Becoming Neville

Fortunately, Gran didn't make him take the broom with him when he left, saying she'd donate it to the children's ward. The galleons felt heavy in Neville's pocket, and he could hear them clink against one another with each step as he walked back to the tea room.

He found Remus and Harry seated at a table near the window, Harry with "The Hobbit" propped up against the teapot, and Remus buried in the pages of the "Daily Prophet," each so absorbed in their reading that they didn't notice his approach until he pulled up a chair and joined them.

Remus lowered his paper, as Harry raised his head and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Remus appraised him for a moment, then said, "You look as if you had a pleasant visit."

"Yeah," Neville said, thinking of the galleons. Then he remembered how the visit started off. "Well, sort of. My great aunt and uncle were there."

"Were they? It's a pity we missed them."

Neville snorted. "Not really. They're a bit scary. They brought me a --." He stopped himself just in time. "I mean, they came down for my birthday."

Remus beamed at that. "Is today your birthday? Why didn't you tell us?"

"Not today," he corrected. "The 30th. I'll be sixteen."

Harry was staring at him strangely. "So will I, on the 31st."

"Really?" Neville asked in surprise. "I had no idea! That means we're almost exactly the same age. In fact, I'm older than you! I always thought I was the youngest in our year."

"Yeah," answered Harry with a faint grin.

Remus looked back and forth between them. "Well, with two such important birthdays coming up, we'll have to do something special to celebrate."

"Gran gave me some money to buy a new wand."

"In that case," Remus suggested, "it sounds like a trip to Diagon Alley is in order."

The boys eagerly agreed, happy for any excuse not to have to go back to Grimmauld Place. They flooed straight from St. Mungo's to the Leaky Cauldron, where they stepped out onto Diagon Alley, only to find a long line of people winding down the street.

"What do you think is going on?" Harry asked as a handful of people shouldered past them, heading down the line in search of the end.

"I don't know," Remus shrugged. "But it's certainly got people excited."

Neville looked up and down the line, noticing the number of people sporting blue and silver rosettes on their robes. Many of the children, and some of the adults, carried sportsbrooms or Quidditch clubs. "There can't be a match going on, can there?" he speculated.

A witch wearing blue and silver Quidditch robes overheard him and said, "Oh no, not a match. Rufus Kornblow just published his autobiography, Keeping Score. You know, the Keeper for the Tutshill Tornados? He's at Quality Quidditch, signing copies of the book."

"A professional Quidditch player?" Harry's eyes lit up in interest. "I wonder if Ron's here, even though Kornblow doesn't play for the Cannons. Still, it would be nice to meet him. Maybe Ron came?" He stood up on tip-toe, craning his neck to peer down the line in search of his friend.

"Why don't you look for him?" suggested Neville. "I'll go to Ollivander's on my own, then come back here and look for you in line."

Harry clearly wanted to accept the offer, but first he asked, "Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all. I'll see you later." He glanced at Remus, who gave him an encouraging nod, and then headed off down the street. The line went on and on, people eagerly chatting together and swapping Quidditch stories. When he passed Quality Quidditch Supplies, he peered in through the window, but the shop was packed so full he couldn't see anything. A giant poster of Rufus Kornblow was plastered on the window, massive arms folded across his very fit chest, the wind billowing his robes and tousling the hair that fell across his forehead. The larger-than-life image mesmerized him, and he reflected that he wouldn't mind meeting a professional Quidditch player himself, especially if he was wearing his handsome uniform. Hopefully Harry and Remus wouldn't have gone into the shop by the time he got back. With one last glance through the window, he sighed and headed on down the street.

He shortly arrived at Ollivander's and stared up at the sign. "Since 382 BC." He'd always wondered if Mr. Ollivander were really that old. As many times as he'd passed this store, he'd never gone in. But now he'd be buying his very own wand. The thought brought a smile to his lips. Clutching the coins in his trousers pocket, he entered the shop.

Inside the shop was dark and dusty. Stacks of long, flat boxes teetered over him. He peered into the gloomy corners but could see no one. "H-hello?" he called out.

From deep among the shelves a raspy voice answered, "Don't rush me, don't rush me! I heard you!"

