Chapter Text
“What,” Harry says, bedazzled, stopping in his tracks as they emerge from the south corridor that leads to the Great Hall. “Is that?”
The vision awaiting them, literally parked before the great open doors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is both thoroughly Muggle and absolutely, absolutely magical. It shines and shimmers in the late September sunlight, sedate and secure in its own elegance and relevance - four wheels, two doors, two antique footboards, and a back bench seat’s worth of sleek, dark burgundy-and-black vintage box and curve.
“A car?” Nev relents, laughing, at the cross-eyed Look. “It’s a vintage 1933 Riley 9 Lynx f-four-seat tourer. It was Great-Grandfather Tychon’s. He just loved old cars. All old cars, especially convertibles. Well,” he qualifies. “They weren’t old when he got them. They were all brand-new back then. But… Yeah. We’ve kept up all the ones in his c-c-collection; there are over three dozen of them now with all the ones my dad and granddad added, but this is my favourite.”
“It’s bloody buggering brilliant,” Harry says fervently. From the hordes of students now hovering and oohing and ahh-ing all around (none of them quite daring to approach closer than six feet), he is not the only one who thinks so. “Why is it here?”
“Well, we can’t just Apparate home, can we?” his best friend says reasonably. “We’re a bicultural household, remember, with loads of eyes everywhere. There won’t be any tourists there when we get in; Gran will have closed up shop for the afternoon for security reasons, but the staff and neighbours will all know I’m coming by now, and will be keeping an eye out since it’s my first trip home as Earl.”
But his companion is distracted yet again. The enormously tall bloke from upstairs is perched on the low stone wall across the courtyard, reading a paperback book. For a moment, Harry can’t help but be put off - there’s yet another unreasonably sized dog beside him, and alright, this one isn’t the size of a lorry, and better resembles a fluffy lion over a starved bear or Cerberus (its fur is creamy white rather than black, and, from his angle, at least, appears to have only one head) -
But still.
Still.
Hogwarts, the (Really Not The) Hero of the Wizarding World thinks, is being overrun.
Then the bloke catches sight of them, and rises and heads in their direction, and Harry is distracted for the third time in as many minutes as he finally gets the chance to absorb the details there that he’d missed up in the Tower.
*
His height aside, the man’s hair doesn’t match his Muggle clothes at all. Dark and glimmering brown as a Christmas chestnut, it might have appeared fashionably shaggy under the right circumstances, but as it is, it’s simply been parted precisely in the middle, and falls in a thick, straight sheet past his shoulders. Two slender braids are twined around the crown, anchoring the lot off of his face - a face that utterly defies age in its ethereal beauty, with cheekbones and a jawline that could cut diamonds.
It’s quite disorienting, really. If Will is the post-epilogue prince from Beauty and the Beast, Harry thinks, this one looks like he’s always imagined Elrond from ‘The Hobbit’.
Without the pointed ears, of course, wearing David Bowie’s street clothes, and with what looks like an economy-sized bag of double-thick bourbon creams on the go, but still.
Still.
Wow.
He’s…
“Who is that?” he murmurs, poking Neville.
“Who’s who?” Nev turns. “Oh. That’s Eliot. Eliot Dagworth. I told you about him; he’s my estate manager. OI, ELIOT!” He waves energetically, and quite unnecessarily. “OVER HERE!”
“I thought he was your seneschal.”
“He is. When he’s wearing robes. If he’s wearing Queen, Dire Straits, Metallica or Pink Floyd, he’s my estate manager. Haz Evans-Potter, Eliot,” he introduces them. “Eliot, Haz.”
“Erhm,” Harry says inelegantly, looking up, and up, and up once more... He’s not quite sure what Aunt Petunia would have said if the particular variety of giant had landed on her doorstep - it’s a definite toss-up on whether Hagrid’s beard or this one’s hair would have offended her more - but she would have definitely approved of his taste in biscuits, anyway. Bourbon creams had always been her favourite. The man doesn’t seem to notice his gawping, only inclines his head lightly, and continues to nibble as he wiggles his fingers - the ones holding the book, not the biscuits - down at him in a friendly manner. Neville just goes round the sports car and presses a rune engraved on the edge of the rear licence plate. The boot pops open obligingly.
“Here, Haz,” he directs. “Give me your coat. I’ll just p-put it in here with mine, and…” He peers into his own coat pocket, and the shrunken greenhouse. “You alright in there, Bucky?”
