilizations, and had even successfully created three new species of reproducing plants. No, Neville Longbottom was not a stupid boy by any means.

Neville was a boy who enjoyed the little things and simplicity of life. He enjoyed the sunrise and that his bed was comfy and playing Exploding Snap and marmalade on toast. Neville liked relaxing on picnic blankets on the Hogwarts' lawns while reading Herbology books on days off. He generally had a very bland life, but that was the way he liked it. Simple, unlike some summer Potions essays he had.

Neville left the dramatics and world-saving stunts to his (well, he liked to think friend) roommate, Harry Potter. Whenever Harry would go on about Voldemort and his traps and death ("It's the end, Ron," Harry had said sadly, "This one trap is going to do me in. It's been good, mate." And "We're doomed! We're going to our deaths; I can't let you get hurt. If I do," he sighed dramatically, "I could never forgive myself. I'll go alone.") Neville couldn't help but snicker at his dramatic nature with a strange feeling of déjà vu; like a half-forgotten memory. He had that a lot, but he couldn't help but feel that something…strange had happened on the night when his parents had been—disposed. Neville never liked to think about his parents, it brought too many thoughts…mostly of helplessness, remorse, and partially hidden memories and feelings. And guilt. Lots of guilt.

Neville knew he really couldn't have done anything, but he still felt responsible for his parents' incarceration. He knew Harry felt the same for his parents' death, and Neville knew Harry couldn't've done anything; and therefore, by that confusing and illogical logic, Harry was innocent, and Neville in almost the same circumstance, was innocent, too.

But it still hurt.

Nevertheless, Neville never wanted anything more in life than a comfortable bed, good food, his wand, and a greenhouse to tend to plants. He generally didn't have anything unusual happen to him. The only times something unusual did happen was when Harry Potter was involved.

But Neville couldn't be irritated, not really. Something more like an amused exasperation. But, for whatever reason, he always tried to help (or stop Harry. Honestly, sometimes that boy had no self-preservation or logic) him. He felt bound to, almost responsible for him. Neville knew that Lily Potter had been his godmother, and Alice was Harry's, but it was something different than that. He knew Harry did the same thing for him. But it was different. It was like…family. He never brought that up, of course. He wasn't even really a friend to Harry (not that he wasn't nice, Harry was just usually with Ron). They were technically godbrothers, but Dumbledore had asked him not tell Harry, to make Harry distrustful of him, like he was vying for fame. Neville understood that and gave him space.

So, back to the point.

Neville, being a simple boy, did not generally get magical letters that ended up being portkeys vaulting them possibly half-way across the world to some unknown location. Neville had no clue what to think or do. Strange and weird things like this were usually Harry's forte.

"Neville?"

Neville blinked blearily, trying to his surroundings. He was laying face down, his face pressed down into a rather plushy carpet. The room smelled rather musty, like it hadn't been used for a while, but the clear scents of pine and heather filled the room.

Neville sat bolt upright. He immediately wished he hadn't. He felt sick and his head was spinning. Neville's vision swam, and he saw a blurry outline of someone walk across the room to him. He squinted, and saw a shock of messy black hair.

"Harry?" he asked, astonished. What was happening?

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, giving him a hand. Neville was hoisted to his feet and swayed dangerously. Harry steadied him and Neville took a good look around the room.

They were in a large study, at least as large as the one at Longbottom Lodge, and seemed to be decked out entirely in gold and red. Neville blinked again. This room, he decided, was way to bright. Gold and scarlet seemed to glaring at him from every corner of the room, and it was not helping his dizziness.

Neville chanced a glance out the large window, trying to find a familiar landmark, but there only seemed to woods and mountains as far as the eye could see. Pine, heather, and rowan…The smells of Scotland! Being a Herbologist, Neville could identify some places by the smell of its native plants alone. Specific places, Professor Sprout had once told him, have specific plants. It's easy to identify some places by the smell of the plants, to ascertain where you are, by smell alone. Hogwarts, being in Scotland, had those scents blowing in the wind all the time.

"Where are we in Scotland?" Neville cut across Harry abruptly, which had him blinking in confusion.

"Um—" he glanced over to the doorway, where four adults were standing.

"About twenty miles outside of Hepburn Wood," one of the men supplied. Neville blinked, and looked at Harry and back again. He could've sworn he was seeing double, except this man was older and Harry had a much better sense of fashion. "What are you doing here? What's your name?"

Looking at Harry, who nodded in encouragingly, he answered, "I don't know. We—my Gran and I—were eating breakfast when note appeared out of thin air. It told us that 'it was time to meet some old friends' or something like that and then we appeared here. Oh, and I'm Neville Longbottom."

