16: Neville I

"Auror! Report!" Amelia Bones — a 'heavily-pregnant-for-the-second-time' Amelia Bones — barked.

Susan snapped to attention beside Neville and he was once again thankful that she didn't hold the same demanding standards for himself and Hannah. She expected excellence from all three of them, sure, but she also knew they didn't do as well with discipline and rigidity as she did. Susan herself though was the first Auror appointed in this new world — as unnecessary as such a title was at the moment — and Sirius had called her 'Amelia's second coming! And not the one I gave her last night~' on more than one occasion. Amelia, of course, smacked her husband good on the head each time, while mostly succeeding in hiding the slight blush that crossed her stern face.

Amelia was just about ready to pop. Which would make three children for Lord Black in two years. Phoebe had given Sirius a daughter in little Celeste. She'd taken the Parkinson name and was the spare to Pansy's 'heiress'. Amelia bore a child for House Bones already, a son named Edgar after her brother. Susan treated her baby cousin more like a little brother, doting upon him. She'd become Lady Bones upon reaching her majority and wasted no time making Edgar her heir until she had children of her own.

Neville knew the score there. He looked forward to it, even. Of course, he hadn't been able to admit the latter, and likely never would without a blush overtaking his cheeks. He, Susan, and Hannah were… involved.

Pragmatically, Neville might say it benefitted all three of their Houses. All three of them needed heirs to continue their lines. Hannah was the one who most pushed that pragmatism forward, though Neville was beginning to suspect she was more enthusiastic about her 'duties' than it being as calculating as she tried to make it sound.

Neville certainly wasn't complaining. He'd fancied his two friends since childhood when they would visit Longbottom Hall under the stern, watchful eyes of his Grandmother. And if Grandmother's attention hadn't turned them off of him, nothing would. If Grandmother was still with them, she likely would have arranged a match between Neville and one of the girls. For that, Neville was glad she wasn't. It allowed all three of them to take their futures into their own hands.

Hannah was a nuanced girl — soft, lovely, and gentle but also blunt and straightforward with a keen eye for duty and responsibility. Surprisingly, she was rather forward in pushing her romantic interests, in a strangely arousing, clinical way. She'd pursued Neville just as much as he'd courted her. And she was rather upfront about her dreams for many children. Neville could easily see himself being happy with her until the end of his days.

Susan on the other hand… liked to be chased. To Neville's continued disbelief, she was even more set on him than Hannah was. But she liked to tempt and draw him into taking action on his own. Hannah was forward. Susan was coy. She wished to be courted and seduced, an odd contrast with the usual command over any room that she boasted. She'd fancied him for years, Hannah claimed. And Neville had no reason to doubt her. Other than his own lack of confidence, of course — something he was doing his utmost to shed and leave in the past like a cocoon.

Neville felt like he was finally coming into his own. He no longer felt like the 'Squib of Gryffindor' — the failure and stain on his family's legacy… At times, he still faltered. But with Susan, Hannah, and all of their friends, he always found it in him to push forward, to push further past the scared little boy he'd been during his first few years at Hogwarts.

The change started before Hogwarts even came to this new world. The year of the Triwizard Tournament was certainly an eventful one. Then, Atlas had first taken an interest in him. The young professor took the time to help and encourage Neville. He was perhaps the first positive male role model in Neville's life. Under his guidance, Neville began to reconcile with his magic. That reconciliation spread confidence to the rest of his life, and before he knew it, Neville had taken something of a leading social role in Hogwarts.

Then the transfer happened. With Hogwarts uprooted, everyone had to step up. Neville took it upon himself to step up more than most. A new world was a new chance to define himself. A chance to not be the pudgy First Year who couldn't cast a spell or brew a potion to save his life. He'd seized the chance in both hands and tried his best to never look back.

He'd only grown in the two years since. Emotionally, of course — his confidence and willpower rising to the occasion. But also physically. He'd never be overly tall — topping out at 5'11" to his irreconcilable dismay — but he made up for that in width and strength of arm. Neville was stocky and very solidly built. Girthy, even. An aspect that the martial training of the last two years had only enhanced. In this new world, Neville Longbottom was 230 pounds of sturdy, functional muscle.

"An absolute unit," Heather would call him. "A proper thicc boi!"

"Our unit," Susan claimed. She was rather… protective of him…

While he'd never truly excelled with magic, Neville found he did with weapons. He had scores and scores of magical power to waste but even training under Atlas, he'd never gotten very good at consciously directing it. With weapons — a sword most of all — he didn't have that same problem. The moment he picked up a blade, it felt like a natural extension of his arm. It even extended to crafting and forging them, which had become something of a productive hobby when he put his head together with the Twins and their metallurgy efforts.

