Chapter 6: The Maybe-Squib Who Lived

Augusta couldn't help but stare at her grandson from across the kitchen table. The boy she had raised was turning over his letter from Hogwarts in his hand, awed by it. One dazed part of him seemed not to believe that it was real. In truth, Augusta didn't either, and hadn't when it first arrived.

But how could she react in any other way except for fear when she'd only seen him perform one magical act in more than a decade?

Magical babies, especially those born to two magical-born parents, or purebloods, tended to display their affinities for the wizarding arts very early on. The older they got, the more remarkable the feats of magic could be. For Neville, however, the single instance of magic performance had occurred only a few months after he had come to live on the Orkney Islands, at Longbottom Manor. If Augusta hadn't put him down just a moment before, she might have tiptoed from his nursery and missed it. She had replayed it over and over again enough times in her head to know she hadn't imagined it: she had watched as the teeney lad tucked himself in. Tightened and bunched up the corners of his little baby blanket so that he was warm and snug. It was clear he hadn't used his fat little fists to do it – a baby at Neville's age wouldn't have developed such fine motor skills yet and besides, his tiny hands had clearly been swaddled, almost pinned under the blanket to begin with.

Or maybe, Augusta would occasionally think to herself (as she had for much of the decade since) that she had simply imagined it or hallucinated or something and was believing what she wanted to believe. For unless she had been misreading clues all this time, Neville had not performed another act remotely magical since.

It certainly didn't help that a lack of…. indication wasn't the only thing that could keep down a lad of 11's self esteem. Neville was a fine enough blend of both of his late parents – an unorthodox blend perhaps, for it had to be stated, even internally, that her grandson was quite pudgy. Even doughy. He wasn't anywhere close to shedding what Augusta still hoped was baby fat, but then again, dear Alice had been a rather plump woman even before she got pregnant and Frank had always possessed a round face, much like her Robert had. Genetics, especially where it concerned weight, could be cruel that way.

Unfortunately, between Neville's pudginess and his lack of demonstrative affinity for anything magical aside from one tucking of his blankie like they were hotel corners, it distressed Augusta to wonder, consider, that perhaps her grandson had not naturally inherited the Longbottom noble stock. Which worried her all the worse because apparently, this boy who had never displayed any magical talent save once had somehow defeated the darkest wizard of all time. Apparently, though she knew this full well, her grandson was descended from fine Auror stock – talented Aurors, some of the best that had been seen, still. Even now, she got letters praising her children every time and again.

But Neville…. with his eyes as round as the rest of him, wide and nervous and almost sunken back into his head, from the uncertain way he carried himself, well, he…. he wasn't like them at all….

She hoped she hadn't done anything as a grandmother to make him doubt himself or his confidence. She had always tried to buck him up as best she could, tell him to uphold the family honor and name. After all, his parents had died heroically to protect him, so she expected nothing less than the same from him! ….. OK, maybe using that scenario as an example wasn't the most helpful way to bolster her grandson's confidence, but the larger point was rather the same: make his parents proud! Make her proud! That was all she had ever wanted for Neville, yes?

Augusta sighed. Perhaps Hagrid would be able to connect with the boy even better than she could, and she had raised the lad from near infancy! The Hogwarts gamekeeper had agreed to pop round for tea, go over Neville's Hogwarts letter with him.

There was now a KNOCK on the door that seemed to shudder through much of the kitchen, as though the front door was in danger of crashing inward off its hinges. The quaking made Augusta bustle all the faster into the expansive foyer to admit their guest.

Hagrid needed to stoop low to avoid bashing his head on the rather ostentatious chandelier, yet his small beady eyes honed in right on Neville, who was taking in the freakishly large man in awe. "Blimey, Neville, there you are! That's a fine lad, inn'it? Last time I saw you, you was only a baby!"

Neville rose slowly from his seat, his chubby head leaning nearly all the way back.

"Really?"

"Oh, that reminds me: I got something for ya! Might have squashed it a bit on my ride over here, but…. I reckon it'll taste fine just the same!"

