Lyras

Firstly, happy birthday to the lovely fleshdress, whose writing never fails to surprise and inspire me. Hope you have a gorgeous day, honey, and that the rest of the year lives up to it!

Secondly, I thought I'd caught up on my f-list very quickly this morning, and then realised some time later that I'd still been on skip 20. Still, that means lots more interesting stuff to read, whenever I have time!

Thirdly, here's a fic that's been washing around my brain for a few days, inspired by nellie_darlin's quotations challenge.

Title: Visitors
Characters: Various Longbottoms
Quotation: Oh! Where is my wandering boy tonight? / The boy who was bravest of all.
(Anon – Oh! Where is My Boy Tonight?)
Disclaimer: JKR invented these wonderful characters; I am merely playing with them.
Word count: 1,359
Genre: Genfic. And angst.
Rating: PG
Feedback: Would be loved. This is unbeta-ed, so feel free to be harsh (if constructive) with your criticism.


At night, Alice dreams of a little boy who brings her tokens of his love when he comes home from school. It's a good dream, and when she wakes, she lies there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow of a happiness she can't quite remember.

A woman comes in quietly, says, "Ah, you're awake, love" and disappears, returning shortly with a meal tray. Alice sips her pumpkin juice and wonders if anyone will come to see her today. Once upon a time, she had lots of visitors; people used to show her pictures and ask her if they reminded her of anything. Afterwards, they hovered outside her cubicle and discussed her; she caught snatches of their conversations, but never enough to understand why they were talking about her.

She has fewer visitors these days. There's a young man who comes to see her sometimes; she likes him. He's shy and sweet, and she always gives him a present to say thank you for coming. She's a little afraid of the old lady with the large hat who visits more often. There are others, but their visits aren't frequent enough, and so Alice just knows that they are people who've come to see her. She likes visitors.

As she finishes off a sandwich, brushing the crumbs from her nightdress, she hears low voices just beyond her curtains and sits up expectantly, but the voices continue on to the next bed, where the man sleeps. Usually, the curtains between their two beds are drawn back, as if they were sharing one large cubicle, but today they have been left down.

Alice lies back on her pillow and counts the ridges in the curtains, because sometimes these can change and she worries that this might be important. It isn't long before she hears movements outside again, however, and this time her anticipation is rewarded as a hand pushes one of the curtains aside, allowing her visitor to duck inside.

Alice was hoping it might be the boy again – she doesn't think he's been to see her for a while - but it is the imposing old lady who stalks across to seat herself at a chair positioned beside the bed. She places her hat on top of the covers, and sits stiffly, hands folded in her lap.

"Alice, dear," she says, "I have some news for you."

Alice watches her and waits. The old lady looks very tired, and her face is pale, almost waxlike except for the black pouches under her eyes. She begins speaking again, eyes fixed on the bed covers, and Alice listens hard.

"There was a battle yesterday. Voldemort is dead, gone for good this time." The lady glances up at her as if looking for a reaction, and then continues when she gets none. "There was a lot of fighting. Harry Potter was there, of course, and so was Neville. Your son, Neville."

She looks up with something like desperation this time, and Alice nods, anxious not to anger the lady.

"Your son, Neville," the old lady repeats. "He took part in the fighting. He killed Bellatrix Black, the woman who put you in here. The others who tortured you were already dead; she was the last one of them left alive, and Neville killed her."

Alice doesn't understand any of this, but she continues to gaze at the lady, trying to appear helpful.

"But after this," the lady says, "he was hit by a spell. It was Avada Kedavra. Alice, my dear, I'm so sorry, but your son, Neville," there's that emphasis again, and she wishes she could understand what the lady means by it, "is dead. He was killed last night by Voldemort's supporters."

Alice nods again, and the old lady's jaw trembles suddenly. "He was your son," she repeats, "and he died like a hero, fighting against Voldemort."

There's a noise from the other side of the cubicle and Alice looks over in time to see another woman drawing back the curtain that closes off her bed from the man's. The man is standing beside the woman looking slightly lost; gently, she leads him around the bed to the spare chair beside the old lady, before leaving them alone again.

"Neville left you a letter," says the lady, her voice muffled because she is fumbling in her bag. After a few seconds she extracts an envelope and opens it rapidly.

"Here," she says, offering the man a folded sheet. He accepts it and looks at it wonderingly, turning the page over and over in his hands. Alice watches curiously.

"Oh, I'll read it to you," says the old lady, a touch of asperity in her voice. She snatches the paper back from the man, smoothes it out on the bed in front of her, and begins. She reads steadily, without faltering over a single word, although Alice can see the tears accumulating in her eyes. She has a beautiful voice, Alice thinks, and wishes she could make the old lady happy again.

The letter isn't a long one. When she's finished, the lady folds it up and sits silently, her head bowed, for a long time. Finally, she presses the piece of paper into the man's hands again. The man stands up and begins making his way around her bed towards his own, bearing the letter aloft as if it is some kind of sacred trust that he's been given. The old lady stares after him, and Alice watches the tears trickling down her cheeks.

Alice looks around for something she can give the lady, and her eyes light on a scrap of paper protruding from the cupboard beside her bed. Yes, that will be nice.

Eagerly, she leans over and plucks at the paper, which has jammed in the space between the cupboard and the door. It rips away, but that doesn't matter, because it was only a fragment anyway, and she has a shelf full of them in her cupboard. Alice looks at the words on the paper, which are written in a round hand.

Dear Mum,

Well, I'm back at Hogwar
Christmas. I hope you're

One letter for another, that will be nice. She reaches for the old lady's sleeve, tugs it gently, and then holds out the paper with her other hand. The lady gazes at it for a few seconds, utterly still, before reaching out to take it.

"Thank you, Alice, love," she says. She puts it in her bag, pulls out a handkerchief that she uses to mop her face, and then stands up slowly. Catching up her hat, she walks stiffly towards the place where the curtains meet. As she reaches them, she stops and turns back towards Alice.

"He died bravely. Neville did. Your son," she says, and suddenly her voice is filled with bitterness.

Distressed, Alice reaches out her arms towards the lady, who gives herself a little shake. In a calmer tone, she says, "He was as good as any of us, and better than most. I'm proud of him, and you should be, too."

Alice nods again, and a kind of despair comes over the old lady's face just before she turns away and pulls the curtains aside.

When the old lady is gone, Alice gingerly lowers her feet to the floor and reaches down to open her cupboard. These are her treasures: a few crispy flowers that the nice boy has brought her over the years, and a heap of paper that she's shredded; letters from the boy, which have been arriving ever since she can remember. She pulls some out at random, and sorts through them. They are scraps from a life she thinks perhaps she should recognise, but doesn't.

That night, Alice dreams of a little boy who brings her tokens of his love when he comes home from school. It's a good dream, and when she wakes, she lies there for a few minutes, basking in the afterglow of a happiness she can't quite remember.