Of the Unlikely Sort

In the spirit of wars before it, the Great War commenced with a sputter - that is, with fits and starts, small rebellions immediately squashed. Just when you thought it - the bad, the evil, the foe - had been defeated and the conflict beaten down, you discovered that it had just taken a moment to retreat, to regain itself and its strength.

The Great War signaled the loss of balance in the wizarding world.

The Great War signaled the partnership between the Savior of the Wizarding World - that is, Harry Potter - and the single greatest wizard the wizarding world possessed: Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

The Great War, though, also signaled the end of your marriage.

It was with a heavy heart, a heavy bulk at your midsection, and a heavy toddler clutching at your ankles that you left your home and your husband - which, intrinsically, were one and the same. He was your home.

"Don't leave me," he pleaded, tears rolling down the cheeks that so closely resembled Frankie's.

"I have no choice," you whispered derisively, as if that statement itself explained the multitude of emotions you had felt in the seconds, hours, days leading up to this decision. "It was your decision to enlist in the Magical Defense Legion. You promised me 'till death to us part!' It's not my fault if you decide to hasten death. You neglected to keep your promise, so I neglect mine to remain with you."

"It's my duty!" he shouted, kneeling, hugging Frankie, whose pudgy arms were encircling Neville's neck. "The Death Eaters are holding our people hostage. I have to get involved."

"If Harry Potter wants to play ringmaster to the wizarding troops, that's fine, but I am not married to Potter. I will not expose my children to the harm that will befall the family of a Magical Legionnaire." You fastened the string to your satchel full of Frankie's diapers, and, holding out a hand, summoned, "Come, Francesca."

Frankie looked bewildered, her eyes darting back between her teary father and you, her steadfast mother. "Francesca Parkinson Longbottom, now," you whispered darkly in that way reserved just for mothers throughout generations past.

Pulling her beloved sunglasses onto her head despite the fact that it was freezing, she toddled over and took your hand.

"Pansy, my Puffskein, your due date's next week. What if you go into labor?" he asked.

"My father will call you. Under no circumstances are you to come to St. Mungo's," you concluded, rushing out the door, somewhat dragging your firstborn towards the waiting Knight Bus.

You would not allow your children to become pawns in Voldemort's quest for revenge.

You would not allow yourself to go insane with worry as your husband played a high-stakes game of Cowboys and Indians alongside Harry bloody Potter.

And, of course, you would not allow yourself to see the truth. (You were as Slytherin as they come, and you would sooner hug Professor Dumbledore than acknowledge fear.)

You would not allow yourself to see that you were petrified about your husband leaving you - dying, perhaps, in some battle somewhere.

It was just a safer alternative - before he left ever left you, it was easier to leave him.

*****

Your father, Perry Parkinson was many things - a liar ("I prefer master of manipulation"), a thief ("Isn't it nicer to say shrewd businessman?"), and above all, corrupt ("I like to thing of myself as having a flexible set of morals").

But only when it came to matters of economic interest. He was also wealthy, respected and feared.

He was not, however, one of those pathetic caricatures of evil, as he called them; he was not a Death Eater.

And he was glad to have you and his grandchild home.

"That Gryffindor has the personality of a doorknob, really, I don't know what you saw in him," Perry admonished, taking another plate of green beans from Pinky, the old-looking house elf who'd raised you.

"Please, Perry," Pepper chastised. "Not in front of the c-h-i-l-d."

"Sorry, dear," he apologized, not wanting to infuriate your mother, who, in the great scheme of things, held more power in the Parkinson household than your father ever would.

*****

Frankie asked you every hour on the hour when you would take her "to go see Daddy, so I can tell all about the big puwple bus and Gwampa Pewwy's new kitty and..."

And, being on maternity leave, there was no hiding from her unless your mother decided to take her to the ButterBeer shop down the street, so you sat her down one day to discuss the issue. "Daddy and Mummy are having a little disagreement," you started.

