Town and Gown

Last, but not least, the epilogue of a Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising series crossover. Just tying together a few loose ends. And I don't plan to let this concept go--stay tuned for the sequel, which will come along once I sit down and figure out exactly what to do with all my possible ideas.

Once again, thanks go out to my reviewers for your kind replies and comments. (Kind hearts and coronets...er, sorry, wrong topic.) I'm glad to see that so many people enjoy both Susan Cooper and J. K. Rowlings, both true grande dames of British fantasy literature. And their worlds combine so *well*...I just couldn't resist.

I owe a great debt to the Harry Potter Lexicon (conveniently located at http://www.i2k.com/~svderark/lexicon/index.html) for giving me an idea for this part of the story. If you want to know what the idea was, go take a look for it--you'll find it, if you want to.

Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K. Rowlings, Scholastic, and other international companies involved in its creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising" series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Town and Gown By: Gramarye

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.

-- Carl Jung

-----------------------------------------------------------------

As those who are familiar with the Old Ones and their ways know, the concept of Time has little to no meaning to them. Loosely planted within Time, they are able to move freely, always respecting but never bound by its conventional limitations. Hermione's Time Turner may have allowed her to turn back the clock long enough to fit in an extra class or two, but an Old One has unrestricted access to the past, and the ability to affect the flow of time if need arises.

Neville Longbottom, however, didn't know any of these things.

Which might explain his complete shock when he woke up just before dawn to find the strange professor from yesterday's lecture standing at the foot of his bed, silently watching him.

To his credit, he didn't scream, or faint, or do anything that might have caused him further embarrassment. Instead, he froze, staring at the unexpected visitor with the petrified eyes of a small animal caught in the headlights of a speeding car.

"Hello, Mr. Longbottom," the strange professor said.

Neville attempted to speak, but only succeeding in making a weak sound that was closer to a croak. Speech was simply not coming to him today.

The visitor didn't seem to notice Neville's inability to speak. His round face was solemn, but his blue-grey eyes had a kind smile all their own.

"Don't be frightened," he said softly, moving to stand by the side of the bed. "I'm sorry to startle you, but I could either wait for you to wake on your own or shake you awake. I chose the former--for a reason."

Neville didn't answer for fear that his voice would continue to fail him. He managed to nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.

"May I sit down?" the professor asked. Before Neville could respond, he continued, "I wouldn't normally impose, but I have quite a bit of traveling to do after I leave here, and I think it would be more comfortable for both of us if I sat."

"I-i-if you w-want t-t-to, sir." Neville's stammer was more pronounced than usual, but at least his voice had decided to start working again. He scuttled backward in bed, making room for the tall man to sit on the edge.

"Thank you. That's most kind." There was the soft swish of a cloak and the rocking creak of bedsprings as the older man sat down.

Neville squinted in the dim light, taking a closer look at his visitor. "You're Professor...Stanton? Is that--am I right?" He rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times, hoping his eyes would adjust. "I just want to make sure...you see, sir, I tend to forget things. 'Specially names."

"Your memory is working fine, Mr. Longbottom."

Neville shivered slightly. The words 'Mr. Longbottom', spoken by Professor Stanton, sounded strange. They created distorted and very discomforting echoes in his mind. It was hard to think. He didn't understand why, but it was a little like being called on in class when he didn't know the answer. The same sick feeling, like a bad case of vertigo, but somehow different. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the dizziness.

"It's Neville, sir," he said, plucking at a loose thread on his blanket. "Please call me Neville."

"Fine then, Neville. Any reason why?"

Professor Stanton looked concerned, so Neville hastily tried to think of an explanation. "No, no reason, sir. Well, not really. It's just that...." he trailed off, gnawing on his lip.

"What is it?"

"It's...." His mind worked frantically, searching for something that sounded reasonable, or at the very least, not too daft. After an agonizing moment, he hit upon an answer that was not far from the truth. "It's just that you sound a little like Professor Snape when you call me 'Mr. Longbottom', sir."

