“Neville, Neville, where do you think you’re going?”
Neville stopped by the back door. “Just out into the back garden, Gran,” he replied.
“No, no, stay there.” Gran came rushing in from the kitchen. “You can’t go outside, it’s getting late. Besides, it’s too cold out.”
“Gran, it’s the middle of summer,” Neville pointed out.
“Don’t argue with me, Neville. Haven’t you got homework to be doing?”
“Not really,” said Neville, but it was a weak and not entirely accurate reply, and Gran knew it. He’d put off doing a lot of the work he’d been left with over the summer, and it was beginning to pile up. There had been a lot more this year than the last one, which he suspected was due to the professors making up for the lack of exams at the end of last year. Reluctantly, he went back up to his room.
It was now three weeks since that report had appeared in the newspaper about the escaped convict, with a week to go until term began again, and Gran’s nervousness had not let up. Neville seemed to have become virtually a prisoner in his own home, with Gran now refusing to let him even set foot outside the door. The moment Neville even broached the subject, Gran would instantly shut the conversation down. Neville had also noticed her urgently looking out for the post owl every morning, and poring instantly over every letter. She had also confiscated every issue of the Daily Prophet as it had arrived. Neville was no closer to finding out what was going on.
He tried to put the conundrum out of his mind and concentrate on the current essay he was working on. Unfortunately his parchment was currently blank except for the title: Identify and describe the best safety procedures to employ in classroom potion-making, which he was sure Snape had deliberately set to get at him personally. He stared out of the window wistfully. It was early evening and the sun had not yet set. Neville wished he was outside in the fresh air, not cooped up in his room.
He set to work on the essay, employing his usual enthusiasm for Potions assignments (that is, none at all), and so by the time it was fully dark outside he had only managed to write about ten lines. Still, he decided he had earned a break and would go downstairs to get himself a drink, and maybe one of Gran’s small cakes from the cupboard.
Gran was sitting reading in the living room as he passed on into the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water at the sink, looking out of the wide kitchen window onto the back garden of the house as he did so. They called it a back garden, though it resembled more something of a small, untended field. It was largely overgrown, Gran was not a particularly adept gardener, and flanked by high hedges. At the back it gave way to the open fields beyond, which had probably belonged to the house at one point, if indeed it was originally a farmhouse. Neville had enjoyed mucking about in the grass and exploring the hedgerows when he was younger.
The hedge on the southern side, closer to the kitchen window, was lower than the other and curved around towards the east, following the bend in Preston Road as it passed the house and exited Huddlesby, on its winding way towards Yorkshire. From behind it the occasional noise of a car could be heard driving along the road. Neville thought he saw something moving in the hedge and leaned over the sink for a closer look.
It was difficult to make out much in the darkness, but there definitely appeared to be some movement. Suddenly Neville caught sight of a pair of glinting eyes. Straining to look closer he could make out a muzzle below the eyes, as of a great dog. Its head was turning this way and that and its body was trying to struggle through the hedge. Neville leaned further out over the sink, and knocked over his glass of water.
“Neville? Neville, what are you up to? Get down from there.” Gran had come into the kitchen at the sound of Neville’s drink being knocked over. “Get away from the window.”
“But look,” Neville protested, pointing out of the window. Gran leaned over next to him. For a moment she froze, and a sharp intake of breath told Neville she had seen what he had. Then, all of a sudden, the animal looked up. Its eyes met Neville’s for a brief second, then vanished. There was nothing more to be seen.
“Get back,” yelled Gran suddenly, in a voice Neville had never heard her use before. She physically dragged Neville away from the window, pulling him back into the middle of the kitchen. She looked at Neville, fear and worry in her eyes. “Neville,” she said, “we’re leaving. Get your school things together, we’re leaving this house right now.”
“What?” Neville exclaimed.
“Neville, don’t argue.” She was almost pleading. “Just do it, and hurry.” She chased Neville upstairs. He rushed into his room and began stuffing things into his trunk. In the next room, he could hear Gran hurriedly throwing things into a suitcase. She finished before he did and ran into his room, helping him fasten up the trunk while he coaxed Trevor into his travelling box. Before Neville knew what was happening, they were out on the front porch, packed, cloaked and ready to leave. He barely had time to catch his breath.
