"Gently, gently," said Neville. He tipped the cup carefully toward his grandmother's mouth as she lapped at the warm soup, then pulled it away "Mama made soup," said his grandmother. Neville nodded in agreement as he wiped her face and
tucked the sheets around her.
"Mama come soon?"
"She'll be here soon, darling." He smoothed her forehead and dimmed the lights. "Try to sleep
while you're waiting."
"Mama come for Gussie," she murmured drowsily. "You make her wait, Frankie."
Neville picked up the cup and left the bedroom, pulling the door slightly closed behind him. He
went down to the kitchen and put away the soup making mess, washing pots and knives. He
watered his small window garden. He folded laundry. He waited.
At three, a sturdy woman strode briskly up the walk. He opened the door to her, taking her coat.
"How is she today, Mr. L.?"
"Foggy," said Neville. "Thought I was my dad again."
"Well, it's to be expected. Are you off?"
"Yes. I'll be back by eight. Thank you, Mrs. Harper."
The retired mediwitch smiled at him and patted his shoulder. "You're doing well, young man.
They'd all be proud of you if they knew." Neville smiled at her and went down the walk, then
Apparated to London.
The security guards didn't bother to check him any more. Neville made his way up to Ward 49,
shook Gilderoy Lockhart's hand (declining an autograph, as usual), and stopped at the nursing
station.
"Hullo, young Longbottom," said Penelope Clearwater.
"Hullo, Pen," said Neville. "How are things?"
"Same as always. How's your gran?"
Neville shrugged. "Dozy. Talking to her mum. Thinks I'm Dad. She faded back in today long
enough to say her prayers."
"God bless Augusta Longbottom," said Penelope. "Or else."
They both chuckled as Neville shrugged his jacket off and hung it on the nurses' coat tree. "I'll get
to it, then."
Neville took a chair between his parents' beds. His mother was sleeping, cradling a small pillow in
her arms like an infant. His father was awake, eyes filled with curiosity as Neville sat down.
"Hullo, Dad."
Frank looked at Neville cautiously, then smiled. He reached for Neville's hand.
"D'you remember me?"
Frank shook his head. He patted Neville's hand softly, his eyes glistening just a bit.
"That's all right," said Neville. "I was just going to read a story. Would you like to hear some of it?" He pulled a worn book from his shoulder bag and opened it. "This is a story my mum and dad
read to me when I was very small."
Frank shoved his pillows into place so that he could sit more comfortably, watching Neville as he
opened the book.
"There was once a velveteen rabbit," said Neville, "and in the beginning he was really splendid."
In the morning, Augusta demanded to be taken downstairs. "I don't know what you think you're
doing, Neville, but I am capable of drinking tea in my own sitting room."
"Yes, Gran." Neville cradled her to his chest, fragile as dandelion puffs. "Just down the steps and
we'll have you all clear."
He settled her on a chaise longue and brought tea. Though her hands shook as she drank, she
managed to get most of it in her mouth.
"That Harper woman was here last night."
"Yes, Gran. I went to see Mum and Dad."
Augusta darted a look at him. "And?"
"More of the same. I read them a story and tucked them in."
"Did you ask that Clearwater girl to dinner?"
"No, Gran." Neville rolled his eyes. "She's a friend."
"Friend or not, you need to be married."
"Gran, stop." Neville took the cup from her, kissing her forehead. "I have other priorities right
now."
Augusta sat quietly for a while. "Neville?"
"Yes?"
"Do you still say your prayers?"
"No, Gran. I stopped sometime during the War. It didn't seem to make much difference."
She nodded and closed her eyes. "Someone will need to pray for your parents when I'm gone."
"You're not going anywhere, Gran," said Neville lightly.
She snorted, then relaxed into sleep.
Later, Neville took the post from a scruffy brown owl. A few bills, some advertisements, a prayer-
chain letter for his gran, a postcard from Hermione, bundled together with a large square envelope own handwriting.
Dear Neville,
I think you're doing interesting work with the herbal samples! Update me as you learn more. My
best to your grandmother. Do come and visit.
Pomona
Neville sighed. He had hoped for more. He enjoyed his apprenticeship with Pomona Sprout,
though he often wondered if he would have learned more if he'd accepted the chance to go to the
States. No use worrying about that now, he thought. I'm here.
Hermione's postcard showed a rather lovely datura in full blossom. He flipped it over. Come for
drinks next Friday. No need to owl. We miss you. Love, H & R.
The days ran together. He washed sheets acrid with urine, remade beds, lifted his grandmother in
and out of tepid tubs, soaped and rinsed her clean in intimacies he'd never known with any other
woman. He perfected his chicken soup, his applesauce, his soft eggy custards. He held her hand,
read her Bible aloud, mumbled along as she recited the prayers that bound her soul, lifted the
photographs to her fogged eyes as she told the same stories over and over, let her scold him in her
cogent moments.
