Becoming Neville

By the time the boys received a floo-message from Fred and George, saying they had planned a birthday treat for the next Order meeting, Neville was hardly in the mood to celebrate. He had far too many things to worry about, and he had taken to retreating to the greenhouse. These days his garden was the only thing he had any control over.

Yet herbology wasn't really about control at all. As Neville tended to the beds, tucking the plants under a blanket of mulch, thinning out the herbs and giving them room to grow, setting ladybugs to munch on the aphids, it occurred to him that herbology was all about the basic parental tasks of feeding and bathing, soothing injuries, protecting from harm, even talking and soft crooning. All the other lessons at school somehow involved the use of power to bend events to your will. But no one could make a plant grow. All you could do was give it everything it needed to grow by itself. As a gardener, Neville played more of a supportive role, which had always been his favorite kind anyway. For their part, the plants didn't yell at him. They didn't explode. If he planted milkweed seeds, they wouldn't come up as devil's snare if he messed up. They would simply...not grow.

Gardening was a responsibility, but it was all about using his power gently, something he noticed whenever Harry pulled too hard on a seedling he was transplanting, and the root snapped. Harry would just shrug and stick the injured plant into a pot the way he'd stab a fork into a pudding. Within minutes, the traumatized leaves would start to wilt, the stem to topple over.

And Neville would carefully water the soil, humming softly as he fed the roots, his fingertips lightly caressing the leaves. Sometimes the plant died anyway. But more often than not he was able to save it.

He liked watching his little plants grow tall, their leaves stretched toward the sun like eager hands. As the plants thrived, they gave off fresh green scents. He could sniff his hands and tell from the smell whether his plants were flourishing or not. It wasn't that his greenhouse gave him a sense of accomplishment, because he didn't really do anything, not like catching the snitch and winning a Quidditch match. But it made him feel at peace, in harmony with the quieter rhythms of life, with light and darkness, respiration and the gentle stretch of growth. The slow pace suited him.

He was turning sixteen, the beginning of manhood, his limbs stretching to greater lengths. He wouldn't have thought he was ready, but time moved in its own seasons. He had to trust that he, too, would bloom at the right time.

He gave his plants a final caress, surveying the greenhouse to make sure that all was well, the tools all put away, the beds in good shape, before he headed downstairs for dinner. It was the evening of the appointed birthday celebration, and when he entered the kitchen, he found it already full of Order members. He'd been told Mrs. Weasley had invited a number of them early for dinner, but he hadn't expected so many.

"And there's birthday boy number two!'" a cheery voice sang out. He mustered up a smile for the twins, though their promised birthday surprise had his stomach in knots.

"Boy?" protested Fred. "At sixteen, he's a man!"

"Very true, brother." George leered at Neville. "Old enough for some rumpy-pumpy!"

"George!" Mrs. Weasley scolded, waving a wooden spoon at her son.

"What?" asked George innocently. "With seven children, I'd have thought you knew all about it."

Bill Weasley appeared behind his twin brothers and thwacked them loudly on their heads. "Show some respect for your mother!"

"Yes, William," the twins chorused, but when he turned away, they made faces at his back.

Mrs. Weasley wove her way through the crowd gathered around the table and planted a kiss on Neville's cheek. "Happy birthday, dear," she said, and his heart warmed at her kindness. Her maternal radar picked up on the dirt under his fingernails. "Been working on that greenhouse, have you? Well, come and wash up. Dinner will be ready soon."

"Roast beef," said Harry from where he was seated at the table. "Mrs. Weasley knows it's my favorite. I hope you don't mind."

"Sounds lovely," said Neville as he headed to the sink and lathered up.

Remus fetched a butterbeer for Neville, and as he passed Mrs. Weasley, he kissed her on the cheek. "Anything you cook is always a treat, Molly."

Mrs. Weasley blushed deeply. "Oh, you!"

"Oi!" called out George. "Don't be putting the moves on our mum!"

