Chapter Two

The Spannishing Grass

Nearly ten years had passed since Augusta Longbottom had received a letter, a visit, and a baby boy at her house. Nearly five had passed since she'd seen her son or his wife, and since Neville had seen his parents. In that time, she'd lost her husband, and her world just seemed a bit smaller now than it had before. Of course, Augusta was thrilled not to live in a world where You-Know-Who was at large, but the cost to her personally had been almost too much to bear. Now, with only her grandson left to carry on the Longbottom legacy of extraordinary wizards, Augusta found herself entirely disappointed.

She'd been a stern woman when Neville had first been brought to her care, and the boy had soon learned about strict discipline and stricter learning. He'd been taught everything Augusta could think to teach him about magic and muggles and the history of the wizarding world. Of course, Neville was still the same quite boy he'd been when he'd been taken from his parents' house and rarely offered much more than a few short sentences about his thoughts on these topics. Augusta wouldn't have preferred it any other way, although it would be nice if even one sign of magic had appeared in the boy.

Frank and Alice hadn't commented on the boy's abilities before they'd been…hurt. And now it was simply too late. Any magic Neville Longbottom possessed was more difficult to get at than his words were and Augusta was practically convinced the boy was a Squib. Her brothers and sisters were no better, and often sought out ways to torment him into revealing some accidental magic. Now, with just a few more weeks until his eleventh birthday and just a few months until he rightfully should be starting at Hogwarts, Augusta felt the pressure more than ever.

"Neville?" she called, peeking out the window at the boy. He'd developed the traditional Longbottom roundness and his soft cheeks made him look much younger than he was. "Go upstairs and see what your Uncle Algie wants, he's been calling for you all morning."

"Yes, Gran," he replied, picking himself up off the ground and making his way towards the backdoor. It was summertime and the crisp blue sky seemed to open up above them. A grin tickled Neville's expression, as it always did when a sunny day made its way to his part of the world. Augusta often wondered if he remembered that his mother's eyes were the precise shade of blue that dazzled them all so brightly that morning, but cleared her head of the thought.

She didn't smile at Neville as he moved past her, although she wanted to. Discipline was more important to the lonely old woman than was love—after all, she'd loved her son and husband more than anything. No, if Neville Longbottom was going to uphold the family name, he needed discipline, education, and a good push.

XX

Neville was warm, too warm, and he couldn't remember why. Darting past Gran and towards the stairs, Neville couldn't help a grumbling feeling in his stomach at the thought of meeting Uncle Algie on the second floor. Last time they'd been anywhere with a suitable place to throw a boy from, family members had taken it upon themselves to toss Neville off a pier and into the water where he'd nearly drowned. Fortunately, his Gran had been so thoughtful as to teach him the muggle method known as swimming and he'd made it out.

He would much prefer to sit outside in the sun, despite the cold, and peer up at the sky searching for clouds, but knew that saying 'no' to Gran was about as useful as saying anything else, so he didn't try. Resigning himself to spending at least the next foreseeable bit of time indoors, he promised himself to go back outside before sunset and made his way towards the stairs.

Angling around the corner and up the first few steps, Neville was suddenly pulled back sharply by his throat. Turning to see what he'd gotten caught on, he realized two things at the same time: first, that his scarf had gotten caught on the railing and managed to mostly unravel despite the tug on his neck, and second, that he was too warm because he'd gone inside on a hot day with his scarf still on. Certainly an English summer warranted a scarf as often as it didn't, but rarely did the indoors do so, and Neville had forgotten to remove his scarf.

"Neville!" Uncle Algie's voice bellowed from upstairs. It wasn't an unfriendly voice, but it was precisely the sort of voice that could become unfriendly if its owner became irritated. Funny, thing, too, because he sounded remarkably like Gran in that regard, despite no actual blood relation. Perhaps the decades of time spent together were enough to turn the siblings-in-law into practically the same person.

"I'm coming!" Neville squeaked, tugging his scarf off and leaving it at the bottom of the stairs.

"I'll come with you," Aunt Enid called from behind him. He glanced back to see her carrying a plate of lemon meringue pie. "Not for you," she tutted. "This is for your uncle. Go see what he wants, I'll grab your scarf and be up in a moment."

