Amidst The Ashes

Chapter 1

Bits of dusk had floated in lazy circles in the shaft of sunlight slanting from the window. There was nothing to do but wait, wait and listen and watch the bits of fluff chase each other through the light, spiraling ever downwards. He'd been startled by the hand on his shoulder. Very few people moved quietly enough to sneak up on him, even when he was lost in thought. He'd been the butt of jokes too often, the target - he knew how to listen.

"It's Neville, isn't it?" Blue eyes. Soft voice. It was the auburn hair that identified him; his family at least, if not his actual name. Older Weasley, Bill or Charlie.

Neville had nodded. "Is Ron any better?" he asked.

The other man had thrown himself into the chair across from him, walking through the dusk-filled beam on his way. Neville remembered wondering where the motes had landed, if the dust had tangled in his hair, dotted his freckles. It had swirled faster in his wake, as though brought to life by his mere presence.

It had been summer. They had both been alone, alone and worried and trapped in that helpless limbo of waiting. It had been strange how quickly they'd fallen into confidence, swapping stories about Ron, about Hogwarts, about life. It was mention of dragons that had finally given name to this "brother of Ron". It was compassion, the hand returning to his shoulder when he'd stammered out his worries for his mother, that had given him the title of friend. It was time that eventually molded it into something more.

They had spoken for hours. The sun beam had slid from floor to table to wall and faded. Healers had crept and walked and hurried by, speaking in soft tones if they spoke at all. Platitudes, and "we are doing all we can" and "perhaps you should go" and "have you eaten?" Neville and Charlie had held vigil together, against "them", against that future that would leave either of them grieving.

Neville would always think of Charlie as sunlight. The beam that cut through the dreary uncertainty and endless waiting of his life.

~~~~~~

They'd not met again for nearly two years. Ron regained his health. School went on. Neville's mother recovered as much as she could. Neville never told his dormmate about that day in the hospital, about this bond he had formed with Ron's brother, about Charlie and sunlight and something he had not recognized as longing until much, much later.

It was the middle of seventh year when the world suddenly spun to a halt again. Voldemort was moving, people were dying, forces were called. Neville still had little skill with elegant magic. He was still hopeless at potions. Yet changes had been wrought in Neville. He was now skilled at defensive magic and oddly good at strategy. Neville had become something of a potential force to be reckoned with in a battle.

Neville secretly felt that any success he had in the arts of war could be traced back to facial expressions. The memory of his mother's vacant stare, his Gran's determined look, the twisted smile on the face of Bellatrix Lestrange - these things gave him anger and the will to stop those who caused harm; to hurt them first. The picture of Harry's face as Black fell through the veil, the tears on his cheeks, the broken look of Professor Lupin as he gazed from the boy in his arms to the fluttering curtain - those pictures made him study shield spells and train himself to move faster. Waiting rooms, the frantic quiet gaze of the powerless, Charlie's face when he'd contemplated losing his brother - it was these that made him study books on battles and tactics. Overlying it all was the desire to never cause anyone to wear any of those expressions on his behalf - this leant him a sense of self-preservation and a will to not die in this war. Such were the things that made Neville Longbottom a viable option as a soldier.

~~~~~~~

Dumbledore was now the de facto leader of the resistance. The Ministry had burned and Fudge had fled. The Order gathered supporters from all sides, aurors and giants, wizards and witches, adults and teenagers, creatures and casters and all manner of magical folk. Hogwarts became a fortress, a sanctuary, a refugee camp.

School continued for the younger ones, but it was half-hearted at best. All those of age, and many only nearing it, trained constantly for war. Those with skill at potions brewed nonstop, healing potions and wakefulness draughts and innumerable useful things. Neville spent nearly as much time tending plants as he did practicing fighting because potions needed ingredients. Eventually, however, he was pulled away from the greenhouses permanently. Students were sent in groups, with an adult or two, to clean up after muggle raids, to beat back small bands of Death Eaters at key locations, to fight battles against the monster. It was a campaign that no one could call by any other name than war.

