Diagon Alley

"Is that… Neville Longbottom?"

"I think it is…"

"Look! He's got the scar on his forehead."

Neville felt his face grow warm as people stared at him in curiosity and admiration. His grandmother said he was famous—now Neville believed her. His grandmother—dressed in her usual brightly colored and oddly mismatched clothing (not to mention the hideous hat adorned with a stuffed vulture)—led Neville along through Diagon Alley, from store to store. They, and what seemed like the rest of the Wizarding population, were on a back-to-school shopping excursion.

Neville would be starting his first year at Hogwarts in the fall. He had been far more excited ten minutes ago, before they had arrived in Diagon Alley. Everyone was shamelessly gawking at him, and discussing him in hushed tones that were still painfully audible.

"His parents were killed by You-Know-Who himself."

"They say he's the only one to have survived the Killing Curse…"

Neville lengthened his strides to keep up with his grandmother, who walked at a surprisingly brisk pace for an old woman. She looked round at the gossiping masses who were staring at her and her grandson. Neville knew what she was going to do as she peered haughtily down her nose. He had no chance of stopping her. It was too late. His only hope was to sulk along, keeping his head down.

"Yes, this is Neville Longbottom, my own grandson," his grandmother announced. The crowd fell silent briefly before recommencing with their whispering. Neville felt hundreds of eyes on him—his face must've been beet-red. It was difficult to hide with the fabled lightning scar clearly visible down the center of his forehead. He had wanted to grow his hair longer for ages, to hide the scar, but his grandmother insisted on keeping his hair short. And Neville, terrified of his grandmother as he was, knew better than to argue.

Neville was looking down at his feet, and ran straight into his grandmother's plump body. She had stopped in the middle of the street. Neville had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Watch where you're going, boy," she said in an undertone, before turning back to the gathering crowd. "Neville Longbottom," she said, her voice carrying, "defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when he was just a year old." She looked fondly at Neville. "My own grandson."

"We have to go buy my books," Neville mumbled. "Flourish and Blotts."

"What's that?" his grandmother said loudly. "Speak up!" She turned to address the onlookers again. "He's a shy one, bless his heart."

Neville would have given anything for a nice hole to crawl into at the moment. "We have to get my school supplies," he said.

"Yes, yes I know," she said impatiently. She continued walking again, and Neville followed behind her. The crowd dispersed, parting before the two of them.

"You'll have to get a wand," his grandmother was saying, apparently not noticing that Neville was so far behind her, "and books, of course, and your robes. Maybe you want an owl?"

"Can I use my father's wand?" asked Neville, as they made their way toward Ollivander's shop.

His grandmother stopped dead in her tracks; Neville nearly bumped into her again.

"Don't you want your own wand?" she asked carefully.

Neville shrugged. "I like my father's."

"Are you sure?" she said.

"Yes," Neville said firmly. His grandmother sighed dramatically and muttered to herself as they changed directions and started toward Madam Malkin's.

Harry Potter waved his brand new wand around, imagining colorful jets of light shooting from its tip. He tried to remember the incantations for amusing jinxes his dad and Sirius had told him about…

"Put that away," his mum laughed. "Before you hurt yourself."

Harry frowned and looked to his dad for help.

"You heard your mother," he said, but winked at Harry.

Harry put his wand carefully into his pocket, and ran ahead of his parents, eager to go to the next shop. "Can I get an owl?" he called over his shoulder. He pressed his face against the glass window of the Eeylops Owl Emporium. The birds in the front display looked at Harry with huge, unblinking eyes. Harry giggled and glanced back to his parents who were strolling along the street. They were so slow…

"An owl, eh?" his dad said, catching up to his son. But Harry spotted a shop up the street and almost squealed with excitement. He sprinted toward it, shoving his way through a group of boys admiring something in the shop's window.

Harry finally saw what it was they were looking at—a Firebolt. Only the newest and best broomstick in the entire world. He gazed at it longingly, his hands and nose and forehead up against the glass. This was so much better than a lousy owl. He eventually extricated himself from the crowd and found his parents.

"Dad!" Harry shouted, running up to him. "Dad! Dad! Guess what!"

His dad reached down and tousled Harry's untidy, black hair making it even messier. Harry straightened his glasses and peered up at his dad.

"What?" his dad said.

"You have to guess," Harry said patiently.

