Becoming Neville

Neville's Gran did indeed give permission for Remus to do the spell, though she was not too happy about it. Neville suspected that she was hoping the spell wouldn't work so that she wouldn't have to know what her son and daughter-in-law had gone through that night.

At first, Mrs. Longbottom insisted that Professor Snape be present as well. That was Neville's fault. He had never told her anything about Snape, and as a result, she knew nothing whatsoever of the years of terror he'd experienced in the Potions Master's lessons. In fact, she had been favorably impressed by him at their meeting, and had believed Dr. Chatterjee when she'd said Snape was Neville's favorite teacher. But Neville wasn't the only one who was reluctant to have Snape be present for the spell. Remus had turned rather green when Mrs. Longbottom made the suggestion. Between the two of them, they managed to convince her that Snape would not be available.

So Neville and Remus met in the library at Grimmauld Place and prepared for the spell. "All right," Remus said as they settled into opposing chairs. "I've never tried to recover such an old memory before, nor for that matter from someone who was so young at the time. I'm not exactly sure how this is going to work."

Neville only nodded, too nervous to speak.

"So, watch my wand and concentrate on my voice." Remus moved his wand in a complicated pattern, his voice low. Neville didn't know what Remus was saying, and within moments, the wand had completely absorbed his attention. The world around him seemed to fade. It was still there, but he saw it as if through a veil of falling water. He couldn't move or speak, but it felt pleasant, like drowsing in the warm summer sun.

"Now," a voice speaks in his ear, "remember your parents." The voice is gentle but firm, and he feels compelled to obey.

He is walking down a long row of beds. Two people are on either side of him, holding his hands. He sees gray tweed trousers on his left and an ankle-length wool skirt on his right. Beneath the skirt, two shoes flash as they walk, purple and soft, with shining buckles. They are his favorites, and he loves to stick his feet in those shoes and totter around, the buckles sparkling in the light, but Gran always scolds him for playing in her shoes.

The purple shoes stop. They have reached their destination. He looks up, over the edge of the bed. She is sitting up against the pillows, her long hair so soft and pretty. "Look, Mummy," he says, digging his hand into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper that has been folded many times. "I drew you a picture."

"Farther back than that," the voice said.

The bed grows taller, and he can no longer see over the edge of it. He tries to climb up, but hands hold him back. "No, Neville," his grandfather warns, "don't disturb your father."

Granddad! Neville calls out. I miss you!

Memories flow over him, the musty scent of aftershave, the rasp of his grandfather's whiskers scratching his cheek, the hair that sticks out of his ears.

"We're trying to remember your parents, not your grandfather," the voice gently reminded him. "Go farther back. Remember your parents' house."

The living room of the house, a fire dancing in the grate. There is his little red chair, drawn up close to the fire. He holds a picture book in his pudgy hands. A bunny is hopping across the page.

"Aren't you finished with that book, Neville? It's time for bed."

"The bunny hasn't found his way home yet, Gran," he whines.

The voice broke in again. "Your parents, not your grandparents."

His dad lying still on the bed.

His mum rocking and staring off into space.

Telling his father about the puppy he'd played with at his cousin's house. Giving his mother a ribbon for her hair.

"This isn't working," the voice sighed. "Let's try a specific memory. How about...the first time you learned to walk?"

Walking across the fields next to granddad, walking down the aisle of beds, walking along the pier in Blackpool.

"No, your first step. The first time you walked."

But he's always been walking. There has never been a time when he hasn't walked.

"All right then. Remember when you cut your first tooth?"

But he has always had teeth. He remembers wiggling a loose tooth with his tongue, Gran sticking a pair of pliers in his mouth and pulling while he screeches.

"Still not working," said the voice.

He floats through endless memories: eating icing off his cake at his fifth birthday, a giant three-headed dog, Hester taking him behind the garden shed, saying, "This is what grown-ups do."

"Enough of that," said the voice. "I've got it. Remember the first time you saw Bellatrix Lestrange."

Deep amid the rows of endless shelves, huddling with the others while they stare at the hooded figures surrounding them.

"You hear him?" she shrieks. "You hear him? Giving instructions to the other children as though he thinks of fighting us!"

Draco Malfoy's father answering, "Oh, you don't know Potter as I do, Bellatrix."

Her! His blood runs cold.

"Hand over the prophecy and no one need get hurt," says Malfoy coolly.

The woman steps forward, away from her fellows, and pulls off her hood. Her face is gaunt and skull-like, but it is alive with a feverish, fanatical glow. Neville can't tear his eyes away from her.

