Notes: Warning for very dark! Neville, completely AU, and torture/murder within.

"Monsters exist. They live inside ordinary people. And sometimes they win."

Such a quiet boy. Isn't that what they always said when they interviewed the neighbours, the shocked, grieving family? Such a quiet boy. Such a good child. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

And he of all people. So clumsy and bumbling. Magic always on the fritz, barely more than a Squib. Only passing all of his classes because Granger took pity on him and helped him out (although at least he wasn't like Weasley, who only passed because he copied off Granger when she wasn't looking). An awkwardly pudgy boy who should have been in Hufflepuff, who couldn't even tie his shoelaces properly.

They knew nothing.

The monster within him slumbered peacefully for years, through years of whispered conversations just outside his door, wondering how he'd ever live up to his parents' legacy, through years of barely veiled murder attempts excused away as "trying to discover his magic," through taunts and shoves and hexes, broken wrists and sprained ankles. Through being told over and over that he wasn't good enough, would never be good enough.

Until one day, in the middle of fourth year, the monster slumbering within Neville Longbottom woke up.

"Neville! Wake up!" Seamus Finnegan shook his dorm mate's shoulder, blowing apart the fog of sleep that had descended, if rather uneasily, over the sandy-haired boy sometime in the middle of the night. Neville blinked, feeling like his eyes had been sandpapered, and nodded.

"Up now?" Seamus asked, sitting back down on his own bed to shove his feet into his trainers. Neville sat up, his joints creaking, and nodded again.

"Yeah," he rasped out. He felt funny, like he'd been attacked by the Nargles Luna Lovegood was always nattering on about.

"All right," Seamus said, casting a doubtful glance at him as he shrugged his robes on and stuffed his wand in his pocket. "You don't look so good, mate," he advised. "You might wanna see Pomfrey."

"I'm fine," Neville shook his head as he dragged himself out of bed, nearly stumbling and falling over his own discarded trainers. "Just didn't sleep well."

"If you say so," Seamus raised an eyebrow. "Anyway, there's still about thirty minutes left of breakfast if you want it. I'd hurry." And then he was gone, loping down the stairs and out of earshot.

Neville flopped back down on his bed, heaving a sigh now that he was finally alone in the boy's dormitory. It was a rare moment of quiet, and something Neville always cherished. If nothing else because when he was alone, the only person who could insult him was himself.

He didn't feel like a proper Gryffindor, he reflected, sinking back into the soft mattress, against the slightly rough weave of his blanket. Oh, the Headmaster had thrown some cursory points at him here and there, like at the Leaving Feast in first year. But what was that against the rest of it? The tripping hexes, the leg-locking jinxes. The way even Hermione Granger clicked her tongue and asked him, why don't you just stand up for yourself, Neville? Sometimes he wanted to scream at her. Longed to ask her, as viciously as he could manage, how well she'd be able to "stand up for herself" if her mum and dad were in St. Mungo's and couldn't even bloody remember they had a child, never mind anything so prosaic as his name or how he was doing in school.

But of course, he never spoke up. He had no idea that today would open up the floodgates that had kept his darkest emotions pent up for so long. With a sigh, he finally properly got up, dressed himself with a minimum of clumsiness, and even managed to get down to the breakfast table for a piece of toast before morning classes. It was a better start to the day than many before.

Until, that is, he got to Defense Against the Dark Arts and discovered that Professor Moody was going to be going over the Unforgivable Curses.

Instantly, his insides turned to ice although he tried to look as normal as possible. He barely heard Moody's introduction, so preoccupied was he with one Unforgivable in particular. When Moody asked what they were, he had almost no hesitation in raising his hand and stammering out, "The Cruciatus Curse." He thought the professor's look was sympathetic, but it was difficult to tell with that rolling magical eye.

And when the professor's wand turned on the spider, the spider's legs bowing in unimaginable pain, he couldn't even breathe. His eyes locked on the spider, watching it heave its way across Moody's desk, a high-pitched keening emanating from its bristly body, though he heard it more with his mind than anything else. All he could think was that this was what his parents had felt, in the last moments before their minds snapped like winter twigs and all hope of rational thought evaporated. The pain, he couldn't even imagine the sheer, excruciating pain, and for just a moment, one single, horrifying moment, Neville felt like he was the spider.

Hermione shrilled out for Moody to stop it, and finally, mercifully, the professor did. But it was too late for Neville, really. He couldn't stop staring. Even when the spider had been carefully placed back into its jar, shrunk back down to proper size. Even when the lesson progressed. He simply sat there, knees askew, eyes blank and focused on Moody's desk.

"Neville?" Hermione's voice intruded, awkward and a bit overly loud. Neville finally started, nearly knocking his things to the floor.

"Yes?" he asked, looking at her, wide-eyed. His hands shook as he gathered up his things and stuffed them in his book-bag.

"Class is over," she told him, almost gently, and he nodded, still discombobulated.

