Honour Thy Father And Mother

Honour Thy Father and Mother

LONDON, midnight, halfway through the war. The Order holds, and the resistance is strong. The Death Eaters are stronger. Two-thirds of wizarding Britain has been destroyed; London and Hogsmead remain.

The street was deserted.
Then there was the invisible, inaudible swish of a black cloak in the black shadows near a disused clothes shop.
Then the streetlights flickered. The yellow night-splitting beams cut out and let the dark in. Unseen, the shape moved to the front of the shop.

"Incendio!"

The resulting fireball bathed the area in an orange light, throwing the creases and folds of the black cloak into sharp relief.

A guard stepped out from a nearby alleyway.

"What the...?" The guard shielded his eyes from the blaze for a moment and saw the figure turn, nod in acknowledgement and disappear, leaving a ringing "CRACK!" in the sole bystander's ears.

The wards disguising the building started to fail. The shop front flickered in the flames between a disused clothes shop and its real face.
"Shit."
The guard composed himself. He pulled out a silver object about the size of a cigar and spoke clearly: "All units. We have a fire at St. Mungo's."

~~~

The attack wasn't in the usual style of Death Eater operations, but it was certainly effective. The Ministry's entire capacity for treating war casualties had been wiped out in a single evening. The actions of the guard at least meant that most of the patients survived and another London Fire was averted.

~~~

Mr. And Mrs. Longbottom stayed together. All the doors in the hospital had been left wide open. Clutching her husband's wrist they pottered along the corridors in the burning building, not realising the danger they were in. Through sheer dumb luck they bumped into a rush of leaving able-bodied patients. The tide swept them through the main doors and out into the street.
Mrs. Longbottom was very scared, although she didn't know why,
Mr. Longbottom had marks on his wrists from where the nails of the white-haired woman at his side had dug in. He didn't know who she was, but they stayed together all the same.

~~~

Neville Longbottom heard about the fire. He rushed from his office in the Ministry as soon as he could. Around the smouldering wreck of the hospital were rescue wizards- some with water pouring from their wands, some levitating mangled steel and concrete from the ruined building. The wards had been restored; to passers-by the building was still there. In front of the shop was a small red-and-white striped telephone engineer's tent. Neville stepped inside it.

The inside of the shelter was a huge marquee. The rescue effort was being co-ordinated in one of the corners, in another hot sweet tea, blankets and a listening ear were being provided to anyone wanting them. Next to the first aid area was the list of victims. A few sheets of paper with names scribbled in green ink, biro and felt tip were stapled to the wall, next to a longer, happier list of survivors accounted for.

Neville scanned the list of the dead looking for his parents.
They weren't there. His heart leapt. Then that feeling turned to nausea when they weren't on the survivors' list either. No-one there knew anything about his parents.
On the table in front of the two lists was a glowing wooden pot. Neville scribbled their names on one of the paper scraps around it, and dropped it in. The pot turned green for a moment. The rescue workers would be looking for them now. With nothing more that he could do, he turned and shuffled over to claim his mug of tea.

Ron laid a hand on Neville's drooping shoulders and pointed.
"They're through there. We picked up two stragglers wandering about nearby. I recognised them after that time..." Ron trailed off.
Not looking at him, Neville smiled thinly and said "Thank you," and went to find them. Nobody talked much; everything was strangely still.

Neville approached his parents. They didn't move to greet him; his mother's wild eyes were searching the room, and his father was looking at her hand clutching his wrist. He didn't mind so much, but he was a bit confused.

"What're we going to do with you two, then?" Neville sighed. "Come on, let's get you home."

~~~

London, the end of the war, about teatime.
Wizarding Britain is gradually being rebuilt. The forces of darkness have been repelled. The Ministry is back in control.

Neville returned home from the Ministry. He arrived in the kitchen fireplace and started making dinner the hard way. He carried three light salads and a plate of beef into the dining room. His mother and father joined him, and they ate in silence.
After he cleared up, they retired to the living room and he used the table for writing owls. They hadn't asked how his day had been.

One day he left his pen out. When he came back from work he discovered the walls covered in scrawl. There were no meaningful words, but there was a picture of something. The next day he went to a stationers' and bought paints, crayons, pencils, pens, canvas and paper.

It turned out that his father was very skilled with a paintbrush. Soon the house was strewn about with paintings, framed and unframed. There were detailed sketches, minutely accurate drawings. There were canvasses streaked with emotion, and the house was awash with colour in hues of sadness, serenity, happiness and hope.

Still neither parent spoke intelligibly, nor were they any closer to recovering from their madness. But such a fascinating, skilled streak of individuality left hope.

~~~

London, a few years after the war, about teatime.
Wizarding Britain is doing well, but these things take time. Neville is a single man living at home with his parents.

Neville returned home from the Ministry. He arrived in the kitchen fireplace and started making dinner the hard way. He carried three light salads and a plate of beef into the dining room. He helped his father and mother into the room, sat them down and they started to eat. Afterwards he cleared up the mess and helped them back into the living room. He brought his father a new canvas and paints, and laid out newspaper on the floor. He picked up his mother's handkerchief from where it had fallen an hour or two before. He returned to the table, wrote a few owls and then helped the pair upstairs to bed.

~~~

London, a few years after the war, about teatime.
Wizarding Britain is no longer considered a developing country by the International Confederation of Wizards. Neville is an Alternative Potion Ingredients Technician in the Herbology labs of the Department of Improbable Research.

Neville returned home from the Ministry. He arrived in the kitchen fireplace and started making dinner the hard way. He carried three light salads and a plate of beef into the dining room. He took two of the plates into the living room. After they had eaten, he cleared up and returned to the table to write a couple of owls. His writing was interrupted occasionally by demands from his parents. They had got the hang of single words a while back, and could express a want for something. However, they no longer understood what they asked nor what they wanted.
His father stopped being able to paint a while ago. This skill was sorely missed, as it was only his physical state that prevented him from creating art. His father was a frustrated man. The mood was a little sombre in the Longbottom household.
There was still no sign of their madness abating.

~~~

It was quite sudden. His mother died in her sleep. When his father awoke in the morning, the shock and stress of waking up beside a dead woman caused him to collapse; he hit his head on the dressing table by the bed and fell into a coma. Neville stayed in the new Black Memorial Hospital watching over his father for two days. He didn't recover.

In the waiting room, Neville bowed his head and breathed deeply. He, along with all those who knew the Longbottoms, had already mourned their death. For all concerned this was a final release. He could now return to loving his parents' memories and living.

~~~

Neville Longbottom is a top researcher at the Ministry. He is happily married and lives in the country. He is a founder member of a carer support organisation, and enjoys walking and painting.