A/N: This story is structured primarily of episodes dominated by dialogue, with narrative interspersed only when required. Assuming that those who have selected to read it are familiar with the world created by J.K. Rowling (yeah, it's not mine), it should not be too difficult to fill in the blanks. Fair warning: If your tastes run to stories which exhaustively list each step in a person's thought processes, every food ingredient and spices in a dish, or the placement of each lock in a hairstyle, pass this one by. According to FFN, there are over 800,000 others to read.
The slightly chubby boy wandered an almost invisible path barely within the 'wild' part of his family lands, feet scuffing the decayed leaves which nourished and protected fragile understory plants. His sniffling nose, which could legitimately be blamed on an unexpected dip in sea water the day before, actually had a more prosaic cause.
"Even if I am a squib, Uncle Algie shouldn't've pushed me off the pier," he muttered. "If I'd drowned, who would take care of the greenhouse?" Plants, he thought, were much preferred to a distant, judgmental grandmother and a great-uncle who utilized assorted methods to provoke a magical response. After a series of derogatory remarks failed to elicit sparks of any kind, the old man had suddenly resorted to physical stimulation on the lad. Even good as he was at swimming, the shock of cold seawater had disoriented him enough that he counted himself lucky when a nearby teenage muggle had jumped over the side of his rowboat to fish him out. Not that the young man would remember his heroism, since his relative had casually obliviated him of the action.
"I just wish…" His voice trailed away when he espied an unexpected colour shining brightly in the midst of darker shades on the ground.
As far back as he could recall, at this season the forest floor was carpeted with delicate sweet violets in a bluish tint of their name. But here, surrounded by purple, was a pure white blossom. He squatted to survey it at closer range. "Beautiful," he breathed. His grandmother had once off-handedly mentioned that violets were his mother's favorite flower. Maybe if he could put together a full posy of white she would respond to him. As much as he endeavoured to believe that her 'gifts' meant that she recognized him, a collection of candy wrappers did not provide much comfort.
Cautiously Neville dug his fingers into the soil and lifted the plant, not regarding as any importance the dirt which now sprinkled his clothes. With such a goal in mind, this snowy flower would be encouraged to reproduce under the care of his as-yet unidentified magical hands.
"Higher! Higher!" The boy stretched out a hand but the winged ball fluttered out of reach above him before speeding sideways. A frustrated rumble from the back of his throat could be heard as he shook the polished shaft of the junior broom. Unfamiliar with Newton's laws of motion, he was almost unseated before gravity was summarily defied and he was lifted back up.
"Dobby!" he called down. "I wasn't going to fall! Stop treating me like a baby."
The large-eyed creature on the ground shook its head, ears flopping at the movement. "Youse on new flying stick. Mistress not like it if Master Draco hurts himself firstest day."
The child blew platinum bangs out of his eyes. True enough that he was farther from the ground than he had ever been–on his own, that is. And his father was enough of a perfectionist that he didn't want to disappoint him. Well, he had better things to do than argue with a house elf. Such as finding where that training stitch had disappeared to.
The scrawny boy slunk down in his seat. Oh, jeez, not again!
The oblivious teacher stood at the blackboard, writing yet another assignment blurry enough to be invisible to the child in the back row. When snickers quickly spread among the students, Mrs. Blimber turned with a scowl. "Quiet, class!"
She might as well have spoken to the wall, for all the good it did. Dratted hooligans! Her eyes scanned the children, looking for the youngster who the other teachers had designated a troublemaker. Not spying him, she froze in trepidation when she noticed several pupils pointing at her.
Spinning around to make certain that no one had sneaked up on her, a flash of blue winked in her peripheral vision. A half strangled cry burst from her lips as she grasped the strand of hair and pulled it in for closer viewing. "What is the meaning of this?" she snarled once she recalled that she had the ability to speak English.
The well-fed boy seated near the windows howled towards his cousin, "Hey, Freak! Just wait'll Dad hears about this one!"
"Potter!"
The girl took it as a personal insult that school had been given an unexpected holiday for such a slim reason. "It's only a new wing on the hospital," she had pointed out. "No rational person would call that grounds to interfere with the education of British youth."
"Hermione, dear," her mother replied with calm patience, "you know very well what is going on. And remember, your father and I are required to attend since we use their facilities for our more complicated cases."
"I still don't see why I can't stay in the library all day."
"Kitten," her father pointed out, "I would bet that most of its staff will be 'booking' it to the event also."
She groaned at the pun and gestured dramatically. "The world is against me," she declared.
"Look, as long as you don't leave the premises you can stay far away from the fuss and bother. Take all the books you want; just make sure that you move around every half hour."
That mandate was the cause of her sigh at the buzz of the kitchen timer. Placing a bookmark between the pages of the thick tome which most would have considered above her reading level, she rose from the base of the shade tree and walked to the swing set. Looping her arms around the chains of one, she opened her book once more.
After a few minutes she found her solitude interrupted. A boy with tousled strawberry blond hair, several years younger than she, clambered into the swing next to hers. She raised an eyebrow at the high-end attire and considered it decidedly inappropriate for the dusty playground.
"Hello!" he piped up once he managed to get his seat moving.
She glanced over. Yes, some parent–or nanny–was definitely going to be doing laundry this evening. "Hello to you," she returned politely. "You're a little short. Are you sure you can operate that by yourself?"
"Of course," he snorted. "Just watch me!"
Boys, she thought. "Very well. Just don't go too high. This recreational area has insufficient cushioning in case of accidents."
Not heeding her words, he pumped his small legs faster.
"On your head be it," she warned as her eyes returned to the printed page.
At some subconscious level she must have been monitoring his activities for her neck swiveled when his high-pitched screeches of delight rose farther in the air.
"You shouldn't–" she began just as one sweaty hand slipped at the apex of the arc. His body twisted and headed towards the ground in a manner which she, who had already read her physician parents' medical books, could see would result in at least one broken bone. "No!" she cried, reaching out a futile hand to halt the inevitable.
Perhaps not so futile, as the boy's brief wail of terror turned to giggles when he found himself suspended half a metre above the hard-packed earth. Suddenly the deserted playground was filled with adults, one of whom scolded, "Harry, what did Mummy tell you to do?"
Still floating, the boy rubbed his nose, smearing his face with dust from the swing chain. "Stay close," he replied sullenly.
Rising, his mother nodded to a uniformed man who had been speaking into a shoulder microphone. The man walked over to encircle the boy's waist with one strong arm.
"Young lady." Hermione's shocked vision was suddenly full of a familiar face with the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. "Do you think you can let go of my son?"