Work Text:
{Have a biscuit}
Falling down
“Come in, Longbottom” said McGonagall when he hesitantly opened the door, peering inside her office.
She was sitting at her desk with a grim face, and Neville’s heart beat even faster than it had before, when Nearly Headless Nick had told him McGonagall needed to see him right after breakfast. He was hoping with all his might this had nothing to do with his Transfiguration marks. Sure, she’d said he’d passed the final test, if barely, but he couldn’t think of any other reasons for her to summon him. The only certain thing was that his gran would kill him, if McGonagall kicked him out of her class.
He swallowed and entered the room, jumping in surprise when the door closed automatically behind him.
He lingered there, unsure of what to do and not very willing to find out why he was there.
“Well, sit down, then” McGonagall said impatiently, gesturing at the chair in front of her. An instant later, though, she seemed to regret her firm tone, because she cleared her throat and added a softer “If you please.”
Neville stared at her for a moment, not at all reassured by this show of kindness, but then he hurried to sit, fighting the urge to lower his gaze on the desk between them.
He’d expected her to be frowning at him, but she actually looked quite concerned, and that made him feel even more anxious. He closed his eyes for a second, praying he’d be allowed to stay at Hogwarts even without taking Transfiguration.
“You… you wanted to see me, professor?” he asked tentatively, his voice low.
“Yes, Longbottom.” She took a deep breath, her nostrils going wide. “I’m afraid I have to give you a news that will probably come as a shock.”
She’d spoken with a strange tone, like… like if she was sorry, or if she was trying to be... well... human. That didn’t ease his tension at all, and a sudden, terrifying thought crossed his mind.
“Is… is my gran ok?” he whispered.
McGonagall widened her eyes, clearly taken aback by the question. “Of course, of course, she’s perfectly fine” she clarified hastily, waving a hand as to dismiss the very idea.
Neville breathed out, feeling a surge of relief. “Er… ok, good... yeah” he mumbled, beginning to feel slightly embarrassed for jumping to that conclusion.
“Actually...” McGonagall said with unusual hesitation, as if she was bracing herself for something bad, “... it’s Alastor Moody I wanted to talk about.”
Neville dropped his jaw, staring at her, astounded. “Moody?”
“Exactly” she confirmed, but that didn’t make it more believable. He kept staring at her, incredulous. She’d summoned him to talk about Moody?
“Well… er... what about him?” he asked at a loss. May be he wasn’t going to teach any more? But that couldn’t explain why McGonagall wanted to inform him – specifically him! – so urgently.
“I understand you were quite fond of him” she said with that oddly softness that creeped him out a bit.
He nodded, not sure of what to say. It was true that – in his own way – Madeye had been very kind to him during the year, and Neville was obviously going to feel sorry if he had to leave, but he still couldn’t get why he was there. It would have been nothing new, after all, since they’d changed every D.A.D.A. teacher so far. Maybe McGonagall thought he couldn’t handle Moody leaving right after Lupin? Had she been afraid he would have get emotional at the news, and had decided to spare him the embarrassment of doing so in front of everybody?
It wasn’t a very flattering thought, to be honest, but it wouldn’t have been that surprising.
He suddenly realised that McGonagall was watching him intently and he squirmed in his chair, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze.
“Neville, truth is...” MgGonagall sighed again, and he took it as yet another bad sign. What if… Merlin, what if Moody had died too? His heart sank at the thought, but he didn’t dare to ask. “... truth is, you haven’t met the real Alastor Moody.”
Neville was dumbstruck. He couldn’t believe is own ears. What could it possibly mean? Of course they had met him... he was there a whole year...
“I... I don’t understand, professor…”
She looked at him with that strange expression again, like if she was sorry for him, and he felt a chill run down his back; then McGonagall hastily cleared her throat and apparently regained her composure.
“Have a biscuit, Longbottom” she said sternly, pushing a tartan tin towards him.
He stared at them in disbelief. “A biscuit?”
“Yes, a biscuit” she repeated firmly.
He glanced at her, yet again unsure of what to do – was he supposed to politely decline? And if not, should he eat it right away, or wait for later? But in that case, where was he supposed to put it?
McGonagall pushed the box even closer. “Just pick one, Longbottom” she said gruffly.
Finally out of options, he took a Ginger Newt and ate it in small bites, chewing as quietly as possible, careful to keep is mouth perfectly shut. He could feel her gaze on him, and he fervently wished she’d taken a biscuit as well.
“Er… they’re really good” he said when he’d swallowed the last bite. “Thank you.”
She just nodded in response, putting the tin box aside. Now that he’d finished the biscuit, the silence got even more awkward, and MgGonagall’s gaze even more intense.
“How... how could he not be the real one?” he asked tentatively.
