The Secret Life of Neville Longbottom – Part Six

The beautiful young archaeologist struggled weakly in the filthy grasp of the cultists and the constraining bandages, but a dozen hands clasped her athletic form tightly, and the drug rendered her weak, insensible and powerless to resist as she was carried overhead. “Set her down upon the altar,” their leader commanded, a crone with hooded violet eyes and ink-black hair motted with dirt and grease. Bellatrix Lestrange had once been beautiful, a noblewoman of great status and title. They had all once been beautiful, but the months and years spent hiding and skulking within the deep places had left them gaunt and dirty, if not mutated hellishly by the magicks that permeated the temple. The Cult of the Death Eaters had accepted that for the power they received, certain sacrifices were required, and if they found themselves growing extra limbs or becoming emaciated skeletons of their former selves, it was all worthwhile for the power they would receive, both in this world and the next. Fear gave the cult power, and fear fed the dad god they served, making him even stronger. The villages and nomadic communities that surrounded the Lost City of Hanglenaptra all obeyed the cult’s commands out of fear, and every so often, whenever the cult required it, a young virgin was sent up to be used for their perverse rituals out of fear that Bellatrix and her disciples would lay waste to any that refused.

But the captive they now carried into the dank vastness of the caverns was not the usual peasant girl, terrorized into submission by the cult. This woman’s form spoke of independence, strength and a taste for adventure, a hypothesis affirmed when she had defeated four of the cultists single-handedly before being taken down by their poisoned darts. A series of geological tools hung from the leather belt they had taken from her, while her traveller’s backpack was full of rock samples, maps of the region, and a few archaeological finds wrapped in foam, hardly anything that would interest Lestrange or the other cultists. Her attire was utilitarian and functional, yet attractive at the same time; black t-shirt, hip-hugging khaki shorts and heavy leather hiking boots, just the thing for crossing rapid streams or climbing up the side of ancient ruins. Her brown hair, somewhat dirty from her expedition, hung down in a long braid, but all of these details were obscured by the thick cotton bandages they had wrapped her in, her mummification pinning her upper arms to her sides and securing her entire body, save for her face. Silently, the cultists approached the altar set beneath the cruel gaze of the central statue, watched by Lestrange and the dozens of other cultists who had made their temple beneath the stones of the great pyramid. The mummified figure was placed reverently upon the stone, and Lestrange turned to the full five score of her followers, arms raised. “My Death Eaters! Children of Voldemort! We are prepared! Let the curse that was placed upon our great lord so many millennia ago be undone. Let the Great Serpent rise from his tomb, and let the world tremble at his coming!”

The Death Eaters gave great cries of joy at their leader’s exultations, and Bellatrix smiled, turning to the captive who lay increasingly aware on the stone. “The sacrifice rouses herself, brothers and sisters. She is a heathen and an interloper, a looter who sought to defile our sacred temple and steal our treasures away, to give them to outsiders! She has lived her life wallowing in the filth of her pagan ways, but now, she will have the honour of becoming a sacrifice to Voldemort! Her flesh will renew that of our master, and he will be reborn!” she screamed, receiving the dirge-like chants of the cult in response.

“No...” Susan Bones, world-renowned archaeologist, moaned, trying to shake off the effects of the drug. Her brown eyes suddenly became focused on the gleaming blade clasped in Lestrange’s filthy hands, and a small, frightened scream left her throat. Was this to be the end of her great career? How did this happen to her, anyway?

In the haze of the drug, Susan’s mind travelled back to England, some three months back. She had been doing some research back at Cambridge on the ancient Egyptian Pharaoh Dumbledore, a supposedly wise and just ruler who had brought peace and prosperity to Egypt after a period of great strife. In his elder years, Dumbledore became the target of assassination by a courtier known as Voldemort, and had been poisoned during a feast to the snake-headed god Wadjet. Seizing the throne from his victim, Voldemort became the master of Egypt, and ruled brutally until removed by the priests of the temples. In an effort to stanch Voldemort’s evil, the priests supposedly mummified and buried the mad ruler alive, entombing him within the main pyramid in Hanglenaptra before leaving the city to be swallowed up by the shifting sands. Inwardly scoffing at the curse mentioned in some of the research and of tales of Voldemort’s followers who served him still, Susan made arrangements with Cambridge to leave immediately and search for the lost city. Such a find could shed some light on that period of Egyptian history, left largely forgotten, and help the accumulation of the ancient knowledge that she was so fond of.

