Author's Note: I know I said this story was complete, but I had the urge to add another chapter, so this is the result. I hope it is okay, and I extend my immense thanks once again to anyone who has reviewied/ favourited/ Alerted this story. Thank you for making me smile. :)
When the sun goes down, and all is quiet in her little house, and her bones ache with age, Augusta has time to think. Her feelings about those times are mixed – she loves them, because she's become so accustomed to being alone. She feels safe and content and she doesn't have to feel the eyes of other people on her, judging even when they don't know they're doing it. There's a certain kind of solace in solitary silence she thinks, for these are the times when clarity appears and acceptance settles like a comfortable blanket.
In a way she doesn't quite understand, she simultaneously hates these times, for she's afraid that spending too much time in her own mind might lead her to get lost. Aware of the life Frank and Alice lead, or the lack thereof, she can't think of anything worse.
Who needs Dementors to relive their worst moments? People are perfectly capable of doing that on their own.
For years, Augusta endured Greg's drunken behaviour, succumbed meekly to his orders and listened to his furious, seemingly incessant shouting, etching those words – insults - like scars upon her heart. When she fell pregnant with Frank she realised she had to leave, for his sake. They made a life of their own, and even though Greg became a part of her past, the echo of his voice stayed with her always and she wrapped herself in a protective shell of aloofness, a futile and feeble defence.
Frank became the centre of her life, to the point where she was always reluctant to share him or let him go. She'd always been ashamed of how she'd treated Alice because of it, but she'd never had the chance to apologise. Losing Frank was the hardest thing she'd ever had to endure, and if she was being honest, Neville was the only reason she had endured, if you could call it that. Even though Frank hadn't died, he was still lost – lost within himself, and what kind of a mother was she if she couldn't bring her son back?
As an old woman, Augusta Longbottom was stern and reserved, grouchy, irritable and unwilling to trust anyone or anything. She regretted it sometimes, especially when she'd see that flash of hurt appear on Neville's face as she reminded him of everything his father was, and all that he hadn't achieved in comparison. But she couldn't help it (that was the excuse she used to justify her actions in her own mind, anyway), life had made her that way.
Hannah has already been in with the children – Celia and little Frank. They were confused, their innocent minds yet unable to comprehend how a life could end so suddenly, how a person might leave, but remain forever in the hearts of those they had loved, and who had loved them. She hopes that they are able to preserve that blissful ignorance for as long as possible. They're not the ones she needs to see the most though…
She's left him a letter, just in case he doesn't get here in time, but still, she hopes that he'll make it, and that he'll know the truth, from her mouth, before she's no longer able to tell him herself.
"Gran," he pants, his round face red from running up the stairs, "I'm here."
He sits next to her and she reaches out her trembling, wrinkled hand to hold his. She thinks of all the things she never told him, all the stories about herself, and his parents. Then she contemplates how far he's come, and all the lessons he's yet to learn, but she's not anxious about him anymore – he's managed his whole life without her guidance, and she knows how capable he is.
"Neville," she whispers hoarsely, her eyes locked with his, "I'm proud of you."
He nods, giving her a watery smile. Confident that he understands, she closes her eyes and knows no more, hoping only to see her son again and tell him all about his son, and her courageous grandson.
