The Secret Life of Neville Longbottom – Part Five

The harsh Indian sun beat down upon the caravan as the rogue Company forces finally left the burning and shattered ruins of Hogswager behind them, leaving the sky blotted out by the dust of their passage and the smoke that rose to greet the ravens cackling over the dead. The magnificent palatial compound that once stood in the centre of the town had been ransacked and set to the torch, while the foreign invaders had seen fit to defile the statues in the temple and send its walls crashing down with cannon and shot. Hogswager had once been home to over five hundred people, but in the name of their profits, the men formerly associated with the British East India Company had laid waste to the community and left only the stench of death and powder in their wake. On the backs of horses, mules and elephants, the British had piled the spoils of their conquest, and all around the column, the Company troops were laughing and joking, many displaying the treasures they had plucked from the dead and the dying.

All of these sights, sounds and horrors were taken in by one of the spoils captured by the Company, who once again fruitlessly strained against the bonds securing her. “MMMMPH!” Padma Patil screamed into the silk gag as she saw her childhood home burning to the ground, the view given from the palanquin mounted on the elephant’s back sparing her no details. At her side, her twin sister Parvati wept openly, diamond tears streaming down her smooth cheeks as she laid her head on her sister’s shoulder. Padma shook her head in dismay as much as the noose would permit, lush dark hair shaking with her magnificent curved frame as she saw her father’s body cast into a ditch and left to rot. “MMMMMMPH! NNNNNGGGG! GMMMPH!”

The harsh jeers of the foreign invaders and their sepoy collaborators was even worse than the sound of the cannon-fire that had impacted on the delicate, whitewashed walls of her family’s home during their invasion. The Patils were children of a major Indian noble, and when the men claiming to be representatives of the British East India Company offered to support his position and elevate his status for his cooperation in the thriving opium trade, the old man refused outright. In return, the rogue Company forces had stormed his family’s ancestral home, sacked the town, and killed him before taking his beautiful young daughters captive.

Padma shuddered to think of the dirty hands of the Company soldiers as they lunged for the helpless young girls, a feral, hungry look in their eyes. The loveliest in silk saris were ripped to shreds and used to bind and gag the twins, strips securing their wrists in front of them, along with their ankles and thighs. “Monsters! Leave us alo-MMMMMMPH!” Padma had screamed at the sepoys, before a firm ball of cloth was stuffed into her mouth, secured with a final strip of silk cleaving her pouty pink lips. A blood-encrusted hand stroked her cheek menacingly, and then the soldiers were lifting them up overhead to the rallying Company convoy. The old priest was there, tall with a white beard, while his companion, a portly man dressed in a business suit, watched the burning town with professional disdain. Padma twisted in her bondage, watching helplessly as the beautiful gardens and sitting rooms were violated and looted by the soldiers, and even the oldest woman murdered for the smallest of jewels or golden trinket.

Fury curdled at her breast at the pleased smiles of the two leaders of this massacre, and an enraged scream boiled from her lungs to be left trapped in the gag. And then they were hauled up and tossed into the palanquin, both girls fearful of struggling overly for fear of being cast from the elephant’s shuddering back. The leaders of the rogue Company forces joined them, and there unleashed a final cruel restraint, taking lengths of rough hemp and encircling it around their necks in a vile noose, before tying off the other end to the frame of the palanquin. For all their high breeding and sense of European superiority, the two men were efficient riggers, and Padma found that she could not move her head forward more than a few inches without being violently halted by the noose.

The column departed Hogswager with all the speed they could muster, pushing their men and animals to the limit in order to escape the scene of their crimes, even as the hot sun lashed down upon them like a taskmaster’s whip, and the sprawling, golden Indian countryside flew past. And all the while, Padma and Parvati sat within the palanquin and wept, whispering prayers for a superior reincarnation for their murdered family, and for their liberation from the villains. “Nnnnnggghh...” Padma groaned as she flexed her wrists, hoping to slip her hands from the silken bonds. Slender fingers brushed up against her hands as her twin sister attempted to pull the knots loose, a difficult proposition given how tightly they were bound and the absence of leverage.

