Chapter Text
“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.”
― Cormac McCarthy
—
It was a very poor day indeed for Alice Fortescue.
Firstly, she had missed breakfast that morning. Her disappointment had been surprising–and perhaps even a bit embarrassing because there had been so much of it, but truthfully, the only thing that had gotten her through her gruelling late night Potions study was the thought of a handsome plate of scrambled eggs, a bit of cheese, and hashbrowns on the side. A pomegranate juice. Always, always, pomegranate juice.
But sadly, there would be no breakfast. Just a tireless, endless morning stretching out for her, and for goodness sake, lunch could not have seemed one moment further away.
“Rubbish,” Alice muttered to herself. “If I’d remembered that alarm... oh well. Head up, shoulders back.”
It was what her mother had always said to her. And while her mother had been unduly harsh at times (Alice had the memory of a smarting hand and bottom to prove it), there were still things that she thought on fondly. Her mother had taught her to be tough as nails, and to never give up. Even when her faltering memory always seemed to do so.
“As long as I am able to make that Felix Felicis,” she murmured. “And I can make sure that–”
“Ah! Miss Fortescue! Thank heavens you have arrived, we had become concerned we would be having an odd number for partners today!” Professor Slughorn cried, and Alice knew by now to paint the sunniest smile on her face. Slughorn’s appreciation would be extremely important if she ever hoped to reach her goal of auror. His letter of recommendation would carry a weight that would be unparalleled, unless she could somehow get Professor Dumbledore to write one himself.
“I am terribly sorry I’m late, I–” Alice tried, but as usual, Professor Slughorn was not the most marvelous listener.
“How fortunate! And quite fitting since we are making a luck potion today! Now off you pop, go sit by Mr. Black there–”
Mr. Black. Alice’s stomach curdled, and it had nothing to do with the fact that she hadn’t had a bite to eat since dinner the evening before.
She carefully did not look at her partner as she took a seat next to him, opening up her faded, hand-me-down textbook so that she could follow along with Professor Slughorn’s lecture. But she could feel him next to her. She could also hear Evan Rosier snickering, as he so often did when she was around. As if she was something to laugh at.
There were some decent Slytherins, of course. Alice wasn’t like many of her Gryffindor classmates (she almost subconsciously glanced at James Potter, who was by far the biggest despiser of that particular house), she knew that some upheld Salazar’s characteristic cunning qualities without falling into his darker tendencies.
But, plain and simple, some of the Slytherins were just rotten, nasty bullies.
It could be worse, her own voice murmured to her. You could have been partnered with Evan.
True. At least there was that.
“Alright, and that includes my instructions, students!” Slughorn said cheerfully, wholly unaware (and he so often was) of any tension that might have lingered in the room. The man’s glasses were perpetually rose-colored, especially when it came to the students that he had a particular fondness for (and Regulus Black did come from quite a fine family indeed). “Please go ahead and get to work, and best of luck to you! Oh!” His eyes widened like coins and his cheeks pinkened with pleasure. “A joke! One I didn’t even intend! Well, off you go!”
Marlene McKinnon and Lily Evans gave Alice sympathetic looks over their shoulders, but Alice couldn’t help but notice that neither of her girlfriends offered to trade partners. Not that she could blame them for that.
“Professor!”
It was Evan’s snide voice. Alice braced for impact, somehow knowing that this would somehow include his favorite punching bag–chubby, know-it-all Alice Fortescue.
“Uh, yes, Mr. Rosier?” Slughorn said with only the smallest bit of hesitation.
“Any chance I could switch partners? I’d love to be with Fortescue. Not only would she do all the work, but I’d get to be in the presence of her radiant beauty.”
Alice felt her face burn as the Slytherins all laughed, congratulating Rosier on another well done putdown. Slughorn could barely be heard over it all, taking points away from Slytherin, but it didn’t matter, the damage had been done. Alice reached for the Ashwinder egg so they could get started.
“Do you ever shut up, Rosier?”
She froze and immediately glanced in the direction of James and Sirius, who were both halfway out of their seats, likely ready to get into a brawl that had very little to do with Alice and everything to do with how much they despised Evan. But the voice hadn’t come from them, nor had it come from any of her other Gryffindors.
Regulus Black wasn’t looking up. He was already juicing the squill bulb.
“What did you just say to me, Regulus?” Evan snarled.
“I asked if you ever shut up,” Regulus repeated. “You’ve made that same joke at least twelve times in here, and it’s never been funny. It’s just stupid. Now sit down so you can get another T on your potion. Hope you don’t melt another cauldron.”
Evan’s mouth fell open and his pallid cheeks filled with blotchy color. Sirius let out a low whistle, and James snorted. They both sank down to their seats. Not defeat, but a very different kind of victory.