Neville smiled gratefully as his aunt set down the plate of pie and gathered his scarf. Bold Hufflepuff colors shimmered from the material and Neville felt guilty for a moment for having caught his dad's scarf on the railing. Hoping he didn't ruin it, Neville turned again and ran up the stairs as fast as he could, wishing not for the first time that he had longer legs.

"There you are, boy!" Uncle Algie said, standing precariously close to the window. Neville did his best not to let his eyes narrow and was grateful that his lack of expressive words typically extended to lack of expressive faces. "Come on over here."

"Did you need me to grab something for you?" Neville asked, stalling. "Aunt Enid's coming up with some pie. I can get some milk for you."

It would be hard to describe Uncle Algie's face as anything but disappointed then. Like all of the Longbottoms, Uncle Algie hated to be reminded of Neville's sheer lack of extraordinary ability—or any ability for that matter—and the boy's poor memory was just one of many such examples. Stifling a sigh, the older wizard took several steps towards Neville and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Technically, Ungle Algie was Great Uncle Algie, and sometimes Neville thought he could see the young man his dad must've known in his boyhood. Now, though, Uncle Algie was a wizened old wizard with hardly any color left in his eyes or his hair. He was pale and sad, although he liked to act happy, and Neville often wondered what made adults act that way.

"Neville, I'm lactose intolerant. You know that."

Neville did not know that. Last time he had seen Uncle Algie, the man had been allergic to peanuts. Today, he'd caught him eating them by the handful. He had no doubt that a glass of milk would do as little harm to Uncle Algie as it would to himself. But young boys don't say such things to wizened old wizards, so Neville cast his eyes down instead.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Algie," he replied softly. "Would you like some tea? I can just run downstairs and be back with it in just a minute." He made a soft attempt to pull away but knew that anything more assertive might get him in trouble so he stayed in place when Uncle Algie's hand didn't move.

This time, the man did sigh. "I'd like a wizard for a nephew," he decided suddenly, bending down and scooping grabbing ahold of Neville's ankle. Suddenly, the man was not a wizened old wizard but a spritely man with enough upper body strength to carry a plump little boy across the room despite his protests.

Part of Neville wanted to fight, and indeed, he did kick and argue, but most of him knew it was a waste of time. With the window so near and the panes already pushed outward to reveal that shining blue sky, there was little to be done but be dropped. Certain that he would break his neck and die very soon, Neville set about contemplating the nature of magic. There was a good chance that such thoughts were his last hope so he might as well start now.

He wondered whether everybody who has magic is born with it, or if they can learn it later on. Thinking of Hogwarts, he resigned himself to learn whatever magic Squibs are capable of learning if he only survived the drop to the compact earth below.

When Uncle Algie reached with his other hand to gather Neville up and push him through the window, the boy hardly fought. Instead, he peered up at the sky and thought of magic. It was funny, though, because in that moment he could only think of his mother. It had been a long time since he'd seen her pretty blue eyes, and even longer since he'd seen her do any magic, but with endless expanses of azure heavens above him—or rather, below, from this angle—he was certain that his mother and magic were precisely the same thing.

"Algie, you have to try this pie," Aunt Enid's voice chimed from inside the house. "It's your grandmother's recipe and apparently your brother gave it to Augusta before passing on. Well now Augusta's made it and she really does do it justice, I had no idea she could bake like this! Anyway, have a bite, it really is good." Aunt Enid continued to prattle on about the pie and family recipes for some time and it was hardly interesting for Neville. However, it did remind him of his predicament and he wondered again at the duration of his fall to the ground below. Just in time, too, as Uncle Algie suddenly decided that lemon meringue was more interesting than his nephew, and released the boy's ankle.

For a moment, Neville thought of shouting. But as his eyes trailed away from the wooden slats of the house as he fell past the window, they landed on the sky again and Neville smiled instead. "You always smelled like flowers, Mum," he remembered gently. "Like roses."

Perhaps he should've thought of another flower, because at that moment he landed in a rose bush and found that roses smell nice but do not feel nice. Jabbed with dozens of thorns, Neville did find his voice then and managed a low groan. Peering back up at the window, he realized that Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid were peering back down at him and clapping. From somewhere off to one side, Gran was clapping, too, and footsteps in the grass told him she was on her way to his rescue.