Any futile attempts at freedom were immediately halted with the grinding sound of a pistol cocking. “That’s enough out of you, my dears,” Major Cornelius Fudge, formerly of the British East India Company, said, levelling the crude flintlock gun at Padma. The old soldier was a portly, pale figure who had spent most of his commission overseeing bullock trains and supply receipts rather than leading men into combat, but his eyes reflected a cold, ruthless ambition. It was this ambition that led him to take several companies worth of troops rogue and establish his own opium growing enterprise deep within the Indian plains, a direct challenge to the Company’s monopoly. “You are valuable to me alive, and it would be a tremendous shame to lose my bargaining chips before the game has even begun. If you try to escape, then I will make sure that the other is shot in front of you, or perhaps given to my soldiers for their amusement. I’m certain you do not desire that, correct?” he asked menacingly, receiving muffled sobs from the young maidens in response.

“Must we keep these heathens prisoner?” the other mastermind behind this plot inquired, pushing a thin pair of glasses up the bridge of his long nose. “I have heard some foul mutterings from the men, beastly things involving carnal lusts, and I do not wish for the presence of our hostages to arouse these feelings further.”

“I don’t know, Reverend Dumbledore, I’ve always wanted my own Indian girl,” Fudge replied with an oozing, nasty grin, squeezing Padma’s knee through the blue silk of her sari and sending a shock of terror running up her spine. “Regardless, we need these girls alive if we are to make a suitable agreement with the Rajah of Burmer. He and Patil had been enemies for years. If we deliver the girls to him, then he’ll bend over backwards to help us establish a new opium producing conglomerate, far outside of the Company’s reach.”

“The funds from such an endeavour would prove to be very fruitful to my mission, and without the interference of your former employers, we could do much in furthering civilization here,” Reverend Albus Dumbledore, patron of the English poor, evangelist and murdering fanatic, said, looking down upon to hostages through small, gold-rimmed glasses. “Britain has allowed the filthy practices of the Indians to go on long enough, and only my missions will save their immortal souls. Quashing their immoralities will go a long way in spreading the greater good.”

Fudge gave a wicked smile. “You mean our greater good, don’t you?”

The two Englishmen chuckled to themselves, and Padma sobbed further, letting her head droop in despair. Part of her was furious and ashamed that the invaders had left her helpless so easily, unable to defend herself or look out for her sister, but there was nothing they could do about it. Even if they escaped their bonds, a full company of armed soldiers surrounded them, making any flight to safety a futile effort. And where would they go? Their home had been destroyed, none of the neighbouring communities, if they even survived, would be willing to risk the wrath of Fudge and his forces by sheltering them, and the open plains were not safe for a pair of unarmed women to travel. There would be no escape for them.

Such dark thoughts clouded Padma’s mind, and the girl was so consumed by them that she did not notice that the caravan had stopped for the night, with dozens of busy sepoys hard at work pitching camp. Fudge and Dumbledore unravelled the nooses and passed the struggling hostages down into the arms of waiting soldiers, who jeered and mocked the twins as they hauled them to a small, foul-smelling tent and tossed them onto rancid pallets, adding more restraints in the process. Lengths of silk cloth were wrapped around their torsos above and beneath their shapely breasts, accentuating their figures and pinning their upper arms to their sides. Grinning, the Company troops blindfolded their victims, leaving the helpless girls trapped in darkness, before taking a loose end of the rope used to bind their ankles and securing it into the soft earth with a metal stake, hobbling them. Padma cried out in terror as a callused hand caressed her inner thigh, and she wept, wondering if the nightmare would ever end.

