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ACT4CH18 - Hate
🕑 Added 2024-04-25 20:02:40 +0000 UTCThe shattered vase that lay fallen on the floor was gifted by the Ethiopian Foreign Minister of Magic during a convocation back in ‘88. It was exquisitely carved and drenched in a special concoction prepared using bluebell fairy eggs. Supposed to bring financial windfall to the owner, the vase had always sat on Cornelius Fudge’s desk, inside the office of the Minister of Magic.
That little bit of trivia didn’t stop Cornelius from hurling it at the wall with all the force he could muster.
The only observer to this desecration, Dolores Umbridge, sat silently, utterly chastised and downcast from her failed performance at curbing the growing influence of Albus Dumbledore and his cunning, diabolical protege, and Dolores’ personal enemy, Harry Potter.
“You had one job,” claimed Cornelius, his voice coming out less like a politician and more akin to a growling bear. “One job, Dolores. To get me something to incriminate Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter. That was exactly why I appointed you from the very beginning. I ignored your lack of connections, your low-paying job at the ICW, your false NEWT scores and even your parentage, and this is what you’ve to give in return?”
“That’s a lie, Minister!” Dolores vocally argued. “I scored quite highly in my NEWTs, with multiple Outstandings in —”
“You dropped out of Hogwarts, Dolores!” Cornelius snapped, shutting her in the middle. “I’ve seen the reports, Dolores! Independent testing out of Hogwarts, only the invigilator that signed your marksheet was already dead at that time.”
Dolores blanched.
“Do not think of me as a fool,” growled Cornelius. “I knew exactly who I was hiring. I didn’t hire you for your NEWT results or your ability with magic. I hired you because you were cunning enough to hide your tracks, and you had an uncanny ability to spot useful trivia.”
“Minister —”
“I am not finished!”
Dolores winced.
Cornelius exhaled and sat down on his chair. Pulling an expensive bottle of Ogden’s Finest, he filled his glass full. Dolores noted that he didn’t even summon much less fill a glass for her this time.
“Ever since the blasted trial,” said the Minister. “Harry Potter has been aiming for my seat. Albus Dumbledore already has his chair as the Head of Hogwarts, manipulating our nation’s future for his twisted goals, and making them believe he’s Merlin reborn. They got Lucius booted out of the Governor’s Board once, and then gave Greengrass the chair and even removed the bloody Clause 159. Harry Potter went from becoming the pariah accused of murders to being the defence professor and now his name is spreading all over the world and Albus Dumbledore’s making his money’s worth on that gravy train. The Dark Alliance is fractured, Lucius’s name is in the mud, and Potter is all but the largest block on the Wizengamot! And all you’ve been doing is sitting around, wasting your time interrogating know-it-alls and diddling your thumbs!”
Umbridge seethed. “I would have gotten results, Minister! If only you could just sign that —”
“Amelia Bones caught you trying to feed Arthur Weasley to a dementor! TO A DEMENTOR! As if she needed any more reason to come after me.”
“She obviously overstepped her authority,” Dolores defended. “And all of that is easily solved if you just sign that —”
“I am NOT going to sign a bloody document that will cause a Ministry INSURRECTION!” Cornelius bellowed, waving the parchment at her face. “That is what this document will cause.”
“It won’t!” Dolores defended. “Minister! These people… They are Dumbledore’s spies within the Ministry. And Amelia Bones is associated with several of them. Why else would she come all the way to Courtroom Ten? She is clearly saving her own arse. Minister!”
“But —”
“Minister! I’m your Senior Undersecretary! Don’t think I don’t see it that you have been moving your people into key positions of our government, just in case some of our supporters, like Mr. Malfoy, ever withdrew his support. It’s why you managed to stay in office despite that disaster Potter caused earlier in the summer.”
Cornelius flinched and went stiff.
“This is the end of the line, Minister!” Dolores pushed further. “If we don’t do this, all our efforts will be in vain. You know I have the information, and you know I am right. That document will override anything Amelia Bones can throw at us, and with the mudblood testifying under Veritaserum, we can get every single one of those bastards locked up in Azkaban under charges of sedition.”
