He stumbled, spinning as he landed but managed not to fall over. As soon as Neville got his bearings, the enormity of the risk he'd taken washed over him, making him dizzy for a moment. He was standing on a broad pavement under a plane tree, on the corner of a residential street. Apparating to an unknown landing point; it was pure chance that the people he could see further along the road were walking away, rather than towards him. How could he have been so stupid? He whirled around, panic rising, checking that no one was approaching from the other direction.
Neville was accustomed to an habitual awareness of his lowliness in the overall scheme of things, but this morning it felt particularly oppressive. He kicked the tree, realising how quickly he'd become used to feeling – different. Of course, the holidays were always better than school. In the comforting surroundings of home, he hardly noticed Gran's criticisms, so marked in her letters and – these days – very occasional Howlers. Even the jokes about his unreliability and forgetfulness didn't seem as frequent this summer. Seeing Hermione again, as well as the Auror who had fought alongside him in the battle, had reminded him how ineffectual he'd been. The reserves of courage he'd found yesterday during his coming-of-age party, as well as the happiness he'd felt, holding Hannah in his arms later that evening, had trickled away. Who was he, to think he could protect anyone, or do anything useful? He kicked out again, stubbing his toe painfully against the bark. The panic had receded, leaving too-familiar anger and shame in its wake. Get a grip, Longbottom, the voice in his head sneered. What a pathetic excuse for a wizard, it mocked.
Self-pity? Gran would be more appalled by that than by his stupidity, if she could hear what he was thinking. Neville pulled himself together. He might have been careless, but he was here now. He would do this for Hannah, not just give up without a fight. He squinted at the tiny print of the report still clutched firmly in his hand. The Vicarage, St. Oswald's Road, Hartlepool was the address printed on the flimsy parchment. He was standing right outside it. He allowed himself a momentary glow of achievement, mingled with intense relief. What next?
The other houses in the street were small and scruffy in comparison. He pushed open a wrought iron gate that screeched under his hand and walked up to the front door. It was big, with stained glass panels. Through it he could see the front hall, completely blocked by an old pram and several of those wheeled contraptions that Muggles sometimes pushed themselves around on. Perhaps there was another entrance. Neville made his way around to the side of the house. He was now out of sight of the road and relaxed a little. His instinct had been right, there was a side door like at home. The back of his neck prickled as he became aware of a looming presence at his right shoulder and he turned slowly. An enormous building only a few feet from the garden wall threw a shadow right up to his feet. The church the house belonged to was huge, five times the size of the country chapel outside his village. Weird. It seemed an unlikely place for a 'lorry driver' to live.
After a few minutes consideration – he hadn't really thought through his plan of approach before coming here – Neville decided against trying the door with Alohomora. With the bloke being a Muggle, it would only put him on his guard. And what if someone was right behind the door? He'd be in danger of breaking the Statute of Secrecy for at least the third time that day, and it wasn't even – Neville checked his watch – half past ten yet. Thinking about it, it was sort of funny that the bells weren't ringing for morning service. Merlin. Neville felt anxious again. What if the church was filled to bursting with Muggles about to flood out and surround him? He thought back to the day he'd spent travelling around London and shuddered. No thanks. He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the door.
After a pause that wasn't long enough for him to lose his nerve, it opened. A tall, heavily-built man with knuckles like hams stood in front of him, blocking the doorway. Despite his intimidating aspect, the man's eyes were mild, his expression vacant, almost child-like.
"Have you come to read the meter?" The voice was a low, hoarse rumble, as though it hadn't been used in a while. He stood back and opened the door wider. Neville reeled as a powerful stench hit him. Looking over the man's bulging shoulder, he could see a kitchen with a table in the centre, like at home, and a sink on the other side of the room. The difference was, in contrast to Gran's kitchen, scrubbed to within an inch of its life after every meal, the table in front of him, as well as the draining-board and every other available surface, was piled with stinking rubbish.
"No. I – I've come about …" Neville hesitated. He held the coroner's report out. The man's dull eyes took on a spark of life.
"What you got there?" He pawed urgently at the piece of paper. Neville let him have it. The man squinted at the report, nodding eagerly and muttering under his breath. Then he looked up. Neville was surprised and a little fearful to note that the man's eyes had misted over, and his face was working furiously. "You'd better come in," he muttered.
Taking a deep breath, Neville followed the man into the kitchen.