Neville and Charlie ended up on several such missions together. Charlie came, bringing dragons with him for use in defending the perimeters of the castle. He stayed to offer his assistance. He'd been needed. The ease they'd had with each other that day long ago came back in an instant and Neville felt safer when Charlie was there. He knew that someone would notice if he fell, if he didn't return. It was small comfort in such times, but it was comfort.

~~~~~~

The day started much like any other. There were six Order members, in a little village somewhere in Wales. The Death Eaters had attacked during the night. Houses were burning, fields in ruins. Terrified Muggles were injured, dying, grieving.

It was springtime. There were birds singing and the myrtle was beginning to bloom. The air should have smelled of green things, of earth waking. Instead it was choked with acrid burning. Parts of the village lay in ruins. Neville had read books about tornados, descriptions of "the finger of God" laying waste to random things. This was no finger of God. A madman had set his minions loose, painting death in splashes of red and brown. The fact that the sun was shining seemed wrong.

The team was split into pairs and sent in opposite directions. Neville and Charlie worked together putting out fires, their hair dusted with ash. They aided the injured, and painted their hands in blood in the process. Neville got mud on his knees when he knelt to pull a terrified old man out of harms way while Charlie levitated the stone that had trapped him. Charlie's shirt was ripped by a young boy who flung himself into his arms after Neville untied him.

"Shhh, it's okay. Can you tell me what your name is?" Charlie let the boy cling to him. Neville wondered if he even noticed the tear in his shirt. They had started out clean. They had been visitors to this place; but now they were filthy. Neville itched. Charlie was rumpled and scratched. This was not romantic or exciting. All the books had lied. If this was war it was ugly and it smelled. It hurt.

"M... M... Max. They... they made me watch. I didn't want to. I shut my eyes, but he hit me. I.... I tried to stop them... I tried..." More tears traced white trails in the dirt on the boy's face. More filth was transferred to Charlie's shirt.

Neville walked to the shed nearby. He found a blanket and shovels. The blanket was old and tattered and dirty. His Gran would never approve of using something so common.

Neville knelt next to the dog. It had been a beautiful collie, once upon a time. Neville was sure that the boy had laughed, that he had chased it through the field where now he cried. He wrapped it in the old blanket, gently, reverently.

The earth smelled fresh and clean when he turned it with the shovel. They picked a spot together, Charlie and Neville and Max. "He used to sit with me under this tree. Do you... do you think he'll be able to hear me still, if I come here and talk to him sometimes?"

Charlie ruffled the boy's hair, "I'm sure he will Max. The ones we love stay with us. Shall we put him just here?"

Neville turned away, swallowing hard, and widened the hole. They could have used magic, of course. The boy had been frightened enough, though. It seemed more fitting that Neville and Charlie should dig this grave by hand. They stepped back to let the boy say his final goodbye before lowering the sad bundle into the ground. Max picked up handfuls of dirt and threw them in after his pet.

~~~~~~

The day dragged on. There were memory charms and healing drafts and repairo; kind words and sympathy and tears; smoke and mud and fear. It was horrible and tiring and pointless. Neville wanted to go home, though he wondered if there was such a place anymore.

"According to the map there's only one more house, a farm from the looks of things, over this hill." Charlie smiled at him as they trudged up the road. Both were too tired to apparate, had used too much magic to risk it. Neville said nothing, merely nodded. He could think of nothing to say. Charlie knew it was terrible. He was tired too.

There were not words to make this light or happy. They had a duty to do. Neville plodded forward, glad that Charlie was with him, and feeling guilty for daring to feel glad about anything today.