“But Dolores,” Cornelius fidgeted. “The Wizengamot is already convening on the Winter Solstice. To call upon an Emergency session this close, and authorise this ....” His hand shook as he gazed at the document nauseously. It would grant him a power the likes of which he had never had before, but it could also serve as the final nail in his coffin should things go differently.
He clicked his teeth in annoyance. The boy was still in France to the best of his knowledge, as was Dumbledore. And with the engagement nearing, no doubt even Black and Greengrass were utterly occupied with arrangement and security. Even ignoring the fact that it was the Boy-Who-Lived’s engagement, it was an effective coalition between not one, but three Ancient and Noble Families. It would be a gargantuan, international event, especially with everything else that had happened recently. The enemy was distracted, and it was quite literally, the perfect time to attack and spin a trap.
But he hesitated.
Fear. Uncertainty molested his thoughts and his decision-making abilities. It wasn’t unwarranted or unreasonable, but infuriating nonetheless.
The risk of failure was simply too high, and he honestly had no idea of what would happen after the event.
But if he did nothing, and the engagement happened…
And the Potter-Greengrass Alliance strengthened with their new allies…
No. NO!NO!NO! That could not be allowed to happen! It simply couldn’t. He had to claim the initiative NOW!
“The— the muggleborn,” he said at last. “What was her name again?”
“Granger.”
Right. That was her. Harry Potter’s supposed best friend, and Dolores’s chief source of information. “She — she is St. Mungo’s, you say? Recovering from an unknown magical accident?”
“Another of Potter and Dumbledore’s diabolical plotting, no doubt,” said Dolores. Had Cornelius been more attentive, he would have noticed that his Undersecretary was looking at his table instead of his face as she said this. “How very convenient that Potter’s mudblood friend had been hoodwinked and attacked by some eldritch abomination that was behind the DADA curse. It’s the same old policy, Minister. Just like with Ginevra Weasley back in early 1993, and Cedric Diggory last year. He always, always has a scapegoat or a tool ready to use and serve his purposes.”
“Right,” said Cornelius, feeling a little more confident. “Send Dawlish to collect the girl and take her in custody.” He paused, realising what it would look like. “Uh, take her into private custody, citing investigation over matters under the Official Secrets Act.”
“That would be wise, Minister.”
Well, that was one problem solved, Cornelius decided. “You are right, Dolores. This needs to be done right away. The more time we give Potter and his ilk, the more they will have chances to find a way out. Though…” he mused, scratching his chin. “It might cause a commotion if an ailing student is directly arrested from St. Mungo’s like that. Dumbledore and Potter might think we’re up to something.”
“Oh,” said Dolores, smiling. “There is no need to worry about that, Minister. If we plan this right, Potter and his cronies will be too busy to see this coming.”
She thought about the letter she had received from Lucius Malfoy the previous night. While she wasn’t so foolish to claim that she knew the man’s plans entirely, she could fathom at least a little bit. Either way, it would fit in perfectly with her agenda, and destroy Potter and his ilk for good.
Project Prometheus would be a success! She would ensure it.
Yes. Potter’s absence from British shores couldn’t have been better-timed if she tried. Yes, this, she could work with.
This, she could control.
This, the boy wouldn’t be able to predict.
....
....
....
It was a Sunday afternoon. The waiting area of St. Mungo’s was full of witches and wizards who had gone out and had a drink too many, which had led to brawls and unsuccessful hexes thrown around. It didn’t help that four of the top healers were down with dragon pox and there were rumours about an epidemic round the corner. Quite naturally, Wizarding Britain did what it did best — utterly ignore the potential consequences, if the crowd from all strata of the society hobnobbing together in the general atrium was any clue.
“This way, Neville.”
Neville Longbottom frowned, but followed after his grandmother without a word. One would think that after the last decade and a half of coming to this place every other month, she’d trust him to know the way. Then again, he had only been an utter disappointment for her in every aspect of life — as his father’s son, as a wizard, even the disciplines he tended to excel at were beneath someone of his status in Augusta Longbottom’s opinion.