"Of course, of course, yes," he stammered. "I wonder what's for lunch? Dreadful lesson, wasn't it?"

"Neville, are you all right?" Hermione peered into his eyes, looking torn between following her friends and ensuring he didn't dive out the window.

"F-fine," he said, pinning a ghastly smile on his face.

"Come here, Longbottom," Professor Moody's voice interjected as the man's hand clamped onto his elbow. "Come into my office-we can have some tea, and I've got some books I want to show you. Sprout's been telling me how good you are in Herbology..."

"She has?" Neville blinked up at the man as he guided him away.

"Yes," Moody said gruffly, but his look was kind again, as well as Neville could interpret. "It was the Cruciatus that got to you, wasn't it." Automatically, Neville nodded. His wand felt cold and heavy in his pocket as he wondered if he could ever cast any of the Unforgivables on someone.

"I remember that day," Moody reflected, unlocking his office and prodding Neville in before him. "Lestrange was quite ghastly in the courtroom."

"Lestrange?" Neville interrupted, tripping over himself in his nervousness. "Who d'you mean?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange," Moody said in surprise. "Didn't you know? She was the ringleader-trying to find Voldemort's whereabouts-nasty business all around." Moody shook his head.

Neville felt hot, then cold, then hot all over. His skin prickled and flushed as if he had a fever as he sat awkwardly in the cozy chair drawn up to Moody's desk, as he stammered and sipped his way through a cup of tea. Something dark and monstrous unfurled scabrous wings in the corners of his mind. Lestrange echoed with his heartbeat as he exchanged awkward pleasantries with his DADA professor, who handed him several books on Herbology, including an interesting one on Mediterranean water plants that he'd had his eye on for weeks, but couldn't bring himself to order, considering the cost.

The rest of the day passed as if he were in a dream. He went to classes, stopped by the Great Hall for dinner, even managed a conversation or two with his fellow Gryffindor fourth years, but it all felt like someone else was opening and closing his mouth, someone else was pulling his strings. He was still locked in a silent scream in his mind, picturing the brilliant red light hurtling toward him, the brilliant red light pouring forth from his own wand. What did it feel like, to be put under an Unforgivable? Oh, Moody had tried out Imperio on several of his classmates. Harry had been the only one to resist it, of course (how could he not be, he was the Chosen One, Neville thought a bit spitefully, then felt ashamed). But he couldn't do the others. Naturally, he couldn't attempt the Killing Curse-not even Dumbledore could explain away a dead student quite that easily. Crucio would be similarly difficult to rationalise.

But he still wondered. Could you Crucio yourself? If you genuinely hated yourself, if you had the required intensity of emotion...toward yourself. Would it work? How would it feel to point his own wand at himself, to prod the tip into his head, and imagine that crimson light obliterating all reason? Leaving behind nothing but the excruciating web of agony spasming through his nerve endings?

Or would it fizzle out? Would he feel even a spark of pain, like the sizzle of a scraped knee, and then nothing?

It wouldn't leave his mind and so finally, Neville ended up slipping up to the seventh floor, to a room he had discovered last year while hiding from Malfoy and his gang. He didn't really understand how it worked, but it always seemed to be just what he needed at the moment, so he'd taken to calling it the Necessary Room. This time, the floor was littered with pillows, piled so high he had to slog through them, and there was a very tall bookshelf against the wall. When he stumbled closer, he noticed most of them were on Dark magic, or their effects. He was also fairly sure most of the reading material was from the Restricted Section, and his eyes widened in shock. He hadn't realised the Necessary Room could produce such things.

No matter. He shook his head in resolution and slogged back to the middle of the room, surrounded by stacks of pillows.

"I hope this room is also soundproof, considering," Neville said, realising how much his wand was shaking. This was a terrible idea. It wasn't going to work. It couldn't. Surely it couldn't. He didn't hate himself that much, did he? He certainly didn't have the strength of will for something like the Cruciatus Curse. Just ask his grandmother. Just ask his professors. He wasn't brash or brave or strong of will. He was just stupid, bumbling Longbottom.

As the self-defeating thoughts circled in his mind, Neville raised his wand, pointed the tip at himself, and said, in as firm a voice as he could manage, "Crucio!"

And pain swallowed him whole.

It licked along his nerves like a cat's tongue made of fire, freezing his muscles in place as he fought not to scream, fought to keep the tip of his wand pointed at himself. It felt like the pain was alive, the pain was another creature, devouring him with teeth made of rusty saws, and even his bones hurt, and finally, the scream tore free, scraping past his throat until he tasted blood.

This is what your parents felt, this is what your mum felt, your dad, this is what they felt, you are feeling what they felt, his mind constantly yammered at him, lost in a tangle of thoughts, a whirlwind of emotions and everywhere, the all-consuming pain.

