Disclaimer: I don't own Neville, his family, Blackpool Pier, Grindylows,
Dugbogs, or even this computer. So you wouldn't get much if you sued me.
A/N: Final installment here – remember, I will be very happy to get reviews, even if you're just pointing out the many flaws in my story. In fact, pointing out flaws would be very helpful, as I'm already working on Neville story #3.
Many thanks to Kimagure for reviewing. (
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
BLACKPOOL PIER
(Part the Second)
Neville scratched the back of his neck, fidgeting miserably in his best dress robes. If only Gran had let him change! It was too hot and murky down here … he could feel sweat trickling down his back, and while it relieved the frightful scratchiness of the robe, it left him feeling thoroughly unhappy.
Gran shot him a stern look, and he hastily put his hand back down. He had long since finished eating, but the grown-ups were still sipping tea, nibbling on scones, and cheerily discussing fashions, politics, Quidditch, mutual acquaintances, and the peculiarities of various relatives-by- marriage. None of it held the slightest interest to a seven-year-old who had never even seen a Quidditch game. He turned his attention to the sparkling edges of the magic insect-dome, and morbidly watched gnats and wasps evaporate in little wisps of smoke as they struck the barrier.
It took him several minutes to realize that Aunt Enid was talking to him. He started as Gran called his name sharply, feeling his ears grow hot with embarrassment. "S-sorry, Great-Auntie, I didn't hear you. Er … what?"
Aunt Enid smiled at him kindly. "I asked if you had had a biscuit yet, Neville."
Biscuit? Oh, biscuit. He looked blankly at the tray of desserts. Had he had a biscuit? Oh, no.
He squirmed wretchedly on the picnic blanket. "Ah – ah – er – I – uh – I don't know?" Gran and Aunt Octavia were looking at him too now, and he curled his shoulders up, staring at a bruise on his thumb.
"Have you had a biscuit yet, Neville?" Aunt Enid repeated, a trifle louder, as if she was talking to a very dense child … oh, wait. She was.
Frantically, he searched his memory. He remembered looking at the tray … but had that been before or after he finished his vegetables? Had he eaten one? He honestly could not say – biscuit-eating, or lack thereof, had vanished utterly from his recent memory.
"I don't remember," he whispered in frustration.
Aunt Enid sighed sadly. "Go on and take one, then, dear." She thrust the tray under his nose, and he unhappily lifted a chocolate-studded biscuit, cradling it in his none-too-clean hands. He stared at it, concentrating on the rough texture of the oats Gran had added "for nutrition," and struggled to tune out Gran's angry whispers.
"Don't nag the poor boy, Enid. You know his memory hasn't been the same since that knock on the head when It happened."
"Poor darling," Aunt Octavia chirped softly. Her earrings jangled as she shook her head. "Poor little darling. But it's probably just as well, isn't it, Iphy? That he has trouble remembering things, I mean. Maybe he's forgotten … It. You know. And also Them."
"Oh, yes," Enid agreed, failing just as drastically to keep her whispers inaudible. "It would be simply terrible if he could remember It. Oh! I'm sure I should be miserable if *I* could remember … something like that. It's probably for the best, poor Nevvie."
Gran sniffed angrily, rattling her teacup in its saucer. "All very well for you say so, Enid, but it isn't so very much 'for the best' when he forgets his alphabet five minutes after reciting it perfectly. Or when he forgets how to tie his shoes, or goes into the sitting room to fetch me a cushion and comes back with a book!"
"Now, Iphy, don't be angry," Octavia coaxed. "We're only trying to find the silver lining, you know."
Silver lining? Oh, "every cloud has a silver lining." What did that mean? He had heard Uncle Algie say it to Gran when she growled about a broken china teacup. "At least you won't have to wash it now!" he had chortled. Gran hadn't thought it very comforting.
Neville didn't find his aunts' discussion very comforting, either. It's not my memory of things that happened a long time ago that isn't good, he thought grimly. I can't remember where I leave my comb, but I can remember It. I can remember everything *bad* that ever happens. And they think I can't because I can't remember what I did five minutes ago. And I wish they would whisper more quietly.
Gran huffed again and poured herself more tea. "It's not much of a silver lining, though, is it? I declare, it's a great trial having to constantly – but, there, I'm not complaining. Octavia, would you like more tea?"