And so, with a belt full of tools, a mule with her supplies and several leather packs for any artefacts she might discover, Bones set off. The voyage to Alexandria by ship had been uncomfortable but uneventful, while the long trek across the desert was no great difficultly for an experienced Egyptologist such as herself. Even better, she seemed to be the only explorer on the trail of Hanglenaptra, with rivals like Potter, Malfoy, and greatest of all Longbottom, unaware of the secret she tracked. In truth, she had found the lost city really quite easily, suggesting that the ruins were not as valuable or important as she had considered.

Of course, Susan could not have prepared for the many cultists that swarmed to attack her from the sun-scorched ruins and dark desert pits. They seemed to spring up from the sands without warning, as thick and malicious as the vultures that feasted on the dead. A trained judo master, the archaeologist was more than a match for any one of them in single combat, but surprise and sheer numbers proved to be her undoing. Four of them fell to her strong grappling and throws before a single prick from one of their poisoned darts rendered her unconscious. From there, her captivity was a moot point. Dozens of yards worth of cotton bandages wrapped around her stocky figure, pinning her arms against her sides and leaving her drugged body wiggling like a helpless fish. All the while, the cultists clambered and fought amongst themselves for the honour of holding the girl, hoping that the sight of them bringing her to Lestrange would win their mistress' favour. Greed was the defining motivation for the cult, not loyalty to the spirit of the usurper Voldemort, so a culture of avarice and scheming pervaded their holdings. For the moment, however, that culture was stifled, as the long-awaited plan to awaken Voldemort was finally coming to fruition. Soon, there would be enough power and rewards for everyone.

Increasingly aware of her surroundings as the primitive sedative wore off, Susan squirmed and fought to free herself from the cocoon of bandages, but the sheer number of cotton layers made this impossible to achieve. "What are you doing?" she asked groggily, trying to remain calm and unafraid in the face of so many foes. Susan had been in her fair share of scraps before; her profession was a dangerous one outside of the learned halls of Cambridge, and she had experienced a great deal of hardship and danger in her explorations. But this was beyond the pale, sacrificed to some dark god!

Before Susan could protest further, Lestrange clasped a hand over her mouth, stifling her exclamations of fear. "You will not infect this holy place with your wicked words, outsider," the cult leader spat, balling up a spare length of cotton and shoving it into the archaeologist's mouth, replacing the hand to prevent her from spitting it out. Susan's struggles became more frantic as two of the cultists approached, their filthy hands pinning her to the altar, while Bellatrix took another strip of cotton and bound it over her mouth, keeping the gag in place. "Brothers! Sisters! The time is now! Join me in the ritual enchantment, and with the blood of the outsider, our Lord will be reborn!"

With ominous intent, the cultists began to chant, raising their arms above their heads and swaying gently in time with the words, praising their fallen master in some barbarian tongue that Susan didn't even know exist. Her eyes widened helplessly as a nimbus of luminous green energy emerged from their bodies, coalescing and gathering above her in a dreadful cloud in a snake's image. The effects of the drug had passed by now, but Susan swore that the image hissed and spat at Bellatrix as if impatient. The cult leader bowed her head in reverence before raising the dagger over Susan's mummified body. "MMMMMPH! MMMMMMPGH!" the archaeologist protested, but the gag drowned out every syllable. The dagger shone bright, as cold and merciless as the woman who wielded it, and Susan tried to fight back the terror, even as the blade came down...

...only to be violently jerked out of Lestrange's hand by the impact of the .45 calibre round. "Blasphemers!" Lestrange screamed as the intruders burst into the temple, guns blazing in the relative darkness. tearing through the robed cultists like a tornado through an American shanty-town. Susan gave a small gasp as she saw the first man, his dusty leather jacket and beat-up old fedora hat instantly recognizable to the archaeologist, and her heart leapt at the sight of her greatest rival, Neville "Indiana" Longbottom. Wearing his trademark smile, the muscular treasure hunter unleashed a flurry of shots from his revolver, felling more of the Death Eaters as he and his companion, a short, ugly looking man with a Tommy gun, fought their way to the altar. Hope of rescue curdled in Susan's heart, and she kept up her struggles, doing everything possible to free herself. The spectral serpent, meanwhile, shrieked in rage, slowly fading away of those who sustained it were slaughtered.

