Amidst The Ashes

Chapter 11

It was very dark. Charlie snored softly as he lay on his back, one leg thrown over Neville's thigh, one large hand possessively curled around his forearm. Neville had awakened in a cold sweat. He moved very slowly, untangling himself from his lover and sliding off the side of the bed. He realized that he was shaking as he walked across to the door. It opened at the gentlest of tugs and Neville noted that Charlie must have made his wards person-specific.

The floor boards creaked in the hall, but Neville moved quickly, breaking into a near run as he finally reached the sanctuary of the bathroom. He heaved for a long time, even after his stomach had yielded up its every morsel to the chipped ancient basin. When the sickness finally passed he summoned a towel, grateful that he had automatically snatched his wand. He filled the sink with cold water and bathed his face over and over, washing away all traces of vomit, all tracks of salt tears called by his pain. Then he sat on the floor, back pressed against the wall, and listened to the night-noises of the house.

Some time passed. In truth it was only the vague thought that Charlie might wake and miss him that drove Neville to his feet. He brushed his teeth, whispered a cleaning spell, and brushed his teeth again. Neville picked up the robe he had taken with him but never donned, shook it softly and wrapped it around himself. He padded back to his room on tiptoe, holding his breath lest he wake any of the sleepers.

Charlie had turned onto his side and his arms were wrapped around Neville's pillow. The sight brought a smile to the tired face of the boy. He dropped the robe from his shoulders and slipped back under the sheet, tugging the pillow away. Charlie muttered in his sleep, arms reaching out, and Neville found himself pulled hard against a warm chest. Neville kissed one bare shoulder and relaxed, thankful that his nighttime foray had not been noticed.

~~~~~~~

Neville woke again just as dawn was breaking. He watched the sunshine creep into the room and light Charlie's hair with fire. Charlie lay on his back again, one arm still wrapped around Neville. He looked younger when he slept, and his good humor drew lines on his face that were there even in repose. What have I ever done that I should be so lucky?

He lay still, listening to the sound of Charlie breathing, to the creaking of the old house, to the overly-loud beating of his own heart. He thought about the night and about how amazing it had felt to be loved. He remembered his sickness and his gratitude at being held. Charlie had given him exactly what he needed even as he slept.

Neville knew that he should rise and work on the mystery, search for clues to the poison. He knew that he should be looking desperately for a cure, should talk things over with Charlie, seek his opinions. There was no time for dawdling. Still, he could not resist kissing his lover awake rather than shaking him.

~~~~~~

Serous (poison) cutaneous glands of the leptodactylid species Physalaemus albonotatus and Leptodactylus chaquensis were compared ...

Neville woke to find that he had fallen asleep halfway through reading the article on poisonous South American frogs. He read the first sentence again and shook his head. Perhaps sleeping had not been such a bad idea considering the only words he recognized were "glands of the" and "were compared".

Neville stood, stretching his back and sighing heavily. This was hopeless. What were the chances that Harry had been attacked by an amphibian? He pictured himself pointing and saying "Sick him, Trevor," and began to giggle uncontrollably. The giggling quickly degenerated into coughing, the coughing to gasping, then to labored breathing, and finally to pain.

~~~~~

The day was wearing on. Charlie had departed before the others woke and Neville'd come straight to the library. Part of him knew that there were other things to be thinking about, but he had blundered on anyway, pulling random books off shelves and digging into their depths. Now the ache drove him back to the table and forced him to think about things he wished not to.

Neville recalled the list of suspects. It was incomplete. The twins were tricksters. They made people laugh. Still... Neville sighed again. It was not that far a stretch. Nosebleed nougats offered without antidote could easily lead to exsanguination. Dudley Dursley had very nearly suffocated on his own tongue. Nearly every harmless prank, if taken to extreme...

"But why?" Neville whispered to the dusty room, "why would they..." He could not in good conscience add the words "poison Harry". This house was not empty and he didn't know what the walls held or to whom they spoke.

Neville forced himself to think impartially. Either Fred or George or both were almost certainly capable of creating a poison. He was also finding it harder and harder to ignore his own symptoms. Neville had felt a bit off color for a few days, but it was not until he'd ingested a "joke" sweet that he had begun being violently ill.

Ridiculous. If he had been poisoned - not that he was willing to admit to that - then it might have started earlier. Hermione had brought in the tray with the tart. Ron had offered him a chocolate. If Fred and George had poisoned Neville........... then they had also poisoned Charlie.

"Oh, God!" Neville spoke aloud, then dropped his head onto his hands. Not possible, not possible, not possible. That would be all my fault. I'm overreacting. I'm fine. I'm seeing shadows and...

