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This was the most important night of his life. His entire future, his Grandmother's pride, his own sense of self worth all rode on the outcome of that night.
Neville glanced nervously at the clock on his bedroom wall for what must have been the thousandth time that evening. It didn't seem to have moved from the last time, though to him it had seemed ages since his last peak. In exactly three hours it would be July 28th and he, Neville Longbottom, would be eleven years old.
To other children his age, their birthday was something to look forward to, to celebrate. But Neville had been watching this date loom closer and closer on the calendar for the better part of three months with the nervous energy typical of children waiting for exam results. You see, Neville was a wizard, well, at least he hoped he was. His parents had been, in fact, his entire family had been wizards, but at an early age all signs had pointed to Neville being a Squib, meaning a non magical person born into a magical family. Squibs were rare, but not unheard of, and his entire family had been positive, up until recently, that he had no magic at all.
But thanks to a partially senile and reckless great uncle and a terrible fear of heights, Neville had proved that magic ran in his veins. Now, the only question that needed answering was-did he have enough magic?
And tonight, that question would finally be answered for tonight he would be eleven, the preverbal magic number in the wizarding world. It was at this age that every young witch or wizard would receive their invitation by way of owl post, to the magical Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one of the largest and most ancient houses of magic in Briton, and, in Neville's eyes, the best place in the world to be. It had been there, in those hallowed halls that his parents, long lost to the world, had been themselves, had learned, had laughed, had become the great witch and wizard they had been in their later years. Most importantly, it was where they had met each other and fallen in love, and it was perhaps that reason, more then any other, that Neville desperately wanted his letter.
Two hours and forty six minutes. It seemed more then he could stand.
As Neville shifted nervously back and forth on his bed, desperately fighting against the fatigue that was closing in on his exhausted, stressed, still ten year old mind, he thought about how excited his Gran would be when they got the news…if they got the news.
Two hours and thirty eight minutes…maybe he could just close his eyes for a moment….
Two hours thirty two minutes…-yes, just a moment, and he'd be right back up, finishing his vigil.
Two hours twenty nine minutes…-he'd never realized how comfortable his pillow was…
The next morning, Neville awoke to his Gran, gently shaking him awake.
"Come along Neville, you've slept long enough dear, time for breakfast." She murmured, stroking his hair gently.
Neville shot bolt upright, "No," he moaned, "No, no, no, no!" and with agility certainly not typical of him, he was out of bed and at the window, searching the sky franticly.
"Neville!' his Gran snapped, hands on her hips, "What on earth are you fussing about this early in the day?"
"I missed it!" Neville cried, eyes still peering desperately at the sky, and the note of true distress in his voice made his grandmother's tone soften.
"What did you miss dear?"
"My letter!" Neville whispered, holding back sobs, 'It didn't come, I missed it."
"Oh, nonsense dear!" Gran sniffed, waving a wrinkled hand dismissively, "that letter came today in the morning post, I put it by your plate-"
But Augusta did not have time to finish her sentence before Neville was out of the room, sprinting pell mell towards the stairs.
"Just be careful not to break-" she warned just as a giant crash sounded from the direction of the living room.
"NEVILLE!"
FIN.