Becoming Neville

Without another word, they headed down the hall toward the residents' ward. As they passed the nurse's station, Nurse Nettlethorne scowled at them. "You, boy!" she sneered at Neville. "Ungrateful little brat. You're making a great mistake. You had no right to look at those files! Dr. Driftwood is a great man! All these years he's devoted such care to your parents, and this is how you repay him?"

Neville glared at her. "I wish he'd get sacked!" Ignoring Nurse Nettlethorne's shocked expression, he banged the door open, Harry close on his heels.

They walked down the long row of beds. He'd been visiting this ward all his life, a familiar journey from as far back as he could remember. He knew all of the residents, and knew who'd been in those beds before their present occupants. He knew when the walls had been repainted, and when Mrs. Whipple changed her hair dye to a slightly bluer shade. If home is indeed where the heart is, then the fourth floor residents' ward of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was Neville's true home. It was strange to think of his parents leaving. But still worse was the thought that this home had in fact been a prison.

They arrived at his parents' bedside at the end of the row. Neville's father was sitting in a chair, staring blankly at nothing, a long line of drool hanging from his lower lip and staining the front of his pajama shirt. His mother was perched on the edge of her bed, fussing with her hair. She teased out one long strand and plucked it out of her scalp, staring at it for a moment before letting it fall to the floor. Then she started teasing out another strand.

Neville gently caught her hand in his. "Don't do that, Mum." He looked up at Harry. "Would you get the crayons and some paper from the nurse's station? That will distract her from pulling out her hair."

"Sure," said Harry.

As he went to fetch the coloring things, Neville placed his mother's hands in her lap, patting them lightly. "Just sit there a minute, Mum. We'll do some drawing in a moment." Removing a handkerchief from the bedside drawer, he turned to his father and wiped his mouth.

"I got a new wand, Dad," he said. "By the way, Mr. Ollivander remembered you. He said your wand wasn't right for me, and he gave me a new one. I've only tried it a couple of times, but it works really well. Would you like to see it?" He drew the wand out of his sleeve and held it out in front of his father. "Of course I miss your wand, but I suppose this one is better for me."

His mother rose from the bed, eyes fixed on the wand, and reached slowly toward it.

"No, Mum, you can't touch it," Neville said gently. "You can look at it, but you mustn't touch it."

She snatched her hand back and bared her teeth, which he took as a bad sign. He tucked the wand safely out of sight again and helped his mother back to her bed.

Harry returned with a stack of paper and a box of crayons. They dragged a small table next to the bed and spread out the coloring things.

"Sorry," Neville apologized to Harry. "Coloring is kind of a baby thing. But Mum likes it. Watching over her can be kind of boring."

"I don't mind at all," said Harry, pulling out a sheet of paper. "As long as your mum doesn't mind that I'm terrible at drawing."

Neville grinned. "She's not very particular. But watch out for the reds and oranges. She doesn't like them very much."

"Why not?"

"I dunno. She smashes them."

"All right." Harry sought out a gray crayon. "I'll draw Hedwig. She doesn't have any red or orange. Besides, she's just about the only thing I can draw. Why don't you draw Trevor?"

"Toads are hard," Neville said, watching as his mother grabbed a black crayon and started doodling. "But I'll try."

The three of them sat around the small table and drew without speaking. Neville's mother hummed tunelessly to herself as she hunched over her paper. Neville himself was consumed by thoughts about Driftwood and what he'd been doing to Neville's parents, and whether Dr. Chatterjee could help them. Harry said nothing, either, and Neville could only guess at what he might be thinking. Except he would never try to guess. How in the world could he ever know what Harry's thoughts were? So they sat and drew, and no one said anything, and there was something strangely reassuring about it.

The picture of Trevor wasn't turning out too well. He looked like a brown lump of dung with eyes. Neville added some flies for Trevor to eat, but then he realized it could be misconstrued. He sighed and checked on Harry's progress. It was definitely an owl. And it even bore some of Hedwig's distinctive markings. "That looks really good," he said.

Harry looked up, blushing faintly. "Well, Hedwig's the only thing I ever draw, so I guess I've got a lot of practice." He peered at Neville's paper. "Trevor...looks good, too."

"No, he doesn't," Neville said. "He looks like a pile of shit."