It was a heady feeling — being good at something. And Neville hadn't let it go to waste. He'd honed his blade until he could match Victor, then Cygnus, and then he kept pushing. Neville knew Hogwarts needed someone like him. Swordplay and skill were symbols of status in Westeros. And it was a way Neville could help. He would be the Sword of Hogwarts, the flourish for Knights, Lords, and Ladies to admire, and the bladed edge that defended their home.

Susan was similar to him in that regard. But she'd also taken more after her aunt. She was the next generation of Aurors, the legacy of those who once protected their people. Perhaps others would follow, but until then, she was the wand to Neville's sword — not that she was bad with a blade either… And Hannah had taken it as her duty to support them, learning to heal and studying the world they found themselves in. She was the soft, welcoming hands and the clever mind behind their wand and sword.

Sword, wand, and studious, healing hand, they were to act in Hogwarts' interest. All three of them understood that in their own way. Wizards didn't have the same concept of oaths and honor as seemed so prevalent in Westeros. They didn't have sworn Knights and liege Lords. But they had their own versions of honor, duty, and loyalty. And Neville was well-prepared to swear upon his magic to Hogwarts if he was so much as asked.

The castle and what it represented was the most important thing in any of their lives now. Their one link to home and history, and the legacy they might leave behind if they never found their way back. Neville would look… very poorly upon those who dared to betray the castle. He'd defend their home and kin with his life, act in their interests, and cut down those who stood against them. He'd reaffirmed that 'oath' to himself time and time again. But never aloud. It wasn't necessary. Susan and Hannah understood and felt the same. And Hogwarts herself would always know her truest shields, swords, and subjects.

A familiar sense of contentment, reassurance, and pride — Lady Hogwarts herself — fortified Neville's willpower and determination as he listened to Susan report to her aunt.

"Nothing good, Madam!" Susan saluted. "I've surveyed the target's lands and cased their castle as well. The Smallfolk in the area tell horror stories. They're not quite oppressed but they're a bit too quiet. Kept quiet, I think."

"Rumors and stories aren't evidence but they're a damn good place to start," Amelia nodded. "Anything concrete at all?"

"No, Madam," Susan shook her head. "They keep their crimes to their Dreadfort most of the time, it seems. Anything outside, I only heard tales. Lord Roose reportedly still practices prima nocta. And he bore at least one bastard that way but he's discreet about it. Terrible story, that one. Hanged a miller and raped the wife."

Amelia scowled fiercely, "And that's common knowledge?"

"At least among the Smallfolk," Susan confirmed.

"Of course, since he's a Lord, nothing could be done," Amelia's scowl only deepened.

"This system is fucked, Amy," Sirius said irreverently but without his usual amusement to go along with the tone. "Even the Pure-Bloods back home wouldn't get away with that-… that bullshit."

"Certainly not under my eye," Amelia agreed.

"The culture of feudalism isn't something we can change overnight," Neville said. "But it is something to work toward. This fostering puts us in a good position to do something about one of the worst actors."

"Good man," Amelia gave him a curt nod. "And you're prepared to do so?"

"Yes, Madam Auntie!" Susan sounded off. "We've got a plan in place. We just need an excuse-! Ahem, I mean evidence, Madam!"

Amelia rolled her eyes behind her monocle, "I'll allow it, Auror. Just don't get yourself killed. Exit strategy?"

Hannah took the lead, "Making it out of the Dreadfort won't be an issue. Then, we think we might need to… spend some time abroad. The other Lords likely won't be happy with us, especially not if we break Guest Rights in the process. It's safer for us to make ourselves scarce so we don't bring trouble onto the rest of Hogwarts. We'll be going east. Neville got a letter and Susan is rather eager to see to it."

Amelia raised an imperious, questioning eyebrow. Susan blushed slightly but somehow managed to stand even straighter, "Slavery is an abomination, Madam!"

"Blaise seems to have attracted the attention of a slaving City State," Neville elaborated. "But he's tied down in Dorne for the moment. So he offered up the information to us. We'll… definitely be doing something about it."

"Dealing with the Boltons and the fallout will offer us a suitable excuse for 'fleeing'. Just in case anyone happens to be watching Hogwarts' movements," Hannah said.

