Chapter Three

The Revelation at the Window

It was the afternoon. Neville and his grandmother were back in the mansion's foyer, this time to welcome Aunt Enid and Uncle Algernon for tea. Uncle Algie had just ducked in through the Floo, brushing shining purple sparks from his shoulders, and was now helping Aunt Enid regain her balance after catching her mid-fall during her own entrance.

Algernon Longbottom was a tall, spritely man just past the prime of life, with sandy hair, a long nose and a sharp chin, cleanly shaven. He was dapperly dressed, as he always was, today in a gray suit, copper waistcoat with a ponderous silver pocket-watch, a charcoal top hat and white gloves. He carried a black cane, which served merely to complete his wardrobe, as it would have been difficult to find a spryer man of forty on the streets anywhere in the Magical or Muggle worlds.

Enid Longbottom was considerably shorter than her brother and nearly ten years older, brown-haired, with a spindly frame and a face like a bittern's. She wore a sweeping gown of iridescent wisteria silk with a cascade of white lace down the front of the bodice, over which hung great ropes of pearls. She always insisted on wearing high heeled shoes, which she had never quite mastered the art of walking in; as a result, she would often trip when required to do anything more difficult than cross a smooth floor. In her heavily ornamented hands she held a wide hat with a magnificent sea-green ostrich plume, which, the shaft having been accidentally snapped against the top of the fireplace as she stumbled through it, she was now mending with a spell.

"We are so glad you could come," Madam Longbottom was saying, which was only half true. She may have enjoyed the company of her deceased husband's half-brother and half-sister, Neville didn't know for sure; she seemed to, but she put on a perfect face for all social engagements. As for Neville, he could think of no one he wanted to see less than Uncle Algie, with whom he had a strained relationship at best. His great-uncle treated him like a favorite nephew, but he had peculiarly unpleasant ways of showing his favoritism.

Tea was served in one of the parlors in the north wing of the house. The grownups talked about social events and politics, as they always did, and Neville sat silent and still, not following a word and trying not to draw attention to himself. Whenever he did, by accident, the conversation invariably turned to the faults and deficiencies of the new generation. As he was Madam Longbottom's only grandchild, and his great-aunt and great-uncle were an old maid and old bachelor, the faults and deficiencies discussed were usually his own.

He excused himself as soon as he could, nicked a couple of cucumber sandwiches and a few of Nena's specialty pastries that he had no name for, and went to his room.

He sat on his bed, munching a sandwich, and wished he had friends. His grandmother didn't put much stock in the value of childhood companionship. Fools in the company of fools, and all that. They had guests in their home for teas and dinners frequently enough, but Madam Longbottom's circle of acquaintances consisted of ladies and gentlemen who's sons and daughters were old enough to have children of their own. Whenever she had to go out on private business, which was nearly every day, he was taken to the home of Alastor Moody, where he could be sufficiently supervised. Not that Neville minded going to Uncle Alastor's. The most fun he ever had he had there. But Uncle Alastor was old and childless, and Neville was almost as alone there as he was at home.

Moody wasn't really his uncle, but he was an old family friend. He was a retired Auror, one of the best the Department had ever seen, and had been a great mentor to Neville's father. Consequently, he knew more magic than most other witches and wizards, and would often perform powerful spells simply to entertain his charge. He also put Neville through rigorous physical training in true militaristic style, which Neville enjoyed far less than playing with good natured house cats that had been transfigured into Bengal tigers.

Neville's sandwiches were soon gone, and the pastries followed quickly after. He stared dejectedly into his empty hands. He was bored, and could think of nothing to do. He was trying to avoid further contact with his relatives, and that put the rest of the house and grounds off limits. He had read all the books on his shelves at least once, or at least the ones he could stand to read. Some of them were self help manuals with titles like Improving Your Memory and How Not To Be a Stuttering Idiot, courtesy of Auntie Enid.

Halfheartedly, he pulled his volume of Lays of the Fey from his nightstand. It was collection of legends, folktales, and fables for children, much of it in verse. His copy was very large, with colorful illustrations covering whole pages that showed sagely wizards and queenly witches dueling amidst storms of shimmering spells, fierce and terrible dragons being vanquished by warriors with great swords and shining suits of armor, and beautiful maidens being heroically rescued from every sort of dire predicament imaginable. There were tragedies, too, stories of grave sacrifice for the sake of love and loyalty. Neville couldn't say why, but he always liked those stories the best.

