In which there is fic.
(Note- If you are not of the slashy persuasuion and are here for the Alice/Frank, skip this part- it's all slashy raving.)So, secret confession time. I am quite horribly addicted to Shakespeare. And just Shakespeare- Shakespeare slash. And not just and Shakespeare slash- Benvolio/Mercutio slash. (You know- Romeo's cousin and his best friend from Romeo and Juliet?) It is, in my opinion, like Remus/Sirius except set in Italy.
With swords. And the word "dost." Dost!
Unfortunately, it is an extremely small, small, small fandom and I am doomed to wander this Earth looking for quality Benvolio/Mercution slash that doesn't exist. Heck, I'd take bad fic. So, please, is there anyone, anyone, out there who knows where I could get a hit? I've already searched interests and found only one small dried up community with a couple of fics I've already read.
However, my addiction for this particular pairing raises a large question: Why are all my slash pairings all doomed? I mean, Siriusly.
Pimping time: go read
epprep . Right now. Really. It's brilliant. It's a Marauders AU set in the present day with no magic at an extremely religious prep school. Lily/James, Sirius/Remus, Lucius/Narcissa. It's NC-17, but I think that's a bit high- there's nothing too bad about it. Anyway, don't be skeptical. It is fantastic and should be right up there with SBP. I am serious. Go read. You. Now.
And without further do, the Alice/Frank fic for
magic_carrousel . This, I believe, proves why I should never write romance as I am a horrible, horrible sap and please ignore part 5 as it is sickeningly sweet.
Part 4, however, isn't bad. IMHO.
Title: World Without End
Pairing: Alice/Frank Longbottom
Rating: Teen/PG-13
Warnings: Alcohol, cursing, extremely weak and non explicit sex.
Summary: The Romance of Frank and Alice Longbottom in Five Parts. From Hogwarts, to the first war, to afterwards.
Prompts: 9, 16, 15, 2, 18
Parts: 5
Part 1:
PART 1: “Hufflepuff Bravery”
(Prompt 9. ‘People from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were soon coming over to look’)
“Wanker!” screams Black suddenly. He stands up, face red with anger, and drops a bowl of porridge on Potter’s head.
Potter sits there, looking non-plussed for a moment, then stands up as well. He clenches his fists and roars incoherently, taking a swing at Black. Black ducks the punch and lets out a war whoop, tackling Potter.
The two crash to the floor, Potter howling indignantly, and roll around on the floor, screaming expletives. All over the Gryffindor table people are craning their heads to peer at the fight. Not Frank though, he just groans and runs his hand through his hair. Gits, he thinks.
Half the time Potter and Black fight like this, it’s just for attention. Judging by Lupin, who looks annoyed rather than concerned, the two are just being idiots trying to get a rise out of McGonagall. Though, she too seems to have become used to the duo’s habits, and is enjoying a piece of toast and a conversation with Professor Sinistra, jovially pretending not to notice as two of her students Muggle fight on the floor of the Great Hall to the cheers and jeers of other students..
People from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables are soon coming over to look, and among them Frank sees her. Sweet, round face, strawberry blonde hair, large blue eyes, and curvy.
Men would die for those curves.
He is- instantly- smitten and is shocked to find himself half rising out of his seat to get a better look at her.
But she apparently doesn’t see him and marches right past, up to where Potter and Black, idiot fourth years if he ever saw them, are engaged in their brawl, and bawls, “Sirius Black, James Potter- stop that this instant! You‘re interrupting my breakfast.” Her hands are on her hips, and she is the very picture of furious indignation. Brow furrowed and face pink with irritation, her chin jutting out proudly.
The two boys instantly break apart and spring to their feet. Potter, the wanker, smiles like a monkey and wraps an arm around Black’s shoulders.
“Right ma‘am,” he smirks, “Sorry ma‘am.”
Black just grins jauntily and salutes the girl, who glares at the two of them and sniffs, “Honestly, the two of you are such idiots,” before whirling away back to her table. Mission accomplished.
Black pulls a face after her and Frank quells the sudden urge to deck the boy.
Thou shalt not attack lower classmen, admonishes Rules for the Proper Etiquette of Prefects. All the same, his arm twitches a bit.
Remus Lupin, a fourth year like Black and Potter but less of an idiot, moves forward to whisper furiously at his two friends and shoots the girl a grateful look over his shoulder.
“Honestly, could the two of you be anymore immature?” sneers a redheaded girl Frank vaguely knows as Evans. She flips her admittedly rather impressive mane of hair and stalks off after the girl, muttering, “Good on you Alice.”
‘Alice,’ thinks Frank, and he is impressed. Even though Black’s barely fifteen and Potter not even that, not many people are willing to stand up to the duo when they’re of a mind to be troublesome. Frank, Gryffindor prefect and all, had been quite content to let the two midgets duke it out. But this girl, this Hufflepuff he realizes, has shown everyone up- fear of pranks be damned.
Franks suddenly realizes that he must learn two very important things very soon. One- why is this Alice a Hufflepuff and not a Gryffindor like she should be, and two- will she accompany him to Hogsmeade the following weekend? The second question, he decides, is by far the more important of the two.
He waits for her after breakfast is finished, waves his friends on and settles near a tapestry to watch the people emerging from the Great Hall. Caradoc, he thinks suspects something, as the blonde boy ushers Kingsley and Benji along quickly, but not before shooting Frank a knowing leer.
Git, Frank decides with a snort, and then his thoughts stop immediately as she comes out with a gaggle of girls. He takes a deep breath and works up his nerve to approach.
C’mon man, you’re a Gryffindor! Screams his mental Quidditch captain. It is said with the exact same tone and inflection as Kingley had used when Frank ducked a bludger rather than use himself as a human shield for Potter.
“Alice!” he calls loudly, taking a few steps towards her, praying he’s got her name right.
He has, because she turns in the direction of her voice and peers around confusedly.