Even in the half-light, Neville could see one eyebrow raise--whether it was in surprise or irritation or some other emotion, he couldn't tell.

"Ah," Professor Stanton said, his voice expressionless.

Neville grimaced. As usual, he'd said the wrong thing, nothing to do now but try to cover it up. "Just a little, sir. I mean, I know you can't help it, but--"

Professor Stanton held up a hand, stopping him before he could sink deeper into his own explanation. "Relax, Neville, it's perfectly fine. No need to explain. In any case, I don't think Professor Snape would like to know that I was running around this school sounding like him. It would only give him one more thing to be upset about--and if anyone doesn't need that, it's him."

Neville laughed in spite of himself, then clapped a hand over his mouth. Professor Stanton stared at him for a moment with a curious light in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he chuckled as well, quietly.

Hearing the older man laugh made Neville feel as though a great weight had fallen off his shoulders. The tension went away. He smiled shyly, but the smile quickly faded as he remembered where he was and, more importantly, what time it was.

"Won't...won't the others wake up, sir?" he said softly, glancing around the room. His vision still hadn't completely adjusted to the dim light, and he was having a hard time seeing much of anything past the end of his bed.

"No," said Professor Stanton. "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley are in the Headmaster's office. Mr. Finnigan and Mr. Thomas are fast asleep. They won't wake for a while...which is why I chose this time to come and speak with you." He sighed, and added ruefully, "I've had such wretched timing today--at least this one meeting should go smoothly."

"You wanted to see me?" Neville squeaked. No one--well, no one who was important--ever wanted to see him, unless he had done something wrong.

Professor Stanton smiled. "I have something to give you. There's a particular story that goes with it; the gift won't make much sense to you unless you hear the story behind it. Do you have the time to hear it, or would I be keeping you from something else?"

Neville couldn't believe his ears. Professor Stanton sounded like he would be dragging Neville away from the last five minutes of a tied Quidditch World Cup match to make him listen to a simple story.

"No, please! Please tell me," he begged.

"All right, all right," said Professor Stanton. He cleared his throat, and his eyes clouded over briefly, as if he was searching in his mind for a proper place to begin the story. When he started to speak, his voice was light and placid, his words smoothly weaving a tale that soon held Neville spellbound.

"I'd like to say it was a dark and stormy night when the whole thing took place. It certainly should have been, in my opinion--there's nothing like foul weather for properly setting the mood. In reality, it had merely been drizzling all day, and the overcast sky was not dark, but a murky grey. Typically miserable Cambridgeshire weather. But I'm straying from the topic already.

"It was nearly fifteen years ago, this incident. I was in my rooms at the university, proofreading a term paper for another student. I don't really recall what the paper was about, only that the spelling and grammar were absolutely horrible. The thesis and writing style weren't much better. It was painful to read. But as I was sitting there, scribbling away at it with a red pencil, I heard a loud thud against my window.

"Now, my room at the time was on the third floor, too high for anyone to reach. Not even a cat could have climbed up there. My first thought was to ignore it, but when I heard the thud again, I got up and opened the window. Huddled on the tiny ledge outside was a shivering, exhausted, and soaking wet owl, carrying a bundle of papers.

"I must confess, I was very startled. It was three in the afternoon, far too early for owls to be out. The owl, however, had other plans. It flopped in through the open window, landing in a soggy heap on the floor. As it hit the ground, it let go of the bundle it had been clutching. Smoothing it out, I saw that it was a copy of a newspaper that I had not seen for a long time--The Daily Prophet.

"Oh, I knew what it was...I am no stranger to the wizarding world. But the newspaper was five days old, and very battered. The messenger owl looked battered as well; it must have been flying for some time before it found me. I thought the paper had been misdirected, intended for someone else and delivered to me by accident.

"'Why have you brought me this? Are you lost?' I asked the owl, which had righted itself and was trying to put its feathers back in order.