“Better in here than out there,” the little ghost’s voice drawls hollowly from the depths. “I can’t believe your grandmother is letting you ride in one of these death traps. Hasn’t she ever heard of point-to-point flooing? Or portkeys? Or diverto spells, so no one notices you coming in magically?”
Neville tactfully refrains from commenting on the death trap that comprises Bucky’s current accommodations, never mind his non-vital state. “It’s nineteen ninety-one, yeah?” is all he says. “These ‘death traps,’ n-never mind the accommodating wards, have evolved a bit since you s-snuffed it.”
“I’m fine in here,” the voice says firmly. “Oooooooh. Don’t tell me when the wheels leave the ground. I do not want to know.”
“When the wheels leave the ground?” Harry repeats, alarmed.
“Where we’re going,” Eliot informs him, speaking for the first time as he helps Neville settle their things in the boot again. He even sounds like David Bowie. “We don’t need wheels. Well, not till we land, anyway. And the steering wheel does come in handy when you’re dodging the flocks of offshore seagulls.”
“Bit close to the Equinox yet to risk the coastal ley network, innit?’ Neville says to him doubtfully. “I was listening to the quarterly report earlier, and it sounds like our entire local line, from Carlisle right down to Caernarfon, took a real beating this go-around. Enough to rate a review from one of the World Warders, even, on the day itself, and it can take a bit for the new paths to settle properly after an intervention there, I thought?”
“It can, yes, which is why we’re taking the inland route. The beacons over Blackpool are now officially down till tomorrow morning.”
“Manchester?" his employer suggests hopefully.
“Manchester,” his seneschal confirms. “What’s your pleasure, milord? Rag pudding? Butter pie? Manchester eggs with triple-cooked chips?”
“Curry Mile.”
“Oooh!” Harry perks, in spite of himself (and the dog). “I love curry!” Eliot Dagworth rolls his eyes fondly.
“Two of you. What happened to a good old fashioned hot pot?”
“Haz has been getting in touch with his c-c-culinary roots. It’s a recent endeavour. And hot pots have their place,” Neville tells him. “On the table on Monday nights. This isn’t Monday, though, and as long as we’re going that way anyway…” He slips through the ceremoniously opened rear door, scooting across the seat. “Also? Since when do you call me milord?”
“Since Herself called us all up in a special meeting to tell us you were coming home for the unscheduled week or two, and reminded us that as you’ve now been Officially Confirmed by Her Maj, we’re to remember to render you all due deference and respect, etcetera.”
“She actually put it like that?”
“She made it to Officially Confirmed. The respect-and-etcetera was heavily and directly implied.”
“Oh. Well, you d-don’t have to, not yet anyway. It’s not like she’s here, and I’m not going to t-tell. This is Falkor. D’you mind if he sits in the back with us?”’ he asks Harry belatedly as he pets the (admittedly gorgeous) monstrosity now curled contentedly half atop him. “We c-can put him in the front, if you do. Or you in the front, if you’d rather. Your choice.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” Harry scoots up and in (just), eyeing the dog suspiciously as he presses against the door and fastens his seat belt. Falkor just rests his chin peacefully on Neville’s knee. “I thought hunting wasn’t your thing?”
“Uh? Oh. Oh. No, it’s not, but Falkor’s not a hunting dog. He’s one of the original lot Prince Philip sent over after Granddad died, for the breeding program I told you about.”
“Oh. He's really big. What kind is he?”
“A Great Pyrenees. They’re specialty working dogs. Really popular on farms, and happiest when they have a flock of things to guard. Sheep and chickens, mostly.”
“Does he have one? A flock, I mean?”
“No. Not unless you count all the cats we’ve got about the place. We keep him in-house for his stud services.” It is absolutely matter-of-fact. “He’s a Champion, and produces the best puppies in England - in Great Britain, really - so he’s part of our p-permanent home lineup.” Neville ruffles the huge, softly feathered ears.
“So why is he here?”
“He likely didn’t g-g-give anyone much choice in the matter. At his size, he parks himself wherever he likes, and demands we accommodate. He’s sweet with it, but it’s like trying to move a full-grown yeti. Our kennels are in eye-shot of the entrance to the carport under the Manor,” his friend elaborates. “And he doesn’t try to break out every time he sees one pull out, only the magically adapted ones, because he knows he’ll get to go, not just for a d-drive with it, but a fly. Falkor loves flying; don’t you, old man? Proper Mountbatten, you; yes, you are!”
