Not Quite a Maia

The large paddock of the Burrow was scattered with mourners who had come to pay their respects following the burial of Fred Weasley. A quiet funeral had originally been planned the week after the War's end, but Fred had been extremely popular with all who knew him: a friend, a prankster, an ally, an inspiration - the Weasleys didn't have the heart to refuse those who enquired about burial arrangements. Everyone missed Arthur and Molly's child - something they understood all too well. Despite this, Mrs Weasley had asked that only those close to the family, such as relatives and Order members who had known their son, attend the wake that followed. They had six other children who needed their parents and though the threat of danger was finally over, she could not bear to have them out of sight amidst a hundred or so mourners.

Ginny asked her mother for permission to have Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood at the wake. The youngest Weasley had developed a close bond with them during that final terrible year at Hogwarts and her parents were only too happy to see her surrounded by those who had been so supportive of her at that time, especially if their company could distract her from her grief for a little while.

And so it was that, after the funeral, Neville and Augusta Longbottom arrived just behind Luna and her father, Xenophilius, as the latter two wandered towards the family residence to offer their condolences.

"Honestly," fussed Mrs Longbottom, "he could have made an attempt at sobriety for the occasion. It's a funeral, for Merlin's sake, not a birthday party."

She was referring to Xenophilius' bright orange flowing robes, which clashed horribly with the vibrantly luminous yellow triangle that hung around his neck on a gold chain.

Neville sighed. "It's just the way he is Gran. He doesn't mean any disrespect: in fact, he told me on the way down here that he wore orange especially for Fred."

His Gran looked at him in disbelief. "Exactly how is that painful shade of orange intended to denote respect, young man?" she demanded, as if he'd personally assisted Luna's mad father into the ridiculous garments.

"Dunno. Maybe it's something to do with the Weasley hair," he suggested hopefully.

She huffed in annoyance. "Neville Longbottom, you may know a thing or two about lobbing heads off giant snakes, but you know nothing about funerals!"

So saying, she strode through the grounds into the Burrow and the stuffed vulture shook so violently on her hat that, with a little more effort, he imagined it may yet know the joy of flight once more. Neville was left stranded in the garden, standing beside tables groaning with sandwiches and soup as the other mourners milled silently around him.

The list went on.

A hand clapped him on the back and he jumped, startled.

"Neville Longbottom! How the devil are you, dear boy?"

Such affability seemed a little out of place, given the circumstances, so he turned to see who on earth the jolly voice belonged to. "Oh, hullo Mr..."

Blimey. Who was that?

"Doge. Elphias Doge," declared the elderly man, whose puffy white hair was crowned with a shiny, new, black Bowler hat - bought just for the occasion - which he pulled off his head briefly in greeting. "You may remember me from Bill's wedding?"

"Er, sorry, no, but I wasn't there," admitted Neville. Doge. Where did he know that name from?

Doge, with his wrinkled hand still firmly on Neville's back, pulled him towards a bench and encouraged him to sit.

"Terrible business, isn't it? He was a fine young man, was Fred Weasley." The elderly wizard shook head sadly. "Tragic, just tragic."

Neville didn't really know how to respond to that, other than nodding his agreement; the mixture of giddy joy and deep grief pouring from the Wizarding World these days left him feeling confused and a little bit guilty; after all, he and his Gran had both survived. Even his parents had survived relatively unscathed - if you didn't count the fact that they had been Crucio-ed beyond wit and wisdom almost seventeen years since. Frowning, he threw a glance at his companion. What did the old man want with him?

Perplexed, he grabbed a beef sandwich from a swaying pile and shoved a good part of it in his mouth, trying to recall where he'd heard the name of Elphias Doge.

"Still," said the old wizard a little more brightly. "Even in such circumstances there's good to be found."

With mustard clinging to the corner of his mouth, Neville eyed the rambling man in disbelief and wondered whether the Weasleys would agree with that.

Elphias flushed slightly. "Don't misunderstand me dear boy: the death of one's child is a terrible thing, but if nothing else, Molly and Arthur have the comfort of another six to see them through. A large family is a blessing at any time, but more so in times of grief, as I have had the questionable fortune of observing."