All afternoon, Hannah and Augusta occupied themselves by keeping up the pretence that it was a normal Sunday. Augusta showed Hannah a couple of household spells she didn't know, such as how to mix in soap with the water from her wand, so there was no need to carry a bucket around while doing the floors. Hannah spent a few minutes working out how to adapt it, then returned the favour by washing the outside window panes. After a small hiccough in which she soaked the potato patch with vinegar, she went on to water the entire garden, usually part of Neville's weekend routine. She offered to mow the lawn too, but Augusta declined, citing thunder on the way. "It interferes with the charm Neville's got on that contraption. Come on in. It's time for a cuppa."
It had been at least an hour since the last pot of tea. Hannah walked towards to the house, saying Finite Incantatem firmly in her head. To her mild gratification, the water coming out of her wand slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She was getting better at that.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Hannah crumbled cake nervously onto her plate. It felt strange being here on her own with Neville's gran. For once, Augusta didn't frown at her table manners. Late afternoon sun struck diagonally across the scrubbed wooden surface. Hannah couldn't make out the older woman's expression for dust motes spinning and dancing in the air.
"Are you worried about your father?" Augusta asked abruptly.
Taken aback, Hannah realised that he'd barely crossed her mind in the past five hours. "Not really," she replied, thinking aloud. "I know he could have been attacked or taken but somehow, I know this is one of his 'things.'"
"Yes, that's how it seems to me. Grief … it does funny things to people."
Only if you give in to it, thought Hannah, a little resentfully. She hadn't forgiven Dad for embarrassing her in front of Professor Sprout and everyone else. Hesitantly, she voiced something that had been on her mind following their visit to St. Mungo's the day before. "I can't imagine how you've coped, all these years."
"One does what one has to," Augusta said stiffly, pouring tea into two earthenware mugs. "He was never any trouble, that made things easier. And I had help, in the early years at least. I'm very proud of the way my grandson's turned out, of course."
You'd never know it, Hannah said to herself, storing the sentence away to tell Neville when – not if – she saw him again. "I – I didn't really mean that. I was talking about – um – your son, and – er – Neville's mum." She paused, then in a rush continued, "And then losing your husband a few years later." Augusta pushed the mug in her direction, a familiar, forbidding frown written across her strong features. Hannah blushed, and wondered if she was about to have her head bitten off. But the fierce old lady seemed calm, sipping her tea in contemplative silence. Had she gone too far? In for a penny … "I – I suppose – I mean, was it a comfort having Neville to – to remember them by?" she mumbled.
"You could put it that way …" Augusta fell silent again. She'd never asked for anybody's pity. The silly girl sitting in front of her asking impertinent questions ought to worry about herself. Motherless … practically fatherless from all she'd observed. At least Neville had always had a good example set him, even if he wasn't quite the young man his father had been at that age. "Like I said … he's a good boy. Kindly. Soft-hearted, some might say." There. That'd teach the girl to stick her nose into a family's business.
At that moment, a cloud passed across the sun, darkening the kitchen. Hannah came into focus across the table. The girl's eyebrows were knitted together. For a moment, Augusta was startled. She lifted her head and readied herself for a fight.
"Are you saying it's all one way?" Hannah began. "You think Neville gets nothing from going out with me?"
"I don't believe I said anything like that, young woman. Although, at this moment, I fail to see any advantage in his situation. He is heaven knows where, on some misguided mission, in very grave danger. Why is that, do you suppose?"
Hannah didn't answer for a moment. Then very quietly, she said, "Have you had a lot of success telling Neville what to do recently?" Her voice grew stronger. "At least I accept him for who he is, and don't try to make all his decisions for him, and criticise him constantly."
Augusta sipped her tea, momentarily dumbfounded. She tried to locate the source of the uncomfortable sensations that the girl's demeanour and words were provoking. She found a sixty-year-old memory: Minerva McGonagall telling her off in front of the entire common-room for making Georgina Smythe cry. She sat back in her chair, keeping her counsel for the time being. Hannah left her seat and moved around the side of the table. The girl's hair stood out over her forehead in an unattractive fuzz. Accidental magic at her age. No self-control at all. Although, she supposed this was better than tears, at least. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, Augusta reflected, it was a cry-baby.