They passed the SPELL DAMAGE corridor on the fourth floor that led right through to the open door that led to the JANUS THICKEY ward. To his surprise, there was a new plaque he had never seen before.
MIND DAMAGE.
“Did they build a new ward in this place?” He asked.
“Harry Potter did,” said his grandmother with a smile. It was something she did rarely. Augusta Longbottom was a woman of strict standards and rarely impressed, but since this summer, even Neville could see a new zeal within her, something that had begun from Harry’s trial at the onset of summer. Neville didn’t know what it was, but Harry Potter had seriously impressed her, and since then, she had gone overboard in meeting representatives of other Houses to secure votes to strengthen the already formidable Potter Alliance.
“Part of the profit from the basilisk sales,” she explained. “First Hogwarts and now this. Really, that boy is an asset to his name.”
Her eyes brightened in pride as she spoke fondly of Harry Potter. Neville would have lied if he said it didn’t make him feel jealous. He had always wanted to see that expression for him, but no matter what he did, or how hard he tried, it simply hadn’t been enough.
The wand that once belonged to his father never felt heavier inside his pocket.
“Madame Longbottom, Neville, you’re right on time.”
Neville looked to his right and found Healer Dunbar striding towards them. Remembering his etiquette, he returned the greeting. The middle-aged healer shook his hand before nodding swiftly at his grandmother.
“I hope it isn’t an inconvenience,” said Augusta.
“It never is,” said the healer with a smile. Healer Dunbar was one of the two healers in charge of the Janus Thickey ward, and always had a genuine smile on her face. At times, he contemplated if the woman ran around soaked in cheering charms. “In fact, I just completed my daily checkup on your parents.”
“You did?” Realising the redundancy of the question, Neville blushed but asked his next question without pause. “How are they?”
Dunbar smiled at Neville in that strange look crossed between sympathy and pity that only she could pull off. “Cognitive functions are repairing themselves at a steady pace. Your mother now recognizes me and has started to draw in her sketchpad. The drawings are crude but analysis shows a steady increase in fine motor skills. She’s even managed to speak a few words on an irregular basis.”
She quickly checked through the document in her hands. “Your father is displaying an unheard of increase in brain function. Reports indicate his mind is, in a manner of speaking, repairing itself. Dead neurons are regenerating like a hydra even as his conscious slowly awakens. At the current regimen we are maintaining, we estimate he should regain consciousness in about… half a month.”
Neville felt hope bloom in his chest and a fragile smile rise on his lips. “Does this mean…” He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words for fear of asking the wrong question and extinguishing what little hope he gained. Fortunately for him, Dunbar seemed to understand his plight.
“Will they completely recover their brain function? I cannot guarantee anything, yet. But right now, I am more optimistic about their eventual recovery than ever.”
Neville did not realise the bright smile that erupted on his face and not even the not-so subtle warnings of Healer Dunbar failed to dampen his mood. He knew Dunbar was obligated to warn the families of patients lest they gain too much hope; that was not a problem for him at the moment.
“I don’t know what to say, Healer Dun—”
“Oh no,” the woman shook her head. “As much as I’d love to take the credit. It isn’t mine. If anything, I was against this experimental therapy. But Madame Longbottom insisted, and I for one, am glad that she did.”
Neville looked at his grandmother in surprise. An experimental therapy? On his parents? When?
“It had nothing to do with me,” said Augusta Longbottom. “Harry Potter offered it, and I just took the risk.”
Neville’s eyes went wide. Harry had done something for his parents? When? How? What? Before he could get even a single query resolved, he was pushed into the room, past the pale blue curtains, where his father was lying on his bed, sleeping, while his mother was —
Neville’s heart skipped a beat.
Healer Dunbar hadn’t lied. His mom was actually drawing on a sketchpad. Both his parents looked far healthier than they did during his last visit. His mother’s skin had regained a great deal of colour, and his father looked far healthier.
“Mum!” Neville watched as his mother turned around and smiled at the sight of him. He let himself get dragged by her onto the bed and into a hug that he felt would break his bones even as he could not stop grinning at the enthusiasm displayed by his mother.