“Alice,” he calls again, and she sees him. Her face goes from puzzled to, impossibly, pleased, and Frank cheers, Aha! She knows who I am!
He strides towards her, wearing his largest, most charming smile. Her friends, he notes, haven’t left, and are hanging about looking giggly and annoyingly girlish. But they have managed to push Alice to the front of the group, and that’s really all that matters.
Let the airheads chortle.
“Alice,” he says for a third time, and takes her hand, bowing deeply over it.
“H-hullo,” she stutters nervously, going quite, delightfully pink.
Still bent low over her hand, he grins up at her, and wiggles his ears- a talent learned from many long hours practice in front of the mirror.
“I,” he begins gravely, “am Frank Longbottom.”
The juxtaposition of his ear wiggling and somber introduction are enough to startle a laugh from the girl, and Frank’s insides glow with warmth and pride.
“I know who are,” she stammers between chuckles. “You’re the Gryffindor prefect.”
He bows again, but this time more briefly. He feels absurdly joyful at the “the” as if he was important, not just one out of six other Gryffindor prefects.
“That would be me,” he agrees amiably, and then realizes that he has little idea what to say next and even less on how to gracefully lead into the Hogsmeade trip.
Smooth move that, Frank.
She is smiling up at him questioningly and her friends seem restless behind her. Frank realizes he will have to think of something fast or lose her interest. He remember his perplexity from before and grins, “Speaking of Gryffindor, Alice, I have to know why you’re not in it. That was a brave thing you did, breaking up Black and Potter like that. They’re trick-some blighters, and likely to hex you for it later.”
She-Alice- titters nervously and Frank finds it endearing rather than annoying. I’ve known her all of a minute and already I’m a sop, he thinks in awe, This doesn’t bode well.
“Oh well,” she says, looking deeply pleased and embarrassed, “It’s just Black and Potter. They’re mostly harmless, and we get along well enough anyway. And, well, Gryffindor,” she laughs, a high pitched stammering sort and twists her hands in the hem of her robes, “It always made more sense to me that you can’t help being born brave but you have to work at being loyal.”
Frank stares at her, stunned. He isn’t sure if it’s because of her words, because, while interesting, they weren’t really that eloquent, or if it’s because of the way her mouth moved while saying them.
“Fascinating,” he says hastily, once he realizes she’s finished speaking and is peering at him with an anxious kind of expectance. He shifts from foot to foot and clears his throat, thinking desperately of a new question- anything to keep this pretty, brave Hufflepuff talking to him.
“Why aren’t you a prefect?” he blurts out, and mentally slaps himself.
Alice blinks, looking taken aback and lets out another one of her nervous titters, “Well I’m too young aren’t I?”
“Too…er…what?” Frank stares, boggled, and a deep crimson flush spreads to the roots of Alice’s hair. He could’ve sworn she was at least sixteen…
“I’m only a fourth year,” explains Alice softly.
And all thoughts of asking her out to Hogsmeade vanish. It’s not that Frank is an ageist or anything, just that, well, he’s nearly 18, and a seventh year. Such relationships were usually frowned upon by the school administrators. Frank gets a sudden, cold-sweat inducing vision of being dragged before the school ministers and being forced to explain why he was doing illegal things to a fourteen year old in the broom closet.
Oh Merlin.
“Fourth year, really?” he croaks, feeling immensely stupid. “I could’ve sworn you were err, older,” he trails off, blinking owlishly at her.
Alice shakes her head slowly, looking, of all things, close to tears. And there is a long, excruciating moment of silence but for the giggling of Alice’s friends.
Stupid things have probably been listening to the entire conversation, thinks Frank with savage vindictiveness towards them for witnessing his embarrassment.
Fourth year, really. Which means, and he does some quick mental math, he’d have to wait four years for her to graduate and a relationship to be anywhere near acceptable.
Damn.
“Bubble gum?” she offers timidly, finally, the silence having stretched to the point that it was about to explode. She extends a piece of Drooble’s that she’d just extracted from a pocket in her robes.
He stares at the outstretched piece of candy, feeling extremely awkward. “Erm…Thanks,” he mutters and snatches the packet. She grins broadly at him and pulls out a piece for herself.
“Twas nice talking to you Frank,” she says, and makes as if to walk off.
“Wait!” Frank cries just as she is leaving. He is determined not to let this amazing girl to slip through his fingers, and, by Jove, if he has to wait four years, he’ll wait four years.
Alice looks over her shoulder to give him a curious stare. “Walk you to class?” he asks weakly, strength fleeing his body beneath her gaze.
“Oh,” she blushes, “That would be lovely. I mean, if it’s not too out the way for you.”
He strides forward, taking her books from out of her arms. “Nothing,” he assures her gallantly, “would ever be too out of the way for you Alice.”
She blushes again, offering a tentative smile, and it’s like Frank’s seeing the sunrise for the very first time.
Four more years. Right. He can do this.
Alice smiles slyly up at him, and all his blood rushes straight to his ears, turning them bright red.
He isn’t quite sure he’s going to make it.
And part 2:
PART 2: “First Dates and Proposals”
(Prompt 16. “Anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve”)
“You know Frank,” drawls Kingsley on the day of The Date, “most people on their first date, ask their date their favorite color, or about their family, or where they like to spend their holidays, or anything else really, other than ‘Will you marry me?’”
“And that Shacklebolt my friend,” replies Franks chirpily, retying for a third time the hideous paisley tie he borrowed from Alistair Moody, “displays the fundamental difference between you and I. I believe that anything’s possible given enough nerve, and you, my balls-less compadre, do not.”
It’s been three days since Frank bumped into Alice, recent Hogwarts graduate, at an open air market on the northern side of Diagon Alley. Three days since he gathered the courage to ask her on a date. Three days since he immediately ran to his mother’s to beg an ancient and beautiful ring from her.
Kingsley, with his usual wall-like complacency, appears to contemplate Frank’s statement for a long moment.