His dad made a face. While he thought, his mum began fixing Harry's hair, trying to smooth it down and tut-ing disapprovingly when his hair refused to be tamed. Harry swatted away her hand, and rumpled his hair again, undoing any progress his mum had managed to make. She exhaled heavily and waited for her husband to venture a guess.

"Well," he said, rubbing his chin in thought, "I reckon this must be about something you saw in the window at Quality Quidditch Supplies…"

Harry nodded eagerly, but couldn't wait any longer. "It's a Firebolt!" he blurted.

His dad's face lit up, and the two of them ran back to the store to look at it together. A short while later, Harry left the shop a proud owner of the latest and greatest in flying technology—the Firebolt. The broom was lovingly wrapped in layers and layers of paper, but Harry still held onto the package with care. His mum shook her head when she saw them.

"You didn't buy a Firebolt, did you, James?"

"Of course I did!" he said indignantly. "He'll need it when he's on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

Harry beamed at his dad, and hugged the wrapped-up Firebolt to his chest.

"You're not getting an owl," his mum warned.

Harry pouted, counting on his big green eyes to do the talking. His mum stared back at him with her own green eyes—the same as Harry's—and didn't falter. Maybe Harry wasn't as adorable as he thought he was…

"Let's go to Madam Malkin's and get your school robes," his mum said abruptly, ending the stare-down. The three Potters continued on down Diagon Alley to the robe shop.

"It looks crowded in there," his dad commented as they drew nearer.

"We could go to Flourish and Blotts first," his mum suggested. Then the door to Malkin's opened and a boy who Harry recognized to be Neville Longbottom walked out of the door. His face was pink as if he was embarrassed and he was being escorted by an old woman, presumably his grandmother. About twenty other people left the shop on their heels, and trailed them as they continued their shopping.

"Neville Longbottom's in my year?" Harry wondered aloud.

His parents were looking at Neville with sympathetic expressions and sad smiles.

"Yes," his dad said absently. "He's only a day older than you, actually."

"How do you know that?" Harry said suspiciously.

"We knew his parents, dear," his mum said with another sad smile that didn't reach her eyes. "They were in the Order."

Harry nodded, watching the boy disappear around the corner. "Let's go get my robes."

He led his parents into the shop; they were suddenly somber after seeing Neville, and were whispering to each other. Harry scowled to himself—he didn't like it when his parents left him out of things. But he didn't really want to discuss Neville, the famed Boy-Who-Lived. This day was supposed to be about Harry, and he was determined to keep it that way, no matter how many run-ins with celebrities they had.

Hermione Granger felt like she was in heaven. She smiled uncontrollably as she looked around the large shop; every surface was covered with books. Her fingers were literally itching to open one up and inhale that glorious new-book scent. She had only found out she was a witch months ago, and knew very little about the Wizarding world. The learning potential from these books was staggering. She felt a little twinge of excitement in her stomach.

Hermione was being escorted by a small, stout, bumbling wizard by the name of Mr. Joyce. She had already purchased a wand—ten and three-quarter inches; vine wood; dragon heartstring—and robes, and various other school supplies. It had all been amazing—especially the wand—but Hermione was most excited now, in Flourish and Blotts, around all these books.

"I'll find the required textbooks for class," Mr. Joyce said, wrenching Hermione back to her senses. "You should look for more books to expand your knowledge of the Wizarding world."

Hermione nodded and immediately began looking through the piles of books. She picked up one after another—they all looked so interesting—until her arms were full. She steadied the stack of books with her chin and went to find Mr. Joyce. She was almost to him, when something caught her eye. It was a book, of course; A History of Magic. Hermione reached for it, and almost had it when something bumped into her. She stumbled and all her books crashed to the floor.

"I'm sorry—really sorry—I'm—" said a voice from behind her. Hermione turned around to see a short boy with a pudgy face (nearly purple from embarrassment) and rather large front teeth.

"That's okay," Hermione said, cutting across his stammering. "Are you going to Hogwarts?"

They knelt to the floor and began gathering Hermione's books.

"Yes, it's my first year," the boy said, seeming a little surprised—and relieved.

"Mine too," she grinned. "I'm Hermione Granger."

The boy paused for a long moment, staring at her outstretched hand. Hermione withdrew it quickly, her cheeks burning.

"Sorry, I'm Neville. Neville Longbottom," he muttered.

"Nice to meet you, Neville," Hermione said, reforming her stack of books. "I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express?"

"Okay, see you," he said, with a forced-looking smile.