~~~~~~~

At about eleven o'clock, Neville wandered down to the kitchen for a bit of tea and some dry toast. He was grateful to find the place empty. The moon would be full tonight, so he suspected that Lupin would not be around for the next few days. Hermione, Molly and Ron appeared to be away. This was all to the good. Neville had neither the desire nor the strength it would take to hold a conversation with anyone, let alone eat something prepared by anyone else.

He kept telling himself that he was being ridiculous, that he must have come down with something, that he'd been worried and stressed and not sleeping. He told himself these things time and again, but they were ringing less and less true.

Back in the library his stomach rolled and his head pounded. He struggled through another dry chapter, resolutely pushing aside worry and blatantly refusing the acknowledge to tentacle of fear that curled low in his belly. He would find something. It would be on the next page... the next page... the next page....

~~~~~~~

"Neville! Neville, with me! NOW! Can't you hear it?" The anxious voice and firm hand shaking him pulled Neville back into consciousness. He sat up, blinked and found himself shaken roughly again, this time from the front by a hand on each of his shoulders.

"NEVILLE! It's the alarm! The Creevey house. We have to go." Neville pushed himself to his feet, assisted by tugging from someone he now identified as Ron. There was a shrieking, pulsing buzzer echoing through the house. Mrs. Black's high voice could be heard as well, cursing them all.

"Ron? Who?" Neville rubbed his hand over his eyes and focused. Ron was already pulling him through the door of the library and down the hall toward the back. Neville stumbled forward, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs as hot adrenaline began to flow through him.

"Let go, Ron," he said as they reached the yard. "I'm awake now. Where are we going? Whose house is under attack? Did it take long to wake me?" There was no time for apologies or self-recrimination. That alarm meant that someone's family, someone's Muggle family, was under attack.

"It's the Creevey house. You woke right up. It's been going off for about a minute, maybe two. We're going to use the emergency apparition point."

Neville's wand was in his hand, though he didn't remember reaching for it.

They walked quickly - across the shabby yard, through the creaking back gate, down the alley and around the corner, taking care not to step in the odiferous piles of trash. Half a block more and the boarding house loomed. The place had once been a grand lady of architecture, manicured and cared for, housing a single great family. Neville and Ron had no time to mourn its peeling paint, no thought for the carefully carved gingerbread that now showed gaping holes like missing teeth. The wizards were there only to make use of the huge, overgrown hedge.

A few small twigs grabbed at Neville's hair and his skin as he slid himself into the space between hedge and wall. Once completely concealed, he muttered the appropriate spell, flinging his molecules across the greater part of England and reassembling them in a pasture across the lane from the Creevey house.

Neville turned toward the reassuring apparition pop and locked eyes with Ron. The youngest Weasley son was pale but straight, his eyes gleaming with bright intensity. This incarnation of Ron was a warrior. Neville wondered briefly if he looked changed as well. Ron nodded, gestured silently toward the house, and they began to move slowly forward.

Dusk had fallen while Neville slept in the library. If magical osmosis actually existed it was possible he'd learned something from lying face down in a medical book. Regardless, the fact that his eyes had been closed had allowed him to take almost no time adjusting to the dim light. He cast a silent spell on his clothing, turning his blue jumper into deepest green, pulling a dark cap over his hair.

Four black-robed figures stood at angles around the house. It was likely that there were more behind the building. No light shown through any of the windows. Neville hoped there was someplace secure in the house, and that the family had fled there. The Creevey's might be trapped inside, but they were not giving away their location.

Neville could see bright flashes of purple and deep blue hitting the wards that surrounded the house. The wards were wavering. If the Death Eaters concentrated all their spells on one spot the magic would fold in moments. "Looks like they've not sent the brightest team," Neville whispered to Ron. "Let's see if we can stun at least two of them before they notice us."

Ron nodded and split off to the left, circling behind the masked figure furthest from him. Neville went right. They would take out the flanks and then have the other two between them. If our luck holds. If none of the attackers looks over his or her shoulder. If someone else doesn't dart around the building. Neville acknowledged each of these thoughts and attempted to take them into consideration as he moved slowly forward.

The land was murky and the sky now began to darken, pink clouds blushing deeper red until the sky seemed tinged in old blood. The light was flat, throwing no shadows. White painted clapboard reflected the flashes of spell magic back toward the casters. Hopefully this would diminish their night vision, decrease the range of their sight. Neville angled his gaze and lowered it in an attempt to prevent the same thing happening to him.

Walking silently, carefully, Neville edged closer and closer to broad back of his first enemy. Danger increased with proximity, but this was true for both of them. If Neville could get close enough he might be able to stun the first man at an angle that would hide the red tracer from his nearest companion. He took another step forward. Almost there.