"Disagweement?" she repeated, making a face as if she had just drank a gallon of bubotuber pus.

"Daddy did something that Mummy didn't like, and so I felt I needed to get away for awhile. From Daddy, that is," you attempted.

"But I miss Daddy," she stated matter-of-factly, as if the fact that she missed him would erase any betrayal still sitting on your heart.

"I miss him, too," you responded, pulling Frankie closer as your other child kicked violently from somewhere within you, "but some things, Frankie - some things are unforgivable."

*****

The world's only wizarding Mooncalf spent a lot of her time at home, eating Chocolate Frogs as her due date came... and went.

You went to the park with Frankie - once even going to a special park, one filled with those Muggles Neville enjoyed watching documentaries about on the Wizarding Wireless Vision Services. And Frankie seemed to get a kick out of watching those little non-magical kids pumping their legs back and forth on the swing, laughing at the prospect of not having a Swing Charm on the seat.

You went shopping with your mother in Diagon Alley once or twice for grocery supplies.

You also went crazy with worry over your husband. Whether he had been shipped out or not, whether he was already in battle. Your owl, Violet, had come a few times bearing a piece of parchment. You never opened it up, and sent a tired Violet right back from where she came.

That was either to show him that you were strong or stupid. One of the two, because at this moment you were dying to know how he was doing.

You went into labor after eating one too many Chocolate Frogs, it seemed. After Frog #9 escaped your grasp ( you were too tired to chase it and Frankie was nowhere in sight), your water broke and you settled in for twenty-four hours of reliving the worst pain in your life.

You yelled, you cursed his name ("Longbottom, if you were he-heeere, right, now, I'd kill you!"), but between the contractions, you had a complete and utter change of mood: "Neville, Nev-" and the pain would come again, strong and hard as you attempted to bring this child in to the world.

It was having Francesca all over again, and you questioned why the consequence of something so pleasurable resulted in pain that you didn't think Voldemort himself could inflict.

This time, though, your husband was not there to witness the birth.

At least, that's what you thought, as they wheeled you out of delivery, you clutching perhaps the finest looking boy the wizarding world had ever seen, other than your husband of course.

You saw him standing near a wall in scrubs, smiling sheepishly. You asked the orderly to put a stop to the charm that was currently moving you towards the maternity room where you'd spend the next few days recovering.

"You're here," you commented dryly.

"Dr. Boonyfetter let me stand in the back and watch the delivery," Neville confessed red-cheeked, before looking down at his son. "So that's him?"

"That's him," you replied abruptly, clutching the child who greatly resembled his father with his round cheeks and tufts of brown hair.

"His name?" he whispered hopefully.

"It's what we decided: Perry Trevor Parkinson Longbottom."

"Hey, Trevor, I'm your daddy. He's beautiful, Pansy, my Puffskein, just beautiful." He looked at you, tears in his eyes.

You tried to avoid his gaze because one look into them and you'd be like a Hufflepuff at the sight of a fuzzy bunny.

"I - ummm, I Apparate tomorrow. I am going to meet Harry on the front lines, according to Percy's orders," he revealed.

You looked at the wall behind him as your heart broke. He hadn't left yet, he hadn't left yet. This could be the chance, a chance, any chance to salvage something.

You turned your stare towards him, pleadingly, offering the child to him - and you melted.

"I love you," you whispered.

"Oh, Puffskein, I love you too," he answered, taking Trevor and kissing you as lay on the gurney.

"Stay, then. Ignore your orders. Quit the Legion, Neville. For me, for Frankie, for Trevor, quit and stay with us! Safe, where we'll be happy and you can get to know your son."

He looked imploringly at you, as if he were weighing his decision in that moment. He handed the child back to you. "I can't do that, I can't just quit. I made a promise."

"Yes, well, you made a promise to me that you'd always be by my side for me and for these children. You broke that promise. Get out of here, Longbottom. Just go get yourself killed."

The gurney moved.

The child gurgled.

Neville stood motionless, defeated.

And you cried.