Becoming Neville

Neville had always viewed the visits to his parents with a combination of terror and despair. Gran loved his parents, but she talked to them as if they were babies. She'd say, "And how are we feeling today? Would we like tapioca for dessert?" Gran filled their visits with inane chatter, to which, of course, Frank and Alice would never respond. Neville would sit and listen to his Gran talk, and let his mother brush his hair, but he never said anything.

Now, however, without his Gran present to serve as a buffer, Neville had to interact more directly with his parents. He told them about his life at Grimmauld Place and the projects he was working on there, but he also spent a lot of time just sitting with them and saying nothing. To his surprise, this silence allowed interactions he'd never known before. If he remained quiet for long enough, his mother would stare at him. She seldom ever made eye contact before, but now she would stare directly into his eyes for long minutes at a time, as if she were studying a painting. He could not discern any recognition or even intelligence in her eyes, but he saw something there, some spark of awareness that he'd never encountered in her before. But if he spoke, she would look away.

On other occasions, he brought paper and crayons to her. As long as he remained silent, she would draw - mostly circles and spirals of blue and green and purple. She never used red or orange or yellow. Once he gave her a red crayon, and she pounded it against the table until it broke into tiny pieces. Sometimes Neville drew, too: childish pictures of his home in Lancashire, with stick figures of him and Gran and his parents, standing in the garden among the flowers. His mother would take his finished picture and cover it with circles and spirals that arched over and through the images. Nurse Nettlethorne tut-tutted about how his mother ruined his drawings, but he loved their joint efforts. Sometimes when she drew, she would talk. Nothing she said ever made much sense, but he liked hearing her voice.

On the day of his appointment with Dr. Driftwood, Nurse Nettlethorne signaled to him before he entered the resident's ward.

He asked, "Do you have more files for me, Nurse Nettlethorne?"

"Yes, yes," she said, her thin face pinched and agitated. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. It's your mother. Earlier today a little girl came through here with her parents. She was visiting her cousin, who is recovering from a nasty bite from an erkling. Anyway, the little girl dropped her doll in the hallway. Your mother picked it up and has refused to return it. She attacks anyone who tries to take it from her." Nurse Nettlethorne scowled primly. "That just won't do, Mr. Longbottom. She needs to give that doll back, or we will have to sedate her in order to retrieve it. I'm hoping you might be able to get it back from her."

"I'll try," he said.

He entered the resident's ward and spied his mother standing at the window, her back to him. She was rocking back and forth, holding something in her arms, and as he drew nearer, he could hear her humming a tune.

"Hi, Mum," he said as he came to stand at her side. "What are you doing?"

She paid him no mind, her gaze locked on the doll in her arms, swaddled in her robe.

"Where did you get the doll?" he asked, reaching out to touch it.

With a warning snarl, she snatched it away from him, turning away to croon to the doll once more.

He glanced toward the door and saw Nurse Nettlethorne watching him. She frowned and gestured for him to make another attempt.

He stepped around his mother so he could face her, saying, "I don't think that doll belongs to you, Mum. There's a little girl out there who loves it and wants it back. I'll get you a doll of your own." Again he reached for it, and again she snatched it away.

Uncertain what to do next, he stood beside her, watching her cradle the doll and hum to it. He'd never heard her sing or hum before, and it sounded nice. He wanted to stand there and listen to her sing forever. He didn't recognize the tune, and at first he thought she was just making it up. But slowly he realized that he knew what notes she was going to sing next. He knew when the tune would slow down and when it would speed up, when the notes would rise and when they would fall. Yet he had no idea what tune she was singing. How could he know this song and yet not know it? It echoed strangely in his mind, like an odd premonition. He watched his mother rock the doll, crooning softly, reaching out her hand to brush the plastic curls back from its face, and he knew - he knew he'd seen this before, had heard this tune, because he had been the one to be held in her arms. He'd looked up to see her face above him, fuller and rounder than it was now. Those hands had stroked his hair, those arms had held him; the doll his mother now cradled was him.

Startled, he stepped backward, right into Nurse Nettlethorne.

"Can't you get the doll from her?" she asked sharply.

"No." His voice sounded hollow.

"Then we'll have to do this the hard way." Frowning, Nurse Nettlethorne drew her wand out of her starched pocket.

At the sight of the wand, Neville's mother shrieked, a loud, warning cry of anger. She turned away from Nurse Nettlethorne, shielding the doll with her upper body, at the same time that she lashed out, kicking the nurse in the stomach. Nurse Nettlethorne let out a startled "oof!" and fell backward.

"Mum!" Neville cried as his mother tore off down the aisle toward the door, her hair flying. But he didn't want to stop her. He wanted to help her, to protect her just as she was protecting the doll, protecting him.

Two burly orderlies appeared in the doorway, blocking any escape. Neville's mother skittered to a stop, snarling and clutching the doll to her chest. The orderlies stalked toward her like a pair of mountain trolls, and his mother let loose with a string of obscenities that would have made the Weasley twins blush. As she backpedaled, Neville darted around her to face off with the orderlies. "Don't touch her!" he bellowed, fists raised in defiance. The orderlies stopped, glancing uncertainly at each other.

