Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 110
He turned slightly, already reaching for his coat.
"If you're ready," he said, glancing toward Augusta, "then we will leave now."
Neville exhaled slowly, only just realising he'd been holding his breath.
They moved out of the office together, footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor beyond.
For a moment, no one spoke.
"How are we getting there?" Neville asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
Scrimgeour didn't slow. "We'll be taking a Portkey to a fortified outpost on the northern coast. From there—" he continued without breaking stride, "—we take a Ministry boat."
Neville frowned slightly. "A boat?"
"Yes." Scrimgeour's tone was matter-of-fact. "Azkaban is warded against Apparition, Portkeys, and most forms of magical travel. The island is isolated for a reason."
He glanced back briefly. "The only way in or out… is by Ministry transport."
They stopped outside a heavy door.
Scrimgeour turned to face them. "If you're reconsidering," he said, almost casually, "now would be the time."
Neville met his gaze. "I'm not."
A pause.
Scrimgeour looked to Augusta.
She gave a single, decisive nod.
That was all.
Scrimgeour nodded once. "Very well."
He opened the door. "Then let's not waste any more time."
And stepped inside.
…
Thursday, 23rd December 1993 – North Sea
The sky was a dull, unbroken grey.
Rain fell in a steady sheet over the open sea, carried sideways by the wind. Below, the water churned—dark, restless, waves rising and collapsing into one another with no rhythm.
A carriage burst through the low clouds.
The Thestrals pulling it cut cleanly through the air, skeletal wings beating against the wind as they dragged the enclosed carriage forward. The frame creaked faintly under the strain, though the enchantments held.
Inside the carriage, Neville sat with Augusta on one side.
Opposite them were two Aurors—Dawlish and Marcus Hale. Dawlish had a folded newspaper in his hands, scanning it with the kind of focus that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. Hale, on the other hand, was engaged in conversation with Augusta.
Both of them had been assigned by Scrimgeour to escort them to Azkaban, as Scrimgeour himself had been tied up elsewhere.
"…I'm telling you," Hale was saying, leaning back slightly, one hand braced against the side of the carriage as it shifted in the wind, "if the Ministry keeps pushing this line, they're going to lose half the support they've got. People aren't blind."
Augusta gave a short, unimpressed hum. "People are very often blind when it suits them."
Hale let out a quiet breath that might've been a laugh. "Yeah… can't argue with that."
"They prefer stability," Augusta continued, her tone even, as if she were stating something obvious. "Even if that stability is built on poor decisions."
Dawlish snorted under his breath, turning a page without looking up. "That's politics."
Hale glanced at him briefly, then back to Augusta. "Doesn't mean it's sustainable."
Augusta didn't respond to that. She simply held his gaze for a moment, then looked away, the conversation ending there without needing to be said outright.
Neville had stopped listening a while ago.
His attention was on the window.
The glass was streaked with rain, the view beyond shifting constantly as the carriage cut through the wind. Dark water. White spray. Nothing else.
He frowned slightly.
'Could Sirius really survive swimming through this?'
The thought came quietly as he watched a wave crash hard against another, the water folding over itself before vanishing again.
He stared at it for a few seconds longer.
From what he'd worked out, it was possible. The distance wasn't impossible.
But looking at it now—
Neville shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back just a fraction.
'…I really hope he doesn't die trying.'
The carriage jolted lightly as it cut through a harsher current of wind.
Dawlish lowered his paper just enough to glance toward the window, then clicked his tongue. "Weather's worse than usual."
Hale followed his gaze briefly. "It's the North Sea. It's always bad."
"Not like this," Dawlish muttered, though he didn't sound particularly concerned. He adjusted the paper again. "Makes the approach rougher."
Augusta didn't react.
Neville's eyes stayed on the glass.
A while later, his gaze shifted.
Through the rain, he could make out something in the distance—faint at first, barely visible through the grey.
At first, it was just a darker patch against the sea.
Then it became clearer.
An island.
Rocky. Jagged. Waves crashing violently against its sides, spraying high against the cliffs before falling back into the water.