Fred snickered, and Neville could hear him mutter, "Yeah, leave that for our brother."

George elbowed him in the ribs and told Neville, "And after dinner there'll be triple-decker chocolate fudge cake."

"We requested it special," added Fred. "Mum's cakes are the best. Better than that slop at Hogwarts, that's for sure."

A steady stream of new arrivals filled up the kitchen: Tonks, Professor McGonagall, and even Professor Dumbledore, as well as other members of the Order. It appeared Mrs. Weasley had invited everyone from the Order to come early for dinner. Still, Neville felt a little embarrassed by all the cheery birthday greetings. His birthdays had always been simple, excruciating family affairs at which dusty old relatives showed up, ate cucumber sandwiches, and compared him unfavorably to his parents.

But this was not nearly so unpleasant -- even when Snape showed up, his eyes widening comically at the sight of the full kitchen, before managing to resume his customary sneer.

"I thought the meeting was at six," he grumbled at Dumbledore.

The headmaster gave a cheery smile. "Yes, but you're always showing up late, and I thought if I told you the meeting was an hour earlier, you might actually be on time for once."

Snape shot him a combustible glare, but before he could snarl, Mrs. Weasley handed him a dinner plate. "You could use a good meal, anyway. You're far too skinny, if you don't mind my saying, Professor. And afterwards we have a birthday cake for Harry and Neville."

"Birthday?" Snape spat, as if the word itself left a foul taste in his mouth. A vein his temple began to throb in an alarming way.

"Yes, won't that be a treat?" continued Mrs. Weasley, and Neville couldn't be sure if she was truly that unaware, or if she planned to avert Snape's wrath by making light of it. She turned to face the dinner party and asked, "Would someone please transfigure a chair for Professor Snape?"

"We'll do it!' the twins sang out, rolling up their sleeves and brandishing their wands in unison.

"You most certainly will not!" called out McGonagall, shrewdly heading off whatever disaster the twins had planned. With a flick of her wand, she transfigured an empty butterbeer bottle into a hard, straight-backed chair.

Still Snape hesitated, glaring at the plate in his hands as if he hoped it would transfigure into a scythe he could lob at someone's head, until Remus at last urged, "Oh, sit down, Severus. Dinner won't kill you - especially since I didn't cook it."

Bill whispered something in Remus's ear, his arm draped companionably around Remus's shoulders. Neville saw Snape watching through narrowed eyes, and abruptly sat down, his glare fixed firmly on Bill. Neville knew how much Snape hated public displays of affection, and he hoped he wouldn't give Remus any grief over Bill's friendliness.

Turning his attention away from the unpleasantness threatening to break out at Snape's end of the table, Neville asked, "Mrs. Weasley, couldn't Ron come?"

"I'm afraid not," she said, a worry line creasing her forehead. "He'd been getting on rather well, but he had another...incident lately. I don't know what set it off. Ginny and Arthur are keeping him company at home."

Remus stared quietly down at his plate, biting his lip. Out of the corner of his eyes, Neville saw both Harry and Snape watching Remus's reaction.

"Ron will be fine, Molly," Dumbledore assured her in that comforting way of his that made you think everything would all work out in the end. "Though we are all sorry to miss him today -," he didn't even pause for Snape's derisive snort, "- he has a very strong constitution. You needn't worry."

"Thank you, Albus," Molly said, dabbing at the corner of her eyes with a napkin.

"Oi, Neville," said Tonks, "I hear you have a new wand."

This prompted many interested comments, and Neville was invited to pass his wand around so everyone could inspect it. This proved a welcome diversion, and even Snape was pleasantly occupied with enumerating the many inferior qualities of the wand. Neville didn't mind. At least Snape wasn't listing his own inferior qualities.

Dinner passed quite pleasantly, with plenty of bustle and noise to keep everyone entertained. The twins talked about business with Mundungus Fletcher, Tonks nattered on about Quidditch with Harry, Bill flirted with Remus under Snape's baleful glare, and even Neville found himself engrossed in a discussion with Mrs. Weasley about gardening.