"Thank you, Iphy, I would. But, really, dear, don't fret too much. What does it matter if Nevvie isn't brilliant with things like school? He may not even ever go to Hog … warts …" Her voice faltered and she fell silent, obviously realizing she was being less than tactful.
"Neville's such a very sweet boy," Enid cut in placatingly. "It doesn't matter if he's a little … slow … sometimes."
"I would be the last one to contest Neville's sweetness," Gran murmured, sounding tired and sad, "but I sometimes wish … well … it's only that I wish he could do something someday to uphold the Longbottom family name …"
Neville intensified his stare at the biscuit, focusing on the blood pounding in his ears. He couldn't hear them, he couldn't hear them, he couldn't hear them …
"Gran?"
Gran started slightly, and turned a guilty stare at him. "Oh! Have you finished eating, then, Neville?"
He clenched a fist around the crumbling mass in his hand, feeling the chocolate melt against his skin's warmth. "Yes, Grannie. Can I please walk around a little? I'd like to … er … look at trees and things. And the flowers and dragonflies and things. Please?"
"Certainly, Neville. But mind where you go – I don't want you to get your robes muddy in the swamp. And watch out for poisonous fungi. Please remember where we are, and be back before long. Don't go too far away. Mind you don't go touching any plants you don't know, and remember what I said about getting muddy. Don't try to climb any trees, and stay away from the pier. The banks there are too high – I don't want you to fall in."
"Yes, Gran." He fled from the picnic site, ignoring the swarms of overjoyed midges that converged upon him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
An hour later, he found himself wishing he had heeded Gran's warnings to stay near the picnic area. All the vine-laden trees looked the same, and the ankle-deep sludge was *definitely* getting splashed on his robes. Gran was going to be sniffy about this, no doubt. At the moment, he didn't really care. He would have been happy to hear an irritated, "NEV-ille, what-EVER are you DO-ing?" or even a furious, "NEVILLE FRANCIS LONGBOTTOM – WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
He paused, breathing heavily, and studied a mossy log. It *looked* clean enough … surely it would be all right to sit down on it for a moment. Nervously, he perched on the yielding wood, praying that the moss would not squirt out foul-smelling fumes or scorch a hole in his robes.
His legs ached from his effort to put distance between himself and the picnic party – an effort that had succeeded a little too well. Aimlessly, he began stripping the bark off of a nearby twig, dropping the scraps into the water on the other side of the log. The withered leaves and insects floating on the murky liquid were not enough to keep his interest, and his thoughts inexorably returned to the conversation he had overheard.
Was he really a Squib, a child of wizarding descent without a drop of magic in his veins?
A lump rose in his throat and he sniffled suddenly, pulling a hand across his nose. The sudden gritty feeling on his face informed him that his hand had been less than clean, and he flung the stick at the water in sudden vexation. Maybe if he concentrated on being annoyed at the general dirtiness of this … this … this *ruddy* swamp, he wouldn't cry. What business did mud have, anyway, being all over the place? Why hadn't somebody cleaned this mess up?
He kicked his heels against the side of the rotting log, now picked at the moss. There was dirt under his fingernails, and he picked at it absently.
Hogwarts probably wasn't as fun as everybody said, anyway. The other kids would laugh at him for being fat and stupid and … and not having any parents, because he sure as anything wasn't going to tell anybody where he went sometimes with Gran, and the teachers wouldn't like him because he would get bad marks. Better to stay with Gran and … and do what?
A chunk of bark came off in his hand and he hefted it. How far could he throw it? There was a log or a big hunk of wood – maybe even from this same trunk: it certainly looked rotten enough – floating in the water. Could he hit it? Putting all his strength into the swing, he flung the bit of log toward the designated target – and missed it by several feet. Not far enough, and too much to the left … or was it right? He stared down at his hands for a moment, trying to remember what Gran had said. Right was the "right" hand, the one he wrote with. Or was it actually the other way around? No matter: he had missed, and that was the important thing. He broke off another chunk, peeling the moss away like a thick onion skin.
This time he came a lot closer. The hunk of dead wood rocked in the ripples created by his projectile. Wait. Hadn't it been a little further away before? He squinted at it thoughtfully. Maybe there was a … what was it called … a current, like in rivers and things. There was a current in Blackpool, the river/pond that fed the swamp. But if the water was moving, how come the leaves weren't?