Without warning, the pressure of the man’s hand lifted, and Padma heard an awful gurgling sound and the thump of a body hitting the earth. The young woman laid there, stock still, listening intently to the sound of heavy footsteps and rustling cloth as the blindfold was removed and her apparent rescuer brought into view. It was an Englishman, Padma noted with shock, and quite unlike any of her captors. Brown hair grew thick on both his scalp and chin, and kind brown eyes peered at her through the grime and dirt on his face, disguising little of his innate attractiveness. The soldier, for he was definitely a soldier, wore a strange green uniform rather than the gaudy red usually possessed by his countrymen, and a long flintlock firearm and heavy cavalry blade at his side, and the young Indian girl had no doubts that the figure was skilled in the use of both. Dragging the guard’s corpse to a darkened corner of the tent, the Englishman leaned over to Padma’s cot, causing the girl to shuffle away, uncertain of his intentions. “I’m not going to hurt you, lass,” he whispered as kindly as he could. “I promise you that. I’m going to free you now, but I need you to stay quiet. There’s a whole bloody army of the buggers out there, and I don’t want to lose the element of surprise. Okay?”   

Padma nodded, and the soldier’s hands, callused and covered with small powder burns, swiftly removed the gag before undoing the remainder of her bonds. Padma eyed her rescuer warily for a moment, before turning to free her bound sister, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. “Be quiet, sister!” she hissed even as Parvati’s terrified eyes turned to the soldier. “He was the one who freed me. Stay silent, and get ready to move!” She had no idea what the stranger intended or what his motivations were, but she planned to be ready for any eventuality.

The soldier peered out, examining the position of the enemy guards and supplies intently, before gazing up at the surrounding ridgeline as if waiting for something. “Ladies, in a few moments, this camp will be thrown into complete chaos. I need you to trust me, and do exactly as I say. I cannot ensure your safety otherwise.”

Padma removed her hand from her sister’s mouth. “Sister? What is going on?” Parvati asked, rubbing her wrists to restore some measure of circulation.

“Do as he says, Parvati,” Padma replied, glittering dark eyes fixed upon the man in the green jacket. “Englishman, I don’t know who you are, but I thank you for rescuing us from Fudge and Dumbledore. All the same, if you mean to bring us to harm, then I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

It was a paltry threat, and Padma blanched as the soldier chuckled amusedly at her words, afraid that she had provoked him into some terrible action on his part. “My orders are to protect you, ladies, and I plan on doing that.” Cocking his rifle, the soldier raised the weapon and aimed, taking care not to expose the muzzle to the tired sentries that wandered listlessly around the Company camp. A swift pull of the trigger sent the flint smashing down into the pan, sparking the powder, while the rifle butt slammed hard into his shoulder, even as the bullet rocketed from the barrel to the conveniently placed series of powder kegs near the centre of the camp.

Padma screamed as the bullet, still very hot from exiting the barrel, ignited the powder, destroying the rogue Company troops’ ammunition and sparking a massive explosion that levelled half of the camp. The shockwave generated by the blast snatched at the tent and threw the occupants to the floor, even as the cries of shock and pain rose in hellish symphony from the dumbfounded Company troops. The rattle of rifles and muskets sounded all around the camp, and the greenjacketed soldier smiled ruthlessly, drawing his great sword. “Buggers are in for some trouble now!” he exclaimed above the pandemonium, an excited grin gracing his handsome features. “You ladies stay here; I’ll come back for you when we’ve cleared out the scum!”    

The soldier darted from the tent, sweeping his blade in a great arc to slice through a hapless enemy trooper approaching to check on the captives. Padma sat there, stunned, as their rescuer ploughed right through a knot of Company soldiers, hacking away at limbs and heads like a butcher, before dashing out to examine the situation. Powder smoke had engulfed the entire scene, the vapours from the initial blast joined by the puffs of saltpetre that emerged from the darkened ridge around them, where Padma could see the outlines of grim faces illuminated in the flash of their rifle fire. Their numbers were difficult to judge, given the darkness and confusion, but she speculated that at least a half-battalion was attacking the camp, as anything less would be suicide against the superior numbers of the rogue Company troops. Above the pandemonium of combat and the crash of gunfire, the young maiden heard orders being barked in the invader’s foreign tongue, a dozen harsh voices adding to the din, leaving everything in confusion and chaos. Astonishingly enough, the attackers were pushing the Company troops back. As officers and sergeants fell, their men lost heart, and the unnervingly accurate rifle fire drew blood and left an enemy soldier dead or writhing in agony with every shot. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Padma moved back towards the tent, hoping to grab her sister and escape the madness and carnage of battle before either the Company troops or the soldier in the green jacket came back.