Hannah's voice was still perfectly level. "Nor do I compare him to someone else, every single time I look at him. I see you, watching him like a hawk, waiting for him to make a mistake – just so you can tell him, yet again, how his dad could do that spell when he was fourteen, and that not everyone's born to be a great wizard. He's had sixteen years of it. Don't you think it's enough? Isn't he good enough for you yet?"
Augusta sniffed. "Sit down, love. Ready for another cup?" She busied herself with pouring for a minute.
When Hannah was back in her chair, Augusta took a sip of the strengthening brew and sighed. "Let me tell you something, my girl," she began, as kindly as she knew how. "There'll be no quarrel between us, not today, and not as long as you're a guest in my house. I'm not too proud to admit it – you might have a point about how I am with my grandson." She took a certain grim satisfaction in Hannah's almost-inaudible gasp of surprise. "That's by the by. But you need to learn that you won't get far in this world by speaking out of turn and risking making enemies of people who've been good to you."
Augusta read distress and embarrassment on the girl's face, as recognition of the truth of her words sank in. Thank Merlin, she wasn't a hard-faced little mare at least. "No, it's all right, you stay quiet a minute. Now, Neville and me have been rubbing along with each other for a good long time now. He knows I'm not perfect. He also knows I love the bones of him. I'm telling you this because I can see you care for him."
"I do. I'm sorry, Augusta, really I am. I – I didn't mean to be rude."
"It's all right lass, I've heard worse.
Fiddling with her cake crumbs again, Hannah said, "You've been very good me – and my dad. I'm very grateful."
"Well, believe it or not, I couldn't be happier to see Neville so bright and cheerful as he's been these past few weeks. Now, don't start crying, there's a good girl."
She struggled to keep the impatience out of her voice, reminding herself that the child had not long lost her mother. "Goodness knows, it's been a hard day, but I can tell you something for nothing." Hannah looked up in surprise at the dryly humorous note in Augusta's voice. "Even a patient lad like my Neville will get fed up with a girl who turns on the waterworks at the drop of a hat."
Hannah sniffed, swiping at her cheeks with the back of hand. "I know," she said. She breathed deeply in the way Professor Sprout had always told her, and slowly relaxed.
"One last thing."
Hannah paused in the act of blowing her nose. For the first time, the older woman sounded hesitant, almost embarrassed. "Yesterday – Enid and Algie. I don't know how much you heard."
"A – a little," stuttered Hannah, equally embarrassed.
"Well, you listen to me. I want you to know that I may be old and set in my ways but I don't hold with that sort of talk, not in my house. Magic is magic, wherever it turns up. You're as good a witch as anyone, and a good deal better than some who think they've got the right to talk a lot of rubbish for no better reason than …" She broke off, loath to criticise family to an outsider. "Don't let anyone tell you different."
"Th – thank you," said Hannah, cramming the last of the fruit cake into her mouth for something to do. Her ears were burning. She had a feeling she might just have received the nearest thing to an apology Augusta ever made.
"Now then, at lunchtime you said you had a few Apparition questions?"
"Um, y – yes."
"I've looked out Neville's book. I thought we could have a bit of a practice, pass the time until he gets back."
On impulse, Hannah jumped up again and went over to Augusta's chair. She put her arm around the old woman, who started in surprise, before turning stiffly in her chair to return the hug.
Neville glanced up and down the street. It was deserted, apart from a pair of Muggles who were swaying arm in arm, singing, 'Show me the way to go home.' He tapped on the glass and waited for an answer. After a longer pause than usual, he was allowed in.
The reception area was completely empty, even the Enquiries desk appeared to have been temporarily deserted. That was good. He didn't want to be bothered with awkward questions. He knew where he needed to be. He slipped through the double doors by the desk, into the narrow corridor beyond.
A few minutes later he emerged onto the fourth floor landing and pushed his way through the doors that led into the Spell Damage corridor. It was dark and quiet but he knew there was a Healer station just inside the first open ward. Determinedly not thinking about Mum and Dad asleep just a few yards away, he walked towards the nearest door under which a faint glow was seeping.
Nervously, he cleared his throat. "Erm – hello?" A young man, sitting at a bench beneath rows and rows of glass bottles carefully locked away behind wire screens, looked up in surprise. He was eating a sandwich and reading a book called Savage Spells and How to Reverse Them. Neville recognised him with relief. The young Healer on duty was the one most likely to listen to him, rather than throwing him out on his ear. "Mr Pye?"