Well, perhaps he had a point with that. It must be nice to have so many relatives looking out for you, to have parents who could really offer comfort. Having suddenly Lost his appetite, Neville dropped his sandwich on a plate and cut the man off, not caring if he appeared brash.

"Look, Mr...er...Doge: was there something you wanted to speak to me about?" He wasn't going to sit here for the rest of the day and listen to the old man rabbitting on about large families. This wake was supposed to be about celebrating Fred's life and comforting his loved ones, not sinking into the ruddy doldrums over his own lack of (lucid) relations.

"Forgive me, dear boy, I do rather tend to ramble on a bit at times."

Feeling rather guilty at his uncharacteristic outburst, the teenager poured Doge a glass of lemonade, which the old wizard accepted with a smile.

"You're a good boy, Neville Longbottom. Remind me of your father, you know. Very hospitable chap Frank was. Where was I? Oh yes! You probably remember me from Bill's wedding..."

Neville sighed again. They had already been through this.

"...when I spoke with young Harry Potter about the article..."

The article, of course! Elphias Doge wrote Professor Dumbledore's obituary for the Daily Prophet not long after the headmaster's death.

"...and therefore know that we were great friends. What you may not know, is that I have decided to write my own biography on his life to repudiate the scandalous slurs printed by that odious Skeeter woman in her rag of a book."

Doge was puce with anger at the mention of the devious reporter and Neville sympathised. Skeeter had caused a lot of people a lot of pain over the years. Especially poor Harry.

"Therefore," continued Doge after taking a cool gulp of lemonade to calm himself, "I wish to talk with those whose lives he influenced for the better: to show what a shining example he was to us all. As the headmaster of your school and the man who inspired your now famous rebellion against the Death Eaters and Lord V...V...eh, Vo...oh goodness gracious...against You-Know-Who, it seems only fitting to hear from you yourself as to how his excellent example helped mould the iron will of a warrior!"

Iron will of a warrior? Neville wasn't so sure about that. At the time he'd been so numbed with shock after carrying the corpses of his classmates back into the castle and, later, so consumed with anger at the sneering lies of the hated wizard - with his outrageous claims that Harry Potter had died while trying to flee like a coward - that he had snapped. He'd had it up to his back teeth with dark lords and Death Eaters, living in fear and secretly training for battle under the constant threat of discovery, and all he'd really wanted to do at that point was Avada Kedavra the evil git into the next millennium. Later that night, when he'd lain on the couch in the Gryffindor common room with the events replaying in his head, surrounded by other survivors who sought the reassurance company brought, it seemed as if he was thinking about a completely different person.

"Oh. Well, I em...Look, Mr Doge..."

"Elphias, dear boy, I absolutely insist you call me Elphias!"

Oh yeah, because Gran absolutely wouldn't mind that her teenaged grandson was addressing someone as ancient as him by his first name. Augusta Longbottom may be inordinately proud of him, but she'd still chew his ears off if she thought he couldn't mind his manners!

"Well, anyway sir; I'm not really sure this is the best time to be discussing that, what with Mr and Mrs Weasley having just buried their son. I'd be happy to talk about it some other time though," he added, seeing the old man's crestfallen expression. "Maybe after things have settled a bit."

Doge brightened considerably. "Of course, of course - you have the right of it, young Neville. So like your mother, Alice. A sweet girl, she was."

Rising stiffly from the bench he nodded politely to Doge. "Just let me know when you'd like to talk about the DA, and I'll see if Ginny and Luna can come at the same time. It'll save you having to arrange three separate meetings and we'll all be able to give you whatever you need for your book." Neville offered his dead headmaster's friend a warm handshake. "He was the best wizard I ever knew; we all miss him, you know. There was no one else like him and I don't think there ever will be - at least, not in my lifetime."

Doge eyed him shrewdly. "Don't sell yourself short, boy. You're quite the wizard yourself, and I can tell you for a fact that Albus would be enormously proud of this Gryffindor hero," he said, jabbing a spindly finger in his stomach.