Neville heard the screaming when they rounded the corner and came out of the trees. Charlie tensed beside him, and they began to run as one. Charlie quickly outstripped him, running smoothly and very fast. Neville had admired that run before, but now he simply concentrated on moving his own legs. The Death Eaters were supposed to be gone, but nothing was certain. Charlie could be running into an ambush.

There was no skull in the sky, but that was probably because the victims were not deemed noteworthy. Neville skidded to a halt when he saw them. It was a beautiful spot. The hills rolled down toward the farmhouse. There were white, well-tended fences, trees framing the pasture and standing watch near the house. Neville heard sheep bleating in the sudden silence. Charlie was kneeling next to one of the three figures near the stable.

"You have to help her!! Please!" The cry spurred him to cross the few remaining feet between himself and Charlie. The man lying several feet away was clearly dead. The woman was hysterical. Neville ran, but time slowed for him. He catalogued the details of the scene in seconds as he fought to make his way across the ever-widening gap between himself and these people.

The man had curly hair, light brown, matted to his head on one side with blood. He was wearing a red jumper and high boots. One leg of his trousers needed mending. He had fallen at an odd angle, his face turned toward what was left of his family. Neville would later wonder if he had been positioned, so that even in death he could witness the torment, and they his unmoving body.

The woman was slight but sturdy. She had long dark hair which had tangled over her face, falling around her in a cloud as she rocked back and forth. Her knees were scraped and her dress ripped. She was young, but had the look of one who had aged a lifetime very quickly. Her eyes were frantic, deep brown and bruised-looking. Blood seeped from a cut on her lip.

Once he stood next to Charlie, Neville had no more time for dead man or his wife. It was girl that received his full attention. Charlie had his wand out and Neville's joined it. They cast together. A tandem spell was required. The next half hour passed at blinding speed, as the two wizards worked quickly to allay what damage they could.

The Death Eaters had refined Crucio, finding a way to make it continue until it was specifically ended. Muggles, having no magic, had no way to stop the pain. The victim would scream and struggle and suffer until they died, or went mad, or were killed by a loved one. The side of light had responded. It was now possible to reverse some of the effects, provided instantaneous care was available.

The girl would live. "Sarah, her name is Sarah, my Sarah, pleasepleaseplease make it stop, my Sarah, oh God, why, why, why, she's just a baby, my baby, just a baby...." The girl had writhed in her mother's arms, muscles clenching, arms flailing occasionally before she curled back in on herself. Her face had contorted. She had tried to scream, but her voice was gone.

She lay still now. She was no more than six or seven. The whites of what should have been china blue eyes were stained crimson. She had broken some of her own bones in her body's attempt to get away from the pain. She wore socks with ruffles and one brown shoe. She should have been making daisy chains or playing with paper dolls. She should never have become the plaything of evil men. She had no power, nothing to threaten them. She was innocent, or she had been.

They had not attempted to move the girl to the house. Her mother could clearly not bear it, had kept a hand on her at all times. Neville let Charlie explain their future plans to the woman; let him reassure her that all would be well. Nothing would be well. How could it be?

He blinked fast and tried to remember how to breathe now that he no longer had to work fast. He felt queasy and ill and he was sweating, though the day was not really very warm. He found a tarp and covered the body. It was blue, and it clashed with the man's jumper, and it was completely idiotic to be thinking such things at a time like this.

He didn't know how long he had stood there, staring at the tarp and trying not to hear the crying in the background. Who would care for the sheep now? Would anyone be there to tend the crop, to put it in in the first place? Did they have family nearby? Friends? Should he look for the other shoe?

"Neville, we need to send an owl to St. Mungo's. I think she's stable, but we can't do any more here. Can you go back to camp for me? I'll clean up some more and stay with them. We can't leave them alone. You know the right people to send for."

It was true, everything that Charlie said, but part of him knew that he was being sent off as much for his own sake as for the sake of the victims. Neville nodded, handed over his remaining potions to Charlie and began to walk quickly back the way they had come.