From behind him he heard a cry. "Stupefy!"

He heard a choked gasp and turned to see his mother crumpling to the floor, Nurse Nettlethorne standing behind her, wand raised, mouth twisted in sour triumph.

"Mummy!" He dropped to his knees at her side. The doll had fallen from her grasp and lay tangled in the robe on the floor. The sight horrified him, and when Nurse Nettlethorne stooped to pick up the doll, dangling it casually by the ankle, he glared at her. "How dare you attack her!"

Nurse Nettlethorne tucked a stray wisp of cherry-red hair back under her cap. "She attacked me. Your mother was deranged."

Trembling with fury, Neville rose to face her. "She wasn't hurting anyone! You didn't have to stun her like that. She was trying to protect the baby."

"It's not a baby. It's a doll, and it doesn't belong to her." She handed the doll to one of the orderlies, and Neville fought the urge to snatch it back. "Your mother doesn't understand these things."

He looked at the woman lying at his feet, and it seemed to him that she understood some things very well. She looked so frail and broken, sprawled on the floor, her dressing gown riding up her knees, her thin hair a wash of gray against the linoleum. She'd fought to protect him. A fierce surge of love welled up inside him. He would be the parent now. He would take care of his mother and father, defending them against anyone or anything that threatened to harm them.

One of the orderlies bent to pick her up, and Neville seized the man by the collar. "I'll get her," he said fiercely. He knelt and tenderly gathered his mother in his arms, resting her head against his shoulder, and picked her up. She weighed so very little, and her bones felt brittle in his grasp. He carried her to her bed next to his father and laid her out on the covers, arranging her head on the pillow and smoothing her hair back from her face.

He looked up and saw Nurse Nettlethorne watching him. "Never do that again," he warned.

She raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. It was clear his threat had no effect on her. Like so many other people, she no doubt saw him as an insignificant little boy whose opinion meant nothing.

But it didn't matter what she thought of him. Neville meant what he said, and he would keep his promises.

*****

"Ah, Mr. Longbottom, do sit down." Dr. Otis B. Driftwood gestured for Neville to take a seat in a padded leather chair. Neville instantly felt swallowed up in the enormous chair, and his legs didn't quite reach the floor. He had to sit forward in order to keep from sliding off.

"Maisie," Dr. Driftwood called to his secretary. "Do bring us some tea." He looked inquiringly at Neville. "Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, please."

Dr. Driftwood nodded to Maisie, who silently shut the door behind her. Settling into a matching chair facing Neville, Dr. Driftwood smiled in welcome. He was a short man with thinning hair combed over his bald spot. His white mediwizard robes were starched and spotless, and his blue eyes twinkled at Neville through thick, square glasses.

"It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Longbottom," Dr. Driftwood said, his voice even and calming. "I have worked with your parents for many years now. It is good to finally see what an outstanding young man their son is."

Neville wriggled in his chair, trying to find a more stable position. Dr. Driftwood's friendliness was unsettling. Then again, mediwizards in his experience were always a bit too friendly, as if they were trying to make up for the fact that they would eventually try to poor noxious potions down your throat and cast painful healing charms on you.

"Nurse Nettlethorne tells me that you have been studying your parents' medical records. It's good to see you taking such an interest in their welfare."

"Well, they are my parents. I ought to know about their treatment."

"True, true," Dr. Driftwood nodded.

The door opened, and Maisie entered with a tray bearing two tea cups. She offered the tray first to Neville, who took one of the cups, and then the doctor.

"Thank you, Maisie, dear," Dr. Driftwood politely responded. As she left, he took a sip of his tea, and then said, "Your parents' case is so tragic. Such an awful loss. They were real heroes."

Neville merely nodded, blowing on his tea.

"So I take it in asking to see me, you want to know about your parents' prognosis?"

"Yes, please."

Dr. Driftwood sighed and placed his cup and saucer on a low table at his elbow. "No one has ever survived exposure to Cruciatus as long as your parents. The medical world has never seen such effects before. I'm afraid your parents will never regain their mental faculties."

Neville sipped slowly at his tea. Everything in the records said the same thing, but he didn't want to accept it. "You started working with my parents in 1991?"

"Yes, indeed. Their condition at that time was rapidly deteriorating. They became increasingly agitated, and the staff worried that they might cause harm to themselves or others. As an expert in spell damage, I was called in to stabilize them."

Neville had read about that. The doctor was politely refraining from mentioning how his mother had experienced bizarre hallucinations and repeatedly attacked the staff and even other patients. His father had begun to rouse from his stupor, only to scream uncontrollably for hours. It had been harrowing to read the medical notes.

"Do you know why they started acting like that?" he asked.

"We can't know for certain," was Dr. Driftwood's benign reply. "Perhaps over time the medical potions ceased to be as effective. Or it could be that their minds had continued to deteriorate even after all those years, and they reached some kind of breaking point. At any rate, when I was called in, I was quickly able to restore their composure."