The next two hours were filled with him sharing all abridged versions of his adventures in school over the past years, occasionally paused by his mother cuddling him and making cooing sounds. At some point, his mother had even made him sit next to his father’s sleeping form and continue recounting, while she began to draw his sketch. Alice Longbottom was apparently a natural at it. After what felt like a few minutes but was easily another hour, he reluctantly extracted himself from his mother, and promised another visit at Christmas, with a Drooble's Blowing Gum in his pocket — a parting gift from his mother as always.
He knew he was grinning like a lunatic. But he didn’t care. His parents looked healthier, and were far more active and responsive than ever. He didn’t know what Harry had done but he resolved to find out as soon as possible, and he was going to repay him with everything he had at his disposal.
“What — what did Harry do?” He asked eagerly, looking at the glistening eyes of his grandmother. “What magic is this?”
Healer Dunbar laughed. “Something definitely beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I’ll be frank, Neville, even the best results we obtained using the Elixir of Life were improved body health, and minor accelerated brain function. We theorised the Elixir could in time heal their brains back to normal, but the cost was…”
She trailed off, making sure not to look at his grandmother. Ancient House or not, not even House Longbottom could keep paying for the Elixir of Life indefinitely without depleting a significant chunk of the family fortune. As it was, just maintaining his parents at Janus Thickey’s cost a pretty galleon from the Longbottom Vault.
Neville didn’t know what was more shocking. That the Elixir of Life, famed to be the most potent healing potion to ever exist, only managed to give improved brain function and nothing more, or that Harry Potter had offered something that triumphed over it and more.
“What did Harry do?” He blurted out.
The healer pursed her lips. “As a healer, I can tell you that what he did counts as incredibly reckless. I’m not sure what shocked me more, the famous Boy-Who-Lived offering me a wardstone saturated with potent magical energy the likes of which I had never seen before, or Madame Longbottom for asking me to inject the Lord and Lady Longbottom with it. I even had her sign an AMA form before going ahead with it.”
Neville glanced at his grandmother. So much had happened, and he was only coming to know about this now? Then again, what effect would his knowing or not knowing even cause?
“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” the healer went on. “But if we had Mr. Potter’s help earlier, so many other lives could’ve been saved. The energy contained in that wardstone… it’s… Mr. Potter?”
Neville spun around, his eyes widening and his jaw falling, as he took in the sight of his classmate and benefactor standing at the doorway of the Janus Thickey ward, looking around like it was his first time there. He caught Neville’s eyes and flinched a little, and Neville wondered if Harry was actually afraid of being judged by him for attempting something on his parents without so much as telling him.
“Harry!” He half-yelled. “What are you doing here?”
Harry looked pretty flustered. “Uh, I was actually — uh,” he looked around, never once meeting Neville’s eyes. His eyes spotted Healer Dunbar, and he walked up to him, evading Neville. “Excuse me, I was wondering where they put Hermione Granger. She’s —”
The healer rolled her eyes. “I see. This is your idea of humour. Come with me.”
Neville was caught up between his gratitude for Harry’s actions and his happiness at seeing his parents finally beginning to recover. Between the two, it was easy to excuse Harry’s weird behaviour as him simply being a little uncomfortable at accepting praise. He had seen him shy away from it over the past four years, but things had begun to change this year, especially after his taking over the Defence professor position. Confused, he followed his grandmother and Harry as the healer took them past the next three rooms, only to pause as a man peered out at them, his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy, blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a broad, vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly bright teeth.
“Blimey!” said Neville, recognizing the man. “Professor Lockhart!”
Their former Defence-Against-The-Dark-arts teacher pushed the door open and moved towards them, wearing a long, lilac dressing gown. “Why, hello there! I expect you’d like my autograph, wouldn’t you?”
“Hasn’t changed much, has he?” Neville muttered, stifling a laugh. “Uh, how are you, professor?”
“I'm very well indeed, thank you!” said Lockhart exuberantly, palling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. “Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!”
“Er — we don't want any at the moment, thanks,” said Neville, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?”
The smile faded slowly from Lockhart's face. For a few moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said, “Haven't we met?”