“You,” he concludes stonily and with the faintest air of amusement, “are a complete arse for brains, and I have no idea why anyone would want to marry you.”
“Neither do I,” admits Frank, and he turns to Kingsley with a flourish, having tied his damnable Muggle tie successfully after attempt number four, “How do I look?” He strikes a pose and grins widely.
“Dashing,” answers Shacklebolt with a snort, opening the Daily Prophet to the Quidditch section.
Frank wrinkles his nose at his flat mate and checks his watch. “Shite!” he howls.
It’s five o’clock, giving Frank half an hour to get to the proper location and navigate his way through Muggle London. Remembering last minute to accio the massive bouquet of roses, he dashes out the door and disapparates with a ‘pop!’
Three minutes and twenty seven seconds later, he sticks his head back into the room with a sheepish smile.
“Kingsley?” he ventures. Shacklebolt grunts and doesn’t look up from the paper. “I forgot the ring, didn’t I?” Another grunt, but this one with a positive note to it.
Franks forces out a nervous chuckle and retrieves the ring from beneath a pile of magazines he realizes he will have to dispose of if-when- Alice says yes. Sticking the tiny velvet box into his pocket, he turns to Kingsley and coughs- the pompous, dry, annoying kind of cough someone only pulls off when they are trying to attract your attention some particularly unpleasant duty.
Another grunt, and Kingsley still doesn’t deign look up from the Puddlemere United article, but there is definitely a suspicious slant to his eyebrows and a slight tension in the way he is clutching the paper.
Kingsley,” questions Frank, and he clears his throat again, “if Alice says yes…be my best man?” He reveals his teeth in what he believes not incorrectly is a sincere and hopeful smile.
Kingsley folds the paper down and looks at Frank with a grave face. “I,” he intones with deep solemnity, and Frank works on making his face even more pleading, “would be honored to be your best man Frank.” Kinglsey turns back to the paper, mouth twitching with a slyly wicked grin, “Of course, you’ll have to get her to say yes first.”
“Stranger things have happened,” replies Frank haughtily, but he ruins the effect by sticking out his tongue. “Thanks mate,” he says, almost unbelievably relieved.
There, that wasn’t so hard. Now all I have to do is convince the bride in question. Piece o’ cake.
He swallows nervously, but manages all the same to tip his hat at Kingsley jauntily and wink, “See you tonight then.”
Kingsley nods his head curtly, a barely seen movement as most of his head is hidden by his paper. Frank thinks, half amused, half exasperated, Well at least he didn’t grunt again, and apparates away, ring quite secure in the pocket of his pants.
After two minutes, during which he skimmed through the obituaries for…just in case, Kingsley looks up and snorts. The roses, of course, have been left to their own defenses on a counter strewn with old newspapers and take-out Thai cartons.
HPHPHP
“Bugger, bugger, bugger,” mutters Franks in a low growl, prancing around and patting himself down as if the flowers might be hidden somewhere in his uncomfortable but very fashionable lilac Muggle torpedo. They’re not, and the red-haired woman standing on the curb next to Frank is looking at him as if he’s disturbed and about to attack with a waterfowl. Frank flashes the woman a thin smile that only succeeds in making her shrink farther back into her fur coat, and briefly ponders the wisdom of apparating back to the flat to grab the roses like he did with the ring, but… no. He’s in the middle of Muggle London, and there’s Alice already, pulling out of one of those wonky black-beetle car things and smiling at him as if he’s the world.
He likes that smile.
“Wow,” she breathes once she’s run up to where is he standing, “the Ritz.” Her face is glowing with happiness, and she looks lovely in a low cut powder-blue dress. The Muggle redhead eyes Alice warily, as if wondering whether she too will start dancing around and uttering obscenities.
“Er…that’s good, right?” He grins, maybe things won’t be so bad after all, forgotten flowers or no.
She giggles, and he thinks it must be a very special magic indeed that turns each giggle into a butterfly in his stomach. His next thought is to harangue himself for being such an idiot in love.
“Very good,” she laughs, and appraises the whole of him with very wide eyes and an amused sort of smile, “You really are a pureblood wizard, aren’t you?” she asks with infuriating inscrutability.
“Erm…yes?” he replies. It’s true, he doesn’t know much about the Muggle world, certainly not as much as Alice, who at least has a Mauggle grandmother, but he’s fairly certain the Ritz is a fairly impressive place to have dinner-if the massive amount of gold he had to withdraw from Gringotts is anything to go by.
Alice laughs again, releasing another torrent of butterflies, and tugs on his arm. “C’mon,” she squeals delightedly. “Oh this is going to be fun! You really go all out for a first date, don’t you?” But she doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing.
You don’t know the half of it, he thinks in a daze as she pulls him toward the entrance.
He notices that her perfume smells of vanilla.
HPHPHP
The dinner goes surprisingly well. The waiter barely raises his eyebrows at Frank’s outfit and only flirts with Alice once, probably put off by Frank’s low warning growl and the way he clutches his silverware like weapons. Alice orders something French and suspicious smelling while Frank sticks to more traditional English fare.
Now the two are wandering, arm in arm, through some nameless London park with the stars over their heads and the scent of early summer in their noses.
Ignoring the occasional vagrant, Frank thinks he might be happier than he’s ever been in his life. True, he hasn’t actually asked Alice yet, but he will. Any moment now. Just as soon as he’s ready. Don’t rush him. Things have to be perfect as possible, and he’s already forgotten the roses. Plus, Potter’s failed to come through with the fireworks.
“Oh! That was splendid,” announces Alice with a happy sigh, and she plops down on a park-bench, hiccupping happily. Frank hopes desperately that she is drunk enough to say yes but not quite drunk enough to regret the decision in the morning. She beams up at him and pats the spot next to her. “Join me,” she offers, and her words are only slightly slurred.
It’s all very cute.
