The Locket

" As memory may be a paradise from which we cannot be driven, it may also be a hell from which we cannot escape."

- John Lancaster Spalding-

Ron blinked the sleep away from his eyes as the door creaked open, accompanied by a multitude of hushed whisperings. He tried to lift his head but failed.

"Ron?" Her voice was soft, questioning, the quiver of nervousness not completely concealed.

"Ginny?" he answered, feeling relief mixed with some anger. "Where have you been all night? You could have been hurt, you could have been arrested."

She paused for a moment, digesting the note of anger in his tone. "I brought a guest, Ron," she finally said, and he could sense the apology threaded into her statement.

A guest, he thought, and felt a weight settle into the pit of his stomach. He was not sure if he could bear anyone seeing him as he was now. A pair of unfamiliar footsteps entering the room intensified his queasiness.

"Ron?" The voice was a man's, deep and husky with emotion. As changed as it was, Ron would have recognized that voice anywhere.

"Neville?" he said softly.

The footsteps started again, and Ron caught the first glimpse of his classmate in years as the man took a seat beside the bed.

Neville had changed, he had changed a great deal. Gone was the roundness in the face, the softness of the body. His face had thinned, and there were small wrinkles about his eyes and crossing his forehead. The eyes were still the same, large and brown and lined with thick dark lashes that intensified them.

"Merlin, Ron," Neville said. "It must be a bother getting about."

Ron barely registered Ginny's gasp in the background as the blood rushed to his ears and cheeks. But he felt no anger. Instead, he opened his mouth and laughed, a sound so unfamiliar that his ears took time to register it.

"Bloody hell," he said, catching his breath. "You have no idea."

Neville grinned and took a cup of tea from the tray Ginny held before him. Ron was amused to see the look of confusion on her face.

"Come sit, Ginny...no tea for me," he added as she started to set the glass before him. Ron could bear the fact that Neville had now seen him as a cripple, but being forced to clumsily consume his beverage through a straw was still too great a step.

"So you have a house," Neville said. "You've done much better for yourself than you realized."

"Ginny didn't tell you?" Ron said, mildly surprised. "Then what..." he trailed off as his face flamed with a blush, and he finished his statement with an incoherent mumble.

Neville seemed baffled, his grasp of hidden meaning and innuendo still as sweetly deficient as from his Hogwarts days. Ginny was caught between embarrassment and laughter. She knew her brother was thinking and wanted to relive him of his incorrect presumption, but his discomfiture was endearing. It reminded er of older, happier times. "Neville has seen some of the others," she said, trying to continue their conversation.

Ron's interest was immediately caught. "Really?"

"I saw Lavender six months ago. Her husband works for the Ministry, some low-ranking job." Neville shook his head. "She did palm reading for muggles in the labor camps. For trinkets, I imagine, as those poor creatures have no money. Anyway, they relocated to Brazil. Better work, or something like that. She stopped in to buy some insect repellant."

"Mandrake plantation," Ginny said softly. "There's been a boom in Brazil, or so the papers say."

Ron looked angry. "Lavender working in a field. I would never have thought that day would ever come."

"Remember that time she woke the entire house when she found that earwig in her desk?" Neville's shoulders shook with laughter at the memory.

"The earwig that I bribed Hermione to put there," Ron replied, thoughts of the past causing his brain to cease filtering the words issued from his mouth.

The mere mention of her name was like a spell, casting the three into a silence so loud it rang in their ears. Hermione.

Ron would have slapped himself it were physically possible for him to do so. The pain, though old, was still entrenched deeply in his being, and he felt its icy tendrils grip him tightly.

He remembered her body, the smell of her blood everywhere, the salty taste of it in his mouth as he held her close to him, his grief escaping animalistic and unrestrained. Her demise was the final crushing blow to the Light, and everything had spiraled out of control in the months that passed. Hermione. Her very name was like a trill of music, filling him with the sweet succor of memories past, and the bitterness of what could have....no what should have been.

