Chapter 629: Neville
Neville felt like a feather, drifting gently into a strange new world. He stood in a classroom split down the middle, its floor torn apart in jagged, uneven fragments. Dozens of figures resembling students moved about, utterly oblivious to the break, absorbed in stirring their potions with quiet focus.
Their appearances were ancient and unsettling—most faces blurred, devoid of distinct features, as if their features had never been properly formed. A few who did possess faces seemed stitched together from mismatched parts, their expressions awkward and unnatural.
Above him, there was no ceiling—only a vast, desolate darkness, just as his grandmother had described. Within it, fragmented memories floated like scattered stars, each one a shard of the past.
To the upper left, he saw a young Madam Longbottom and Longbottom, smiling as they exchanged wedding vows. To the right, a memory of Frank Longbottom, barely more than a child, learning to walk with his mother’s support. And when Neville stepped to the edge of the broken floor, he saw, just below, a heated argument between his young parents—angry, shouting, their voices sharp with frustration.
Tears welled in his eyes without warning.
“Lovey, after stirring clockwise three times, you should stir counterclockwise two,” a gentle voice said. “You stirred too many times—look at your potion, it’s too dark.”
“I’m sorry, Professor,” said a girl with braided hair, sticking her tongue out playfully as she apologized.
Neville was startled. The girl’s appearance was indistinct—only her expression was faintly visible. Hearing their voices, a boy in front turned around and smiled warmly at her.
He wasn’t particularly handsome—his features were merely average, his demeanor gentle—but there was something about him. His face seemed to emit a soft light, and in an instant, the entire classroom brightened.
Suddenly, Neville understood. This was his mother’s memory—she might have forgotten her own face, but she had never forgotten her husband’s smile.
A wave of sorrow washed over him, mixed with a deep, aching warmth. He didn’t want to disturb this moment. He stood frozen, watching in silence.
Then, without warning, the students vanished.
A woman strode in—long black hair cascading like a waterfall, skin pale as bone. Her eyes darted wildly, her wand slashing through the air as she screamed, “Cruciatus Curse! Cruciatus Curse!”
The spell struck Frank—then the boy, now suddenly aged into a man in his twenties—crumpled to the floor, screaming in agony.
“No—leave him alone—please, leave him alone!” Lovey screamed, her voice suddenly deepened, matured. She lunged forward, trying to shield her husband—only to be hit by another Cruciatus Curse herself.
The warm, tender classroom turned cold and dark. Amid the fractured memories, the woman’s voice cut through with chilling clarity.
“You were supposed to be dead. Why are you still alive?”
“Where is the Dark Lord? What trick did you use?”
“Where is my Master?”
“Answer me!”
Bellatrix Lestrange tormented them again and again, screaming with fury, laughing at their pain.
“Stop! Stop it! Make it stop!” Neville lunged forward, his thin frame surging with unexpected strength. He threw himself in front of his parents like a wall.
“Get out of the way!” he snarled, his voice echoing through the darkness.
But the spell’s light passed straight through him, continuing to torture Frank and Lovey behind him. Neville flailed helplessly, throwing spells in a futile attempt to drive away the Death Eaters—nothing worked.
He sank into despair. This was memory. It had already happened. It could not be changed.
Rage boiled in his veins like molten rock.
As he listened to his parents’ screams, his hands began to tremble uncontrollably. His mind went blank—only one voice remained clear.
He raised his wand, filled with hatred.
“Cruciatus Curse!”
Just like the previous Disarming Charm, this feeble curse passed straight through Bellatrix Lestrange—harmless, ineffective.
But then, the woman slowly turned her head.
Her wild, frenzied eyes locked directly onto Neville’s.
For a heartbeat, it felt as though she looked beyond time and space—really saw him.
Neville froze, breath ragged, forcing himself to stay rooted. He didn’t see Lovey, sprawled on the ground, suddenly lift her head. Her vacant eyes turned toward Neville’s position—unfocused, empty.
Bellatrix sneered. “Not willing to speak? Then I’ll make this young one suffer. Will you stay silent then?”
Her wand leveled at Neville.
At that moment, a loud, piercing cry shattered the silence.
Neville whipped around—there, in a cradle, a newborn infant was kicking violently, screaming with every ounce of its being.
“Leave him alone!” Frank roared. “We don’t know anything! The Dark Lord never came!”
Neville realized—Bellatrix wasn’t seeing him. Her gaze was fixed on the infant version of himself.
Just as she raised her wand to cast the curse, the baby erupted with a surge of raw magic.
The entire space trembled. The infant’s cry became a physical wave, hurling the Death Eaters backward into the walls. Ancient bricks cracked and crumbled, dust raining down. Cracks split the walls.
The infant collapsed instantly, unconscious, his face deathly pale, breath faint, nearly gone.
Madam Longbottom and Longbottom let out bestial cries of anguish, dragging their broken bodies toward their child.
They barely had time to hold him before the Death Eaters, bleeding and battered, rose again, snarling.
“I’ll kill you! Cruciatus Curse! Cruciatus Curse! Cruciatus Curse!”
The curses struck them again and again. No scream. No protest. Their eyes—once full of life—dulled, their light fading into nothing.
After what felt like an eternity, the door exploded inward in a flash of red light. Figures thundered into the room, stunning the exhausted Death Eaters in moments.
“Frank! Lovey! Wake up! You’re safe now—everything’s over… Frank! Lovey!”
The voice, once loud and desperate, softened into a choked sob.
“Are they alive?”