When all of Mrs. Weasley's cooking had been devoured, and there wasn't a crumb left on the table, Mrs. Weasley brought out an enormous cake. With a flick of her wand, the candles sparked into life and began singing, "Happy Birthday" in squeaky tones. Everyone (except Snape, of course) joined in singing, and then Neville and Harry together blew out the candles, only to have them relight again, this time singing the Screaming Goblins', "Doin' It on My Broomstick," while the twins snorted and laughed. McGonagall quickly silenced the candles before Mrs. Weasley could get around the table to her two sons, and they all safely dug into the cake.

Neville had finished his second helping and was licking the icing off his fork, when Dumbledore pushed back from the table, dabbing his mouth with the tip of his beard. "That was delicious, Molly! We may all have trouble staying awake through the meeting with our bellies so pleasantly full, but we must all do our best." He stood, and the adults all got to their feet. "Harry, Neville, happy birthday. And here's wishing you many, many more. Now, if you will excuse us...."

"Thank you, sir," said Neville, echoed by Harry.

The others expressed their birthday greetings as they all filed out of the room, until only Harry, Neville, and the twins were left. Fred and George exchanged a glance, then looked at the birthday boys, their eyes lit with a mischievous gleam.

"Now that we've got rid of them -," said Fred.

"-what do you say we really start the party?" finished George.

Harry answered with a wicked grin. "What did you have in mind?"

Minutes later they were ensconced in the study on the second floor where, Neville noted with some concern, they were safely out of earshot of the meeting downstairs.

As the other settled on the floor, George opened a desk and pulled out some glasses and a bottle of Ogden's firewhiskey.

"Oh!" said Neville. "Um, I don't think we're old enough."

"Yes, it's one of those unjust laws," said George.

"When it comes to the drinking age, we're what you might call 'conscientious objectors'."

"Have been ever since we were sixteen ourselves," continued George, pouring out four glasses.

"It seemed to us," said Fred, passing the glasses around, "that if you're old enough to have sex, you ought to be old enough to get drunk."

Neville hesitantly reached for the glass Fred held out to him. Orange and yellow lights swirled in the glass in a tantalizing pattern. He thought of Gran, who strongly disapproved of drink except for her own habits, which she said were purely medicinal. He'd never quite understood, though, how she expected him to believe that she needed to take so much medicine on the nights when her canasta club met.

Well, if "medicine" was healthy for his grandmother, who was well into her nineties, then surely it would be good for him as well. He took a sip - and almost choked, eyes watering and throat stinging. He gasped and spat. "That's horrid!'

"Of course it is!" chuckled Fred.

"And the hangover's even worse!" snorted George.

Neville held his glass out. "I'll take some more."

The twins obliged, and all four of them kept drinking, even though Harry and Neville sputtered and choked with every sip. After a couple of glasses, the pain eased a bit, and Neville noticed that the world had gone a bit watery, rippling and waving whenever he turned his head or shifted his gaze. The twins, who had always been funny, were now downright hilarious, keeping Neville and Harry in stitches of laughter as they recounted their adventures living in Diagon Alley. Harry regaled them with tales of his horrid relatives, and Neville, not to be outdone, gave a description of what Snape was like on summer holiday, prompting the twins to fall onto the floor, clutching their sides and laughing until there was no breath left in their lungs.

At last George rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up off the floor. Wiping tears from his eyes, he gasped, "Stop that, Nev! You're too funny - Snape scolding you for eating Witchabix. But before I puke from all this laughing, we have another present for you sods."

From where he lay on his back on the floor, Fred waved a lazy hand. "Yeah. Better get to it before we're too drunk."

By now Neville had consumed enough firewhiskey that he wasn't as worried as he should have been. "Another present?" he squealed. "What is it?"

"Our patented daydream charm," George announced. "Thirty minutes of realistic fantasy, guaranteed."