“Uh, yes,” said Harry. “We have.” He turned to the healer, and undid his collar. “Err, can we move ahead? I am in a little hurry.”
Neville noticed the sweat beads forming on Harry’s temples. He didn’t know what it was about Lockhart that was stressing him out, but didn’t want to put him in an embarrassing position by asking it aloud.
They moved past Lockhart to the second room to the right. Inside, sleeping on a bed, with a pillow beneath her head and covers covering her all the way to her neck, was Hermione Granger. Her head was enclosed within a headgear similar to the ones he had seen on his parents from time to time, with large screens registering the analysis from the magitech into charts measuring brain activity. Next to her bed, was a small podium, upon which a wardstone was set up, with tubes arising out of it, only to end into said headgear.
“Yes,” said Healer Dunbar with a sigh. “The therapy is working. Though, I’d ask you to be a little less smug about it.”
Neville couldn’t help himself. “Harry, this therapy, how did you get this?”
Harry Potter gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Oh, you know. Professor Dumbledore just called in a few favours. He has a lot of clout at the ICW, you know.”
“Ah,” said Neville, a little disappointed. “Still, thanks a lot. You’ve no idea what it means to me.”
A look of brief confusion played upon Harry’s features before he said. “Sure I do.” He turned to the healer. “Uh, Healer, how long before she gains consciousness?”
“By our estimations, in a day or two,” said Healer Dunbar. “So far, the scans are normal, though it’s clear there are signs of intense psyche damage. Healer Fay says she’ll require period examination for the next two weeks, just to see the extent of the damage. He claimed that there are signs of prolonged exposure to extreme compulsion and memory charms, and possible chances of being subjected to the Imperius curse.”
“Imperius?” Neville gasped. Hermione was put under the Imperius?
“By whom?”
Healer Dunbar shook her head. “We cannot say at this point. Between the compulsions, multiple symptoms of memory erasure on a constant basis, and extreme psyche damage from spiritual possession, her psyche is… fractured. If not for Mr. Potter’s miraculous healing therapy, she’d have turned into a vegetable for the rest of her life.”
Neville didn’t know whether to gasp in horror at the fate that could’ve befallen his friend, or feel elated that Harry had once again, in typical Boy-Who-Lived fashion, saved the day.
“I have to ask though,” continued the healer. “Just what sort of spiritual possession did she suffer from? Healer Fay said that in all her fifty-seven years of experience, she has never seen something like this.”
“Why is that?” asked Augusta Longbottom.
“In spiritual possession, the intruder conjures a collection of psychic threads with just enough structural lattice to give itself an identity, and attempts to crush the victim’s consciousness, and displace the victim’s identity with its own, to take over the body. It shuts down the victim’s emotional spectrum, and corrupts the soul, causing irreparable damage to their magic. In fact, prolonged exposure to possession has shown brain activity similar to those injected with a 0.41 solution of the Draught of Living Death.”
“I’m assuming this is different?” asked Augusta.
“By Merlin, yes,” exclaimed Healer Dunbar. “The effects are… and should be, impossible. Whatever possessed her, it… unleashed her. It opened pathways that were otherwise unused or simply unavailable, and made her… well, more.”
“You mean like how most people only use ten percent of their brain and stuff?” asked Harry, looking oddly annoyed at the idea. As strange as that was, Neville couldn’t really object against it. He liked Hermione as a classmate or tentatively could even call her a friend, but he knew perfectly well how snobbish and close-minded she could be. And if her brain potential was now elevated to higher levels then, she could turn out to be quite an uppity… girl.
Healer Dunbar looked amused. “Oh, you mean the famous ninety percent of our brain that we never use?” She snorted. “I’m not sure why people think that, but that’s not true. Every part of the brain has a specific function essential to a healthy human. If there were a part that really went unused, then you could safely damage that part in an accident with no ill effects. But decades of research in Neuromancy show that damage to any part of the brain has severe effects. Imagine us, mind healers telling their patients, ‘I have good news and bad news. Bad news: you have a brain tumour. Good news: it's in the part of the brain that you will never use.’ The thought is absurd.”
“But—” began Neville.
