Becoming Neville

Chapter Two

Neville didn't sleep much that night. Of course, he didn't sleep much most nights anymore, but that night he had an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar house to contend with. He lay awake for hours, staring into the blackness of his curtained bed, listening to the mutterings and creakings of the house. The noises didn't really bother him that much, even though he had no idea what was making them, and he no longer had a wand with which to protect himself. But he felt safe enough knowing that Harry and Lupin were in the house. As strange as the noises might be, they were not as frightening as the dreams he could expect if he fell asleep.

At some point he did nod off, of course. But he did not dream about *Her,* with her wicked laugh and evil eyes. Instead, he dreamed of Gran at St. Mungo's. She was complaining about her breakfast, and Neville wandered through the halls trying to find a nurse or attendant to help him, but all he could find were other patients shuffling around in their dressing gowns and robes, hobbling on crutches. Somewhere, someone was humming a lullaby, and the melody filled him with a sense of urgency and despair. He called out for the nurse, but no one responded to his pleas. No one even looked at him. "They're not getting better! They're not getting better!" his dream-self cried out.

Someone answered, "No one ever does."

His dream-self spun around, trying to see who had spoken, but there was no one there except the patients, their expressions slack, their eyes lifeless. He could hear his Gran calling for him, her voice shrill over that haunting lullaby. "Look at these eggs!" she griped. "They're not supposed to be purple! Neville! Do something!"

"I'm trying, Gran!" He looked for her room, but the numbers on the doors kept moving around, just out of focus, and he couldn't remember Gran's room number anyway. If only he could read the numbers, maybe he could remember where he was and what he was supposed to do. But the numbers would not resolve themselves, and when he reached into his pocket for his wand, he found nothing there.

Neville finally shook himself awake, feeling frustrated and uneasy. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his vision of those elusive room numbers, and reached out to draw the curtains aside. The little light that shone through the sealed windows gave the room a murky gloom. The place hardly looked more appealing in the morning than it had at night.

He climbed out of bed and searched the room for Trevor, finally locating him under the wardrobe. Trevor appeared to be in fine form, so Neville left the toad to his own devices, got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.

He found Lupin in the kitchen preparing a plate of leftovers from last night's dinner. "Good morning," Lupin greeted him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," he answered politely as he slid a chair out from the table.

They ate breakfast mostly in silence, and Neville wished he had brought a book down to read, especially since it didn't appear that Harry would turn up for breakfast. Neville liked Professor Lupin well enough, but he wasn't really up to the task of carrying on a conversation with him alone. Lupin seemed scarcely in the mood either, despite his polite attempts.

When they had finished breakfast and the dishes were washed and put away, Lupin said, "I have some research to do for the Order. You could help me if you like, but you might prefer to explore the house on your own." He gave Neville a wry smile. "I won't mind."

No doubt Gran would say that he ought to help Professor Lupin, but he wasn't very good at research. "Maybe...maybe I'll just look around the house first and get acquainted with it."

"All right. Just remember, this house isn't particularly friendly. You'll be safe enough, but if you run into any problems, just give a shout."

With this dubious assurance, Neville headed off to explore. He started with the ground floor, doing little more than poking his head into doorways. He found the parlor, where the chairs have been arranged around a great table - probably where the meetings were held - and a formal dining room, a drawing room and a library. There were plenty of closets and corners that he might have explored, but he was still a bit intimidated by Lupin's warning about pixies the previous night.

Up to the first floor, where his and Harry's rooms were located. Most of the other rooms up here were bedrooms as well, aside from an informal sitting room. It seemed about as pleasant a place as anything else he'd found, so he might want to get familiar with it.

On to the second floor. More bedrooms. When he stumbled across what must be Lupin's room, he blushed and hastily shut the door, as if he'd trespassed someplace he shouldn't have been.

Another room looked like it had been converted into a laboratory. Neville didn't care to linger there, either, as he was certain to upset something that would probably end up destroying the whole house.

At the end of the hall he discovered a short flight of steps leading up to a door. He figured it must be the attic. Attics were chancy; anything could be hiding in them, and those anythings frequently liked to bite. On the other hand, attics could also contain interesting treasures. He screwed up his courage and resolved to at least take a look.

He found a candlestick on one of the hall tables and lit it from a gas lamp. Holding the candle before him, he opened the door. Brilliant light flooded into the house, almost blinding him after the indoor gloom. The door didn't lead to an attic. It led to the roof.

Neville blew out his candle and blinked against the daylight. The sky was full of clouds, but not completely overcast. With all the windows sealed, Neville hadn't even realized the sun was shining outside. He checked to make sure that the door wouldn't lock behind him, then stepped outside.