“Where are we going?” he asked. Gran ignored him. She had her wand out, eyes darting to shadows on either side of her as she led Neville down the path to the front gate. Silently she raised her wand and pointed out onto Preston Road, though there was nothing there. There was a brief, eerie silence and Neville huddled close to Gran, wondering what would happen. Then, out of the darkness to their right, there came a sound. It was a low rumble, rising to a screech of brakes and tyres. Neville stared as hurtling through the village came a remarkable sight.
Throwing itself along the road with scant regard for the Highway Code came a huge bus. Triple-decker and shockingly purple, it hurtled round the last bend and slammed to a halt right in front of Neville and Gran. A pimply-faced youth in a purple uniform stuck his head out of the back entrance of the bus and stood scruffily to attention when he saw Gran and Neville. “Welcome to the…” he began.
“Never mind that, boy, get these cases loaded,” snapped Gran, pushing her way past the youth and into the bus. Neville followed her as the young man struggled with his trunk. The interior of the bus was lined with beds and light flickered from candles fixed in holders on the walls. Neville leapt on one of the beds while Gran paid the conductor.
This was the Knight Bus, of course. Neville had heard all about it, though he had never travelled on it before, there had been no need. He wondered why there was now. When Gran came over and sat down on the bed next to him, he asked, “Where are we going?”
“We can’t stay at Algie and Enid’s,” replied Gran, “they’re still away. We’re going to put up in the Leaky Cauldron tonight, until we can find somewhere more permanent for the rest of the week. Better you’re in a populated area.”
“Why didn’t we take the Floo?”
“This is much safer,” said Gran. “Never know what can happen with the Floo sometimes.” As the Knight Bus hurtled off into the dark, however, Neville rather doubted Gran’s opinion of ‘safer’. He held on desperately to the bedpost as the bus was flung this way and that at incredible speed. He lay back on the bed and tried not to think of his dinner, bubbling around inside his stomach. It wasn’t easy, as the bus lurched to a halt to pick up its latest passenger before speeding off again.
Neville lay there moaning for the entirety of the journey. The conductor, Stan, tried to cheer him up by telling him the bus hadn’t crashed in almost three weeks. He seemed quite proud of the fact. Needless to say, it did not improve Neville’s mood. When they finally careered to a halt in Charing Cross Road, Neville gingerly clambered off the bed, staggered out of the bus, and was promptly sick all over the pavement.
Gran, helping unload their belongings, shook her head in exasperation and got out her wand to clear up. She took Neville’s arm and led him through the door into the Leaky Cauldron. The Muggles on the street outside passed by, oblivious that anything out of the ordinary had just happened. Neville felt groggy and miserable, and didn’t notice the reaction his entrance got from the busy tavern. He steadied himself against the bar, whilst Gran harangued the landlord, negotiating two adjoining rooms for the night.
Eventually, he followed Gran and the landlord up the wooden staircase to the first floor, where they were shown into rooms 14 and 15. Neville collapsed onto the bed in room 15, trying to keep the room from spinning. Not bothering to unpack anything, he drifted into a gentle nap.
He was awoken maybe an hour later by a loud knock on the door. He got up and rushed to the door, only to realise the knock had come from the door next to his, that of Gran’s room. Curious, he listened at his door as Gran opened hers. “Yes?” Neville heard her bark. “Oh it’s… it’s… sorry, I know we’ve met, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Diggle, ma’am,” came the reply. “I happened to be here already and Dumbledore asked me to check in on you informally. I must say, your suddenly upping sticks like that has certainly put the Ministry into quite a flap. They were going to send someone down here themselves to investigate, but Dumbledore persuaded them that wasn’t necessary. Are you all right?”
“As well as can be expected,” replied Gran. “Neville’s a bit shaken, and he suspects something’s going on, how couldn’t he?” Her voice dropped a tone. “I saw him. Right there in our garden. Neville saw him too. Can you blame me for leaving? He’s out to finish what he started. That’s why he’s broken out, isn’t it? He’s out to kill Neville!”
