Fic: "A Million Generations Removed From Expectations" for cjmarlowe
Title: A Million Generations Removed From Expectations
Author: certifieddork
Recipient: cjmarlowe
Rating: G
Character: Neville Longbottom
Summary: Neville steps onstage.
Warnings: Character death, off-screen and pre-narrative.
Notes: I love Neville. This was a joy to write. I just hope cjmarlowe has as much fun reading as I did writing. Title/lyrics from Jethro Tulls' 'Skating Away On the Thin Ice of a New Day'. Lots of thanks to my beta, who loves Neville as much as I do and squeed in all the right places.
Community mod here: Sorry for the formatting problem when this fic was first posted, it's been fixed.
*
prologue
One day, out of the blue, Harry had returned with his wand broken in two. Everyone had begun to panic, until he collapsed on the couch and held out another broken wand. Voldemort's, they knew.
And because the war was over, and because he didn't know what else to do, Neville packed his belongings, bade farewell to number twelve, Grimmauld Place and returned to his grandmother's house in the country.
He was nineteen.
*
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present tense? Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like you're the only person sitting in the audience?
*
Neville had joined the Order of the Phoenix a month before his eighteenth birthday, a week after leaving Hogwarts. The class of 1997 had been small. Some of their peers - Harry, Ron and Hermione - had been fighting away from the school for months. Others, like Draco Malfoy and, eventually, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, had vanished, believed to have joined He Who Must Not Be Named. Still others - the Patil sisters, Hannah Abbott, Ernie MacMillan - had simply never returned.
Most tragic of all, however, was the sudden and devastating death of Dean Thomas, over the previous summer. There were rumours about his death - of course there were rumours, Hogwarts at war was really still just Hogwarts. Rumours that his death had something to do with his step-father but Neville, never one for gossip, hadn't heard these rumours explained, confirmed or denied.
Needless to say, the seventh year Gryffindor boys dorm was subdued in that, their last year. Seamus kept to himself, usually closed behind his bed hangings, out of sight.
Neville tried to not feel insulted, and returned to the dorms only to shower and sleep. He spent time in the common room with Colin Creevey, and played Wizard's chess against Lavender Brown; she was surprisingly good.
Mostly, though, he sought solace in the library, among the Herbology texts, studying properties of rare plants from Brazil and Chile, always thinking of the time when - when, when, when - he would join the Order.
He studied the theory and eventually, with the help of Professor Sprout, got his hands on some plants. A little more theory, and there it was - a Brazilian/Chilean hybrid that could mimic the effects of the Polyjuice Potion. Minus the complexity and which required neither nose hairs nor toe nails. All that was required was extreme concentration. To Neville, this was the difficult part of the experiment; he was legendary for his absentmindedness, and his reputation was, in fact, well deserved.
*
'So, how does it work?' Lavender asked one day in March, just as Neville was successfully growing the third generation on the hybrid to no adverse effects. No adverse effects so far.
'Just think about who you want to be,' Neville replied, and his one remaining bishop took her remaining knight. 'Think, really, really hard.'
'So, it's like being a Metamorphmagus?'
'Well,' said Neville, surprised. 'Yes, I suppose so. But with help, and anyone can do it.'
'Even Death Eaters.'
'Even -' Neville swallowed - 'Death Eaters.'
*
Something went wrong in mid-April. Neville had successfully transformed himself into Dean Thomas, and was unable to turn himself back.
It was a little sick, perhaps, twisted ... unstable. But Neville had had to do it, to ensure that the plant worked, no matter the subject. In other words, Neville needed to know if it - he still hadn't come up with a name - would work, even if he was thinking of someone who had passed away. Someone who was dead. And he thought of Dean.
He had never had this trouble before, and could not think why he should be unable to transform back into his own body. You needed a lot of concentration to turn into someone, but very little to turn back. The problem was, perhaps, that Neville, having avoided thinking of Dean all year, could now no longer get him out of his head.
Neville crept out of Greenhouse Six and made his way back to the castle. It was late, past midnight, and it was deserted. Not wanting anyone to see him, he waited until even the prefects were in bed, the whole time concentrating on escaping Dean's body and returning to his own. To no avail.