His hand fell limply to his side, wand dropping into the pillows, and the pain stopped. Its surcease was as much a blow as its beginning, and Neville fell over backwards into the pillows, his muscles stretched like over-taxed rubber bands, fire ants prickling along every exposed inch of skin. He was ashamed to realise he'd wet himself, and that tears puddled in the hollow of his collarbone.

Pitiful, a voice in his head mocked, and his cheeks burned with shame and the after-effects. He tried to pull himself to a seated position, but his muscles gave up, trembling so badly that he could barely move. You think your parents gave up like this after one attempt? They couldn't. Now could they? Think of how many times they must have gone through it. Over and over and over...

"Shut up," Neville said aloud, his voice wobbling. Fresh tears stained his cheeks. "I still did it, didn't I? I did it." The magnitude of his actions suddenly hit him, and he lay there, slack-jawed, feeling his muscles shiver and his nerves jitter with residual pain.

"I did it," he said again, and for a moment, it overwhelmed him. Clumsy, stupid, Squib-like Neville had not only performed an Unforgivable, he'd performed it on himself, which was thought to be impossible. After all, you couldn't Imperio yourself. As much as it would have been useful when one was feeling suicidal, you couldn't Avada Kedavra yourself either. He knew. He'd looked it up more than once, in vague hopes that perhaps he could end things a lot faster than all previous methods seemed to suggest. No matter how bent on self-destruction a person was, they couldn't murder themselves with the Killing Curse.

But the torture curse. Crucio. He'd done it, and despite what that said about his frame of mind, he couldn't help but feel the flush of accomplishment tingle down his spine.

He wasn't as worthless as everyone believed him to be. He could show them. He would show them.

The smile that lit Neville's face at that point was more than a little reminiscent of the woman who'd tortured his parents into insanity.

But he didn't know how to show them, was the problem. It's not like he could simply walk out to the Great Hall at breakfast, wave his wand, and perform the Cruciatus Curse on either himself or a random student (and by random, he meant Malfoy). It was one of the Unforgivables for a reason. He'd have his wand snapped and be thrown in Azkaban before he could say "Merlin." He had to be clever about this. He'd never thought of himself as clever before. That was Hermione, not him.

But perhaps he could be, if he really tried.

He wanted to practice it more. But not on himself. He didn't mind practising it on himself, but if he did it too many times, the after-effects would become too severe and he would run the risk of cracking his mind like an egg-the same way his parents had. While there was a certain grim irony in that, Neville preferred to avoid it if he could. Even if his mind didn't snap, people who had undergone prolonged Cruciatus tended to have a rather pronounced palsy in some, if not all, of their limbs, an after-effect of the nerve damage. He couldn't explain that away, either.

Could he really cast that spell on another person, though? There wasn't anyone else he really hated. He wasn't sure he even really hated Malfoy that much. He hated Bellatrix that much. He knew he could use it on her. But she was locked up tight in Azkaban, and Neville had no way to reach her.

Perhaps he could utilise something else, then. Extraordinary focus and precision. He'd never managed it before, in anything but Herbology, but somehow he felt like with this-he could do anything.

And what better person to try it on than Hermione Granger?

But he'd have to plan it so carefully. Neville considered and discarded plan after plan. He already knew that he would have to Obliviate her afterward-he couldn't really practise that one very well, but he did the wand movements until he could do them in his sleep, and practised the pronunciation until his tongue was sore. If it didn't work, he didn't know what he would do. But that was for later.

For now, there was how he was going to get Hermione Granger to meet him alone, for a length of time they would be unlikely to be disturbed. And then he overheard a conversation between the bookworm herself and Harry Potter, about the golden egg that was his clue for the second task.

"The mermaids, that's what it is, Hermione," he heard Harry whispering urgently through the bookshelves in the library. "I've got to get something back from the mermaids. But what? And how the bloody hell am I supposed to get it, I don't suppose they'll chuck it back out if I ask politely, do you?"

"Erm...not likely, no," Hermione answered, with a slightly deprecating laugh, and Neville nearly knocked half the books off the shelf in front of him when he recalled a certain book Professor Moody had let him borrow a few weeks ago.

Gillyweed, he thought triumphantly, slipping back into his nearly deserted corner to study for his upcoming Potions exam. Harry could use gillyweed. And I-could ask Hermione to come talk about it. Maybe I have a thing to help Potter.

Perfect.

It worked perfectly.

"Hey, Hermione?" he hung around the doors of the Great Hall, waiting for the Golden Trio to emerge. Harry and Ron burst forward exuberantly, Harry talking madly about some Quidditch move, and Ron still stuffing the remnants of his dessert in his mouth. Hermione was far behind, her nose in a book, and it was easy to catch her attention.

"Yes, Neville?" she looked up from her book with a slight frown gathering between her brows. "Is something wrong?"

"No-yes-I don't know," he stammered out in a rush. "It's about Harry and, and the second task and-"

"What?" Hermione's curiousity was piqued, Neville saw with a secret rush of pride. It was working!