And in the centre—
A tower.
Tall. Narrow. Rising straight up from the rock like it had been forced there.
Neville's eyes narrowed slightly.
'That must be it… Azkaban.'
Neville's eyes narrowed slightly. 'That must be it… Azkaban.'
The carriage dipped lower.
The island grew larger in the window, the details sharpening as they descended. The waves looked worse up close. Less like movement—more like constant impact, water slamming against rock again and again without pause.
Neville barely noticed when the temperature dropped.
It crept in slowly.
The glass beneath his fingers cooled—then chilled.
A faint layer of frost began to form along the edges.
He pulled his hand back without thinking.
The air felt… heavier.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
"…You'll start feeling it now," Dawlish said.
He'd lowered his paper slightly, eyes flicking toward the window before settling on Neville.
Neville glanced over. "The Dementors?"
Dawlish nodded once, folding the paper properly this time and setting it aside. "Yeah. They don't need to be close to start affecting you." He shifted slightly in his seat, bracing as the carriage dipped again. "Gets worse the nearer we get."
Hale exhaled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Never gets easier either," he muttered.
Dawlish gave a short, humourless huff. "It's not meant to."
Neville frowned slightly when he noticed Augusta.
Her posture had straightened—subtly, but enough to notice. Her shoulders were set a little tighter, her expression more controlled than before.
There was a faint tension there that hadn't been present earlier.
Neville turned his head toward her. "Are you alright, Gran?"
Augusta looked over at him and gave a short nod. "I'm fine," she said, a bit too quickly.
Then, after a brief pause, her gaze held his just a fraction longer.
"Keep your mind clear," she added, quieter now. "Don't dwell on anything unpleasant."
Neville nodded once. "Right."
She didn't say anything else, but her posture didn't relax.
The carriage dipped lower again.
The island filled the window now.
Waves crashing against rock. Wind pressing faintly against the carriage walls. The tower rising higher with every second.
The frost thickened along the glass.
The air grew heavier.
Quieter.
Dawlish glanced between them. "We'll be landing shortly," he said. "Once we're on the ground, stay close."
Hale added, more casually, "Don't wander off. It's not the kind of place you want to get separated in."
"…Right," Neville said.
Neville kept his gaze forward.
The frost along the glass had spread further now, creeping inward from the edges.
The tower loomed closer.
Neville could feel it more clearly now—the weight pressing in at the edges of his thoughts.
Not strong.
Not overwhelming.
Just… there.
A constant pressure, like something trying to push its way in.
He let out a slow breath through his nose, steadying it.
He didn't close his eyes. Didn't make it obvious.
He just… adjusted.
Using Occlumency, he shifted his focus inward—smoothed things out, flattened the surface of his thoughts.
Anything that started to linger—he let it go.
Didn't hold onto it.
Didn't engage.
Just… passed over it.
The pressure dulled slightly.
Still there.
But manageable.
…
The carriage descended onto a stone platform beside the tower, skidding slightly as the Thestrals came to a stop.
The moment the door opened, the wind hit.
Cold. Wet. Sharp enough that it cut straight through the layers of clothing without much effort.
Dawlish stepped out first, boots hitting the stone with a solid thud, followed by Hale. Augusta stepped out next, Neville right behind her.
The rain came down hard.
As Augusta stepped out of the carriage, she raised her wand—casting the Umbrella Charm without a word. A faint shimmer spread from the tip, subtle and nearly invisible, the rain bending around them and sliding off to the sides before it could touch.
Neville stepped in beside her under the cover—
—and paused for half a second.
It hit properly then.
Not like in the air.
Not distant.
Closer.
Quieter.
The cold wasn't just on his skin anymore. It settled deeper—through his chest, down his arms—like the warmth had been pulled out instead of pushed away.
His breath slowed without him meaning it to.
The pressure from before—the one sitting at the edges of his thoughts—wasn't staying at the edges anymore.
It pressed in.
Augusta was already reaching into her purse. She pulled out a small bar of chocolate and held it out.
