Author's Note:

This chapter is actually called 'Lateral Ascension on the Social Ladder' but, alas for character limits.

His gran's face could have been a picture in the seventh year Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, under a name of something that curdled blood, destroyed cities, and devoured souls when his mum handed him a small purse of coins and told him to go enjoy himself for the morning. Neville clutched the soft leather in both hands. He knew his gran would never, ever do anything as crass as take it from him but his hands didn't care.

Next to him, his mum had straightened until she was nearly as sharp and hard as his gran, who would be hissing smoke if that was a thing people did, and it was socially acceptable. Neville's body was stuck, frozen, unsure if it wanted to sidle up to his mum and hide behind her or if it wanted to run away from the pressure building between the two women. Screaming was definitely an option. The satchel was smooth under his nervous fingers, not even a stitch to be felt, and the drawstring felt like silk the way it slid fluidly over his skin. There were words being said, somewhere far above his head and safely removed by the vast cavernous chasm of his emotional distance, but Neville only heard a faint buzzing.

"Psst!"

At first, he thought it was just the static of his brain, blurring the sharp words into soft insensibility. But the sound came again, louder and insistent, and a hand on his elbow made him start.

"O-oh, S-Susan." The sound of his heart slamming into his ribs made it hard to tell if he'd actually managed to get the words out, but Susan's gap-toothed grin suggested that he had. Most of her baby teeth had gone, making her mouth look crowded, but her two front teeth had stubbornly remained and combined with the full-grown incisors gave her the pointy look of a vampire.

Neville was reasonably sure she wasn't actually a vampire, of course, but she moved as fast as one as she dragged him by the wrist away from the thundercloud of emotion brewing rapidly into a storm around his family.

"Hey auntie! Mrs Longbottom's just over by Flourish and Blott's, I'm taking Neville to QQQ! Bye!"

They rushed past Amelia Bones, who gave a resigned sigh and adjusted her mauve cloak around her shoulders, and Neville found himself enveloped in the smell of pine, beeswax and polish. Quality Quidditch Supplies wasn't his favourite place in the world, especially not after his training broom had crashed into a tangle of stinging nettles when his gran wasn't watching, but it was the price anyone paid to spend any time with Susan. It was nice, watching the excited glow in her eyes as she asked about the latest models. Even Neville had to admit that the Nimbus 2000 was nicely shaped, and the mahogany handle has a beautiful grain that was mesmerising to trace his fingers along, although he had to take Susan's word for it that it was a 'marvel of modern magical engineering'. The excited throng clustering around the display cases certainly provided support for her claims, though, as did the way a familiar white-blond head beelined for it as soon as it entered the store.

Draco Malfoy didn't bother elbowing the onlookers out of his way. He stood and regarded the broom coolly for a few moments. Neville wondered what he was evaluating. What did Draco Malfoy value?

It was strange to see Draco without his father in tow – he was at once infinitely more approachable, and yet at the same time Neville could see enough of his father in him that it made him shiver. It wasn't in his facial features, per se; Draco had his mother's nose, and his stormy grey eyes were a cloudy mix of blue and silver from both sides, but the sheer arrogant assurance that pulled his lips into a tight sneer and the way he didn't bother to meet the shopkeeper's gaze as he paid for his purchase spoke volumes.

"Ah. Longbottom. Bones. You're both doing well, I trust?"

Neville wished he could sink into the floor as Draco spotted him and the still-pink Susan who was holding a beautiful broom etching kit. The young Malfoy moved effortlessly across the floor, not so much walking as appearing to glide to his destination, his back held straight and yet appearing relaxed. In contrast, Neville was suddenly extremely aware of every muscle in his back and shoulders, each one coiled and tensed like a bowstring.

"G-good, thank you," Neville squeaked, endeavouring to slink behind Susan who was ignoring Draco with the blithe self-assuredness of someone with more self-confidence than sense, at least according to his gran.

"Well enough, I guess," she answered, not looking up from her examination of a wand attachment that allowed the user to burn patterns into wood with fine detail. "Yourself? Got your school stuff yet?"

"Of course. We sent the elves to collect it just as soon as the letters arrived, but of course we've had it on order for months. Father's known what would be on the curriculum since the beginning of the year, though of course Dumbledore's last-minute buffoonery with the Defence post as always left us with barely any notice."