The wards flashed a sickly orange. The time for stealth had passed. They would fall any moment. Neville cast at the first man and spun toward the next even as his initial target began to fall. The second person was apparently more alert than Neville had anticipated because as he turned he felt, as much as saw, an arch of malignant magic speeding toward him. He flung himself down hard, forward and to the left, toward his attacker rather than away. Silver sparks flew over his head as he slammed into the legs of his opponent. Both of them crashed hard to the ground and Neville let fly with another stunning spell even has he heard the unmistakable sound of bone hitting rock. The figure beneath him went still as death, but Neville spared no time verifying the assumption.

Pushing himself to his knees Neville turned to look for Ron. Another Death Eater lay on the ground, but Ron was dueling with the fourth person. Neville had his eyes on the last remaining opponent. He got to his feet, took two steps forward and caught his toe on something. As he pitched forward blinding green light flew above him, landing with a crash against the wards. The magical barriers fell with a boom and a scream.

A scream?

Even as the thought entered Neville's head several things happened at once. He rolled, recognizing the spell that had downed the wards for what it was and realizing instinctively that it had been aimed at him. He was turning his head to find his assailant when the import of the scream made itself evident. Ron fell backward, black light tinged with crimson impacting somewhere on his chest.

Time slowed with a sickening lurch. It took an hour for Ron to fall, a century passed as that pain-filled scream echoed in Neville head again and again. He saw his parents, drooling and helpless, Hermione hit by a spell, thestrals soaring around Hogwarts. He heard Harry crying in his sleep, whispering the name Sirius over and over, along with the words "so sorry". Neville felt his own horror as he watched a child twitch and writhe in pain. He saw Charlie's face, pinched with worry in those long hours at St. Mungo's - pictured Charlie's anguish should he lose his brother. All of these things sped across the screen of his mind even as he watched Ron fall endlessly toward the ground.

Neville was calm suddenly - cold and hot at the same time, furious and reckless, and completely fearless. A strange feeling boiled up from his toes, consuming him even as it gave him strength. He didn't recognize it, had no name for it, but he followed as it spoke to him.

Neville continued his roll, over and over and onto his feet in a crouching position. He sent a stunner, an impediment charm and some other random spell (possibly a tickling charm?) toward the Death Eater that he knew was behind him. The spells left his wand before he had even seen the man. They made contact just as Neville's eyes caught up. The figure jerked as it was hit with red, blue and silver light - jerked and fell - and Neville was turning away again, running hard in the opposite direction.

Time was doing funny things. The person who had hexed Ron was slowly raising his wand again, aiming at the prone figure, but doing so as if he or she were suspended in clear treacle. Neville yelled, a low, fierce, rage-filled roar that burst from his lungs even as the scene righted itself and began moving forward at reckless speed.

The Death Eater turned, wand raised, flicking the spell at Neville rather than at his friend. Neville dodged and continued running, raising his own wand. The other person threw another spell, and Neville could see the confident smirk on his face even as Neville brushed the spell aside with a shield spell of his own. The smirk faltered. Neville wondered if the pasture was getting longer, how could he run so hard and yet not close the distance? Then suddenly he was there, two feet from the villain who had felled his friend. The spell fell from his lips, leaping from his wand almost without his volition.

Neville had plenty of time to note that the eyes behind the mask were brown, the deep, velvety brown of poppies. Neville saw them change from confident to uncertain to fearful. He noted with detached interest as pain bloomed there.

The slashing hex lifted the Death Eater into the air, holding him suspended, as if by long talons, and shredded his cloak. The enemy's back arched and he screamed. Neville could tell from the tone of voice that his opponent was male. The mask fell from his head, revealing the man to be no more than a year or two older than himself. He was young, thin and pale-skinned. Tears began to run down his cheeks while blood started seeping through the tears in his robes. Neville felt nothing other than that strange boiling warmth. Perhaps it was satisfaction? Rage? Detachment?

The boy, for he was no more than a boy, screamed for his mother, hands balling into fists as pain sliced into him. Neville watched. He spoke no word, offered no assistance. He might have been made of stone, some ancient warrior cast in bronze. When there were loud cracks of apparition all around him, Neville spun on the spot, wand instantly raised, still cool and detached, still blindingly furious.

Kinsley Shacklebolt held up his hand and spoke softly. "We'll take it from here. Get Ron back to headquarters, will you?"

Neville nodded curtly and walked the few feet to Ron. His friend was sitting up now. He shook his head, grasped Neville's hand with his left because his right arm hung limp, and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. It was then that the swearing started. Neville smiled, a cold alien smile, as he helped Ron step back from the scene of battle and into the road.