"Caution and preparation are always prudent, as is a coherent line of logic for any watchful eyes to follow," Phoebe nodded. "And it's fortunate that your new crusade aligns with the way you were already looking."

"It's starting to sound like the Bolton bastards are kind of a side note," Sirius joked.

"More of a… formality," Neville grinned. "We'll deal with them quickly and then move on to bigger and better things."

"A crusade against slavery?" Sirius laughed. "Yeah, I'd call that 'bigger and better'. Hell, I almost want to join you."

"Not a chance," Phoebe shot him down immediately. "You have duties here, my good lord."

"And I wouldn't put it past you to make an ill-timed joke that traumatized the recently freed slaves," Amelia sniped.

Sirius deflated, "… That does sound like me, doesn't it?"

Thankfully for his poor ego, Amelia held her tongue from cutting any deeper, instead turning back to her niece, "Auror, I'll happily endorse your plan for the East. The chains need to be broken. And I can't think of any three individuals who'd break them better. You'll do the department proud."

"Thank you, Madam Auntie! I won't let you or them down!" Susan practically shouted her determination.

"We're only doing what's right," Hannah affirmed. "Our duty as modern citizens."

"And spreading Hogwarts' name and creed," Neville agreed. "We'll make sure every slaver in Essos knows that their end is nigh. Hogwarts won't stand for slavery, no matter how distant. Not when we can reasonably do something about it. And we'll make sure the slavers regret turning their sights onto us."

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free," Sirius quoted, only half-joking for once.

"Hmm, there's a project for us here at home," Phoebe considered aloud.

Amelia nodded, "We'll make sure they have a place to call home once you've freed them."

"Oh, and a Statue of Liberty to welcome them!" Sirius added.

"Better than the Statue of Magical Brethren," Amelia snorted. "That piece of shit was always an eyesore in the Ministry-… Ah."

"Ah, Auntie?" Susan cocked her head in confusion as Amelia trailed off.

A wet spot began to spread on the crotch of Amelia's trousers yet she barely flinched and certainly didn't panic, "My water's broken."

Sirius did enough panicking for both of them, "Oh, Merlin! Oh, fuck! I'm not ready to be a father!"

"You're a father three times over already, dear," Phoebe absently reminded, already helping Amelia stand.

The reminder brought Sirius up comically short and he stroked his chin in thought, "Oh, yeah. I forgot about that."

"Just go get Poppy already, you useless mutt," Amelia snapped.

Sirius wasted no time jumping to the new task, "Right away, love! On it, love! Hang tight, look pretty as always, and don't let the little scamp come too quickly, yeah?"

"If I didn't love you, I would hex you to the moon and back…" Amelia grumbled.

Sirius paused again before he could leave the room, "But… you do, right?"

"Poppy, Sirius, be serious! Get Poppy!" Amelia shouted.

"I'm so proud to call you the mother of my children," Sirius sniffled dramatically, wiping a fake tear from his eye.

"I. Will. Murder. You," Amelia growled. "And get away with it as the Head of the motherfucking DMLE!"

"Save some of that fire for when you recover, love~," Sirius flashed one last roguish grin before ducking out to fetch Madam Pomfrey.

"Damned Black," Amelia huffed, her breathing a touch harsher already. "It's like he wants me to strangle him."

"Perhaps he's just redirecting your attention in a moment that's more tense than you let on, hmm~?" Phoebe hummed, a knowing smirk on her face.

"Still gonna choke him the fuck out," Amelia grunted.

"After the baby, Auntie," Susan said, helping Amelia along with Phoebe. "I want to see my littlest cousin before I leave for my long crusade against slavery."

Things moved in something of a blur after that. Neville hadn't been party to any of the other births of Hogwarts so far. It was a beautifully exhausting experience. And that was as a bystander. He couldn't even imagine how it must have been for Amelia. But nine hours later, Hogwarts was welcoming its newest Witch into the new world, the castle's magic ringing like heralding bells as little Cassiopeia — Cassi — cried her first breaths with healthy lungs.

Neville would be the first to admit he cried as well. It made him look at the women in his life differently. Someday soon enough, Susan and Hannah would go through that. And Neville would be right there with them as they brought their children into the world. But before that future, Neville needed to create a world he'd be proud to raise kids in. A world without skin-flaying Lords, savage slavers, and simple fools who might think to take advantage of Hogwarts.

Luckily, all of those things led to one another. Depose the Boltons, abolish slavery, and make his and Hogwarts' names into something for people to think twice about crossing. It was barely a plan but Neville would see it through. The ethereal bells of Hogwarts drilled the necessity into his head. Blood would have to be spilled before his home could be safe.