"Here," she said, calm and steady. "Eat it. Slowly."
Neville took it without arguing. "…Thanks, Gran."
He broke off a piece and ate it. The sweetness hit sharp at first—almost too much against everything else—but a moment later, the feeling eased.
Not gone.
But better.
Enough to breathe properly again.
He exhaled quietly, glancing down at the bar in his hand. "…They weren't joking," he muttered. "Chocolate really does fix everything."
Augusta gave a small, approving hum, already moving forward as Dawlish and Hale approached the tower entrance.
Neville fell into step beside her, taking another bite as they walked.
After a moment, he glanced sideways at her. "…What about you, Gran?" he asked. "Are you alright?"
Augusta didn't slow. "I'm fine," she said simply.
Then, after a brief pause, a bit quieter, "And I have a few more, if needed."
Neville nodded once.
He looked up at the tower as it loomed closer—taller than it had seemed from the air.
The stone was dark, almost black where the rain soaked into it, streaked with age.
And the Dementors—
They drifted through the air in slow, uneven patterns. Cloaked figures, barely moving, yet never still. Some passed close to the walls. Others hovered further out over the sea.
Neville watched one for a second longer than he meant to.
Then looked away.
Footsteps approached.
Neville glanced over, frowning slightly. "…Huh."
Three figures in Ministry robes were making their way toward them, moving with purpose across the platform.
Neville leaned slightly toward Augusta, lowering his voice. "Gran… I thought this place was guarded by Dementors."
Augusta's gaze flicked toward the approaching figures, then back ahead. "It is," she said. "Mostly."
She adjusted her grip on her wand, her tone even. "But the Ministry isn't foolish enough to rely on them entirely. There are always Aurors stationed here."
Neville glanced back at the figures, watching the way they moved.
"…Rotations?" he asked.
"Of course," Augusta replied. "No one would last long otherwise."
A brief pause.
"Even at a distance, prolonged exposure would take its toll," she added. "The guards rotate in and out to avoid that."
Neville hummed quietly, taking another small bite of chocolate. "Yeah… that makes sense."
His eyes drifted back up toward the tower—and the Dementors circling it.
"…Still feels like a terrible place to work," he muttered.
Augusta didn't disagree. "It is," she said. Then, more quietly "That is rather the point."
The Aurors slowed their pace slightly as they drew nearer—likely recognising Dawlish.
The one in the centre stepped forward.
"Auror Dawlish," he said, a faint crease forming between his brows. "We weren't informed of an arrival."
Dawlish didn't react to the tone. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter, holding it out without comment. "Last-minute authorization," he said. "Escort detail."
The Auror didn't take it immediately.
"…A visit?" His gaze shifted past Dawlish—landing on Augusta, then Neville. It lingered there a second too long. His expression tightened slightly. "That's… unusual."
He hesitated, then added, more bluntly, "This isn't exactly a place for children."
Dawlish gave a small shrug. "Orders came from above. I'm just the escort."
There was a brief pause.
Then the Auror reached out and took the letter, unfolding it quickly. His eyes moved across the page, scanning.
Silence settled for a moment, broken only by the wind and rain against the stone.
Then he looked up—this time directly at Augusta.
"Are you certain, ma'am?" he asked, his tone more measured now. "It's not—" he paused briefly, adjusting his wording, "—an environment most would willingly bring a child into."
Augusta didn't hesitate.
"Yes, officer. I'm quite sure."
Her voice was calm. Firm. Final.
Her hand rested lightly on Neville's shoulder.
The Auror held her gaze for a second longer, as if weighing something… then gave a short nod.
"…Right." He folded the letter again and handed it back to Dawlish. "Just so you're aware—it gets worse the higher up you go. Maximum security isn't… pleasant."
Augusta didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
The Auror stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance. "We'll need to process you first."
They were led a short distance along the platform toward a reinforced entry point set into the base of the tower.
"Wands, please." The guard held out a hand.
Augusta handed hers over without a word.