Now or never Longbottom, commands his inner macho voice that sounds disturbingly like his best friend at his most Quidditch Captain-y. Frank kneels down, and Alice blinks at him, confused.
“This was going to be different,” he babbles, and just about shoots himself for not sticking to the script, but it’s too late. “There were going to be roses,” he continues, “two dozen, red, long-stemmed, and fireworks too! But I forgot the roses and Potter said Evans had thrown out all his fireworks and I couldn’t get to Zonko’s in time after that, and then I nearly forgot the ring anyway, but-”
“Roses?” echoes Alice faintly, brows knit in consternation, “I’m ‘lergic to roses.”
Frank blinks rapidly. “You….you are?” he asks quaveringly.
Alice nods, clearly bemused now. “Break me out in hives. ‘Ave since I was a baby.”
“Oh,” says Frank simply, “Good thing I forgot them then.”
Alice beams in agreement, and Frank beams back. They stay like that, grinning like a pair of loonies, for quite some time until Alice prompts, not as drunk as Frank thought, “You were saying something…?"
“Oh right!” cries Frank. A flush of embarrassment spreads across his features, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. Sticking his sweaty hands into his pockets, he wipes them off before slipping out the box. Good man! cheers the Shacklebolt voice.
“Alice,” begins Frank, very serious, and he holds up the box to Alice the way knights offer up their trophies to queens. He pops it open, and she gasps, eyes extremely wide and hands flying to her mouth.
“Will you marry me?”
There is a silence that is overwhelming. Frank feels as if he is waiting for an answer so long, the stars might be start blinking out of existence.
“Frank,” says Alice finally, with careful deliberation, “You barely know me. We’ve only seen each other three times since you’ve graduated Hogwarts- and that was nearly four years ago!”
It sounds a lot like a rejection to Frank, but she hasn’t explicitly said no. So Frank rallies his spirits and tries again.
“I know your favorite color is sky-blue!” he gabbles, “I know you have a little brother who everyone thought was a squib but is now a second year in Ravenclaw! I know your best friend is Lily Evans and that you spent a week in Paris when you were sixteen and fell in love with the city! I know you love bubble gum! I know you’re brave and sweet and terribly funny and that you sometimes wish you’re butt was smaller, I don’t by the way, I like your butt just fine. And I know,” he slows, because the next part is going to come out as sickeningly corny. But then, when has love not been corny? He gulps, “I know that I’m in love with you and have been for forever and will be until the world ends and that I want to spend the rest of my life with you!”
He stutters to a halt and peers up at her with huge, terrified eyes. Not only is he trembling like some earthquake plagued city, he’s panting as if he’d just run a marathon.
Alice reaches over with tortuously sweet slowness and plucks the box out of his hand. “This is a very pretty ring,” she muses offhandedly, examining the item.
“Sapphire. Silver. Family heirloom,” rattles Frank. He feels dizzy like he might be sick, his hands drop to his sides as if his fingers have turned to lead. They feel like they have. Maybe he should check?
Alice closes the box with a pop and sets it aside. Leaning forward, she grabs Frank by the collar and pulls him up towards her. “Frank?” she whispers sweetly. He nods and gulps. She gives him a dazzling reassuring smile, saying, “I don’t care what anyone says. You are far more attractive than Sirius Black,” and attacks his lips.
He pulls back after a minute of heavy snogging. His knees are beginning to hurt from kneeling so long, and he’s pretty sure there’s mud all over them. “So that’s a yes then?” he asks dazedly.“Of course,” murmurs Alice, and kisses him again.
Ah, well. His knees don’t hurt that badly.
At that precise moment, approximately 33 fireworks went off in rapid succession and a pair of black haired men burst from the bushes screaming, “HAPPY ENGAGEMENT!” at the top of their lungs.
Alice shrieks.
HPHPHP
Later, after Frank has recovered from his shock and Alice has soundly eviscerated the two of them, Sirius Black claps Frank on the back and says with friendly pompousness, “Took you long enough Longbottom. James and me have only been carting around those fireworks all evening waiting for the big moment.”
Frank, ignoring the implications of what would have happened had over thirty wizarding fireworks been set off in the middle of the Ritz, merely stares up at Black and mutters, “I’m engaged. Engaged- to Alice. Alice!!”
“’Bout time too,” Black replies with a grin and a conspiratorial wink, “Alice has only had a hideous crush on you for ages. Merlin knows why, considering I’m sooo much prettier than you are.”
Which, of course, leaves Frank Longbottom completely gob-smacked
Part 3:
PART 3: Prophecy
(Prompt 15: “But while I’ve got you here…”)
(October 1979)
“He’s not dead!” screams a voice, “He’s not dead!”
“Alice!” Frank’s head whips up from where it is resting on his desk, and the rest of him is in the process of getting up too when Alice bursts through the door. She is in magnificent disarray- hair streaming, robes thrown loosely over her shoulders, mouth white lipped, eyes brimming with tears, and a pale, shaking hand clutching tight at her wand.
Her eyes skid across the room and land on Frank. “You’re alive!” she cries and
before Frank has time to reply, “Well of course I am,” she is flying across the room and over his desk to slam into him.
“You’re alive,” she sobs into his chest, tears streaming down her face and soaking his gray auror robe, “Alive, alive, alive.”
Frank holds her tight against him and kisses the top of her head for comfort, then frowns. “Of course I’m alive, why wouldn’t I be?”
Alice sniffs loudly and pulls back, “Weren’t you supposed to be on a mission to northern Ireland?”
“Yeah,” answers Frank, nodding slowly and staring at his wife with a puzzled expression, “but Benjy volunteered to go instead.” A sinking stone feeling crashes into his stomach, “Why did something happen?”
Alice avoids his eyes, merely reaches a trembling hand inside one of her robes and pulls out a much worn letter. Several bubble gum wrappers fall out as well. She gives him the parchment without a word, and Frank stares at it uncomprehendingly- not wanting to understand to what it means.