The dorm was quiet when he reached it. No surprise there. Neville only saw Seamus in class; Neville was convinced Seamus spent the rest of his time sleeping. Neville had once found a half-full vial of what could only be a sleeping potion under his bed. He had slipped it quietly under Seamus' bed and tried not to think about it.
But tonight. Tonight, Seamus was awake. He was hiding behind his curtains - quiet, quiet, quiet - but when Neville opened the door, his head popped out from between the hangings.
'Dean?'
Neville turned his head away. He tried not to see the hopeful look on his roommate's face, but it was too late; he saw it, and the look of disappointment that followed it.
'I'm sorry Seamus,' Neville said. 'I didn't mean for you to - I mean, thought you were - you weren't supposed to - It's just me. Neville. I - '
But Seamus had already disappeared again.
Neville concentrated long and hard that night, sitting up in bed, but no matter what he did, his fingers stayed long and dark, his hair short and wiry. He rolled over and fell asleep somewhere after three, missing his own chubby body.
*
The first thing Neville felt when he woke up the next morning was comfortable. His arms were the right proportion to his chest, his legs were folded in their usual position. He touched his hair, his face, the soles of his feet. All his.
He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at Seamus, who sprang back.
'Oh. Uh, you're awake. I ... I just wanted ... to see - '
Neville stayed quiet and Seamus eventually rambled himself into silence. Sighing, Seamus turned away and for the first time - how could it be the first time? - Neville noticed dark rings under his friend's eyes - had they always been there? Had Seamus been awake all night, awake the whole time Neville was trying to retransform into himself?
The questions died in his mind, never reaching his lips, and he watched his roommate make a bee-line for the showers.
Neville didn't follow.
*
Graduation was a solemn affair. Neville sat between Lavender and Seamus, the whole of the Gryffindor seventh year. Lavender cried, not unexpectedly, and Neville put an arm around her shoulders, comforting her as best he could, which wasn't very well at all. He was not what she needed; he was not Parvati Patil. Seamus sat rock-hard, staring straight ahead, ignoring everything and everyone around him, much like he had all year. Neville was used to the silent treatment, which had only grown more silent since Neville's accident. Lavender had given up attempts at talking to Seamus back around Christmas.
After the ceremony, Lavender hugged Neville tightly.
'Thank you for everything this year Neville. I don't know what I would have done without you.' She was looking at Seamus.
Neville was taken aback. Had he done anything spectacular? He hadn't noticed.
'Good luck with the ... well, you know,' she continued in a whisper. 'I'm sure the Order will love it.'
'I hope so,' Neville said, sighing. He thought, but didn't say, that the Order had wizards and witches far more clever that he, who might have already developed something similar. Hermione Granger could have created this back in third year, if she had wanted to.
'Don't be so hard on yourself, Neville,' Lavender said, smiling sadly.
Neville didn't ask her how she knew what he was thinking and with that, Lavender kissed him on the cheek, hugged him again and turned and walked away.
All Neville could do was stare after her.
He felt the strong grip of his grandmother's hand on his shoulder.
'Come, Neville. It's over.'
*
Two weeks later, Neville was made a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Gran was so proud. Professor McGonagall had explained Neville's project to them, and they were eager to learn more, and eager to implement the plant as soon as possible.
All the members of the Order tried it, even Nymphadora Tonks who, Neville learned only later, was a true Metamorphmagus.
'It never hurts to try new things,' she said, laughing, and Neville felt himself blush for no particular reason.
*
Maybe a week, maybe two, after that, Harry had arrived, closely followed, as always, by Ron and Hermione. They arrived in the dead of night, and Neville had no idea they were even coming at all until he woke to find two extra beds in the bedroom he called his, both occupied by familiar lumps, one of them snoring a tune just as familiar to Neville's ears.
He smiled, crept quietly out of the room and down to the kitchen for breakfast.
*
Harry cornered him after the demonstration and trial of the plant. That's all it would ever be called. Neville was resigned to it.
But Harry had cornered Neville in the second floor sitting room, and told him about the supposedly lost prophecy. Neville listened, torn in two. Part of him was deathly afraid for Harry for what he was facing; the other part of him was deathly afraid for himself, for what He Who Must Not Be Named - Voldemort - might do if he ever found out the truth.
Neville listened, part of him not even fully understanding what Harry was saying, what he was asking him to do. Finally, he just asked.
