It was a beautiful summer morning in the ordinary little village of Huddlesby when an owl flew down Preston Road towards the house at the far end. The house itself stood right at the edge of the village overlooking the rolling fields of rural Lancashire. It was an old, ramshackle, sprawling mess of a house with wild overgrown gardens and an old barn at the back which was falling into disrepair. Most of the locals of the village reckoned it was an old farmhouse, but none could remember any farming going on there for decades, if ever.
The house itself had always been something of an anomaly among locals of the village, which was otherwise a close, tight-knit community. It was a common source of gossip among regulars of The White Horse pub, where locals would gather to set the world in general, and Huddlesby in particular, to rights. Only the night before had three such hardy folk gathered round their pints of ale and discussed the house’s strange inhabitant.
‘A batty old woman and a menace, if you ask me,’ said one, though nobody had asked him. ‘Always wearing that ridiculous green get-up and shouting off at anyone who comes near. Never comes to any village events, never even seems to come down to the shops and doesn’t own a car. How she feeds herself is anyone’s guess. I reckon she’s starving that boy up there.’
‘Too true,’ said another. The boy was a perennial topic when discussing this particular house, and made all the mysterious by the fact that few of them had ever seen him. Though the old woman had apparently raised the boy since he was a baby, he’d never attended school and didn’t seem to even be allowed outside. Occasionally they’d seen his face in an upstairs window, but no more than that, and any kids that ventured on to the property to try and get a closer look were vigorously shooed off. Whose boy it really was, was anyone’s guess.
‘I heard he’d burned down his house “ killed his parents. No one else would take him,’ said the first man.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Albert,’ said the third. ‘He was only a baby at the time. I heard they died in a car crash, that’s why she doesn’t drive, lost her son that way.’
‘Whatever it is, she don’t treat him right, that’s for sure,’ said Albert. ‘We ought to do something about it.’ But none did of course, for the ale was still flowing and there was plenty more gossip to discuss, like the other dotty old woman with the cats who lived a few doors down. That one kept them busy right up till closing time, and they forgot about the boy up at the farmhouse.
But now it was morning and that particular boy was slowly waking and getting himself dressed. He clumsily tried to comb his hair and stared in his bedroom mirror. A short, slightly chubby looking young boy with a mop of light brown hair that refused to sit in place and a glum, depressed look stared back at him. It was a week from his eleventh birthday and he felt he should really be taller than that by now. He pushed back his long fringe to reveal the odd lightening-bolt scar on his forehead and scratched at it absently, though it didn’t hurt or itch at the moment.
He pulled on his trousers, realised he’d got them on back to front, took them off and pulled them on again. Giving one last go with his comb, he gave up, finished dressing and padded downstairs to the kitchen. He tripped on the bottom step, nearly cracked his head on the dresser and sprawled on the hall carpet.
‘For goodness sake get up, Neville,’ screeched a voice from the kitchen and Neville heard footsteps padding towards him. A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet. The hand twisted him round to face his Gran, who was wearing the same stern, disapproving expression she always did. Gran brushed down his jumper. ‘Can’t you watch where you’re going? Honestly, anyone would think you can’t control your own feet.’
‘Sorry, Gran,’ mumbled Neville. ‘These trousers are a bit long, you see…’
‘Well you should grow up faster, then,’ snapped Gran. Neville fell silent. ‘Come on and have breakfast.’ She bustled him into the kitchen, where a pot on the stove was busy making porridge. A large wooden spoon was stirring the pot by itself. Neville sat down at the kitchen table as a bowl floated over to the pot, received three large dollops of porridge and then floated over and placed itself in front of him. Neville picked up his spoon and started eating. He didn’t really care for porridge, but he didn’t like to complain. He ate it silently under Gran’s watchful glare.
When he’d finished the bowl floated over to the sink. Gran poured him a glass of milk. ‘Drink up,’ she said and thrust it under his nose. Neville gulped it down, a little too fast as some went up his nose causing him to splutter and sneeze. Gran fetched a tissue and roughly rubbed down his nose. ‘I have to do everything for you, don’t I?’ she said.
‘Yes, Gran,’ murmured Neville, staring at the floor.
‘Speak up when you’re being spoken to, boy. Now run along and make a start on your chores.’ Neville turned to go. But at that moment there was a scratching at the kitchen window and he looked up in surprise. But it was only an owl, a young tawny, trying to get in. Gran left Neville and flung open the window. The owl hopped in onto the kitchen counter. Gran stroked him, fed him a couple of nuts from a jar she kept by the window, and took the single letter held in his claws. The owl hooted loudly, hopped out of the window once more and flapped off into the bright blue sky.
Gran took the letter, turned it over a couple of times in her hand and then stared up at Neville with a curious look on her face Neville hadn’t seen before. Hurriedly she ripped open the letter. She had read only the first sentence when she looked up again with yet another expression that Neville hadn’t seen before yet this time he could place. It was pride. Pride, joy and something approaching relief. She rushed back to Neville and picked him up in her arms and hugged him so tightly that Neville thought he would burst.
‘Oh my boy!’ she cried, with a beaming smile on her face. ‘You made it, I was so worried! We’ll make a wizard of you yet!’
‘What is it, Gran?’ Neville was astonished. This just didn’t happen in this house. Gran thrust the envelope and letter into his hand. Neville read the address.
Mr N. Longbottom
The Kitchen
26 Preston Road
Huddlesby
Lancashire
He opened up the letter and read.
Dear Mr Longbottom,
I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…
Hogwarts! He knew all about it, of course, from what Gran had told him, but she’d always qualified her words with something along the lines of ‘it’s only for true wizards, you know’. The family had always been terrified he was either a Squib or so ungifted as to be all but. He looked up at Gran and they hugged again. Neville had never felt so appreciated.
‘Sit down again,’ beamed Gran. ‘I’m going to make you a proper cooked breakfast. You deserve the best today.’ And she did. Fried egg, sausages, bacon, tomato, mushrooms, the works. Neville wolfed it down enthusiastically as Gran fussed around him. He didn’t expect this to last so he vowed to make the most of it.
But just as he was finishing, there was what sounded like a loud ‘pop’ from the garden and then shortly afterwards a heavy knock on the front door. Both Gran and Neville were surprised. They hardly ever got visitors, except when Uncle Algie and Auntie Enid came to stay. Gran hurried to the door and Neville cautiously followed, poking his head round the kitchen door to see who it was.
When Gran opened the door, a very elderly wizard with a long white beard and wearing bright purple robes and half-moon glasses was standing there. Gran jumped a little and her hand went to her mouth.
‘Good morning, Augusta,’ said the wizard brightly. ‘I know you weren’t exactly expecting me and I apologise, but after all, it is perhaps not such of a surprise I am here today, is it not?’
Gran paused for a moment and then nodded. ‘I guess not, Professor. Come in, come in.’
‘Thank you, Augusta,’ said the wizard, stepping over the threshold. ‘Neville has received his letter by first owl, then? Good, good. It is time, Augusta. It is time the boy was told the truth.’
Neville Longbottom and the Philosopher's Stone by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Neville receives his Hogwarts letter, and a visitor calls at his home.