But Alice knew what it was, and it had nothing to do with Regulus defending her honor or anything silly like that. She knew boys like Regulus, and they were never meant to be anything more than someone you treated kindly, but didn’t let in. Not fully, anyway.
“You should handle the Murtlap, yeah?” he said quietly. He still hadn’t looked up from his work, his lips pressed into a line of concentration.
“You’re the one in the advanced potions class for your year, maybe you should–” Alice tried, but Regulus huffed.
“Doesn’t mean I have a clue what to do with a Murtlap. I’ll do the Occamy eggshell.”
Regulus Black was not a nice boy. There were lots of stories about him, most of them from his own brother. He might not have been a rude loudmouth like Evan, but he was not someone that she should spend time with. Alice knew that much.
But he was doing a very, very nice job with the squill bulb. Even she had to admit that.
—
The day Neville Longbottom received his Hogwarts letter was a very, very nice day.
Nice may have seemed like a grand understatement considering all of the lead up that had crescendoed into that day, but Neville hadn’t been able to celebrate too greatly. He’d simply been relieved.
”AND LET IT BE KNOWN–” screamed a floating red letter, ”THE GREAT NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM IS NOT A SQUIB. AND YOU ALL SHOULD BE ASHAMED FOR INSINUATING. THE DAILY PROPHET HAS BECOME NOTHING MORE THAN A SIMPERING TABLOID GOOD FOR LITTLE ELSE BEYOND WIPING ONE’S ARSE.”
“Gran,” Neville groaned, his head down on the table. “Please don’t send any more howlers to the papers.”
“I’ll send as many as I please!” Neville’s gran said imperiously, seemingly approving of the Howler’s level of volume and sheer violence of delivery. With a wave of her wand, the letter was snugly attached to the leg of a tawny owl, and the owl had fluttered out the window. “That paper nearly ruined our family’s legacy. Imagine–a Longbottom, a squib! After all the good that your parents, may they rest in peace, did for this wizarding world! Shame on them!”
The only person who seemed to be experiencing any shame at all was Neville himself, though. He could see the headlines now. ANGRY GRANDMOTHER ASSAULTS THE DAILY PROPHET ALL WEEK BECAUSE THE BOY WHO LIVED WAS NEARLY A SQUIB.
As it would turn out, there was a great deal of pressure to succeed when your life is directly tied to the death of one of the most terrifying wizards of all time. Perhaps not particularly surprising.
“We are going to get you all new things,” Neville’s gran was saying. “Hagrid has already offered to take you down to Diagon Alley and–”
“Hagrid?” Neville said, perking up. “He’s going to–”
“Yes, but the pair of you better not wander off to look at magical creatures or whatever you two do when you are supposed to be preparing for your schooling,” Neville’s gran scolded. “And make sure that you don’t forget anything. Which reminds me–”
Neville’s gran reached into one of her antique dressers and pulled out a small package. It let out a surprisingly heavy thud as she set it on the table in front of him.
“I was waiting for you to receive your letter before I gave this to you,” she said, tapping the top of it. “It was your mother’s. She would have wanted you to have it.”
Neville had to look away so he didn’t see the tears grim precariously in his gran’s eyes. Even after all the years, the mere mention of either his mother or father–who he had no memory of–never ceased to make her a bit weepy. Instead, Neville focused on carefully peeling the paper away–which was wrapped in a bit of a sloppy manner, something that his gran never would have allowed–
Which made Neville suddenly wonder if this package had been wrapped by his mother herself.
Neville swallowed. It did make a lump rise in his throat, but it was also very difficult to miss people that you’d never met. For as long as he could remember, it had been just him and his gran. He loved to hear stories of his parents, but they were as distant as fairy tales. They sounded lovely, but they couldn’t be real.
He pulled the paper away and lifted the top of the box. It was a round ball that would fit comfortably in his hand, filled with red smoke, swirling ominously. But the moment that Neville placed his fingers on it, the smoke went white.
“It’s called a Rembrall,” Neville’s gran told him, wiping at her eyes with the lacy tablecloth (as she so often did, and then would later angrily ask who had made the tablecloth so filthy). “If the smoke turns red, it means you’ve forgotten something.”
Neville looked up at his gran, his jaw slack with horror.
“But gran,” he said miserably, “I’ve always forgotten something. What good is it if it doesn’t tell you what you’ve forgotten?”
“Well, the world can’t do everything for you, Neville. You’ve got to do some things on your own,” his gran snapped, suddenly no longer quite so teary (Neville’s perceived foolishness usually cleared that up). “All I know is that your mother never went anywhere without it.”
Neville frowned at the glass orb and picked it up. The smoke was still white. What a relief.
And even though it seemed like something of a torture device, he held it and thought about how his mother had once held it too.
The lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead gave a twinge, but he thought nothing of it.