His third chunk of wood hit the target dead on, but his triumph died instantly as the floating bull's-eye suddenly accelerating. For a moment, he stared wide-eyed at the leaves caught in the wake left by the speeding bit of wood, his mind jerking like a fish on a string. This was bad … Gran had told him something about this … what was it? Something about things with teeth that floated and looked like logs – something bad.
Dugbogs.
"Oh, no," he said out loud, and scrambled up to run. The slippery moss betrayed him, and he lost his balance. For a moment he teetered precariously on the log, then, with a howl of fright, he toppled sideways and landed in the knee-deep slush on the other side.
His first thought was that Gran would kill him for doing this to his best dress robes; his second, that if he didn't get out of the water *now,* she wouldn't even have a chance to kill him. He flung himself at the bank; the Dugbog exploded out of the slimy water in a whirl of finned paws, needle-sharp teeth, and flying water droplets. Neville shrieked again and scrabbled up the bank, feeling the teeth close within an inch of his ankle. Heedless of the mud, he tumbled over the log and began to run.
Almost instantly, he rammed into something solid and sat down hard.
"Neville!?"
Neville's heart plummeted down toward his shoes. Slowly, he looked up, past the blue robes – mud-streaked where he had touched them – and saw his cousin Eugene looking down at him with raised eyebrows. For a moment, his feelings warred between relief at being safe and shame at being lost, covered in mud, and screaming like a four-year-old … embarrassment won out. He ducked his head again.
"'Twas a dugbog," he mumbled brokenly. "'M sorry."
Eugene tapped his wand against Neville's shoulder, and some of the mud trickled off. "Are you all right?"
Neville nodded unhappily, and Eugene pulled him to his feet. "Dugbog, eh? Glad you got away from it – they're right nasty little creatures." He started off through the trees, and Neville trailed after him. "Not surprised you sloped off from that picnic party … deadly dull." He grinned back over his shoulder, a little too comfortingly. "Clarence and Augustus have migrated down to the pier to go fishing … want to come along?"
Did he ever!
"Yes! Thank you! I – I'd love to watch them go fishing! Oh …" His face fell again as he remembered. "Gran said I wasn't to go to the pier."
"Not a problem," Eugene assured her. "She told me it was fine with her as long as you were with responsible adults … which rules me out, but Clarence is about as responsible as they come."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The pier was a trifle too hot and buggy for Neville's liking, and also a trifle too high above the water, which was a trifle too deep, but it was still more than a trifle better than sitting back on that picnic blanket listening to Gran say he wasn't worthy to be called a Longbottom. Eugene had provided him with a fishing rod, but sitting on the very edge of the pier above the fifteen-foot-deep water was *not* his idea of fun. That water was dark and dangerous … there could be anything in there.
Instead, he clung to one of the rails and watched Augusts haul in fish, crow about his wonderful technique, and then throw them back in for being too small, too thin, or too pretty to eat. Eugene and Clarence were only giving part of their attention to their fishing lines. They had gotten into a rather heated argument over the Quidditch World Cup – Clarence didn't think England had a chance, and Eugene was calling him a lily- livered waffler. Clarence demanded to know what good qualities the English team had that the opposing team didn't have in twice the amount, and Eugene retorted that one of his best friends from Hogwarts was a Chaser on that team, and therefore they would be unbeatable. Then Clarence insisted the English beaters got too many fouls on them to be worth their places on the team, and Eugene pointed out that when you considered there were seven hundred possible fouls, the twenty or so the beaters committed every game were really quite insignificant.
Then Clarence told Eugene he should have been in Slytherin, and Eugene threw his pail of fish-bait at his older brother.
The fight paused when Great-Uncle Algie sauntered onto the pier, beaming happily. "Dear me, Eugene, have you spilled your bait?" he inquired anxiously, and Augustus burst out laughing, which didn't help anyone's temper.
Evidently guessing at the volatility of the situation, Augustus handed his fishing rod to Uncle Algie and began attempting to placate his cousins with an amusing story regarding the Falmouth Falcons and a hexed Swiftstick.
Uncle Algie leaned against the rail next to Neville and continued to beam. "What a lovely day, eh, Neville? You don't see weather like this often! Marvelous idea, coming out here for a picnic. My, what larks we had on this pier when I was a kid … Iphy and I used to shove each other into the water in the summer …"
Neville blinked.