~~~~~~~

Neville added yet another adjective to his litany of descriptive terms for the feeling that had yet to leave - hatred. Ron did not appear to be seriously injured. He had pivoted in time to turn the hex, causing it to glance off him rather than ratchet through him. His shoulder was burned and bleeding. His arm, according to his vivid and lively exclamations, was hurting like fury. Nonetheless, he would be fine with time and a bit of medical attention.

Hatred. The moment they stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place it began.

----Didn't manage to die, blood traitor?----

The entrance hall was filled with numerous people: Order members gathering to discuss the damage, to plan and plot. Hermione screamed and brought a hand to her mouth when she saw the blood dripping from Ron's fingers.

----Blood in the House of Black should be honorable - or should be spilt entirely!---

Neville helped Ron to a chair in the parlor before he returned to the corridor and pulled the curtain back completely from the picture of Mrs. Black. She continued screaming invective.

----Mongruls! Blood traitors! Have you no pride? Overrunning my house! Redheaded curs and perverts. Half-breeds and Mudbloods. Low filth!----

"That will be quite enough of that. You. Old. HAG!" Neville's voice was low and firm, and it held a core of icy steel that he had never used before. Hatred. Unbeknownst to Neville, the Order members still in the entry and the parlor had fallen silent and turned to look at him.

"You know absolutely nothing about blood traitors or you would be cowering in a corner, silent, as you belong. You classify your own blood as "pure" and yet you would have your children crawl to kiss the bloodstained feet of a murderous halfbreed." Neville's voice resonated with authority he knew he had no claim to. "You mock the Weasleys, whose blood, by your own definition, is pure."

----Curs!---- The painted image straightened herself, puffing out her chest.

