Unfinished Business

Unfinished Business

Hester Lodge, nestled near a tiny hamlet in rural Leicestershire, had an air of age-old eccentricity that made it both intriguing and endearing. The acres of land around it served as a shield and a cushion between it and the world outside, so that no one could pass it by accident, and even time itself seemed to overlook it. If anyone did stray past the 'private property' signs surrounding its lands and catch sight of it, they would admire its quaint, pink ivy-covered exterior, wonder at the exotically strange and colourful assortment of plants bordering the immaculate lawns, then remember an urgent errand they still had to attend to. Even as they passed the signs at its borders again, its memory would fade like a pleasant dream. For Hester Lodge had been the residence of pureblood wizards for at least ten generations of the family it served, and its wards and charms had stood the test of time.

The current master of the house, a rather pudgy teenage boy, was sitting on the edge of his bed, gazing absently out of the window into the distance across the well-tended grounds.

"Neville! Hurry up, dear!" came a stern voice from downstairs. "I do want to get to Ollivander's before it shuts!"

"I'll be there in a minute, Gran!"

At his grandmother's words, Neville sighed and turned his attention again to the rosewood box on the bed beside him. He lovingly ran his hand over the highly polished lid and opened it. Inside, on a bed of burgundy crushed velvet lay two bits of wood side by side. Neville picked up one of the sticks and inspected it closely. Mahogany, about five inches long, a strand of dazzling white hair protruding from one jagged end: all that remained of his father's wand. He touched the hair with his forefinger and recoiled as a few yellow sparks sprang from it.

"You'd better be careful," said the painting of an elderly gentleman in brown dress robes, looking down at him disapprovingly. "Remember what happened last week, when you set the curtains on fire."

Neville glanced up at the painting of his paternal grandfather, his eyes clouded.

"I'll try, Granddad," he answered quietly.

As he continued to absent-mindedly pick at the splinters, he thought back to the night at the Ministry of Magic that had caused the demise of the wand. It seemed like an unreal dream, something that hadn't really happened - unless he looked in the mirror at his nose, which was still slightly swollen and was no longer quite straight.

It had seemed so natural, so right to follow Harry into the Ministry with the others. Harry was one of those people who had an aura about him that inspired confidence; Harry had faced so much and always come through; Harry knew what he was doing. So when Harry said that he had to go to save somebody called Sirius from You-Know-Who, Neville had instinctively followed.

He recalled the stomach-churning ride on the Thestral well enough - that was more flying than he had managed in his entire life to that point, much to the chagrin of his formidable grandmother - and he remembered their path through the Department of Mysteries to the Prophecy Room in reasonable detail. From the moment they yelled, "Reducto", however, and ran from the Death Eaters to the point of Professor Dumbledore's appearance, everything was a big blur.

But through the mishmash of events, which seemed to swirl around his head at a hundred miles an hour, one scene stuck out in his mind with crystal clarity: a heavy-lidded, dark pair of eyes, a twisted smile, and the words that struck him like blows.

"Longbottom? Why, I have had the pleasure of meeting your parents, boy."

Neville's stomach clenched at the mere thought of the malice in those words, and his hand tightened around the wand fragment it held. He shivered and shut his eyes tightly as he remembered the white-hot pain of the Cruciatus curse coursing through his body. Just like his father before him.

And just like his father before him, Neville had found inner strength in the middle of crisis; reserves within himself that he didn't know had existed; the ability to continue to do the right thing in the face of extreme danger. He had surprised even himself when he had looked Bellatrix Lestrange defiantly in the eye that day. This woman had taken away his chance of a happy family life and she wasn't in the least bit sorry. Indeed she revelled in what she had done. And apart from being there for Harry, he'd been at a loss as to what to do. But next time, he thought, looking down at the broken wand once more, next time he would be better prepared.

He heard the door click open behind him and felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked up into his grandmother's wizened face.

"Come along, Neville," she said in her usual businesslike fashion, "we've got to get your new wand before school starts. I really don't know why you keep those bits - they're quite useless now."

Neville carefully put the piece of wand back in the box and closed it. Oh, he knew he needed a new wand for school well enough, but he couldn't part with this one so quickly either. Gran didn't really understand what those fragments meant to him: They were his father's legacy to him, reminders of what had happened, of who was responsible, and of the unfinished business he had to settle.