The four adults blinked, and the woman asked incredulously, "Not—not Alice and Frank's son?"

"Yes," he said uncertainly.

Almost as in response, two more people stirred on the floor. It was a man and a woman; and the woman, like Neville, had shot up, waking (what appeared to be) her husband.

"Frankie!" she hissed, lugging him to his feet. She, apparently, did not have any motion-sickness qualms. "Frankie, look! Where are we?"

Neville froze, looking at the woman. She had short, curly, light brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a round face. She was wearing some outlandishly sparkly, light-blue robes with teeteringly tall yellow high-heels and topaz jewelry to complete the look.

The man, groaning, stumbled when he got up, had on simple, dark olive green over-robes on top of black pants and white button-up shirt. He had black, straight hair that flopped in his honey-colored eyes. He was a little more than six foot, and all but towered over the tiny witch of five-two.

Neville knew them. He had seen them before, practically catatonic; not aware of their surroundings, too absorbed in their own minds. They had worn bathrobes and tottered around like drunkards, treated like children; having recessed so far into their own minds. But these people…they were so…different.

They were so alive, with eyes that saw and minds that thought. They had personalities to share; they didn't just follow commands, they knew how to function. These people were brimming with stories and feelings to share; these people knew their son. They knew him.

And suddenly, for all the wishing and hoping and pleading that Neville had done when he was young - crying late at night into his pillow - he didn't want that.

The man, Frank (hisfather!), interrupted his train of thought, "The gold and red are making me blind, we appear to be in the middle of nowhere, there's a Quidditch pitch the size of Asia, and the man standing in the doorway looks like he robbed a goddamned disco ball. We're in Potter Castle."

"Hey!" The-man-who-looked-like-Harry-but-had-no-fashion-sense huffed.

"You know it's true, James," Alice smirked. "How'd you come back from the dead?" she asked casually. Then she froze. "James?" She stuttered. "Lily? But—but—that—how—?"

Frank didn't seem concerned at the moment. He was staring directly at Neville. Neville looked at the floor, self-consciously. For everything he had wished for as a child, he felt very uncomfortable. His Gran had told him great stories about the famous Auror duo, Frank and Alice Longbottom. How amazing they were, and outshined every other Auror. The only ones that could even compete with them was the infamous trio of Aurors, made up of James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. They brought good fortune, wealth, and fame on the family.

Neville, in comparison, did nothing but bring shame on his family. He was practically a squib, tripped over everything, and barely scraped and 'A' in every class he took. The only thing he remotely excelled in was Herbology, and that was because he didn't need a wand.

His Gran, when in fits of rage, whenever he did something wrong, would often tell him his parents would be ashamed. Mentally, he would always vehemently deny this fact; but, after the scolding, Neville would sometimes wonder if it was true. Neville hoped not, but somehow, he felt as if what he did was never enough.

Standing there, in front of his parents, he felt very small. He stared at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, hoping to Godric his parents were preoccupied enough with the Potters—who seemed to have come back to life—not to notice him. Right now, he didn't care about the Potters' currently alive state; he was far too worried about his parents.

Harry looked extremely confused, and Neville reminded himself that Harry didn't know what happened to his parents. He did, however, give Neville an encouraging smile. Neville didn't return the gesture; his stomach tied into tight knots as he continually stared at the floor, wishing to sink into it.

He could feel his father's eyes on him and blatantly refused to look upwards. He couldn't help but feel the slightest bit angry at his parents, for leaving him at such a young age with someone who would continuously remind him that what he did was never good enough. For being a continuous reminder he wasn't good enough. It was irrational, it was foolish, but those thoughts did nothing to sooth the angry rebellion in his chest.

You want me to be good enough for my parents, Gran? Neville asked inwardly, rebellion and resentment rising up inside him. Fine. They can ask me first.

Frank looked at the boy who had, for the past ten minutes, been staring at the ground as if it contained the meaning of existence. His son. His son. Frank hadn't got a good look at his face, his head was bowed, but he was a good five inches taller than the Potter boy. Mind you, James' kid was a scrawny little thing.

He was about a head shorter than Neville, pale, and sickly looking. Frank couldn't imagine a child of James and Lily looking that bad. He looked like he was recovering from a recent torture session. Still, he stood strong although he was swaying slightly where he stood, half-leaning against Neville and the couch, his eyes fluttering somewhat.

Neville didn't seem to notice, his gaze still at the floor, while the Potter boy's eyes searched Frank, Neville, and Alice, (who was still demanding answers from the Potters) looking for some sort of connection.

