Visiting Them

Visiting Them

You always know when you're about to visit them. You gran comes into your room with her stuffed-vulture hat on and you stifle a giggle, remembering your third year Defense Against the Dark Arts. But then your eyes travel down to the set of her chin and your heart sinks to below your stomach.

Come on, boy. Your Gran says. You take your coat off the rack and stumble after her, cursing your clumsiness when you trip over thin air. As much as you hate these visits, you know you'll feel far worse if you don't go.

* * *

Mrs. Longbottom! gushes the Healer when you get to your parent's ward. And Neville too! What a wonderful surprise! You can't remember her name, only that she is always happy. You smile and nod absently, half-dazed by her bright green robes.

She leads you past the other inmates of the ward and your heart jolts at the sight of them.

At Agnes Muldoon, whose animagus attempt went drastically wrong.

At Broderick Bode, who was attacked by Death Eaters. You remember reading about him in the Daily Prophet and wonder if there were newspaper articles about your parents.

At Gilderoy Lockhart, your old Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. You never were quite certain what had happened to him.

You finally reach your parents' beds. Gran sits in the chair next to your father and you pull the curtains closed without being asked, just as you have done for over ten years.

Your Gran's face is held in a stiff smile and she is chattering away to the two people lying oblivious in their beds. You try to block out her voice, but it is too loud and worms it's way relentlessly into your eardrums. ...so then I said to Enid-- you'll remember Enid, Alice dear-- I said that Neville was coming along just fine in school, thank you very much. What with O.W.L.S. this year...

You don't bother to talk, as you're pretty sure they can't hear you. You just sit in the hard wooden chair next to your mother and stare at the curtain and wait for it to be over.

* * *

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, your Gran runs out of gossip and stands up, motioning for you to do so as well. Your leg has fallen asleep and you halfheartedly shake it out as you emerge from the curtains. You wonder if it's possible for your whole body to fall asleep and never get up. You wonder if that's what happened to your parents. Instead of stopping to ponder, you follow your Gran down the ward, checking your watch.

Thirteen minutes. It's been the shortest visit yet.

You wonder what your parents would say if they knew your visits have been getting steadily shorter, but you don't know and the Healer is distracting you. She says the same time every time you leave: Oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already? And although you know she'd say that if you stayed for a week, it strikes a bitter chord in your heart and guilt reverberates inside your chest.

* * *

Seconds later, as you pass Agnes Muldoon's bed you see two red heads out of your peripheral vision. And by the looks on their faces they've seen you.

Neville! It's Ron. You jump and stare, like a kappa caught in a wand light. It's us, Neville! Have you seen? Lockhart's here! Who've you been visiting? But no. This can't be happening. You've never told anyone, you've hugged it close to your heart, and now to have them all find out... It's terrifying, to say the least.

You're not ashamed of them. Really, you're not, no matter what your Gran may think. It's just that you don't want to be different. You're already singled out for being a coward in Gryffindor, and no one has parents like yours. Even Harry's parents had the sense to die when asked to.

Friends of yours, Neville, dear? You close your eyes, suddenly exhausted. Gran doesn't need to hear this. Harry, Ron, Ginny and Hermione. You listen to her identify your classmates and wait for the bomb to drop.

...yes, Neville's told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you? This is where the potion's going to spill, you think. She'll go on about how you're not as good as your father and it'll be out. And indeed. ...but he hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say....

She motions to your parents' beds with her ridiculous vulture headdress and you hope for a distraction, but you know that it is too late.

* * *

Back home you sit on your bed, the gum wrapper from your mother held in your cupped hands. They took it well you think detachedly. You're okay...they won't tell....

* * *

The boy on the bed takes one last look at the gum wrapper and drops it in a box next to his bed. A box full of neatly smoothed out gum wrappers.