He made it to the trees, around the corner, out of sight. Then he fell, heaving, to the ground. Neville lost what small breakfast he had eaten. He shook hard, gasping for air, tears stinging his eyes. He could not stay here. A quick flick of his wand and the evidence of his weakness was gone from his clothes and his face and the ground. Coward. He struggled to his feet, pushing aside both self- recrimination and self-pity, and he ran.

~~~~~~~

Neville sat on the cot, knees curled to his chest. He was staring at the tent seam. It was growing dark but still he stared. He counted the stitches again. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four... Father was twenty-four when they came for him. No! Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven stitches. Would the girl need stitches? Wasn't that what the Muggles called it? Their strange healing things? But St. Mungo's would care for her. St. Mungo's would.... Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one. They had tortured her for thirty-one hours, thirty-one, before they started in earnest on him. How on earth could anyone know the details? Thirty-two, thirty-three. Neville blinked. Lost track. Started again.

He did not see Charlie enter the tent, didn't know that he stood and watched him, frowned, and took his lip between his teeth. Neville heard nothing, saw nothing but the stitches in the tent. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. Warm, firm, soothing. Neville blinked and turned to stare at the freckled hand on his shoulder. He thought briefly of counting the freckles. He turned to look back at the canvas. He didn't want to see pity or derision or even compassion right now. He didn't want to see anyone's face, maybe never again.

The cot dipped as Charlie sat beside him. The other man said nothing, but he didn't move his hand. Neville was grateful. Someone he cared for still walked and talked, could still touch him. Wait... he cared for Charlie?

Of course he did. Neville listed random observations in his head. Charlie was kind, and daring, and observant. His hair was darker than that of his brothers, deep auburn. He had burn scars on his left arm. His laugh sounded like rolling pebbles. He was sturdy, with broad shoulders and calloused hands. He could find the good in anyone, and charm the birds from the trees. He would want to know what was wrong. He already knew. They had been there together in that hospital. Charlie wouldn't judge him. He trusted Charlie.

Neville's voice had no inflection when he finally spoke. "I remember. I've never been sure if it's a real memory or a dream but it's vivid. I wake up at night sometimes to the sound of begging. The voice is mine, though I know I wasn't old enough to talk." Charlie's thumb rubbed circles on his shoulder, it felt good, but not entirely real.

"It's funny because I'm known to have such a terrible memory. I don't actually.... there are too many things in my head, not too few - voices, and faces and things I can't change. The lists get lost in the tumult."

He took a deep breath, let it out, and continued in the same matter-of-fact tone. "My Gran has a picture of my father. She thinks I've never seen it. He's about 16 and laughing. He looks young and strong and fit, all the things I'll never be.... the things I see her wish for when she looks at me. I'm quiet you see, and I'm easy to overlook, and I've seen her hold it. Watched her trace his face with her finger. I'll never know the sound of his laughter." Neville fell silent, lost to the picture of his father - a boy who hadn't known what his future held, or what it didn't.

Charlie stood. Neville watched him move to the table, noticed that he had taken off his boots. He was fiddling with something. Tea. Yes, Ron always made tea when things were tense. Neville figured it must be a family thing. Tea to soothe a worried mind. A Weasley bandage of sorts.

"I have boxes of wrappers - gum and fizzing whizbees and chocolate frogs. She gives them to me. Sometimes I kid myself that she knows who I am, that part of her remembers she had a son." He swallowed. "I know she likes sweets. I wonder if she shared them with her friends. Who they were.... what she wanted for herself.... the type of flower she liked best, or if she hated them." Neville did not identify the "she" but he knew that Charlie understood.

He took the cup when it appeared in his sight line. It was a yellow cup with a chipped handle. It was ugly. But it was warm. He swirled the liquid once, twice; then took a small sip. The world stilled on its axis for a moment before moving again with a sickening lurch. Neville raised his eyes finally, finally looking at Charlie.