Hagrid passed Neville a cakebox, which the boy opened. Craning her eyes, Augusta could see that the cake had been partially crushed in, and the name on the confectionary had been slightly misspelled – there was a rather unfortunate 'U' in place of the 'I' in her grandson's name. But from the way Neville's eyes lit up, he clearly didn't mind, so she bit her tongue. Besides, Hagrid was harmless.

"Thank you!"

"It's not every day a young man turns 11 now, is it?" Hagrid chortled.

"Would you care to sit down, Hagrid?" Augusta diplomatically cleared her throat.

"Much obliged, Augusta! I'll just take this easy chair…." Hagrid settled into the armchair in the corner, the leather groaning to take his weight, which it did – for just a moment before the thing collapsed and sent Hagrid thumping to the ground. "Whoops. Sorry 'bout that!"

More quakes rocked the house as the giant struggled to his feet; sighing, Augusta pointed her wand at the armchair and repaired it instantly.

"Well, I bet your grandmum has already told you, based on your letter: you're a wizard, Neville, and a thumping good one, too, might I add! Why…." Hagrid's voice trailed off at Augusta's rather deliberate clearing of her throat and she shook her head surreptitiously at him. "Oh. Well, we'll get to that later. The important thing is, you've been accepted into the finest wizarding school in all of Great Britain, maybe even the United Kingdom! Seven years there, and you won't know yourself! Now, your Gran wrote me, and she said it might be fun if I joined the both of you to sort out your school supplies! What do you say to that?"

Neville bobbed his head eagerly, a part of him still dazed. His eyes shifted down to take in his Hogwarts letter and accompanying school supplies. "It says here I can have… an owl, a rat, a cat or a….. a toad!" His orbs brightened and Augusta resisted a groan. Even back in her day, selecting a toad from the option of castle-approved pets had been tantamount to social suicide. She doubted much had changed.

The bullfrog croaked rather rudely, its fat, inset eyes fixated on Augusta in what she perceived to be a rather insolent look. She just hoped that carrier of its was sturdy. Plodding along in the reputational shadow of his grandmother and the quite literal shadow of their giant chaperone, Neville didn't seem to mind, quite content with his choice of pet, even though he didn't seem to realize that its simple selection would have already resulted in his social standing taking a nosedive.

"I still need…. a wand," Neville consulted his list.

"Only one place for it, Neville, my lad! Ollivander's!" And Hagrid pointed up to a corner store rather prominently situated on Diagon Alley. When the three came to a halt in front of it, Neville turned to his grandmother expectantly. "Gran, come in with me? I don't think Hagrid can fit through the door."

Augusta refrained from admonishing him, though from the way Hagrid's eyes twinkled with amusement, the giant didn't seem to take offense. Resisting the urge to appease her grandson was much harder; still, Augusta managed to nudge, "I think it's best if you go in alone." At Neville's crestfallen look, she laid it on thick: "Most first-years buy their first wands alone too, you know. Your mother did it; your father did it. I did it…."

It was all the convincing (really, pressure) Neville ever really needed, and though he still appeared unsure, he nonetheless bravely pushed in the glass door himself, though his gait was nervous and meek as he stepped inside.

The shop was empty and eerily quiet as Neville looked about. Perhaps the place was closed, and the proprietor had simply neglected to lock up…..?

"Hello….?"

He barely got the word out before an elderly gentleman appeared, on rollers of a stair-ladder rigged to a back shelf. Mr. Ollivander, Neville presumed, cocked his head to study Neville, eyes sparkling with intrigue. It was as though the man knew him, the way Hagrid had seemed to know him. "I wondered when I would be seeing you, Mr. Longbottom." Ollivander then turned away and began busying about his stock; he seemed to be searching for something.

"Seems to me only yesterday that your parents were in here, like yourself, buying their first wands…." He descended the stair-ladder and presented a long, thin box to Neville with a flourish. "Try this one. Don't get discouraged if the first one isn't an immediate fit!"

Neville blinked. "Is it…. is it like trying on shoes at the cobbler, then?" he stammered out.

Ollivander hedged. "Well…. I suppose the analogy checks out. Give it a flick for size!"