----Muggle-loving, poverty-stricken, spotted mongrels! No pride! No sense of place! No social standing! Traitors and...----

"I said ENOUGH!" Neville's voice rose only a little but the force behind it stopped Mrs. Black, who looked at him in surprise. "Sense of place? Social standing? Here stands the last son of a family older by centuries than yours, and "pureblood"." Neville imbued that word with venom and disdain, as if it were beneath him to utter it. "My Gran would not stoop to spit on your shoes were you alive and she inclined to spit. It would have nothing whatsoever to do with blood. You pander, you whine, you scream and crawl and clamor for power that you did not earn; that is bathed in blood and horror. YOU are the blood traitor. A traitor to all the wizarding world has ever stood for."

Neville was breathing hard and he drew his wand, pointing it at Mrs. Black when she opened her painted mouth. For some reason she remained still.

"Pride you have, yes. Pride is the term used for those who cling to false assumptions and try to claim things that are not their own. Pride is for the weak. Therefore, I shall allow you your pride." He sneered at her. He did not see the shocked looks that passed between the members of his audience.

"Proud, however, is an entirely different matter. The Weasleys are proud. Your son was proud. Proud of work well done, of honor upheld, of sacrifices given without thought. Pride is false. To be truly proud one has to earn it."

Neville drew himself to his full height, little though it might have been, and continued. "You, Mrs. Black, are no longer the owner of this house. You have lost your place here - as you threw away your place in this world. We, none of us, wish to hear more from you."

Mrs. Black screamed in inarticulate rage, waving her fists and shaking her head, but Neville had stopped looking at her. He pointed his wand toward the back of the house, spoke the word Accio and directed the potted plant that flew towards him to the floor underneath the portrait. He whispered words to it. Sparks flew from his wand and the plant began to grow. It burst its pot, burrowed into the floor and climbed the wall.

Mrs. Black howled as the first leaf touched her portrait. She beat her painted fists against the canvas, but these were quickly obscured - swallowed by a living curtain of green. When the vine reached the ceiling it stopped growing. The house fell suddenly, eerily, quiet.

Neville stood, mouth set in a hard line, glaring at the wall of leaves. He could never remember being so completely furious in his life. Did the woman not realize? How could she think...? But those thoughts were pointless. Thoughtless malice was everywhere these days. Had he not just watched Ron take a hex for... Ron...

Neville turned back toward the parlor and found himself surrounded by a sea of shocked faces. Hermione was holding a cloth against Ron's bleeding shoulder, but other than that no one moved. Neville felt his face grow red.

"Bloody hell, Neville," Ron exclaimed.

~~~~~~

As quickly as the feeling had overtaken him it ebbed away, leaving him shaking. What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done? Neville looked from the white faces of his friends to the wall of living green. He saw again the fear on the face of a bleeding young man. He remembered his own satisfaction at the other man's pain.

"Oh, God!" Neville had become the monster.

He had been tired, scared, stressed and pushed to his limits. Yet all that it had taken to turn him into the thing he most hated was a bit of a shove - a friend in danger, fear for the pain of someone close to him. Neville had not only hurt another person, he'd enjoyed it. As if that were not enough, he had returned here, thrown insults at a painting and wrecked destruction on a house he did not even own - glorying in his own anger and his fleeting superiority.

What have I done?

Shame and revulsion engulfed him. Unable to look anyone in the eye, the Gryffindor turned on his heel and ran from the room.

~~~~~

Charlie held him as he vomited yet again onto the floor of the old Conservatory. Neville hadn't seen him in the parlor or the hall, but he must have been there. Strong arms had come around him just after he fell to his knees. Charlie brushed back his hair and whispered soothing things to him. Neville was horrified and shaking, sick at that thought of what he was capable of. When his stomach finally stopped contracting he allowed Charlie to wipe his mouth with a handkerchief. Then he turned his face into that solid chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

"Shhhh, it's okay. I'm here. I'm right here." Charlie rocked him, holding him tightly and asking no questions. Neville eventually fell asleep there, hiccupping sobs still occasionally shuddering through his body. Only the plants were witness when Charlie's own tears fell, dropping onto the hair of the boy held close against his heart.

~~~~~~

To Be Continued...