The cupboard under the stairs was dark, the only illumination coming from the narrow crack beneath the door. In the corner, jammed in between a mop and three brooms, a young boy endeavoured to press himself into the hard stone wall behind him. If only he could disappear. He wished it was as easy as squeezing his eyes shut, that everything vanished when he shut his eyes, swallowed up by the dark and he could just be alone in the world. No expectations, no demands, no parties, just Neville.

No mum.

No Pris.

A few hot sharp tears squeezed between his eyelids, prickling painfully. He knew he shouldn't be crying. It wasn't dignified. He was a big boy. But that didn't help at all; the knowledge just curled up in a tight, hot ball in his gut, right behind his bellybutton and ached like a bad meal. He squeezed himself tight, squashed in on himself. Eyes tight, fists tight, toes tight, chest tight, as small as he could go, still bigger than he felt on the inside.

The darkness behind his eyes took on a faint red hue, and Neville turned his face away, burying it into the crook of his arms.

"Go 'way," he sniffled, words bubbly with snot and tears.

"Can't, little sir. Sorry."

"P-Pris!" Indignation tinged the wet splutter, and Neville cracked open an eye and peered beneath his arm. The small door had been opened, shedding warm light on the immaculate interior of the cupboard. Spindly shadows resolved into mops, fatter shadows into buckets and bottles and brushes that lined the walls in serried ranks, peering down at him from their shelves. Neville sniffed.

The doorway was partly blocked by the rotund figure of Pris, a warm smile on her face beneath tired sea-grey eyes. She stood with her legs spread a little, anticipating flight, but Neville was too empty to consider running. His heart and his tummy hurt far too much. The corner was just right for him.

"Auntie sent you to f-find me, didn't she?"

The gentle incline of Pris' head made her long, pointed ears bob beneath her short, wispy grey hair. "I'm sorry. She wants you to come to the green parlour at your earliest convenience."

Neville squeezed his eyes shut again. He knew his aunt wouldn't have phrased it quite like that. Pris had a knack for softening things – butter and sugar, harsh words, the nighttime shadows that seemed so fearsome without her there. His lip trembled.

"What… what if I don' wanna go? I want to s-stay here."

A warm hand, surprisingly knobbly, touched his shoulder and gave a gently squeeze. He found himself, as he pried his sticky eyes open, staring up at Pris' liveried pillowcase, carefully pressed and creased. Suddenly mussed as Neville gave a thick sob and launched himself into the house elf's arms, rocking them both back until Pris stumbled into the doorframe.

"Madam would be awfully upset, dear. And besides, you don't want to miss your birthday party, do you?"

Neville shook his head, but only to wipe the tears from his eyes with Pris' pillowcase. She was soft and smelled of lavender cleaning product. Not like Gran. All bones and sharpness – shoulders, elbows, back like a razorblade, eyes that cut with disproval, every crease on her clothes pressed to perfection. She had been ironed out into a pointed spectre that haunted Neville's waking nightmare.

"See, there you go." Pris pulled his chin up with a crooked finger, mistaking his head shake for agreement, and wiped away the tears still clinging dewily to Neville's eyelashes. Still holding his round chin in her firm grip, she dug through her voluminous pockets and pulled out a handkerchief. "Blow."

Neville thought about arguing, but the words got all clogged in the sputum and snot, so he blew obediently.

"Feel better?"

He nodded miserably. Even through tear-sticky eyes, he could see that his clothes were creased. Not in the way Gran liked either, but in the way that might happen if – for example – the wearer had crawled into a small cupboard and curled up under a mop to cry. Messy. Undignified. A sob threatened to claw its way up a throat that already felt raw.

"Nevvy?" A careworn face, haloed with wispy blonde hair poked around the worn doorframe. "Oh, you did find him, Pris. Thanks ever so."

The house elf bowed low, never once letting go of Neville's hand. "Of course, my lady. You had only to ask."