Harry smiled ruefully. 'Just keep doing what you're doing. It's brilliant, even Hermione said so.'
Neville flushed. It was one thing when complete strangers said it. It was quite another when Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Hermione Granger, whom Neville had admired since their first Potions class, did. Another thing entirely.
'It was nothing,' Neville said, embarrassed.
'Well, your nothing will do us a load of good. Just keep at it, and we'll win this thing.'
Neville had never really thought that they would lose the war, but never felt like he might be an integral part of winning it. The thought heartened him and he vowed to do all he could for the Order. If Harry was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice - and Neville was certain he was - then it was the least Neville could do, too.
*
Eight months later, Neville walked into the kitchen, engrossed in his own thoughts about his latest project involving Gillyweed and a cactus indigenous to Australia. He was not paying attention, reviewing parchment of columns and figures only he could decipher. He was not paying attention and very nearly sat on the lap of Lavender Brown.
'Oh!' he exclaimed, jumping.
Lavender giggled, and sounded like her old self. It had been a long time since he'd heard her laugh.
'I'm an Occlumens!' she said excitedly without preamble, before he could ask. 'I've been in India, with Parvati, you know - she sends her love and so wishes she could be here, but you know - studying hypnosis and Occlumency. I'm here to help!'
She was positively beaming and Neville realised that he, too, was happy to see his old chess opponent.
*
One day, out of the blue, after Neville had been living at number twelve, Grimmauld Place for over a year, Harry had returned with his wand broken in two. Everyone had begun to panic, until he collapsed on the couch and held out another broken wand. Voldemort's, they knew. They knew.
Panic subsided, and Harry began to fade. His tired, weary face, his painfully-red scar, his messy hair, faded, only to be replaced by the tired, weary, dirty, messy but smiling face of Hermione Granger.
She was smiling and shaking and had tea in her hand within seconds.
They stood around her, shaking, shivering.
'He's on his way,' she said, voice impressively steady. 'He's coming.'
And because the war was over, and because he didn't know what else to do, Neville packed his belongings, bade farewell to number twelve, Grimmauld Place and returned to his grandmother's house in the country.
He was nineteen and for the first time in his life, the world lay before him, full of possibilities.
Author: certifieddork
Recipient: cjmarlowe
Rating: G
Character: Neville Longbottom
Summary: Neville steps onstage.
Warnings: Character death, off-screen and pre-narrative.
Notes: I love Neville. This was a joy to write. I just hope cjmarlowe has as much fun reading as I did writing. Title/lyrics from Jethro Tulls' 'Skating Away On the Thin Ice of a New Day'. Lots of thanks to my beta, who loves Neville as much as I do and squeed in all the right places.
Community mod here: Sorry for the formatting problem when this fic was first posted, it's been fixed.
*
prologue
One day, out of the blue, Harry had returned with his wand broken in two. Everyone had begun to panic, until he collapsed on the couch and held out another broken wand. Voldemort's, they knew.
And because the war was over, and because he didn't know what else to do, Neville packed his belongings, bade farewell to number twelve, Grimmauld Place and returned to his grandmother's house in the country.
He was nineteen.
*
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present tense? Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like you're the only person sitting in the audience?
*
Neville had joined the Order of the Phoenix a month before his eighteenth birthday, a week after leaving Hogwarts. The class of 1997 had been small. Some of their peers - Harry, Ron and Hermione - had been fighting away from the school for months. Others, like Draco Malfoy and, eventually, Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, had vanished, believed to have joined He Who Must Not Be Named. Still others - the Patil sisters, Hannah Abbott, Ernie MacMillan - had simply never returned.
Most tragic of all, however, was the sudden and devastating death of Dean Thomas, over the previous summer. There were rumours about his death - of course there were rumours, Hogwarts at war was really still just Hogwarts. Rumours that his death had something to do with his step-father but Neville, never one for gossip, hadn't heard these rumours explained, confirmed or denied.
Needless to say, the seventh year Gryffindor boys dorm was subdued in that, their last year. Seamus kept to himself, usually closed behind his bed hangings, out of sight.
Neville tried to not feel insulted, and returned to the dorms only to shower and sleep. He spent time in the common room with Colin Creevey, and played Wizard's chess against Lavender Brown; she was surprisingly good.