Neville followed a second later, placing his wand onto the tray.
The wands were set carefully onto a metal surface.
"Any belongings," another guard added, gesturing toward it.
Augusta removed a few items from her cloak and set them down with the same steady precision.
Neville did the same.
Then the second guard's attention settled on him more closely.
"Empty your pockets."
Neville paused for a fraction of a second. 'Right…'
"…Okay."
He reached into his vest and began pulling things out—small items, nothing important—
Then the folded paper.
The shrunken Daily Prophet.
He placed it on the tray with the rest.
The guard picked it up, turning it slightly between his fingers. "What's this?"
Neville didn't hesitate. "Daily Prophet," he said. "Forgot it was there."
The guard glanced at it once more, then gave a small shrug and set it back down.
He slid the tray aside with the rest of their belongings. "You'll get everything back when you leave."
Neville's eyes lingered on the tray for just a second longer as it was moved out of reach. '…There goes that plan. How am I supposed to tell Sirius now?'
"All clear," the first guard said after a brief check. "You can escort them to the prisoner now."
"Alright," Dawlish said, already turning. "Follow me."
He didn't wait.
Neville glanced once more at the tray before stepping forward, falling in behind Augusta as they moved toward the tower interior.
"aren't the guards coming with us inside the tower?" Neville asked.
Auror Hale shook his head. "No. They usually stay down there," he said. "Only do routine checks. Dementors handle the rest."
Dawlish added without looking back, "Less people up there, the better."
Neville didn't comment on that.
They moved deeper into the structure.
The corridors were narrow. Stone walls. No decoration. Just the occasional torch fixed into the wall, its flame burning low and steady.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped again.
More noticeable this time.
Neville frowned slightly. "…Does it feel like everything's… quieter?" he asked, a bit louder than he needed to.
Hale glanced back at him. "That's the Dementors," he said. "Messes with more than just your mood."
Dawlish snorted lightly. "Gets worse the higher you go."
Hale gave a small nod. "You'll feel it properly soon enough."
Neville nodded once. "Right."
'That's… not concerning at all.'
Neville broke off another piece of chocolate and ate it as they walked, the sweetness cutting through the heaviness just enough to keep things steady.
He glanced ahead as they approached a metal lift set into the wall.
A grated door. Old, but reinforced.
It slid open with a dull clank.
Dawlish stepped in first. Hale followed. Augusta entered without hesitation.
Neville stepped in last.
The door shut behind them with a heavy metallic sound.
For a brief second, everything stilled—
Then the lift jerked, and began to rise.
Neville leaned slightly back against the wall, watching the bars as they passed level after level.
Stone.
More stone.
No windows. No sound beyond the faint grind of the lift mechanism.
The lift continued upward.
The air felt heavier again.
Hale shifted slightly beside him, exhaling through his nose. "Yeah… there it is."
Dawlish didn't say anything this time.
Neville didn't respond.
He just stood there, steadying his breathing as the pressure pressed in a little more with every level they passed.
…
The lift slowed.
Then stopped.
A heavy clunk echoed through the shaft before the grated door slid open.
Dawlish stepped out first. Hale followed, wand already in hand now—not raised, but ready.
Augusta stepped out next.
Neville followed, glancing briefly down the corridor.
It was… worse.
Not louder.
Not more chaotic.
But he could hear it.
Crying. Moaning. Low, broken laughter that didn't sound right.
The torches along the walls burned lower here. The ceiling was high, shadows stretching upward where the light didn't quite reach. At either end of the corridor, large windows let in dull grey light from outside.
The air felt thicker.
Heavier.
Like it didn't move properly.
Neville frowned slightly. "…This is maximum security?" he asked.
Hale nodded. "Yeah."
Neville glanced ahead. "…What actually makes it 'maximum'?" he asked. "Stronger cells? More Dementors?"
Dawlish let out a small breath through his nose. "Both."
He didn't slow as he spoke. "Cells are warded heavier. Anti-transfiguration. Anti-magic. No wand required. Doesn't matter. You're not getting out once you're in one of these."
