Clockwork Wonders

Clockwork Wonders

Neville sat quietly at home, trying not to think about the upcoming summer. The school year was so exiting – he had friends to talk to, a dance to remember with Ginny Weasley, watching the tasks and rooting for Harry, crying with others when Cedric had died. That last part wasn't good, of course, but it had made him, even more than he already was, a part of a community. Now, he was just Augusta Longbottom's grandson, and nothing more.

He brooded in his room. Homework, even Professor Snape's, had been completed as close to perfectly as he would ever get. He could not practice spells, as he wanted and needed to do, because of the underage magic law. He couldn't write to his friends – Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had not yet replied to his last letter, sent only yesterday afternoon. He had no Muggle friends to see, no relatives except his parents to visit, and Gran had promised to take him tomorrow. It wasn't like they could have a conversation either. He could tell them all about the Triwizard, and maybe even get a response, but Gran always ushered him out too quickly.

Neville Longbottom was, quite honestly, bored, only a week into summer vacation. He had already begun counting down the days until he returned to Hogwarts. Gran was going out, and Neville was under orders to stay in the house. He had found no books that interested him – there were no Herbology books among his father's and grandmother's compiled collection.

Feeling the need to move, even pointlessly, Neville got up and walked from his room into the living room. Not knowing what to do, he sat down and stared at the family clock, watching the seconds tick by. He could practically hear Gran's voice echoing around the room.

'Been in our family for centuries, young man. I told your father this, and I'll tell you too. It may not be magical in any way – made by a muggle, you see, and never changed since – but Longbottoms report that every once in a while, something they've always wanted has been found in some mysterious compartment. I think it's just a legend, but you never know.'

Neville was so bored; he decided to look for this mythical compartment that he privately agreed with Gran on – it didn't exist. He got up and ran his hands all over the face, and then over the sides. Only when he rammed his fingers in between the wall and the clock did he feel a small imperfection – clearly, he thought excitedly – a button. Pushing as hard as he could in the awkward position, he successfully popped open a small container. Inside the miniscule space, he saw and retrieved a tightly furled scroll. Pulling it out, he saw that the container was narrow, but long.

Pushing the container shut, Neville sat on the couch and, with difficulty, unrolled the scroll. He noticed that it was folded, and the front declared in bold, slanted lettering 'To Neville. If you aren't Neville, put this back – it has a harmless but annoying jinx for anyone who tries to pry.'

Neville grinned at the writer's sense of humor, and unfolded the reluctant old parchment to read the letter this mystery writer had left for him, and him alone. It read:

Dear Neville,

Son, I'm so proud of you! I bet you and I are exactly alike, trying to avoid Mum's – your Gran's – controlling glare. What ever she may have told you, I was not the brilliant, perfect son at all! I was a little clumsy, horrible at potions (I did get better, eventually), and, to quote, "a disappointment' sometimes. I can imagine that you will be just like me – I can see it in your eyes as you stare at me writing this letter, knee high to a grasshopper. If you're reading this, I've obviously been killed by Voldemort and his followers, hopefully fighting along side your mother. You've also grown enough for Mum to tell you about the clock, and bored enough by her to try and find the compartment. Good job!

I hope that you have good friends at Hogwarts as I did to send letters and relieve the boredom and monotony of Mum's household. She does love you; she simply has a different way of showing it. I hope you like Hogwarts, and your studies. Please don't brood all summer – there are plenty of things to do in Muggle parks and events. Go somewhere; see the world! I'm an auror, so I'm not incredible at writing these after death delivery letters like some are James Potter, my work buddy, for example. I'll just state my advice the only way I know how – Short and sweetly.

Work hard Hogwarts. Those grades shape your life forever. Make friends. Never be afraid to be yourself. Don't hold grudges against anyone but Death Eaters. Inter-house unity is more than it's cracked up to be – meet people in other houses, even Slytherin, if they're OK. Fight as hard and long as you need to, to defend friends and family. Trust only those who have earned your respect. Go with your gut on that potions exam, and in life. Never follow unreasonable rules. Never be anyone other than yourself. Always stay true to your morals and values.

I suppose I could go on, but those are the important ones. Remember them.

With love,

Dad

Augusta Longbottom came home to her grandson crying and clutching a crumpled piece of parchment to him. All he would say was "It's a letter from Dad," and "No, you can't read it."

She sent him upstairs to collect himself and get ready for dinner. She smiled briefly as she watched him stumble upstairs. She could tell that he would be a different person when he came down. Frank had left a proper father-to-son letter after all, in her mythical compartment. She wouldn't look for it, or try and read the letter, and would no longer bully Neville into everything. He was a young man now, not a boy. His father had left a note, and so Neville, her little grandson, had moved past a barrier he had been stuck at all this time. Little, whiney, nervous, compliant Neville Longbottom had gone up the stairs, and mature, independent, clear, determined Neville Longbottom would come down.