"Owls, like all birds, do not use an actual language. Their method of communication, while more advanced than that of most bird species, is a combination of sounds and gestures that suggest a meaning instead of a series of words. This owl gave me a sharp look and a single hoot, clearly pointing out that not only was the paper meant for me, I should quit being a damn fool and read what it had taken such pains to bring.

"I opened the wet paper and glanced at the headlines."

Professor Stanton paused. A shadow of some hidden emotion passed across his face, so rapidly that it was nothing more than a flicker, quickly controlled.

"What has your grandmother told you about your parents?" he said suddenly. The casual storytelling tone had vanished from his voice, leaving it very quiet and serious.

Neville's jaw dropped, then snapped shut. The abrupt change of pace and topic was disorienting, like stopping a film halfway through the reel, without explanation. He stared uncertainly at the visiting professor, wondering if he had heard the question properly.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice, shaky but clear, whispered, *Run...get away...hurry....*

Professor Stanton eyes narrowed, which only increased Neville's discomfort. "I understand that it is painful for you to discuss," he said, gently but firmly. "Yet it is very important that I have all the facts. Does she--your grandmother--speak of them at all?"

Neville stared down at the blanket wrapped around his knees. It was thick and warm and soft, but it wasn't giving him any answers.

The tiny voice suddenly returned, louder this time and more insistent. *Get away, Neville...get out of here...hurry...* it pleaded urgently. It took a great effort for him to ignore it and answer Professor Stanton's question.

"Not really," he said haltingly, as if he did not know how to respond properly. "I know why they're...like that...'cause Gran told me. She said they were attacked by Death Eaters, and tortured. They went mad under torture. I was just a baby then, so I went to live with Gran. Mum and Dad are at St. Mungo's, in a private room, together. Before I went off to school, we--Gran and I, that is--would go visit them every Sunday. Now I see them at Christmas and during holidays. Gran always tells me to talk to them, tell them about school and stuff. She says they can hear me, even if they don't answer."

He sank back against the pillow, feeling ill. He'd never said so much about his parents to any one person before. People either knew about them and didn't mention it, or didn't know and didn't ask. It was a new experience, talking about them so openly.

He wasn't sure if he liked it.

"Do you think they hear you? Understand you?" Professor Stanton's face was in shadow, but his eyes glittered with a compassionate light.

"I...I don't know, sir," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "I hope so."

Professor Stanton nodded brusquely. "Did your grandmother say where you were when the...incident occurred?"

"Yes," Neville said quickly, a hint of the relief he felt slipping into his voice. At last, here was a question he could answer with some degree of certainty. "I was at Gran's that night. She told me that Mum and Dad had left me with her, overnight. I was with Gran when the Death-Eaters came."

"Were you, then...." It was a statement, not a question.

"That's what she told me," Neville said, frowning.

Professor Stanton did not reply. He stood up, the bedsprings creaking irritably at the movement. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled from its folds a long white envelope. He held it up in his left hand, studying it carefully. Apparently satisfied that he had found the desired object, he held out his right hand and with the grace of a conjuring trick produced his spectacles, seemingly out of thin air.

Neville's sharp indrawn breath was a loud hiss in the silence of the room. Professor Stanton settled the glasses on his nose, then opened the envelope and removed a folded piece of paper. It crackled as he unfolded it, and even in the low light, Neville could see that it was not ordinary paper, but newsprint.

"'The one blessing that has come from this despicable event is the fact that young Neville Longbottom, their only son, was not harmed. He is currently in the care of other relatives and has been placed under protection. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has issued a statement, vowing that the perpetrators of this terrible crime will be brought to justice.'"

Neville winced. The inexplicable echoes had returned, growing stronger as Professor Stanton read aloud from the newspaper clipping. The tiny warning voice in his mind had also returned, though it wasn't so tiny anymore.

In fact, it was quite loud. It was loud and strident, leaping about, coming from everywhere and nowhere. *Get out get OUT you have to hurry hurry what are you waiting for get out NOW....*

*Shut up!* Neville's conscious mind cried out.