Neville backed away from the door in horror. This man, this murderer, this Death Eater, was coming to kill him, no doubt to avenge his master’s fall. He felt the throb of his scar on his forehead, and sat on the bed in a daze. No matter where he went, or what he did, the legacy of his scar followed him. Now a past he had never known had caught up with him once more.
That night he slept fitfully, and dreamed of wolves and a bright moon. He dreamt he was running through fields, surrounded on all sides by strange creatures silhouetted in the moonlight. Dark figures came up out of the night and bore down on him. He stumbled and fell to the ground. Staring up at the sky, he heard a loud wolf howl, and then a shadowed face leaned over him as the cry of the wolf petered into deathly silence.
* * *
In the morning Neville woke uncomfortably in an unfamiliar bed. Slowly the memory of who he was and why he was here came back to him. He groaned miserably as Gran banged on the door to urge him out of bed. Slowly, he got up and went downstairs to where they served breakfast. Gran and Neville ate their breakfast alone and in silence. Each seemed to have much to ponder. Neville was thinking about what he had heard last night, and whether he should say anything to Gran. But first he decided to ask the more pressing question that was bothering him, “So where are we going now, then?”
“I’ve decided it’s best if we stay here for the duration,” Gran replied. “We’ll keep the rooms we have, and I can take you straight to the Hogwarts Express on the first. That way we can easily do your Diagon Alley shopping safely while we’re here.” She looked down at Neville’s glum appearance. “Don’t look so miserable, Neville,” she added. “We’re doing this for your own good.”
“Why?” Neville demanded. “Why is it for my own good? I wish you’d at least tell me something of what’s going on.”
Gran paused, and assumed her typical stern expression. “No, Neville. You’re too young to understand and I don’t want you worrying yourself. You’ll be off to Hogwarts in a week and this will all be over. Now come on, we’ll start on the shopping before the crowds arrive.”
She doesn’t trust me, Neville thought as they left for the gateway into Diagon Alley. She still thinks I’m a little kid, still innocent about the wide world. If only she knew. Now, he reflected, they were both keeping secrets from each other. There was a wall of silence that had grown between them without either of them realising. For all his troubles with Gran, she had been one person Neville could rely on. Now he found himself wishing that this week would pass as quickly as possible.
In fact it did not pass as quick as Neville hoped, but pass it did all the same. Neville spent most of the time stuck in room 15 of the Leaky Cauldron, finishing his schoolwork for the term ahead. At times though, and under close supervision, he was allowed to wander down through Diagon Alley and visit the shops. It was a warm, welcoming and friendly place; here the troubles of the outside world could almost be forgotten. They had spent most of the first day purchasing Neville’s textbooks and supplies, thereafter Neville would browse through the shops, or sit in one of the cafés, or visit his favourite location: Florian Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour.
Occasionally he would overhear snatches of conversation where people were talking about Remus Lupin’s escape. It seemed a popular subject of discussion, but Neville learnt no more than he already knew. Aside from the fact that he was a werewolf, nobody seemed to know that much about him. The opinions expressed about him ranged from anger at the Ministry for allowing the escape, to hysterical fear their children would be bitten in their sleep. No one appeared to have any knowledge of the man himself.
In the early afternoon of the thirty-first of August, the day before Neville would embark on the Hogwarts Express for another term at Hogwarts, Neville and Gran were sitting outside a café finishing off their lunch. Down the street, Neville saw a boy with red hair emerge from one of the shops. He looked around nonchalantly, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Neville stood up and waved. “Hey, Ron!” he called out.
Gran grabbed his arm, pushing him back down into his seat. “What do you think you’re doing, sit down,” she snapped, but Ron had seen Neville and ambled over.
“Hi there, Neville,” he said brightly. Neville observed that he seemed a lot happier than when he had last seen him. That had been at the end of last school year, when he had only just started recovering from his part in the terrible events of the year. Neville could only imagine what it was like to have been possessed by the spirit of the sixteen-year-old Voldemort, to have to cope with the guilt of being the one inadvertently responsible for the attacks, not to mention what he had suffered in the Chamber. He had been visibly shaken and depressed, but now he appeared a lot brighter.
“Ron, this is my Gran,” introduced Neville. “Gran, this is Ron Weasley. He’s in my class at school.”