"I don't know if it would work, is the thing," Neville said, his cheeks reddening. He pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead and gave her a slightly crooked smile. "Um, maybe you could come with me and see for yourself? It's a plant, well, obviously, and..."

"Of course, Neville," Hermione said, giving him a warm smile and tucking her book away into her bag. "I'd be more than glad to see. It's kind of you to try to help Harry. Erm-I suppose I should tell him where I'm off to..."

"He went on ahead," Neville offered, shrugging one shoulder awkwardly. "Him and Ron. I don't think he waited."

Hermione frowned in annoyance, huffing and muttering something under her breath, then turned that slightly patronising smile back on and looked back to Neville.

"Well, that's all right, then!" she said brightly. "Lead the way, Neville."

He did, his palms sweating as the realisation of what he was about to try to do properly struck him. There was no way he couldn't attempt to Obliviate her afterward, even if the Cruciatus curse didn't work. He couldn't pass off an Unforgivable as a "plant to help Harry." But then again, it wasn't like he could have chosen anything else! And this way, if it did all work, he could tell her later that he'd been talking about gillyweed and she'd gone all funny or something. Yes, he nodded as the door to the Necessary Room appeared. That's what he would do. If it worked.

"Brilliant!" Hermione breathed as she saw the doorknob grow from bare wall. "How did that happen?"

"I'unno," Neville shrugged, tugging it open and ushering her inside. The room was the same as it always was, with massive heaps of pillows everywhere. "I guess it's just a room of pillows or something. Comfy, though."

"Indeed," Hermione said dryly as she struggled through the pillows. "So what was it you wanted to talk to me ab-"

Before he could lose his nerve, Neville whipped out his wand, half-hidden by the bagginess of his robe sleeve, summoned up all the focus and strength of will he could muster, and hissed "Crucio!" at her.

She dropped like a stone, her expression frozen into a paralysed-looking grimace. A high-pitched whine erupted from her throat as her body shook, her fingers clawing madly at the pillows-one so badly, she tore her fingernail off and he could see blood paint the tip of her finger in a vivid scarlet swatch. It was mind-boggling. It was horrifying. It was the worst thing he'd ever done, and he couldn't believe his wand was still up, red light still aimed directly at her.

It was exhilarating, and the biggest thrill Neville had ever experienced.

Like a direct jolt to the nerves, only this one wasn't painful. This one was brilliant. His smile grew, widened, as he fumbled his way closer, wand never wavering, attention never drifting. Her voice shredded itself in squeaky whimpers and terrified howls, the pain crackling along her nerves and flaying them with minuscule whips of agony. He knew. He'd practised on himself more than once-perhaps too much, considering the permanent twitch he had in his left foot now.

Neville stepped closer, observing the thrashing witch with almost clinical detachment. Some part of him wailed, horrified, in the back of his mind. What are you doing? But he ignored it. It was surprisingly easy to ignore. Hermione shrieked under the impact of the curse, her body writhing even more frantically as it went on, until finally he lifted his wand away, ending the spell. She collapsed unconscious against the pillows.

Obliviate now or later? he wondered, looking at her rapidly fluttering eyelids. He didn't want her to wake up and realise what had happened, but he didn't know what happened when you wiped someone's memory as they were unconscious. Would it even work?

Finally, as she started properly stirring, he decided he had to take the risk. Placing the tip of his wand at her temple, Neville murmured "Obliviate" and waited, sitting back on his heels.

When she finally opened her eyes, there was no terror in them, no memory of horrific pain stabbing through her body like a million knives. Only confusion and a sort of blankness that was a common after-effect of memory erasure.

"What-what happened?" Hermione stammered, touching a shaky hand to her forehead and looking around.

"I don't know," Neville said, leaning forward and acting every inch the concerned and slightly terrified classmate. "I was j-just telling you about gillyweed and you fainted!"

"Oh," Hermione said, fretfully rubbing at her head. "Maybe I've been overdoing it..."

"Maybe," Neville agreed, helping her sit up properly, and then rise to her feet. "You should probably go to bed."

And with that, she was off to the dormitory, and he was busy reliving every possible second. It had worked.

It had worked and there was no coming back from this.

Later, he reflected, he'd gotten careless. Flushed and triumphant with his success, Neville had decided that if he could do this to Hermione Granger of all people, the know-it-all, the right hand of the Boy Who Lived, he could do it to anybody. Granted, he still had to be cautious-what worked on Hermione would not work on, say, Pansy Parkinson. But on the other girls in his House, why not? A bit of studying here, help with his Transfiguration or Potions there. Everyone knew how much he struggled in everything but Herbology.

Perhaps that was the problem, he thought one night as he sat awake, curled up in the window seat in the common room and watching the shadows drift across the moon. He'd always been such a nobody. A nothing. Someone closer to a Squib than a proper wizard. And yet how many of his smug, taunting classmates could say that they'd successfully performed an Unforgivable? Well-he couldn't speak properly of some of the Slytherins, considering their heritage. But the others? Not even Harry Potter had managed it. Not even the "brightest witch of their generation" could do it.