Hale added, "And the Dementors stay closer to this level."
Neville nodded once. then He paused, then frowned slightly. "Eh… You said they're closer to this level… but I don't see them."
As if in answer—
They appeared.
From the dark gaps above the cells, shapes began to form. Cloaked figures, gliding down without sound.
The temperature dropped further.
Sharp.
Immediate.
They drifted toward them.
Hale glanced at Neville. "You had to ask."
Dawlish stepped forward slightly, wand already in hand. "Stay behind."
He didn't wait.
"Expecto Patronum."
A dog burst from the tip of his wand—bright, silver-blue, cutting through the gloom.
It lunged forward, the air around it shifting as it moved. A faint, shimmering pressure radiated outward, forcing the Dementors back.
They recoiled.
Pulled away.
Retreated into the shadows above.
The corridor felt… marginally lighter.
Not by much.
But enough.
Dawlish lowered his wand. "That should keep them away for a while."
He turned without looking back. "Come on. Let's get this over with."
Neville fell into step again.
He broke off another piece of chocolate, eating it as they walked.
"Do they ever lose control?" he asked after a moment.
Hale glanced back. "What do you mean?"
"The Dementors," Neville said. "They're not exactly… supervised."
Dawlish snorted. "They don't need supervision."
A short pause.
"They just need food."
Hale didn't add anything to that.
As they walked down the row of prisoners, Neville looked into each cell as they passed.
Shapes in the dark. Some barely moving. Some not moving at all.
'…I really hope they don't link me to this.'
Neville turned slightly toward Augusta, as if just remembering something.
"Hey, Gran… I've been meaning to ask you this," he said, keeping his tone casual. "Have you ever heard the name Peter Pettigrew before?"
Augusta glanced at him. "Pettigrew?"
She frowned slightly, thinking, then shook her head. "No. I don't believe I have. Why?"
Neville nodded faintly. "Well, me and Harry—"
A sudden noise cut through the corridor.
Metal rattling.
Then a voice.
Hoarse. Sharp.
"What that name did you say"
Neville's head turned.
Down the corridor—just past the next set of cells—
A figure had moved right up against the bars.
Hands gripping the metal hard enough that his knuckles looked pale even in the dim light.
Hair long. Unkempt.
Face gaunt.
Eyes—
Locked on Neville.
Neville's expression didn't change.
'…That worked better than I thought.'
Sirius's breathing was uneven, like he hadn't spoken properly in a long time.
"The name—" he rasped. "Say that again!"
Hale's wand came up immediately.
"Back away from the bars!" he snapped.
Dawlish shifted slightly in front of them, posture tightening.
The man didn't move.
Didn't even look at them.
His focus stayed on Neville.
"Where did you hear it, boy?" he demanded, voice rough, urgent. "That name."
Neville blinked once, then frowned slightly, as if trying to piece it together. "I didn't hear it," he said. "We saw it."
Sirius looked confused. "Saw it?"
Neville nodded. "On a map of Hogwarts."
Sirius leaned forward, pressing harder against the bars. "Hogwarts map?" he asked, eyes wide.
Neville hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Yeah, it's a map of Hogwarts," he said. "We thought it might be a ghost or something. It kept showing up—but when we checked, the only thing we ever found was a rat."
The man went still.
Completely still.
Then—
A quiet, broken laugh slipped out of him.
"That rat…" he muttered.
His grip on the bars tightened.
"That bloody rat…"
He leaned back a fraction, shaking his head faintly, like something had just… clicked into place. Then he moved away from the bars, stepping back into the cell.
Augusta's eyes narrowed slightly.
Neville glanced sideways, frowning faintly, then looked toward Augusta and the Aurors. "…Is he alright?" he asked, tone uncertain.
Hale didn't lower his wand. "He's been in here for over a decade," he said flatly. "What do you think?"
Dawlish let out a quiet breath. "Come on," he said. "He's gone."
They moved on.
Behind them, the man was still muttering to himself.