"And Octavia always set up such a racket when mud got splashed on her. Ah! Those were the days – there's nothing quite like carefree youth, young Neville. Hang onto it while you can."
"Er … yes, sir …"
Then the odd gleam re-entered Uncle Algie's eyes, and Neville nervously tightened his grip on the rail. "You can't swim yet, can you, Neville?"
"Er … no, sir …"
Uncle Algie grinned expansively and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent! I mean – ah – swimming is a great skill and you should learn it as soon as you can, what?"
"Er … yes, sir …"
"Come on down to the end of the pier and I'll teach you to fish!"
Neville gulped. "I'd – I'd rather not, Great-Uncle Algie … er … I'm not good at fishing."
"Nonsense! A nephew of mine, not good at fishing? Ridiculous! Why, Mortlakes have always excelled in that field! Come on, Neville, be a good egg and pick up your pole."
Heart heavy with foreboding, Neville followed his uncle to the edge. Uncle Algie peered down at the water, glanced up at Neville, squinted, nodded, looked back down, and smirked. "Hand me your pole, Neville…"
The next thing Neville knew, he was flying through the air toward the murky surface of Blackpool Pond. He opened his mouth to scream as he struck the surface with a resounding splash. Instead, he got a mouthful of perfectly foul-tasting water – and then he was sinking through the dark, pressing liquid, the light receding away.
Terror swarmed through him, choking him even more effectively than the water. He thrashed frantically, but the sodden weight of his best dress robes continued to drag him down. He forced his eyes open against the sting of the water – and a wordless yell escaped him. Two enormous pale eyes were staring up at him from the weedy pond bottom. A long, impossibly thin arm snaked out, pale green against the blackness of the water, and bony fingers wound themselves around his ankle.
His lungs were about to explode; black spots danced in front of his eyes. Neville kicked out at the creature's head, his heart lurching in terror as it bared sharp green teeth. He was going to die, he *knew* he going to die – this was it, it was all over –
He blacked out just as the Grindylow bit his leg.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The strident voices dragged him up from his deep sleep, but he kept his eyes shut. The bed was soft and cozy; he was quite comfortable where he was, and had no desire to let anyone know he'd woken up.
"I cannot believe you did that, Algernon!"
"Iphy – I only wanted to -"
"You almost killed him!"
"I didn't mean -"
"Of all the thoughtless, idiotic pranks you have ever pulled, this has been the worst! I thought I made it quite clear to you that your offer to 'help Neville along' was *not* apppreciated. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
Neville felt rather guilty that he was enjoying hearing Uncle Algie scolded. Anyone who had been on the receiving end of one of Gran's angry rants should have nothing but sympathy for a fellow sufferer.
Then Aunt Enid's voice joined the conversation. "Good heavens, Algie, what's this they're telling me? Iphy, is Neville all right?"
"Perfectly fine, poor child, but he nearly drowned! Your husband pushed him off the pier!"
"Algie! How could you?"
"Enid, I -"
"Thank God he at least had enough sense to pull Neville back up with a summoning spell when the poor boy hadn't surfaced for nearly *three whole minutes.* He came *this* close to drowning, Enid. And all because Algie thinks scaring people into showing their magic is a brilliant idea!"
"Iphy, I -"
"You be quiet, Algernon! Neville can't help it if he's a squib – and *killing* him is not going to cure him!" Gran was crying suddenly, and Aunt Enid began to murmur comforting remarks at her.
"I'm sorry, Iphy, really," Uncle Algie insisted faintly. "But – I mean – dash it all, he *can't* be a squib! He's a just a slow bloomer … and I really thought it would make him do magic. I – All right, all right, I'll go."
His footsteps faded down the stairs, leaving Aunt Enid murmuring, "There, there, dear … it's all right, Neville will be fine."
"He's a squib, Enid," Gran sobbed. "He almost died and it didn't make him do any magic. Oh! I could *kill* Algie! It's just too much."
A squib.
Neville opened his eyes slowly, numb with disbelief. Had Gran really said that? But he could still hear her crying … it wasn't a nightmare. It really happened. And he hadn't done any magic.
Miserably, he rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Maybe if he fell asleep, he could forget it had ever happened…
*Maybe it's just as well that Dad and Mum won't ever know.*
THE END
Questions? Comments? Review!