Slowly, he takes the missive from her and unfolds it to read. It is written in Peter Pettigrew’s round, hasty scrawl:
“Alice,
Do not jump to conclusions, but DD received word that the auror sent on Joyce mission has been attacked and possibly killed. DO NOT PANIC. DD will meet with you if things are as feared. Stay put.
-Wormtail”
“They have the absurdest nicknames,” murmurs Frank faintly, a dim sense of horror worming its way into his consciousness. He looks up at Alice, “And you didn’t do what Peter told you to, did you?”
Alice shakes her head, and Frank nods, more to himself than her, and crumples the paper in his fist. The full realization of what he’s just read hits him like a blow, and he finds himself reeling. He staggers back. Alice seems very far away, and he can barely reach her now. He grabs at her like a blind man, and he is for a moment. The whole world seems to have gone black.
“He’s dead Alice. Benjy’s dead.”
Alice nods, and fresh tears swell and break in her eyes.
Franks feels suddenly dizzy. This is the second close friend he’s lost…First Caradoc’s disappearance, now Benjy. Sly, quick Benjy who was a brilliant seeker and had an unhealthy interest in making things explode. Frank is briefly very glad he convinced Kingsley not to join the Order, not to become an auror. There’s too much danger already, he should at least try and keep one of his friends out of the hot seat.
There is a sudden, hot swelling in Frank’s stomach and throat, and he knows he is going to be sick.
Which casualty, he wants to know as he rushes into the bathroom to vomit up his breakfast and lunch, does Benjy make? What number? What statistic? And how many more?
As he is heaving into the porcelain bowl, cool hands come up from behind and sweep his bangs out of his face.
“Shh…” whispers Alice, “Shh…It’s alright, Frank, it’s alright. Thing’s’ll be alright. You’ll see.”
Frank heaves several more times, then sits back, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, a dour look on his face. “No,” he says tersely, “it’s not alright.”
Alice is silent for a moment. “You’re right,” she sighs finally, “and they haven’t been for awhile. But while I’ve got you here…” she trails off for a moment, gulps, and starts again, “Now that I’ve got you here, know you’re alive, can we please, please just pretend it all is?”
The way she is standing against him leaves no doubt in his mind as to what “pretend” is. Normally, that is to say, pretty much all the time, he would be pretending with her in a minute. But now…
He leans back, rests his head against her. “We’re in a public stall of a Ministry bathroom. You shouldn’t even be here, and I’ve just tossed the biscuits after learning about the death of one of my best friends, Alice. I hardly see how we can pretend things are alright.”
Hands brush down his face. “Close your eyes,” suggests Alice’s voice, light and teasing and suddenly very near to his ear. “Close your eyes, pretend you’re someplace, somewhen, else.” Her voice drops, turns ragged and desperate, reveals the tease for the façade it was, “Please Frank, please.”
So Franks sighs and nods, and stands up. Alice smiles gently at him and mutters a few charms. Doors shut and locks click and a Silencio is whispered.
It’s rough and hot and harsh and almost violent, but exactly what they need. Gasping for breath and just holding each other, knowing the other one’s there.
“Merlin,” breathes Frank, with eyes shut once they’re finished, sitting on the toilet seat with head in hands. “Merlin. Alice, we can’t…people shouldn’t live like this. There‘s too much pain.”
Alice nods her agreement wearily, boneless and slumped against the door of the stall. “C’mon Frank,” she sighs wearily, straightening up and becoming instantly business like, round, happy face closing in on itself, “someone’s going to start wondering where you are. We need to tell Dumbledore you’re alright.”
Deep down, Frank wonders if he is.
HPHPHP
(June 1980)
“February eleventh,” says Alice weakly, collapsing onto the couch and staring up at the ceiling with white-washed face and wide, unseeing eyes.
“Wha-at?” asks Frank shakily, emerging from the Floo and feeling as if he’d just aged centuries.
“February eleventh,” repeats Alice, and she sits up slightly to peer at Frank, “1979. That was the first time we defied him. Defied Voldemort.”
“Oh, right,” answers Frank, too drained to say anything else. He slumps against the fireplace. Merlin, he’s tired.
Alice settles back into the couch, twisting uncomfortably thanks to the eight month bulge of her belly. “I was still in auror training with Sirius. But…I took the weekend off, to go with you to Glasgow. And… he met us there. Asked us to join…” She trails off, looking very, very tired, and Frank gets a sudden impression of what she might look like twenty years from now. He remembers what happened next, and no doubt she does too. The refusal, the battle. Cowering behind a stone bench and shooting hexes as Muggles screamed and fled. Black and Moody barely showing up in time as reinforcements.
Frank gathers his strength and staggers toward her. His knees give about half way there, and rather than crawling, he merely leans across the rest of the length to the couch and brushes his fingers against whatever part of her he can reach.
It’s been a long night. Two more wizarding houses with a Dark Mark leering above, an hour-long firefight in which Dorcas Meadowes took six stunning spells to the chest and nearly died, and now this… whatever this is. This prophecy. Dumbledore more grave than Frank had ever seen him, and Lily and James looking just as damned run down and shocked as Frank and Alice must have.
“Born to those who have thrice defied him. Born as the seventh month dies.”
Mostly he cannot believe that if comes to James and Lily and their child dying, or him and Alice and their child dying, he would sacrifice the Potters.
He hates this bloody war.
“Second time,” whispers Alice, reaching out blindly and clasping their hands together, “September, same year.” Her face squeezes into a grimace that under normal circumstances could almost be called a smile.
Frank manages to crawl a little closer, run his hand down one of her tearstained cheeks. Every muscle in his body aches. “I remember that,” he says softly.
Sneaking into Malfoy Manor in the dead of night, on suspicion of a Death eater meeting was being held there. They stole three documents which later turned out to be of great importance to the Order. Nearly being caught by You-Know-Who himself as they slipped back out of the mansion and laughing as they disapparated away before he even had the chance to draw his wand. Alice even had found the nerve to smirk and flip him off before disappearing back to the safety of the auror’s headquarter.