"Good lord. It – it's Neville isn't it?" Augustus Pye threw down his book. "Keep your voice down, would you, I've only just got the last one off to sleep." He hurried out into the corridor, pushing Neville in front of him and closing the door softly behind them. "Now what's all this? I'm afraid I can't possibly let you see your parents at this hour."
"N – no. That's not why I'm here. I need your advice. I – I think I've found a patient for you."
"What d'you – where are they?" The Healer looked up and down the corridor. "This is most irregular. The afflicted witch or wizard needs to book themselves in downstairs for processing."
"They can't. They're not here. It's a – a Muggle."
"Dear oh dear. You'd better come along to the office." He led the way to a small room right at the end of the corridor. The walls were lined with files and scrolls heaped in untidy piles on the overflowing shelves. Otherwise, the only furnishings were a scratched desk and a few rickety wooden chairs. Pye sat down behind the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a bottle of amber-coloured liquid. He splashed some into a rather dusty-looking tumbler and handed it to Neville.
"Go on. You look like you could do with it. Healer's orders."
Neville took a huge gulp and nearly choked as the liquid burned its way down his oesophagus. When he could speak, he stammered, "I – I tried to leave. But I couldn't for ages. He wouldn't let me." Pye gestured to one of the remaining chairs.
"The Muggle?"
Neville nodded and sank into the chair, taking another sip from the tumbler, shuddering. After a moment, a warm glow settled in his stomach, gradually spreading to his fingers and toes. He began to relax for the first time in what felt like days. He struggled to explain. "I mean, I could've but it didn't seem right, you know?"
The Healer inclined his head briefly. "Of course, if the chap was ill. You did the right thing. What was wrong with him?"
"I'm not sure. He was confused. He kept repeating things. The same few phrases over and over. Like Mum. But then he'd sort of snap back to normal and be all right. Then I'd ask him a question and it'd set him off again."
"What kind of questions?"
"I – I was trying to find out something." Neville ground to a halt.
"I can help only if I know everything relevant to the man's condition," said Pye, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
As briefly as he could, Neville found himself describing the crash that had killed Hannah's mother and their visit to the scene that morning. He glossed over how he'd foolishly gone off on his own, Apparating to a place he didn't know, feeling it hardly cast his judgement in the best light. While he talked, Pye remained silent, merely nodding at him to continue when he stumbled. Eventually he got to the end. "The man's been hurt somehow, I'm sure of it. And it'll all be useless if we can't get him to remember and admit the truth about what happened."
When Neville had finished, the Healer stood up and paced the room. "Let me see if I understand this correctly. You went alone to see this man, to question him about an event in which he was manipulated into murdering someone, even though you had reason to suspect that he was under the Imperius Curse and that his memory had been tampered with in some way."
"Er – yes."
The pacing stopped. "What did you plan on doing if the culprit turned up?"
"I – I don't know." Put like that, it did sound pretty stupid.
"Well, never mind that now. You asked him to go over this motoring accident with you, which happened ten months ago?"
"I tried. But it just seemed to make him, you know …"
"Agitated."
"That's right. He kept saying that his mind was playing tricks on him. He said there was something wrong, something he should remember."
The Healer sat down again, rocking back in his chair as he pondered Neville's words. "Hmm. There are any number of possible explanations, of course. Head trauma from the accident, for example."
"I – I don't think so," said Neville anxiously. "I'm sure it said on the bit of parchment that no one else was hurt."
"Do you have the inquest report with you now?" Pye's voice was eager. "It would be very useful to have a look at it."
"I – I'm sorry." Neville hung his head. "I forgot to pick it up on my way out." He could see it now, where it had fallen from the lorry driver's hand onto the filthy floor.
"Never mind." Pye's shoulders drooped despondently. Then he perked up again. "What about … yes, now there's an idea –Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? My reading tells me it can cause all sorts of memory difficulties."
"Er –" Neville didn't have the slightest idea what Post-thingy might be, but he was starting to fear that Pye wasn't going to believe him. Hadn't he spent enough hours sitting in the Closed Ward to recognise the difference between a bump on the head and the kind of damage caused by a spell? He groped desperately for words that would convince the Healer. "Somehow, he got the idea that I knew something and – and he wanted me to help him. He kept insisting I had to stay until I could go with him to the hospital – the Muggle hospital. He said he'd been there before but they made him go home. He said now – now they'd have to believe him."