'So be it,' Neville promised.

IIIII

"Welcome… to the Dreadfort. We are… ecstatic to host the newest honored guests of the North. Please… partake of our bread and salt."

Lord Roose Bolton was a soft-spoken man. Yet it was a softness that set Neville's nerves on edge. A calculating, deceptive affection that was meant to deflect attention away from him. No, more 'reflect' than 'deflect'. Even the most boisterous and confident men would find themselves staring at an unflattering mirror in Roose Bolton's unnaturally pale eyes. He was simply… disturbing.

Still, Grandmother had drilled Neville to maintain decorum, even when unsettled. Just as Amelia had done for Susan and Hannah's mother had done for her. Of course, there was also the need to keep a tight grip on Susan. He could already practically feel her itching to bring the soft-voiced monster to justice.

Neville didn't bow but he did nod, "Thank you, Lord Bolton. I am Neville, Lord of House Longbottom. My lovely companions are Susan — Lady of House Bones — and Hannah — Lady of House Abbott."

A smirk — deceptively soft like everything else about Roose — played across their host's face, "House Bones. A name to envy, I'm sure. You claim both Ladies, Lord Longbottom?"

"We are… matched," Neville answered, the steely expression on his face daring the Bolton Lord to question his claim. "As you likely know, Hogwarts isn't a solely monogamous culture. Susan, Hannah, and I are committed to wed at some point in the future but we're in no rush for the moment."

Roose nodded courteously, "Then I shall wish you good fortune in your match and hope to secure an invitation when you are to wed."

'Over your dead body,' Neville scowled internally.

On the outside, he simply smiled, "Thank you for the well-wishes, Lord Bolton. We'll be sure to keep you in mind when the time comes."

"Will you join me in holding court in the coming days, Lord Longbottom?" Roose asked.

"We may just, your Lordship," Hannah pointedly agreed, including herself and Susan.

Roose raised an acknowledging eyebrow but didn't gainsay her, "Very well. It would be a poor host who turns you away, wouldn't it? The maids will show you to your rooms for your stay. I hope that you will… enjoy… the Dreadfort during your time here."

Susan grinned a touch viciously, "Oh, I'm sure we will…"

After that, Neville tried to get Susan out of there as quickly as possible. She was barely containing her righteous instincts for justice (JUSTICE!). If she stayed in the soft-spoken monster's presence any longer, she'd hex him until he regretted being born. Which, to be fair, was the point of this entire exercise. But Neville would rather they had concrete evidence of wrongdoing before they got to the 'fun bit'.

They didn't even bother unpacking or otherwise settling into their rooms. Something inherently wrong lurked in the air and it set them all on edge, easily as much as Roose's soft-spoken nature. It would be best if they didn't sleep a single night under that cursed roof. Instead, after a brief, awkward dinner with Roose, the trio set about combing the castle for clues and evidence. They found it in spades…

House Bolton was rotten to the core. The ghostly memories of their victims still lingered throughout their dreadful halls. Skinned men wandered the darkness, deep into the night. Sobbing women joined them. Malice and sadism tainted the magic in the air.

"Sick, sick fucks," Susan scowled.

"Can't argue with that," Neville shook his head with regret. "There's millennia of suffering here. How the Starks accepted the Boltons as bannermen, I'll never know."

"How loyal have they truly been?" Hannah posed a question. "How loyal are they now?"

"'Our Blades Are Sharp'," Susan quoted. "If those are their House words, I'd imagine they're proud of their heritage. That should tell you enough. It's an injustice that they still exist."

"I think we've seen enough," Neville said.

"I don't think we have," Hannah disagreed. "Ghosts can't testify. At least, not these ghosts."

"But we can," Susan argued, practically steaming in her righteous anger. "All we're missing is to see their tortures in action."

"If we do, we might be able to save a poor soul or two from their fates," Neville mused.

"The Dungeons then," Hannah decided. "And then, tearing down this accursed place brick by brick."

They moved as one through the halls of the Dreadfort. Every ghostly memory they came across stabbed at their hearts and sympathies. It would have been the same for any moral, reasonable person. No conscience should have been able to condone skinned men and raped women, their memories still crying out for help that never came. With each 'encounter', their determination solidified. The Boltons and their torturous ways had brought ruin upon so many over the years. Now, they would reap everything that they'd sown.