Clasping his hands behind his back, Neville waited. He could hear the shuffling of footsteps, and presently a head of wild, white hair appeared around one of the stacks of boxes. A pair of watery, red-rimmed eyes looked him up and down, not entirely with approval.

"Good lord!" the man barked, and Neville jumped. "I would have expected you to start school long ago."

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Longbottom, isn't it? Frank and Alice's boy?"

"Yes, sir. How did you know?"

"Don't I remember everyone I ever sold a wand to? Frank Longbottom, willow, unicorn hair, eight inches. Alice Weatherton, oak, dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches." Mr. Ollivander peered up and down the length of him. "Rather tall for a first year, aren't you?"

"I'm not a first year," said Neville. "I'll be sixteen on the 30th."

"Sixteen! Don't tell me you went to Gregorovich for your first wand?"

"No, sir. I've been using my father's wand, but I -."

"What?!" Mr. Ollivander's watery eyes boiled. "Of all the rubbish! How many times do I have to tell people not to indulge in such sentimental codswallop? The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way round! You can't just hand a wand down like an outgrown set of robes!" He pulled an enormous magnifying glass out of his apron pocket and, grabbing Neville by the ear, began inspecting him, peering up his nose and plucking hairs from his head to study through his glass.

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed, holding out a pilfered hair for Neville's inspection. "Don't you see here? Willow would be all wrong for you. It's a subtle wood, too diffuse. You want something with more focusing power. Using your father's wand for magic would be like trying to write using the whole bird instead of just one quill!"

Shoving the glass back into his pocket, Mr. Ollivander scampered among the stacks, extending a claw-like finger to scan the labels. "Let's see, let's see." He began pulling out boxes, sometimes from the bottom of the pile. The stacks swayed, and Neville held his breath, but the boxes did not fall.

Mr. Ollivander returned, his arms laden with boxes. He tipped them onto the counter and pawed through them. Finding the one he wanted, he opened the box and handed the wand to Neville. When Neville hesitated, he urged, "Well, go on! Take it!"

Obediently Neville grasped the handle of the wand, but almost immediately Mr. Ollivander snatched it away again. "Not right, not quite right," he muttered. He rapidly opened boxes, handing a succession of wands to Neville only to instantly pronounce them unacceptable. Neville wished he knew what he was supposed to be doing. He didn't want Mr. Ollivander to be angry with him.

They'd gone through dozens of wands, when Neville grasped one that sent a shock through his entire body. He stumbled backward, skin tingling. The wand felt warm and alive in his hand.

"A-ha!" Mr. Ollivander cried, clapping his hands. "Well? Don't just stand there! Give it a wave!"

Breathing rapidly, Neville flicked the wand, and a cascade of flower petals tumbled from the tip. Magic sang through his veins with a harmony he'd never known before. Wand work had always been sluggish for him, like trying to stir a thick potion with a feather. But this felt easy and natural. It felt right.

Mr. Ollivander cackled in delight. "Magnificent! I knew it!" He extended his hand for the wand, and Neville reluctantly let it go. Mr. Ollivander turned the wand over, inspecting it closely. "Cherry wood, from an orchard in Japan that's two thousand years old. We don't see that wood very often any more. The core is unicorn hair. Nine and one-quarter inches." He held the wand up to his eye and sighted along its length. "Make that nine and three-eighths. That's the one, Mr. Longbottom. That's the one." Mr. Ollivander beamed proudly down at him, deeply contented. "Now," he instructed as he repacked the wand in its box. "You've been using the wrong wand for quite some time now. This one will take some getting used to, so I advise you not to try any major magic until you've had the chance to get a feel for it. But do practice. Minor charms, simple transfigurations. Just remember to start small and slowly work your way up. I think you'll find it quite satisfactory."

"Thank you, Mr. Ollivander," said Neville, eager to get his hands on his new wand again. He counted out the coins and soon was cradling the box to his chest.

"Give my regards to your grandmother!" Mr. Ollivander called as Neville opened the door. "Pretty young thing, as I recall."

"Yes, sir!"