"A Muggle psychiatric facility, or possibly a neurology department, how terribly interesting. I'd be fascinated to visit one of their institutions myself, but if they couldn't help him …" Pye's voice trailed off mournfully. With apparent regret, he abandoned the idea of collaboration with the Muggle health services."Yes, very well then. Damage from an Obliviation of some description, it's a possibility. You said he didn't want you to leave? Was he distressed or anxious, likely to be a danger to himself?"
"He was getting a – a bit worked up, until I promised him I'd stay. He seemed really happy then, like we were friends or something, and he made me a cup of tea. He was drinking something – er – stronger." He gestured to the empty tumbler. "I stayed until he fell asleep, like I do with Mum sometimes. Then I came here. It was the only place I could think of."
"You did exactly the right thing in the circumstances. It would have done no good for you to stay longer, none at all. He looked sharply at Neville. "The girl you referred to – Hannah?" Neville nodded. "You mentioned she's been diagnosed with a sensitivity to magic? It's a rare condition."
"Y – yes. At least, the school nurse said so."
"Poppy Pomfrey still at Hogwarts? Ah well, in that case we can be confident the diagnosis is accurate. Interesting." The Healer lapsed into contemplation of Neville's discarded tumbler. "Regarding this man, you leave me with something of a dilemma. From a medical point of view, it sounds as though he needs urgent assistance. Unfortunately, I'm completely unable to move in a case like this without direction from Magical Law Enforcement. I'm not sure there is anything that can be done until the morning."
Neville half-rose from his seat. "But – but what if that's too late? He might wake up. I promised him. I can't let him down. And – and there's something I haven't told you. S – something I saw at the man's house."
"Is it medically relevant?"
"N – no, I don't think so."
"Good. I don't want to know then."
"But I think it could mean danger to a lot of people."
"Save it for the Aurors. All right then, let me think." Pye rubbed his eyes wearily and stifled a yawn. He looked as exhausted as Neville felt.
"Can't you Floo someone?" he volunteered.
"Floo's no good. It's the middle of the night – there won't be anyone in the Ministry at this time of night. We could always try a letter, our emergency owls are pretty quick, and there's bound to be an M.L.E. staff member on duty somewhere." He took parchment and quill out of the middle drawer. "Who do you want to address it to?"
Neville breathed a sigh of relief. "Arthur Weasley, please. He'll know what it's about."
It wasn't Arthur who walked into Reception an hour later, but someone even more comfortingly familiar. Neville was immediately overwhelmed by a flood of cheery banter. "Your grandmother is going to make me wish I'd never been born. What the hell have you been up to? Is this something to do with that tasty little girlfriend of yours? Augusta warned me she was trouble. Ah – Pye – good to see you." Neville's godfather shook hands with the young Healer, who seemed somewhat dismayed at the appearance of the Head of the Obliviation Squad.
Arnold Peasegood sat down on one of the wooden chairs that lined the walls, which creaked in protest. "Neville, you have no idea how lucky you are that Arthur and I were both working tonight."
"Anything interesting?" asked Pye.
"Nasty little collection of fake specs. The inventors' claim was they stop people having 'treasonous' thoughts. Of course, there was a market. It's been total panic stations since the Ministry started using Veritaserum for random questioning."
"You – you're not interrogating people are you, Uncle Arnie?"
"Goodness me, no. Not my department. We Obliviators just clear up other people's mess." His godfather's jovial voice was tinged with bitterness. "Take these eye-glasses – the things were wiping out entire sets of everyday words. You try getting along without 'dark', 'black', 'mark' and 'giant.' Awfully fiddly job to put right for the chumps who bought them before Arthur's lot managed to close the operation down, and it's not as though I've good people to spare."
"How many affected?" asked Pye nervously.
"We caught a lot of them near the point of sale. One poor beggar from Blackpool couldn't even remember how to get home. You might get a few walk-ins over the next few days. Alert us if you do, we'll send someone along to help with the restorations. Now then, I understand you need me to sign a release of some kind?"
"That's right." The Healer handed him a couple of sheets of parchment. "This one to say the Muggle has suspected Spell Damage. And this one arranging for collection from his home."
"Righto." Arnold Peasegood signed his name with a flourish. "Is that everything for now?" He handed the quill back.
"What will happen to him?" asked Neville.