*Please...* the voice begged, half sobbing and half shouting.

Neville whimpered, breathing fast. There was a loud thudding sound, rapid and rhythmic--was it his heart? He felt sick. Not sick enough to actually BE sick, but enough to want to sit down even though he was already sitting. It didn't make sense, but there it was. He took a few deep breaths, hoping to calm down. The air tasted slick and metallic, sour in his throat.

"It does not say so outright, but it suggests that you were there the entire time, Neville." The echoes made his stomach lurch violently. "You were there, and you saw exactly what the Death-Eaters did to your parents. Perhaps, knowing their sadistic sense of humour, they may have even forced you to watch them--"

"NO!" Neville screamed, throwing his arms up in defence against a nonexistant threat. "I wasn't there! I was with Gran! She told me! She didn't lie to me...she wouldn't lie to me...."

The burst of strength left him. He collapsed in a sobbing heap on the bed, curling up into a tight ball and twisting the bedclothes around him. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to die.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was that of Neville's broken weeping.

He felt something--a hand, it felt like--touch his shoulder. He flinched at the contact, trying to pull away. The hand did not let go, but grasped his shoulder firmly, helping him to sit up in bed. Another hand touched his chin, tilting his head and making him look up.

Through his tears, he could see a hazy figure, surrounded by a strange bright light. Professor Stanton was standing over him. The strange light radiated from him, filling the room with its warm glow. Neville gasped in delighted awe as a tingling feeling ran through his body, a sense of comfort and peace, which washed over him in soothing waves. He felt the horrible, sick feelings drain out of him, leaving him limp and exhausted. He was more tired than he could ever remember being. But he was safe. Nothing would harm him, nothing dared to harm him while Professor Stanton was here.

And Professor Stanton was speaking to him in calm, reassuring tones. "She did not lie to you. I am not lying to you now. But where the lie and reality meet, everything is blurred--and there is a reason."

The glow faded, but the sense of protection still lingered in the room, alert and watchful. Neville lay back in bed. From some hidden recess in his cloak, Professor Stanton produced a handkerchief, and handed it to him. He gratefully took it and blew his nose, scrubbing the tear marks from his face.

"I had to be certain, Neville," Professor Stanton said sadly. "I didn't want to put you through that, but I could not tell whether your rescuers had used the 'Obliviate' spell on you...while I can sense most charms of that sort, it would have been cast so long ago that very few traces of the magic would have remained. Now I see...now I see...."

Neville stared at him for a moment, confused. Then, gradually, things began to fall into place, and stark comprehension dawned on his face. "They made me forget it," he said bleakly, not wanting to believe what he was saying. "Forget about Mum...and Dad...."

"They tried to, Neville." The older man sat down on the bed again. "They cast the spell, and hoped that it would work. They must have thought so at the time...perhaps you stopped crying, or calmed down, or something that would have led them to believe that the spell had held. But it didn't...not entirely."

"Why? People use Memory Charms all the time. Did they do something wrong?" Neville asked, scratching his head. He couldn't imagine anyone casting a spell to *make* him forget something. After all the times he'd been scolded by his grandmother and his teachers for not remembering things, it sounded absurd.

"Both children and adults have a built-in coping mechanism that allows them to deal with traumatic events. The charm didn't touch your memories of the Death-Eaters and their acts, the painful, horrible memories deep inside. You had blocked the memories out yourself, you see. They're still there in your mind, not forgotten, but locked away and hidden to keep you safe. To keep you sane." Professor Stanton tapped his own forehead to emphasize his point before continuing.

"But there's still the little matter of the Memory Charm, the one cast by the people who rescued you. I don't know who they were, but they certainly saved your life. Your grandmother might have been among them; I would be very surprised if she wasn't. Anyway, whoever they were, they cast the 'Obliviate' spell. It was a very powerful one, because they wanted to be absolutely sure that no trace of the terrible memory would be left to hurt you later on. But without a memory to remove, the spell stayed within you, searching for feelings of fear and helplessness as it tried to find what it was looking for.