"Rat… bloody rat…"
The words followed them down the corridor.
Then faded.
…
They stopped in front of a cell.
"This is the one," Dawlish said.
Augusta didn't reply. Her posture had gone rigid.
Neville glanced at her. "…Gran," he said quietly, "you don't have to do this. I can handle it."
Augusta looked at him for a moment.
Long enough to study his face.
Then she gave a small nod.
"I'll be right here," she said.
Dawlish stepped slightly to the side. "You've got five minutes, kid," he said. "Then we're leaving."
Neville nodded once and stepped forward.
Augusta stayed back.
Watching.
The cell was dim. Bare stone. A figure sat slumped against the wall, long dark hair hanging in tangled strands.
For a moment, there was no reaction.
Then—
A soft laugh.
Low. Dry.
Bellatrix lifted her head slightly.
Her eyes were sharp.
Too sharp.
"…well," she said slowly, voice hoarse but amused. "That's interesting."
Her head tilted, studying him. "…a visitor?" A faint smile tugged at her lips. "That's new."
Neville didn't react.
He'd thought he might feel something. Anger. Hatred. Anything.
But there was nothing.
Just… nothing.
He crossed his arms, watching her.
Bellatrix pushed herself to her feet, stepping closer to the bars, curiosity clear in the way she looked at him.
"Who are you, boy?" she asked.
Neville didn't answer that.
He met her gaze evenly. "Why did you torture my parents?"
Bellatrix blinked once.
Then laughed.
"Ahh…" she exhaled, her smile widening. "A victim." Her head tilted again, almost fondly. "You'll have to be more specific, darling," she added lightly. "I've tortured quite a few people."
Neville didn't look away.
"Frank and Alice Longbottom."
Bellatrix's smile shifted.
Colder.
Less amused.
"…Ah," she breathed. "The Longbottoms."
A flicker of recognition.
Then something sharper.
"What—" she leaned slightly closer to the bars, "—came to avenge them, did you?"
Neville shook his head. "No."
He held her gaze. "I just wanted to know why you tortured them into insanity." A brief pause. "You could've killed them. Why leave them like that?"
Bellatrix's smile returned.
Wide.
Unhinged.
"We did it because we could," she said simply.
Neville raised an eyebrow slightly. "That's it?"
"What were you expecting?" she asked lightly. "Some grand speech?"
Neville shook his head once. "No. Just checking if there was any logic behind it."
That made her pause.
"…logic?"
Neville nodded. "Yeah."
He glanced at her briefly. "You tortured two Aurors who were already defeated. For information you didn't even get."
A small shrug.
"Doesn't seem very efficient."
Bellatrix stared at him.
Then laughed again.
"Efficient?" she repeated, amusement creeping back in. "Oh, that's rich."
Neville tilted his head slightly. "I'm just saying," he went on, tone steady, "if the goal was information, you failed. If the goal was revenge…" He shrugged again. "…that doesn't really achieve anything either."
He paused.
"So I'm trying to figure out what the point was."
Bellatrix's smile thinned.
"…you don't understand," she said.
Neville nodded once. "That's why I'm asking."
A beat.
Then Bellatrix straightened slightly, her expression sharpening.
"We were serving him," she said, her voice taking on a harder edge. "Everything we did was for the Dark Lord."
Neville hummed quietly. "Right."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. "Something wrong with that?"
Neville shrugged. "No," he said evenly. "Nothing."
Neville shrugged. "No. Nothing."
A brief pause.
Then—
"…Anyway," Neville went on, like he was changing the subject, "I've been meaning to ask—how did you find my parents?"
Bellatrix blinked.
Just for a second.
"…What?"
Neville tilted his head slightly. "They were in hiding for almost a year," he said. "And then suddenly—you find them."
A small shrug.
"Bit convenient, isn't it?"
Bellatrix watched him now.
More carefully.
Neville continued, tone casual. "So who told you?"
Bellatrix let out a sharp laugh.
"Still looking for someone to blame?" she mocked. "How pathetic."
Neville didn't react.