He felt Ginny's hand on his shoulder. She had been there with him, had seen it all. Her eyes were now glittering with something more than simply sorrow. "At least she's at peace now," she said softly.

Neville had been abroad that day, but had apparated back for the funeral, still convinced that it was a terrible joke. The sight of Hermione's cold, pale face right before she was cremated dissolved any notions of that. He never found out what happened, why she had disappeared in the first place, and why she had been returned in such a horrific manner. A part of him longed to ask. Perhaps Ginny, he thought. Perhaps later. Not now, not in front of Ron.

That Ron had loved Hermione was no secret, except perhaps from each other. By their seventh year, however, even they could no longer avoid what seemed had been destined for them, and every Gryffindor would probably list that year as one of the liveliest in their time at Hogwarts. Their arguing had not stopped, nor the nagging or the sniping. But their love was undeniable, and dulled the edges of any dissent they had.

They would be living in the country now, Neville thought. With three children, a beautiful home, maybe a few pets. She would be the researcher she always wanted to be, perhaps she would have founded that research institute she always talked about. Ron would be an Auror, or maybe even keeper for that team of his. Whatever he did, he would do it with Harry.

Thoughts of Harry sent Neville's mind twisting down another path, a darker one. And Harry would be with her, with Ginny. His fists tightened under the quilt draped over his lap. Which would you prefer, Neville, he asked himself. That happier alternative or reality?

While his house had been alight with the obvious romance of the Ron Hermione, Harry Ginny pairings, there had been another quieter burning, one that had gone unnoticed. I loved her then, Neville thought. Just as I love her now. Just as she could now love me. A thought jolted him. Given the choice, he wondered. Would I chose what could have been, or what I could have now?

Ginny noticed the emotions flickering over Neville's face, although she could not interpret them. "Neville?" she asked softly. "Are you all right?"

"I was just thinking," he thought. "About choices. About realities."

She curled her fingers about his. "We all do," she said softly. "And all of us hoped it was another."