And he could. And if he could perform one of them, who was to say he couldn't perform them all? And Neville propped his chin on his knees and wondered exactly what it took to perform the Imperius Curse.

The problem with the Imperius Curse, he decided, was that it was possible to overcome it. You couldn't overcome the Killing Curse. Or deflect it. The only person who had managed was Harry, and who knew what had happened in that situation. Everyone knew Lily Potter had thrown herself in between. You couldn't throw off the Cruciatus Curse, either. His experiments had certainly proved that. He'd now practised it on Hermione twice more, Lavender Brown, Seamus Finnegan, and Ronald Weasley twice. His Obliviate was working overtime, but he didn't mind. It was worth it, wasn't it? Like he was practising an experiment. If it wasn't for what would happen if anyone found records, he would write his observations down. How Lavender squealed, how Ronald clawed at himself, drawing jagged furrows into his arms before Neville could stop him. How Hermione just cried after the first time, tears leaking from her eyes and trickling into her hair.

"Imperio," he whispered to himself, and the smile that curled his lips was frightening.

It was sheer chance, really, that Hermione had woken up early and tiptoed down to the common room to read.

"Neville?" she said, surprised. He whirled, nearly falling out of the window seat, to see her standing there, barefoot, her hair a frizzy cloud around her face, dressed in blue pyjamas.

He couldn't even think, his mind was static, wondering if she'd heard, did she know, was she going to turn him in...

"Neville?" she asked again, and this time, he only reacted, his wand coming up. Hers flashed up in a belated whirl, but it was too late.

"Imperio," he said, pointing his wand straight at her.

The effect was extraordinary. She stood there, looking extremely serene, all her muscles lax. Her eyes were placid, though he could see her mind working behind them, trying to throw off the curse.

"Come here," he said, his voice shaking. She walked closer, her movements stilted. "Did you hear anything?"

"No," Hermione said calmly. She still had her wand up, and he told her to lower it. Her hand dropped immediately, wand loosely caught between two fingers. "I know that you said something, but I don't know what it was."

Neville stared at her, feeling extraordinarily stupid. He'd just committed another Unforgivable-in the middle of the Gryffindor Common Room, no less!-for no reason other than his own paranoia.

Granted, he now had the Gryffindor know-it-all under his complete control...

"Point your wand at yourself," he instructed her, a blissful clarity spreading through his thoughts. "And say Crucio. Remain silent afterward."

"Crucio!" Hermione declared and her entire body contorted in crackling, searing pain. He watched her crumple to the floor, mouth twisted open in a silent scream. Her panting filled his ears, but nothing else, because of his command. How was this working? He couldn't believe it was working.

For a moment, thick, verdant fog wreathed his mind, flooding his senses with how it would feel to raise his wand, to press the tip of it against her throat, and whisper Avada Kedavra. Would he be able to watch the life leave her eyes? Watch them turn into cloudy amber marbles, watch the breath escape her, her body hang slack and limp against the scuffed carpet?

Then common sense reasserted itself, and Neville snatched her wand away, ending the spell and watching her recover on the carpet, her breath gasping and choking, her fingernails dug into her palms so deeply, they scored bloody half-moons into the skin.

"When you go back into the dorm," Neville said, squatting down beside her and listening to his heart thud in his ears, "you will remember none of this. You never came down, you never saw me. You will assume you had a bad dream."

Hermione nodded in dreamy slowness and he handed her wand back, watching her stuff it into the band of her pyjama bottoms and retrieve her book.

As she walked back up the stairs like an automaton, he felt a thrill sizzle through his body. This was power. This was what it meant. His classmates? They couldn't bloody touch him anymore. No one could. In that moment, Neville felt like he could take on the Dark Lord and win.

He could take on Harry Potter and win.

Christmas break came faster than Neville expected. He signed up to go home for the holidays, of course. The Yule Ball was pleasant enough beforehand-Ginny Weasley asked him, and he said yes. As he twirled (rather awkwardly) around the dance floor with the youngest Weasley, he wondered how she would look under the effects of the Cruciatus curse. He wondered what would happen if he whipped out his wand and said it right then, surrounded by dancers, how she would bend underneath its lash of pain, how the screams would ravage her throat, how she'd crumple to the ground, her dress shredded by her own desperately clutching fingers...

He didn't do it, of course. But in his mind, he wondered, and a small smile played around the corners of his mouth. Ginny remarked on it, told him how pleased she was that he was enjoying himself, and he let her think that it was her company. In a way, it was, after all.