Harry ducked his head and snickered. Pulling the sheet closer, he said, "Flies, too."

"Yeah, well, it didn't quite work out the way I wanted."

They giggled together, covering their mouths with their hands. Mrs. Longbtottom ignored them, hunched over her paper. She'd taken a purple crayon and began pounding it on her picture, saying, "Buh-buh-buh-buh."

"Mum, don't do that," Neville chided, gently taking her hand and retrieving the crayon. "You'll break it, and Nurse Nettlethorne won't let you color any more."

Mrs. Longbottom let Neville take the crayon. She leaned over the picture and scratched at it with a cracked fingernail, growling.

"Harry, give her another sheet of paper," Neville instructed as he tried to pull the picture away from his mother. "She gets worked up about her drawings sometimes."

Harry slid another piece of paper in front of Mrs. Longbottom, and she grabbed a fresh crayon and started scribbling over the page.

Neville glanced at the picture he'd retrieved. Amid all the scribbles and smashed crayon parts was a stick figure of a woman with long black hair sticking out all around her head. His mother had drawn this figure before. He didn't known who she was supposed to be, since his mother had mousy brown hair - or used to before it had all turned gray. But this time there was something new in the picture. Slashing through the figure's hand was a brown line.

A wand.

He looked over at the piece of paper his mother was working on. She was covering the entire sheet with color, pressing hard on the crayon and leaving a thick coating of wax. She did that sometimes, too, covering both sides of the page until there wasn't a speck of white showing. Her hand flew back and forth over the paper, furiously coloring away.

"Mum," he said, trying to sound conversational. "What are you drawing?"

She didn't look up, didn't pause in her task. "Hide," she muttered. "Hide hide hide. Must hide the baby. The baby baby. Hide hide."

A cold hand seized Neville's heart, and he looked again at the picture in his hand. That black hair, flying about - he'd seen it before, many times, in his dreams. And once in his life.

Once, that he could remember.

Horrified, he looked up to see Harry staring back at him. Harry's eyes flicked briefly down at the picture and then back up at him. "That's -."

"Don't say her name," Neville hastily whispered.

Harry's cheeks paled, and he nodded. Glancing over at the page Mrs. Longbottom had now covered with color, he repeated, "Hide the baby. She's -."

"Please, Harry," begged Neville. "Just don't say anything." He clutched the paper in his hand, crushing it in his grip. He wanted to tear it up. But isn't that what his mother often did? She would tear up the picture, or slash at it with crayons, or stab holes in it with her fingers. Once she even tried to eat it. Why was he so stupid? Why had he never understood these things before?

At the end of the hall, the door opened and Dr. Driftwood entered. At the sound of his footsteps, Mrs. Longbottom froze, even though her back was to the door. Moving stealthily, she picked up the colored piece of paper and slowly opened the drawer of the bedside table. Sliding the piece of paper into the drawer, she quietly shut it, whispering, "Shh. Be good, baby, be quiet. Shh." By the time Driftwood arrived at her beside, she was sitting silently with her hands clutched in her lap, staring blankly at the wall.

Neville scowled up at Driftwood. "Don't you touch them. We fired you."

Driftwood answered with a snakeish smile. "No matter what you think of me, little boy, I take my responsibility to my patients very seriously. Until the paperwork has been finalized, your parents remain under my care."

Clenching his fists at his sides, Neville slowly rose to his feet. "You're not touching them!"

But the doctor ignored the threat. "Visiting hours will be over soon. You boys ought to get ready to leave."

"We're not going anywhere!"

"Oh? Shall I be forced to call security and have you removed from the premises?"

"Go ahead and try," Neville growled.

"Yeah," said Harry, standing at Neville's side. "I bet the Daily Prophet would love to print that story."

A look of confusion crossed Driftwood's features. "Why should they care about such matters?"

"The Longbottoms are heroes," taunted Harry. "And besides, I have a good friend who's a reporter for the Prophet. Maybe you've heard of her? Rita Skeeter."

Neville frowned at Harry, who discreetly poked him in the back. But Driftwood didn't appear to notice Neville's reaction. His face had paled at the mention of Skeeter's name.

"I'm sure you don't want that kind of publicity," Harry added.