Harry was a spitting imagine of a younger, sicker-looking James. He had James' shaggy black hair that stood up in the back, hung slightly in his eyes, reached the base of his neck and fell over the tips of his ears. He had James' straight nose, and the same large-but-inconspicuous ears. He had James' crooked eyebrows, too; one eyebrow that looked like it was always raised in an impish, mischievous fashion.

He had Lily's eyes, though. And even then, the brilliant emerald was shattered by thousands of flecks of hazel, the green shimmering on the surface of brown; like James was peeking through Lily's façade, trying to break out.

Frank remembered the adoption rituals the Potters had done. He was technically Remus' son by magic and Sirius'ss by magic and blood, also. In fact, he could see Sirius'ss high, aristocratic cheekbones and sharp jaw jutting through. It also seemed he had somehow inherited Remus' rather lupine smile, though James' crooked one hung there also, making the smile slightly intimidating and very roguish.

Frank knew he was distracting himself, though. He had always been a skilled Occlumens, but he could never lie to himself. He was distracting himself from looking at Neville.

From what meager memories he had of his incarceration, he knew Neville would visit Alice and he. He could never properly remember what he said, but he felt inordinately ashamed he could not have watched his son grow up. He was angry with himself, with the Death Eaters, Voldemort, Dumbledore, and just about anyone.

And it hurt to see that Neville must be angry with him, too; but he didn't blame him. He couldn't blame him. He was his son.

"Frankie?" Alice called, looking over her shoulder, apparently having gotten a reasonably decent explanation from the Potters. "Frankie, what—?" She stopped dead, her mouth hanging open and her eyes filling with tears.

That was a rare feat. Alice Smith was not one to cry. She had not cried when her mother died, or when her father remarried, when her stepsister left the family, or even when the Potters had died. The only two things that could make the firecracker break were her husband and son. Alice liked to keep up a strong front, but those two boys were the only ones who could break it down. Frank wasn't one to cry, either, but he was much less expressive. It was expected that he didn't cry. Alice, however, seemed to wear her heart on her sleeve for how animated she was.

"Neville," she sucked in a sharp breath, "oh, Neville."

Frank simply nodded, an uncomfortable lump in his throat.

Neville looked up sharply, and all his parents could do was stare.

Neville was a reasonable height, and seemed to be growing out of his baby fat stage. He was a mixture of both Alice and Frank, with his mother's curls and round face, but his father's inky black hair that flopped in front of his honey-colored eyes.

He wore dirt stained black pants and a button-up white shirt was rolled up to his elbows and his ankle-high dragonhide boots were covered in mud. Neville's pale skin was stark against the dirt smeared on his face in streaks where he had wiped it and his hands coated in earth. His chiseled jaw stood out; clenched, and his hands were fists balled at his sides. And his eyes made contact with Frank's akin ones. They sparkled like Alice's, but more with anger than anything else. A myriad of emotions swirled behind the anger; resentment, rebellion, and hurt burned in his ocher irises.

And it hurt. It hurt so much. Alice whimpered and clutched Frank's arm; who stood impassive, his heart breaking inside.

"You left me."

Neville's voice rang out and cut through the air that was already thick with tension. His voice was cold and bitter with an angry underlying layer of accusing hurt.

"You left me when I needed you."

And without another a word, Neville strode out of the room, the doors slamming behind him.

It was a bright day at the Burrow. Sunlight streamed through the windows, glistened off the pond, and shone off the leaves and grass. Gnomes were quietly creeping through hedge, back into the back garden, explosions and sounds of tinkering came from the old garage, the sizzling of the stove and sloshing of water came from the kitchen as meaningless, friendly chatter and banter ran and bounced and echoed through the old, teetering house, giving it a lazy, familial, comforting feel.

The patriarch of the house had taken refuge from the fullness (and general insanity) of his family in his shed, "messing around" with Muggle things as his wife often put it.

The matriarch of the house was currently cooking in the kitchen. She hummed to herself in the rare moment of peace in the middle of chaos as she added a bit oregano to her mix. Cooking was hobby of hers, something she often dabbled in, making her own recipes when her children (surrogate and actual) were in school or otherwise in occupied. She hoped to publish a cookbook, and she was on the fifth-to-last recipe. She was sure she had it—just a bit more rosemary —when—

BANG!

An entire sprig of rosemary fell into her project with a splash.

Sighing sadly, not surprised by the noises coming from her twin sons' room, but emboldened with her near-success, she hesitantly tasted. Yuck. Much less rosemary. Well, only a cooking connoisseur would really notice it. It actually didn't taste too bad. Letting it simmer, she moved on to start the sandwiches for lunch.