A/N: Final installment here – remember, I will be very happy to get reviews, even if you're just pointing out the many flaws in my story. In fact, pointing out flaws would be very helpful, as I'm already working on Neville story #3.
Many thanks to Kimagure for reviewing. (
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
BLACKPOOL PIER
(Part the Second)
Neville scratched the back of his neck, fidgeting miserably in his best dress robes. If only Gran had let him change! It was too hot and murky down here … he could feel sweat trickling down his back, and while it relieved the frightful scratchiness of the robe, it left him feeling thoroughly unhappy.
Gran shot him a stern look, and he hastily put his hand back down. He had long since finished eating, but the grown-ups were still sipping tea, nibbling on scones, and cheerily discussing fashions, politics, Quidditch, mutual acquaintances, and the peculiarities of various relatives-by- marriage. None of it held the slightest interest to a seven-year-old who had never even seen a Quidditch game. He turned his attention to the sparkling edges of the magic insect-dome, and morbidly watched gnats and wasps evaporate in little wisps of smoke as they struck the barrier.
It took him several minutes to realize that Aunt Enid was talking to him. He started as Gran called his name sharply, feeling his ears grow hot with embarrassment. "S-sorry, Great-Auntie, I didn't hear you. Er … what?"
Aunt Enid smiled at him kindly. "I asked if you had had a biscuit yet, Neville."
Biscuit? Oh, biscuit. He looked blankly at the tray of desserts. Had he had a biscuit? Oh, no.
He squirmed wretchedly on the picnic blanket. "Ah – ah – er – I – uh – I don't know?" Gran and Aunt Octavia were looking at him too now, and he curled his shoulders up, staring at a bruise on his thumb.
"Have you had a biscuit yet, Neville?" Aunt Enid repeated, a trifle louder, as if she was talking to a very dense child … oh, wait. She was.
Frantically, he searched his memory. He remembered looking at the tray … but had that been before or after he finished his vegetables? Had he eaten one? He honestly could not say – biscuit-eating, or lack thereof, had vanished utterly from his recent memory.
"I don't remember," he whispered in frustration.
Aunt Enid sighed sadly. "Go on and take one, then, dear." She thrust the tray under his nose, and he unhappily lifted a chocolate-studded biscuit, cradling it in his none-too-clean hands. He stared at it, concentrating on the rough texture of the oats Gran had added "for nutrition," and struggled to tune out Gran's angry whispers.
"Don't nag the poor boy, Enid. You know his memory hasn't been the same since that knock on the head when It happened."
"Poor darling," Aunt Octavia chirped softly. Her earrings jangled as she shook her head. "Poor little darling. But it's probably just as well, isn't it, Iphy? That he has trouble remembering things, I mean. Maybe he's forgotten … It. You know. And also Them."
"Oh, yes," Enid agreed, failing just as drastically to keep her whispers inaudible. "It would be simply terrible if he could remember It. Oh! I'm sure I should be miserable if *I* could remember … something like that. It's probably for the best, poor Nevvie."
Gran sniffed angrily, rattling her teacup in its saucer. "All very well for you say so, Enid, but it isn't so very much 'for the best' when he forgets his alphabet five minutes after reciting it perfectly. Or when he forgets how to tie his shoes, or goes into the sitting room to fetch me a cushion and comes back with a book!"
"Now, Iphy, don't be angry," Octavia coaxed. "We're only trying to find the silver lining, you know."
Silver lining? Oh, "every cloud has a silver lining." What did that mean? He had heard Uncle Algie say it to Gran when she growled about a broken china teacup. "At least you won't have to wash it now!" he had chortled. Gran hadn't thought it very comforting.
Neville didn't find his aunts' discussion very comforting, either. It's not my memory of things that happened a long time ago that isn't good, he thought grimly. I can't remember where I leave my comb, but I can remember It. I can remember everything *bad* that ever happens. And they think I can't because I can't remember what I did five minutes ago. And I wish they would whisper more quietly.
Gran huffed again and poured herself more tea. "It's not much of a silver lining, though, is it? I declare, it's a great trial having to constantly – but, there, I'm not complaining. Octavia, would you like more tea?"