It was as if he'd shrugged off a great, musty old cloak. It felt wonderful to be outside, and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of the city: wet pavement left over from yesterday's rain, hot tar paper from the roof drying in the sun. It wasn't exactly the British countryside, but it was much better than dust and decay.

Neville approached the wall, which reached up to his chest. The concealment spell ought to keep him hidden as well. At least, he thought so. He probably ought to check with Lupin first, but he wanted to look around. Resting his arms along the top of the wall, he looked down three stories to the ground below.

He was looking at the alley behind the houses, lined with twin rows of tiny backyards, some with toys and patchy grass, others with beautifully tended gardens. Some had laundry hanging out to dry, others had lawn chairs and tables crowded into the tiny plots. He felt like a spy staring into these people's backyards, as if he were sorting through someone else's underwear drawer. But he found the alley strangely comforting, too, a reminder that other people were going through their lives right next door. Even if the neighbors were Muggles, it meant that he was not alone in the world.

But it still seemed like an intrusion of privacy, so he didn't stay long. He turned away from the wall, and that's what he saw it: the greenhouse. Neville gasped in delight.

It was an ancient thing, and at one time it must have been truly beautiful. But now the elegantly wrought iron frame was rusted through in places, white paint peeling off like an insect sloughing off its skin. Tangles of dead vines wove through the frame, pushing through the broken and cracked panes. A thick layer of pigeon droppings and dirt coated the glass, and Neville doubted much light could get through the grime.

He picked his way toward the greenhouse and grasped the door handle, giving it a solid twist, but it was locked. A pane of glass had been broken out near the handle, and he reached through it to unlock the door. As he pulled it open, several panes of glass to teetered precariously in the frame. He paused, holding his breath, but nothing fell, and he cautiously entered the little building.

Nothing was growing inside except moss and a few tenacious weeds. The beds had not been tended in ages, and they were filled with the rotting remains of old plants, tangled with dried brown vines. Even in their decayed state, Neville recognized several of the plants, but there were plenty of others he didn't know it all. He itched to take some sample leaves downstairs in order to research, but that would not be a good idea. Even dead, some plants could still pack enough poison to leave him covered in boils for a week. He'd have to bring the reference books up here.

He scouted through the shelves and under the beds and found that the house was well-stocked with equipment: spades, clippers, pruning shears, watering cans. He found bags of potting soil and fertilizer, though he wasn't sure if they were good anymore, and several pairs of leather gloves so old that they would probably crack if he tried to put them on. Anyway, he wasn't about to stick his fingers into old gloves that had been lying around for years. Who knew what bugs might have taken up residence inside them?

Half the roof was missing, and the floor was littered with broken glass and bird droppings. It was a mess, and it was probably not safe, and it would take forever to clean up.

Neville was in heaven.

*****

During the course of the morning, the sun slowly burned off the clouds, heating up the day. But Neville was so absorbed in his work, sorting through the items in the greenhouse and surveying what needed to be done, that he scarcely noticed. Dirt was packed under his fingernails, the cuffs of his shirt were damp from where he kept wiping the sweat off his forehead, and his neck was gritty with dust. It wasn't until the sun at last poked through a hole in the roof, shining down on him like a spotlight, that he even noticed how much time had passed. He sat back on his heels and squinted up into the sun, wiping his face with his grimy cuff and scouring his skin. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him of how long it had been since breakfast, and he decided to take a break and hunt down something to eat.

He headed back inside, whistling as he stomped down the stairs. The greenhouse was even more fun than his grandmother's well-tended and orderly garden, and he hoped he could plant some of the more exotic species that Gran would never let anywhere near her geraniums.

When Neville entered the kitchen, he found Lupin sitting in front of a plate of sandwiches, a half-drunk glass of lemonade at his elbow, parchments scattered across the table. "There you are!" Lupin exclaimed. With a flick of his wand, the parchments all rolled themselves up and piled themselves neatly on one of the chairs. Gesturing to the sandwiches, Lupin continued, "I went looking for you for lunch, but I couldn't find you anywhere. I hope you don't mind me starting without you, but I figured you would turn up eventually."

Heading over to the sink to wash his hands, Neville said, "I was up in the greenhouse."

"Greenhouse?" Lupin asked as he poured out a fresh glass of lemonade.

"Up on the roof."

"That's a greenhouse?" Lupin laughed. "I just thought it was some old shed. The thing was so filthy, I wouldn't go near it!"