Now Neville was the one flushing. "Right. Er, well, I eh, need to go and pay my respects to the Weasleys, Mr Doge, so I'd best be off before Gran comes looking for me." He departed as hastily as he could, embarrassed at the old man's praise - but Doge called after him, causing a few of the other mourners to turn their heads in surprise.

"Tell that grandmother of yours I'd be happy to write a book on the formidable Augusta Longbottom too! Always delighted to spend some time contemplating the colourful history of such a spirited filly!"

The youngest Longbottom snorted in disbelief as he approached the Burrow proper. Yeah, that would go down a treat. His face would be the only colourful thing around here if he related Doge's words to the prim family matriarch!

Entering the crooked cottage through the kitchen door, Neville found the small area cramped with guests, some of them seated at the wooden table, others crowded around the fireplace. The mantelpiece was covered with empty glasses which, one by one, were lining up to be spirited away for a good scrubbing in the kitchen sink by a Floatation charm. The sink was filled with soapy bubbles, a brush scrubbing merrily away at each new item that drifted over from the mantelpiece.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were sitting at the table and he approached them, rather unsure of what to say to his Weasley friends.

"Hullo Ginny, Ron," he said a bit nervously, nodding at the others. Ginny and Hermione stood and enveloped him in warm hugs, which made him blush. Neville wasn't really used to this sort of physical affection. Gran sometimes patted his back (and Great Uncle Algie still ruffled his hair, which annoyed him no end), but other than that he wasn't really much of a touchy-feely person.

"Erm, I just wanted to say..."

Ron and Ginny flinched slightly and Neville suspected they were probably sick of people coming up to them, offering well-meaning platitudes, so he quickly amended his words.

"...that I think Fred would've liked the service. I mean, the fireworks were amazing. Whose idea was it to show him using old Riddle as a Bludger and smashing him through the veil at the Department of Mysteries?"

The red-haired siblings smiled at him with silent gratitude. "That was George," said Ron in admiration. "Bloody brilliant, eh?"

He nodded. "Look, before I join you, I was wondering if you knew were your mum is?"

"Upstairs, making a bed up for Harry. She's a little...well, you can imagine, so try not to..."

"Oh, no! Don't worry, it's about something else. I don't want to upset her. But I'll wait 'til she comes down, though - don't want to intrude and all that."

Ginny gave him a very Weasley glare. "Neville Longbottom, you couldn't intrude if you tried! Now get up there and say hello - she'll be happy to see you. Merlin knows she could use a friendly face. Always weeping in corners when she thinks no one's looking! Fred would be so upset if he thought she was crying over him at every opportunity."

Her lip trembled slightly as she said this and Hermione gave her a comforting squeeze before Harry pulled her back down beside him, clasping her hand tightly in his own. Neville offered a weak smile before making his way up the crooked staircase.

"Fifth floor, Ron's room!" yelled Ginny after him and he plodded slowly upwards until he reached his destination. A door lay slightly ajar at the top of the landing and he could see the glare of orange and black: Chudley Cannon colours. A small grin lit the corners of his mouth at his friend's devotion to the worst Quidditch team in England. But hearing sniffles emanating from the room quickly wiped it away.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea? Standing on the last step before the fifth floor, Neville wondered why he felt it necessary to trouble the motherly witch with something so small when she was still upset over the death of her child. He debated turning back when a voice behind him made him jump almost a foot high.

"Neville? You alright up there, mate?" Grasping on to the creaky banister with a sweaty palm, he spun round to see Charlie frowning up at him slightly.

Well, there went his escape plan. The door to Ron's room opened at the sound of voices and Neville winced. "Oh, yeah, fine thanks. I, eh, just needed to talk with your mum for a minute, that's all." Charlie bobbed his head in acknowledgement and left as Mrs Weasley popped out the room.

"Why, Neville, dear!" Her eyes were red and slightly swollen, but she waved him in and handed him a cotton sheet. "If you don't mind pulling that over the mattress, dear, and tucking it in while I put the pillowcases on?"