She didn’t get far, however, when a meaty hand clamped over her mouth, and Padma felt herself being shoved and dragged back towards the tent. “MMMMPH!” she cried, wildly pounding at the arm that held her, only to feel the hilt of a knife strike the crown of her head for her troubles. A ball of cloth was forced into her mouth, while a spare length of rough hemp rope cleaved her lips and kept the gag in place, even as the girl moaned in pain. Parvati, my dear sister, I’ve failed you...

“That bloody Longbottom,” Fudge growled in anger, the left side of his face covered with the blood of his own men. His plans were falling apart, his regiment was in shambles, but the livid rogue officer still had a card to play. “That bloody jumped-up ranker! Wellsely gives that damn peasant a commission, and he thinks he can just walk in here, stinking like he does, and put everything I’ve worked for to ruin? Well, my dear, he’ll soon find that I’m not that easy to beat. Come here!” Striding over to the tent with his captive in tow, Fudge sheathed his blade and cocked his pistol even as Dumbledore finished securing Parvati’s wrists behind her with rope, the beautiful Indian girl screaming with fear into her restored gag, her red sari torn at the shoulders in her struggles. “Have you secured this one thoroughly?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, wiping his brow. “I must say though, Fudge, I find your handling of this situation to be quite appalling. The Rifles will storm the camp shortly, and your forces have done little to stop them! How could they have attacked us without warning like this? This partnership is over, Fudge! With any luck, I shall be able to salvage something out of this mess, but I will not go down in infamy with you!”

The Patil twins screamed in dismay as Fudge fired point-blank into Dumbledore’s chest in response, the lead ball sending the spindly old man hurtling backwards into the canvas. “Then damn you, you Bible-thumping old fool,” Fudge growled, grabbing the spare rope and holding it menacingly in front of Padma’s face. “I don’t know how you escaped, but it will be the last time. My forces are beaten, but I still have the pair of you, and once you are delivered into the Rajah of Burmer’s tender care, I will have all the support I need to begin my own opium conglomerate. And then, not even a troublemaker like Longbottom will be able to stop me!” he oozed, fermenting the anger within her. She and her sister were of noble blood and did not deserve this treatment; indeed, no woman did, from the highest caste to the lowest. The harsh rope dug into the corners of her mouth as she struggled, but a quick slap from Fudge ended her defiance. Yanking her wrists in front of her, the rogue Englishman moved to bind them, but a flash of movement in the corner of his eye lit a fire under the portly Major, causing him to drop the rope and manoeuvre behind his hostage, pistol in hand. “Longbottom!” he shouted, looking down the fouled barrel of the greenjacket’s rifle, his unshaven face bursting with righteous anger. “One step more, and I’ll kill the girls, you hear me, you worthless peasant?”

“Kill both of them with one bullet, you stupid sod?” Longbottom asked, flanked by an enormous greenajcketed Sergeant who levelled a massive Nock volley gun at Fudge, all seven barrels pointed straight at his head. “And after you killed the priest too, you must be running out of ammunition. Give up while you can, Fudge. You won’t be able to beat us, not with your troops running like they are.”

“Enough!” the Company Major screamed, pointing his weapon at Padma’s head...

But Padma had no intention of going quietly. Nimble hands leapt behind her, seizing Fudge’s knife from his belt and plunging it into his abdomen with a muffled cry of rage. Fudge screamed, twisting away even as the pistol fired, sending a lead ball straight into a tent post. Longbottom’s shot didn’t, and Fudge flew backwards with a bullet between the eyes, giving one last horrible gasp before his breath was stilled forever. “Stupid bugger. Got more money than sense, that one did,” Longbottom said, drawing his sword-bayonet and moving to free the captives.

“Well sir, most officers are like that,” the big Sergeant said in a rich Irish brogue, drawing an irritated glare from his commander. “I said most, Captain.”

Longbottom grinned as he sliced through Parvati’s bonds. “Go check the perimeter, Seamus, I want to make sure that we have Fudge’s lads on the run. I’ll meet up with you soon.”