"Oh, no, it's a greenhouse," said Neville, taking a seat at the table and reaching for the sandwiches. "It's a bit of a mess, but I could fix it up...." He faltered, suddenly remember that the greenhouse did not belong to him. "If you wanted, I mean. I could clean it up and make it ready for you to use."

Lupin watched as Neville stuffed half of a ham sandwich in his mouth at once. "Don't bother. No one's been in that greenhouse for at least ten years. I doubt you could get anything to grow in it at all, and I'd hate for you to waste all that time for nothing."

"It wouldn't be a waste, Professor," answered Neville around a mouthful of sandwich. "Professor Sprout says you can grow anything anywhere with patience and a lot of loving care."

Pouring out a glass of pumpkin juice for Neville, Lupin said, "I have no doubt that she could work such miracles, but it's not worth the effort."

The thought of the beautiful greenhouse, left to rot for lack of love, filled Neville with an ineffable sadness. "It would be worth it to me," he said quietly.

Lupin studied him over the rim of his glass. "You're certainly welcome to try, Neville. Just don't get your hopes up. I'm sure it needs a lot of repair, and there will be no one to look after it once you go back to school."

Neville slowly took a bite of his sandwich. Lupin was probably right. What was the point of working so hard, only to have it all go feral again when he left? But if he *could* make a difference - even a tiny one, just for a couple of months - to make something grow, to bring it to life, to show it love - surely that would be worthwhile in and of itself? He had so few opportunities to do anything useful.

"I would like to try," he offered, "if you don't mind."

Lupin gave him a gentle smile. "Far be it from me to stand in your way. Just let me know if you need any seeds or...whatever you gardeners require. I'll be happy to get it for you."

"Thank you," Neville said, grinning shyly back. He reached for another sandwich, glancing around the kitchen for a sign that Harry might have shown up for lunch. "Did Harry eat already?"

A small frown creased Lupin's forehead. "No, he hasn't come down. He usually keeps to his room all day. It's best if we just let him be."

Neville took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich and glanced over their heads, toward where Harry must be sulking in his room. Perhaps it was a blessing to have found that greenhouse. It certainly seemed like Harry wasn't going to be much fun over the summer.

*****

After lunch, Neville went back to work on the greenhouse. He took a parchment and quill and spent the rest of the afternoon making a diagram of the beds and what he might plant in them and listing the supplies he would need. As he surveyed the amount of work that would need to be done, he realized that Lupin's pessimism was not unwarranted. Even patience and loving care couldn't yield good results in sterile soil and scorching sun. But the challenges only made him more determined. Herbology was the one thing he was really good at, and he wasn't about to quit the field without giving it a good try.

As the sun began its descent toward the horizon of rooftops, Neville packed up his parchment and went downstairs to wash up for dinner. Apparently there was no meeting of the Order tonight, as it was just Lupin in the kitchen, boiling up some cauldron noodles. Lupin informed him that Harry had come down for a late lunch and then vanished upstairs once more. The two of them shared a quiet dinner, discussing Neville's ideas for the greenhouse. Afterward he browsed through the library, pulling out any books he could find that related to herbology. Then he took his stash upstairs and read alone in his room until he fell asleep, exhausted from a good day's hard work.

*****

She loomed above him, her features sharp and strangely beautiful, her long hair flowing down her back. She smiled, and Neville thought he had never seen anything more terrifying.

"Longbottom?" Her lip curled in a sneer. "Why, I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents, boy."

He wanted to shout at her, but no sound emerged from his mouth. He reached for his wand, but there was nothing there.

She grew taller even as he watched, stretching high above him. "Let's see how long you last before you crack like your parents."

He had to warn Harry, he had to get away, but his feet were rooted to the spot. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, strained until he thought his lungs would burst, but he could not make a sound. He held the Prophecy against his chest with numb fingers, and he feared he might drop it.

She raised her arm. The tip of her wand traced a slow arc as it rose toward him.

*Scream! Scream!* he shouted in his mind, but he could say and do nothing. He was losing his grip on the Prophecy. He could not allow himself to lose it. He could not mess things up this time. But he was held transfixed.

Eyes as pale as a winter sky.

Features as sharp as if they have been chiseled from marble.

Hair flying about like lightning.

The wand pointed at his heart.

*Move! Move!* But he could not.

She would curse him, just as she had his parents. Already he could feel his muscles cramping in anticipation of the pain. He was nothing more than a bug to her, a bug that she would grind beneath her heel. The voices lanced through his brain like shards of broken glass.

"Why even bother, boy?"

"Little more than a squib!"

"We'll test that potion on Trevor!"

