He knew that his family loved him. Gran told him so every night when she tucked him in, and his aunts and uncles always smiled at him and gave him extra scoops of mashed potatoes and gravy when they came over for dinner. But something about him made their faces tighten and their whispers stop every time he walked into a room.

He knew that his family was different from some of the other families they lived near. He knew that he was forbidden to tell any of his playmates that lived in town about what went on at his house, up on a hill at the outskirts of the small town. He was to simply shrug when the neighbor children asked why the daffodils in his garden sometimes honked when someone walked by. The fire that sometimes turned green and took you somewhere else was not to be discussed with people that were not family members. Gran did magic, and it had been explained to him that he was not to tell anyone about the magic.

Neville knew that he could not do the things that Gran could do. When he took her long oak wand down from the shelf in her room and tried using it, saying some of the funny words she said and waving it around a bit, nothing happened. Sometimes he caught snatches of the adults whispering, and he knew that they all thought something was wrong with him.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was five years old, and didn’t understand much of the world he lived in. Having the self-centeredness that plagues most five year-olds, he assumed that if he didn’t understand something then it must not be important.

- - -

He was six when his Great Uncle Algie and Great Auntie Enid came to stay with them for the weekend. They had been away in France, and this was the first time he had ever met them. They smiled at him when he shook their hands like a grown-up, and he noticed in passing that their eyes grew sad when they looked at him. He was so used to this that it barely bothered him, and since he didn’t understand the purpose for it, it must not be important.

Great Uncle Algie had a big, booming voice that Neville liked to listen to. It was big and deep and reminded him of the ringmaster of a circus his Aunt Philippa had taken him to for his birthday the year before. Great Auntie Enid had a laugh that seemed too young for her silver hair, but her eyes were old and wise, like his Gran’s.

After dinner the adults moved into the sitting room for coffee, and Neville was sent upstairs to bed. His bedroom was right over the sitting room, and since their house was very old (“Been in the family for years” Gran would say proudly) part of the plaster in the wall was broken away in the corner near Neville’s bed. If he lay very quietly, he could hear what was being said.

“What’s wrong with the boy, Augusta?” Great Uncle Algie’s voice was casual. “Seems perfectly fine to me.”

“He can’t do anything, Algernon,” Gran’s voice replied, sounding frustrated. “I’ve tried everything--I’ve even done magic in front of him and then left my wand out. I’ve watched, and he can’t do anything! It doesn’t even spark!”

“These things take time, Augusta,” Great Auntie Enid said, her voice sounding soothing. “He’s young, there’s still time--”

“But not even sparks?” his Gran asked in a sad voice. “We may have to face it; the boy could be a Squib.”

“We haven’t had a Squib in the family for nine generations!” his uncle boomed. “It’s preposterous to suggest it, Augusta.”

“You haven’t been here, Algernon, you haven’t seen it like the rest of us have!” Gran sounded close to tears, and Neville was shocked. “I just don’t understand how this could happen!”

He rolled over in his bed, still hearing their voices but not listening anymore. So something was wrong with him. Not even Gran understood what it was. Neville knew that his Gran was much smarter than he was. If Gran didn’t understand him, Neville certainly didn’t understand himself.

Since what he didn’t understand was not important, Neville supposed that he, Neville Longbottom, was not important.

- - -

The next afternoon, Great Uncle Algie took him outside to play. They played chase, and Neville found that his uncle had a tendency to jump on him unexpectedly. He couldn’t get out of the way fast enough, and he was flattened several times. When they went back instead, Neville didn’t notice the small shake of the head his uncle directed at his Gran.

Later that day, his uncle lifted the lid on the soup kettle to see if it was boiling. Neville was at his uncle’s side, and when Algie accidentally dropped the hot lid, Neville didn’t move until it was too late, and his hand was burned on the heated metal. Gran scolded Algie for dropping the lid, and rubbed Neville’s burn with a cleaning potion, but her “Oh, Neville,” when she first saw the injury was more disappointed than concerned.

Thus began the strange accidents that seemed to befall Neville around his Great Uncle Algie. If it wasn’t falling pot lids, it was mysterious trips and falls. When he was seven, he and his uncle were standing at the end of Blackpool pier when Algie casually shoved him off. When a spluttering, coughing, and generally waterlogged Neville was finally fished out of the water, he was treated to the wonderful spectacle of his grandmother shouting at someone else for a change.