"And I think that's why you tend to be forgetful. The Memory Charm, or its remnants, doesn't seem to know what to remove from your mind. So when you feel nervous, or scared, or overwhelmed, it thinks it has found the memory it wants, and tries to remove it. But because it isn't the proper memory, it misfires, and you forget things.

His piercing gaze studied Neville's troubled face. "Tell me, Neville, do you find yourself more forgetful than usual when you are in, say, Potions class?"

Neville blanched, recalling all the cauldrons he'd melted, all the detentions he'd earned and all the points he'd lost for Gryffindor. From Day One, he hadn't done a thing right in that class. Worst of all, he could see Professor Snape's scowling face looming menacingly in the forefront of his mind.

"That's where it's worst," he whispered.

"You see what I mean," Professor Stanton said, nodding sagely.

Neville's eyes filled with tears again, and his lower lip trembled. "So I suppose I'm always going to be like this," he mumbled. "Stupid. Forgetful."

"Don't talk like that." Professor Stanton's voice was severe. "You are not stupid, Neville. And the fact that you have a difficult time remembering things is certainly not your fault. That is why I want you to keep this." He held out the folded newspaper clipping.

Neville stared at it as if it would bite him.

Professor Stanton placed it in Neville's hand, and curled his fingers around it. "I want you to have this, hold on to it. Keep it with you always. And the next time someone tells you that you're stupid--whether it is Professor Snape, or Draco Malfoy, or anyone else who thinks they can break you--I want you to remember that little piece of paper, and what I have told you tonight. You're far stronger than you know, Neville Longbottom...you just do a very good job of concealing it." His knowing eyes twinkled with the wry light of someone sharing a secret. "Keep it up. Don't let them catch on. You'll surprise us all in the end...I'm certain of it."

Carefully, Neville lifted the piece of faded newspaper and set it aside. He didn't look at it. There would be time enough for that, later on. When he was alone.

Professor Stanton stood, pulling his cloak around him. "I must go now. I have work to do, and so do you."

"Me, sir?"

"Oh, yes, Neville. You are going to go about your business as usual, and not mention this meeting to anyone else. Not to Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley, or even to Miss Granger. They have their own tasks to perform. As far as they are concerned, you are the same Neville they have always known, a little timid and shy, easily overawed by others. But you aren't...not any longer."

A pleasant shiver of pride raced up Neville's spine. "Yes, sir."

The deep voice chuckled again. "Good man. I'll be seeing you soon. And Neville?"

He looked up. "Yes, sir?"

Professor Stanton was smiling, but his eyes were thoughtful and filled with quiet reverence. "Your grandmother is right. They can hear you. And they're very proud of you."

With that, the air rippled around him, and he vanished.

Neville strained his ears, trying to catch the faint sound of lovely, silvery bells as the music whistled away on the wind.

As he sat very still in bed, his mind turning over the new knowledge, he heard a soft creak. The door to the dormitory slowly swung open. Quick as a flash, he hid the paper under his pillow and pulled the covers around him.

Harry and Ron, fully dressed, crept into the room, fiercely shushing each other with every cautious step. The more they tried to be quiet, the louder their movements sounded. It was almost comical.

They saw Neville sitting upright in bed, and stopped short. The guilty expressions on their faces were all too clear.

"We...we were just getting a snack," Ron whispered hastily, tiptoeing over to his bed.

"Yeah," Harry added, his hands twitching nervously. "Went to the kitchens. Just a little hungry, that's all."

"Oh," Neville said calmly, and rolled over. "G'night, then."

"'Night."

"'Night."

 

He heard the rustle of clothing being removed and put on, and the noise from their bedsprings as his two closest friends climbed into their respective beds to catch whatever sleep they could before it was time for class.

Very slowly, Neville reached under the pillow. His fingers brushed the folded piece of paper hidden there. A small, secretive smile played across his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Gramarye [email protected] http://gramarye.freehosting.net/ January 4th, 2002