Category: Rare
Mimblus mimbletonia, 2 years of age
Number: 146
Longbottom, Neville
Neville laid his card on the tabletop, where the sign magically adhered. He stroked the plant behind it with a careful finger, smiling as it crooned its off-key note. Most of what his roommate Dean called “cactuses with a rash” needed several years to accept the touch of their gardeners. Neville’s was quite remarkable in that he could pet it after just two.
Regretfully, he left it there to await judging, which would take place the next afternoon, and stepped outside. An enormous green banner proclaimed, in two-foot-high letters, “The One Hundred and Seventy-Ninth Annual Magical Plants and Herbs Faire of Great Britain”. Beyond it were what appeared to be hundreds of tents, from the single-person display booths to one that looked as if Diagon Alley would fit inside.
Someone jostled Neville impatiently. “Hey, you’re standing in the doorway!”
He muttered an apology and stepped out of the way, still staring around him. Nearby was the Welcome Booth; Neville could see that they had maps.
This was Friday evening; he had a tiny room in a nearby inn, but he didn’t care about the quality. What mattered was that for the first time, he was away by himself for a whole weekend. Better yet, Gran had fussed very little (for her) when she found that Neville had signed up to attend the Faire and in (not) doing so, she had tacitly acknowledged that Neville was an adult.
Neville was required to attend judging for tomorrow’s Rare Plants/Herbs Contest, despite the fact that first-timers almost never won anything at the Faire. Until then, there were multiple large exhibits, what looked like a thousand vendors, and a long list of seminars.
It promised to be a good day.
Four hours, fifteen Galleons, and two seminars later (“The Ukrainian Fungus-Fern” and “How to Handle Your Flesh-Eaters Without Becoming Prey”), Neville returned to the tent that held his cherished plant. He spent another hour and a half browsing the now-full display shelves. Many he had seen in the Hogwarts greenhouses, but there were some that he had only read of and a few brand new ones. A number of other people were also circling the displays; Neville’s mimblus mimbletonia, as the only one in the exhibit, was among the most admired.
He had never let anyone catching him talking to his plants, save Professor Sprout “ he had picked up the habit from her. Some of them understood to a degree, so it wasn’t as strange as it looked, but then, that wasn’t saying much. He therefore waited until the crowd had thinned before he came back to his entry to speak softly to it, patting it gently. “I’ll come and collect you in two days at the most. Prizes are tomorrow, but we probably won’t get one, so you won’t be on display too much longer.” The plant crooned a little sadly; Neville thought it wouldn’t have minded staying on display.
The next afternoon, Neville waited with the other contestants. They had been given a place at the front of the crowd, which was some two thousand strong.
There were several prizes in addition to the Grand, Second, and Third Prizes. Neville watched with interest as a small self-fertilising bush (smelling strongly of compost) took Best Yearling and a blooming flutterby bush won Prettiest Plant. Next, the announcer boomed, “Best Sentient Plant: Neville Longbottom’s mimblus mimbletonia!”
Neville choked with surprise. The announcer was looking down and around, frowning. “Mr. Longbottom? Where are you?”
“I’m here, I’m here!” Neville pushed forward a bit and climbed awkwardly onto the platform to take his medal. He thought he smiled when the official photographer raised his camera; he was a bit too stunned to be entirely sure.
When he stepped back down, another official handed him a small, heavy bag “ fifty galleons in prize money. “Th-thank you,” Neville stammered. “I “ er “ I’m honoured “ it “ did it really deserve that?”
The woman smiled. “It’s a fine plant, Mr. Longbottom. I’ve had a mimblus mimbletonia for four years now, and it still attacks me now and then. If you can train yours to respond to you in two years, you’ve earned that prize.”
Neville melted back into the crowd somehow and stood dazed, feeling the bronze medallion grow warm against his body. The bag of gold clinked a little; he looked down and stuck it in his pocket.
The Longbottom family had seen wealthier days; Gran was prone to reminiscing about the fantastic balls and parties they had thrown. Neville didn’t mind “ social gatherings tended to be something of a horror, anyway. Money wasn’t an issue for him.
So when he put his hand in his pocket and fiddled with the coins, it wasn’t for love of the gold. His eyes found his favourite plant “ which would now remain on display for another day “ and Neville smiled. No, it was because for the first time in his life, he had shown the world that he could do well in something he loved.