Neville opened the wandbox and took out the long stick inside. It seemed, as a matter of length, to not fit his tubby yet gangly stature, and he gripped it from near the bottom of the hilt. For several, long moments, nothing happened. Tragically, Neville wasn't the least bit surprised. Hardly ever – really, never – did things seem to go his way, and certainly not on the first try….

A sudden rustling seemed to whip through the shopfront, as Neville all at once felt a new affinity for the wand in his hand, as though the seemingly inanimate object had taken a sudden shine to him. Another novel thing to witness – sometimes, it seemed that only Gran seemed to like him, and there was not an easy woman to please. His grin up at Mr. Ollivander faltered at the bewildered look in the old codger's eyes.

"Curious…. Very curious…." He was muttering, half to himself.

"Sorry, sir, but…. what's curious?"

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Longbottom, including the wands of your parents, including the wands of your grandparents. Each wand is unique, or should be, except… the phoenix whose core rests in this wand gave another feather. Just one other. …. It is curious to me that you should be destined for this wand, when it's twin brother…. gave you that scar." And he pointed to the lightning etch on Neville's forehead. Neville reached up to finger it absently. More than once, he'd asked Gran what it was about, but she'd almost always said she didn't want to talk about it. Finally, he had worn her down enough that she told him he had received that scar the night his parents had been killed. A Dark wizard had done it, though Gran refused to give his name. All she would tell him was that the mark on his forehead meant that he was very special. "You'll understand more when you're older, boy," was how she had always ended her telling of the story, though sometimes Neville thought he would hear her tack on an "I hope…" at the end.

He hoped he would understand more upon arriving at school, he thought to himself as he left the shop. Because from the way Ollivander had studied him, Neville felt more than ever that he stood out, and he was certain, as he had been for much of his life, that it wasn't in a good way….

Hagrid insisted on treating Gran and him for a drink in the Leaky Cauldron, to which Augusta weakly objected that it was too much fuss…. before promptly ordering a whiskey for herself and a side glass of lemonade for her grandson. She let Hagrid follow through on picking up the tab.

Augusta caught Hagrid giving her an almost imploring side-eye, like he was seeking her permission. She suppressed a sigh, but waved him to go ahead, though she made clear in her answering stare that he was to tread very, very lightly.

"Neville…. when ya get to school, there are going to be people who know who you are. You might have people stare at you, wonder about you, but just take it all in stride because remember: you are a Longbottom!"

Neville took Hagrid in objectively. "Because of that dark wizard I supposedly defeated," he guessed. "And because my parents were well-liked."

Hagrid blinked dumbly for a moment, evidently not thinking that Neville had been told even that much. He glanced to Augusta for some kind of confirmation, but the old lady simply sat mum, her lips pressed tight into a thin line. "Well, erm… yes! More than that – your parents were very much admired! Prefects both, in their day! Might have even been in the hunt for Head Boy and Girl, too, though that of course went to the Potters…"

It was probably a stupid question – after all, Gran never believed in the old adage that the only stupid questions were the ones you didn't ask – yet Neville was sorely tempted to ask who the Potters were, and if they'd been friends of his folks. But before he could, a gentleman in a turban was approaching their table, and Hagrid was greeting the newcomer warmly.

"And here's Quirinus! Quirinus, you might know Augusta and Neville Longbottom? Neville, this is Qurinus Quirrell! He's going to be one of your professors at Hogwarts!"

"N-Neville…. L-L-Longbottom! Can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you!" Quirrell held out a wobbling hand to shake. Neville gripped it firmly while looking the man in the eye, as those were the good manners he had been taught. The man spoke with a stutter, but Neville figured that was all right – he stuttered himself, sometimes. Had he not been so focused on making a new acquaintance, he might have observed how across from him, Gran looked a little leery, but then again, Gran was always a bit standoffish when meeting new people.

"Qurinus will be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts!" Hagrid explained to Neville.

"A f-fine post and d-d-discipline, to be sure. Not that you n-n-n-need it, eh, L-L-Longbottom?" Quirrell gave an odd little giggle, and Neville just replied with a bemused smile, not really understanding the man's meaning.

Honestly, from the way he knew his Gran fretted over him, if what Hagrid said was true, Neville had a feeling he just might need help in every subject at Hogwarts.