"We'll bring him here and make him comfortable, and ascertain whether or not he is still under the Imperius Curse," answered Pye.
"You'll need to liaise with us on the memory problem." Turning to Neville, his godfather said conspiratorially, "We'll need to work out what spells are involved before we let these quacks do anything that might make him worse." He winked at the Healer, who smiled queasily. "I'll send someone along in the morning."
Uncle Arnie made for the exit. Neville trailed after him, exhausted and very hungry now that the adrenaline had worn off. "First things first," said his godfather, as they stepped onto the pavement outside the shop front of Purge and Dowse. "I'm taking you home before your gran has a heart attack."
"I can get home on my own," said Neville.
"Ah! I was forgetting."
"But first I need to talk to you about something. It's important."
"Eh – like that is it? All right – we can go for a bit of a walk."
Neville and his godfather wandered along the dimly-lit roads and quiet squares that surrounded the hospital. "Bit of advice about girls is it?" began Uncle Arnie. "I remember before I met your Auntie Charlotte …"
"N – nothing like that." Neville cut him off. He couldn't let himself be distracted by his godfather's habit of disconcertingly frank reminiscing. "Did Mr Weasley tell you what happened to Hannah's mum?"
Uncle Arnie nodded. "And he explained his theory about it. Must say, it didn't seem too likely to me at first – but if it turns out this Muggle has had his brain scrambled … Bright chap, Arthur Weasley."
"There's some new stuff Mr Weasley doesn't know …" For the second time that night, Neville told how he and Hannah had worked out the virtually undetectable spell on the traffic light, and how it had allowed whoever was responsible to get away with making the car crash look like an accident. He finished by describing how they'd removed the glass from the light that morning.
"Splendid work, Neville." His godfather looked impressed. "Never knew you had it in you. Your little friend works in Misuse, does she? Well, that makes life simple, she can bring in this bit of evidence with her tomorrow morning. A chap by the name of Perkins, I seem to remember, deals with all that sort of thing now. Good man, very deft with a Memory Charm, for an amateur."
"That's the thing, Uncle Arnie. I haven't told you everything. I think Mr Perkins may be the one behind it all."
"Stuff and nonsense, Neville. Whatever makes you say that? He's a perfectly harmless old buffer, been with the Department for years."
"Well, for one thing he modifies people's memories all the time and – and I'm not sure that's all he does." Neville confided his suspicions about the spell Perkins had cast on the Muggle boy Hannah had told him about. "What if he put him under the Imperius Curse?"
Arnie shook his head. "There are lesser ways of encouraging someone to cooperate, Neville."
"That's not all," continued Neville stubbornly. "This toy the boy had – the water-piston thing with Dark spells on it. Well, I saw one – exactly how Hannah described it – in this bloke's kitchen."
"Toys like that are all over the place. Really, Neville, I think you're getting worked up over nothing."
"Muggle-baiting isn't nothing, Uncle Arnie." said Neville, shocked. "The thing Hannah found was dangerous."
"Of course it isn't – that's not what I meant." His godfather paused. "All right, I'll get it checked out. But as for this having anything to do with old Perkins – you're barking up the wrong tree there, Neville. It's time you went home, stopped worrying, and had a bit of fun. The summer will over before you know it. I mean it. I don't want you running all over the countryside getting yourself into scrapes you might not get out of so easily next time. Leave this for us to deal with now."
Neville saw it would do no good to press the matter further. "Thanks for coming to help me, Uncle Arnie."
"You've done well today, even if you did take a daft risk. Your mum and dad would be proud of you." Neville shuffled his feet. His godfather looked at him sharply. "Is this the first time you've done something like this? Gone off half-cocked without thinking about the consequences?" Neville considered. He didn't usually think about things that hard, he just did what seemed right at the time.
"Why?"
"Things worked out all right today – you were damn lucky. I don't want to preach. I could tell you some stuff about me and your dad. When we were about your age, we were pretty wild ourselves."
"Oh?" said Neville hopefully. Uncle Arnie was always good for a school or a war story about his dad.
"Wild, that's right. He could have ended up a bit of a lad, could Frank. He was clever all right, but he had it a bit too easy. Your mother was different. Alice knew how to have a laugh, but she was a hard worker all the same. When they got together, I was a bit surprised at first. She didn't seem like his type, too quiet, but she made him happy. He always used to say to me, 'I'm the lucky one, Arnie'. He said I'd understand what he meant one day and he was right." Uncle Arnie paused, chuckling to himself. Then, seeming to realise he'd gone off track, he continued. "Not that she clipped his wings, no, I'm not saying that. Your dad just seemed to settle, get serious about work and so on."