Mostly, though, he sought solace in the library, among the Herbology texts, studying properties of rare plants from Brazil and Chile, always thinking of the time when - when, when, when - he would join the Order.
He studied the theory and eventually, with the help of Professor Sprout, got his hands on some plants. A little more theory, and there it was - a Brazilian/Chilean hybrid that could mimic the effects of the Polyjuice Potion. Minus the complexity and which required neither nose hairs nor toe nails. All that was required was extreme concentration. To Neville, this was the difficult part of the experiment; he was legendary for his absentmindedness, and his reputation was, in fact, well deserved.
*
'So, how does it work?' Lavender asked one day in March, just as Neville was successfully growing the third generation on the hybrid to no adverse effects. No adverse effects so far.
'Just think about who you want to be,' Neville replied, and his one remaining bishop took her remaining knight. 'Think, really, really hard.'
'So, it's like being a Metamorphmagus?'
'Well,' said Neville, surprised. 'Yes, I suppose so. But with help, and anyone can do it.'
'Even Death Eaters.'
'Even -' Neville swallowed - 'Death Eaters.'
*
Something went wrong in mid-April. Neville had successfully transformed himself into Dean Thomas, and was unable to turn himself back.
It was a little sick, perhaps, twisted ... unstable. But Neville had had to do it, to ensure that the plant worked, no matter the subject. In other words, Neville needed to know if it - he still hadn't come up with a name - would work, even if he was thinking of someone who had passed away. Someone who was dead. And he thought of Dean.
He had never had this trouble before, and could not think why he should be unable to transform back into his own body. You needed a lot of concentration to turn into someone, but very little to turn back. The problem was, perhaps, that Neville, having avoided thinking of Dean all year, could now no longer get him out of his head.
Neville crept out of Greenhouse Six and made his way back to the castle. It was late, past midnight, and it was deserted. Not wanting anyone to see him, he waited until even the prefects were in bed, the whole time concentrating on escaping Dean's body and returning to his own. To no avail.
The dorm was quiet when he reached it. No surprise there. Neville only saw Seamus in class; Neville was convinced Seamus spent the rest of his time sleeping. Neville had once found a half-full vial of what could only be a sleeping potion under his bed. He had slipped it quietly under Seamus' bed and tried not to think about it.
But tonight. Tonight, Seamus was awake. He was hiding behind his curtains - quiet, quiet, quiet - but when Neville opened the door, his head popped out from between the hangings.
'Dean?'
Neville turned his head away. He tried not to see the hopeful look on his roommate's face, but it was too late; he saw it, and the look of disappointment that followed it.
'I'm sorry Seamus,' Neville said. 'I didn't mean for you to - I mean, thought you were - you weren't supposed to - It's just me. Neville. I - '
But Seamus had already disappeared again.
Neville concentrated long and hard that night, sitting up in bed, but no matter what he did, his fingers stayed long and dark, his hair short and wiry. He rolled over and fell asleep somewhere after three, missing his own chubby body.
*
The first thing Neville felt when he woke up the next morning was comfortable. His arms were the right proportion to his chest, his legs were folded in their usual position. He touched his hair, his face, the soles of his feet. All his.
He opened his eyes and found himself looking up at Seamus, who sprang back.
'Oh. Uh, you're awake. I ... I just wanted ... to see - '
Neville stayed quiet and Seamus eventually rambled himself into silence. Sighing, Seamus turned away and for the first time - how could it be the first time? - Neville noticed dark rings under his friend's eyes - had they always been there? Had Seamus been awake all night, awake the whole time Neville was trying to retransform into himself?
The questions died in his mind, never reaching his lips, and he watched his roommate make a bee-line for the showers.
Neville didn't follow.
*
Graduation was a solemn affair. Neville sat between Lavender and Seamus, the whole of the Gryffindor seventh year. Lavender cried, not unexpectedly, and Neville put an arm around her shoulders, comforting her as best he could, which wasn't very well at all. He was not what she needed; he was not Parvati Patil. Seamus sat rock-hard, staring straight ahead, ignoring everything and everyone around him, much like he had all year. Neville was used to the silent treatment, which had only grown more silent since Neville's accident. Lavender had given up attempts at talking to Seamus back around Christmas.
After the ceremony, Lavender hugged Neville tightly.