In the dungeons, they found men and women on their last legs. None of them were being actively tortured, yet past screams still haunted the blood-stained stones. The prisoners — captives, victims — stared at the walls and bars of their cells with blank eyes. Those who weren't so far gone tried to shut their eyes. They were wracked with harsh twitches even as they tried to catch any semblance of rest and respite.

A few guards stood token watch over the victims. Susan took care of them personally. One was visibly bothered by everything he was tasked to watch over. That one got off easy, merely slumping into unconsciousness where he sat. The rest were well-used to the suffering they took part in. They were killed quickly and silently but at least they didn't suffer… One last guard seemed to actually relish the haunted looks of bloodied men and women.

"Shouldn't have stolen that bread, stupid girl," He sneered into a cell.

The girl inside — barely more than a child, even by this world's standards — shied away from his ugly mug, hiding in the darkest corner of the cell. The guard's sneer turned into an inhuman rictus grin at the sight, the power he forced upon her going straight to his cold heart.

"The Lord doesn't allow crime to prosper in his lands," The guard continued his sadistically 'victorious' monologue, used to his fellows turning blind eyes to the cruelty. "You'll get your due. And before your final sentence, I'll request free leave to do what I will with you. Lord Bolton's good about that and I'm due a reward for my service. You'll be lucky enough to be useful for something before the end."

He laughed a twisted laugh, "More than you could have hoped for in your fucking hovel! Don't worry, you won't need to steal bread ever again, pretty thing. I'll be sure to give you plenty to eat…"

Without warning, the last guard fell. But not into death or unconsciousness. His legs simply gave out beneath him, suddenly unable to support his weight. Uncomprehending surprise crossed his face. One of his legs, suddenly free from its burden, flopped into his vision. Susan stepped into view as well, standing over him like a dark, avenging angel with a thunderously flat expression on her face. The man tried to scream and shout for help. With a twitch of her wand, no sound escaped his lips.

"Oops. My wand seems to have slipped," Susan said, her voice unfeeling and dangerously dead.

"Thank Merlin this place doesn't know the concept of police brutality," Neville quipped, his voice just as dead.

"Was it brutality?" Hannah asked nonchalantly. "I thought it was completely deserved."

He shrugged, "Two things can be true."

The guard tried to scream futilely again. Only damning silence answered him. The stumps where the guard's legs had once connected — before Susan's severing curse — began to bleed. To his disgust, Neville saw that the blood didn't pool beneath the man. Instead, it ran off to one side and into gutters in front of the cells. The floor of the dungeon was specifically designed to drain…

"Magic's tits…" Neville exhaled a strained breath through his nose at the sight.

"I don't say this lightly," Hannah mused. "But I think I might hate the Boltons."

"And unfortunately," Susan spat. "This scumbag is just a product of their system. He's only free to terrorize people because of their reign. Any sentence we give them will be too quick. I miss Azkaban."

"Merlin," Neville breathed. "I mean, you're not wrong. Just… Merlin."

The girl in the cell came forward hesitantly, wide eyes pivoting between the three of them and her slowly dying tormentor, "M-Milords…?"

She was a terrible sight. Dirty from unknown days in a dank cell. She flinched with every movement, trying not to strain her unseen back. Shaking hands gripped the bars. Haunted eyes didn't dare to hope. Hannah quickly stepped up to the bars opposite her. The girl backed away in a hurry, even as the lock clicked open under Hannah's wand.

"Turn around," Hannah ordered efficiently. "Let me see to your back."

"We won't hurt you. Hannah will help. She can heal you," Neville soothed, making a point to stay as far away from the poor girl who'd been threatened with rape only moments ago as he could.

"T-Truly, Milady…? I-I wouldn't dare-…" The girl stuttered.

"Quickly now," Hannah cut her off. "Before anything festers."

The girl paled at the reprimand and hurried to comply. Her back came into view as a bloody mess. The rags she wore were torn there, barely hanging on in a way that bared equally torn flesh to the world. Lash after lash crisscrossed her skin, many more than were reasonable for stolen bread. Neville winced involuntarily and Susan fumed at the sight, but Hannah showed no reaction. She simply got right to work.

Gently, the girl's wounds and skin were cleaned. The open gashes somehow looked worse without blood and dirt to mar them. Hannah moved clinically and efficiently, putting Madam Pomfrey's lessons into effect. A dittany paste was applied and the girl gasped. Green smoke wafted from her wounds as they closed and healed under Hannah's watchful wand. For the deeper gashes, Hannah surgically stitched them up until only magically joined skin remained.

