* * * * *

Neville unfolded the pamphlet yet again. He had opened and closed it so many times that the once-stiff folds flopped open easily.

The oldest and most prestigious of Britain’s herbology exhibitions, the Annual Magical Plants and Herbs Faire of Great Britain is attended by thousands every year. Every wizard, witch and child in attendance greatly enjoys the spectacular Floral Display, the Flesh-Eating PlantLife Contest, the Rarities Exhibit, and much, much more!

It was not until the age of eleven that Neville had discovered a highly unexpected talent for Herbology. Upon return from his first year at Hogwarts, to his grandmother’s surprise, he had made a beeline for the ancient greenhouse behind the Longbottom family home.

One of the first Longbottoms, an only daughter, had been given a large, beautiful greenhouse for her fifteenth birthday. In the several generations since, there had usually been one or two people who cared for its contents. The herbology gene, according to Gran, had skipped at least one generation before returning with a vengeance in Neville. It had taken him that whole first summer to acquire a few common, hardy plants, and to fix what he could about the greenhouse.

At first, Gran had tolerated the new obsession, but she became slightly alarmed as Neville appeared in the house less and less. She highly approved of the near-perfect grades he earned for the subject in school, but couldn’t see “what use plants will be when you need a good job.� (This comment was inevitably followed by, “Your father was an Auror. That’s a prestigious, well-paying career. Dangerous, but it has its compensations.�)

In the summer after his third year Neville discovered, with something resembling bewildered delight, that he mastered spells better when he used them to do anything with plants or with the greenhouse. He managed, in fact, to entirely repair the glass roof, as well as the walls. For this accomplishment, Gran bought him a new cage for Trevor and (better yet) stopped nagging him about spending so much time with the plants.

Now, in the summer before his final year at Hogwarts, Neville had a huge collection of plants, a fully up-to-date greenhouse, a special section of rare plants given to him by his extended family, and a subscription to Magical Herbology of the World. It was from the latest of these magazines that the flier for the Faire had fallen.

He had avidly read about the Faire for a few years, but this year, it had suddenly struck him that he might be able to go – better yet, to enter.

To Enter a Plant or Herb in Competition:
- You must be at least sixteen years of age; if younger, you must have signed permission from a parent or guardian
- It must fall into any of these categories: Rare, Flesh-Eating, or Floral
- Each plant or herb must be registered in only one category....

Neville had never wanted to do anything quite so badly in his life (unless it was to sink through the floor in some of Professor Snape’s lessons). Last time, Gran had still been in a tizzy over the Ministry of Magic uproar, so Neville hadn’t asked. This time, though…his mimbulus mimbletonia was certainly rare – Professor Sprout had never seen a live one before – and it was thriving. And it was the most affectionate plant he had come across. He rather felt that he owed it something for doing so well (though he hadn’t dared mention it to anyone).

But more than any of that, he dreamed of being surrounded by thousands of people who were as passionate about plants as he was. A place where his “plant quirks� would be accepted, nurtured – maybe even rewarded by some sort of Honourable Mention prize.

He flicked to the part about transportation.

An Apparition Point will be....

There will be a small landing field for those travelling by broomstick....

There it was.

Portkeys are available for purchase. Send your address along with two Galleons, and an owl will bring you a small Portkey, which will activate on Friday....

He had two Galleons. He had been dropping them from hand to hand for the past hour, when he wasn’t flipping through the pamphlet.

If he asked Gran, she might say no. He could probably talk her around to it; after all, he had gotten an “O� on his O.W.L.s. The problem was that she didn’t see it as a useful pursuit and therefore did not endorse it.

But he was close to seventeen; only a month away, actually, and he would be able to make decisions for himself. Shouldn’t he make decisions? He would have to be able to sometime; it might as well be now. The Faire was a worthy, harmless time, and highly prestigious.

His father had not cared for Herbology.

That was the first thing Gran had said when she saw his marks for his first year at Hogwarts. “Transfiguration, passable; Potions – Neville, that’s abysmal! What have you been doing, melting your cauldrons? Charms, decent; Herbology – well. Well. Your father was quite terrible at Herbology, killed half the plants he had to handle, you know….�

Neville wondered if his eagerness to pursue Herbology was pride in knowing that he was someone besides his father, or if it was desperation to get away from his legacy. Maybe both.

He stood abruptly and rooted under his bed, pulling out a small photograph album. He sat, leaned against his bed, and opened it.

He studied it for a few moments, the worry lines smoothing themselves out. After a time, he put the album carefully away and reached for the reply parchment.