Complying, he fumbled at the bed corners as she lifted a red pillowcase covered in zooming Snitches and began to stuff a pillow into it.

This was not exactly how he had planned his chat with her, but it seemed it was as good as it was going to get.

"Mrs Weasley?" he began.

"Yes, dear," she said tremulously. Neville hoped desperately that she wasn't going to cry. How would he console her? He wasn't very good at that sort of thing (and Ginny would probably kill him if she thought he came all the way up here just to upset her mother).

"Erm, I need to say...that is, I want to say thank you."

There, he'd done it.

And he'd obviously taken the witch by surprise because she stopped shaking the pillow in a mad fury and regarded him with two raised eyebrows. "Thank you, dear? Whatever for?"

He abandoned his attempt to artlessly cram the sheet under the mattress and faced her. What he had to say should be done standing upright and with great respect.

"For killing the bit...I mean, finishing off Bellatrix Lestrange," he amended hastily. "Oh, I know you didn't do it for me or my parents, but I don't care. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted the people that ruined their lives to pay for it - and now, thanks to you, the worst of them is gone forever."

"Why, Neville! You don't have to thank me for that, dear," Mrs Weasley declared. "It was my pleasure," she added darkly, grief temporarily subdued as she gripped the helpless pillow murderously. The Snitches were momentarily hampered in their merry travels across the expanse of cotton as her fingers sank into the red material.

The stout witch smiled at him rather sadly. "I daresay that you would have liked the pleasure of getting rid of her yourself, after all the pain she caused you. So perhaps I should apologise for denying you the chance."

Neville was horrified. "No! Not at all. Absolutely not, Mrs Weasley! She's gone for good - it doesn't really matter if it was by my wand or yours; she'll never hurt anyone ever again, that's the important thing."

"You're a dear boy, Neville," Mrs Weasley said. "Always so mindful of others. Your parents would be very proud of their son; I know I would be, if you were mine."

The unexpected warmth behind her words made his eyes grow hot and his throat constrict. "Thanks, Mrs Weasley, that's...that's a really nice thing to say," he managed to choke out. Oh Merlin, if he started crying in front of her when she was the one who was more in need of his support...

"Come here, dear. Sit down." She pulled him towards Ron's bed where they both took a seat. "I know it's not been easy for you, with them spending most of your life in St Mungo's instead of at your side. Oh, I know your grandmother did her very best - and an excellent job she did too, for you're a credit to her - but, well, it must have been difficult for you seeing other children being hugged, comforted or even scolded by their mums and dads when yours don't even seem to recognise you."

He didn't know what to say - her words hit too close to home.

"But," Mrs Weasley continued, "I knew both your parents long before the dreadful night they were attacked and I saw them with you several times after you were born. They adored you, dear! Your father was convinced he had the best boy in all of Britain - Muggle or wizard - and would pull out his album of photos for visitors at the house to admire before he even offered them tea!" She laughed at the memory and Neville's eyes shone at the unexpected gift of her revelation.

"Alice used to chide him for being so inhospitable to guests, but he never listened. It was always 'my son Neville this' or 'my son Neville that' and she would never stay cross with him for very long because she agreed with his every word. They used to plan where they would take you when you grew up, and what they would teach you. Augusta always said they were far too indulgent, but even she was not immune to your chubby face and laughing eyes."

Yeah, well, that chubby face was still doing the rounds, even if his eyes weren't quite as full of humour as in his younger days. But even as that thought flashed through his mind, he was unwilling to disturb the Weasley matriarch, for he rarely heard about the more carefree side of his parents, especially from their old friends.

"And even though you've had to put your chin up and get on with your life without the benefit of their instruction, I know that somewhere, deep down, they know you for who you really are and they love you for what you've accomplished. How could they not? They are your parents, and parents never forget...not really."

Her brown eyes sparkled with sincerity and a good deal of unshed tears. Neville was amazed by her generous heart, particularly under the circumstances. He wanted to show her the same kindness, to ease her own pain in any small way he could and wished that a wave of his wand could make her feel better. That was unlikely though, so he settled for the few words of comfort he felt might soothe her heart a little bit.