Neville looked into her eyes and wished he could have wholeheartedly thought the same.

~~~

Felicity was carefully arranging Sabina's lotions, placing them side by side as she valiantly fought against the twitching of her nose that signaled an onslaught of sneezing. While Sabina had ordered her dry clothes once they had arrived at the guest quarters of the temple, the time spent in the rain had left Felicity with a headache and a tickle in the back of her throat that threatened something worse if not tended to.

The purple and gold décor of Sabina's room was designed to showcase the opulence of its owners, but in the light provided by the floating candles, the colors were muted. There were two other girls lounging about the massive bed, all daughters of the party from London. Sabina was sitting up on one corner, charming small gems into the thick, black braid of her companion, Celeste Zabini. Both Celeste and Sabina were half-listening to the whiny chatter of a third person, Malinda Flint, who was sprawled on her back at the foot on the bed, punctuating every other word she uttered with a jab of her wand into the air.

As Felicity arranged the bottles on the vanity, her eyes flicked to the mirror in front of her to carefully study the assembled company, pulling together all the facts that she knew about each.

Celeste exuded the same regal bearing as Sabina, though they were opposites physically. Her hair was dark as night where Sabina's was almost silver, her skin was dark where Sabina's was fair, and her form was curvy, where Sabina's was tall and coltish. Felicity knew that her father, Blaise Zabini was a good friend of Master Nott's, and she could see the strong resemblance between father and daughter. In personality they seemed alike too, both quiet and leaning towards being withdrawn. Celeste was not quiet in the introspective, thoughtful way as was Sabina, but more due to her indifference to contribute to the proceedings. She was rather witty with a dry, sarcastic sense of humor, and those who knew her well paid attention when she chose to speak.

Malinda Flint was the daughter of Millicent Bulstrode, Enforcer for the Collection of Meter Charges in the United Kingdom. Felicity had seen the mother once from afar, not close enough to pick out details, but sufficient to see that mother and daughter did not have much in common. Where Millicent had been tall, almost mannish in height, Malinda was short, barely scratching over five feet. Her head seemed a tad too big for her body, but her features were pleasant though forgettable. These small defects in appearance may have easily been circumvented by an ease of conversation, an agreeable tone of voice, and an educated and refined manner, but unfortunately Malinda had none of those. She had a high-pitched voice that made her seem much younger, her manner was petulant, and she had an excessive love of gossip. She was not foolish, but since she had a knack of choosing the most insipid topics of conversation, she appeared to be so. That was evident enough by the looks that passed between Sabina and Celeste every time Malinda's gaze was directed elsewhere.

Felicity's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a slave she had never seen before, followed by none other that Master Nott's niece herself. Adela stepped into the room and nodded at Sabina and Celeste. When she caught sight of Malinda, her expression soured though Malinda did not notice or simply did not care.

"You're late," Malinda said. "You have missed some of the exciting news."

"I'm never late," Adela said with a steely undertone. "And I'm sure anything you have to say will not affect me in any way."

"Adela doesn't much care for the tasty tidbits, does she?" Malinda said with a laugh. "How boring you are, I must say. We've been having a rather good time, haven't we?"

Celeste remained silent, stifling a yawn, but Sabina forced a feeble smile. Adela smirked and turned her attention to Felicity who was trying to remain inconspicuous.

"Isn't that Uncle Nott's slave?"

Felicity winced internally, but hastily freed her hands from the cosmetic bottles and forced herself to face Adela. "Mistress," she said, going into a deep bow.

"She is, I borrowed her," Sabina replied from her bed. "An interesting creature."

Adela merely sneered, and looked on as her slave brought in her belongings. Felicity was amused to see the changes in the woman's face. She's altered her nose, she thought with an internal smirk. Her amusement was short-lived, however, as she obtained a proper look at Adela's personal attendant. The girl was rain-thin and pale to the point of looking like a corpse. Her blue eyes were large and rather protuberant. Her wisps of hair hung limply down the sides of her face, barely enough to cover her scalp properly. More pitiful, however, were the painful markings on her arms. That could have been me, Felicity thought, not wanting to imagine how Adela had bestowed the wicked looking marks. I wonder why Adela did not ask for me? Or better to ask no questions and be thankful for small mercies.

Adela too joined the girls on the bed, positioning herself as far as possible from Malinda.

"Have you seen him yet?" Malinda asked Adela, moving closer. Felicity saw a twinkle in her eye, and wondered if she was aware of Adela's dislike for her and continued to irritate her anyway.

Adela's questioning frown answered the query, and Malinda continued. "The Zabini slave, the youngest of the four attendants."

