HP: Neville
Dark. Rated R. Neville centered. 272 words.
Neville walked past Room 327 for the 739th time. There were 527 steps to his destination from the entrance chamber. 7 years spent at Hogwarts, 5 years since the war had ended, 2 years searching for the Boy Who Only Might Have Lived.
He did.
Then two more years in this place. Present. Neville was familiar with the building. The silencing charms made it quiet, hid the yells until you opened the doors.
It used to be his parents' tantrums that greeted him. Profanities, accusations, and denials. There were 72 nail etched marks on his mother's bedposts. 25 equally deep marks on his father's legs. Neville had spent an entire afternoon counting them, and then an entire evening counting the ones on his own flesh, 17.
739 days ago, Neville had ceased those visits, because they were gone, found in the middle of the night twisted together, given up.
It was Room 398 that he went to now. That room was quiet without the charms, still without the magical restraints. Its occupant laid in an open eyed sleep, glassed green eyes staring up at the ceiling tiles. There were 276.
Neville was the only one who bothered to visit anymore. Ron had given up ages ago, too painful to not be recognized by the only person he'd ever loved. Hermione, two weeks ago, too stubborn to be forgotten right away, but eventually too smart to hope. The others dwindled gradually. The admirers, the hopefuls, the friends. All stopped. All found the sadness locked in that room too much to bear, even for their hero.
Longbottom, however, was used to it by now.
Neville walked past Room 327 for the 739th time. There were 527 steps to his destination from the entrance chamber. 7 years spent at Hogwarts, 5 years since the war had ended, 2 years searching for the Boy Who Only Might Have Lived.
He did.
Then two more years in this place. Present. Neville was familiar with the building. The silencing charms made it quiet, hid the yells until you opened the doors.
It used to be his parents' tantrums that greeted him. Profanities, accusations, and denials. There were 72 nail etched marks on his mother's bedposts. 25 equally deep marks on his father's legs. Neville had spent an entire afternoon counting them, and then an entire evening counting the ones on his own flesh, 17.
739 days ago, Neville had ceased those visits, because they were gone, found in the middle of the night twisted together, given up.
It was Room 398 that he went to now. That room was quiet without the charms, still without the magical restraints. Its occupant laid in an open eyed sleep, glassed green eyes staring up at the ceiling tiles. There were 276.
Neville was the only one who bothered to visit anymore. Ron had given up ages ago, too painful to not be recognized by the only person he'd ever loved. Hermione, two weeks ago, too stubborn to be forgotten right away, but eventually too smart to hope. The others dwindled gradually. The admirers, the hopefuls, the friends. All stopped. All found the sadness locked in that room too much to bear, even for their hero.
Longbottom, however, was used to it by now.