Driftwood pressed his lips together, glaring back and forth between the two of them. "You don't know any reporter at the Prophet."

"Fine," Harry shrugged. "Don't believe me if you don't want. But they're always interested in running stories about the Boy Who Lived. And my friends. Especially my friends whose parents were heroes in the war against Voldemort."

"Don't --!" Driftwood sputtered, waving his hands as if trying to ward off an invisible flock of bats. "Don't say that name!"

"Why not?" Harry retorted. "I've gone up against him five times and lived. You don't scare me."

Driftwood was turning a remarkable shade of magenta. "All right, you may stay past visiting hours. But I will examine my patients." He skirted the edge of the bed and approached Neville's mother.

"Don't you touch her!" Neville warned.

"I only want to see how she's doing." He stood in front of her and took her hand. "How are you today, Mrs. Longbottom?"

Neville and Harry stood by, alert. Neville kept his hand on his wand. He remembered what Professor Snape had said. I'll stab him in the eye. I'll stab him in the eye.

Mrs. Longbottom did not respond to the doctor's inquiry, staring blankly ahead. Noticing the pictures on the table, Driftwood said, "Have you been drawing, my dear?" He snagged the picture of the woman and drew it closer.

"Do you recognize who that is?" Harry taunted.

The doctor looked up at them, his eyes narrowing at Neville. "Do you really want their minds restored, boy? Think about it. Five days of Cruciatus. No one would want to remember that."

The room seemed to grow suddenly cold, and Neville shivered. He glanced at his mother, sitting impassively on the bed. Was the doctor right? Would it be worse if she remembered?

"Ignorance, as they say, is bliss," continued Driftwood. "Did it never occur to you that they are safer this way?"

"What do you mean 'safer'?" Neville whispered.

"I mean that some secrets are meant to remain hidden. I'm not your enemy, boy. Everything I've done has been to protect your parents. By removing them from my care, you could very well end up losing them forever."

The shivering worsened. Neville couldn't tear his eyes away from Driftwood.

"Don't listen to him," Harry whispered in his ear.

But that was the trouble. Neville didn't know who to listen to, he didn't know who to believe.

"Dr. Driftwood," a voice said.

Neville looked up. It was Remus. None of them had heard him approach. He was scrutinizing the doctor with an intense glare.

For a moment it looked as if Driftwood might answer back. But then he seemed to reach an internal decision, and he shrugged. "Very well." He stepped away from Mrs. Longbottom, but as he passed Neville, he whispered, "Think about what I said, boy. You will regret this decision." Then he turned away and headed down the hall.

Harry was squeezing Neville's arm so tightly it hurt. "Don't listen to him," he repeated.

Remus examined Neville, worried. "Are you all right? What did he say?"

"I-I," Neville's teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak. "I don't know. I don't know what he was saying."

"It was all lies!" Harry fiercely protested. "He said the Longbottoms would get worse, that they'd be lost forever. He said he wasn't their enemy, but he is!"

"He said there were secrets." Neville trailed off, watching his mother. With Driftwood gone, she had quietly opened the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved the piece of paper. Grabbing a crayon she bent over the table and resumed coloring the paper in. He sat down next to her on the bed. "Mummy," he said gently. "Where's the baby?"

She remained bent over the page, but he could hear her mutter, "Hide the baby."

"Where? Where is the baby hidden?" But she didn't answer. He picked up the drawing, the one he was sure was Bellatrix Lestrange. "What are the secrets, Mummy? What secrets are hidden?"

She noticed the drawing and seized it from him. Growling, she tore it up in to tiny pieces and dropped them on the floor, grinding them under her heel. Then she picked up her crayon and turned her paper over, coloring in the other side.

"What are the secrets, Mummy? And do you want to remember them or not?"

"Neville," said Harry, "you shouldn't listen to Driftwood. He was just saying those things to scare you."

Neville looked over to where his father sat in the bedside chair, unmoving throughout everything that had happened. Nothing had changed, except that a fresh line of drool hung from his lip. He pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and gently wiped his father's mouth. If only he could know what they wanted. If only he could ask them and they could answer. But there were indeed secrets, and they remained permanently locked in his parents' minds.

Running his fingers through his father's thinning hair, Neville said sadly, "Dr. Driftwood doesn't have to tell lies to scare me."