Adela's silence was answer enough, and her irritation caused by Malinda's increased proximity was growing more evident on her face. Celeste sighed and shook her head, causing a noise of irritation from Sabina whose charmed missed, adding a gem to the side of the table. She cleared her throat and spoke, her cool voice replacing Malinda's high, squeaky one. "My father has gathered four personal slaves. One is..." she trailed off as she remembered seeing him for the first time, only a day before. He had stepped into the manor, and the sunlight had glistened off his hair, silvery-blonde and brushing the tops of his shoulders. The slave tunic suited him incredibly, highlighting the broad shoulders, the athletic build. If there was physical perfection in a man, Celeste was sure she had seen it then. A pity, she had thought then, that he is not of society.

Aware now that her pause was eliciting a knowing grin from Malinda, she continued. "He is very attractive."

"Attractive?" Malinda squeaked. "Must you always be so contained? He is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld!" She placed a thoughtful finger on her chin. "Do you think it would be a bad thing to have him bathe me?"

Sabina grunted a laugh. "That is an outdated tradition, you know that."

"And yet," Celeste said, "I would still have let her carry out her desire, if only she were discreet." She turned her gaze toward Malinda. "You, my dear, are anything but."

Adela smirked at that and said, "Where is he from? What is his name?"

"The first I do not know. His name is Vincent."

It took some time for the word to carry from Felicity's ears to her brain and then be digested. The moment of true comprehension was marked by the sound of a bottle hitting the floor and shattering, sending a strong wave of lily-of-the-valley throughout the room.

Sabina scowled. "Must you be so clumsy?" she snapped. "Come here."

Before Felicity could step forward, Adela's slave hopped in front of her.

"Begging your esteemed pardon, Mistress," she said in a reedy voice. "It was my fault. I jogged her arm."

Before she could think, Felicity frowned and retorted, "Of course you didn't, you were across the table." Realizing her error in speaking without permission, she groaned, slapped her palm to her forehead, and uttered a rather foul oath. If she could have thrown herself from the balcony immediately afterwards, she would have.

Sabina looked truly angry now. A clumsy slave was one thing, but a disrespectful, foul-mouthed one was another matter. As desperately as she ached to slap Felicity's outspoken face until it was blotched and red, she knew it would be more effective to carry out any castigation in private. People always assumed the harshest when they were made to imagine the punishment for themselves. "Go to your room," she said softly. "Both of you." She turned to Adela. "I may need to question your slave as well."

Adela smiled. "By all means. You may more than question her if you so desire."

Sabina nodded and continued. "Both of you report to the slave quarters. You will not collect your meals tonight. I will summon you tomorrow morning."

The pair did not need to be told twice. Scampering through the doorway, Felicity shut the doors and leaned against them. She opened her mouth to apologize for her sheer dim-wittedness, but the girl clamped a cold hand over her wrist and put a finger to her own lips, indicating silence. With her vise-like grip, she led Felicity through the twists and turns of the Temple until they were outside another pair of doors.

"It is safer to talk here," she finally said, not appearing to be winded in the least.

Felicity rubbed her wrist, and nodded. "Look," she started. "Thank you...back there...I can be a bit thick sometimes..."

"It was nothing," the other girl said.

Felicity regarded her for a few moments before speaking. "I'm Felicity, by the way."

"Selene," the girl said. "Was it greasy?"

Felicity was confused. "Your hand?"

"No," Selene said, bobbing her head in a move of impatience. "The thing you dropped. The perfume bottle."

"Oh my goodness." She looked at Selene as the sequence of events resurfaced in her thoughts. "Vincent. He's...What is he doing here? Unless..."

"Relax," Selene said. "If you speak too quickly, the Rotfangs will get your tongue."

Felicity was about to ask exactly what a Rotfang was when Selene indicated silence by placing both her hands over Felicity's mouth and looking over her shoulder. Looking worried, she pressed a finger to her own lips then proceeded to press herself into a groove behind a tapestry, indicating for Felicity to follow suit. Just as Felicity had squeezed herself alongside Selene, the corridor was filled with the hushed whisperings of two cloaked figures.

"No wonder he is so angered," one man was saying. "A muggle in attendance? Even I must venture to question the soundness of our Lord's intentions."

"Do not even speak so," his companion hissed, spittle flecking out from underneath the dark cowl. "While home of the gods it may be, this temple is still not secure from the ears of Our Master."

The cloaked pair stopped directly in front of the tapestry concealing the two slaves, and drew off their hoods. The first man Felicity recognized as Blaise Zabini, a friend of Master Nott's. He had beads of perspiration running down the dark skin of his forehead and dripping into his eyes, but he seemed too distracted to do more than simply blink them away. The manner in which he carried his person hinted at a mental weariness that eclipsed the minor physical discomforts of his body. The other figure was in fact a woman, probably of Indian descent by way of her features and shining black hair and the brown skin of her neck and hands. Her back was to the tapestry and so her face remained hidden from view.