He stepped out into the street, holding the box with his new wand, and felt his heart soar. All the rotten things he had to deal with - obnoxious relatives, boys who couldn't make up their minds if they were 'that way' or not, evil dead spirits and sour potions masters - none of them seemed quite so onerous. He could handle them all. Even Bellatrix Lestrange. He, Neville Francis Longbottom, son of Frank and Alice, could handle it. With his new wand, with himself, he could handle anything.

He strolled down the street, head up, enjoying himself, the summer sun warm on his face. He took his time, peering into shop windows and watching people go by. Before long he came to Quality Quidditch. He walked the whole length of the line but didn't see Harry and Remus. Returning to the shop, he leaned against the window, peering through the glass into the shop. Sure enough, he spotted the two of them inside among the throng. The people standing at the door glared at him when he tried to enter, so he stepped back and stared up at the poster of Kornblow plastered to the window.

He was thinking about his wand and wondering what spell he ought to try first, and he had just decided on some of the charms they'd been taught in first year, when a voice next to him said, "You a fan, are you?"

He turned to see a young man standing next to him. The stranger flashed him a grin and nodded up at the poster. "Have you got his book?"

The sight of those white teeth did something funny to his stomach, and he blushed. "Um, no. Have you?"

"Nah. Queue's too long. Besides, I don't really know that much about Quidditch."

"Me, neither." Neville smiled. Not many people would admit to being indifferent to the wizarding world's dominating sport. It was nice to find a kindred spirit.

The young man mirrored Neville's smile. Young man - or boy. He didn't seem to be much older than Neville, a bit taller, but slender. He wore a black t-shirt tucked into his jeans, and Neville couldn't help but notice how trim his waist was.

"I like Kornblow, though," the boy continued. "Seems like a good player."

"Yeah," Neville agreed. Not so much because he knew anything about the matter, but because he wanted to agree with the handsome stranger.

A breeze ruffled the short curls on the boy's forehead. His eyelashes seemed impossibly long. He noticed Neville's stare and answered with an embarrassed little grin. Glancing back up at the poster again, he said, "That Kornblow looks quite fit in his uniform, don't you think?"

"Yeah," answered Neville, this time feeling himself fully qualified to agree about the issue.

The boy looked at him again with those pretty eyes. "You reckon there are pictures in the book?"

Neville took a deep breath as he stared up at the poster, trying to look as if it was perfectly normal to have a conversation with a good-looking stranger outside a Quidditch supply shop. Everything Remus had told him about identifying boys who were "that way" flashed through his mind. Surely they were talking about the same thing, he and this fellow with the trim waist and the dark eyes? "If the book does have pictures," he said, fighting to keep his voice even, "I wouldn't mind having a look."

Those white teeth flashed at him again. "Same here. I don't mind the poster, either."

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other, and Neville felt a lightness fill him, like a levitation charm, like the way the new wand felt in his hand when he grasped it for the first time. Power that was his to wield or not, as he chose.

The boy extended his hand. "My name's Omar."

"I'm Neville." They shook hands. Omar's hand felt warm and soft.

"So." Omar shoved his hands deep in his pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet, a bundle of kinetic energy. "I bet they have the book over at Flourish and Blotts, no queue. Want to go have a look?"

Neville shot a glance inside the shop. "My friends are in there. They're expecting me."

"Oh." Omar's face fell a bit.

"Maybe you could join us?"

Omar dug at a spot on the pavement with the toe of his shoe. "Nah. I don't want to impose."

Neville tried to think of something to encourage him, but Omar continued, "You come to Diagon Alley often?"

"I'm in London for the summer. We've come by several times."

Omar rubbed the back of his neck. "I work at the apothecary. Sometime if you're free, you could stop by. We could go out for a drink or something."

Neville fought valiantly to keep a silly grin from bursting out on his face. "Sure."

"All right, then. Well, see you around, Neville."

"Bye, Omar."

With a bright smile, Omar nodded and headed off down the street. Neville watched him go, paying particular attention to the way his bum looking in those jeans, until he at last disappeared among the crowd.

Heaving a sigh that reached all the way up from his toes, he looked back up at Kornblow's picture. His face felt like it would split in two from what was no doubt the silliest grin anyone ever grinned, but he didn't care.

Not much time passed before a voice interrupted a rather pleasant daydream he'd been having about him and Omar getting lost in the labyrinth hedge.

