Supergran!
It was exactly one week before his first day at Hogwarts and a very excited eleven-year-old Neville Longbottom was hurrying up Diagon Alley towards Madam Malkin's, dragging his elderly grandmother by the hand.
"Don't pull, Neville!" exclaimed Gran. "The shop will still be there whether we arrive in one minute or five!"
Chastened by her words, he slowed to a brisk walk. She nodded approvingly at the slower pace, although it frustrated young Neville: he had waited so long to find out if he would even be able to attend Hogwarts and, now that his letter had finally arrived, he didn't want to wait another minute longer before he could actually be measured for the same uniform once worn by his mum and dad.
They passed Quality Quidditch Supplies, which was crowded with children admiring the new Nimbus 2000, and then the stationery shop. Neville thought he might burst with excitement when, after leaving Flourish and Blotts behind them, he finally spotted the mullioned windows of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The mere sight of the tailor's dummy standing behind the window (sporting a rather fetching blue-and-silver cloak) almost made him pop with happiness.
He was here! He was finally going to get his Hogwarts robes! What did it matter that nobody thought this day would ever come? And so what if his magic wasn't very powerful? It was still there, wasn't it? That had been proven when Neville turned into a giant rubber ball after poor Uncle Algie accidentally dropped him out the window.
And now he, Neville Longbottom, was going to become a wizard just like his parents had been before they got hurt in the war.
A bell tinkled merrily as Gran pushed open the door to the shop and they stepped inside. Neville's eyes widened in wonder at the huge bolts of colourful materials laying across the counter. At the back of the shop, a squat witch in purple robes had been in the process of tending to a customer - a little boy of Neville's age, standing on a footstool – when the bell alerted her to the sound of new arrivals.
She turned and smiled at Gran. "Another one for Hogwarts?"
Gran nodded.
"I'm a little bit short-handed today – Barbara's off sick with Dragon Pox, though how she managed to catch that is anyone's guess. If you'll just take a seat, I'll be with you as soon as I'm done."
"Certainly. Take all the time you need," replied Gran in her crisp, no-nonsense voice. Madam Malkin's smile widened appreciatively before she returned to her young customer.
"Come on, Neville," Gran said briskly, leading him to a row of chairs just shy of the footstool. He followed her dutifully, taking a seat beside her and watching in fascination as a tape flew around the other child, taking measurements of his legs, his arms and (strangely enough) his forehead. A length of black fabric draped itself around the boy's shoulders and Madam Malkin began to adjust it at the collar, mumbling through a mouthful of pins as she worked. She manoeuvred herself around the footstool to start pinning the back of the cloth, giving Neville a clear view of her young customer.
Gregory Goyle.
And leaning casually against a row of fabric-filled shelves on his other side was Gregory's father who, having now spotted the Longbottoms, sneered unpleasantly in their direction.
Neville shifted uncomfortably in his seat: he didn't like the Goyles very much – in fact, he didn't like them at all. The whole family was suspected to have supported He Who Must Not Be Named when Neville was a baby, and they were known friends of the Malfoys, who Neville disliked even more than the Goyles. Draco Malfoy had called him a filthy Muggle-loving Squib in Florian Fortescue's when Uncle Algie last brought him to Diagon Alley. Uncle Algie, as outraged as he had been, was too intimidated by Malfoy Snr to take him to task for his child's rudeness. Instead, they had passed the two blonds and exited the shop without so much as a word of protest.
"You'll be a great wizard one day, my lad," his uncle had said as they later walked to the Magical Menagerie to buy his familiar. "Why wouldn't you be? You're a Longbottom, just like your father before you. So don't let anyone tell you otherwise – no matter who they are!"
This Neville found rather odd coming from his uncle, given that he hadn't stood up to the Malfoys when he'd had the chance. But it would've been rude to point that out (even if he had dared) and he wouldn't have liked to have made his uncle feel uncomfortable about it anyway.
Now, sitting in Madam Malkin's, with Gregory Goyle less than ten feet away and his hulking father smirking at both him and Gran from the other side of the shop, Neville was the one feeling uncomfortable. Nervous, he shifted a little closer to his grandmother and she eyed him questioningly.
"What is it, Neville? You're shaking. What in Merlin's name has frightened you this time?"
She raised her head and looked around curiously; her sharp blue gaze soon encountered the scary one of Mr Goyle.
"Good heavens, boy, you're not afraid of him, are you?" she said, glaring at the man in disdain. Gran had a very low opinion of the Goyles – and of any wizard who was suspected of supporting He Who Must Not Be Named all those years ago. She wasn't afraid to show it either because, unlike Uncle Algie, Augusta Longbottom wasn't intimidated by anyone. Neville wished he could be more like her.
"No, Gran," he said quietly. "I'm not afraid of anyone. Not when you're with me."
Not a physically demonstrative person by nature, Gran nevertheless gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. It took the bite from her remonstration and made Neville feel all warm and glowing inside.
No sooner did he feel reassured by her touch than Mr Goyle took a few lazy steps towards them. Stopping a few feet away, his eyes ran up and down Neville as if the boy were a particularly hideous troll.
"What's this then?" he drawled in a sneering voice. "The last of the Longbottoms coming to get measured for robes? I didn't know Hogwarts admitted Squibs!"