“That was a fun night,” Frank murmurs, lost in thought, “Last time I can remember actually enjoying myself on a mission.”
“Third time,” gasps Alice, “January.” She is dangerously close to tears. Frank squeezes her hand and can’t imagine why she is forcing herself, forcing both of them, to relive these experiences. Experiences that should have been their greatest victories but have now taken on a new, horrible, mind-numbing dimension.
“I didn’t want you to go,” remarks Frank. She had been three months along and beginning to show, a proud swell beneath her auror robes. They’d been sent to rescue Lupin after a failed mission- a mission, everyone had suspected Voldemort had already known about. Black and the Potters had been furious, had demanded to go instead. But Dumbledore had sent Frank and Alice.
Frank shakes his head, wonders what would have happened had the Potters rescued Lupin instead. The prophecy would be wrong for one. The Potters would have defied the ugly git four times and him and Alice only twice. As it was, the two of them had spent the better part of a week breaking down defensive spells in order to get to where Lupin was being held. The man had been remarkably good shape after being held by Death Eaters for over a week, something Frank had been grateful for as a tortured into unconsciousness Lupin wouldn’t have been able to warn them of Voldemort and a whole pack of cronies tying to take them from behind.
The next two hours had been a scary, desperate rush to a safe apparation point- approximately three miles away from the warehouse in which Lupin had been imprisoned. Two hours spent hiding in dumpsters and stumbling through dark, Muggle twists, trying not to get themselves or anyone else murdered. Two hours of terror.
“Oh Alice,” breathes Frank, and he crawls the remaining few steps to the couch, leans over so that his and Alice’s foreheads are touching. “What are we gonna do?”
“I dunno Frank, I dunno.” Her eyes close, tears streaming down in earnest, and her shoulders shudder with sobs. “I just don’t know.”
Frank’s too tired, too horrified, too overwhelmed to do anything but sob as well. He’s goddamned 25, and far too young to be dealing with all this.
HPHPHP
(August 1981)
“Well,” says Frank, feigning cheerfulness, “this is it.”
Alice gathers up a barely-walking Neville in her arms and surveys Franks and the flat behind him with blank eyes. “It’s…nice,” she says lamely.
And it would be, really, if it wasn’t the third such time they’d had to move in as many months. Frank knows this, knows this is what behind Alice’s flat words and expressions. He knows this, but it still doesn’t stop him from snapping, “Goddamit Alice what is it you want- a bloody mansion?”
Alice stiffens, looking offended, and clutches Neville a little closer to her chest. “I said it was nice,” she tells him sharply. And then scowls, “And don’t curse in front of the baby.”
Frank glares at her, “Why? It’s not like he can understand anything that we’re saying.”
“He can understand more than you think Frank Longbottom!” shrieks Alice, voice rising shrilly. Neville begins to whine and wail, picking up on his mother’s unease. Alice looks down at him, suddenly tender, shushing him gently. Frank watches, trying to maintain his sense of annoyance and failing. He could never stay mad at Alice, or even argue with her, not like James and Lily. The two couples are so unlike that the only things they have in common are the Order and…
Frank doesn’t want to think about that. About that damned prophecy hanging over all their heads and forcing them to run. All the time, always running and never getting a moment of peace, often too tired and harried to even force a smile. They haven’t been able to do anything for the Order in months, trying too hard to stay one step ahead of Voldemort. To protect their son.
It’s worth it, Frank thinks savagely. Neville’s worth it. A small part, as always, can’t help but disagree. Thinks…maybe and what if…? And you always could…. He smashes that part firmly, and glares at his wife, still cooing to their son.
He’s worth it. They’re both worth it, goddamit, and Frank’s gonna damn well make sure that nothing happens to them.
He sticks his chin out and gestures gruffly to the flat, “C’mon, let’s go get unpacked.”
Alice looks up at him, and her face seems to tremble for a moment. But the moment passes, and the same tired, blank look she’s been wearing for the better part of a month now reclaims it’s position. She shrugs, “I don’t see why, we’ll just be moving in a few weeks anyway.”
She walks past Frank, Neville silent with wide, dark eyes and clinging to her robes.
They’re worth it, he repeats adamantly, gritting his teeth. Worth it.
Frank cannot believe that he and Alice could be the parents of the savior of the wizarding world. He cannot believe that his unborn child has already attracted the attention of the most powerful dark wizard in ages. Cannot believe in destiny or fate or prophecy because it is all just too absurd.
Part 4: (You know you want to.)
PART 4: Briefly
(Prompt 2: “The lock clicked open and they entered.”- modified for tense)
It’s their first date in over a year, a luxury allowed only recently, and Frank takes Alice to the Muggle movies- a curious thing neither have had the chance to experience until now. It’s rather good they decide afterwards, though parts of the plot were hard to follow. The magical world has little like it, and they agree that that’s a shame.
After the picture Frank and Alice head to an Order meeting, more out of habit than anything else. There are still Death Eaters out and about, but Voldemort’s been defeated, and really, isn’t that all there is to it? Besides, the world’s still too rosy with the bloody flush of victory for the Order to do anything more than rush over a list of still-at-large Voldemort supporters before someone, probably Diggle, breaks out the spirits.
Alice quirks a pained smile at Frank over her glass of bubbly as a toast is raised to the Boy-Who-Lived. None of the smiles, Frank notices as he squeezes his wife’s free hand, are very happy. Everyone is too grim, too exhausted to smile and laugh as so many other wizards and witches are doing all across Britain.
True, Voldemort is dead, but at what cost? Franks shakes his head, and because a glass had to be raised to little Harry who is now slumbering safely somewhere only Dumbledore knows, glasses are raised to Lily and James as well.
This time there are no smiles, especially from Frank and Alice. They are in too much turmoil of guilt and relief for a smile, however bittersweet, to cross their faces.
