Chapter Text
It was that strange haze where you weren't entirely sure whether you were awake or still dreaming. Neville desperately wanted to stay buried beneath his warm blankets, but the insistent pressure of a full bladder made that impossible. With the tragic resignation known only to thirteen-year-old boys forced out of bed at three in the morning, he shuffled toward the shared bathroom.
He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been in there.
He might have fallen asleep on the loo. It wouldn't have been the first time.
There had definitely been a loud crash.
Someone had shouted.
Or perhaps that had been him after stubbing his toe on the sink pedestal for what felt like the hundredth time that year. It was difficult to tell when you couldn't quite summon the energy to open both eyes.
Still rubbing the sleep from his face, Neville pushed open the bathroom door and wandered back into the dormitory.
His eyes snapped open.
Every trace of exhaustion vanished in an instant.
Ron was sprawled across the floor, clutching his leg, which bent at an angle legs absolutely should not bend.
Harry stood frozen beside him, white as the sheets, gripping what looked disturbingly like a blood-soaked clump of rat fur.
Towering over them, knife still in hand, stood the gaunt, hollow-faced wizard Neville knew from every Wanted poster plastered across magical Britain.
Sirius Black.
Neville's blood turned to ice.
He should run.
He should scream.
He should get Professor McGonagall.
He should get Dumbledore.
He should—
He couldn't leave Ron on the floor with a broken leg or Harry with the man who wanted to kill him.
Neville’s hand fumbled for his wand as sweat trickled down his back.
He swallowed.
Apparently louder than intended.
Ron's head whipped around.
"Neville!" he yelled. "Run!"
Neville shook his head, though every instinct he possessed was begging him to do exactly that. His wand trembled so violently, he doubted the Stunning Spell would travel in a straight line.
Black looked over.
"Oh, Neville," he said with an oddly wistful smile. "You look so much like your mother. I'd hate to hurt you."
He casually raised what Neville realized, with mounting horror, was Ron's wand.
"Stop!" Harry shouted from his bed, still clutching the remains of Scabbers. "Just murder me and leave everyone else alone!"
Black frowned.
"Murder you?"
He sounded genuinely confused.
"No. I only planned one murder tonight."
He gestured toward the mangled bundle Harry was holding.
"And that has already been accomplished."
Ron blinked. "You escaped Azkaban..." he said slowly, "...to kill my pet?"
Black looked offended. "No, I came to kill the man I was imprisoned for murdering."
Before Neville's horrified eyes, the bloody, limp rat began to change. Tiny paws stretched into fingers as grey fur receded into mottled skin. The little pointed snout lengthened into the face of a balding, middle-aged wizard.
A dead, balding, middle-aged wizard.
Neville screamed.
Harry swore.
Ron swore louder.
From the next bed, Dean rolled over, muttered something about Quidditch practice, and continued snoring.
Seamus didn't even move once.