The book had been a gift from his parents on his first birthday, and it was the only thing he had from their lives before the attack. He had read it from cover to cover at least half a dozen times in as many years, and had spent hours upon hours studying the exquisite animated pictures long before he learned to read the words.

He sat cross-legged on the bed with the book laid open on his lap, and slowly turned the pages. He wasn't really reading, though; he was imagining himself as the hero in a tale of his own, an epic of bravery and triumph of good over evil. He saw himself as a wizard of strength and valor, battling dark wizards as his parents and Uncle Alastor had, saving the lives of the innocent from suffering and death. Maybe even becoming a potions master or an alchemist, and discovering a new magic that would heal his mother and father. He gave himself a moment to glory in the splendor of his envisioned self, before returning, disheartened, to reality.

The bitter truth was he knew he could never be a part of any such story, because he was a Squib: a wizard with no magic. At least, that was what his grandmother feared. Wizards and witches always showed signs in their childhoods, little burst of magic when they were angry or scared. Neville's grandmother was fond of telling him about the time when his father, as a boy of nine, had been attacked by a large stray dog, and had caused it to change back into a harmless pup for a whole afternoon. An extremely demanding feat, she said, one that showed tremendous natural talent. Neville, on the other hand, had never so much as knocked the lamp over during a bad dream.

His grandmother loved him, in her own way, but she was fiercely committed to the family reputation, and among old wizard families there were few things as embarrassing as a Squib. It suggested impurity in the bloodline. His grandmother had never said it outright, but Neville knew that he was a disappointment to her. His parents had both been exceptionally gifted, and she had expected him to follow in their footsteps. All those hopes were gone now.

A tear rolled unnoticed down his cheek, and fell onto the open page. He hastily blotted it with his sleeve before the ink had a chance to smear, and then wiped his eyes. It was bad enough to be useless, he thought, but being a crybaby on top of that was so much worse. If only he could prove that he was a real wizard after all...

Almost timidly, he pulled his mother's candy-wrapper from his pocket and smoothed it out on the open book. He held his hand over it, and concentrated with all his might. Levitation was said to be the most one of the most basic forms of magic, and the easiest to perform, especially without a wand. He imagined the scrap of cellophane rising into the air, flitting upwards as if caught by an unfelt breeze.

Nothing happened.

Then he tried imagining a pulling force between it and his hand, like the attraction of two lodestones, but the wrapper remained placidly where it was. He focused and strained and tugged on imaginary strings until the sweat ran down his forehead, but without result. His spirits sank, and he considered giving it up as hopeless.

Then, he had an idea.

"Nena!" he called out softly. The little house-elf appeared in front of him.

"Yes, Mas'er?" she inquired sweetly.

"How do you - how do elves do magic without wands?"

"Mas'er and Mis'ress give us ins'ructions, and we obey." She said this as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Right, but how do you make it happen?"

She thought for a moment.

"To please Mas'er," she answered. "We know what Mas'er want, and we make it happen."

Neville could tell that this was the most help she was going to be.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. I know what I want, he thought to himself, I want to make Gran proud. He stretched out his hand over the book again.

"Ahem."

Neville jumped so hard that he nearly propelled himself off the bed. Uncle Algie was standing in the doorway, rubbing his hands and smiling affably.

"Trying to do magic, are we?" It was not really meant as a question.

"Ye - yes," stammered Neville, closing his book to hide the candy-wrapper from his great-uncle. Nena had vanished.

Uncle Algie always made Neville uneasy, in a sweaty-palms, at-any-moment-I-could-be-in-life-threatening-danger sort of way, and his apprehension was not unfounded. Uncle Algie had been trying to help him discover his magic for years, always with a genial good-will that could give any act of cruelty the guise of a kindness. He had once gone as far as pushing Neville off the end of Blackpool pier during a family outing. If Uncle Alastor had not been there to save him, he might very well have drowned.

"That will never work," Uncle Algie said with kind condescension. "The trick is to be afraid. So afraid that your magic has to burst free and save you. Like this!"

In one swift motion he pulled his wand from his sleeve and flicked it at Neville, who was instantly yanked upward with cry and suspended upside-down in midair. Uncle Algie walked into the room, and Neville began to float toward the open window. The horrible realization of his great-uncle's intention hit him like a blow to the midriff. His heart started racing, and his breath came in quick gasps.

"Uncle Algie, please don't do it!" he pleaded. "I'm sure my magic will come on it's own!"

"It hasn't shown itself in eleven years," Uncle Algie replied. "No, no. It must be drawn out."