"I didn't know Fred as well as I would've liked, Mrs Weasley. I mean, we were in the same House and saw each other in school every day and all that - we were even in the DA together - but I think you should know this: he was always laughing and always keen to make everyone else laugh too. He rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, unless they deserved it, and he always went out of his way to help those that needed it. Fred loved life and he loved his family even more. He was the picture of happiness, the spirit of generosity and the pinnacle of humanity."

His heart was pounding in his chest and Neville fervently hoped he wasn't upsetting the matronly witch.

"Fred was one of the best people I've ever met and that was no doubt down to the example set by his dad - and by you Mrs Weasley. When I die, if I can look back on my life and know that I've experienced even a fraction of the love, warmth and security that he knew with you, I'll count myself as having lived a life full of joy and thank Merlin for my very good fortune."

Neville had never spoken at such length, or in such a way, in all his days and he wasn't sure if it had been the right thing to do; but when Fred's mother gave a wrenching sob and threw her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug, he felt relief at having found the right words after all.

A cough at the door interrupted them and he withdrew from Mrs Weasley's grasp as Gran entered the room.

"Ah, there you are young man. Where on earth have you been? Not making a nuisance of yourself, I hope?"

"Quite the contrary," said Mrs Weasley firmly as she rose and pulled him up by the arm, clasping it almost protectively. "You should know that you have a fine young man here, Augusta. Any mother would be proud of him." There was a hint of challenge in her tone and Neville wished the floors would open up and swallow him all the way back down to the kitchen.

Fortunately, Gran only huffed slightly. "Yes, well, his grandmother is rather proud of him too, but it wouldn't do to tell him that every minute. Don't want him growing up as deluded as a Malfoy now, do we?"

Then, to Neville's astonishment, her voice softened as her gaze fell on him. "Not that you ever would, of course: far too much of that Longbottom sense in you."

Oh crikey, if he had to listen to much more of this gushing praise (and from his Gran, too) he'd forego the open floorboards and just exit through the window.

"Anyway, enough of that," Augusta said briskly. "I came to offer my services in the kitchen Molly, or wherever else you need them at the moment. Neville, Miss Lovegood and your other friends are out by the pond, so once you've greeted Arthur, you may join them. Off you go now."

Neville left the two witches to the bed-making and gratefully exited the bedroom, clumping his way down the winding stairs. He wasn't offended by his Gran's brusque tone because he was used to it. Other people may find her a bit harsh at times, but he knew she meant well and he loved her dearly.

But he could still feel the warm affection of Mrs Weasley's tight embrace lingering on his arms, and he wondered if there would ever be a time when his own mum would hug him with quite the same fervour.

Later that evening, back in the familiarity of his greenhouse in the rear garden of the Yorkshire home he shared with his grandmother, Neville performed the ritual check of all the plants he cultivated. The Alihotsy plant was flourishing in the magically controlled temperature of the enclosure. He really ought to stock up on some more Glumbumble fluid though. Not that he had any intention of consuming Alihotsy leaves any time soon, but it was always wise to have the antidote handy in case an oversight rendered some unsuspecting person raving like a lunatic for the rest of their life.

Why did he have to go and think of Luna's father just then? Xenophilius may be a bit...odd, but he was still a perfectly decent old chap.

The Bouncing Bulbs were still young yet, but would grow nicely; the Puffapod plants displayed their fat pink pods proudly and he smiled at them, relishing the thought of dropping some of their beans in the garden later in Spring just to watch them flower prettily. That always cheered him up - even Gran smiled.

At the thought of late Spring, Neville's feet ground to a halt as something else occurred to him.

What was he going to do now? The war was over and so was his schooling, unless he chose to go back to Hogwarts after the summer and repeat the final year like Harry, Ron and Hermione were thinking about doing. But did he really want to go back there after all that had happened those last months? Would he be able to sit in the Great Hall and eat breakfast or take a stroll outside on the grounds, after all he had witnessed there the week before? Visit the Room of Requirement without shuddering in recollection at the students' desperate flight to its security? Pass the walls of the halls without remembering all the nights he, Ginny and Luna had snuck out to furtively decorate them with slogans of defiance.

