It didn't matter to them that she'd never committed a crime, had never taken the Dark Mark. She was wealthy, pure, and had ties to the Dark Lord. It was enough to condemn her.
All throughout it, though, Neville never stopped thinking of her. The smell of her skin—freesias— and the softness of her hair, the touch of her lips against his. He'd never told her how much he thought about her… or what he felt for her. There had never been time.
She was conceited, arrogant, and spoiled.
And he loved her.
That was what brought him to Azkaban, the daunting prison out on a rock in the middle of the North Sea. For too long, he'd sat on the sidelines and watched "justice" handed down to the deserving parties, but not once had he opened his mouth in protest. She didn't deserve to be here anymore than he deserved her. But not for naught was he a noble Gryffindor, grasping onto a fool's hope that she would forgive him.
He could hear the waves crashing into the rocks below, the wind howling outside as he followed the guard down the long, drafty corridor. The dementors were gone, but the sense of misery and despair still hung in the cold air. It was the longest walk of Neville's life, the journey from the tiny boat to her cell.
When they stopped and the guard rapped on the bars with his stick, Neville wanted to grab it and throw it out a window. She wasn’t a dog to be treated as such, but he knew his words would've been wasted. The guards didn't care what he thought, even if he was a war hero and friend of The Boy Who'd Lived. But thankfully, this one had agreed to give him a bit of privacy.
As Neville knelt down on the cold stone floor, he felt a pang in his heart at the sight within the cell. She was pale, even more so than she normally was, and her normally shiny black hair was limp and dull. The grey and black Azkaban robes hung loosely on her frame, and when she moved her hands, he could see that her nails were ragged—as if she'd been biting them.
But when she looked up at him, her eyes were just as he remembered; still pale blue and full of fire. It was comforting to see it there, as if maybe, just maybe, the girl he loved was still there. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Son Of A Martyr | Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson (PG-13) | (2/2)
All throughout it, though, Neville never stopped thinking of her. The smell of her skin—freesias— and the softness of her hair, the touch of her lips against his. He'd never told her how much he thought about her… or what he felt for her. There had never been time.
She was conceited, arrogant, and spoiled.
And he loved her.
That was what brought him to Azkaban, the daunting prison out on a rock in the middle of the North Sea. For too long, he'd sat on the sidelines and watched "justice" handed down to the deserving parties, but not once had he opened his mouth in protest. She didn't deserve to be here anymore than he deserved her. But not for naught was he a noble Gryffindor, grasping onto a fool's hope that she would forgive him.
He could hear the waves crashing into the rocks below, the wind howling outside as he followed the guard down the long, drafty corridor. The dementors were gone, but the sense of misery and despair still hung in the cold air. It was the longest walk of Neville's life, the journey from the tiny boat to her cell.
When they stopped and the guard rapped on the bars with his stick, Neville wanted to grab it and throw it out a window. She wasn’t a dog to be treated as such, but he knew his words would've been wasted. The guards didn't care what he thought, even if he was a war hero and friend of The Boy Who'd Lived. But thankfully, this one had agreed to give him a bit of privacy.
As Neville knelt down on the cold stone floor, he felt a pang in his heart at the sight within the cell. She was pale, even more so than she normally was, and her normally shiny black hair was limp and dull. The grey and black Azkaban robes hung loosely on her frame, and when she moved her hands, he could see that her nails were ragged—as if she'd been biting them.
But when she looked up at him, her eyes were just as he remembered; still pale blue and full of fire. It was comforting to see it there, as if maybe, just maybe, the girl he loved was still there. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Hello, Pansy."