Catatonia, you mean, Neville wanted to retort. "The records say that you treat them with nightshade. Isn't that dangerous?"

"To a normal working mind, it can be. But it cannot do any more damage to your parents than they've already experienced. Instead, the nightshade calms the disturbed patterns in their brains."

"And an intinction of hemlock?" Neville asked.

"A soporific. It prevents hallucinations."

Neville fidgeted. "But those are powerful poisons. Are you sure it doesn't hurt them?"

Dr. Driftwood sighed patiently. "I know it must be disturbing to you to read of such treatments. But young man, this is my field of expertise. You must trust my judgment."

Neville toyed with his cup, turning it in the saucer. "I know you're the expert. But they're on so many potions. My potions teacher is always telling us how potions can work against each other and you shouldn't take too many at once. I just wonder how it can be good for them to take all those potions for such a long time."

"Mr. Longbottom, I understand your concerns. Of course it is worrying to the layperson. But I'm sure your potions teacher would agree that a carefully researched and planned regimen can be of enormous benefit." He paused, tilting his head slightly as he studied Neville. "I understand your mother had an incident today?"

Neville looked at his cup, where a few tea leaves floated along the edge. He had no desire to talk about that with this man.

Dr. Driftwood sighed and removed his glasses, polishing them on the hem of his robe before putting them on again. "Such incidents are often more traumatic for the family members than the patients. It's understandable. The measures that must be taken to prevent harm can seem excessive, even cruel. It can be very distressing."

Neville poked at one of the tea leaves with his fingertip, trying to draw the leaf up onto the edge of the cup.

"Often family members - out of the very best intentions, mind you - want to take their loved ones off their medications. Sometimes they distrust the hospital environment itself. They want to take the patients home with them, give them a rest from their treatment. They think that if only they can return the patients to a familiar, loving environment, away from all the sterility and potions and spells of the hospital, then their loved ones will recover on their own."

Three specks of leaves now sat on the rim of his cup. He sucked the drop of tea off his finger. Dr. Driftwood's words echoed his own thoughts with an eerie accuracy.

"But it never works," Dr. Driftwood continued, his voice still calm and a bit sad. "If you took your parents home, took them off their medication, then their psychosis would return. They would become distressed and agitated. They would lash out at themselves and even at you. They would become impossible to control. I know you think you'd like to take care of them yourself, but believe me, it is too great a task. In the end, they would be far worse. No. I know it's hard to accept, but the fact is your parents will never recover. All we can do is try to make them as comfortable as possible. Really, St. Mungo's is the best place for them."

Neville raised his head, staring absently at the mass of framed diplomas on the wall. "Why do you give them hemlock, though? My potions teacher says it clouds the mind. Wouldn't you want them to be more alert, rather than less alert?"

"Indeed I would, if there were ever any chance of recovery."

"But how do you know for certain that they'll never recover?"

"Young man, it's been fourteen years. If they were ever going to get better, they'd have shown some sign of it by now."

"But back in 1991, when their condition changed - "

"Mr. Longbottom," Dr. Driftwood interrupted, his voice taking on a harsh tone, "I know it is distressing, but you must face facts. I am the expert here, not you, nor your potions teacher. Believe me, I know what is best for your parents. Perhaps one day there will be some medical breakthrough, but until then rest assured that your parents are receiving the very best care available. Indeed, the wizarding world owes them no less for their heroic sacrifice on behalf of us all."

Neville thought of his mother, protecting that doll and fighting off Nurse Nettlethorne. Sourly he wondered what Dr. Driftwood really knew of sacrifice. His gaze roamed over the diplomas once more. Certainly the display conveyed the doctor's expertise: degrees from mediwizard schools and societies not only in England but in Germany, Brazil, the United States, and Japan; photos showing him receiving awards, speaking in front of large groups of mediwizards, posing with other doctors.

To his surprise, he recognized one of the faces in the photos. A tall man with long white-blonde hair and dressed in aristocratic robes, shaking hands with Dr. Driftwood.

"Isn't that Lucius Malfoy?" Neville asked, pointing at the picture.

Dr. Driftwood twisted around to see where Neville indicated. "Ah, yes. That picture was taken at the annual fundraising banquet for Victims of the War. Mr. Malfoy has always been a generous supporter of St. Mungo's."

"He's a Death Eater," Neville spat. "He's currently in Azkaban."

For a moment, Dr. Driftwood's benevolent composure faltered, but then he regained his calm. "Indeed. Such a great shock to us all."

Not to Neville. "Why do you still have his picture on your wall?"

"Mr. Malfoy was a member of the board of directors of St. Mungo's. If you visit the office of any of our mediwizards, you will find his picture. I do not admire the man for his undesirable connections, but his contributions to the hospital have helped a great many people, including your parents. I for one am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. I'm just grateful for the gift."

Neville nodded benignly, but the thought of Lucius Malfoy helping his parents filled him with revulsion.