A Second Chance at Happiness

Disclaimer: J.K Rowling did all the hard work, I'm just reaping the fruits of her labour. Of course all characters and names that she created remain rightfully hers. Anything else is my creation. Thanks.

Sunday Morning

It was just another non-descript house on a lane whose name didn't stand out from the dozens of other streets in the vicinity. You would have to pay real close attention to notice it as you drove past. A large, unruly hedge grew along the front fence, blocking the view of any curious passerby. A freshly painted orange gate stood as a final barrier before one could walk up the stone pathway to the front door. In front a tiny blue Fiesta was parked. It had four poorly inflated tires and a couple of bumper stickers that read "Jesus Saves" and "I listen to Radio 1".

Despite its bland and uninteresting features, most Londoners had seen a picture of this house at least once. All of the daily tabloids had run pictures on their front pages at least once three years ago. The death of a young girl had made every ink-stained wretch in town camp out on this street hoping to catch a word from or a picture from the grieving family who lived there.

The siege of this quiet street had continued for what seemed like forever but in reality it was only a couple of weeks. Justice was swift in this case. The men responsible had been arrested a few hours later and put on trial within days. Before most North American news organizations could actually get their prime time news anchors settled in London, the trial had almost wrapped up. Once it did, and the verdict was handed down, the press moved away. Soon after, the only daytime pedestrians on this quaint, lonely street were the local stray cats or two. The inhabitants of 24 Lawrey Lane were more than relieved that they were being left alone once again. Not that they ever left the house during the day anymore.

Neville Longbottom scuffed his shoes on the ground as he walked slowly up Lawrey Lane. From time to time, he would stop, turn around, and check over his shoulder to see if anyone was following him. The only sounds on the street besides his footsteps were the autumn leaves blowing in the wind.

Neville paused and leant against a chain link fence. Behind it was a small greengrocer. A young blond woman with a spring in her step bounded out of the shop carrying a bag of carrots. Neville's eyes followed her as she got into the passenger side of a black sports car. Neville shut his eyes and grimaced. If he had kept watching, he would have seen the girl embrace the man driving. After the black car had driven away, Neville continued walking.

If you had been present at Hogwarts during his school years, it would have been impossible not to notice the 180 degree change between Neville then and the version currently walking on this September morning.

The most obvious difference was that this new Neville was slim, muscular even. His large head didn't seem so out of proportion now because his neck and shoulders served as an impressive mantle for it. His gait and walk had also changed. His schoolboy scamper had been replaced with lumbering steps that seemed to be very robotic and rigid. A closer look and you would see that his muscles were always tense like a man always on edge. Simply put, he looked like a man who had been institutionalized for the last few years.

The clothes he wore had the distinct characteristics that indicated that they came from a charity shop. His jeans were a bit baggier than he would have liked and his button down shirt was too tight for his new physique. His shoes, a worn pair of brown oxfords, were a size to small and were the main reason for his constant scuffing and stumbling.

Despite all of the above, Neville was happy. He silently mouthed words to a pop song that he remembered from years ago. In his left hand, he held a newspaper wrapped package. Every few steps he would glance down at it, as if to check that it was still actually there. A few more houses now and he would be at his location.

The nosey neighbours that live beside house number 24 had long since given up staring out their windows, and had moved on to more interesting pastimes. This didn't really give Neville much confidence however, as he paused again just two houses away.

What if someone saw him? Would they remember? What if someone came out and wanted to talk to him? Did the spell really work? What if they called the cops? Would that mean they would take him back?

"Shit," Neville muttered under his breath, his confidence leaving him. His shoulders sagged and he stared at his dirty shoes. He was ready to turn around and run away when he caught the Fiesta at the corner of his eye.

This caused his spirits to rise instantly. He remembered that car. Some of his best memories took place in that tiny car. Angie and Neville. Neville and Angie. It was the first and only automobile he had ever been in. No, wait. Neville closed his eyes and shook his head as another memory invaded his mind. That was not true. He had been in another one, but under much less pleasant circumstances.

Neville snorted defiantly at that thought and started walking again. He broke into a trot and soon was in front of the clean, orange gate. He pushed it open and stepped through with confidence, up the path, and to the door. Neville deftly unwrapped his package and placed a plain shoebox filled with seeds and shredded paper on the doorstep. After removing his wand from inside his pant pocket, Neville looked around to see if the coast was still clear. Seeing no one around, he waved his wand over the box three times and whispered an incantation.

After the resulting plume of smoke cleared, Neville saw that the box had been transformed into a nice wicker basket, and the seeds into a bouquet of fragrant yellow daffodils. After he whispered a few more words, the shredded paper changed magically into a pair of white doves that sat peacefully in the basket and cooed at each other. Removing from his shirt pocket Neville took out an envelope and tucked it in besides the birds. Neville then knocked on the door, spun on his heel and ran as fast as he could away from 24 Lawrey Lane.

If a giant owl had swooped down at that minute and plucked you out of the front yard of 24 Lawrey Lane and flown west for ten minutes, you would pass a neat five-storey, red brick apartment building. If the owl dropped you off at this point you would land, with a thud, on another quiet, peaceful street. Up in flat 3C, the curtains were pulled shut on the bedroom window.