“The brain is not a collection of independent machines that are turned on or off depending on whether you are reading or singing, Neville,” explained Dunbar. “Rather, brain functions emerge as a complex interplay of many parts of the brain. Physiologically, nerves are like muscles in that they degenerate when unused. If a significant chunk of the brain went completely unused, then that portion would degenerate significantly. I blame this on those fraudsters trying to sell books on mystical ways to enhance your mind, or seasoned scamsters trying to rip you off under the pretext of illegally teaching you Occlumency. No, what has happened here is that her brain function has elevated, which means she might be able to perceive magic beyond the physical senses, the way more accomplished wizards are able to. Or perhaps her affinity for recalling information might have been enhanced, or perhaps she might have gained an increased resistance to further psychic tampering. In fact, thanks to this, we have a chance of identifying the cause of her obliviations and compulsions. As I said, the next two weeks of examinations should be interesting.”
It probably was a trick of the light, but Neville could’ve sworn that the edges of Harry’s lips twisted into a frown.
“Healer, uh, Dunbar,” said Harry. “I apologise for this, but whatever happened to Gra… err, Hermione, it’s a secret matter. You, err, might have heard but she is like this because of a magical accident related to the DADA curse at Hogwarts. And the Ministry put all of that under the Official Secrets Act.”
“I’ve heard,” said Healer Dunbar crisply.
“Professor Dumbledore thinks that Hermione’s life might be in danger, from people that want to know, err… the secret. He wanted me to make sure that she is in safe hands, now that she’s healing. And with St. Mungo’s being full of people and the healers busy, and people portkeying in and out all the time ....”
“I see,” said the healer, her expression shifting to all professional. “Do not worry, Mr. Potter. The wards empowering this new ward are directly linked to my biomagical signature. Without my magic and physical touch, no one may portkey in or out.”
“Ah,” said Harry, relaxing a bit. Then in a blur of motion, he produced his own wand, a large, springy dark, brown one that was definitely not Harry’s, and aimed at the healer’s face.
“STUPEFY!”
The healer dropped like a stone. The man that was definitely not Harry Potter instantly bared his wand at Neville and shot a blasting hex aimed for his head. Before Neville could react, his grandmother pulled him out of the way, and sent a hex hurling at him, only to be batted away with a flick of his wand. The woman cast a few more stunners unsuccessfully before a massive screen smashed into the back of her head from behind.
“GRANNY!” Neville yelled, rage filling him, as he grabbed his wand and yelled. “CONFRINGO!”
And nothing happened.
Neville looked down at his wand, and he suddenly felt hatred for the useless stick in his hand, the wand that had never chosen him and that he’d never have chosen in the first place. Then he looked at the boy that was definitely not Harry Potter, who was already removing Hermione’s headgear and something burned in him.
With a yell, Neville held the wand like a sword and hurled himself at Not-Harry, pummeling him with one hand and stabbing the wand into his abdomen. The imposter grunted in pain and flicked his wand, casting a blasting hex for good measure and hurled Neville all the way to the wall.
“Damn it!” cursed the imposter, and regarded Neville with predatory eyes. “Too bad you and your dear old granny had to be here, Longbottom! Perhaps, it’s my destiny to end your entire line myself.”
“You —” Neville grunted, trying his best to stand up, but the pain from the fractured knee made it impossible for him to stand up. “You —”
“Oh, still didn’t get it, did you? It was excruciating, seeing you walk around all day, all year, alive. Like an itch that just won’t go. You know how maddening itches can be, don’t you, Neville? But no matter, no matter, I’ll just take a walk down the corridor, and visit your parents. Finish what we started that night, all those years ago. Never leave a job unfinished, Father always said.”
He let out a cackle, and pulled out a quill of all things, and pressed it into the unconscious healer’s hand. Instantly, a deafening klaxon went off. He pushed the quill into Granger’s mouth, and yelled, ‘Prometheus’.
Hermione vanished.
“Well then,” he said, pointing at Neville with his wand. “Any last words?