Neville nodded as though he knew what Draco was talking about. He knew his gran was on the Board of Directors for Hogwarts, but she hardly spoke about it if she could avoid it, and certainly not to him. It wasn't for Neville to know.

Draco continued as if this was all everyday, humdrum knowledge, ignoring or failing to notice Susan's rolled eyes as she repacked the etching kit. "Naturally, Malkin's doesn't do home visits, and of course the school demands we use their cloth, so we're here for that. I do wonder what hold she has on the old man" – and here it was Malfoy Senior's voice, not the words of an eleven-year-old for all that Draco was without his parents here – "that allows her to exert such a stranglehold on the uniforms."

"And you need a wand."

Neville flinched visibly at Susan's words, and clutched at the leather pouch still in his hands. Draco's smile simply widened, although it never once reached his eyes, and his adult teeth were already all in, straight, white and looking fitted to his mouth. Neville pressed his lips tightly closed and tried not to breathe too noticeably.

"Already got one. You should know how it is, Bones."

"I-I've got m-mine, too."

Neville tried his best to hide his shakes as Susan and Draco both swivelled to stare at him, Susan having to turn further as he had gradually gravitated to a point somewhere behind her. He had only hoped to avoid the tension he could feel crackling between the two – Susan had never been one to hide when bile was resting on the tip of her tongue – but now he had to deal with her glaring at him as though he had admitted to drowning kneazels and hexing small babies.

"Hmph."

He tried to say that it was his father's wand, that he wasn't trying to get an advantage on everyone else, even though his gran would be adamant that he needed every scrap of good fortune he could scrounge, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth and the only thing that emerged from his parchment-dry lips was a faint, pathetic croak. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks and turning his ears crimson, and Draco's pointed comment that "Longbottom understood how it worked," failed to quell the queasiness that was rolling around in his tummy.

"I-I-I mean—"

Neville's feeble attempt was drowned in a sudden, unexpected wave of obsequiousness as an eagle-eyed lady in short-hemmed, practical robes bearing the logo of Quality Quidditch Supplies on the breast bustled over to speak with Draco. The eleven-year-old drew himself even straighter as the witch enquired after the store's service and his experience with her staff – the salesperson behind the front counter kept casting glances her way, suggesting that she might be a manager or at least his supervisor.

"Ugh. Let's get out of here."

Neville couldn't fathom how Susan's hand was slightly warm and bone dry as she towed him from the store. It felt like he had somehow managed to cast aguamenti in his palms, and as soon as Susan slowed down – half in an alley tucked between Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour (est. 1539) and hidden behind a large stall selling flowers, magical herbs, and intricate floral displays owned by Pascall according to the sign – he yanked his hand away and wiped it down the front of his robes.

"It's my dad's wand," he mumbled to a small puddle collecting in the corner of the stonework. In his periphery, he could see Susan brushing her hair out of her eyes, frustration making the movement sharp and jerky.

"Eesh. I'm cutting this off the second I get to Hogwarts." She grabbed a strand of thin, wispy brown hair and stared at it as though wishing it would go up in smoke and flames. Neville didn't know if she'd heard him or not, or if she was just ignoring him. "Argh!"

Susan tugged at her hair, before throwing her arms up and starting to pace. Two steps into the alley, two steps back – short, unsatisfactory steps that did nothing to loosen the tight grit of her teeth and the tenseness in her shoulders. "He's just so bloody smug about it all. He can't even use that stupid broom at Hogwarts, but I bet he's going to be bragging about having it anyway. And 'ooooh look at me, I have a wand already' like the rules don't even apply to him."

Neville bit his lip. His gran would have stared sternly at him until he stopped, but she wasn't here. He didn't want to say anything stupid while Susan was in one of her moods. She wasn't talking anyway, not in a conversational sense. It was just a teapot releasing steam.

By the time Susan had wound down, accompanied by a few concerned glances from the portly wizard manning the flower stall, Neville was nursing a bloodied lip, and was wondering if blood on his face was worse in his gran's eyes than blood on the sleeve of his nice robes. Neither was any more difficult than a scourgify, but as his gran always said it was about the look of the thing.