“To James and Lily,” mutters Alice, more to herself than anyone else, as tears begin to hang on her lashes, “Truer, braver people were never known.” She knocks back her drink and grimaces. Frank does the same.
Once James and Lily have been named, there’s nothing for it. They weren’t the only ones to fall.
“To the Prewetts!” cries a wet-eyed McGonagall.
“To Dorcas!” croaks Moody. Even he has given up on his constant vigilance for just this one night.
“To Caradoc!” calls Frank, working past the lump in his throat. Caradoc was a good friend, and Frank vividly remembers being teasingly punched in the shoulder when Caradoc found out he wasn’t going to be best man. Merlin, was that only three years ago? So much has happened since.
Another glass is raised, and another and another and another until they are all heady with drink and sorrow.
(Marlene!Benjy!Edgar!)
A drink! A drink! A drink!
“Peter!” calls out someone, and they all drink to poor, foolish Pettigrew as well, but there are no more names after that, but a tension instead. Frank’s fingers curl tightly around the delicate stem of his glass. For who can think of Peter without thinking of Black?
Black who had been one of them, braver than them all, or so they had thought. Black, who had fought alongside them, saved them…who had been James’s best friend.
Black who had betrayed them.
The tight silence continues.
But Frank cannot believe that, and his throat closes tightly as wetness begins to seep from his eyes. I’m a grown man, he thinks, I shouldn’t be crying. Not in public at least.
Alice, seeing his expression, squeezes his hand tightly and gives him a sympathetic look as if to say, “I know, I know.”
He is suddenly overwhelming, unimaginably, fantastically grateful he has her. His Alice who loves plants but is allergic to most of them. His Alice who bakes like a champion but has a hard time making the simplest of potions. His sweet, wonderful Alice with her big heart and surprising sense of mischief.
At least, he thinks in the farthest, darkest reaches of his mind, the war didn’t take everything from us.
The silence stretches and tightens until someone speaks and it snaps back, rubber band like, “Has anyone seen Remus? He’s taken this all so hard, harder than anyone else really.”
Frank and Alice glance at each other, because, no, they haven’t seen Remus lately. No one has it seems, and everyone wonders where he has disappeared too and if there’s anything they could do. But of course there isn’t, because Lupin lost everything, and at least they all still have someone.
Frank isn’t sure if it’s him tightening the handhold or Alice or the both of them, reflexively warding off the guilt.
After all, he muses, isn’t that what we, humans all, fear most? More than pain and death and dark- sheer, simple loneliness?
He knows the drink is making him maudlin and philosophical, but takes another swig anyway, squeezing Alice’s soft finger. “Poor Remus,” murmurs Alice, and her eyes well up with tears again. Frank realizes with a start that she had gone through school with the boy. That many of the people named tonight were more than just Order members and casual acquaintances to her, but friends.
He is, he knows, in the exact same situation.
He wants to go home, tell her everything is alright and hold her close, breathing in her scent until he drowns in it. He shakes his head, and by then the meeting seems to be dissolving. Everything’s still too raw and fresh and hurting for anyone to want to stay around any longer, prodding at barely healed wounds.
With thoughts that range from guilty to tragic to triumphant to just plain tired, the Order disperses. They leave in pairs and packs and trickles, but never alone.
They’re not that comfortable yet.
Alice still looks like she’s on the verge of tears, so last minute Frank decides to bring her dancing instead of home. Somewhere bright and happy-does it matter if it’s Muggle?
It takes a while, but eventually she is laughing into his chest, wrapped tight against him as if they could meld into one.
Reveling in their sheer unaloneness, trying to synchronize their heartbeats, and drunk off too many glasses of strong champagne and even stronger emotions, they miss every step to every dance and stumble into the December chilled streets where they remember Christmas is coming.
“We should get something for Neville,” breathes Alice into his ear. She’s clutching at his shirt and staggering, a wide, wild smile plastered across her face. “Something shiny and Muggle. A bicycle!” she screeches, and threatens to totter to the ground she is laughing so hard.
Frank catches her just in time. He’s always been able to hold his liquor better than her, and he suspects she’s had much more than he did anyway. They have no hope of apparating home in this state. They’ll get splinched horribly, he realizes through the foggy vagueness of his mind. So he nods and agrees to Alice’s plan, which seems like a really good idea anyway. So they trip and bumble, grabbing and dragging each other, looking for an open store and staring in open mouthed wonder at the stars.
They don’t find a store, but they do find an alleyway, which is almost as good. Alice pulls Frank in and next thing she knows, she’s up against the wall and Oh yes…right there. Oh Merlin. Electric thrills run up their spines to escape from one lover’s mouth into the other, accompanied by giddy moans and sighs. And they shudder and buck and kiss and cry until Frank wraps his fingers in his wife’s hair and whispers, “Maybe Neville will have a little brother or sister along the way soon, eh?”
Alice laughs into his shoulder, because even though she’s just fucked in an alleyway, she’s still far too modest and embarrassed to say anything about it.
Drunk and mostly spent and exhausted, they stagger back home, banging into light posts for more kisses and touches along the way. Finally they arrive at their flat, and Frank presses Alice up against the door, inhaling deeply the sweet scent of her hair. He fumbles in his pocket for the key, fins it with a cry of success that is swallowed by Alice’s lovely, lovely hair. He slides the key in, and Alice giggles, planting butterfly kisses along his neck and jaw.
He turns the key.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers dreamily. “And I abso-bloody-lutely love you.”
“Love you too,” slurs Alice.
The lock clicks open and they enter, holding each other and giggly and in love.
What they see has an immediate sobering effect.
“Hello pretties,” coos Bellatrix Lestrange, and she slides a bright red and perfectly manicured finger down the length of her ebony wand.
Frank’s last coherent thought is that he is glad Neville is at Frank’s mother’s. After that it’s only Alice! Get down! Duck, expelliarmus!… Aaah…Alice…shit…Alice! Alice! Aaaaaaaaliiiice!
