Diagon Alley was crammed with people, every last one of them in robes and hats. It stank, too, not of humanity – sweat, bad breath and body odour – but of animals, manure, and the sharp, acrid stench of alchemical and potions ingredients. The sickly-sweet aroma of venomous tentacula blooms competed for airspace with brimstone, sulphur and sandalwood. Neville veered towards Peppins' Potions and Peculiarities, and nearly had has arm yanked off by his gran as she continued her determined stride towards Gringotts. Her face could have been carved from the same marble as that grand building. Cold, sharp, all pale angles and an icy glare that could stop anyone in their tracks. Privately, Neville was sure that even dementors would give way to his gran.

A gaggle of people gathered on the steps of the bank flinched visibly away from her as she strode up the stairs, not even pausing to acknowledge their existence. His gran just assumed everyone would get out of her way. And they did. Scattering like colourful fishes disturbed by a stern-face heron, their babbling excited chatter cut off and left hanging in the warm, barely-still-summer air.

Then his gran stopped, and Neville cannoned into her back in a tangle of robes and limbs.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry…"

Neville's apologies were echoed by an older voice, although one equally as nervous as his own. A tall, thin man with the brightest teeth Neville had ever seen, even if you included the silverfang barracuda from the Malfoy's menagerie, was stammering apologies, his wide eyes flitting this way and that, never settling too long on any one thing. Neville, on the other hand, found his eyes fixated. The man's manner of dress was outlandish – the strangest thing Neville had ever beheld. No robes, no elegant swirl of fabric around his form, no broad-brimmed hat to lend an air of respectability or grace to his figure. Not even the plushness of properly enchanted pyjamas, cool in summer and warm in winter, with little fluffy lamb pom-poms frolicking along the sleeves. Just thin, straight fabric that looked straight out of a novice's workshop, still just mastering the loom. No flair, barely any colour. They hung off him like a scarecrow, just straight up-and-down, shapeless tubes of fabric that satisfied only the most basic function of clothing, to wit, covering the human form.

The curl of his gran's upper lip, barely discernible to the naked eye, suggested she felt just as much distaste for the outlandish garb as Neville did.

He would never dream of saying anything about it, half-crouched behind the sudden safety of his gran. The same could not be said for Augusta Longbottom, as formidable as a whole army bearing down on a small, undefended hamlet. She loomed imposing, a fortress wall between him and the outside world, her mouth opening to launch a scathing volley of polite barbs designed to wriggle under the toughest skin.

His mum, a knight in shining armour and a pale lilac robe lined with tiny seed pearls along the hem of the sleeves, intervened, her voice soothing. As Alice brushed the man down with her hands, helped him pick up the small pouch he had dropped, his gran stood stiffly behind her, eyes narrowed. Neville peered curiously around his gran's body, one hand clutching the skirt of her robes, watching the strangely dressed man and—oh. He hadn't noticed, hidden by the furious brilliance of his gran's irritation, but the man was accompanied by a woman and a girl. They were also dressed strangely, though not as oddly as the man – half-robes swirled around their legs, though their bare heads sported unruly chestnut hair that straggled out of bobby pins and hair ties. The girl was watching him intently, and when she saw him looking her face split into a lop-sided, buck-toothed smile and she gave a small wave.

Neville blanched, and fought the urge to duck fully behind his gran. Gritting his teeth, he managed a jerky wave back, as if he was waving away an irritating wasp than returning a greeting, swallowing the rising flood of panic that threatened to clamber out of his mouth in a faint whine, or perhaps a scream.

As the cheerful girl posed yet another terrible problem to him in the formed of a mouthed 'hello', his mother swooped in once again like a knightly saviour. Her hand was warm and reassuring around his, and he was gently pulled forwards, up the broad marble stares. Neville could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling from the intensity of the girl's regard until the grand doors finally swung shut behind them, shrouding them in comforting dimness.

"I just think they should make more of an effort, Alice dear. It looks so gauche, like they think they deserve special treatment."

"Gusta, hush. He didn't mean to walk into you – you weren't exactly paying attention to where you were going either."

Augusta snorted indignantly, not even deigning to turn to look behind her at Neville and Alice. Neville looked up at his mum, and she spotted the movement, briefly turning to shoot him a warm smile that made the high-ceiling cavernous room seem brighter. They followed in his gran's wake, taking advantage of the brief moment of space and calm that her passing generated. People scattered out of Augusta's way, unnerved, intimidated, or simply not wishing to be run over by the implacable battle-axe of a woman bearing down on them.

"Welcome, ma'am, ma'am, young master." The quiet voice was distantly familiar, but Neville didn't even remember the last time he had come to Gringotts. He must have been at least once, since he had a blood key and only the goblins at Gringotts could and would perform that ritual, but usually when they came to Diagon Alley his mum had enough petty cash on hand to afford whatever they needed, and usually one of Florian Fortescue's triple-decker caramel-choco explosion sundaes for him, and a marshmallow fizzing fountain double scoop with extra fizz for his mum. The one time he had come with his gran didn't bear thinking about.

The goblin addressing them was barely taller than Neville, his long ears poking through holes cut in his gilded flatcap. His nametag, stark amongst the lushness of his uniform, identified him as Krykutt. Neville eyed his stick-thin hands with worry, but it was unfounded. Krykutt bowed low, his eyes never leaving Augusta's face, and didn't once extend his bony hands in greeting.