On the second floor, both Fred and George were sprawled out on there respective beds, laughing uproariously as their brother in all but blood, Lee Jordan, tried to wipe soot of his face and his singed dreadlocks.

"It's no use!" he grumbled sourly, ignoring the twins' laughter. "The Fainting Fancies made some kind of unremovable-soot! Oh, shut up," he added. "You weren't laughing too hard when you turned your—"

"We swore to never speak of it!" Fred yelped as George was renewed with another bout of laughter.

"—pink! It was pink for weeks!"

"Anyway," George said, wiping tears from his eyes after he calmed down a good five minutes later, "What I was talking about before Lee blew up our cauldron."

"Oh, hush up," Lee snapped, glaring at the offending piece of now-charred and melted metal.

"I was talking about Ron," George said, and the mood instantly changed to serious and attentive.

It had always been that way for the three of them. With such a big, spread apart family, the kids had divided into sections. Bill and Charlie would always play together, being only two years apart. Percy usually read by himself or hung around their father, when he was home from his full-time job at the Ministry. When he did play, he would play the two of them. Charlie and Percy had a slight rivalry, both wanting to be Bill's favorite. Bill, of course, did not choose either one, and the two eventually came to an understanding. (Ginny, the baby of the family, had eventually become his favorite.) Even so, Bill had been Charlie's inspiration for his dangerous job and Percy's for wanting to become Head Boy.

Fred and George typically played by themselves. They had each other, who else did they need? When Lee came along, they became best friends (more like "best brothers") at the age five.

Ginny was their mum's favorite. They couldn't doubt it. Their mother had essentially attached Ginny to her hip and they were always off doing "girl stuff". Since Ginny was only a year younger, Ron was usually left in the care of Bill, Charlie, or Percy, but basically alone as the three had other things to do.

Fred and George, by the time they were old enough to understand a baby's basic needs, had started to take care of just about all the tasks that Ron had; like feeding, putting him to bed, playing with him, and sometimes even clothing him. They had almost single-handedly raised Ron. They had been the overprotective but totally cool big brothers. When Ron was about two, when Lee had come around, he had helped them with Ron. The three of them had taught him to walk, to talk, to read, and even to fly. The three of them were like proud parents.

Ron was always their favorite brother. Ron, who had never been one for crying, had burst into tears when he was nine and they left for Hogwarts. He had been in awe with their letters, full of the wonders of the magical school and all the trouble they got up to.

They always kept an eye on Ron at Hogwarts. The three had especially done such as Ron and his two best friends, Harry and Hermione, had a habit of disappearing a strange moments and reappearing covered in injuries. Fred and George knew that teachers were supposed to send notes to the parents when children were injured, but it seemed that their mother never got them or ignored them. Ron, like Fred and George, had inherited an adventurous and somewhat mischievous nature that meant that he, like the twins, was just about always in trouble with their mother.

All of the Weasley children loved their mother, but Mrs. Weasley always to compare them to each other, except for Ginny. She was their mum's favorite, and in her eyes, could no wrong. Since their mother was the disciplinarian in the household, Ginny got away with just about anything. And just about anything the boys did could be outshined by a simple action by Ginny.

They all resented that fact slightly, or a lot, in Fred, George, and Ron's cases. It wasn't so much for Bill, Charlie, or Percy, that they were compared to each other, but mostly that their mother compared the three to the twins and Ron. That was why the three boys and Ginny were usually the recipients to most of their pranks.

Ron didn't mind so much. While he only pulled pranks in very extreme revenge situations, he thought it was all good fun. Ron would even give them suggestions on pranks to play or how to hide their actions better. It was, in fact, Ron's idea to raid Filch's office for items of mischievous nature.

Ron was also the only brother who completely supported them in their idea for the joke shop. While their parents didn't know of the nature of the explosions coming from their bedroom, all of their siblings did, with Ron being the first one to find out. Even Charlie, who had run off chasing dragons, and Ginny, who wanted to be a professional Quidditch player, had voiced their doubt in the twins' ambition. Ron had given them unconditional support and ideas. ("If there's one thing you two can do, it's prank. I mean, can you imagine yourselves sitting at a boring desk job in the Ministry?") He was the only one who could barge into the twins' room without fear of purple hair or…other parts.

Ron was the only brother who would cover for them, no questions asked. The twins, of course, did the same for Ron. The twins' soft spot was Ron. They couldn't say no to Ron, just like Bill couldn't say no to Ginny. Of course, they would tease him and berate him afterwards for whatever stunt he pulled, but they would do it. The only time they would say no to Ron would be if it got him hurt.

