Flurries of blinding white snow fell to the ground. Icicles hung from the roof and dripped water onto the window. Ornaments lay on the ground near the evergreen trees, knocked down the night before by the winter wind. It was Christmas '94, and Neville stood by the kitchen window, missing his parents more than ever.

"Neville! Where's my tea?" Augusta Longbottom called out from the living room. Neville finished scrubbing the dirty plate in his hands and dried them off on his shirt. He hurriedly opened the cupboard and pulled out a handful of teabags. "Here, Gran," he said when the tea was ready. "Strong; just how you like it." He walked over to his grandmother sitting on the chair and handed her the cup with two hands.

"Careful, boy!" she scolded when he accidently spilled some on her lap. Neville ran to get a towel and started to dab her skirt with it, mumbling apologies as he did so. "Speak up!" the old witch said sharply.

"I'm sorry," Neville repeated, this time louder. His head was bowed; he stared down at the stained carpet in shame.

"Ah," Augusta said, handing the untouched cup of tea back to him. "You should be. The son of Frank and Alice Longbottom can't even give his poor old Gran a cup of tea."

Neville fell silent and drank the tea himself. After watching a few minutes of the ridiculous Muggle soap opera his Gran was watching, he got up, grabbed his coat, pulled on his sneakers and told his grandmother that he was going out for a walk.

But with her bad ears, he wasn't even sure she heard him.


Ever since he was a little boy, he had been lonely.

He had no friends. No family, except for his Gran. Everyone thought he was a squib for years, and that set him apart from the rest.

He was alone in every aspect–the only boy to like dancing and the only Gryffindor to be a coward.

It's been like this for 16 years.

16 lonely years.


"How is she?"

"Alright."

"Has she finally realized that her grandson makes her proud everyday?"

Neville blushed and looked at the ground. "In a million years."

Neville pushed himself off the ground and held onto the freezing chains as he swung gently. The swings squeaked, and Neville reminded himself to bring some oil the next time he came.

Minerva sat on the swing beside him, but unlike him she did not push off the ground, instead having enchanted the swing to move by itself. She sighed softly, her breath visible in the bitter cold breeze.

"Augusta and I were close during my Hogwarts years," she said. "My, how things have changed since then. Voldemort was just a boy."

"Didn't he murder someone in his Sixth Year?" Neville asked.

"Yes, I remember Albus telling me something like that. It's terrible, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Neville breathed. The unlikely pair continued to swing in silence, the night sky becoming darker by the minute.

"Hey, Minerva?"

"Yes, Longbottom?"

"Thanks, for, you know, being my friend."

"And vice versa."