This Sunday morning in particular, all over London you could feel a collective burden being pulled off the shoulders of its inhabitants. The past week had been quite stressful, what with petrol prices reaching record highs, the government looking on the verge of collapse. Plus there had been the curious, but still terrifying, incident of the lion that had somehow gotten loose in the financial district and eluded capture for hours. All in all, many people did exactly what Ron Weasley was doing this Sunday morning and having a lie in.

Hermione Granger, however, had risen earlier and was in the kitchen brewing one of her famous fry-ups. Muggles knew how to cook brekkie. Sunday breakfast was meant to be big and greasy. As she scooped out the eggs and placed them on the plate next to the beans and sausage, Hermione heard Ron move in the bedroom.

Minutes later as the pan was washing itself, Ron staggered into the kitchen half dressed and thoroughly disheveled. He was clutching his Quidditch broom and a water bottle.

"Where do you think you are going?" Hermione asked with a hand perched on a curvy hip.

"Quidditch. Game. Shoes?" Ron mumbled monosyllabically as he left the kitchen.

"But I made you breakfast. I thought you were going to stay home today," Hermione responded.

But Ron wasn't listening.

"Honey, where are my Quidditch socks?"

Hermione shook her head and looked down at the two plates of food she had prepared.

"Honey?" Ron called out.

"They are on the floor next to the hamper," Hermione replied, then added under her breath, "Where there are always are."

Ron reentered the kitchen, now wearing a purple polyester Quidditch shirt and matching shorts. He was holding a filthy pair of socks.

"Yuck! Ron, why don't you just wash them?"

Ron looked at Hermione as if she just asked him his opinion on the merits of voluntary male castration. "These are my lucky socks. We haven't lost since I started wearing them."

"That's absurd." Hermione sat down and started eating.

"Listen, love, this is a big game today. Dennis is missing today because of a wedding, which means we are one short and those guys..."

Hermione waved him off. "Yes, those guys from the bank are all..." Hermione paused.

"Pricks!" interjected Ron a bit too enthusiastically.

Hermione blushed slightly upon hearing the word. "Yes, and if you win today then you can play in the Cup final."

Ron stood up beaming.

"That's right. Sunday league, five a side, division three Cup champions. I like the sound of that."

Hermione could not help but smile at Ron. Despite the absurdity of it all, she had to admire his passion for the game. And as it was September, it meant that she would be seeing a lot more Quidditch than she ever wanted to. Saturday afternoons meant the Weasley boys were gathered in their tiny living room watching the league games. Fred and George would show up at noon and Ron would finally usher them out well into the evening.

Every now and then, Hermione would summon the remote and turn the telly to the football that she had grown up watching. This would result in a few minutes of confused looks and shaken heads, after which she would relent and let them get back to their game of choice.

Ron had finished dressing and was scooping the eggs into his mouth at a rapid pace.

"Don't be a pig Ron," Hermione chided.

"Got to go. I'll be back right after the game."

Ron got up to leave, but Hermione shot out her left hand and grabbed his wrist. The sunlight gleamed off her diamond wedding ring.

"Don't forget about this evening."

"This evening?" Ron looked puzzled.

"Ginny? Your sister? Her place tonight. We promised."

"Right, right. Of course. Okay, I got to run."

Ron bent over and met Hermione's lips with his own, and then rushed out of the apartment.

Hermione walked over to the window and watched a moment later as Ron appeared out in the road. He waved to her, got into their car and drove away. She stayed at the window for a while later, enjoying her morning cup of tea. The phone rang and she began to turn, but something outside caught her eye.

Looking below she saw a familiar figure walking down on the other side of the road. Could it be?

Hermione left the cup on the sill and burst out of her flat. She went down the stairs two at a time and was out in the street in record time. It didn't matter that she was barefoot. This was too important to worry about things like that.

But where did he go? The man she had seen walking by was nowhere to be seen. Hermione jogged down the street, her neck craned as she scanned across the street for a sign of him. After a few minutes, she stopped. Realising the foolishness of her actions, she turned and jogged back to her flat.

Of course that wasn't Neville. Neville wasn't in London. He was very far away from London.

But for that brief moment, Hermione's didn't think logically. For that moment, she had believed she had seen Neville Longbottom. Normally, the sight of an old classmate would not have been enough for her to rush outside in nothing more than a tatty jumper and shorts. This was different.

As she re-entered her flat and shut the door, Hermione slumped to the floor and leaned against the doors. Neville! It couldn't have been him. Why did she keep imagining this? It was all so fruitless. Tears welled up in her eyes and she dabbed them with her sleeves. The answer was obvious why she felt this way-- Hermione just didn't want to think about it.

For the last three years, every new place she and Ron had gone to, the same thing would happen. A head in the crowd, a voice among the din of the pub, a glance here, a peek there. It would cause her to lose her patented calm and cool. Every time, it ended in disappointment.

Hermione was crying for real now. She was glad Ron wasn't here to see this. He would just feel helpless like he always did when they spoke about what happened. Getting to her feet slowly, Hermione walked to the bathroom. As she stared into the mirror, Hermione decided that she had to phone her mom and talk about that fateful day three years ago.

Since then no one had seen Neville Longbottom. And the last time Hermione and Ron did see him, he was handcuffed and being led into a police van. And the last thing Hermione had seen before the constable had slammed the door shut was Neville talking to the person shackled right next to him. That person was Harry Potter.