Soul Notch Dreizehn

"Who says I am not under the special protection of God?" ~ Adolf Hitler (1889 - 1945)

Soul Notch "Dreizehn"

> ~ <

Sometimes . . .

you fancy lying awake at night and pretending that none of this has happened. It's a shiny and happy world, filled with the idle wonders of magic and the beauty of life. You're still sixteen, knee-deep in savouring those days before innocence and youth and childhood dreams are splintered, crushed beneath a malevolent warlord who sought infection and ruin within all he raped.

That was ten years ago.

A decade revolutionises quite a number of things when you let it. Change is irrelevant; time flows and change strikes. It's rather simple, you see. You are able to look back and reflect upon your place in the war; the roles you played, the curses you cast.

And for what?

To be brought back to this place, the dim remembrance of everything you once were.

The wizards you once considered mates look at you with that same glint in their eyes and you know what thoughts cross their minds. But they know nothing! Family blood doesn't stain their hands; tainting them darkly with sin and regret. The side you fight on, the robes you wear - none of that means anything. The cleverest ant with the most diabolical schemes remains just that--an ant! You may have worn black robes while you killed your parents, and you may have poisoned their feast before the laws were passed, watching with a grimace as they blundered further into the insidious shadows, their souls ebbing into nothingness.

That was thirteen months ago.

Thirteen months have brought you to The Yard and Flagon. A dank pub outside of Nottingham's borders; it entices folk like you, Muggle and wizard alike. The barmaid is a well-endowed blonde who you just may have considered shagging once upon a time. She stares at you with barren indigo eyes and serves the party with talking hands before approaching.

"What can I get for you?" she asks in a detached voice.

You gawk at her for a long moment. Her crimson skirt falls just above her knees, displaying her black stockings and pumps to match her skirt. She wears pumpkin-shaped earrings although Christmas lights decorate the outside. Her blouse is loose-fitting and white, and falling just above her cleavage are six necklaces of Mardi Gras beads--each a different colour. You finally look away when she repeats her question.

"Oh. Hum. Smirnoff Ice, please," you say, and she leaves. And you watch her leave, the way her hips sway from one side to the other as she walks, the way those dreadful earrings bob about her shoulders as she bounds down the stairs. When she disappears into the basement, you forget her momentarily and light a cigarette, deeply inhaling the poison into your blackened lungs.

You started smoking thirteen months ago. Stress-related problems, you said. The stress of the war, the new laws passed, murdering your parents. Ten years of stress can eventually break someone; you've seen it happen and secretly revelled in it. One of those Weasley twins sleeps in a shallow grave; you think it's George, but that's only a guess--you never bothered to tell them apart. Hermione Granger is rotting silently as well--in one of those mass graves. She was murdered before the government passed the new laws.

It was ten years ago, you recall, when the trumpets were sounded to war. Azkaban had been breached; the proof of the Dark Lord's existence was new, and everyone was preparing for battle and bloodshed. Your sixth year at Hogwarts was interrupted by a war, and you fought alongside Harry Potter. You were a Longbottom, it was expected of you, and you wouldn't have had it any other way.

Nine years later the Dark Lord was dead, Potter was missing, and the Muggle world knew about wizards and the powers that they yielded. Humans are cowards by nature, and soon the wizarding population was slowly being diminished by Muggles. Now the Muggle world had something else to abhor besides homosexuals and terrorists.

Those who weren't killed during the war had something greater to fear: fear itself. Many wizards and witches were tortured, burnt, drowned, their wands were broken and discarded into the fires that flickered vigorously beneath their feet. Thousands upon thousands died during that first year; Diagon Alley was destroyed along with St Mungo's, Hogwarts and the Ministry.

Eventually, the government passed the Wizards Registration Law. That act brought other changes you knew would have your parents tossing over in their graves. No wizard was allowed to practice magic, attend secret schools or societies. The Muggles made your kin, in essence, like themselves. They stripped them of their identities, what made them different and special, as if it were just wrong.

Thirteen months ago, you killed your parents.

But not all acts of sadism have malicious roots.

Your fingers are burnt by the time you realise your cigarette has died. You throw the butt to the ground of the patio, and your eyes fall upon the waitress as she draws nearer and you abruptly remember who she is.

"Luna," you squeak as she places your Smirnoff onto the water-stained coaster.

Luna offers you a pleasant smile of recognition. "Neville," she acknowledges and turns away.

You reach out and wrap your hand around her thin wrist; your fingers overlap each other. She turns her head, her blonde hair falling loose of the bun she haphazardly wrapped, and you can't help but think how exquisite she looks with alcohol-blotched clothes. "Please join me," you say, and Luna glances quickly around before sitting adjacent to you.

"I'm at work," she mumbles, surprise evident in her wispy voice.

You persuade her into taking a short break and you take a sip of the vodka she has placed before you. You stare at each other in silence, words dancing on the tips of your tongues before they break and walk their separate ways. "How have you been, Luna?"

She shrugs casually, her eyes raking the patio. "Good, granted the laws."