At night, he sat next to her bed as she whimpered or called out for those long dead. He promised
her that they'd come soon to get her. He swore they knew she was ready to go. He told her he
loved her. He told her he'd be all right.
Three times a week, he left his grandmother in Mrs. Harper's capable rough hands and went to St.
Mungo's, where he repeated the same cycle except for the laundry. He read children's books to his
parents, took the candy and gum wrappers his mother offered so shyly, combed their hair, met
with the mediwizards and the social workers.
Sometimes he and Penelope escaped to the staff canteen for a quick cup of tea. She talked about
her boyfriend, her boss, what a lousy roommate Padma Patil had turned out to be. He talked about
his plants, told funny stories about Sprout, showed the latest Weasley baby pictures. None of it
mattered. It was enough to talk to someone in full possession of her faculties. Someone alive and
planning to stay that way.
The next Friday, he went from St. Mungo's to the little wine bar where he was to meet Ron and
Hermione. When he entered, he saw that they'd also invited Harry, Draco, and Luna. It was
awkward at first, but he soon relaxed with a glass of Burgundy that Draco had chosen.
The conversation swirled around him. He was content to listen, as he hadn't read a newspaper or
listened to the radio in months. Harry and Draco passed on Gryffindor gossip they'd gotten from
Lupin, who was teaching Transfigurations. Draco filled them in on Snape's research, which
fascinated Neville into asking detailed questions until the others became bored.
Luna leaned over. "You're doing the right thing, Neville."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes," she said. "You only lose your family once. It's good to take the time to do it properly."
Hermione gasped at Luna's bluntness, but Neville was oddly cheered. He Apparated home, whistling.
The transfer team showed up within minutes of Neville's fire call. They were brusquely cheerful
young men who handled Augusta with competence and a bit of tenderness.
"Right," said one of them. "We'll Medi-Apparate her now. Meet us there. You have the location?"
Neville nodded. "Intake or the ward?"
"Intake." The young para-healer slapped Neville's back. "Done this before, have you?"
"Yeah," said Neville. "I'm experienced."
::
As she had for five days, Augusta slept, connected to bags of fluid and strange monitoring wands.
Neville split his time between her bedside and those of his parents. Penelope brought him tea and
sandwiches. He caught up on his reading, interrupted as it was by the beeps and whirs of the
wands. Once or twice, he saw Susan Bones in a large pack of medimagic students as they came to
harass his grandmother in the name of learning. She'd smile apologetically as they swarmed away.
"Mr. Longbottom."
Neville looked up. "Professor Snape? What are you doing here?"
"The same as you, I think."
"Keeping vigil."
"Yes." Snape looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes darker than ever. "I am sorry to have
bothered you. Miss Bones and Mr. Potter mentioned that you were here. I was - looking for an
excuse to roam the halls. My apologies to you." He turned to leave.
"Professor, wait." Neville put his journal down. "Nothing's happening here, and I know the
password to the staff canteen. Will you come have tea with me?" He was inexplicably amused by
the look on Snape's face, but also happy to see the slow nod of acquiescence.
They sat in the canteen, nursing thick china cups of watery tea. Neville told Snape about his
grandmother's slow decline, then sudden illness; the healers thought it might be a potion allergy, a
possibility which spurred Snape into drawing complicated ingredient charts and Neville into
arguing with him about the efficacy of black stinking horehound as an antispasmodic. Snape told
Neville about the rampaging tumours morphing their way through Nymphadora Tonks, about the
debt he owed her as his contact in the Order during the War, about his uneasy friendship with
Lupin, about the potions he'd concocted to slow the cancers. Both men were surprised when they
noticed the growing dusk.
"I should go see my parents," said Neville.
Snape nodded. "I should get back to Miss Tonks."
Neville stood and offered his hand to the other man. "Tomorrow?"
"Yes," said Snape.
Neville's grandmother was still barely conscious. Whatever the cause, her sickness had left her
fragile and nearly unrecognizable. In years to come, Neville thought, I will see photographs from
this time and not be able to identify her. He took the photographs anyway, gently coaxing her to
smile.
She talked to her ghost-family more than ever, sang the little nonsense lullabies that he
remembered from his own childhood, had creepy moments of near-sanity that made Neville
uneasy. "Yes I will bury you with Grandfather, yes I will light the candles, yes I will remember
you, yes I love you, yes I'm here. Sleep now. Yes."
In the afternoons, after she'd had the poppy potion, he met Snape in the staff canteen. It was the
same nearly every time. They both brought articles or notes and got into heated arguments over
the magical properties of various plants. After a few times, Neville screwed up his courage to give
Snape the notes that he'd sent Sprout two months earlier. He didn't know what Snape got out of it,
but he actually looked forward to these meetings.