'Thank you for everything this year Neville. I don't know what I would have done without you.' She was looking at Seamus.
Neville was taken aback. Had he done anything spectacular? He hadn't noticed.
'Good luck with the ... well, you know,' she continued in a whisper. 'I'm sure the Order will love it.'
'I hope so,' Neville said, sighing. He thought, but didn't say, that the Order had wizards and witches far more clever that he, who might have already developed something similar. Hermione Granger could have created this back in third year, if she had wanted to.
'Don't be so hard on yourself, Neville,' Lavender said, smiling sadly.
Neville didn't ask her how she knew what he was thinking and with that, Lavender kissed him on the cheek, hugged him again and turned and walked away.
All Neville could do was stare after her.
He felt the strong grip of his grandmother's hand on his shoulder.
'Come, Neville. It's over.'
*
Two weeks later, Neville was made a member of the Order of the Phoenix. Gran was so proud. Professor McGonagall had explained Neville's project to them, and they were eager to learn more, and eager to implement the plant as soon as possible.
All the members of the Order tried it, even Nymphadora Tonks who, Neville learned only later, was a true Metamorphmagus.
'It never hurts to try new things,' she said, laughing, and Neville felt himself blush for no particular reason.
*
Maybe a week, maybe two, after that, Harry had arrived, closely followed, as always, by Ron and Hermione. They arrived in the dead of night, and Neville had no idea they were even coming at all until he woke to find two extra beds in the bedroom he called his, both occupied by familiar lumps, one of them snoring a tune just as familiar to Neville's ears.
He smiled, crept quietly out of the room and down to the kitchen for breakfast.
*
Harry cornered him after the demonstration and trial of the plant. That's all it would ever be called. Neville was resigned to it.
But Harry had cornered Neville in the second floor sitting room, and told him about the supposedly lost prophecy. Neville listened, torn in two. Part of him was deathly afraid for Harry for what he was facing; the other part of him was deathly afraid for himself, for what He Who Must Not Be Named - Voldemort - might do if he ever found out the truth.
Neville listened, part of him not even fully understanding what Harry was saying, what he was asking him to do. Finally, he just asked.
Harry smiled ruefully. 'Just keep doing what you're doing. It's brilliant, even Hermione said so.'
Neville flushed. It was one thing when complete strangers said it. It was quite another when Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Hermione Granger, whom Neville had admired since their first Potions class, did. Another thing entirely.
'It was nothing,' Neville said, embarrassed.
'Well, your nothing will do us a load of good. Just keep at it, and we'll win this thing.'
Neville had never really thought that they would lose the war, but never felt like he might be an integral part of winning it. The thought heartened him and he vowed to do all he could for the Order. If Harry was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice - and Neville was certain he was - then it was the least Neville could do, too.
*
Eight months later, Neville walked into the kitchen, engrossed in his own thoughts about his latest project involving Gillyweed and a cactus indigenous to Australia. He was not paying attention, reviewing parchment of columns and figures only he could decipher. He was not paying attention and very nearly sat on the lap of Lavender Brown.
'Oh!' he exclaimed, jumping.
Lavender giggled, and sounded like her old self. It had been a long time since he'd heard her laugh.
'I'm an Occlumens!' she said excitedly without preamble, before he could ask. 'I've been in India, with Parvati, you know - she sends her love and so wishes she could be here, but you know - studying hypnosis and Occlumency. I'm here to help!'
She was positively beaming and Neville realised that he, too, was happy to see his old chess opponent.
*
One day, out of the blue, after Neville had been living at number twelve, Grimmauld Place for over a year, Harry had returned with his wand broken in two. Everyone had begun to panic, until he collapsed on the couch and held out another broken wand. Voldemort's, they knew. They knew.
Panic subsided, and Harry began to fade. His tired, weary face, his painfully-red scar, his messy hair, faded, only to be replaced by the tired, weary, dirty, messy but smiling face of Hermione Granger.
She was smiling and shaking and had tea in her hand within seconds.
They stood around her, shaking, shivering.
'He's on his way,' she said, voice impressively steady. 'He's coming.'
And because the war was over, and because he didn't know what else to do, Neville packed his belongings, bade farewell to number twelve, Grimmauld Place and returned to his grandmother's house in the country.
He was nineteen and for the first time in his life, the world lay before him, full of possibilities.