"You need more persuasion?" she says to Harry. "Let him watch while we torture the little girl." They crowd closer around Ginny, and her eyes gleam as she raises her wand. "I'll do it."

"No," the voice interrupted. "The first time you saw her."

The woman steps forward, away from her fellows, and pulls off her hood. Her face is gaunt and skull-like, but it is alive with a feverish, fanatical glow. Neville can't tear his eyes away from her.

"Why isn't this working?" the voice said, sounding irritated. "Okay, let's make this simple. What is the very first thing you remember, ever?"

A big bed, with a pale blue blanket. People standing around him. Where is he? Where's mummy and daddy? Screaming, screaming, as the strange people hold him down, tell him, hush, it's all right, but where are mummy and daddy? Where are they?

"Enough!" the voice cried out, and the memory fades away, replaced by more mundane ones.

"You can't remember anything before that. It's as if there's a block of some kind. If you were obliviated, we'll never recover those memories."

A long silence as he drifts in reminiscences: a bushy-haired girl helping him look for Trevor, playing with Granddad's cane and knocking over Gran's favorite vase, sledding in the snow.

"You said you thought the dream was a memory," the voice interrupted. "Remember that dream, when it first happened."

It is dark. He can't see a thing. Somewhere he hears voices, but he can't understand them.

"Listen carefully," the voice instructed. "You were two years old, you ought to be able to understand."

He can't understand them. All he knows is that he is frightened. Yet as scary as the dark is, if the light comes on he knows it will be worse.

"Why? Why would it be worse?"

He must stay still. He must be quiet.

"Where are you, Neville? Is something covering your eyes?"

I don't know, he tries to say, but no sound comes out of his mouth.

"You were two years old, you could talk. Tell me your name."

His lips move, but again he makes no sound.

"Was it a silencing spell? Think - did someone say silencio?"

The word echoes in his head, but in a different voice. He nods.

"Who said it, Neville? Who cast the spell?"

He tries to say I don't know, but he can make no sound.

"It's just a memory. You can speak. Was it Bellatrix Lestrange?"

He shakes his head.

"Rodolphus Lestrange?"

Again he shakes his head.

A pause. "Was it a man or a woman?"

A woman. He can speak again.

"Remember, Neville," the voice commanded. "Was it your mother?"

A gentle voice speaks. "Hush darling, you must be perfectly quiet. Silencio."

Mummy!

"All right, Neville, we're there. Now, what happened next?"

She picks him up and holds him so tightly it hurts, but he doesn't squirm. More banging on the front door. She whirls around, and he clings to her, face buried in her shoulder. She smells warm, of cinnamon and flour from the biscuits they'd been baking. Strands of her hair brush against his neck.

A swooping sensation as she kneels on the floor. "You have to be good for mummy and don't move." She tries to push him away from her, but he won't let go, his fingers curled tightly into her blouse. "Do as I say, Neville darling. Go in the cupboard." He struggles against her, but he can't cry out loud. At last she breaks his grip and pushes him into the cupboard, on top of a lumpy sack of potatoes. He tries to reach for her again, but she points her wand at him and says, "Impedimenta!"

From the front room there is a loud crack. She looks fearfully at the closed kitchen door. "I'm coming, Frank," she whispers. Then she looks back at him. "It will be all right, darling. I'll be right back. But you have to keep something for me." She holds the tip of her wand to her temple and draws out a long strand, thick and silvery like Gran's tobacco smoke. Then she places the wand tip to his forehead.

Thoughts fill his mind, tumbling over one another, but he can make no sense of them. --the Cruciatus is one of the Unforgivable - first invented in 1203 by - no known resistance to - the pioneering research of Dr. Hugo - studies have indicated that brain waves - there must be a way - top secret and top priority - Alice, I think we've got a breakthrough - this will aid our - we've almost broken it --

The alien thoughts still careening around in his skull, his mother looks at him, warmth in her hazel eyes. "I love you, darling." Then she shuts the cupboard door, plunging him into darkness.

The darkness of his dream.

*****

The voice called him back, commanding him to return, and the memories began to fade. He resisted, weeping, wanting to see his mother's clear eyes, to hear her voice. He wanted to see his father, to know what had happened to him, but the harder he struggled to hold on to the memories, the quicker they slid away from him.

He returned to the present, sobbing, "No!" He struck out at Remus, "Take me back! I want to see them!"

Remus caught his wrists in a firm grip. "No, that's enough for now."

"What the hell do you know?" he sobbed. "You have no right! Bring them back!"