And he definitely wasn't keen on sitting in the Defence again the Dark Arts classroom again: for him it would always be filled with the ghostly screams of his classmates writhing under the Cruciatus. How could he go back to that?

The bench in the corner beckoned in invitation and he made his way over to it absently, removing his dragon-hide gardening gloves and clutching them on his lap as he sat pondering his future.

If he didn't go back to school, what was he going to do? Should he move out? As an adult in the Wizarding world, his Gran couldn't object with any real authority, but Neville wasn't sure he was ready to fly the nest just yet or where he would go let alone what he would do. Maybe if he'd been Harry, he'd know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. His friend would probably become an Auror - shoot right to the top of the trainees list after his defeat of Vo...Vo...

Bloody hell! The evil git was dead and he still couldn't say his name. He narrowed his eyes and mustered all the courage and determination that had seen him survive the last year unscathed (apart from the deep lacerations on his face). It was time to change that.

"Vol...Vold..."

Neville was sweating slightly, but he refused to believe it was anything other than the climate-controlled greenhouse. Red with effort, he made one more valiant attempt...

"Voldemort!"

He gasped in surprise: He did it! He actually did it! Surveying his surroundings carefully to make sure he hadn't inadvertently summoned any remnant Death Eaters (and gripping his wand, just in case), he broke into a wide grin that tugged slightly on his still delicate scars.

"Voldemort! Voldemort!" The greenhouse remained - mercifully - Death Eater free, and Hogwarts' star Herbology pupil laughed in genuine delight as another shackle of the dark years freed him from its grasp.

He was so delighted with his success, that he abandoned his gloves, rushed past the now enormous Mimbulus Mimbletonia and exited the greenhouse, making a mad dash towards the house. Gran was enjoying tea in the living room while listening to the merry tones of Celestina Warbeck singing her new tune Hit Me With Your Wizard Stick (celebrating He Who Must Not Be Named's demise at the end of what he thought was his own wand). The cup she held smashed onto the floor as the elderly witch flew out of her chair in shock at his noisy arrival.

"Gran! Listen: Voldemort!" He grinned triumphantly at her as she clutched her at heart. " Did you hear that? Voldemort. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldem..."

"Neville Longbottom, cease that racket immediately!" she gasped.

"But Gran, I said his name..."

"I am aware of that young man. What do you expect from me? A Chocolate Frog?"

His good mood evaporated instantly, making his grandmother regret her hasty words. "I'm very proud of you, Neville; you know that, don't you?" she asked upon resuming her seat (and normal sinus rhythm).

"Yes Gran," he replied monotonously, not convinced.

"Don't stand there like a Muggle visitor: take a seat, boy," she ordered briskly and waved her wand in the direction of the coffee table. Two more teacups appeared and the eager teapot emptied some of its contents into them. Handing one to Neville, the sprightly woman leaned back in her chair and took a comforting sip of the fragrant liquid.

"Now, I have the feeling that you're not entirely convinced of my pride, but I am and you must accept that, whether you believe it or not. However," she frowned at him disapprovingly from her seat, "that is no excuse to come racing into the house like you're being chased by a swarm of Amorous Bumblebees. I did not survive two wars merely to meet my demise a week later at the clarion call of an over-excited teenager."

He flushed, adequately repentant.

"On the other hand," she said primly, "it is a very good thing that you find yourself able to mutter the nutter's name."

Neville grinned at her choice of words and she allowed a smile to dance briefly around her own thin lips. "Drink up, drink up. That's my best brew, you know. Your father used to enjoy a cup with me before retiring to bed when he was home from school."

This was old news to Neville, but he humoured her by taking a healthy sip, glad to share a common ritual with his father. "What about Mum?" he asked after swallowing the dark brew. "Did she ever come over and share an evening cuppa before going to bed?"

"She most certainly did not!" exclaimed Gran, eyes widening at the thought. "A teenage girl, stay overnight under the same roof as a hormonal boy? Not in my house! Your mother was far too sensible to suggest such a thing, even if it ever did cross her mind. You know very well they never stayed here together before they were married."