His grandmother met him at King's Cross when he stepped off the Hogwarts Express, trunk in tow. She looked as stern and forbidding as always, and he felt himself shrink beside her, a cowed and quivering child. Damn it, he would not be that anymore. He couldn't be that anymore. But, he grimly reflected as she took his arm with fingers that felt like claws and Apparated away to their ancestral home, it's not like he could tell her the greatest accomplishments he'd had so far this school year. She'd call the Aurors so fast, his head would spin. And then what? Shame. Disgrace. He'd be stripped of his family name, thrown into Azkaban under the watchful eye of the dementors-if dementors had eyes.

Uncle Algie was, as always, in attendance that night, blustering and overly hearty, waving his fork at Neville and loudly proclaiming how unfortunate it was that he couldn't stay at Hogwarts for break.

"I'm very happy for Neville to stay here for Christmas," Augusta told him stiffly, and Neville felt a brief stirring of happiness as he forked up another carrot. "After all, he is family. Family sticks together."

Happiness gone, Neville thought sourly, his appetite evaporating into thin air, though he continued stirring round his dinner for appearance's sake. Of course. Family should stick together. Half my family can't remember I exist and the other half hates me. When Augusta sent him up to bed an hour later, he started to wonder if he could continue his experiments at home. Not on his grandmother, of course! He still felt some small, familial affection for her. But his dear Uncle Algernon...

Algie didn't go to bed until half past two in the morning, more than half-drunk, but even sober, it was highly unlikely he would have noticed the pyjama-clad shadow in the corner of his room. Neville waited for fifteen minutes past, his fingers sweaty on his wand, until Algie began to snore, before casting the silencing spell first and foremost. It wouldn't do to have his grand-mum bursting in, demanding to know why all the ruckus.

"Crucio" slipped past Neville's lips, and Algernon came awake in a rush, clawing at the air around him as the shrieks spilled out of his mouth. Neville leaned against the wall and watched him, a slight smile playing on his lips.

Call me useless, will you? he thought, vindictive. Dangle me out a window, will you? Complain I've come round for the holidays? Not so smug now, are you, you bloody bastard? He didn't end the curse for ten minutes, leaving his uncle a breathless, sobbing heap on the bed.

"Obliviate," he whispered, and watched the still blubbering, sweat-plastered man slide into an uneasy slumber before slipping out of the room and into his own. Adrenaline coursed through him, bright and fizzy, and he had to keep biting his lips to prevent giggling. He had gotten some of his own back, and it felt good.

That night, he thought of how many other people could benefit from a little lesson in 'kindness' and his dreams, when he slept, were full of people's screams.

But when he came back to school, flushed and clammy with nerves and exhilaration, fresh from weeks of tormenting his uncle and on one daring occasion, casting a minor hex on his grandmother and watching her cry out in shock and not a little bit of pain, the pace of schoolwork was much too strenuous to continue his experiments. He was lucky to have time to complete his Charms homework, never mind whisk a classmate off for a brisk Crucio. Neville started to wish that he could have a professor to play with (after all, what would that say about his strengths?), but the thought of actually carrying that out was terrifying.

Besides, who could he practise it on? Moody was out-the ever-paranoid ex-Auror would probably discern his intentions from two miles away and stuff him in a trunk. Snape terrified him. McGonagall had treated him too decently for him to be able to think of really hurting her. Flitwick was a dueling champion. Trelawney, perhaps? She did always have her head in the clouds, perhaps a little bit of magical torture would bring her down into the real world.

With her settled as the best possible choice, it was an easy matter, wasn't it? Neville began to slack off on his classes, but it didn't matter (it couldn't matter), and besides, it's not like he was the only one. Harry was, too, with that third task coming up. He could see Hermione pushing the Boy Who Lived to do more, but Hermione wasn't herself these days. There was a rather dazed look in those brown eyes, and a barely perceptible twitch in her left hand. She kept attributing it to the stress of classes and the Triwizard Tournament, but Neville knew better. It was the effect of the Cruciatus Curse, his Cruciatus Curse, and that fact made something inside him feel happy.

Finally, Neville decided that the best time to practise on Professor Trelawney was June 24, the day of the last Triwizard task. Everyone would be focused on the tournament, but he knew that Trelawney would still be cooped up in her tower, watching it "from afar" (or more likely, dozing off over yet another cup of tea). It was perfect, and so Neville planned and waited and when the twenty-fourth dawned, he had his wand up his sleeve, and his book-bag suspiciously empty.

Not that anyone noticed, of course, everyone was far too busy talking and deliberating over the maze that had grown up in the Quidditch field and what precisely the champions would have to do. Neville didn't care. He nodded and smiled and made the right noises in the right places, but his fingers kept twitching toward his wand and he wondered, in brief snatches, how Harry would look under the Cruciatus curse, how Fleur would look Imperius'ed into performing it on Viktor or Cedric... Thoughts cascaded through his mind in dizzying, red-filmed snapshots, and he had to resort to stuffing toast in his mouth at breakfast to keep from exploding Unforgivables across the table.