“And you’re sure he’s not your pet?” Harry probes. “Because he looks like he’s not so sure, himself.”
“He’s just showing me due deference and r-respect.” Neville grins at him, and relents. “Maybe a bit. I do like him loads: a bit specially, even, but Gran said it wouldn’t be quite on, bringing him into the house and getting attached when I would just have to leave him behind ten months of the year when I went off t-to school.”
“You could always apply for an exception,” Eliot observes, as he fires up the ignition. “I doubt very much that it would be denied, especially now.”
“Really, Eliot? Abuse of power and privilege. It’s a thing. Also? He’s got a job.”
“We have cars,” he returned. “And schedules. And magic, to accommodate those schedules. Falkor is perfectly trained, possessed of a supremely amiable personality, and you will have an in-house elf to watch over him besides, while you are in classes. As for abuse of power and privilege… Albus Dumbledore hired an unregistered werewolf, after sneaking him past the Board of Governors for seven years without proper notice or precautions. Under the circumstances, and considering the fact that all reviews have found that that contract he signed are enforceable on every level, given the appropriate precautions again… I think that you, as you do outrank him on every level again, are entitled to one perfectly ordinary dog.”
“But it’s against the rules!”
“Were-wolf,” Eliot enunciates, as he drives down towards the gates. “Cer-berus. Moun-tain troll. Bas-ilisk. And the Headmistress already has a yellow anaconda - in the delicate condition, no less - living on Ravenclaw’s Terrace. Do I really need to elaborate further, and it's not as if he, as a stud, carries the puppies he breeds, is it?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” his employer informs him repressively. “Never mind Anthony’s cat.”
“You just said he likes cats,” Harry points out.
“He likes to herd them,” Nev corrects. “He’d herd every cat in the castle. Then he’d start in with everything else.”
“Magic?” Harry offers, in spite of himself. “There must be charms for that sort of thing.”
“There are,” Eliot corroborates. “Well done, Mr. Evans-Potter. I would consider it, milord, if I were you. You might not think on Falkor as your pet, but as Mr. Evans-Potter there noted, he has been rather pining for you.”
“I can’t use my position to bring a dog to live in the dorm room! I already come across as a complete spoiled toff with the pool and the house-elf, and…”
And he trails off, mumbling unhappily and obviously (to his best friend’s eyes) wanting to be persuaded, even as he wilts a bit around the edges in a way he hasn’t really done in weeks.
We’ve not even got to the gates yet. And his Gran’s still waiting, and with … Everything… She’s not going to be any help at all.
Harry racks his brains, trying to…
It’s a little bit mean, he thinks. Maybe more than a little bit, but…
He only really forgets he’s afraid when he’s mad. He did, in class with Professor Snape. And with Malfoy’s Dad.
Harry squirms a bit uneasily.
You’re going to have to be his brave, Evans-Potter.
And if I cover for it, like Professor Flitwick said I did in the Alley, by referring back to my parents…
“One thing’s for sure,” he observes casually, before he can stop himself. “Your Gran won’t be able to tell you that you’re not like your dad anymore. Not on the one subject, anyway.”
“What?”
“Well, she said he was a bit of a plodder, didn’t he? When it came to the rules? No exceptions… No imagination…” He trails off meaningfully. Neville glares, affronted.
“It is not ,” he is informed. “The same thing. Just because your dad was a spoiled brat who took advantage of the fact that his parents were biologically incapable of denying him anything…” He cuts himself off, horrified and stricken by his own words. “Oh no, oh no, I’m so s-s-s-sorry, I… I shouldn’t have said that, I…”
“It’s true,” Harry reassures him. “He was all that. I never said he wasn’t. But you’re right and I reckon I was wrong, because it’s not the same thing, and wouldn’t be, because it wouldn’t be about breaking the rules at all, in the end. It’s about imagination, like I said. Creativity. Thinking outside the mandated box. Try this on: why don’t you ask Professor Flitwick if he’d take him on as his pet?”
“Uh?”
“Well, there aren’t any rules on what kind of animals the professors can bring in, are there? I mean, Dumbledore had Fawkes, and Dona Anaconda has Sunlight-on-Rocks, and Hagrid had bloody Fluffy. So… He might do it. If you asked nicely, and paid his expenses, and volunteered to feed him and walk him and let him sleep in your bed, anyway. He’d have to get someone to help anyway, wouldn’t he? If he ever did want a pet? I mean.. He’s a professor. He teaches, and takes care of a whole House besides. There just aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“Aren’t you clever,” Eliot tells him approvingly. “Jam first, indeed. I think that a most excellent plan, milord; shall I drop him a note, then, inquiring on the possibility?”