The girl tried to look over her shoulder, tears welling up in her eyes, "T-This… This is too much, Milady…"

"It's not enough," Hannah shot back. "Your Lord has failed you and caused you unimaginable suffering. We'll do what we can to rectify that."

"We should get her back to New Hogsmeade," Neville told Susan quietly. "Get them all back to New Hogsmeade. They'll be safe there. When this all comes out, the Lords will be looking for us, not a dozen or so Smallfolk."

Susan nodded, "I'll get started on Portkeys. Will you deal with the rest of the victims?"

Neville nodded and moved off to do so. He didn't approach the cells too closely, merely unlocking them as he walked past. The clicks of opening locks echoed in the dark dungeon. More than a few of the prisoners didn't — couldn't — flinch even then. But some looked up, shock and fear in their eyes as they watched him pass. Eventually, one was bold enough to reach for the door and watch uncomprehendingly as it freely swung open.

Hannah had her work cut out for her with all of them. Not a single victim escaped unscathed. There were many more lash marks. Some of the victims bore bleeding cuts, broken bones, and missing fingers. Others were blackened and bruised beyond recognition. And some, Hannah could only help physically. Those blank, broken stares would need Mind Healers and perhaps even skilled Legilimencers if they ever hoped to recover. Thankfully, they were going to the one place in Westeros that might be able to provide such things.

Each victim they saw drove another nail into the Boltons' coffins in Neville's mind. His anger had gone right past burning fury and back around to a simmering, pounding, terrible thing. It was a drumbeat of furious blood in his ears, driving him to help where he could. Yet he felt like he was going through the motions.

He wasn't suited for addressing the aftermath of torture like Hannah was. He felt the need to act. To enact vengeance for these victims who couldn't fight for themselves. He would watch the Dreadfort burn with its Lord inside… and it would still barely be enough.

The injustice of this world raged and tore away at him. These poor souls were punished inhumanely for the flimsiest of excuses. Neville knew the slaves they might find in the future would have it just as bad. Worse, even. He couldn't see slaving masters being more merciful than the sadistic Boltons. Just perhaps less creative…

These victims… the slaves… and every Smallfolk, Lady, and goodhearted Knight without power in this fundamentally broken society… They needed a blade just as much as Hogwarts did. They needed a sword, a wand, and healing hands. Well, Neville could provide. As could Susan and Hannah. If they would was never in question. Not after this damned Dreadfort.

The former prisoners were sent off with Portkeys. It must have been a uniquely startling experience for all of them. But they'd find help and open arms on the other side. Hogwarts knew to expect them now. Beyond that, the choice of staying or returning home would be up to them. Where they ended up wouldn't matter all too much very soon. Not when they were done with the Lord of this land.

"It's times like these that I wish we had plastic explosives," Susan lamented, shaking her head mournfully at the now-empty dungeon.

Neville snorted, "That would help, yes. But I think we'll make do with just spells. I'd say Fiendfyre too but I'm not confident I can control it."

Susan winced slightly, "Probably a good idea, Nev. There's still a town of innocent people around this doomed castle."

"What's the best way to do this then? Surgically and explosively dismantle the place?"

"Nope~," Susan grinned and singsonged. "We just start blasting! Bombarda Maxi-Fuck-These-Fools!"

Susan jabbed her wand again and again with righteous, justified fury. The wall of cells began to explode one by one. Neville sighed and raised a shield around the three of them to block the deadly shrapnel that was instantly kicked up. The castle didn't quite shake around them, but Susan's destruction certainly caused a ruckus and certainly revealed that the Dreadfort was under attack in the process. But that wasn't the only thing it revealed…

Behind one of the cells — one that had been empty even before Neville and the girls arrived — a secret passage was opened by the destruction. Furiously frustrated exclamations and one last scream of tortured pain echoed down it. Neville and Hannah exchanged a glance. Susan was already moving, infuriated that she'd missed a victim. Neville and Hannah quickly charged in after her.

"Sit tight, dear brother~," A slimy, sadistic voice said at the end of the secret passage. "I'll see to our… interruption~. And then we can get back to brotherly bonding, as we should~."

"I-… I should have never… sought you out…" A weak voice murmured in reply.