The cultists had long served their dark master, with generations of men and women selling their souls in order to eventually gain the power they desired. Unfortunately for them, the ancient religion and the power of its spells were futile in the face of modern automatic weaponry, and dozens of dead cultists soon decorated the sandstone floor, blown apart by the rounds. Another robed figure lunged for the newcomers, brandishing steel, but the rawhide whip was out and slashing at his hand, causing the cultist to drop the blade in agony. A swift right hook finished him off, and Longbottom approached the altar, astonished at the sight before him.  "I knew these bastards had a damsel in distress here, but I didn't expect it to be you, Susan. Short-Weasel, give me the Tommy and get her untied."

"You be okay now, Tomb Lady!" the short figure said, greasy red hair hanging over his eyes. "Indiana Longbottom be saving you now!"

"Fools!" Bellatrix shrieked, the sole survivor of Longbottom's rampage retreating to the back of the chamber. The archaeologist levelled his weapon at her, yet the cult leader ducked and weaved behind cover, ruining his shot. "You may have stopped the master's reawakening, but his vengeance extends beyond time and space. You will not leave this holy site alive!"

"Keep talking, witch!" Neville boasted, a cocky smile forming beneath his fedora. "Gives me a chance to get a bead on you!"

In response, the cult leader looked upwards at a statue of Wadjet, the stone visage of the snake-headed god oblivious to the her pleas. "Wadjet, patron of my master, hear my supplications! Outsiders have defiled your temple, and prevented the rebirth of your most faithful servant! Send me an ally with which to eradicate these vermin! Send me a champion that will wreak your vengeance upon them!" The ground separating Lestrange and the altar began to quake, and Susan gasped, quickly tearing the last of the bandages away. "Send me...the Basilisk!"

The ground in the centre of the chamber suddenly gave way, and then the beast emerged, snarling in fury. Susan's jaw dropped as the massive snake rose up from the ground, the dust of the chamber sliding over gleaming black scales, and her hands clasped Neville's jacket. "A weapon would be nice, please."

Neville, meanwhile, was nearly paralysed with fear, but shook it off long enough to slide a spare pistol into her grasp. "Oh, why did it have to be snakes?" he moaned, reloading his revolver. "Short-Weasel, set the explosives up by that big statue back there, and get the lady out of here. I'll deal with this thing."

Glancing at the size of the monster that was approaching the altar, Susan could only gawk at Neville's foolishness. The Basilisk was enormous, so big in fact that it barely avoided scraping its head against the ceiling of the chamber. Even worse was the killer stare, capable of turning a grown man to stone in an instant if they made eye contact. Screwing her eyes shut tightly, the archaeologist asked, "Are you crazy? You can't take that thing down with just a pistol and some explosives!"

"He no crazy, lady, he insane!" Short-Weasel clarified, drawing Bones away even as Neville slapped on a pair of reflective sunglasses. Neville's revolver barked twice, and the Basilisk screamed in frustration as the bullets impacted, rebounding off its thick hide. More shots sounded. The Basilisk lunged towards Longbottom, but the veteran adventurer dodged to the side, snapping off a shot straight into the monster's eye.

The Basilisk shrieked in pain, and Neville took the opportunity to clear the area. "Do it now, Short-Weasel!"

While Longbottom distracted the beast, Susan and Short-Weasel had taken the cache of explosives and set them up beside the central statue, inserting a quick fuse. It was just a few sticks of dynamite, certainly not enough to bring the Basilisk down by itself, and their remaining weapons would be akin to bee-stings against its armoured scales.

That's what they had the statue for.

Short-Weasel already had his matchbox out, and was preparing to light the fuses when Lestrange leapt onto him, howling like an animal. "You will not destroy his holy place! Voldemort will tear out your eyes and feast on your heathen souls before that happens!"

Her former prisoner lunged, clocking Bellatrix with a mean haymaker before driving her boot into her belly. "That's enough out of you!" Susan declared, knocking the cult leader backwards. "Short-Weasel, now!"

The match struck, the fuse hissed, and the three heroes tumbled out of the way as the dynamite went off with a thunderous crack, sending stone shards and debris flying in all directions. The statue of Voldemort groaned on its base then began to topple, the cruel stare of the dead tyrant bearing down upon the Basilisk as it fell. The creature gave a high-pitched shriek of alarm, violently halted by the impact of the statue, shattering the life from it. In its death-throes, the tail of the Basilisk lashed out, ripping apart the walls and smashing through support pillars. Susan gave a small shriek, yanking Short-Weasel out of the way  before a piece of falling debris could smash his head open. "Neville, come on!"