"Coming tonight, Neville?" Seamus asked, and Neville grinned, trying to keep the sickly look off his face.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he lied, and Seamus clapped him on the back. Later, he thought as he sidled off to his first class, he could simply claim that he'd been delayed or that he'd stood in another part of the stands. What could happen at a bloody maze, after all? Little did he know...

Just as he thought, the stairway to Trelawney's tower fell open easily enough. When she wasn't there, it stayed locked up tight, and no amount of cajoling could pry it free. He ascended the steps on shaky legs, trying to reclaim his bravery, the acuity of thought that normally sharpened his every movement when faced with Hermione or Seamus or Ronald. Or his pitiful, puling uncle, Algie.

"Neville? Neville Longbottom?" Professor Trelawney's quavering voice cut through the smoke-wreathed air, and he saw her get to her feet, a bit unsteadily. She clutched a pink tea cup in one hand. "But why are you here? I saw you in the Orb, of course-but not why..."

"I just felt compelled to," he said, knowing the dreamy-eyed Divination professor would lap it up like a Kneazle. "I don't know why."

"Oh my dear boy," Sibyll said, hurrying forward, setting her tea cup on a nearby table with a clack. "Come-look into the Orb with me-perhaps a cup of tea would work better?" she fussed to herself.

"Or this," Neville said calmly, letting his wand drop into his hand. The wood felt cold under his fingertips, despite being stuffed up his sleeve all day. Professor Trelawney looked at him with incomprehension.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?" she asked. Neville smiled.

"Did the Orb tell you about this?" he asked, pointing his wand directly at her. "Crucio!"

Her shriek spiraled into the dizzying heights of the mist-shrouded rafters as she curled in on herself, nearly falling to her knees as one spasming arm caught her tea cup, perched on the table edge, and swept it to the floor with a crash. He watched her, exulted, his fears swept away in the glory of watching a professor-a professor!-writhing under the effects of his curse, of watching tears stream down her face, choked whimpers dying in her throat.

You didn't know I was capable of this, did you? he thought savagely, his arm shaking now with the power of the spell poured down his wand. Poor, bumbling Neville. Dropped another tea cup, isn't that right? Can't see anything in that bloody snow globe to save his life? What about now, Professor Trelawney?

Finally, regretfully, he let his wand drop, let the curse die away. Sibyll hunched on the floor, slumped against a table, her robes dipped in cooling tea. Fresh sobs slipped from her mouth, hoarse and wretched. She looked up at him with wet, uncomprehending eyes.

"Sorry, Professor Trelawney," he said insincerely, raising his wand again. "Obliviate!"

He waited for the expected fogginess to descend over her eyes, for her to blink and 'wake up' so that he could play the role of a caring student who'd just come up here on a whim and found her fallen on the floor. He waited for her to forget, and alarm grew sharp in his mind when her eyes remained as clear as ever, save for the mist of tears, when her fingers shook as she scrabbled in her robes for her wand.

"Obliviate!" he said again, voice trembling as he stabbed his wand at her. Nothing. It was like he was waving a toy, for all the effect it had. "Obliviate," he said, and he wondered at the fear in his tone. He couldn't be afraid, could he?

"It won't work," Sibyll managed to gasp out, in a voice thick with tears. "Part of...being a true Seer...your memory cannot be erased..."

"You've got to be bloody kidding me," Neville hissed, waving his wand at her and wondering if it would work better if he simply tossed it aside and punched her in the head.

With dawning terror, he looked at the still-quivering Divination professor on the floor and realised he was fucked. He sank to the floor opposite her, trembling nearly as badly as she was.

"You're going to tell, aren't you," he said quietly, looking at the Seer with something like hatred. She said nothing, but the scrabbling through her robes intensified. The feeling in his head grew sharper.

"No," he said, even quieter. "You're not. I won't let you."

He raised his wand a final time, pointing it straight at her. He felt freezing cold, yet calmer than he had in a long time.

"Avada Kedavra," Neville whispered, and blindingly green light poured out of the tip of his wand, arrowing straight for Professor Trelawney. She didn't make a sound as she died, just tipped over backward, her eyes blank and staring. The sound her head made when it hit the floor made Neville jump.

She's dead, his mind couldn't stop repeating it, like a stuck record. She's dead, she's dead, you killed her, she's dead!

"I know that," he snapped aloud. His trembling had returned, intensified. He got up, his legs feeling like stilts, and looked down at her. Her mouth sagged open, and her eyes wouldn't stop staring at him. Accusing him. He almost closed them for her, but then remembered fingerprints. Could magic find fingerprints? He didn't want to find out. He had to get out. Get back to the Quidditch Pitch. Claim innocence. That was the ticket.

He stumbled back down the trapdoor, nearly falling flat on his arse more than once, and heaved a sigh of relief as the stairs retreated into the ceiling once more.

Only to turn around and run smack into Professor Moody.

"Up to something?" Mad-Eye growled, his magical eye spinning rapidly in its socket. Neville swallowed loudly and shook his head, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs, his breath growing short.