Remus's soft brown eyes gazed at him in compassion. "Another time, but it would be too much right now."

Still Neville struggled in Remus's grasp, but Remus refused to let go, and at last Neville sagged, weeping.

How good it had felt to be held in his mother's arms, to feel her heart beating against his! Even though they had both been frightened, as long as she'd held him it had seemed impossible that any harm could ever come to him. Yet she had pushed him away. She herself had pried his fingers from her blouse, forced him into that cupboard. She'd left him alone in the dark and gone away, left him forever. Even after all these years he was still waiting for her to return and release him from the spells that bound him.

But it was Remus who held him now, Remus's arms wrapped around him. He wanted to push Remus away, but all the fight had left him, and he could do nothing but cling, lest he vanish along with the memories.

"Why did she leave me?" he wept.

Remus rubbed his back, as if soothing a colicky child, and Neville hated it because the gesture seemed so tantalizingly familiar. "She was protecting you."

"If she wanted to protect me, she wouldn't have left me!"

"If she'd kept you, the Death Eaters would have killed you. Your mother saved your life, Neville."

He sobbed against Remus's shoulder, remembering what it had been like to press his face into his mother's neck, the way her skin had smelled. There weren't tears enough in the world to cry out such a loss, and eventually he ran dry, his sobs reduced to sniffles. But his heart would never stop bleeding.

"She used you as a pensieve," Remus said, and Neville stiffened, as if he had just insulted her. Remus continued, "She stored her thoughts in your mind."

Slowly Neville drew away from Remus, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. He forced himself to think rationally. After all, he'd done this because he wanted to help his parents, not because he wanted to be a baby held in his mother's arms again. He sniffled. "It was all about the Cruciatus curse."

"Yes. It sounded like they were doing research." Remus looked at him, eyes wide. "It sounded as if they were trying to find a way to counter it."

"What does that mean?" He thought about what Driftwood had said, that some secrets were meant to remain hidden. Did he know about this?

"I don't know what it means," said Remus. "And I don't know if this will help your parents now. But it might explain what the Death Eaters were after."

"And if they regain their memories, the Death Eaters might come after them again! Maybe Driftwood was right. Maybe he really had been helping them!"

Remus frowned. "I'm not sure about that. At any rate, we'll bring it up at tonight's Order meeting. It definitely needs to be discussed."

"I don't think Professor Snape will be too pleased to hear you did this spell on me."

"Perhaps not, but this time I did it properly, with your grandmother's permission. And as you yourself said, no one can stand up to her."

Remus smiled, and Neville grinned back. Then he grew serious once more. "Remus, thank you for doing it."

Remus placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're welcome, Neville."

It wasn't his mother's touch, but it was nice to know he had such a friend.

*****

That evening, Neville and Harry waited in the library while the members of the Order met in the parlor. Neville huddled in one of the armchairs, watching as Harry prowled back and forth along the bookshelves like a caged tiger.

"I bet Snape freaks out," Harry said, running his fingers over the spines of the books as he paced.

"I hope not," muttered Neville.

"He better not get Remus in trouble."

"Harry, would you please stop? You're making me nervous."

Harry glanced guiltily at him. "Sorry. I just wish they'd let me go into the meeting, too."

"So do I. But you know what Remus said."

"Yeah." With a frustrated sigh, Harry plopped down into the other. "But it's not fair. I've been helping you all summer, and you're only going to tell me what happens anyway. They should let me come to the meeting, too."

Neville said nothing, burying his head in the files open on his lap. He just wished Harry would shut up about it.

There was a knock on the door, and Remus stuck his head into the room. "Neville, we're ready for you now."

He shot a quick glance at Harry and got to his feet, clutching the files tightly in his sweaty hand. Remus laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then led the way down the hall to the parlor. He opened the door, gesturing Neville into the room.

The room was jammed full of the members of the Order of the Phoenix, some of whom Neville knew, but many others whom he did not. Tonks was there, her jet black hair sticking straight up. She gave him an encouraging wink. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley as well, along with Bill. Professor Snape sat scowling in a corner, and Professor McGonagall was next to Dumbledore, her lips pressed in a thin line.

Remus led him to a seat near the front of the room, and Neville sank into the chair before his knees could give way, his eyes locked on Dumbledore so he could avoid looking at all the people in the room.

The Headmaster smiled warmly at him, tilting his chin down to peer over the top of his glasses. "Mr. Longbottom, I understand you have some news about your parents."