Harry, his glasses adorably askew, asked, "Fantasies about what?"

"Whatever you want. Focus on the dream of your choice when the charm is being said. Or if you can't decide what you want, just make your mind a blank, and the charm will come up with something for you."

Harry screwed up his face in concentration, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, the way Neville had sometimes seen him look when he was working on Astronomy homework. For his part, Neville instantly thought of Omar, but almost as quickly decided against it. He didn't want to have too vivid a reaction in front of the others. He figured it might be best to let the charm decide for him.

After a moment, George raised his wand. "You ready?" When both of them nodded, he said the incantation.

***

He's back at home in Chipping. The garden is ablaze with color, more blooms than he's ever seen before. The cool summer breeze wafts the sweet perfume toward him, and he follows the scent.

There beneath the beech tree, his mother sits in Gran's rocking chair, her eyes closed, rocking and humming a tune. He's heard that tune before. The sun shines through the leaves, dappling her face with light and shadow. Her light brown hair falls in rich waves back from her forehead. She is plump and pretty. Healthy. Whole.

"Hi, Mum," he says.

She opens her eyes and smiles at him. "Hello, dear." She holds out her hand and he takes it. There is room for them both in the chair, and he settles next to her, resting his head on her shoulder.

A warm, tenor voice calls out to him, and he looks up to see his father strolling toward them across the grass. It's like looking into a strange mirror. He sees his own long, thin nose, his blue eyes, his dimpled chin.

His father joins them in the chair, and Neville is sandwiched between the two of them. His mother strokes his hair and asks him about school, and as he tells her all about lessons and his dormitory and the people he knows, none of it sounds so bad. They listen and ask him questions as if his school life is the most interesting thing in the world.

"We're so proud of you, son," his father says. "We always knew you would do well. Never a doubt in our minds."

"Our pride and joy," his mother agrees.

He has never known such perfect happiness. Their love warms his skin like sun. "I like herbology best," he says.

"That sounds fascinating," his mother says.

His father adds, "Tell us more about it."

He tells them, and it seems they could listen to him all day. They sit and talk and talk, cozy and warm, the garden's perfume surrounding them.

A screech splits the air, like fingernails on a chalkboard, and Neville looks up to see a dark figure streaming toward them: Bellatrix Lestrange, her wand raised. He leaps to his feet, holding his new wand out. Power surges through him, and he knows that he can cast any spell and it will work perfectly. He is ready, and he will let nothing harm his parents.

A firm hand settles on his shoulder. "We know you can do it," his father says.

He grits his teeth, staring unflinchingly at Bellatrix's mad face. "I'll stop her. She won't get through me."

But his mother shakes her head. "No, no, don't fight her."

A tendril of unease creeps into his gut, and he tries to resist it. "What?"

"Don't you see?" his mother says, her blue eyes piercing his determination. "It would be a mistake."

His father simply gives him an encouraging smile. "Listen to your mother, Neville."

He falters, his unease growing. The dream isn't so pleasant now.. "I-I don't understand."

"Don't fight the curse," his mother continues. "You must be soft as water, hard as the raging flood."

Bellatrix looms in his vision, her hair flying wildly, lips pulled back in an ugly grimace. He knows what she is capable of. He knows what will happen if he doesn't stand up to her. He looks back to his mother, tears flowing down his cheeks. "She'll kill you!"

Soft blue eyes hold him in their gaze. "Don't you trust me?"

He turns, and Bellatrix is before him now. She casts the curse. "Crucio!" An evil red light bursts from the tip of his wand, and there is no more time for thought.

He releases his wand and falls back with the force of the curse, like a leaf caught in a torrent, like a reed bending in the wind. The red light penetrates him, filling the gaps between his cells, racing through his veins, lighting up his nerves, but he opens himself to receive it, drawing it into his body like a warm fire on a winter's night. It fills him, and he explodes into a billion fragment of light dancing through the air, drowning out the sun....

Soft as water, hard as the raging flood.