"Thank you, Iphy, I would. But, really, dear, don't fret too much. What does it matter if Nevvie isn't brilliant with things like school? He may not even ever go to Hog … warts …" Her voice faltered and she fell silent, obviously realizing she was being less than tactful.
"Neville's such a very sweet boy," Enid cut in placatingly. "It doesn't matter if he's a little … slow … sometimes."
"I would be the last one to contest Neville's sweetness," Gran murmured, sounding tired and sad, "but I sometimes wish … well … it's only that I wish he could do something someday to uphold the Longbottom family name …"
Neville intensified his stare at the biscuit, focusing on the blood pounding in his ears. He couldn't hear them, he couldn't hear them, he couldn't hear them …
"Gran?"
Gran started slightly, and turned a guilty stare at him. "Oh! Have you finished eating, then, Neville?"
He clenched a fist around the crumbling mass in his hand, feeling the chocolate melt against his skin's warmth. "Yes, Grannie. Can I please walk around a little? I'd like to … er … look at trees and things. And the flowers and dragonflies and things. Please?"
"Certainly, Neville. But mind where you go – I don't want you to get your robes muddy in the swamp. And watch out for poisonous fungi. Please remember where we are, and be back before long. Don't go too far away. Mind you don't go touching any plants you don't know, and remember what I said about getting muddy. Don't try to climb any trees, and stay away from the pier. The banks there are too high – I don't want you to fall in."
"Yes, Gran." He fled from the picnic site, ignoring the swarms of overjoyed midges that converged upon him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
An hour later, he found himself wishing he had heeded Gran's warnings to stay near the picnic area. All the vine-laden trees looked the same, and the ankle-deep sludge was *definitely* getting splashed on his robes. Gran was going to be sniffy about this, no doubt. At the moment, he didn't really care. He would have been happy to hear an irritated, "NEV-ille, what-EVER are you DO-ing?" or even a furious, "NEVILLE FRANCIS LONGBOTTOM – WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
He paused, breathing heavily, and studied a mossy log. It *looked* clean enough … surely it would be all right to sit down on it for a moment. Nervously, he perched on the yielding wood, praying that the moss would not squirt out foul-smelling fumes or scorch a hole in his robes.
His legs ached from his effort to put distance between himself and the picnic party – an effort that had succeeded a little too well. Aimlessly, he began stripping the bark off of a nearby twig, dropping the scraps into the water on the other side of the log. The withered leaves and insects floating on the murky liquid were not enough to keep his interest, and his thoughts inexorably returned to the conversation he had overheard.
Was he really a Squib, a child of wizarding descent without a drop of magic in his veins?
A lump rose in his throat and he sniffled suddenly, pulling a hand across his nose. The sudden gritty feeling on his face informed him that his hand had been less than clean, and he flung the stick at the water in sudden vexation. Maybe if he concentrated on being annoyed at the general dirtiness of this … this … this *ruddy* swamp, he wouldn't cry. What business did mud have, anyway, being all over the place? Why hadn't somebody cleaned this mess up?
He kicked his heels against the side of the rotting log, now picked at the moss. There was dirt under his fingernails, and he picked at it absently.
Hogwarts probably wasn't as fun as everybody said, anyway. The other kids would laugh at him for being fat and stupid and … and not having any parents, because he sure as anything wasn't going to tell anybody where he went sometimes with Gran, and the teachers wouldn't like him because he would get bad marks. Better to stay with Gran and … and do what?
A chunk of bark came off in his hand and he hefted it. How far could he throw it? There was a log or a big hunk of wood – maybe even from this same trunk: it certainly looked rotten enough – floating in the water. Could he hit it? Putting all his strength into the swing, he flung the bit of log toward the designated target – and missed it by several feet. Not far enough, and too much to the left … or was it right? He stared down at his hands for a moment, trying to remember what Gran had said. Right was the "right" hand, the one he wrote with. Or was it actually the other way around? No matter: he had missed, and that was the important thing. He broke off another chunk, peeling the moss away like a thick onion skin.
This time he came a lot closer. The hunk of dead wood rocked in the ripples created by his projectile. Wait. Hadn't it been a little further away before? He squinted at it thoughtfully. Maybe there was a … what was it called … a current, like in rivers and things. There was a current in Blackpool, the river/pond that fed the swamp. But if the water was moving, how come the leaves weren't?