“Alive… but…”
Frank lay on the ground, his back scorched black from the spell’s power. His eyes, once gentle, stared blankly at the ceiling—glassy, unblinking.
Lovey staggered to her feet, her gaze unfocused, reaching into the air as she whispered, “It’s okay… it’s okay… baby… you can’t be hurt… you can’t be…”
“They… they’re gone,” one of the rescuers said, dropping to his knees. He slammed his fist into the ground, tears carving paths through the blood on his face.
“Thank Merlin the child is alive. That’s what Frank and Lovey would want most.”
Another knelt, cradling the unconscious Neville. “But… he saw what happened. He witnessed his parents’ suffering…”
“We can’t ignore this,” said another. “This memory could destroy him. Best to erase it.”
“But… using a Forgetting Charm on such a young child…”
“Madam Longbottom would want him to be happy,” said one. “That’s all that matters. The rest is nothing.”
“Let her decide. She’s the only one who has the right.”
The voices faded into murmurs. But Neville stood, tears streaming down his face.
Only he knew—his mother wasn’t touching air. She was touching his face.
Was this memory? A dream? Had her hand brushed the very spot where he stood now? Or was it real—had Alice Longbottom, in the spirit world, finally, for a fleeting moment, truly seen him?
He couldn’t tell truth from illusion. He wept uncontrollably, trembling as he gently cradled her frail, bony hand, feeling the warmth of her fingers, his tears flowing freely.
“Why are you crying again?” Lovey sighed, her voice a mix of exasperation and deep affection. “Hungry? Did you fall?”
Neville shook his head, too choked to speak.
“I know,” she said. “Grandma didn’t let you play with firecrackers, did she? She’s just looking out for you—those things are too dangerous for you.”
He kept crying, unable to stop. He opened his mouth to comfort her, but only a heart-wrenching sob escaped. His body shook with grief.
Lovey panicked, asking frantically, “Is it your stomach? Are you hurt? Not feverish… no, you’re not hot…”
She rose on tiptoe, pressing her forehead to his.
Then—she froze.
She pulled back, staring at him with a dazed, vacant expression—yet in her foggy eyes, a flicker of confusion.
“You… you…?” she whispered, her gaze wandering over his face, uncertain, hesitant.
“You’re… Neville?” she murmured. “How… how did you get so tall?”
…
The day before the new term began, Wade saw Neville—back from the Longbottom home, the boy had come straight to his door to thank him.
“My mum recognized me!” Neville said, grinning. “She talked to me for a whole sentence—actually remembered I’m in Gryffindor, fourth year!”
“She’s getting better. Dad’s recovering too. Yesterday, he even apologized for not being able to walk me to school.”
“They’ve forgotten so much… most of their spells, even… but they’ve never forgotten me,” he said, his expression a strange mix of joy and sorrow, complex beyond words.
“As long as their minds start waking up, full recovery is just a matter of time,” Wade said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Your parents are strong. They’ll overcome this pain.”
Neville wiped his eyes, then nodded firmly. “I believe they can. I wanted to stay at St. Mungo’s… but Grandma insisted I come back to class. Dad and Mum agreed too.”
He had never imagined he’d one day say “dad and mum” without flinching.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Wade smiled. “You’ve all the time in the world to be together. No need to rush. And if you study hard, you’ll one day be the one they can lean on.”
“Lean on… I don’t know if I can,” Neville said, scratching his head, hesitant. “Wade… do you know Bellatrix Lestrange? A criminal like her—sentenced to life—would she ever be released from Azkaban?”
Wade’s tone turned cautious. “Generally, no.”
Neville’s mind sparked.
“Then… what if it’s not general?”
“Say… someone from the inside broke her out?”
Wade smirked. “Prisons like Azkaban? To some people, every prisoner is a treasure. Even locked in the deepest ocean, they’d drag them out—just to use them. Doesn’t matter if it ruins the world.”
Neville never quite knew when people were joking. If it were anyone else, he’d have laughed. But he stared, wide-eyed. “So… someone might really want to free Bellatrix?”
Wade looked at him deeply. “Worrying about that won’t help. Focus on becoming stronger. Then, if that day ever comes… the one who should fear isn’t you. It’ll be them.”
Neville stiffened. His eyes widened slightly.
For years, his life had been shadowed by grief—by his parents’ tragedy, his own clumsiness, his weakness. He’d been sad, self-pitying, convinced fate always picked on him. Even when Slytherins mocked him, he’d just swallowed it in silence.
Being friends with Wade and the others had changed him. But Neville knew—deep inside—he was still the same boy, trapped by fear and fragility. He’d never be as “cool” as them.
He’d never imagined… he could hold the power of revenge in his own hands.
The idea struck him like lightning, shattering the clouds that had hung over him for so long.
He looked down at his hands—scarred, worn, marked with the bruises of a life lived in fear.
“I’m always clumsy. I forget things. I get hurt so easily. I can’t even speak up in front of people…”
His voice was barely a whisper.
“But even so… even like this…”
The face of Bellatrix Lestrange—twisted with malice, madness, hatred—flashed in his mind.
And in his ears, the screams of his parents—raw, agonized, unending.
They were right. This memory had changed him forever.
“But even so…” Neville whispered, his voice now steady, resolute. “I will do it. Bellatrix Lestrange… it should be she who trembles. It should be she who fears!”
“And Little Barty Crouch… Rodolphus Lestrange… Rabastan Lestrange…”
“If they ever leave Azkaban… I hope… I can end it myself.”
(End of Chapter)
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