"Raspberry tea?" His voice had inflection suddenly, it was husky and harsh. His throat hurt. "Raspberry tea.... My Gran makes it sometimes. My mother loved it." He looked down again, blinking fast, cradling the mug in both of his hands. "Or so... so... so I'm told." And he was crying, tears running down his face, over his lips. He tucked his chin into his chest, wishing he had longer fringe, wishing he could sink through the floor of the tent. He swirled the tea, but his hands were shaking now.

Maybe Charlie wouldn't notice. Maybe he had gone blind? No, Neville, of course he will notice. Just what he needs, as if this day hasn't been bad enough already. As if there haven't been victims enough.

The cup was suddenly gone from his hands. The cot dipped again, and then Charlie was holding him, turning Neville's body toward him, bent knees and all. Charlie was warm and solid and real and Neville could never remember anyone holding him. Never. The tears became gasping sobs, uncontrollable, unstoppable. Neville's tears soaked Charlie's shirt, mixing with the mementos of the day. He was helpless to stop and for long minutes he poured out his heartbreak and horror and loss, and the arms around him never faltered. He was safe here.

The storm lasted for some time. Neville ended up with his arms around Charlie's waist, knees curled, feet tucked behind him. He was limp, exhausted, drained. Charlie rubbed his back, murmured nonsense words to him, lifted him a bit and adjusted him more comfortably against his chest.

Neville hiccupped and then sighed as Charlie ran his fingers through his hair, dropped a kiss on the top of his head. It tingled. Neville traced his hands up Charlie's back, held onto him and buried his face in the hollow where neck meets shoulder. Charlie smelled like earth. There was dirt and blood and sweat and horror there too, but the main scent was that of earth, of peace, though that made no sense whatsoever.

Charlie turned a bit, pushed Neville's fringe aside and kissed his forehead. "I'm here. I'm here, Nev."

Neville looked up, moved slightly, and then he was kissing Charlie. Charlie's lips were firm but soft. He tasted like raspberry tea and ash and tears. Neville ran his tongue along that full lower lip to taste him again. Charlie's mouth opened, just a bit, pushing into the kiss.

The shame crashed over Neville like a wave. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have.... I didn't mean to... I just... And then... Oh Merlin..." Charlie would hate him. Charlie would never work with him again.

He was stammering, trying to explain himself, trying to think of some way to fix it. Then there were two fingers over his lips. "Shhh... Look at me. Look at me." Charlie's voice was soft and so gentle and Neville followed directions. He looked up and did not see pity or disgust. He saw understanding and something unrecognizable. Suddenly he couldn't speak, where before it had been so hard to stop.

"Don't say you're sorry. Don't be sorry. There's time Neville. You trusted me with so much, trust me with this as well." Neville might have pulled away, but Charlie's arms were wrapped around him and they pulled him close. Neville was stiff and ashamed and just a bit afraid, but Charlie held him. There were calloused, gentle fingers carding his hair again, rubbing his back. Eventually Neville relaxed. He laid his head against Charlie's sternum and listened to his heart beating. It was soothing. Charlie was soothing. Charlie had not pushed him away, had not laughed at him, and had not berated him for his weakness.

Hours or minutes later, Neville was nearly asleep. Charlie shifted, lifting him to his feet long enough to move the covers before lowering him back down. Charlie pulled off Neville's shoes and socks, his jacket, his stained jumper. Neville was too tired to argue, too drained to feel ashamed anymore, too confused to do anything other than whatever Charlie wanted.

"I can't fix it. I can't change anything, but I can listen. I'm here. We're both still here. I'm pretty good with monsters." Charlie smiled at him, blindingly white teeth and such kind eyes. "Call me if the demons come to you tonight." The blanket was pulled to his chin and then Charlie was kissing him. It was brief and soft, but as Neville let himself fall asleep he still felt it. Perhaps there was some promise for tomorrow. Perhaps.