His third chunk of wood hit the target dead on, but his triumph died instantly as the floating bull's-eye suddenly accelerating. For a moment, he stared wide-eyed at the leaves caught in the wake left by the speeding bit of wood, his mind jerking like a fish on a string. This was bad … Gran had told him something about this … what was it? Something about things with teeth that floated and looked like logs – something bad.
Dugbogs.
"Oh, no," he said out loud, and scrambled up to run. The slippery moss betrayed him, and he lost his balance. For a moment he teetered precariously on the log, then, with a howl of fright, he toppled sideways and landed in the knee-deep slush on the other side.
His first thought was that Gran would kill him for doing this to his best dress robes; his second, that if he didn't get out of the water *now,* she wouldn't even have a chance to kill him. He flung himself at the bank; the Dugbog exploded out of the slimy water in a whirl of finned paws, needle-sharp teeth, and flying water droplets. Neville shrieked again and scrabbled up the bank, feeling the teeth close within an inch of his ankle. Heedless of the mud, he tumbled over the log and began to run.
Almost instantly, he rammed into something solid and sat down hard.
"Neville!?"
Neville's heart plummeted down toward his shoes. Slowly, he looked up, past the blue robes – mud-streaked where he had touched them – and saw his cousin Eugene looking down at him with raised eyebrows. For a moment, his feelings warred between relief at being safe and shame at being lost, covered in mud, and screaming like a four-year-old … embarrassment won out. He ducked his head again.
"'Twas a dugbog," he mumbled brokenly. "'M sorry."
Eugene tapped his wand against Neville's shoulder, and some of the mud trickled off. "Are you all right?"
Neville nodded unhappily, and Eugene pulled him to his feet. "Dugbog, eh? Glad you got away from it – they're right nasty little creatures." He started off through the trees, and Neville trailed after him. "Not surprised you sloped off from that picnic party … deadly dull." He grinned back over his shoulder, a little too comfortingly. "Clarence and Augustus have migrated down to the pier to go fishing … want to come along?"
Did he ever!
"Yes! Thank you! I – I'd love to watch them go fishing! Oh …" His face fell again as he remembered. "Gran said I wasn't to go to the pier."
"Not a problem," Eugene assured her. "She told me it was fine with her as long as you were with responsible adults … which rules me out, but Clarence is about as responsible as they come."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The pier was a trifle too hot and buggy for Neville's liking, and also a trifle too high above the water, which was a trifle too deep, but it was still more than a trifle better than sitting back on that picnic blanket listening to Gran say he wasn't worthy to be called a Longbottom. Eugene had provided him with a fishing rod, but sitting on the very edge of the pier above the fifteen-foot-deep water was *not* his idea of fun. That water was dark and dangerous … there could be anything in there.
Instead, he clung to one of the rails and watched Augusts haul in fish, crow about his wonderful technique, and then throw them back in for being too small, too thin, or too pretty to eat. Eugene and Clarence were only giving part of their attention to their fishing lines. They had gotten into a rather heated argument over the Quidditch World Cup – Clarence didn't think England had a chance, and Eugene was calling him a lily- livered waffler. Clarence demanded to know what good qualities the English team had that the opposing team didn't have in twice the amount, and Eugene retorted that one of his best friends from Hogwarts was a Chaser on that team, and therefore they would be unbeatable. Then Clarence insisted the English beaters got too many fouls on them to be worth their places on the team, and Eugene pointed out that when you considered there were seven hundred possible fouls, the twenty or so the beaters committed every game were really quite insignificant.
Then Clarence told Eugene he should have been in Slytherin, and Eugene threw his pail of fish-bait at his older brother.
The fight paused when Great-Uncle Algie sauntered onto the pier, beaming happily. "Dear me, Eugene, have you spilled your bait?" he inquired anxiously, and Augustus burst out laughing, which didn't help anyone's temper.
Evidently guessing at the volatility of the situation, Augustus handed his fishing rod to Uncle Algie and began attempting to placate his cousins with an amusing story regarding the Falmouth Falcons and a hexed Swiftstick.
Uncle Algie leaned against the rail next to Neville and continued to beam. "What a lovely day, eh, Neville? You don't see weather like this often! Marvelous idea, coming out here for a picnic. My, what larks we had on this pier when I was a kid … Iphy and I used to shove each other into the water in the summer …"
Neville blinked.