Sergeant Seamus Finnegan, knowing his commanding officer’s luck with women, hide a smile as he ducked out of the tent to join the rest of the troops. Meanwhile, Padma had succeeded in removing her gag, and pointed her stolen knife at the British officer, saying, “And have you come to finish what Fudge intended? My sister and I will die before we are dishonoured, either by you or your troops.”

“That is what Fudge thought, right?” the soldier asked, pointing to the dead Company rebel.

“He wanted an Indian girl,” Padma snarled as her sister huddled back in fear at the Captain’s presence, “and he got one.”

At this, the soldier gave a confident smile as he finished freeing Parvati. “As I said before, my orders are to see you to safety, and that is what I intend. Captain Neville Longbottom, of His Majesty’s 95th Rifles. We were sent here to track down and eliminate Major Fudge and his forces due to the danger they posed to the Company’s monopoly on opium, and rescue any survivors from the Hogswager massacre in the process.”

“Are your people so corrupt then, Englishmen, that they would war amongst themselves for the pursuit of profit from the opium trade?” Padma retorted hotly. “And leave innocent people to suffer for it?”

Longbottom turned to her, and Padma heard her sister gasp at his appearance, handsome, rugged, and splashed with the blood of the enemy. The soldier gave a sardonic laugh. “Aye, miss, sometimes, we are. But I am not of the East India Company, miss. I am a Rifleman, and my company and I will not let any harm come to you. Once we’ve finished up here and made sure that the threat posed by Fudge’s forces is gone, then we shall escort you to Seringapatam.”

Padma eyed Captain Longbottom warily, but already she could see that he was a very honourable and trustworthy figure, at least when it came to matters of honour such as this. Yes, they would be safe now. The journey to Seringapatam would be long and tiresome, but they would do so in safety, and both of the twins were anxious to learn more of their strange, handsome saviour and his strange troop of greenjackets. Longbottom turned to leave, but Padma’s slender fingers curled around his wrist. “Captain Longbottom, forgive me for my rudeness. After everything my sister and I have suffered at the hands of your people, it took out my anger on you when you were the one to rescue us in the first place. I am sorry, and thank you again for all your service to us.”

His startlingly beautiful brown eyes turned on her, and Padma felt herself go weak at the knees a bit. “Why, it’s my pleasure, miss,” Longbottom said, kissing her hand gently so as not to unsettle her. “And from now on, feel free to call me Neville...”









“...Neville, wake up!”

“Huh?” Neville replied, rousing himself from the daydream, the hot Indian plains being replaced with cozy couches and loveseats filling the Gryffindor Common Room. The Patil twins were both sitting across from him, both looking rather fetching in their school uniforms and robes, and Neville found himself blushing in shame, having yet against lapsed into one of his fantasies while interacting with others. “What did you need, Padma?”

“That book in your hand, for starters. Hermione said it was an interesting little read, and it might help us a bit with the project for Binns,” Padma replied coolly, swiftly plucking the small tome from his outstretched hand. Neville caught a glimpse of the title, Wizards and Witches in Colonial India, before the book disappeared into the Ravenclaw beauty’s handbag. “Everything alright, Neville?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he immediately replied, inwardly amazed as to how he could pre-empt that particular question so quickly these days. “I’m alright, believe me. It’s just stress, I’m sure. How has your research for the project been going?”

“Is it a girl?” Parvati teased him, watching his face turn beet-red. “Don’t deny it, Neville, I’ve heard all of the juicy rumours about you and Luna. Giving her some private Herbology lessons? Very daring of you, Mister Longbottom,” she purred in a sultry voice, dark eyes twinkling with mischief.

Padma snorted at her sister’s sudden outburst. “Honestly, Parvati, you’re too much of a rumourmonger these days. And stop teasing poor Neville like this, soon his complexion will resemble Gryffindor’s colours if you keep it up! Do you have the other books for this assignment?” When Parvati responded in the negative, Padma began to chastise her. “Then run to your dorm and find them! I don’t want to spend my entire Friday night working on an essay for boring old Binns, so hurry!”