Neville Longbottom
107 Greenhill Road.…

* * * * *

Some young wizards dream of becoming the first-ever Dragon Tamer. Many hope to be famous Quidditch stars. Now and then, one will desire to be Minister of Magic.

And some wish to win renown for fertilizers, honking daffodils, and plants that try to eat their gardeners. Neville Longbottom was one of these.

Merely attending the 179th Annual Herbology Faire of Great Britain was, therefore, the fulfilment of a dream. As an added bonus, he had a plant that was perfect for entry. The only problem was convincing Gran that it was a good idea. This was the first time that he had announced that he was going somewhere, rather than asking permission, and he was finding it a rather frightening experience.

“Gran, I’m almost seventeen, practically of age. I’ve signed up to buy a round-trip Portkey, it’s very safe.�

“It’s impractical! What do you want to exhibit that ugly thing for?�

Neville swallowed a sigh. “Because mimbulus mimbletonia are extremely rare and mine is doing really well. It deserves to be shown.�

He could have bitten his tongue over his poor choice of words. “‘Deserves to be shown’? Neville, it is a plant. An ugly plant. I know how rare it is and that it has amazing defence mechanisms, but really, do you think it’s worth the whole weekend, not even counting the entry fee?�

Neville looked at her for a long moment. “Gran, I want to show something of my own.� He did not add, “For once�, but she heard it, and he knew that she heard.

There had been a time when Augusta had wondered, rather bitterly, if not being the Chosen One meant that Neville had somehow gone the opposite way and lost all magical ability. She hadn’t known what to do with him, so unlike the first precocious child she had raised. At first, she nudged Neville towards the things Frank had enjoyed, only to find that her grandson showed very few of the same tendencies.

She had never allowed herself to think that the bumbling boy might be a Squib, but that had not stopped her tears of relief when he finally showed signs of magic. Nor had it stopped the guilt she felt for not being able to believe in him.

He was always been a sweet boy, but he’d never shown aptitude the way Frank had. He hadn’t even discovered his talent for Herbology until he began at Hogwarts. And not being ahead – the way Frank had been – meant that Augusta spent more than one sleepless night wondering if Neville would find a successful place in the world.

She looked up at him now – when had he gotten so tall? He had Alice’s open, honest face, for the most part, but with Frank’s smile. And now he was almost seventeen. The thought made Augusta feel suddenly old.

She had not forced Neville to follow in his father’s footsteps because it was the only successful way she knew; it had been her way of coping, of remembering. It had been a hope that if Neville kept trying, something of the son she had raised might reappear.

A thoroughly pragmatic woman, unused to internal dialogue or self-analysis, Augusta Longbottom was only dimly aware of the mixed emotions and thoughts that accompanied this revelation. Her conscious thought was that Neville was almost a man, regardless of what time had done behind her back. It was, therefore, time for her to accept whatever he had become.

She took a deep breath. “Of course you’re proud of it. You should be. Well. Be careful – of course you’ll be careful. Best get that plant of yours ready.�

He looked incredulously at her. He had expected her to release him with only with the utmost reluctance and multiple dire warnings. “You don’t mind, Gran?�

“It’s what you like and you’ve proved you can take care of yourself – with that debacle in the Ministry and that fight at Hogwarts, you should know that – though I can’t see what you love about that cactus-thing.� She caught herself rambling and stopped with an effort. Letting go was harder than she remembered it being.

“Besides, you’re almost a man now. You ought to be able to make your own decisions.�

Neville was silent. He thought of the thousands of people and many, many plants they would have with them – the beautiful, the rare, the exotic, the newly discovered – and then the vision vanished and he saw his grandmother, gazing past him out the window behind.

They were so different, he and his Gran. Come to that, she wasn’t much like his father either. By all accounts, his father had had an easy laugh, a quick sense of humour, and a love of life, none of which his father’s mother seemed to possess. Perhaps she had become so used to raising one kind of son that the son’s son was even more alien.

All this raced through his head, jumbled with confused thoughts of what he had to do and what to get ready for the weekend. He pulled his mind free with an effort. “Thanks, Gran. I – thanks.�

She smiled suddenly, the tight smile he was so used to. “You’re welcome, boy. It’s your time, you know. I’m proud of you.�

A massive lump grew in his throat at hearing the long-awaited phrase. There was so much more that he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he bent slightly to kiss her wrinkled cheek, something he hadn’t done since he was twelve, and raced upstairs.

Augusta listened to her grandson clatter about, knocking things over in a search for clean socks. An oft-used, exasperated sigh was replaced, most unusually, by a reluctant smile.

She nodded decisively as she made her way to her room for an afternoon nap. An odd boy, that; not much like Frank. Not much like Alice, either. A good boy, though. Yes. A good boy.