"You sure your name isn't Widebottom?"

"Thank God your father isn't here to see how you've turned out!"

Her lips moved, preparing to pronounce the Cruciatus curse.

But at last he found his voice, and he was faster than her. He hurled the Prophecy at her and screamed.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

****

Neville lurched awake, trembling, gasping desperately for breath. The Dream again. He could still see her face shredded by the shattered Prophecy, could feel his glee as she screamed in agony. Fury and terror boiled through his veins. His hands trembled with the desire to sink his fingers into her eye sockets, to feel the flesh tearing away from her skull. He wanted her blood on his hands. His own voice echoed in his ears, shrieking the Killing Curse, and he clamped his hands over his mouth to keep himself from saying it.

He felt sick.

"Not real," he whimpered. "Not real, not real. I didn't say it. I never said it." But God, how he wanted to in the Dream. He might not have said it, but the hatred was real, burning in his throat like acid. He *could* say it. He could. And then what would happen?

He sat up in bed, clutching his stomach to keep from vomiting, his eyes squeezed shut. He recited a poem in order to drive the evil words out of his head, an old poem about a little lamb that his Gran had taught him when he was young. It helped calm him whenever he was frightened, and his nausea gradually subsided to be replaced by tremors. He lay back down on his side, drawing the covers tightly around him, but Gran would not be coming in to check on him. He hated bothering her with his nightmares. His inability to conquer them was one more example of his failure as a Longbottom. He was desperately afraid that she would ask him about his dreams, and he had no idea what he would tell her. But she never berated him when she came to his room. She never said anything, just sat on the edge of his bed and laid her dry hand upon his forehead until the tremors stopped and he at last fell asleep again. But she was at St. Mungo's now, and he was alone.

Eventually his tremors stopped, even without Gran's presence. The poem drowned out the evil words, but it didn't drive them out of him completely. He could see Her face in the darkness, that sneer, those hard eyes. Her lips moved to utter the curse, and he felt the rage bubbling within him again with all the relentless fury of an erupting volcano, saw himself throwing the Prophecy, heard his own voice shrieking in anger --

"No!" he whimpered, as the memory threatened to overwhelm him. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his hands over his pounding heart, but he could feel the curse shredding him, not the Cruciatus, but the other one --

Uttering a strangled cry, he threw the covers off and leaped out of bed. He crossed the room, feet padding against the dusty carpet, and opened the door.

The hall was almost as dark as his room. The faintest hint of light shone from somewhere, but it scarcely comforted him. There was something dark and sinister about this house. It seemed to sneer at him, the way She had. He wasn't afraid of the house. After all, what could it do to him? But he didn't like it all the same. It lingered with the scent of ozone and burnt hair, as if somebody had cast a hex. He glared into the darkness, almost daring the house to try something, but all remained quiet.

Swallowing hard, he headed down the hall toward Harry's room and knocked on the door. He didn't want to knock too loudly, for fear of waking Professor Lupin as well. Nothing stirred on the other side of the door. He waited for several seconds, then knocked again. "Harry!" he said in a loud whisper. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened for sounds of movement, but he couldn't be sure if he heard anything or not. "Harry?"

The door opened, and he stepped back in surprise at the suddenness of it. A rumpled Harry stared out at him, expression barely discernible in the dark. "What is it?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

Strangely, Neville wasn't embarrassed about coming to Harry because of a bad dream. After all, he knew Harry sometimes had nightmares, too. "I -- I'm sorry to bother you. It's just -- I had a dream about..." He paused, not wanting to say it out loud. But maybe he didn't have to. Harry had been there, too. He'd seen Her. "*You* know," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry remained silent, but after a moment his expression softened.

"I don't want to sleep alone," Neville continued. "I won't bother you. I just thought -- maybe I could sleep in your chair. If you don't mind."

Harry studied him in the dark. Neville realized he hadn't put on his glasses. He preferred Harry with his glasses. They looked quite smart on him.

At last Harry stepped back, letting Neville into the room. He glanced around in the dark for the chair as Harry headed back to his bed, the frame creaking as Harry crawled under the covers.

"Come on," Harry's voice came to him out of the dark. "The bed's plenty big enough. You don't need to sleep in the chair."

Neville felt his way across the room toward Harry's voice. His outstretched hand brushed against the curtains and he could hear Harry shifting to make room for him. He crawled up onto the bed and pulled the covers up. The mattress was still warm where Harry had been lying. Neville snuggled into the covers, the warmth already melting away the chill of his dream. "Thanks, Harry," he said into the darkness.

"It's all right."

Within moments, Neville was asleep.