"No~! No, you really shouldn't have!" The slimy voice let out a manic laugh. "You're as dull-witted as you are pretty, dear brother! Be thankful that I love you regardless~…"

"Fuck… you… Monster…"

Susan came into the hidden cell first, but Neville and Hannah were close enough behind her to see why she'd instantly stopped. A young man with an uncanny resemblance to Roose Bolton hung from one arm, chained to dark and dank stone. The arm he hung from was utterly ruined, easily the most gruesome sight they'd seen in the dungeons. The skin was flayed clear off, the flesh was sliced so it hung from the bone, and the bone itself was visibly broken in multiple places. The whole thing barely held together with bone shards and shredded tendons, yet it was the only thing supporting the young man's weight. The pain… it must have been unimaginable.

In front of the tortured young Lord stood another man. He was perhaps a year or two younger, with the same tellingly pale eyes. While Neville vaguely recognized the first man as Roose Bolton's son Domeric, he didn't know the second. The torturer's eyes shined with an insane, beyond-sadistic glint. There was sadism. Then there was whatever inhumanely alien perversion drove this monster forward.

A knife with a wickedly curved hook at the end was spun and flicked through his fingers. A smoky, rippled gleam shined from the blade like Damascus Steel. It was a brutal tool. Violent to simply look at. And utterly practical for one purpose alone. Blood still dripped down its length and a scrap of skin was stuck where the blade met the hilt. A dagger to flay skin and rend flesh — one made from Valyrian Steel if Neville's research served him right.

Neville didn't even realize he was moving until his sword was clear of its sheath and swinging in a harsh downward arc toward the torturer's flourishing knife-hand. His sword was a simple, unadorned one. A hand-and-a-half bastard sword with a well-polished blade and a no-nonsense pommel and hilt — nothing more than black leather and burnished steel. The most noteworthy aspect of Neville's sword was the string of runes that Atlas had almost lovingly carved into the blade's spine. Found in the Room of Lost Things, it had served him well in his training. It served him well now too.

Atlas' runes did just as he said they would. The edge was sharp enough to split hairs. The weight of the sword was light in Neville's hands and heavy on those he swung against. His swing met an almost worrying lack of resistance in its path. It severed flesh and bone as if they were barely there. Taking a man's hand — maiming him irrevocably — was easy. Too easy. Neville blinked. The torturer blinked. The tortured victim blinked as well.

The Valyrian Steel dagger fell with a ringing clatter against the stone floor. Like bells, the noise slowly brought reality back into focus. Blood poured from the man's wrist. Neville watched with a sort of detached, macabre fascination. The man staggered, clutching at his stump. His eyes were wide, almost unseeing in their fear.

"W-Wha…?"

Slowly, making a concentrated effort to steady his hands, Neville raised the point of his sword at the torturer's neck, "… Yield."

Even with a sword stabbing at his throat, the torturer didn't seem to see anything but his now-missing hand. He began to laugh. A noise as deranged and mad as the tortures he'd inflicted upon his 'dear brother', "H-He-… Hehe… Ehehehehe…!"

"He's a rabid dog!" The hanging man spat. "Put him down! No, let me!"

Neville shared a look with Susan. Hannah was already moving past the crazed, laughing torturer. She took the hanging man down from his 'perch' and being checking him over. His ruined arm stayed painfully extended, reaching straight upward even when it wasn't supporting his weight.

"We don't have time for this," Susan said. "They'll be coming to check the commotion soon enough."

"We were always going to have to fight our way out," Neville nodded.

"I wasn't planning on taking any prisoners," Susan considered, glancing at the Bolton scion. "… Or any more victims."

"He'll need Madam Pomfrey if there's any hope of saving his arm," Hannah advised, speaking up from her patient's side.

"Just take it," The man laughed a broken but not bowed sound. "It's useless to me now. I'd rather lose the dead weight."

Hannah only took a moment to consider his request. She gave a single nod and acted decisively. A quick slash of her wand severed the ruined limb. From there, she staunched the bleeding, and moments later, new skin was already beginning to heal over the severed stump.

The man shook his head, "You have my thanks, my Lady, impossible dream that this is. I am Domeric Bolton. Anything you ask from me is yours."

"Even help taking down your father and his fortress?" Susan asked.

"Especially that," Domeric scoffed harshly. "My cur of a sire is half the reason I'm down here. He did nothing to dissuade my bastard brother's 'pleasures'. He knows what happens down here. I sought out Ramsey, and this is how they repay me…"

Sounds from the beginning of the secret passage derailed the conversation from there. Their time had run out, it seemed. Silence filled their half of the hidden dungeon. Neville only realized why after a few costly moments. The torturer — Ramsey — had stopped his manic laughter. He eyed the four of them with madness in his eyes. He lunged at Neville, aiming for his sword.