Neville looked at his injured grandmother, with blood seeping down the floor from the back of her head, to Healer Dunbar who lay stunned on the floor next to Hermione’s bed. His mouth worked and twisted, but no words came out. How could they? Words couldn’t possibly contain the frustration, the rage, the fear that poured through him. It cut through his paining knee, sharp as thorns and barbed wire. It wasn’t fair. He was going to die. Hermione was gone. Healer Dunbar, his grandmother, his parents — they were all going to die because he was unable to fight back.
Because he was useless. A squib.
The real Harry Potter had warned them about the relevance of extreme emotion when it came to magic. He had taught them how realisation of one’s hopelessness could invoke extremely powerful magic from the wizard, not unlike accidental magic. Strong emotions resonated well with the fire element — fire in one’s thoughts, in one’s eyes, and burning deep down in one’s gut.
But what Neville Longbottom felt right then… was not fire.
He didn’t remember reaching for it. No words were spoken, no spell was cast. For to cast, one needed to say the incantation, and with his poor memory and utter inability to use the damned stick, even emotionally unstable fire magic was beyond him. All he remembered was thinking how much he hated it, hated himself, hated this man for doing what he was saying he would do. He remembered the feeling of utter damnation and intense rage at his own ineptitude, at his magic that was never enough to cast through his father’s wand, his magic that had never been enough to be worthy in his grandmother’s eyes, his magic that even with the right instruction was horribly failing to protect his loved ones from this madman.
Instead, he reached for… it.
It was no Fire, for there were no flames. It was not even magic per se, for no incantation or magical energy was unleashed. The man must have sensed something because the next thing Neville remembered was thrusting his hands towards the monster and screaming —
“DDDDIIIIIIEEEEEE!”
He reached for hate. And Hate answered him.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
The green strike of death splashed against an unrush of holy darkness, which spread against the wall on the opposing side, exploding out into the rooms beyond and out from the top. Neville spotted the man’s protego falter, and darkness leapt out of him towards the imposter, the man who had threatened to kill all that he cared for.
“Bloody hell!” Not-Harry cursed, and shot out of the now open top using the projectile charm. Neville gave in to his instincts, and leapt out of the room, shooting upwards with a power he had never known. The fuming darkness rushed and lifted him off the ground, forty, fifty feet, with wind roaring around him in a gale. He found himself standing on top of a high-rise building, with the imposter standing on the opposite end, smirking at him.
“Wonderful! Wonderful! What prodigy has been unearthed here?” sang Not-Harry. “A bloody Obscurial of this much ability? My master will be so glad when I tell him of you, Neville Longbottom! Truly, when we cage and tame you, you will be a force to wield against that bloody Harry Potter!”
“WHO. ARE. YOU?”
The imposter answered by firing several deadly curses, grinning maniacally as he did it, having time to call out incantations in the wider space between them. The killing curse. The cruciatus. The entrail expelling curse, the blood freezing curse, the blood boiling curse, and many, so many more that Neville couldn’t identify. But he didn’t care about that. He thrust both hands, and hurled an abyssal force towards the madman, uncaring of anything else, his mind brilliantly lit by the power coursing through it. It burned him in a way he couldn’t understand, but some part of him screamed because it did. His hatred grew and grew and grew, it swelled and burned and he reached out for this power even more. It danced in his eyes, his head, his chest, flying wild and out of control and yet —
And yet, he could not kill the bastard.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” The madman laughed. “If only I had the idea of grabbing you as a baby and taking you to my Master while Bella killed your parents! The Dark Lord would have moulded you into a wizard second only to himself! Alas! This has to end so soon! Let’s see if you are better than your parents.”
He thrust his wand. “CRUCIO HORRIBILIS!”
“MORS DISSOLUTUM!”
A streak of pale grey streaked through the air, intercepting the cruciatus curse and vanishing it into nothingness. The imposter whirled and stared in surprise and rage at the sudden intrusion, only to freeze at the sight, seeing the intruder’s eyes glowing with the same emerald sheen of the killing curse.
“Hi,” said Harry Potter. “Sorry for being late to the party. Don’t tell me it’s over already?”
Comments
john
Damn, nice link to fantastic beasts
Afterdark230
Layers and layers