"No! The Death Eaters cannot fail, cannot fall!" Lestrange bawled, even as the structure began to collapse in upon her. "Great Voldemort, spare me..." she croaked, before the chamber collapsed utterly, swallowing her whole. The three adventurers ran, heads low so as to avoid being struck by the falling stone, the passageway to the surface collapsing behind them. Even as the first rays of the desert sun kissed their cheeks, they did not slow, racing the increasingly-deteriorating ancient city as it sunk and disappeared beneath their feet. Tens of metres, then hundreds, and they cleared the sand-buried walls and were on a nearby dune, watching as one of the great archaeological mysteries vanished, devoured by the growing sinkhole and eventually disappeared.

"Bugger! So much for all that treasure!" Neville cursed, wiping his forehead with the brim of his hat.

"Treasure? What about all those lost scrolls, the mysteries of the city?" Susan retorted hotly, her great archaeological find having disappeared before her very eyes. "It's not all about treasure and gold, you know!"

"And you're welcome, by the way," came the response. "Honestly, it seems like every time we meet, you're always in a bit of a bind. Like in Athens-"

"That was a fluke."

"-and Peru-"

"Not my fault!"

"-and Mongolia-"

"Alright, enough already!" Susan yelled, her protests suddenly cut off as Neville kissed her passionately, the two archaeologists embracing under the heat of the desert sun. When the kiss ended, Susan's brown eyes met Neville's. "Same time next expedition?"

"Of course..."







"...if you don't release me right now, there'll be trouble, Neville Longbottom!"

"Huh?" Neville asked distractedly, shaken from the fantasy. He found himself standing within the bare sandstone walls of the Room of Requirement, some firm gym mats placed beneath his feet, wand clasped tightly in his left hand. And at his feet, Susan Bones struggled in the ropes generated by Neville's Incarcerous spell, the buxom Hufflepuff straining mightily against the conjured cords that bound her wrists, ankles and thighs as she writhed on her stomatch. "Susan! Are you okay?"

"It wasn't a curse I was expecting, that's all. You've won, okay? Now untie me!" Susan replied crossly, her face flush with exertion. Neville moved swiftly, whispering the counter-curse and causing the ropes to dematerialize into nothingness. "Nice work with that Stunning Curse, it distracted me long enough for you to put the ropes on me. You're getting pretty good at this, but I'll have you soon enough."

Duelling practice. Of course! Neville mentally slapped himself, trying to appear confident and in control. "Well, a few more sessions like today, then that may be true. I hope that these sessions have been good for you," he said, remembering that he and Susan had been practicing their duelling skills for several weeks now, and that today was the latest of these mock battles.

"For the most part, except when you zone out like that," Susan answered, rubbing her wrists to restore circulation. "If you're worrying about the results of the Herbology test, don't. You're tutoring half the people in that class, as well as a bunch more outside. Speaking of which, how are you and Luna doing? Word from the grapevine says that you're giving her some private lessons...and that you're more than just friends, if the rumours are right. Care to comment?"

Neville blushed, still embarrassed from his daydream and its real-world consequences, and rather shy when it came to the dreamy-eyed Ravenclaw. "Honestly, she and I are just good friends, and I'm tutoring her in Herbology, that's all! Lots of people think I'm the best Herbology student here at school, so why shouldn't I help people out with it?"

"Speaking as the second best Herbology student here at school, there's nothing wrong with it at all," Susan replied, shaking her head. "Listen, sorry I ever asked, okay? I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine, Susan, thanks," answered Neville, but in truth, the young Gryffindor never felt more wrong in his life. It had happened. His fantasies, these sick fantasies of rope and gag and peril had begun to manifest themselves in real life, and he was losing his sense of fantasy and reality more and more often. These dreams had manifested themselves, and he had ended up binding Susan without even realizing it. Panic sparked in his brain, and he had to actively resist in order to keep his hands from shaking. What if others found out, how would they react? How would this affect his friendships and platonic relationships with others? And worst of all, what happened if he lost control again, tied someone up without realizing it, and perhaps even hurt them? The possibility terrified him.

He needed help. He needed someone to talk to about this. But who would be willing to hear him out, and who could stand the perverse fantasies that had consumed much of his waking hours?