"Neville! There you are! Why didn't you come inside?"

He looked up to see Harry beaming wildly, and Remus.

"Kornblow was great!" Harry continued, not waiting for Neville to answer. "He was ever so nice. He talked to me for ages. And look, I got a present for you." He held out a photograph, and Neville saw an image of Rufus Kornblow waving at him from his broom. Scrawled across the picture were the words, Best wishes on your birthday, Rufus Kornblow.

"Wow, thanks, Harry!"

"Did you get a wand?" Harry asked.

"Yes." Tucking the picture under his arm, he opened the box to reveal the wand nestled on a strip of velvet.

Harry whistled. "It's lovely."

"Made with unicorn hair," Neville proudly reported.

"Well, go on. Take it out and give it a try," urged Harry.

Remus cleared his throat. "Not out here in the middle of the street. You know how the Ministry feels about underage magic outside of school."

"But Mr. Ollivander said I should practice."

"Certainly. But when we're back home, under more - controlled conditions. Not out here. You could set someone on fire."

Harry looked like he thought that might be fun, but Neville obediently put the lid back on the box.

Remus treated them to lunch, and then to complete their day, they visited Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. The shop was bustling with customers, and it took a while before George finally spotted them.

"Look who's here!" he shouted in greeting. "Some of our very favorite customers!"

"Business sure is booming," Harry answered with a wide grin.

"Yeah. Everyone's in town to see Rufus Kornblow, and Fred's been going out to the queue with free samples to entice the customers." George glanced around at the throngs standing elbow to elbow in his shop. "Seems to be working!"

"I don't suppose you offer a birthday discount, do you?" Harry asked.

"Is it your birthday?"

"On the 31st," said Harry. "And Neville's is on the 30th."

"Both of you?" George raised his eyebrows. "You're, what, sixteen?" The boys nodded, and George gave a wicked grin. "Legal drinking age. Wicked! Sure, twenty percent discount on anything you buy today. And me and Fred will have to plan something special in your honor."

Harry mirrored George's grin, but long experience with the twins made Neville a bit nervous about what they might come up with.

*****

By the time they returned to Grimmauld Place, Neville and Harry were laden down with Weasley Wheezes - caramels that made you talk backwards, packets of stealth dungbombs, Ever-Glo toothpaste. Remus retreated to the study to do some work for the Order, while Neville and Harry spread their treasures out on the kitchen table.

They were rifling through the treats when Harry casually said, "You know, what we've been doing.... It's just fooling around. It doesn't mean anything."

Neville almost dropped one of the exploding ink quills. He's been dreading this, but now that it was finally here he felt relief more than anything else. He didn't let it show, however. "Of course not," he agreed. "It was just practice."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Harry frown and bite his lip. He must have sounded very convincing.

"Right," Harry said at last. "So I've been thinking, I don't really need to practice any more. So maybe we ought to stop."

"Sure," said Neville, without missing a beat.

"All right then."

They sat in silence for a while, though Harry was still frowning.

"So do you think it's true, what the Weasleys were saying about Remus and...Sirius?"

Neville knew better than to answer that question. "I don't know."

Another silence. "I don't think it's true. They must have misinterpreted it."

Neville focused on the pile of Weasley Wheezes. He'd really just as soon not talk about this subject at all. He cast about for something else to say. "So...what do you suppose Fred and George are going to do for our birthdays? I hope it won't be too painful."

And just like that, the topic was over. All in all, Neville thought it had gone rather well. Things could have gone very, very badly. But during the day, he and Harry had been able to recover their familiar ease. They were better off as friends, anyway. He couldn't handle the pressure, ot to mention Harry's constant mood swings. He felt a little sad, of course. He'd done things with Harry that he'd never done with anyone before. More than that, he'd felt things, tenderness and affection, and things he couldn't possible talk about, feelings he had no idea if Harry returned. It had been too much. But now they could just pretend like none of it ever happened. Neville was really good at that.

And if at night he sometimes missed hearing Harry breathing next to him, if he missed those kisses and the thrill of exploration, it would be all right if he indulged himself in remembering it. Dreams were better than a reality that would only disappoint.