QLFC Season 11

Team: Holyhead Harpies

Position: Chaser 3

Prompt: Marauders' Map

Optional prompts:

[spell] Silencio

[character] Neville Longbottom

[object] book

Word count: 1473

Trigger warnings: Definitely major character death and mentions of torture, a couple instances of foul language.

My song gave me major revenge vibes, like someone regretting not taking action when they had the chance. I'm also very fond of vigilantes so what if Neville, after all the torture he suffered (maybe he was also tortured along with his parents? Perchance?) snaps and goes on some rampage for justice? Or his twisted perception of justice at that.

Huge thanks to my Harpies for their support and especially DobbyRocksSocks for the beta.

Everyone keeps talking about how the world is not black and white but various shades of grey instead. There is no complete right or wrong and it always depends on the point of view and blah blah blah. Neville knows better by now. He's survived a whole war that proved things were very much black and white indeed. You either were a good guy or you were a murdering fascist, simple as that. He had the scars to prove it, both physical and mental.

He'd started out believing the propaganda too. When he was younger, back when the world had seemed bright and hopeful, he'd always given people a second chance, or tried to see things optimistically. Even though Death Eaters had taken both of his parents away from him, he still believed in nuance. What a fool he had been.

His last year at Hogwarts, under the wonderful teaching of the loving Carrow siblings, had taught him better. It had taught him things about himself that he hadn't even known, up until that point. There were many times when, whilst his body felt like it was tearing itself apart under the Cruciatus, his mind would show him glimpses of better times; happier times. One minute, he was howling in agony on the floor of the Transfiguration classroom, and the next he would be an infant, swaddled safely in his mother's embrace. She would smile down at him as she sang him a lullaby, warm eyes full of adoration for the babe in her arms. Or he would see his dad, waving his wand to make little butterflies dance over his crib.

Or he would see his mother's tear-stricken face as she screamed at Bellatrix to leave him alone. His dad would be crumpled away by the couch, eyes vacant, mind gone, as the menacing witch cackled. He would see Barty Crouch Jr turn his wand on him as he wailed, his young brain unable to comprehend the pain of the torture curse inflicted on him. He would see his mother's face, bathed in the light of the fireplace as it contorted in a grimace of unfathomable suffering when the wand was turned upon her.

He hadn't had memories of his parents before his last year at Hogwarts. He was told they'd been tortured but he'd never known he was there when it happened or that it'd happened to him too. He may have suffered greatly, that last year, but now, far removed as he was a few years after the war, he could appreciate the clarity it gave him.

The world wasn't complicated or multifaceted. It was good or evil, right or wrong. Friend or foe. Ally or traitor.

He hadn't thought Hermione Granger would turn out to be a traitor, not after everything they'd been through together. Then again, she'd always been a bleeding heart; he could still remember her haphazard attempt to free the elves at Hogwarts. But Neville thought she knew better, he thought she could see how the world actually worked.

Good thing he was used to disappointment. The whole wizarding world had disappointed him, what was one more witch? Giving the Death Eaters fair trials, allowing them to just serve prison time, or even go free, instead of executing every last one of them for their crimes against wizardkind. How could they believe these monsters would change, could change? Society had turned from righteous warriors to Death Eater sympathisers. They were now complicit in the crimes committed and they needed to pay.

Just like the Golden Girl herself, who was sitting before him, drinking her tea as if everything was right as rain. After the war, he had taken a world trip to master his herbology skills and his old schoolmate was only too happy to invite him into her quaint little cottage upon his return.

"So you really wrote a book?" She asked, eyes full of curiosity.

Neville knew his revenge had to be well-formulated if he wanted to execute his plan with no interruption from the Aurors. Going around sending killing curses everyone's way was all well and good, but it would get him caught in no time. So he had reached out to Hermione under a clever ruse that would have made the brightest witch of her age quite proud; he told her that he'd written a book, a guide to Herbology inspired by all he'd seen in his travels. And he had, it wasn't a complete lie.

He'd spent the past couple of years studying up on the dangerous side-effects of plants, keeping meticulous notes of how each different herb could cause excessive vomiting or itchiness or blindness and so on. The fact that he wanted that knowledge to assist his plans wasn't something he'd been particularly willing to share, however. How he'd discovered that a combination of deadly nightshade, ivy and a few unknown weeds from the depths of South America could form a tasteless, odourless paste that caused cysts to explode on someone's skin in less than ten minutes from contact. Or that ingesting even the slightest amount would immediately cause painful cramping and emesis, distracting from the muscle paralysis that would eventually cause their heart to stop.

Hermione didn't need to know all that. Just like she didn't need to know he'd lathered the pages of the booklet he was now handing over to her with said paste. Some things were better kept a secret.

"Wow, Neville, this looks very interesting," she said after rifling through the first pages, too preoccupied to notice Neville's face losing all the warmth it feigned and morphing into a cold mask.

"Yes, I learned a lot," he mused, taking a slow sip of his tea. A smirk tugged at his lips as he noticed Hermione reaching down to scratch at her leg, still oblivious to her imminent demise. "Nature is truly marvellous, it has the solution for nearly every problem one may encounter."

Hermione itched again before licking her fingers to turn the page.

"There are herbal alternatives for everything. Medicine, cleaning supplies."

Hermione frowned imperceptibly, putting the book down as she turned all her attention to her leg, which by that point was probably starting to hurt as the irritation worsened.

"Pest control." Neville's voice lost all semblance of cordiality as he stood up, reaching out to grab the book carefully and put it back in his satchel. Hermione looked up at him confused, face growing pale as the first notions of cramps hit her.

He could almost see her mind working overtime, instincts sharpened by a year on the run alerting her that she was in danger but scrambling to figure out where it was coming from.

"What's going o-"

Her question was interrupted by a screech of pain as she doubled over, clutching at her stomach. Neville could see her arms, all blotchy and oozing puss as she retched.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he tutted as he walked around the table to her side, crouching down to her level as she threw up a second time. "You were always too naive for your own good, Hermione. Always saw the good in everyone, especially the helpless little boy who lost his frog on the scary train. But to turn your back on your people, to vouch for Malfoy?"

Hermione tried to scream and Neville whipped out his wand, his Silencio stealing the voice from her lungs. He thought too late that the magic remnants of the spell could be traced back to him, but he'd be long gone by the time anyone discovered her body. And he really hated it when they screamed for mercy, it tired him.

"You disgust me." The vitriol in his voice was clear as day now. Hermione was convulsing on the floor, frothing at the mouth as the paralytic agent of the substance took over. "A Muggleborn that has faced such pain and torment at their hands, only to take their side? The so-called hero, nothing more than a Death Eater whore."

Any minute now, he knew. Her skin was clammy and her breathing was slow, the lungs fighting to contract against the paralysis. He took a moment to look into her eyes, the terror in the brown orbs making him feel an unexpected high, before he stood up.

"And to think I used to call you a friend." He spat on her before he turned to leave. He wasn't going to stay by her side as she died, she didn't deserve that kind of solace.

He pushed his chair back into place and vanished his tea cup, trying to erase all evidence of his presence in the house before he Apparated away, not another glance spared at the unmoving witch laying in her own waste. It was time for the next target on his path for vengeance.