And then there was only pain.
The final installment, aka part 5:
PART 5: Bicycles-An Epilogue of Sorts
(Prompt 18: “You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear.”
“You’re fighting a losing battle there, dear,” says the plump, kindly looking blonde Healer. She has immaculate buffed and shined red nails and is very gently prying out a shiny silver spoon from the sweaty hands of Neville’s second year Defense teacher.
Neville doesn’t answer her and decides, almost out of spite, that he doesn’t like her very much.
The woman sighs, “Come along Gilderoy, there’s a dear. You’ve been nuisance enough to the poor boy today,” and drags the former professor away. Neville glares after her from where he is seated on his mother’s bed. Sure the woman is gone, he turns back to the flash cards he purchased from a Muggle shop for children.
Each card bears a simple drawing with a word underneath. They are, Neville knows, for teaching children how to read, but right now he is merely trying to keep his parents from eating them.
The Healer, dismissive though she might be, may, however, have a point. He is currently engaged in the admittedly very difficult project of playing a memory game with his parents.
“No Mum,” he admonishes gently for what feels likes the sixtieth time, and he pulls one of the cardboard squares out of his mother’s clenched fists. It is crumpled and folded, with a bit of a tear starting down the middle. Neville sighs and taps his wand against the card. It instantly flattens and straightens out. He squints at the picture. It is, he believes, a bicycle. A muggle contraption that, frankly, his parents don’t need to waste their time on learning about.
He twists his face into a frown and taps the card with his wand again. This time with a muttered, “Incendio.”
There is a brief “whoosh!” and the card disappears in a lick of orange flame.
“No!” shrieks Alice, “No!” She stares at Neville with horrified eyes. “Bicycle! Bicycle!”
Neville blinks at her. “You knew what that was?” he asks in a quavering voice. How in the world had she remembered that?
Alice nods happily, and then instantly loses interest. She smiles at Neville and stands up, tottering around the private room Neville’s managed to secure for his parents. Granted, it was more because he was the friend of the great Harry Potter than through any merit of his own, but he is still quite proud of being brave enough to demand it from the St. Mungo’s staff in the first place.
A week ago Neville had been awoken from his slumber by a large angry screech owl from St. Mungo’s, bearing word that after years of intense therapy his parents had regained their faculties of speech and some clarity of mind. In the week since Neville has barely left the ward. He hasn’t gotten much sleep lately, staying up late to mull over thoughts and plans and that tantalizing, “What if…?”
Food has also been something he’s found he hasn’t had much time for, but several of the Healers have been kind enough to bring him his meals, and Luna too has stopped in on several occasions just to chat, bringing with her copies of the Quibbler, knitted elbow warmers, and muffins made from what she solemnly told him were puffskin dreams.
Admittedly, these chats he has with Luna are barely more coherent than the ones he has with his parents, but still. It is the thought that matters, and the muffins, whatever they are made of, are quite delicious.
“What are you doing Mum?” asks Neville tiredly. Alice has jumped back onto the bed and is rooting around the headboard with an excited smile.
Alice continues grinning widely, almost wickedly, and pulls out a shiny gum wrapper from beneath a pillow. She extends it towards him, her face crinkled into a wide grin. “For you Sirius.”
“It’s Neville Mum, Neville,” he groans, and hides his face in his hands, blushing horribly from his embarrassment. Sirius, as he understands it, was a good friend of his mother’s and extremely handsome. It is a testament to Alice’s madness that she could confuse Neville for him.
“Nebul,” repeats Alice gravely. Neville sighs, close enough, and is shocked by what happens next. Alice’s hands fly to her mouth and she shrieks ear-splittingly, “Bicycle!”
Neville jumps, startled, and falls off the bed, landing on the clean white tiles of St. Mungo’s in a crumpled heap. “Wha-at?” he stutters, dazed.
“Bicycle!” yells Alice again, and she bounds away to tug on Frank’s hand. Frank looks up from the five piece puzzle he is working on and stares at Alice uncomprehendingly. His expression, Neville thinks, probably mirrors his own.
What is with her and the damn bicycles?
“Bicycle!” babbles Alice, and she jabs a claw-like finger at Neville, eyes boring into Frank’s as if they might be able to communicate psychically. And perhaps they can, for after a moment, comprehension dawns on Frank’s face, and he looks at Neville with an ear-splitting grin.
“Bicycle!” he shouts.
“Bicycle,” agrees Alice firmly, and begins spinning in circles, “Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle.” Frank chatters along with her
“What,” bellows Neville, losing his patience finally, “are you two on about?”
Alice gives a little cry and shrinks away from Neville, hands clasping firmly at her ears. Frank, too, looks shaken, and frowns at Neville.
“Bad Nebul,” he reprimands sternly. “Bad.”
It is, Neville thinks, not entirely unexpected that the first coherent statement he ever hears uttered by his father is an admonishment. But Alice begins shaking her head and scuttling towards Neville timidly.
“No,” she says, “Noo…Nebul not bad,” and very, very awkwardly, attempts to hug him. Placing her thin arms around his shoulders and pushing his face into the crook of her neck. It is the kind of hug, he remembers, that he always wanted to have as a child and envied other children for getting.
Nervously, as if he might break her, and he very easily might, Neville hugs back. Squeezing her waist lightly, he grins tremulously. Any moment now he knows his parents might slip back into incomprehensible madness, that this all might be a fluke bout of lucidity. Any minute now, he thinks. But it doesn’t happen. What does happen is Alice turns her head ever-so-slightly, to smile gently at her husband.
“See?” she demands, and it almost sounds like she’s teasing, “See? Good Nebul.”
Frank grins back. “Good Nebul,” he agrees happily.
There is, Neville realizes, a single tear rolling down the edge of his nose.
No, definitely not a losing battle.
Hope you enjoyed, expect more fic on something soon. I am off to link this to magic_c and possibly several other locations.