"Oh pish, Pris. None of that formality, please – Alice is fine." Tall and thin, Alice had to crouch to get into the cupboard, which was designed for house-elves and also convenient for just-eleven-year-old boys. Getting less so, though. "What's bothering you, Nevvy-dear?"

One hand in Pris' hand, the other clutching his mum's, Neville found himself drawn out of the cupboard. Blinking in the sudden sharp light, warm like a fire too close to the skin, close enough to blister, Neville peered blearily. Muffled by the rich tapestries and thick stone walls, the gentle sound of laughter and glasses chinking echoed down the corridor. It set his heart racing as if it had been the low, guttural snarl of a werewolf right by his ear. Alice squeezed his hand as his fingers tightened around her own.

"What's wrong, Nev?"

Neville's sudden appreciation for his feet was unmatched. His shoes, one already scuffed and dull, kicked at the thin carpet as he stared intently at them. All the words crowded into his throat and got stuck there, jammed together, kicking and biting to get out. He managed a shake of the head.

"Excuse me, my lady." Pris pressed Neville's other hand into Alice's, giving him a quick pat on the knuckles. "There is so much to be done for the party and…?"

"Oh, of course, Pris dear." Alice didn't let the question linger long, turning a warm smile between Neville and Pris. "Off you pop, and do take care not to overwork yourself or the others."

The house elf vanished with a smile and a pop, her innate magic making mock of the anti-apparition wards woven into the stone and mortar of the house. Neville wished she could have taken him with her, but instead he found himself wrapped tightly in his mum's arms. Her chin, sharp but not cutting, rested on the top of his head so that he could hear and feel the song she hummed to him. The words he knew off by heart – he'd heard it ever since he could remember, and almost certainly before.

Oh little dragon, flame-heart bright

Fly and spark into the night

Carry on far, light all the stars

There's one up there for you, my sweet little light

Oh little unicorn dance with grace and poise,

Through fields of green, lakes turquoise

Trees and flowers grow for sunny hours

Light and love bloom amongst humdrum noise.

"So what's wrong, dear?" Alice kissed his forehead, the touch briefly driving away the niggling cloud of dark, itchy nervousness that prickled and prodded just beneath his skin. Then it surged back, settling right behind his eyes until it threatened to squeeze all the water from his body out through his eyes in a hot, shameful flood.

"I dun wanna…"

His mum smelled like flowers and sugar, with his face buried deep in her shoulder and his pudgy little fingers clutching tightly at the back of her robes. She was crouched down to his level, holding him just as tightly as he was clinging to her, warmth radiating from her thin frame. She felt as safe anything could possibly be. A rock in the middle of a raging river that crashed and washed around him with the sound of clinking glasses and polite small talk.

"I know, love. But do you think my brave little boy could manage five minutes?"

She might as well have asked him for five years, or to find the five Shrines of the Chalklands.

Neville nodded anyway, because she was his mum and thinking about making her sad made his heart ache in his chest and his stomach churn even worse than the thought of all those people staring. Alice brushed her free hand down his front, hiding the worst of the creases if not removing them completely.

"And your uncle Algie's here, too. He'll be so pleased to see how big you've gotten." Neville was pulled to his feet gently, one hand gripping Alice's in a deathgrip, his heart already a little lighter. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Author's Notes

Still figuring out how I want to handle house elves in the world in general, but I can't very well have this chapter without Pris. She's a very important figure in Neville's life. Regardless of how they eventually shake out, the Longbottom family treat their house elves kindly and fairly.

I also figure the Chalklands are like a moor, or area known for big chalk deposits, possibly more of a mythos than a real place, like Avalon. They may or may not come up again later. I'm sorta scattering possible story-seeds throughout, and I'll grab stuff that works later. I know the overall gist of the story through all seven books, but there's a lot of finer details that need to be sorted out as I write. I won't be making notes like this for all possible story seeds, but I figured you might like a little bit of insight into my writing journey and methods. idk. Let me know if you find this kind of thing interesting!