She sighed deeply again, straightening her glasses, and Neville twisted his hands in his lap.
“At the end of August, an imposter captured the real Moody, took his appearance and replaced him at Hogwarts” she explained with a serious tone.
“Oh...” murmured Neville. He hadn’t even known it was possible to took somebody else’s features, and his stomach lurched at the thought. “Is he... is the real Moody ok?”
McGonagall seemed mildly surprised by his question, but answered nonetheless. “Yes, Madama Pomfrey says he will be fine.”
“Good” he mumbled, trying to make order in the chaos of his mind. “So, did the imposter...” he paused, unable to say ‘killed’ out loud. “I mean, what happened yesterday at the maze... was that his fault?”
“It was” she answered gravely.
“Oh…” said Neville, his heart heavy. “And… did he escape, or…?”
“No, he didn’t. Professor Dumbledore saw through his disguise and was able to capture him.”
“So… he’s in Azkaban, now?”
“He is. He was moved there this night, after receiving a kiss by a Dementor as requested by the Minister.” She’d spoken with a neutral tone, but her widened nostrils and thin lips betrayed her disapproval. Neville had to agree, almost feeling sorry for the man. He couldn’t think of a worst fate than having his own soul removed… except, perhaps, being tortured into insanity. He hastily casted that thought aside, searching for something else to ask.
“Was he... was he a Death Eater, professor?”
McGonagall made a move like she was about to put a hand on his shoulder, then seemed to reconsider; she laid her hands on the desk and clenched her fingers so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and he felt a rush of dread.
“Neville… I’m very sorry” she said, her voice almost cracking. “He was Bartemius Crouch Junior.”
He just stared at her, abashed. That… that didn’t make any sense. It simply wasn’t possible.
“But... but… he’s dead” he stuttered. “He… he died few years ago… Gran told me… he died in Azkaban… I… I read it on the papers…”
“It was all a ruse” said McGonagall. She kept talking, saying something about Crouch’s mother and some Polijus Potion and his father, but Neville wasn’t following anymore, he wasn’t even listening, it was like he wasn’t there… It simply wasn’t possible… Moody had always been kind to him… He’d given him a book, and he’d asked him how the read was going several times… He’d told him little memories of when he worked with his parents, said he missed them very much… He’d comforted him when he’d been upset for the Cruciatus…
“No… no, he can’t be him… he’s dead…”
“Neville…”
“He was always kind to me… He… he made me tea once… I… I would have know if…”
McGonagall handed him a tissue, and it was like being brought back to reality all of a sudden. He felt his eyes swelled, his face wet with tears and snot. He took the tissue and blew his nose, not even bothering to feel awkward, then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands.
“How could I… how could I not know?” he murmured, his voice trembling.
McGonagall looked at him with what he could finally recognise as pity. “He played is part well. He tricked everybody” she said, her voice a bit cracked, her eyes shining.
“But… I… I should have know… I should have seen...”
“Neville” she said more fiercely. “You can’t blame yourself for this. Even professor Dumbledore fell for it, and they go way back.”
“I let him… let him tell me things about… about them…” he whispered, hot tears still running on his face.
He saw McGonagall blinking hard, her lips clenched tightly. Then she grabbed his wrist, fixing him in the eyes. “It’s not your fault, Neville. Do you hear me? Don’t ever blame yourself for that. We are the one who should have seen through his fraud, we are those meant to protect you from people like him.”
He nodded slowly and blew his nose again, a bit comforted by her renewed fierceness and by her words.
“Why?” he asked in a low voice. “Why he did all that?”
Why had he spent a whole year fooling them? Fooling him?
McGonagall sighed deeply for the umpteenth time, and he couldn’t believe there was still more.
“I’m afraid he did it for the same reason that sent him to Azkaban years ago… helping You-Know-Who to come back.” She paused for an instant, laying a tentative hand on his shoulder without lowering her gaze.
“Unfortunately, this time Frank and Alice weren’t there to stop him.”
**
Neville walked back to the Gryffindor tower in shock. He was barely aware of the students walking around him, he didn’t care if people stared at him, he wasn’t affected in the slightest by the Slytherins’ remarks about his puffy eyes.
Eventually he found himself standing in his empty dormitory, his gaze fixed at his red curtains, at a loss.
Then, with the corner of his eye, he saw it.
It was laid on his bedside table, because he’d wanted to keep it close, he’d wanted it at hand. How many evening he’d fallen asleep while lost in those pages… It was the book that had made him understood there was something he was truly good at, the book that made him see what he wanted to do in his life.
Feeling more betrayed than he ever did, he grabbed Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean and, page by page, he tore it apart.
When only the cover was left, he threw it out the window with all his strength and watched it fall, feeling like his whole world was falling down with it.