Author's note: Halfway through writing the piece on Molly Weasley, this idea popped into my head and took over. So I wrote it instead. To be honest, it was more heartbreaking than I might have anticipated. Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this chapter. Please review!
Guest: Thank you!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Alice Longbottom
A boy is here to see me. He's got a round face and fair hair. He looks familiar, but I can't recall if I've seen him before. They told me who he is, but I don't remember that either. I get the feeling that we're related in some way, although I can't figure out how. I think he said his name is Neville.
"Hi, Mum," the Neville boy says, and I smile at him.
He sits down in a chair across from the bed, where I'm sitting with my knees hugged to my chest. I like my bed. It's springy. The boy begins to prattle away, a bit awkwardly. He talks about being on a train and a toad that keeps running away from him. When he says that he was sorted into Gryffindor, I give him a quizzical look. I'm not familiar with that word.
"Gryffindor House," he repeats, "like you and Dad. Professor McGonagall is still the Head. Gran says that she was your Head of House."
I still don't understand, but he changes the subject. He looks upset. I don't know why.
The boy tells me he had an item that glows red when you've forgotten something. I could use one of those. He proceeds to tell me a story involving this red-glowing thing and a couple of other boys, but the story is too complicated for me to follow. Too many moving parts. Makes me dizzy.
A woman eventually appears in the door and calls to the cherub-faced boy, whose name I forget. He stands to leave. Before he can go, I open the drawer of my bedside table and pull out an orange bubble gum wrapper, which I press into his hand. I like to collect them. They come in different colours and form a rainbow when I line them up. I like to press them against the window and watch the light shine through. Maybe the boy can paper his room with them.
He looks at the wrapper. "Thanks," he says, with a weak smile. I smile back.
"Neville, come on," says the woman at the door, impatiently this time.
Right. That's his name. Neville. I try saying it. No sound comes out, so I'm just mouthing the word. It feels like a foreign object on my tongue.
The boy glances back at me as he hurries away. I like him. I hope that he will come again.