"…Was it Snape?" he asked.
That got a reaction.
Small.
But there.
Bellatrix's smile shifted.
"…And what makes you think that?" she asked.
Neville shrugged again. "Lucky guess."
A pause.
"Or maybe not," he added. "Would explain how you found them."
Bellatrix's lips curled slightly. "…Clever boy."
Neville didn't smile.
"It'd also explain how you got caught."
Bellatrix stilled.
"…What?"
Neville met her eyes.
"How do you think the Aurors knew where to look?" he asked. "Or that you were even there in the first place?"
A small tilt of his head.
"Bit strange, isn't it?"
Bellatrix stared at him.
For a moment—
There was nothing behind her expression.
Then it twisted.
"Oh, I see what you're doing," she said softly. "Trying to be clever."
Her smile returned.
Wider.
Crueler.
"But you're still just a boy."
She stepped closer to the bars.
"Tell me," she said, voice dropping, "do you want to know what your parents sounded like under the Cruciatus?"
Neville's jaw tightened. Just slightly.
Bellatrix's grin sharpened.
"Oh, they did scream," she whispered. "Begging. Crying. Over and over—"
A soft, breathy laugh slipped from her.
"They broke so easily."
Neville's fingers curled slightly at his side.
"They were weak," Bellatrix continued, almost lazily. "Your father held on a bit longer… but your mother—"
She tilted her head, smiling.
"She screamed the loudest."
Neville closed his eyes for a brief second.
His mind tried to fill in the gaps.
Images—
Unwanted.
Uncontrolled.
He exhaled slowly.
"…Right," he said.
His voice was steady.
Quieter now.
He opened his eyes again, gaze settling back on her.
"Still doesn't change what I said."
Bellatrix's smile faltered—
Just slightly.
"You followed someone else's lead," Neville continued. "Got your information handed to you." A small shrug. "And walked straight into a trap."
He held her gaze.
"…Just like how you followed that idiot."
Bellatrix went still.
"…Careful," she said softly.
Neville ignored it.
"I've been meaning to ask," he went on, tone even, "what was his end goal? Wipe out half the wizarding population… and then what?"
He gestured vaguely.
"Rule over what exactly?"
A small pause.
"Empty space?"
Bellatrix's expression flickered. "You don't understand his vision—"
"No, I understand it," Neville cut in, shaking his head slightly. "Especially when purebloods already control most of everything."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. "…Explain."
Neville nodded once.
"Alright."
He shifted his weight slightly, still calm.
"Let's start simple," he said. "Hogwarts."
A beat.
"Each year has, what—seventy, maybe eighty students?"
Bellatrix didn't respond.
Neville continued anyway.
"Out of those, maybe ten. Twelve at most are Muggle-born."
A small pause.
"That's not a takeover. That's a minority."
Bellatrix's expression tightened.
"Most are half-bloods," Neville went on. "The rest are purebloods."
He gave a small shrug.
"So the whole 'Muggle-borns taking over' thing doesn't really hold up."
Bellatrix's smile had faded now.
"And then there's the Ministry," Neville added.
He gestured lightly.
"Look at who actually holds power."
A beat.
"Purebloods. Half-bloods."
Another pause.
"Muggle-borns? Mostly lower positions."
He tilted his head slightly.
"So that argument falls apart too."
Bellatrix didn't interrupt.
But she was watching him closely now.
"And then there's your Dark Lord," Neville continued.
His tone didn't change.
"If the goal is to preserve purebloods…"
A small pause.
"He's doing a terrible job."
Bellatrix's eyes flashed.
"He's wiped out what—fifteen pure-blood families?" Neville said. "Maybe more." He met her gaze. "That includes your lot. Both the Blacks and the Lestranges are pretty much gone too, aren't they?"
Neville shrugged. "So he's killing the very people he claims to protect." He paused. "Kind of defeats the point, doesn't it?"
Bellatrix stared at him.
No smile now. No laughter.
Just stillness.
Neville shrugged again. "I'm saying everything Tom stands for is… flawed," he said.