In an instinctive flash, Neville's point lashed forward and split half of Ramsey's throat open. Domeric was just as quick on the draw. He lunged as well but for the dagger on the ground. Scooping it into his good hand, he rose with a sharp jolt. As he did, the dagger slashed Ramsey open from crotch to shoulder, dragged underhand so the hook of the blade bit deep into his torturer's flesh.

With his throat split and his torso gutted like a fish, Ramsey collapsed against his brother. Domeric's once-fine tunic was drenched in his brother's bastard blood. He wavered under the weight but stood strong. Ramsey's dying breaths gurgled out of him with wet wheezes, all that was left of his bloody laughter.

"Such a shame… that I couldn't see you break… brother~…"

Domeric shoved the bastard's body off with disgust, "Sick fucking bastard."

Susan gave him a wave over with her wand. Like magic, the blood and grime covering him disappeared. Domeric jumped at the unique sensation of being scoured clean by a spell.

"Wha-?!" He patted himself down with his good arm in confusion. "Thank… you…? How-…?"

"You're welcome," Susan cut him off, saving answers for later as she turned to Neville. "Nev?"

Neville shook off the feeling of killing a man — mostly how simple and easy it was — with some effort, "Yeah?"

The noises from the secret passage began to grow louder as Susan grinned, "Big boom."

Neville couldn't help but laugh. Susan's familiar, lovely grin and her humor took his mind off killing a man, refocusing his attention on the situation at hand. He palmed his wand in his left hand, his sword still drawn in the other. His finesse wouldn't be up to standard — even his somewhat lacking one — but it didn't have to be. Not for this. With a deep breath, he focused his will internally. Domeric watched on in visible confusion. Hannah just sighed and raised a shield around all of them.

The sounds from the passageway finally reached them, carried by torches that cast shadows on dark stone. Two guards in chainmail and leathers came first, their swords already drawn. Roose Bolton came behind them. His expression was dead as usual until he saw what awaited him. Pale eyes widened as they took in his guests, his maimed heir, and his dead bastard son.

It would be the last scene those icy, dead eyes saw. Neville stabbed his wand forward like a sword. In an instant, magic gathered at the tip like ozone before a lightning strike as Neville released his prodigious magical reserves upon the world. The world seemed to hold its breath. Neville shouted and let loose explosively, not so much casting a spell as he was directing divine justice and retribution.

"BIG BLOODY BOOM!"

A point of pure force manifested at the tip of Neville's wand. It expanded outward quickly, an explosive cone that left everything behind it practically untouched. Everything in front — more than half of the Dreadfort and its Lord first and foremost — was not so lucky. If Susan's destruction of the dungeons woke the castle, Neville's 'big boom' shook it to the foundations.

Roose Bolton didn't get a chance to so much as react. One moment, he was standing there, invincible in his fortress with his men behind him. The next, he was simply… gone. Obliterated down to atoms and molecules and spread to the wind like dust. Oblivion claimed him too quickly but justice was still served. Behind him, his men met similar fates. As did bricks and mortar and wooden supports as a great conical cavern was carved out from the middle of the Dreadfort. At the edges, the stones shattered, leaving half-rooms and suddenly destinationless hallways. Neville even saw moonlight as a courtyard began to slowly collapse into the newly empty space.

"By the Old Gods and the New," Domeric muttered, his mouth gaping open in shock, horror, and awe.

Neville winced even as the drain on his magic hit him like a brick to the head and soul. He barely managed to force out an exhausted question, "That… a big enough… boom, Susan…?"

Susan stared at him with a fire burning in her blue eyes, "Nev, you bloody great unit… I'm so going to jump your bones."

As tired as he was, Neville couldn't help but blush and stammer like he was a First Year again. Hannah stopped Susan before she could make good on her words, chopping her lightly on the head.

"Completely deserved baby-making later. Search, rescue, and fleeing the scene of the crime first. We'll also likely have to… do something about the… witness."

Domeric paled at her words, a feat for his already deathly pale naturally coloring, "I-I won't say a word, I swear-!"

"How does… a vacation in Essos… sound?" Neville strained a smile at the panicking man.

"E-Essos…?" Domeric asked, pausing in confusion.

"Hey, lucky you!" Susan joked, clapping him on his good shoulder. "You've gotten yourself an appointment to help us abolish slavery across a whole continent!"

Domeric's mind seemed to stutter, try, and fail to reboot at that, "I-I-… Huh…?"