He'd practiced this speech with Remus and Harry all afternoon, and with Remus's gentle prompting, he outlined what they'd discovered over the summer, the clues pointing to Driftwood, Dr. Chatterjee's involvement, and finishing up with what he and Remus had discovered hidden in his own mind.

"And everything she put in my mind was about the Cruciatus curse," he finished.

Dumbledore combed his fingers through his long beard, looking grave. "I'm not sure what that means."

"I've an idea," Moody spoke up, turning both his eyeballs on Neville. "It was all very top secret; almost no one knows. But your parents were investigating ways to resist the Cruciatus curse. The Imperius can be thrown off, but there has never been any known way to block the other Unforgivables. That's what your parents were working on. I've always thought it was no mistake that the Death Eaters chose that curse to torture them with. But the few notes they left behind were undecipherable. With your parents driven mad, we would have had to go back to square one on that research." He frowned. "But the Ministry decided to drop it. With You-Know-Who gone, they figured the need for a block against Cruciatus was gone."

Shacklebolt sat forward eagerly. "But if Mrs. Longbottom put that information in Neville, then perhaps we can recover it! Just imagine - if we found a way to block the Cruciatus!"

The room exploded into discussion as members argued whether it was possible to use a two-year-old's brain as a pensieve, whether his memories were recoverable, and the ethics of using Neville that way in the first place.

Neville listened with increasing agitation to the discussion. They were all talking about it as if his parents weren't real, as if they weren't languishing in madness, and the recovery of their memories might make them a target for the Death Eaters. He looked right at Dumbledore, who was sitting in silence listening to the debates, and said, "But what about my parents?"

Dumbledore raised his hand, and eventually everyone else fell silent. "You are right, Mr. Longbottom. No matter what else is at stake, the safety of your parents is paramount. It sounds as if they are in good hands with Dr. Chatterjee. However, we should bring this matter before the Ministry. It is rightfully their responsibility to provide protection for two people who sacrificed so much in the service of us all. But until then, I suggest we establish around-the-clock watches of Order members."

A clamor arose again as dozens of hands were raised to volunteer for the duty. Neville swallowed hard around the lump in his throat at the display.

Dumbledore raised his hand again, and when everyone had quieted down he said, "Remus, perhaps you would be willing to coordinate a schedule. I will take up the matter with the Ministry. But there is another issue, here. Mr. Longbottom, if we can recover that information, it would be extremely useful. However, the choice is yours. You do not have to agree."

Neville swallowed hard and sat straight up in his chair. "Of course I'll do it."

Dumbledore smiled. "Your parents would be very proud of you. Now, perhaps it would be best if you leave us. We have much that we need to discuss tonight, and I'm sure Harry is eager to hear from you what happened."

Neville looked to Remus, who nodded. Returning his gaze to Dumbledore, he said, "Thank you, sir," and left the room as hastily as he could.

He returned to the library, where Harry was still pacing along the shelves. As soon as he entered, Harry ran up to him, his eyes wide.

"So? What did they say?"

"They're going to set up another watch to look after my parents. And Dumbledore wants to try to recover the memories. He's also going to tell the Ministry."

"That's great!" Harry beamed. "I told you Dumbledore would do something about it. Your parents will be better in no time!"

"Yeah," Neville muttered.

Harry frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just...." He shrugged miserably. "I should have figured this out a long time ago, shouldn't I?"

"Neville --," Harry began, but Neville cut him off. Harry would say kind, encouraging things, but they were still lies. Neville knew the truth.

"If I weren't so slow, I would have figured it out," he said. "And even now, I still wouldn't have if you hadn't figured out there was a message on the candy wrappers. Everyone keeps saying how proud my parents would be, but why would they be proud? They've been counting on me all these years, and I was too stupid to know. My mum gave me that knowledge, and I didn't do anything with it."

"You were two years old," Harry pointed out. "She didn't expect you to do anything. She just gave it to you for safekeeping. And you kept it safe, didn't you?"

"But I didn't do anything!" Neville cried. "All these years - wasted! If I'd been smarter, if I'd figured things out sooner - how will they be proud of me when they learn what a mess I've made of things?"

"At least you still have a chance with them," said Harry quietly. "My parents are gone. I'll never get to know if they would have been proud of me. But you still have your parents, Neville. They're alive. Be thankful for what you've got."

There was no accusation in Harry's tone, just an infinite sadness. It echoed in Neville's heart, and tears stung at his eyes. He was mortified to by crying in front of Harry, but he couldn't help it. There was too much grief and fear and desperate hope. And it was so horribly unfair that Harry knew that grief and fear, but could never have that hope.

He would help his parents. For himself, but also for Harry.