Neville was having a hard time trying to follow what his godfather's ramble was driving at. "But I do work hard, Uncle Arnie. I'm doing loads better at school now I've dropped History of Magic and Astronomy and all those other subjects I'm rubbish at. I'm going to be a Herbologist, a proper one. As soon as I've caught up with Potions that is …"
"Yes, you're a good lad, Neville." Uncle Arnie sounded thoughtful. "Talented too, which isn't surprising." Neville stared at the floor. He could never deal with compliments, especially undeserved ones. However, it seemed his godfather wasn't about to hand him ten points. He took Neville by the shoulder, and when he spoke his voice was serious. "I saw the look in your eye yesterday, when you took on that old gorgon, Enid. Reminded me of someone. You ended up in Gryffindor for a reason – a bit of recklessness comes with the territory maybe, and sticking up for that pretty little wench does you credit. I don't doubt that was what was behind this escapade today."
"I just want to help," Neville said simply. He wished his godfather would stop calling Hannah 'little'. It sounded a bit … The right word eluded him.
"A noble sentiment lad, but it's dumb luck that you're here now, and it didn't end badly. How do you think that little peach of yours is feeling now, sitting at home, waiting for you and wondering if you'll show? Seems to me she's had more than her fair share of picking up the pieces this past year already."
It took a minute to sink in. He hadn't just been stupid. With a sick, acid feeling of shame, Neville realised that he'd been selfish too. His godfather hadn't finished yet. "And I don't suppose your gran was too pleased at you haring off at the crack of dawn today, well, yesterday now, I suppose?"
"No, she wasn't."
"Let's leave it there, Neville lad. I must say, I didn't expect to be playing the heavy godfather, it doesn't come naturally to me." In a transparent attempt to lighten the mood, Uncle Arnie changed the subject. "Did your grandmother tell you I witnessed some documents relating to you yesterday?" Neville looked up from his contemplation of a nasty dog mess on the pavement. His godfather's eyes were twinkling.
"Yes, she told me." Something else to feel guilty about, after Gran had gone to so much trouble sorting it all out for him. But it was a big step, and one he wasn't completely sure he was ready to take. Neville knew he should be grateful to have kind relatives looking out for his interests, but he wished sometimes that he had more say over what happened to him. It wouldn't be right to mention it though. "Thank you, Uncle Arnie," he said dutifully.
His godfather's expression was shrewd. "Speaking of growing up, life changes and so on …" He gave a slight cough. "Anything you need to ask about the – er – fairer sex? You're of age now, of course, and no different to most blokes your age, I'd wager. Thinking about, you know ...?" Leaning over and nudging Neville with his elbow, Uncle Arnie tipped him a very definite wink.
Neville flushed, trying not to look embarrassed and guilty all over again. One thing he knew, he wasn't discussing any vague hopes he might have in that direction with anyone except Hannah – when the time was right, of course. "N – no, it's fine, really," he mumbled.
"Sure about that? No – well, I won't pry. You'd best be getting back anyway. If I know Augusta, she'll be sitting up."
They stopped walking. "Hold on." The stout wizard looked up into the night sky, surveying the diffuse glow of the city light pollution. He extinguished the nearest street lights so that they were standing in a pool of inky darkness. "Off you go."
"Good night, Uncle Arnie." Neville concentrated hard, wanting to make a decent show of Disapparating in front of his godfather.
Hannah heard the back door creak and lifted her head. Her neck was stiff. She stretched out her arms and got up from the table. The kitchen was in darkness. Over in the corner, gentle snores could be heard coming from the rocking chair.
"Who is it?" she whispered, her hand resting on the wand at her waistband.
"It's me," came a low voice. She heard the sound of footsteps coming nearer and then Neville's arms were around her. She held onto him in the dark, her frantic heartbeat gradually slowing.
"Lumos," came a voice from the other side of the room.
Hannah released him as Augusta hobbled over to where they were standing. Neville waited uncertainly. "I – I'm sorry, Gran," he mumbled. She grabbed his shoulders as if to shake him, then enfolded him in a brisk hug.
"Get the kettle on, Hannah love."