He rolled his eyes. "I mean after that. They must have stayed overnight once or twice after their wedding."

Gran frowned once more. "Good heavens, boy; are you suggesting I allowed them to run about my house performing acts of carnal lust?"

Neville almost spat his tea out. Yuck! He really didn't want that particular image floating about in his mind, although Gran's expression at the mere idea was very amusing.

"So that's a 'no' then?"

"Yes, Neville, that is a very definite 'no'." She busied herself with adding more sugar to her tea, but he knew she was still flustered because she did it by hand, instead of waving her wand. "However, your mother and I did, on occasion, enjoy an afternoon at Florian Fortescue's. Very fond of lemon and lime sorbet, she was. A Muggle dessert, I believe, but then, she had Muggle-born friends who introduced her to some of their customs. I even tried it once myself - very refreshing on the palate. Those Muggles know a thing or two about desserts, there's no denying it."

One benefit of having lived up to her expectations of him, was that Gran was more readily willing to share a nugget of his parents' past with him. Somehow, the advent of Voldemort's death had loosened her tongue slightly, meaning that in the last week he had learned the most unexpected things about two of St Mungo's long-term patients. They were slowly becoming more to him than drooling representatives of the Aurors he was so proud of.

But he learned no more of them that evening as they sat together in companionship enjoying their tea, and the conversation turned to the day's earlier event: Fred Weasley's funeral.

"Molly and Arthur are holding up admirably well," Gran commented, reaching for a chocolate biscuit. Taking a bite, she chewed thoughtfully. "Poor George, on the other hand, is devastated. Understandable of course - losing a twin sibling must be rather like losing an arm and a leg. Or a son and a daughter-in-law."

The allusion to her personal pain made Neville raise his head in surprise: Gran was rarely so open about her feelings.

"You did a very good thing today, Neville Longbottom," she remarked as she toyed with her biscuit. "Those words you shared with Molly Weasley in Ronald's room made me very proud of you."

She took another bite of the sweet treat to prevent any further emotional outbursts, leaving him mentally reeling. Merlin's beard! That was at least the third time today she'd said she was proud of him. He didn't quite know what to do with that information, so he sipped on his rapidly cooling beverage and pretended it hadn't happened. But inside, he was glowing with happiness.

Placing her now empty cup on the table, Gran scowled at him half-heartedly. "Well, then. What are you about, keeping me up so late? It's time for me to get my beauty sleep, you know. And don't even think about laughing at that or I'll hex you into next week."

She rose and walked over to him, placing a perfunctory kiss on his forehead. "Good night, Neville. Be a dear and see to the cups before you turn in for the night - there's nothing worse than the stench of old tealeaves first thing in the morning."

With that, she retired, leaving him with a lot to ponder: and not realising he had completely forgotten his worry about what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

That night as he lay sleeping in bed, Neville found himself caught in the most peculiar dream he'd ever had. A huge mountain came sailing into view with a grand, white building sitting at its peak. He flew? floated? inside it to find large, airy halls and elegant columns twined with ivory leaf. Further inside was a spacious room, ethereal with glowing light. A sense of peace and harmony pervaded the air.

On an elegant green settle, there sat a woman of such outstanding beauty that his sleeping mind stalled in wonder. Porcelain skin, ruby lips, shining hair. Was that a Veela? Oh no! He was dreaming about Fleur Delacour Weasley - Bill would kill him! And he had tried to avoid her at the funeral, too! Not because he didn't like her, but because he wasn't immune to her feminine charms (Gran had balked when he walked up to her late in the afternoon and offered her a cutting of his Mimbulus Mimbletonia. She'd hauled him off by his ear, providing the Weasleys with one of the few laughs they'd had that day).

But wait...why was he remembering the funeral with such clarity? Was he controlling his dream? He stuck his hands out experimentally, attempting to manoeuvre himself to the left, like Muggle children did when they played at being an...oh... what was that flying thing?...an air-o-plain, but met with no success. He found himself being pulled inexorably towards the Veela on the settle and finally deposited before her.