The reaction was immediate.
Bellatrix's expression twisted. "How dare you," she snapped. "Use. That. Name."
Neville didn't stop. "What? That is his name, isn't it? Tom Marvolo Riddle," he said calmly. "I'm not using that ridiculous title he gave himself as a teenager."
Bellatrix stared at him, eyes wide. "…What did you just say?"
"I looked into it," Neville went on, tone steady. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. Son of Merope Gaunt… and a Muggle named Tom Riddle."
He held her gaze.
"So… the whole pureblood thing's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?"
Bellatrix didn't answer.
That landed.
Her expression cracked for a fraction of a second—
Then hardened.
"You know nothing," she said coldly.
Neville shrugged. "Maybe." A pause. "Or maybe you just never thought about it."
Bellatrix's eyes flashed. "Careful."
"I actually met him last term," Neville said.
Bellatrix stared at him. "…What?"
Neville shrugged lightly. "A younger version of him. Looked about sixteen. Came from a diary." A beat. "Lucius Malfoy tried to slip it into Hogwarts." Another pause. "He looked fine," Neville added. "Bit dramatic, though. Not sure why he decided to go noseless."
Neville glanced at her. "He was trying to come back. Using the diary to drain a girl."
A small pause.
"A pureblood girl, by the way."
He continued evenly, "Me and Harry stopped it. Destroyed the diary. Killed the basilisk he'd hidden."
He let that sit.
"Honestly… he could've pulled it off if he hadn't tried to make a spectacle of it."
A faint shrug.
"That part didn't go well for him."
Bellatrix's breathing had changed.
"You're lying."
Neville shook his head. "No."
A brief pause.
"According to Dumbledore, he's… not exactly gone. More like what's left of him is out there somewhere. Albania, maybe."
Bellatrix didn't respond.
She just stared at him.
Not speaking.
Just—
Processing.
Neville tilted his head slightly. "Anyway," he said casually, "that diary thing got me thinking."
A small pause.
He shifted his weight slightly.
"If that thing could act on its own…" he went on, "then it must be something that's anchoring him."
He glanced at her. "Otherwise, he wouldn't still be a wraith in Albania. Which also explains why the diary almost brought him back… while the rest of him was somewhere else."
Neville continued evenly, "He probably made more of these. If he trusted that idiot Lucius with one…"
Neville then looked at her and added, "And I'd bet he gave one to you."
Still nothing.
But her eyes—
There.
Just a flicker.
Gone almost instantly.
Neville saw it.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "…Right."
"If I were you," Neville said, "I wouldn't trust anyone else with it."
Bellatrix didn't move.
Didn't speak.
But she was listening now.
"I'd hide it somewhere secure," Neville went on.
He glanced upward slightly, like he was thinking it through.
"Somewhere no one's ever broken into…"
A beat.
"Gringotts, maybe."
There it was.
That tiny reaction.
Small.
But real.
Neville's eyes flicked back to her.
"…Your vault?" he added, almost casually.
Bellatrix laughed.
Sharp.
Mocking.
"And what if it is?" she said.
Neville shrugged. "Then I'd move it. Because now someone else knows."
Bellatrix didn't respond.
But something had shifted.
Neville flicked his wrist—
A loose strand of her hair snapped free and flew into his hand.
Bellatrix froze.
Neville glanced down at it briefly.
Then back at her. "…this will be useful." He stepped back. "That's all I needed."
For a second—
Nothing.
Then—
"YOU—" Bellatrix lunged forward, slamming against the bars. "WHAT DID YOU DO?!" she shouted, her voice sharp, cracking at the edges.
Neville had already turned.
A small snaped his fingers
Her voice cut off instantly.
Her mouth still moved.
Soundless.
Neville didn't look back, undoing the Muffliato as he walked.
He reached Augusta's side.
"…We're done, Gran," he said simply. "Let's leave."
Augusta studied him for a brief moment.
Then gave a small nod.
"Very well."
Behind them Bellatrix struggled against the bars, silent, furious.
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