"Forget all that," Zabini was saying. "What do you think?"

There was silence for a moment as the woman ran both her hands through her hair in a frenzy of thought. "Our Master has his reasons," she said finally, not bothering to whisper anymore. "And as his adherent, I am more than willing to follow them." This last statement had an edge to it, as if she willed Zabini to follow her unquestioning loyalty as well.

He seemed to catch her hidden meaning and grinned in spite of himself, white teeth flashing in contrast to the black of his skin. "Surya," he said gently, using her first name to catch her attention. "I am not that foolish as to so overtly break faith in my Master. But I have the right to wonder."

"Let Malfoy stew all he wants," she snarled. "That arrogant fool is of no concern, as long as he doesn't harm our guest." She had not missed the key phrase in his statement, so overtly, and wondered if he had placed it there intentionally. Careful, careful, she thought. Not many would be as willing to overlook your words, especially this teeming mass of rats we are surrounded by.

"Foolish Draco may appear at times," Zabini was saying, "but he is no fool. He will control himself." He looked at her carefully. "What are you not telling me?"

She did not answer at first, but the increasing frequency of her fidgeting made it clear that she was indeed withholding something and was not comfortable under Zabini's scrutiny.

"Curse your meddlesome intuition," she snapped, though her tone lacked true venom. Zabini's stance did not change, though a quiver of a smile was hinted at the corner of his well-formed lips. Surya knew when she was defeated and she folded her arms with a loud sigh. "Bihar," she said finally, "is the state that I am from. A small village in Bihar. Our guest is from the same village, I recognized his face immediately."

"He did not seem to know you," Zabini said.

"He was younger than I was. In any case I was driven away by my father's family when I was twelve, so he would not have seen me about much." Her voice struggled to conceal the wisps of bitterness from the long-suppressed memory. "His name is Bikram Das, or Dr. Bikram Das now."

Clearly this tidbit of his companion's personal history was new to Zabini, as he was not completely able to suppress the successive flashes of surprise and pity from his eyes. Surya must have seen it, for when she spoke next her tone was wry.

"Do not pity me, Zabini," she said. "I have long since taken my revenge for this." She traced a finger down a long scar on the side of her face. "Don't pity me," she repeated again.

Zabini attempted to change the topic. "Where is he staying?"

"The doctor? In the suite near the fountains." She made a face, which was somewhat reflected in the polished mirrors in front of her. "The goddess room, I believe is the stupid name you western wizards call it."

"Guarded?"

"With Malfoy about? I cast the wards myself. Neither he nor attendants of his will be able to pass that door."

Zabini was grinning in earnest now. "I hope he doesn't know that, Surya. He might take it as a personal challenge."

"Let him," she said with a malicious laugh. She pulled out a small watch from her robes and looked at it. "Speaking of challenges, we should be expecting that American wizard now, shouldn't we?"

"Are you always so nasty towards strangers?" He dug a finger into her shoulder in a surprising gesture of playfulness. Surya's response went unheard as Felicity exchanged puzzled looks with Selene, both sharing the same thoughts: A muggle in attendance at Lord Voldemort's request? And who is this Surya, and what is the manner of her relationship with Zabini?

As soon as the wizards passed through the corridor, Felicity and Selene cautiously emerged from behind the tapestry. All thoughts of the impending interrogation and punishment were forgotten as they pondered the exchange they had witnessed.

"That was...interesting," Selene said mildly, in sharp contrast to Felicity who was practically shaking in excitement.

"A muggle doctor?" she said when she had controlled herself somewhat. "How is that even possible?"

In the wake of Harry Potter's defeat and the ascension of the Dark Lord, the muggle society had found themselves cast into the dregs of society. The wealth of the globe's wealthiest families was stripped and redistributed amongst poorer pureblood families. Shocked by the sudden emergence of this afore-imaginary magical society, the muggles were too stunned to prove any real resistance. Herding them into labor camps and the lowest, most debasing tasks was hardly an effort for the Dark Lord and his sympathizers.

How could a muggle escape from the camps? Felicity wondered as her mind involuntarily started to paint a favorable mental picture of Dr. Das. And here he is, a guest of Lord Voldemort himself.

Selene was watching her, and seemed to read Felicity's thoughts from her corresponding facial expressions. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but seemed to reconsider and her thought remained unexpressed. "We should return to our quarters," she said finally. "We have an eventful day tomorrow."