"I was thinking," George said seriously, "About last year and all the fights Ron got into with Hermione and even Harry. I mean; we know he's a jealous prat. But we should talk to him. I think he's so caught up trying to outshine us, his brothers, Harry, or even Hermione, that he needs to do his own work."

Fred rolled over on his back and said thoughtfully, "We should tell him to pursue his own interests. That's were doing, right? And Ron's not exactly Curse-Breaker, dragon handler, joker-business man, Boy-Who-Lived, or Girl Genius material, is he?"

Lee tugged on a singed dreadlock. "Wasn't he always saying since he was like, seven, that he wanted to be an Auror? We could tutor him or something. If he does want to still be one, or something else, even, we should tell him he should start studying for whatever subject he wants to do. I mean, even we had to hit the books," Lee shuddered in horror at the memories of the—gulp—library and Fred blinked rapidly to clear the tears gathering in his eyes, "for us to make all this merchandise."

"Unfortunately true," George sniffed sadly. "We should talk to him before ickle Harrikins shows up. When—?"

Suddenly, the door flew open and banged against the wall, cutting George off.

"I've got a great idea!" came a voice from the door.

"Ronniekins," said Fred, annoyed. "We were just talking about you."

Ron, standing in the door, holding a large, moldy book, raised his eyebrows. "Nothing bad, I hope," he said, unconcernedly. The twins would never do anything too harmful to him. Just embarrassing.

"Whatcha got there, Won-Won, ole boy?" Lee added. Then he gasped in fake horror. "A book! A book! What is the world coming to?"

Fred collapsed on his bed. "Save us all! Ronald Bilius Weasley," he paused dramatically, "has a book! Merlin save us all!"

"The world's ending!" George fake-sobbed loudly. "Ron's got learning! He's turning into—into—Hermione!" he cut of with a wail.

Ron rolled his eyes amusedly at their antics. "I've got an idea, prats. Polyjuice Pastries! You just add a hair of the person you want to turn into to one of the pastries and there you go!"

Fred blinked in shock at the good idea, and then recovered his composure. "One problem, my dear pastry. Where would we get the recipe? It's not in any books we can order from Flourish and Blotts."

"And even then," George chimed in, "It's supposed to be incredibly difficult. They say even Snape has trouble with it! Snape's a great greasy bat, but he's a half-way decent Potions Master."

Ron rolled his and thrust the book at him. "If you wanted the recipe, you could've just asked. And it's not that hard a potion to make; they only say that 'cause they don't want a million Harry Potters or Ministers running around," Ron said, casually leaning against the door frame.

Lee stared in shock at the cover of Moste Potente Potions. "I've heard of this," he said in a hushed voice, leaning over Fred to look at the book on George's lap. "There only supposed to three copies in the entire world."

Fred's mouth was hanging open as he looked from the book to Ron and back again, the latter looking vaguely surprised at this new information.

"Why?" Ron asked curiously.

Lee stared at Ron, his eyes bugging out and his dreadlocks bouncing up and down excitedly. "Because it's supposed to be written by Morgana, that's why, you prat! According to legend she had one copy for herself, one for Mordred, and one for Nimueh! The book was supposed to have her greatest potion works in it! Not even Dumbledore's got one!"

"Really?" Ron said, looking impressed.

"Not 'really'," George cut him off, "Where did you get this?"

"Well, I had it my trunk from second year," said Ron nonchalantly. "I forgot about 'til now. Thought you might like to have it."

Fred's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why would you have a ancient and possibly dangerous book in your school trunk? And as a second year?" Immediately George and Lee were alert, all looking at Ron in askance.

"Well, 'Mione forgot to return from after we finished the Polyjuice Potion to find the Heir of Slytherin. And Snape wanted the book, so Madam Pince was searching all the common rooms to find it. Hermione didn't want to get in trouble, so she hid it in my trunk—least likely place to find an ancient potions book—and we all forgot about it," Ron finished offhandedly.

Fred was gaping wordlessly like a fish found on dry land, George was choking on air, and Lee was swaying dangerously, looking faint. Ron looked bemusedly at his brothers (Lee included). George nodded imperceptibly to Fred and Lee, who, closest to the door, shut and locked it with a snap.

Ron found himself suddenly and inexplicably found himself being forced into Fred's desk chair and his ankles and hands bound.

"I think," Fred said through gritted teeth, "You will find yourself explaining—"

"Why, three scrawny twelve-year-old second years—" George picked up the sentence.

"Found themselves making a highly lethal and potentially life-threatening potion," Lee finished.

Ron stared at them blankly, not quite comprehending what was happening.

"So?" the three demanded. "Answers!"

Ron suddenly got the feeling that this was going to be a very long day.

Disclaimer:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or JKR's works.

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Forgiveness