"Neville, boy, you've done it!" she shouted as she retrieved her wand from its place in her robe and performed a quick levitation charm. The spell managed to drag Neville back through the thorns he'd just landed in but he was soon free from the tangles of rose bush and very gratefully on his feet.

He was also not dead, which meant that he would be studying Squib magic from here on out. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, but supposed it was better than dying. When he turned to see the roses, wondering if they truly did smell as sweet as his mother, he realized that none were there. The last hints of thorny vines were curling into the ground, leaving only smooth green grass behind.

"Huh?" he demanded of the sight. He turned back to Gran, who was beaming down at him with what seemed to be a truly proud expression, the first on he could remember receiving from the woman.

"You've done it!" she repeated, holding her arms out for a hug. "You've done magic!"

Perhaps it was simply luck, or perhaps it was another old wizard somewhere, but an owl hooted at that moment and drew their attention to the sky where a great grey dropped a gleaming ivory letter right into Neville's scratched hands. His mouth opened at that point as he realized what this meant and Gran once again shouted that he'd done it, as well as a quick charm to remove the leftover thorns sticking out of his skin and clothes.

He pulled open the seal without hardly a glance at the front and passed the letter to Gran to read. Certainly it mattered to him that he got into Hogwarts, but he'd already made contingency plans should he turn out to be non-magical and he was more relieved than excited. Gran took the letter eagerly and read through it without a word, nodding as if it was what she'd expected. Neville wondered what Hogwarts acceptance letters looked like when she'd been in school, or even when his own parents had gone.

"I told you the boy was a wizard!" Uncle Algie shouted from the window above. Aunt Enid tried to agree but had managed to find room for lemon meringue in her mouth as well and merely grunted her agreement instead. "Just like his father!"

Neville couldn't help frowning at that, and when he looked up again to meet Gran's eyes, he realized she was frowning, too. "Just like both your parents," she murmured. "It really is a beautiful blue sky, isn't it?"

Gran didn't smile because Gran doesn't smile much, but Neville did, and he jumped forward to wrap his stubby arms around her stubby waist. "I love you, Gran, forever and ever," he cried, pressing his face into her clothes.

Gran was still terrifying and certainly more likely to whack him with her umbrella than to offer to share it with him when the rains came, but in that moment, she decided to hug him instead. "I have something for you," she said after a moment, a funny twist in her voice.

Neville pulled away to see that Gran's eyes had a funny twist, too. Taking his hand, she pulled him through the yard and back to the house. Trekking back up the stairs, Gran led Neville to the bedroom that had been his father's when he was a boy. Neville wasn't allowed in this room without Gran and his own space in the house had been relegated to a guest bedroom downstairs. This room was special, though, and he wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Pinned to the walls were posters of the Hufflepuff banner, a smiling picture of Neville's dad with an exceptionally ugly plant that seemed to be screaming—Neville's dad was wearing the most horrendous ear muffs Neville had ever seen and he thought they were perfect-, and what must have been an engagement photo of his parents together. Moving past these, Gran led Neville to the dresser, where she dug around for just a moment in the top drawer and retrieved a thin box. Passing it to her grandson, she smiled sadly at him as he opened it to reveal a short, thick wand made of a wood Neville couldn't identify.

Neville didn't say anything because Neville doesn't say much, but Gran did. "Good for Transfiguration," she murmured. "Your dad and the wand. It was his and I think it's only right that you should have it. It's what he would want."

For a moment, they each considered another hug. Instead, Neville turned his attention to a thought that had been bothering him for a long time.

"Can we go tell them?" he asked, not daring to make eye contact with her.

The room was silent for a long time, and Neville might've sworn he could feel sparks crackling in his fingers, nervous as he was. When he couldn't bear it any longer, he looked up to find Gran looking over his shoulder at the engagement picture Neville had noticed when they walked in. He'd spent a lot of time looking at the picture when Gran wasn't around and he knew which one it was just by where her eyes were poiting.

"Get your cloak," she said finally. "We're going to London."