The Gryffindor girl hastily fled towards the girl’s dormitory, but not before blowing Neville a kiss on the way out. Padma sighed at her sister’s behaviour. “I’m sorry about her, Neville; Parvati is somewhat flighty at the best of times, and loves to gossip more than anything. More than likely, she just wanted to find out if you have a date for the upcoming Yule Ball. She didn’t need to make fun of you like that, and I will have a talk with her after we’re done here tonight.”

“It's fine, Padma, it’s not your fault,” Neville said, his stomach turning to water. The Yule Ball! How could he have forgotten? Given the positive reception of the first Yule Ball during the year of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Headmaster Dumbledore had arranged for a similar event to take place this Christmas, and much of the school was abuzz with plans for the evening. Neville’s innate shyness had left him marginalized throughout much of the hype, but it seemed that it was catching up to him, with not a date in sight! “Have you found someone for the Ball?”

Beautiful dark eyes became fixed upon him, and Neville found himself falling into their depths. “Why, interested in me, Neville?” she asked sweetly, even as the Gryffindor found himself paralysed with hesitation. Flipping her hair, Padma clasped his hands in hers, addressing him in a cool, confident tone. “I know that when it comes to girls and relationships, Neville, you’re not the most experienced, and often find yourself frightened by the risks and possibilities that come with entering into a relationship with someone. There’s no need for you to be, Neville. You’re a great guy; kind, courteous, respectful and rather quite handsome, if I may say so. If you want to go to the Ball with me, Neville, I would be happy to join you. I know you might have feelings for Luna or some other girl, but if you want me, I’ll be there for you.”

It was an honest proposal, serious and made with respect, and Neville was very tempted to accept. Padma was a beauty, after all, and while they were friendly to one another, there was still so much that he wanted to learn about the shapely Ravenclaw. Neville treated relationships with the utmost severity, desiring longer connections over short flings, but it wouldn’t harm anyone if he and Padma went to the Ball together, would it? Regardless of the path they would take afterwards, it would be a good evening with her at his side, and the word “yes” hung on the tip of his tongue, bursting to escape.

But he couldn’t accept, as much as his heart might want to. He had possessed numerous and competing amorous feelings for many girls for some time now, and it would be selfish of him to play with their feelings when he was uncertain of his own. And then there were the daydreams. Inwardly, Neville was ashamed of them and the feelings they generated, and felt that they would only cause him grief in the long run, especially since he was lapsing into them more frequently. What happened if he fell into one of them and ended up hurting Padma, taking her prisoner and against her will and bringing her to harm? He could not risk it.

“I’m sorry, Padma, but I can’t,” Neville replied. A brief pang of hurt flickered over Padma’s beautiful face and was gone again in an instant, but the damage was done. “You are an amazing woman, Padma, and if it were any other time, going to the Ball with you would be a dream come true. My feelings are...confused lately, and as much as it would make me happy to go with you, I could not do so knowing that I had some affection for other girls as well. You’re beautiful and kind, Padma, and you deserve better than that. It’s a nice offer, but I won’t manipulate your feelings like that, not until I can give you all of the attention and dedication you deserve.” Feeling rather rotten with himself, Neville cast his eyes downward, trying and failing to keep the feelings of shame at bay. “Sorry.”

Padma smiled, lifting his chin up so their eyes met. “That’s the nicest rejection I’ve ever gotten,” she said, silencing Neville’s protests and admissions of regret with a fiery kiss, leaving him quite dazed. “I understand entirely, Neville, and I accept. Just...feel free to take some time with this, but I won’t wait forever, okay?”

With that said, Parvati arrived with books in tow, and the trio returned to their schoolwork. Lips still tingling from the kiss, Neville sighed, leaning back in his chair. As much as it hurt both of them to reject Padma’s offer, he knew it was the right thing to do, for the right reasons. I understand entirely, she had said. Thinking back to the image of Padma, bound and gagged in a marvellous blue sari that highlighted the best parts of her figure, Neville could only hope that her statement was hyperbole more than anything...