Neville flushed with embarrassment, but Gran was not so easily cowed.
"A rather foolish supposition on your part, don't you think? After all, they admitted you," she snapped, as Neville stared at her in awe. "And, unlike you, my grandson is not a Squib. If, however, you are keen to laugh at those less gifted than yourself, you need look no further than your own unfortunate child."
She pointed disdainfully at the wiry-haired boy glaring at her hatefully from the footstool.
"It appears that he has inherited his father's primate appearance, so no doubt he will be as equally untalented with his magic. A waste of a good wand, if you ask me."
The elder Goyle turned crimson at the slur.
"Don't you dare talk about my son in that way, you miserable old hag! He got into Hogwarts 'cos he's a gifted pure-blood wizard - not 'cos his old Muggle-loving, blood-traitor granny slept with the headmaster!"
Neville's eyes widened in shock. Oh dear. Mr Goyle shouldn't have said that ...
Gran was outraged by the man's gall. "How dare you say such a thing, you miserable excuse for a man! How dare you impugn the good characters of both Albus Dumbledore and myself in such a base and graceless fashion! And in front of children, no less! Have you no decency? No discretion? No respect?"
Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she rose and stormed towards the ape-like wizard. Neville winced, feeling almost sorry for the man. Mr Goyle had no idea what he was in for! Madam Malkin, clearly apprehensive, paused in her measurements of Gregory to shake her head in despair.
"Perhaps you need a lesson in manners?" suggested Gran primly.
Goyle grinned and twirled his wand carelessly. "And who's going to teach me, then? You? From what I've heard, you can't even teach your own son how to sleep without slobbering down his chin. How is Frankie-boy these days? Can he eat his solids now, or do you still have to feed him through a straw?"
Gregory laughed at his father's cruel wit and Neville clenched his fists in anger. But no one was angrier than Gran ...
Before the much larger Goyle could stop twirling his wand long enough to take the threat she presented seriously, Gran whipped out her wand, waved it at the man's throat, and barked a spell the eleven-year-old had never heard before.
Nothing happened.
"Now what do you have to say for yourself?" she asked, supremely confident of her magical abilities.
Neville didn't know why she sounded so happy: Mr Goyle was almost doubled over with laughter because nothing had happened.
Or had it?
The guffawing man finally took control of himself and smirked at her as he opened his mouth and said, "I love Muggles."
That's funny, thought Neville, shaking his head in confusion; hadn't Mr Goyle just said ...
"I love Muggles?"
The startled man's eyes boggled in dismay as he stared at the little old woman in disbelief.
Gregory gasped in shock and rushed from the stand, pushing his way past a very anxious Madam Malkin.
"Dad! What're you saying?"
Mr Goyle looked horrified. His face clouded angrily and he opened his mouth to yell in outrage at the highly satisfied Longbottom matriarch. But all that came out was:
"I LOVE MUGGLES!"
The formidable woman smiled politely. "Yes, I know. I love them too. Wonderful, isn't it?"
"What've you done to my dad?" screamed Gregory furiously as his father clutched at his throat like a strangled cat.
She regarded the mini-Goyle with arched brows. "Why, the only proper thing one can do with an ill-mannered, uncouth Death Eater: I've given him a taste of his own medicine. If I were you, boy, I'd see to it that he gets home as quickly as possible. Preferably before he bumps into Lucius Malfoy and makes a complete idiot of himself."
Spotting a piece of lint on her blue jacket, Gran brushed it off daintily while Gregory - visibly terrified at the prospect of Lucius Malfoy waltzing through the door in the next few seconds - ripped the unfinished cloak from his shoulders, grabbed his father's hand and pulled him towards the door.
"Mr Goyle! Gregory hasn't been fully measured yet," exclaimed Madam Malkin as he yanked open the door to the shop. The man spared her a glance and tried to tell her to finish the job another time, but all could say was:
"I love Muggles!"
And with that, the very distressed pair left the shop as fast as their legs would carry them.
"Gran?" said Neville, trying to contain his laughter at the sight of the Goyles dashing madly down Diagon Alley.
"Yes, Neville?"
"I didn't know there was a spell that could make someone say that."
"That's because it's one of my own inventions," Gran said casually, turning away from the window and retaking her seat. She straightened the hem of her long green coat before adding, "Here's hoping the silly man has a fully stocked larder."
"Why?"
She sniffed. "Because there's no way to lift that particular spell. It'll have to wear off naturally, something I made sure of when I invented it. So, it seems that poor Mr Goyle has no choice but to let it run its course - unless he wants his silly little Death Eater friends to think he has switched allegiances."
"And how long will it take to wear off?"
"Let's just say that he should be safe enough to collect his unfortunate child from King's Cross station for the Christmas holidays, shall we?"
Neville beamed at his grandmother in pride. No one intimidated Augusta Longbottom, and Mr Goyle must have been daft if he thought he could! But he wouldn't try it again in a hurry, of that Neville was sure.
If only he could unleash his grandmother on the Malfoys as well!
"I love Muggles too, Gran," he announced, smiling up at her happily. "But I love you more."
Momentarily flushed by the victory over her enemy, Gran laughed and swept him into a brief hug.
"And I love you too, my dear boy. Wizard or Squib, I love you too."
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