The last time they'd met, Snape had been uneasy. Neville said nothing, but held back from picking
up their last discussion of bouncing bet. They sat silently - even companionably - until Snape
sighed. "I'm not good company today, Longbottom. All the skill in the world won't save her
now."
Neville nodded and pushed his chair back. "I understand, Professor. Some days it's like that." He
stood, then walked behind Snape's chair and rested his hand on the older man's shoulder.
"Someone said to me, a while ago, that it was good to take the time to lose one's family properly."
He knew, with the certainty of six years in the potions classroom, that Snape wasn't watching him
leave.
::
He was playing Exploding Snap with his parents, delighting in their giggles and wide smiles,
when Susan Bones appeared.
"Neville," she said. "Come now, please."
He shuffled the pack together and handed them to his mother, who furtively slipped three cards off
the bottom and tucked them under her mattress. He kissed his father's forehead and went to follow
Susan down to the other ward.
Augusta lay in her bed. The odd waxiness of her skin fascinated Neville. She was beautiful now,
his grandmother, in a forbidding and powerful way, like the marble bust of a Roman emperor or a
Byzantine queen portrayed in small glass tesserae. He went to her side and traced his fingertip
across her face.
"I'm so sorry, Neville," said Susan. "I came in to check on her, but she was already gone."
Neville nodded. "It was a matter of time. She wanted to go."
"Take your time." Her voice was hesitant. "There's paperwork, of course."
"Of course." He turned to smile at her. "It will be all right, Susan."
She smiled weakly back at him. "She's my first death. To have it be someone I knew - it's not what they train us for. Can I do anything for you?"
"Go tell Penelope, will you? I won't go back up tonight."
He moved quietly around the room, collecting the ephemera of Augusta's last days: a Book of
Common Prayer, a nice vase holding wilted roses, the delicate cobweb lace shawl that Professor
McGonagall had knitted for her, a photograph of his family. Frank beamed while Alice held his
own baby hand up to wave at the camera, while Augusta smiled at the three of them with a
fondness he'd rarely seen.
Neville slipped the photograph into his shirt pocket and kissed his grandmother one last time. "I'm
glad your mum came for you, Gran," he said softly. "I'll keep my promises." He left the room,
squaring his shoulders in preparation for the endless paperwork.
::
Neville had never known how little there was to do in London at four in the morning. He walked
for hours, past shuttered shops, across parks empty even of pigeons, along narrow streets and wide
boulevards. Eventually, as light broke over the city, he found himself walking up a slight incline.
The pavement curved slightly and opened onto grand steps leading up to St. Paul's Cathedral. A
side door was open. He went in.
The great ceiling arched overhead, glimmering in the soft light. There were no tourists this early.
A few people were seated in a side chapel. He joined them, sitting toward the back. It had been
years since he'd gone to a service, probably long before he left Hogwarts. In the past few years,
he'd developed a passing interest in the old wizarding rites, but not enough to practice them. None
of it was as practical and clear to Neville as were the veins in a leaf or the properties of pollen.
Matins began. He followed along in the prayer book someone had left in his pew, paying
half-hearted attention to the service. This was his grandmother's world, this bewildering blend of
rigid demands and unquestioning forgiveness. He wondered if any of the people here - the old
women and men sitting quietly, the choir members with tired eyes, the celebrant in his simple
robes - had given up on understanding and simply believed.
As he thought about this, he remembered something Dumbledore had said to him back in second
year. Neville had been certain he was a near-Squib at that point, hanging just above the bottom of
every class except herbology. None of it made sense, though he'd spent hours trying to figure out
why magic worked. He'd been on the verge of not returning after the winter holiday.
One day, as he was lagging behind the other Gryffindors after potions class, Dumbledore had
fallen into step with him. "Mr. Longbottom, what does my dear friend Augusta tell you about
faith?"
"She says it is 'the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen'," Neville had
said. "I think it's from the Bible."
Dumbledore had nodded and twinkled at him. "So it is with magic, Mr. Longbottom."
Neville thought about this as the choir began to sing the canticle. He thought about his
grandmother, disguising her hopes and fears under a brusque practical exterior. He thought about
his parents, living in each moment and unable to build a mesh of memory that would bring them
back to him. He thought about Dumbledore, now many years gone but as strong a presence in all
their lives as he'd been before his death, and Snape and Lupin, patiently walking the same path in
another hospital room, and all the wartime scars that reared their heads in every conversation, even
this long after the end. He wanted so badly for these wounds to heal - not for things to be the way
they used to be, but for a chance at something new.
It wasn't much, he knew, but he had promised his gran. He pulled the photograph from his pocket
and looked at his parents, so happy and free. Please, whoever is listening, he thought. Please.