“A Weasley, eh?” said Gran with a smile. “I should have guessed. A fine family, the Weasleys. You must be one of Arthur’s boys. I knew his father quite well, a long time ago. Sit down, lad. Tell me, how is Neville doing at school? I hardly get anything out of him.”
“Neville’s great,” replied Ron enthusiastically. “I owe him a lot.” Neville looked embarrassed and worried, and tried to give Ron pointed glances not to elaborate.
“Really?” said Gran, surprised. “You do astonish me.”
“Ron’s exaggerating,” said Neville hurriedly, and decided to quickly change the subject. “Say Ron, how was your summer at Harry’s?”
“Fantastic,” said Ron. “He lives in this great house in south London. It’s on this Muggle street called Bromley Way and it looks just like a tiny terrace house from the outside, but inside it’s huge with massive rooms. There’s even this big garden out the back where Harry can practise Quidditch. We had some great fun out there.”
“Sorry, who’s Harry?” asked Gran politely.
“Harry Potter,” said Ron. “My best friend.”
“Potter… not James Potter’s son?” said Gran, surprised. “Well of course, he was born the same time as Neville, I remember it.” She shook her head sadly. “Dear me, all those years ago, and it only seems like yesterday. I’ve never thought about what happened to the boy. How is the poor lad?”
“Harry? Harry’s brilliant. We have loads of fun together. Sirius is always saying he’s just like his father.”
“Sirius?” said Neville. The name sounded familiar.
“Sirius Black, his guardian,” answered Ron. “You’ve met him, right? You remember, last year just over there at Flourish and Blotts, when… when the Malfoys were there, you know?”
Neville did remember. He remembered that was the day that Lucius Malfoy had planted a certain diary on poor Ron. There had been a fight, started by a tall man with dark hair, Neville could picture him now. “His guardian?” he said. “I thought he was his godfather. What about his parents?”
Ron and Gran exchanged long, uncomfortable glances. Clearly he had touched a nerve. “Harry never told you?” Ron said awkwardly. “I don’t… I don’t think I should say anything, it’s up to Harry really.” The question seemed to have pained Ron somewhat, and Gran too, Neville was surprised to notice.
“The war?” he asked. Neither Ron nor Gran replied, but there expressions seemed to tell Neville all he needed to know. It had never occurred to him that Harry had suffered from the war just as he had. Harry was such an infectiously joyful, content boy. He would never have guessed there was any tragedy in his life. “So he lives with his godfather,” he continued, in an effort to get off the topic. “What’s he like?”
“Sirius? He was his dad’s best mate, apparently. Think Harry, only crazier and with more energy. He really dotes on Harry, thinks the world of him. They’re around somewhere,” Ron looked up and down the street for any sign of them, “Sirius was just taking Harry Quidditch shopping. Oh look, there they are. Harry, over here!” Ron waved furiously.
It was indeed Harry, striding down the street towards them, his arms full of books and supplies, his glasses slightly skew-whiff on his nose, his hair a mess as usual. Behind him followed Sirius Black, just as Neville recognized him from a year ago. He was well dressed and had a proud bearing, but an impish grin on his face. His eyes were fixed on Harry, and he kept close behind him.
“Hi Neville!” said Harry cheerily. “I hope Ron hasn’t been boring you for too long. Looking forward to the new year?”
Neville nodded, and introduced his Gran. She got up to shake Sirius’ hand, saying, “We’ve met once before, haven’t we?”
Sirius smiled. “Yes, Mrs Longbottom, how could I forget? It was at Frank and Alice’s funeral. You overheard my surname as being Black and assumed I must be some interloper or troublemaker. I took several hits from your handbag before Dumbledore convinced you otherwise.” Gran looked chagrined at the memory, but Sirius laughed it off.
Ron nudged Harry. “I haven’t told him the big news yet. Can I tell him?”
Harry looked up at Sirius. “Yeah, of course you can,” Sirius answered. “I know it shouldn’t be officially announced until tomorrow, but there’s no harm in telling people now.”
Ron grinned, and addressed Neville in a mock formal manner. “Neville, I would like to present Professor Black, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”
Neville Longbottom and the Prisoner of Azkaban by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Neville and Gran see something in their garden which makes Gran take fright and flee the house with Neville.