"And Octavia always set up such a racket when mud got splashed on her. Ah! Those were the days – there's nothing quite like carefree youth, young Neville. Hang onto it while you can."
"Er … yes, sir …"
Then the odd gleam re-entered Uncle Algie's eyes, and Neville nervously tightened his grip on the rail. "You can't swim yet, can you, Neville?"
"Er … no, sir …"
Uncle Algie grinned expansively and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent! I mean – ah – swimming is a great skill and you should learn it as soon as you can, what?"
"Er … yes, sir …"
"Come on down to the end of the pier and I'll teach you to fish!"
Neville gulped. "I'd – I'd rather not, Great-Uncle Algie … er … I'm not good at fishing."
"Nonsense! A nephew of mine, not good at fishing? Ridiculous! Why, Mortlakes have always excelled in that field! Come on, Neville, be a good egg and pick up your pole."
Heart heavy with foreboding, Neville followed his uncle to the edge. Uncle Algie peered down at the water, glanced up at Neville, squinted, nodded, looked back down, and smirked. "Hand me your pole, Neville…"
The next thing Neville knew, he was flying through the air toward the murky surface of Blackpool Pond. He opened his mouth to scream as he struck the surface with a resounding splash. Instead, he got a mouthful of perfectly foul-tasting water – and then he was sinking through the dark, pressing liquid, the light receding away.
Terror swarmed through him, choking him even more effectively than the water. He thrashed frantically, but the sodden weight of his best dress robes continued to drag him down. He forced his eyes open against the sting of the water – and a wordless yell escaped him. Two enormous pale eyes were staring up at him from the weedy pond bottom. A long, impossibly thin arm snaked out, pale green against the blackness of the water, and bony fingers wound themselves around his ankle.
His lungs were about to explode; black spots danced in front of his eyes. Neville kicked out at the creature's head, his heart lurching in terror as it bared sharp green teeth. He was going to die, he *knew* he going to die – this was it, it was all over –
He blacked out just as the Grindylow bit his leg.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The strident voices dragged him up from his deep sleep, but he kept his eyes shut. The bed was soft and cozy; he was quite comfortable where he was, and had no desire to let anyone know he'd woken up.
"I cannot believe you did that, Algernon!"
"Iphy – I only wanted to -"
"You almost killed him!"
"I didn't mean -"
"Of all the thoughtless, idiotic pranks you have ever pulled, this has been the worst! I thought I made it quite clear to you that your offer to 'help Neville along' was *not* apppreciated. You should be ashamed of yourself!"
Neville felt rather guilty that he was enjoying hearing Uncle Algie scolded. Anyone who had been on the receiving end of one of Gran's angry rants should have nothing but sympathy for a fellow sufferer.
Then Aunt Enid's voice joined the conversation. "Good heavens, Algie, what's this they're telling me? Iphy, is Neville all right?"
"Perfectly fine, poor child, but he nearly drowned! Your husband pushed him off the pier!"
"Algie! How could you?"
"Enid, I -"
"Thank God he at least had enough sense to pull Neville back up with a summoning spell when the poor boy hadn't surfaced for nearly *three whole minutes.* He came *this* close to drowning, Enid. And all because Algie thinks scaring people into showing their magic is a brilliant idea!"
"Iphy, I -"
"You be quiet, Algernon! Neville can't help it if he's a squib – and *killing* him is not going to cure him!" Gran was crying suddenly, and Aunt Enid began to murmur comforting remarks at her.
"I'm sorry, Iphy, really," Uncle Algie insisted faintly. "But – I mean – dash it all, he *can't* be a squib! He's a just a slow bloomer … and I really thought it would make him do magic. I – All right, all right, I'll go."
His footsteps faded down the stairs, leaving Aunt Enid murmuring, "There, there, dear … it's all right, Neville will be fine."
"He's a squib, Enid," Gran sobbed. "He almost died and it didn't make him do any magic. Oh! I could *kill* Algie! It's just too much."
A squib.
Neville opened his eyes slowly, numb with disbelief. Had Gran really said that? But he could still hear her crying … it wasn't a nightmare. It really happened. And he hadn't done any magic.
Miserably, he rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. Maybe if he fell asleep, he could forget it had ever happened…
*Maybe it's just as well that Dad and Mum won't ever know.*
THE END
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