"Greetings, Neville, son of Longbottom," she said in a silky voice (but nice silky, he realised, not like that git Snape). "I have yearned to meet thee for some time now, since I saw thee at thy day of liberation."

Neville shook his head to clear his ears. This was the oddest dream he had ever had. She didn't talk like any Veela he'd ever met before, even Fleur - Frenchwoman that she was - didn't go around spouting words like 'thee', 'thy' or 'yearn' (although who knew? She might use that last one with Bill every now and again).

"Take thy place at my side and allow me to summon refreshments," said the stunning female and, like Ron at a Cannons' match, he couldn't sit down fast enough.

"Er, am I dreaming?" he squeaked, before clearing his throat and aiming for a deeper, more manly, tone. "I, mean, is this a dream?"

Tinkling laughter filled the air, and he thought the sound of it was better than any daft Warbeck tune.

"Nay, child. Thy form reposes in thine own bed in the world thou hast departed, yet still it sits here beside me, glowing as red as a midsummer's rose."

Well, that was just brilliant. He was blushing so furiously in front of her that she felt she had to comment on it! Not even he could dream such embarrassing detail. It must be real, but hadn't she just said something that sounded suspiciously like...

"D'you mean I'm lying dead in my bed back home? Gran'll kill me! We just made it through a war and now I've gone and died on her for no reason!" Panic surged through him at the thought of his grandmother trying to rouse him in the morning, only to find him as recently departed as Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The Veela-woman smiled at him, which made him feel instantly better.

Gran would get over it.

"Lay thy worries aside, young Wizard. Thy life stretches before thee still and blissful shall it be," she said in reassurance.

Blissful? Brilliant!

"Oh, well, that's alright then. Wouldn't like to upset my Gran. She's had it bad enough as it is, you see."

As if summoned by non-verbal magic, another woman, a maid perhaps, came into the room and left a silver tray with two glasses on a white stand. Bowing at them both, the gorgeous woman departed and Neville wondered if he hadn't perhaps struck teenaged-boy gold with the world's best-ever Veela dream.

More laughter followed directly after this thought and he panicked. Merlin's wand, was she a Legilimens?

"Thy thoughts are clear on thy youthful face, child. I am Varda, a Vala of this world."

Vala, Veela. Sounded the same. Her effect was the same. He wondered absently if she needed a supply of Stinksap. The Mimbulus Mimbletonia could easily afford to part with another cutting.

Varda glowed at him. She actually glowed at him. Even Fleur couldn't do that, he thought happily. He yawned, suddenly tired and she handed him a glass of sparkling liquid.

"Miruvor, Master Longbottom. It will refresh thee after thy long journey."

What long journey? He'd only went to bed an hour ago. Not wanting to offend the angelic beauty, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a long swallow. Of course, she could've asked him to drink a gallon of the Draught of Living Death and he would have happily complied, but fortunately the Mirror-vor was sweet, refreshing and delicious and Neville felt instantly more alert.

"Before I explain to thee thy presence here, my husband will join us with thy Guardian."

Husband? Neville was crushed. Typical, really. Ginny had swanned off with Harry and Hermione would soon discover the joys of a future filled with red-haired children of her own. Now the best-looking woman he'd ever met had just told him she was rebuffing his advances for some unknown rival? He was desperate to take a sniff at his underarms, convinced a terrible case of body odour must be repelling all the females that caught his eye, when a familiar voice penetrated his mist of despondency.

"Can someone please kindly explain to me what on earth is happening?"

He swivelled his head towards the sound of familiarity and didn't quite see the owner at first because a tall man in blue with really long hair was blocking his view. But the man - his lost love's husband, he supposed jealously - stepped out of the way to reveal none other than...

"Mrs Weasley?" he gasped.

"Neville, dear!" She rushed towards him, oblivious of the stately beings, and threw her arms around him in another of those wonderful motherly hugs, before stepping back, placing her hands on her hips and demanding of him: "Now, dear, tell me: what in the name of Merlin is going on here!"