“ALGERNON LONGBOTTOM, YOU IDIOT, YOU COULD HAVE DROWNED HIM!” she screeched once she finished wrapping Neville tightly in thick, woolen blankets.

“Come now, Augusta, I was trying to do the boy a favor--”

“IF YOU WANT TO FORCE MAGIC OUT OF HIM, STICK TO DROPPING THINGS ON HIM, DON’T SHOVE HIM OFF THE PIER WHEN HE CAN’T SWIM!”

“W-w-what?” Neville chattered, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. “F-force m-m-magic out of me?”

Algie tugged the ends of his big silver mustache. “Yes, m’boy. Y’see, when wizards are in danger, or in a circumstance they don’t like--”

“C-c-circumstance?”

“Time and place.” He winked at the boy. “If a wizard is in danger, sometimes he’ll use magic on accident to get himself out of the trouble.”

“S-s-so you’ve b-b-been hoping to g-get me to use m-magic?” Neville felt that this was a rather large betrayal of his trust.

“Sure as Sickles are silver.”

“C-can you n-not do it any-m-more?”

Great Uncle Algie burst out in big, hearty, booming laughter. “We’ll see, m’boy.”

- - -

Algie, as it turned out, was notoriously good at disappointing his grandnephew. When he and Auntie Enid came around for dinner to celebrate Neville’s eighth birthday, Neville learned that his uncle had no intention of discontinuing his efforts to ‘force some magic’ out of him.

“Uncle Algie, I don’t think I’m going to sprout wings. Can you pull me back in?”

“Let’s give it another minute, Neville. Stop squirming.”

Neville looked down at the garden, two stories below and swallowed hard, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “Uncle Algie, it’s a long way down. Are you sure you’ve got me?”

Algie tightened his grip around Neville’s ankles. “Feel better, m’boy?”

“Not really, but thank you.”

The big man chuckled. “Hanging out the second story window and not even a scream. Keep this up and you’ll be a Gryffindor.”

“But I’m not magic, Uncle Algie,” Neville reminded him. He had become resigned to the fact that he was probably going to be the first person in his family not to go to Hogwarts in nine generations. “I’m a Squib.”

“Who told you that?” his uncle asked sharply.

“I heard you telling Gran about it.”

His uncle’s voice was stern. “Neville Longbottom, you are not a Squib. Do you hear me?”

Neville twisted slightly to look at him, having to squint a bit so he could see through the blood rushing to his head and eyes. “I’m not?”

“No. You are not. You are a Longbottom, and Longbottoms are not Squibs. You are magical, my boy. You just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Neville, not quite believing, nodded.

Auntie Enid’s voice coming up the stairs interrupted their rather inspirational conversation. “Neville, your Gran made you some of her meringues, do you want one?”

“Just a moment, Enid,” Algie called, beginning to pull Neville back in.

At that moment, however, the bedroom door opened and Auntie Enid stuck her head in. “Algie, what about you?”

“That sounds delightful, Enid,” he said lightly, turning around slightly.

Most unfortunately, when his concentration was broken, so was his grip. His hands released Neville’s ankles, and the boy began to plummet down to the garden below.

Auntie Enid’s shriek and Uncle Algie’s yell were nearly inaudible to Neville over the rush of air in his ears. The fall lasted barely seconds, but it felt like much longer. There was a sudden swoop of terror in his stomach, but over it came a strange warmth, and oddly he wasn’t so afraid. He closed his eyes.

Magic, if you’re really there like Uncle Algie says, I need some help.

He hit the ground.

And he bounced.

Neville’s eyes flew open in shock as he bounced--down the garden path and into the road. For a moment, he sat in the road, too stunned to move.

Then he heard a rush of heeled shoes, and Gran was there, dragging him to his feet and throwing her arms around him, sobbing. “Gran, I’m all right,” he tried to say, but he was still too shocked to say anything. After a moment, the idea dawned on him that she was perfectly aware of his uninjured state--she was crying because she was happy.

“Oh, Neville!” she cried, pulling away from him for a moment and holding him at arm’s length. “You did it, you’re magical!”

His heart swelled. She was right--he had done magic!

He had done it, but he didn’t quite understand it. He didn’t really suppose he ever would understand magic, but at least he would have the opportunity to try.

Neville smiled up at his Gran. “Don’t worry, Gran. It’s not that important.”