Neville passed through the window, his fingers slipping as he tried to grasp the sill, and he found himself dangling a story and a half above the ground from one ankle, bobbing up and down as Uncle Algie twiddled his wand. Blood pounding in his ears, and he was so terrified that he could barely think. He squirmed and flailed his arms frantically, but he was too far from the wall to grab a hold of anything.

"That's the spirit!" Uncle Algie called from inside the room.

"Don't drop me!" Neville cried desperately. "If I don't have any magic I could be killed!"

"Nonsense, my dear boy!" Uncle Algie replied cheerfully. "You are a Longbottom, of course you have magic. It will show itself, just you wait."

At that moment, Auntie Enid's voice came faintly from downstairs.

"Algernon! Augusta has just brought out the meringues. Would you care for one?"

And suddenly, Neville was plummeting toward the ground like a stone. There was a ghastly sound which he had just time to recognize, in the back of his mind, as himself screaming, and then he impacted. It felt like someone struck him in the face with a shovel full of fiery coals, and at the same time drove a red-hot iron spike through his neck. His vision filled with scintillating white light, and his senses were drowned in a flood of excruciating pain. He began to lose consciousness. Slowly, the blinding light faded into obscure darkness, and the burning pain was replaced with icy numbness.

When he regained awareness, his thoughts were sluggish and confused. He couldn't remember where he was, or what had happened. It came back to him slowly. Terror. Anguish like he had never felt before. He tried to open his eyes, but at first everything remained black as night. Then, indistinctly, he began to make out a human shape bending over him in the darkness. It was slender, feminine, with a pale face and arms. The figure reached a hand toward him. Vague memories came to him of shadowy beings in his stories who claimed the souls of the dead. He panicked. He tried to lash out, kicking and screaming. He wanted to drive the pale figure away, but he could make no movement, no sound. His sight dimmed again, and the figure slipped away, vanishing into the darkness.

He came suddenly to his senses, like waking from a dream, and found himself lying on his back on the drawing-room sofa. His grandmother was seated next to him, her hand on his heart. She had tears in her eyes, and a smile on her lips. Auntie Enid stood off to the side, also smiling, and next to her was Uncle Algie, rubbing his hands together and grinning triumphantly. He was mumbling something that sounded like "I always said so! I always said so!"

"What - what happened?" Neville asked haltingly. Every bone in his body ached, and he felt too exhausted to move a finger.

His grandmother laughed happily. "Congratulations, Neville!" she said softly. "You're a wizard."

Neville was stunned. He was about to ask how that could be, but just then a medi-witch from St Mungo's arrived. She levitated him up to his bedroom, and examined his body with a few diagnostic spells. When she was finished she confirmed that there were no breaks and very little bruising, prescribed complete bed-rest, and poured him a healing draft.

"Sixteen feet onto the solid ground, head first! A fall like that could have killed you!" she said as she packed up her potions case. "You are very fortunate to have survived. You will feel a bit sore and tired out at first, but you should be right as rain in a couple of days.

"I'll come back tomorrow morning to check up on him," she told Madam Longbottom.

All this time, Neville's grandmother had sat by him with a look of mingled worry, relief, and (he barely dared to think) pride. When the medi-witch took her leave, she stayed with him.

"I'm so happy you're not hurt," she said, smiling, but still a little teary-eyed.

"Algernon, that fool!" she exclaimed, mostly to herself. "I'd dearly like to see him thrown off a building." For a moment she assumed an expression of such ferocity than Neville was actually concerned for his great-uncle's life. But the moment passed, and his grandmother's countenance softened.

"I'm proud of you, Neville. And I know your father would be, too."

In spite of Neville's now overpowering weariness, his heart thrummed like a harp string. His grandmother leaned forward and kissed his forehead with uncharacteristic tenderness.

"Time to rest," she said, rising. Barely had the door shut behind her when he drifted into a fitful slumber, utterly drained by the excitement of the afternoon and the effort of protecting himself from potentially fatal injury.

His dreams were feverish and disordered. He caught glimpses of light and shadow, heard echoes of far off voices. He saw the pale face of a young woman. There was a blood-chilling scream, a peel of mad laughter, and a flash of blinding light. Then the dreams ended, and his sleep became as deep and untroubled as death.

Author's Notes:

All chapters are subject to constant revision. If any new material seems to be contradictory, or show a lack of continuity, the corresponding earlier passage has probably been altered as well. As this is likely to cause a certain degree of confusion, readers are welcomed to send me a private message with any pertinent questions.

S. C.