You agree and search your brain for something else to say, something clever to keep her attention on you.

"It seems unreal," is all you can manage, and continue, "I've been fired from three jobs because of my blood. They act like it's a disease, like we're mutants. It's horrible." You pause and give a saddened half shake of your head. "To think what people like George and Hermione went through."

Luna says, "We could be in concentration camps."

"In any other time, we would be. I think it'd be simpler, but they won't follow his lead."

You take another mouthful of Smirnoff as another bar patron pierces the patio's atmosphere. His blond hair is long, shoulder-length and pulled back with a black ribbon. His nose is prominent on his sharp face, and in any other world he'd be gnawing on the dry wall.

He approaches. "You're in my seat."

And Luna quickly stands, apologises, and continues her barmaid duties.

"Malfoy," you greet, kicking out the seat for him.

"Not that name."

You nod, understanding the burden and pain that comes with a surname. "Draco."

A smug smile, a nod of appreciation, and then, "Neville. It's been fourteen months, has it not? How has time treated you? Rather well, I suspect." His words sear the air, burning it, turning it black. "You, after all, have not had to watch your family die at the hands of that Muggle-bunk, watch them destroy everything you once were." He gives a hollow laugh. "No, you took the coward's way," Draco sneers, and you offer him a cigarette as you take one for yourself.

"I didn't ask for your opinion on the matter, Draco," you reply, bringing the lit cigarette to your lips. "I paid you the pounds for the potion, so why did you call me here today?"

"Because I realised I made a mistake."

Draco's words cause you to take the cigarette from your mouth. You rest your elbow on the sticky table, the smoke spiralling in small corkscrews through the air. You stare at him for a moment as he indifferently inhales the cigarette you gave him. "What?"

Thirteen months ago, you killed your parents.

But not all acts of sadism have malicious roots.

The Muggles' thoughts were clouded with feelings of panic; they sought desperately to destroy what they didn't agree with, what they couldn't understand. Your parents would have been tortured--you couldn't let them die that way. You uneasily shift in your seat, your brow furrowed in bewilderment as fear washes over your shoulders, moving stealthily down your spine.

"Don't knicker-twist, Nevvy. I'm telling you," Draco says simply, "the potion was bunk."

"What do you mean 'bunk'?" You dance around the words carefully, secretly fretting over his vague answer. Fourteen months ago, Draco brewed you a potion that ultimately led to your parents' deaths. He laughed when you first asked him, but later agreed when you let Muggle pounds do the talking for you.

"What I mean, Longbottom, is that your parents aren't dead."

You shake your head. "That's impossible," you tell him. "I watched them die, I buried their bodies in the fields surrounding our Manor. They weren't breathing, their hearts weren't beating. They were dead! I know because I killed them."

Draco takes another drag of the cigarette, and you suddenly remember the one burning between your fingers. Leaning back, Draco blows smoke-circles into the air, watching as they engulf the neck of your Smirnoff bottle. "Are you going to drink that?" he asks as he cocks his head towards the drink.

"Not soon enough for you, probably." And you shove the bottle in his direction.

"Much obliged," Draco says in thanks although he would have taken the vodka anyway.

"So now, what about my parents?"

Draco gulps deeply from your Smirnoff, finishing half the bottle with one swig. "The potion didn't kill them, not really. They'll come out of their comatose state at midnight tonight. It'll be as though they've been asleep for these past months."

You buried your parents alive.

"I buried my parents alive," you whisper in realisation.

And Draco finishes the Smirnoff with another swig. "I've got a few shovels in the car." Broomsticks and all wizard-methods of transportation were prohibited by the Muggle government. "Let's do some petty grave robbing." He grins widely.

Your mouth drops open, and you gaze at Draco, your eyes locking with his. "How could you have made that mistake?" you demand, although it comes out croaky, your voice rising with steady momentum, your hands trembling at your sides.

Draco's eyes narrow ill contently. "To err is human," he quotes and then adds, "besides, I never read the full description of the potion's results. The conditions that your parents were put under would break after thirteen months."

A sharp headache teases your temples as images invade your mind. Your parents rest peacefully three feet below the horizon, locked in wooden coffins you built yourself. Tonight, they will awaken and stare into darkness, not quite sure about where they are, not caring either. The Rivers of Time will flow, and they won't realise it; they won't understand that they are slowly suffocating; hunger won't strike them, for that isn't a sensation they comprehend.

However, I'm lying, because tonight you will dig up their aged graves, take your parents back to your house and care for them until they shake hands once more with white maggots. There is no St Mungo's they can rest in, no grandmamma to feed and wash them.

But wait for a moment.

I never lie

.

You stand and drop a few pounds onto the table to pay the barmaid. "Thank you, Draco."

And you turn and head off, leaving Draco to call after you: "You need those shovels, mate?"

No, you tell Draco--but only in your mind, for the word never lives past your lips. Thirteen months ago, you killed your parents, buried them alive. But not all acts of sadism have malicious roots.