Hermione smiled again and left to go find Mr. Joyce. He had his own pile of books in his arms, though much smaller than Hermione's—she was holding about fifteen books.

"You want all of those?" he asked tiredly.

"Yes," she said. They made their way to the check-out counter.

"That boy you were talking to…" Mr. Joyce began. "Do you know who he is?"

Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion. "Yeah, he's Neville Longbottom."

He stared at her. "Do you know… who he is?" he repeated, his expression incredulous.

"I just met him," she said slowly.

Mr. Joyce's eyes widened. Hermione frowned—she didn't like being made to look clueless.

"I'm Muggle-born, remember," she said indignantly.

"Yes, I know," he said, still shaking his head in disbelief. They reached the counter and bought the books, Mr. Joyce apparently speechless at Hermione's ignorance.

When they left the shop, they sat on a bench. Mr. Joyce drew in a deep breath, and began his explanation.

"Have you heard of, uh… You-Know-Who?"

Hermione was greatly disappointed. "No," she said fiercely.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," Mr. Joyce continued, a pleading look in his eyes.

"Never heard of him," she replied evenly.

He looked over his shoulder, and turned back to her. "Voldemort," he whispered, actually flinching as he spoke the word.

"Voldemort?" Hermione repeated loudly. A couple passersby gasped and threw her a reproachful glance.

"Shh!" Mr. Joyce hissed. "You really haven't heard of him?"

"No!"

"Read some of those books tonight," he instructed. "But here's the gist—You-Know-Who was a very dark wizard. The worst the world has ever seen. But it's been almost ten years now since he's died. Or they think he died anyway, they never found a body…"

Hermione nodded, urging him on.

"He tried to kill that boy you met; Neville Long—"

"Why would he want to do that?" she gasped in shock.

"No one knows. You-Know-You killed Neville's parents and then tried to kill Neville. But the Killing Curse didn't work on him. He was a year old at the time and still is the only personto have survived the Killing Curse. So, people say the curse bounced off of Neville and hit You-Know-Who and killed him," Mr. Joyce finished, visibly shaken.

Hermione's head was spinning. Voldemort? Killing Curses? She would have to start reading up on all this as soon as she got home. There was little she enjoyed less than being uninformed. Hermione remembered the shy, nervous boy and felt very sorry for him.

"Neville is very famous now, of course," added Mr. Joyce. "He was the one who brought down You-Know-Who, after all, something no one else could do."

"But… how did he do it?" murmured Hermione.

"No one knows," he said again, then fell silent. "Well, I'm sure your parents are very excited to hear about your day."

Hermione grinned and stood up, heaving her bag of books onto her shoulder. She reluctantly took hold of Mr. Joyce's arm. She had nearly thrown up the first time she'd Apparated, earlier today, and wasn't looking forward to doing it again. She shut her eyes tightly, and then felt an incredibly uncomfortable sensation—like she was being squeezed through a small tube. Finally, it was over and she caught her breath and opened her eyes.

They were standing in the backyard of her home. Her parents, most likely having heard the loud crack, ran up to the window. They smiled and her dad came to the door and opened it.

"Thank you, Mr. Joyce," said Hermione politely.

"My pleasure," he returned. "Remember—no magic at home! Wait until school."

She nodded dutifully and then Mr. Joyce Disapparated with a rather loud crack. Hermione ran into her house, slowed only a little by the load of books on her shoulder.

"Mum! Dad!" she cried. "You have to see what I got!"

She spilled all her books onto the kitchen table, and her dad let out a low whistle. He picked up a beginning Transfiguration textbook and began flipping through it.

"Do you have a wand?" her mum asked, her eyes glowing.

Hermione pulled the wand out of her pocket.

"Wow, it's beautiful!" her mum exclaimed. "Can you show us a spell?"

"No, I'm not allowed," she pouted, stroking the smooth wood of her wand.

"What do you want for dinner, sweetie?" her mum said brightly.

"I don't care," Hermione answered. "I want to start reading these books."

Her parents exchanged a knowing look. Hermione spread out the books on the living room floor and began searching through the indexes. Most of the books referenced Voldemort, though almost all referred to him as You-Know-Who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Hermione thought this was a little silly. He was dead, after all. Why were people so afraid of him?

All the books ten years old or newer had information on Neville Longbottom. Hermione grouped the books and eagerly began to read.

A/N: Thanks for reading my first chapter! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Kindly review; feedback is awesome.