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.