"Sorry Nev."

He shrugged. It wasn't worth mentioning, being over and done and nothing come of it. Just another small eddy in the flow of the day, and his glances at the large clock formed from the intricate stained glass in the window of Ivy and Warrant's Glaziery kept reminding him that he should probably be going to find his mum sooner rather than later. Time was marching onwards, and his gran would be so disappointed if he let it ambush him in his laziness.

"'S okay. It's not like I'm any good at it any-"

The clatter of hooves striking sparks on the cobbles drew both children's attention to the main street. Neville pushed a bunch of lovage and honeysuckle to one side, peering intently at the large winged horse picking its way down the street. Its wings shimmered with the faint prismatic cast of a disillusionment charm, partially suppressed by the Alley's inlaid wards. It looked like an aethonan, with its thickset limbs and sturdy neck, but the ebony colour of its coat was unusual. It was darker than its livery, which bore a crest displaying a sword clenched in a gold-gauntleted fist above three ravens, and even the wizard sat straight-backed atop it appeared to be clad in merely dark-grey robes when compared to the sheen of his steed's coat.

"Huh. Didn't think the Blacks were old enough to come to Hogwarts this year."

It had been a topic of much contention and discussion among the adults, Neville knew. Almost without fail, the sacred twenty-eight (which his gran usually said with a sniff in her voice) did their best to time their heirs' births so that they would attend school in the same year. Alliances and feuds sprang up at Hogwarts, and could last longer than the initiator's lifetimes, so it was considered a sensible move to attend school with one's peers. The Blacks' decision to buck the trend was hot gossip, enough that even Neville had heard of it. The younger son wouldn't have been much of a surprise, of course, but the elder had caused ripples of consternation among just about anybody who mattered, and many people who didn't, if you believed his gran.

The pale-faced youths sitting with considerably less ease astride a smaller aethonan with a grey blaze that partly covered its left eye and ear, did look far too young for Hogwarts. The girl was taller and spindly, rushing towards full height with gay abandon, while the boy sat hunched over the loose reins with his fingers tapping on the saddle, almost hidden by his sibling's looming stature. Both had eyes that skipped nervously over the crowd. Neville couldn't remember when they were due to attend Hogwarts – his own tenure occupied far too much of his brain – but they certainly didn't look thrilled enough to be here for them to be getting their school supplies.

The crowd of brightly dressed wizards parted and flowed around the winged horses like a school of fishes. A huge tawny owl swooped past the straight-backed wizard on the larger aethonan, turned at a sharp right angle as it got close and gave a confused hoot as it nearly nose-dived into the crowd before managing to right itself. It flapped clumsily as it struggled to gain height, turning a slow, unsteady circle above the crowd.

A pointed chin rested on his shoulder.

"Wanna head back to QQQ? The slimeball should be out of there by now; reckon he's spent all his da's money."

"Huh?" Neville started, wrenching his eyes from the dwindling vision of the strange aethonans. "Oh, uh…"

His gaze flicked nervously to the grand glass clock, and his heart gave an unpleasant lurch. The movement seemed to force some air out of his lungs – it emerged as something akin to a pathetic whimper, tangled up with a gurgle.

"Um, uh, s-sorry Susan, I-I've got to go." For a moment, his brain provided a disproving glower courtesy of his gran's mental image, but the spectre of his mum – worried, her hands twisting her sleeves in a nervous, fretting motion as she looked for him – drifted to the forefront of his mind and lodged there. Heat rose in his cheeks. He could feel his ears turning a brilliant shade of red, and he couldn't seem to manage anything more articulate than a panicked gurgle as he tried to mollify Susan and explain that it wasn't that he didn't want to hang out with her, not that he didn't like her, because he did and he wanted to be her friend and he really didn't want to go but he had to and—

"Sure. See you on the train, then?" Susan smiled brightly, and Neville frantically searched her face for signs that it was fake, forced or otherwise fraudulent. Finding none, he told himself that he should just believe her as he nodded stiffly in response to her question. Unfortunately, as Susan vanished amongst the throng of witches and wizards, some nasty little part of his mind suggested that just because he hadn't seen any signs of fakery, didn't mean they weren't there.