"Bothering Sibyll?" Mad-Eye asked, his eye roving upward. Neville prayed that it couldn't look through wood, couldn't see Professor Trelawney's body, stiff and still, on the floor.

"Ah," Mad-Eye said, his entire body going rigid. "So that's what you've been up to."

"What?" Neville stuttered out. His wand was still clutched in one sweaty hand, but he couldn't even dream of pulling it on his DADA professor. He'd killed a teacher and now here he was, at the scene of the crime, and he'd never wished more that he'd never conceived this plan. How could he have thought it would work? How could he have gathered the monumental hubris to torture a professor?

"Don't play dumb with me," Moody snapped out at him. "Come with me," he grabbed the petrified boy's arm and towed him off, down a hallway and across the floor until they reached Moody's own office. "In," the man grunted at him, and Neville obeyed with alacrity.

"Sit," Moody said, and Neville sat, ever-obedient. "I figured one of you was going to pick up the Unforgivables. Thought it would be a Slytherin, though," Mad-Eye mused to himself. "Not you. You of all people."

"Sir, I d-don't know what you're talking about," Neville stammered. Play dumb, he counseled himself. When in doubt, play dumb.

"Really," Moody snorted. "You don't know? With your wand dripping the Killing Curse? Maybe other people can't see it, but I can. Your wand's dipped in blood, Longbottom. And you don't know?"

Neville sat there, his cheeks going dead white, his ears filled with buzzing static. For a moment he thought he might faint and pinched himself sharply on the arm.

"Are you going to call the Aurors?" Neville asked in a faint voice.

"No," Moody said, and Neville slumped against his chair in shock.

Why? So you can torture me yourself? he thought, but could not bring myself to say.

"You aren't the only one with secrets," Moody smirked rather unpleasantly. "Why would I turn you in-someone who could be such a charming protege..."

What are you talking about? Neville thought, dumbfounded. Moody smirked again and got up, stumping around the desk on his wooden leg.

"What? Never met someone using Polyjuice?" Moody laughed. "Well, isn't that a corker. Hogwarts doesn't teach 'em like it used to." The imposter sighed. "Still-if the plan works right, my Lord shall be risen tonight, and I shall join him, most devoted, most faithful..." The man trailed off into mumbling as Neville watched him, fearful and wide-eyed.

Suddenly, the man turned on him, slammed his cane down.

"Constant vigilance!" the man roared, then laughed at the look of fear that flitted across Neville's face. "What do you say, boy? The Dark Lord always welcomes...volunteers."

"But, I..." Neville fumbled to a stop, confused. He wasn't Dark. He wasn't like Malfoy or Bellatrix Lestrange or whoever this man was. He wasn't Voldemort.

"Come now, boy," the man snorted, resting a hip against his desk. "You can't tell me you want to stay here. Practising a dark curse there, a little hex here? What if you cock up again? Your magical signature is all over Trelawney, by the way. I don't know that anyone else would notice but Dumbledore, but you can be sure he'll be taking a look at her body. Might as well throw in your lot with me."

"But what about my parents?" Neville burst out, his face flushing. The man looked somber for a moment.

"They don't know you," he pointed out, with chilling, heartbreaking logic. "It won't matter, now will it? They'll never know enough to be proud or disappointed."

Neville heard a great clamour outside, and his heart sank. From the sounds of it, the imposter Moody was right. Voldemort was risen, and who knew what the ensuing chaos would bring. And he was right, wasn't he? His parents didn't even remember they had a son. He was caught, no matter which way he looked at it, wasn't he?

"All right," Neville finally said. "All right. Yes."

"Good!" the man who was not Moody said, beaming. He lifted a hand to Neville, who accepted it with shaking fingers. "I would stay around and watch the aftermath, but-my Lord awaits."

And with that, the man who Hogwarts had known as Alastor Moody stepped into the emerald green flames dancing through his fireplace and escaped, Neville Longbottom firmly in tow. His disappearance was not noted for three hours, by which time his location (and the location of one Gryffindor fourth year) was completely unknown. Sibyll Trelawney's body went unnoticed for another hour, by which time, the magical traces on it had become so weak, Dumbledore could not tell who had done the deed.

For months, it was assumed that Barty Crouch Jr., the man outed as pretending to be Mad-Eye Moody after the real Moody was found starving and nearly dead in his own trunk, had kidnapped the boy for his own nefarious purposes. That assumption was thrown out the window when Hermione Granger came forward, having broken several memory spells in her own mind, and claiming that Neville had practised the Cruciatus Curse on her multiple times.

When it all came out in the Daily Prophet, as it was wont to do, the nurses at St. Mungo's tried to keep copies of the paper away from the patients in the Janus Thickey ward, but of course, they caught hold of an edition anyway.

As Alice Longbottom's eyes wandered over the headline that said "Neville Longbottom: in league with the Dark Lord?!", a single tear slid down her nose and fell to the paper.