September
Once, Gran had said, the woman had been beautiful.
Her name was Miranda, but her friends from school had always called her Mandy. She had been caring, loyal, and diligent, as were all Hufflepuffs. Gran had said that she could remember a September from years ago, when Mandy had first gone off to boarding school. Mandy had been so lovely then, a few stray strands of brown-blond hair falling into her soft eyes, her rosy, youthful face glowing with the anticipation of going to Hogwarts. Madly blowing kisses and half-sobbing, half-laughing, she had leaned out of the window of the train as it left the station that day and called goodbye to her mother. Five years later, when Mandy was sixteen, she had kissed her mother twice on the cheek before leaping into the arms of her boyfriend and kissing him happily on the lips. It was then that Mandy's mother had realized that her little girl was never going to be the same again.
Three Septembers later, Mandy and her boyfriend had been married. Seven Septembers after that, Mandy had given birth to a son, and Mandy's mother had become Gran. Despite all the turmoil in the wizarding world at the time of her grandson's birth, Gran had never been happier. The next year, a mere month after September had drawn to a close, the Potters had been murdered, and the Dark Lord had vanished. Gran had celebrated with the rest of the world, but she couldn't shake the ominous feeling that the Dark Lord wasn't as gone as everyone seemed to think.
Less than a week later, Gran's fears had been confirmed. She had received an owl from the Ministry of Magic telling her that Mandy and her husband had been attacked. The letter did not explain further; it merely requested that she come to St. Mungo's immediately. Gran had done so. There she had seen what had befallen her beloved daughter and her husband. A Mediwitch had handed Gran her small grandson, saying, "He's yours now."
And now, fourteen years later, here they were again. The small grandson, now a round-faced boy of fifteen, stared down at the woman lying on the hospital bed. How could she do this to him? This woman, whose nametag read "Miranda," this woman whose identification papers claimed that she was his mother?
The boy took the slender hand of the woman in the bed. Her grey-blue eyes fluttered open, and the boy felt sick, for her eyes were his own. "Mama?" the boy whispered. When she nodded, he said, "It's me, Neville."
"Neville?" his mother asked. "Who's Neville?"
"I'm Neville!" Neville repeated, desperately fighting the tears that he knew would come at some point or another. "I'm your son!" He drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. "It's September sixth," he tried. "My birthday."
"That's lovely," his mother murmured. "You have a nice birthday." She drifted gently off to sleep.
Neville bit his lip and looked up at Gran. Her old, hazel eyes were wet. "I think it's time to go, Neville," she said quietly. Neville nodded. Gran put a hand on his shoulder. She and Neville walked out together, both reflecting on what had been lost.