The marble corridors they walked through were polished to a shine, reflecting the gold and crystal chandeliers that hung overhead. There must have been a muffliato glyphed into the walls, and Neville spent the walk tracing his fingers over the warm creamy stone, trying to find the shape of the enchantment.

"Don't dawdle, Neville."

Neville snapped to attention, his round shoulders pulling back and his head snapping up as if attached to a spring or pulley. His gran's voice wasn't muffled at all, her stubborn demeanour managing to even intimidate the stone walls with their intricate enchantments, and it carried with it the razor edge of irritation.

"Sorry, gran!" Short legs pumping, Neville ran down the hallway towards the suddenly-too-distant forms of his gran and mum. Augusta, clearly satisfied by his increased speed, strode around the corner, vanishing in a swirl of rich plum coloured fabric. The stone of the wall gradually changed as he proceeded, the veins of gold in the white stone becoming wider and more noticeable as he went, like tiny rivulets thickening into vast cascading rivers until the stones were more gold than white. He passed several doors, some ajar revealing glimpses of goblins hunched over papers, scribbling with quills, or examining precious gems or small, glittering objects. Other doors were dark, heavy foreboding constructions that exuding a thick, unwelcoming aura. Neville let his hand skip over them, lifting away from the stone to miss the brooding metal.

Shoes slipping on the polished floor, Neville rounded the corner.

Empty stone walls and a floor so shiny he could see the twisted reflection of his face greeted him.

"Mum? Gran?" The enchanted walls greedily swallowed his tremulous voice, leaving only the dull stuttering sound of his pulse hammering in his ears. His footfalls were deadened and the silence hummed and rang in his ears. Imposing doors wrought in silver, gold and copper lined the walls, each so tall their tops were lost to his sight no matter how he craned his neck. He passed a silver door, the proud hawk perched with wings outstretched above a shield dulled with tarnish. A door in verdigris-green and copper with a tiny sapphire eagle set in the centre. One in silver and green with a cold-eyed serpent curled amongst vines, leering out at him between emerald leaves reminded him of Draco's family emblem. It had the same haughty glare, eyes narrowed above its blunt snout.

"…"

Neville turned at the sound of a distant voice, words too soft to make out. The corridor remained empty no matter how hard he stared, and he held his breath until his chest threatened to burst as he strained his ears to hear.

"….-…"

"Where are you?"

"Neville!" The silence cracked and shattered under the imperious onslaught of his gran's voice, and Neville started like a frightened rabbit, every hair on his head standing upright in fright. Two pairs of beady eyes regarded him from several doors down the corridor. It was hard to say who would blink first, his gran or the stuffed vulture adorning her hat. Neither looked impressed with him.

"S-sorry, gran!" He hurried to catch up, nearly tripping over his own feet and skidding to a halt by the Longbottom vault.

The door was ajar, the aged brass dull but not tarnished. Neville reached out curiously to touch it, wondering what ancient spellwork was wrought into the door, but found his wrist suddenly held in a firm, bony grip. Silver eyes, sharp and cold as a dagger, stared at him until Neville dropped his gaze. He wanted to run away, or apologise, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and his entire body was so tight with panic that moving more than his eyes was impossible.

"Careful, cytter. Wouldn't want you to run afoul of any nasty curses, now."

Neville licked dry lips with a tongue that might as well have been made of sand for all the moisture it provided. "C-cytter?"

The pressure on his wrist lightened, although the goblin's hand still rested on his forearm. Neville stared resolutely at the gold filigree etching that spiderwebbed across the floor in mesmerising spirals.

"Mm. Close to 'small one', I think. You do not have an exact comparison. Also has some of the meaning of 'one who learns for now' and…" Thin fingers waved carelessly through the air, attempting to capture something ethereal, just barely on the edge of thought. "Ach. I do not remember the words. It will come to me, probably as I lie abed wondering about other things, and you are long-gone and thus the point is moot. Still. You do not wish to run afoul of anything that lingers in these halls. Wizards to guard their treasures most jealously."

Neville just nodded, the words 'thank you' lodged somewhere painful in his chest. Krykutt eyed him sharply for a moment, then nodded. It was a short, pointed gesture, like the bony goblin who did it, and Neville felt the urge to shrink back into the walls, or at least apologise for… something. Just apologise. But Krykutt had turned away before the feeling had resolved itself into anything concrete in Neville's head, and his gran was sternly ushering him well ahead of her down the corridor before he fully realised what was happening. Neville tapped his fingers nervously against the sleeves of his robes. His gran moved to fast, too close on his heels for him to lose himself in the wardworking of the walls, and the sheer force of her presence bore him onwards and out into the watery sunlight that filtered into Diagon Alley.

Author's Note:

This was originally chapter 3. I'd been borderline unhappy with chapter 2 for a while - it had no new motivations, revealed nothing new and possessed no tension (although it did have uncle Algie getting stuck under a dining table). I was even writing an author's note at the end speculating that it was something a beta reader might tell me to remove or rework, and as I was writing that I thought 'well, why am I posting it then? Why can't I just turf it?' and so I did.

So the transition may be a smidgeon jarring, but I think it skips a lot of unneeded words that weren't going anywhere. Also, if anyone wants to do some beta reading, feel free to offer!

The only problem being of course that now my buffer isn't quite as large as I thought it was. Oh no! Quickly, to the writing-cave!