Neville vacillates. Visibly.
“Let me think about it,” he says finally. And, a bit sullenly to Harry, it’s true … “I do s-see what you did there. F-for the record.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says inadequately. “You were wilting. And we’re not even to the gates yet!”
“You were, rather,” Eliot observes from the front seat, as Neville glowers again, and gently… “Come on, lovey. An entirely stiff upper lip may prove close to impossible in the days to come, but we do still have to Get the Thing Done, one way or the other. Trust me, alright? A bit of displaced anger isn’t a bad thing if it helps things, and you, along, and if you’ve got a friend who can see that when you can’t, and is willing to risk himself to help you out… Well. You really do have a friend in him, mm?”
“It was still mean. He called Dad a plodder!” He pauses, diverted. “You knew him, Eliot. W-Was he?”
“Bit,” his estate manager admits candidly. “Lovely chap, and yes, he was an excellent military strategist, but he rarely, if ever, applied his skill set there for his own benefit. I think he thought it wasn’t honourable.”
“That’s dumb.” Neville’s lower lip pokes out, but he seems to be calming a bit.
“It limited his reactive abilities, rather,” Eliot temporizes. “And he wasn’t helped by the fact that your mum only required the one. Reactive ability, that is. She whomped.”
“But Evans-Potter’s parents were still tossers, right?”
“Really, Longbottom?”
“You started it. What, you can give it, but you can’t t-take it?”
“OI!”
“Oh yes.” Eliot shifts gears, unperturbed. “Sweet, but honestly? For the most part? I wanted to knock their heads together every time I saw them. Right after I knocked their parents’ heads together for enabling them both the way they did. Being a teenager offers enough of a natural social handicap without helping it along.”
“S-So all their friends were just as b-bad?”
“As I was, when I was a teenager, and your grandparents were when they were teenagers, and I’m sure you will be too, in a few more years. God help us there, if you do have the broad-spectrum creativity and scope they lacked, all together.”
“Mm.” Falkor shuffles up even further, bodily draping across him with a contented sigh, till only Neville’s nose shows above his back. He runs his hands over him. “You’re sure you don’t mind this, Haz? I mean… I saw the way you reacted to Lupin’s dog. You didn’t seem to like it at all, and it c-couldn’t have been personal, because you’d never met it before.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Harry lies, and in demonstration, gets his own brave on and scooches a bare inch away from the door, reaching out tentatively to pet Falkor’s flank a bit. He doesn’t so much as twitch. “I didn’t not like it. Lupin’s dog, I mean. Mostly it made me a bit nervous; some do, specially the big ones, but this one’s a Longbottom, so he’s bound to know his etiquette. Oh, and I’ll have a word with Sunlight-on-Rocks about minding her manners.”
“If she hasn’t eaten any cats, I d-don’t think we need to worry about one dog. Ravenclaw has more cats than all the other houses put together, and there haven’t been any reports on us missing any. I’ll write a note to Anthony,” Nev decides. “And ask him if he can ask Mike and Terry what they think.”
“If it’s Professor Flitwick’s dog, they don’t have to think on anything,” Harry says patiently. “Just ask him.”
Neville says nothing more, but there is a tiny smile lurking at the corners of his mouth… The wards shimmer around them, enclosing them visibly, but only for a moment before fading out. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, face tilted to the clouds. Harry toes his shoes off and rearranges himself a bit. Falkor’s tail thumps his thigh, once. He tries not to jump, and reaches out to pet him gingerly again.
“You’re a good boy,” he tells him. It is more of an instruction. “Aren’t you? Bet you don’t think it’s funny to chase little kids and bite their legs and send them up trees for the whole day while all their nasty relatives point and laugh, do you?”
“What?”
“What, what?” He looks over. “I just said he was a good boy.”
“And that you were bitten, and chased up a tree, and that your relatives left you there, and…” Nev is sitting bolt upright, horrified. “Laughed!” In the front seat, Eliot is suddenly very quiet.
Bugger. I did not mean to say that out loud.
“Does Professor Flitwick know,” Neville demands.
“I… Didn’t tell him specially, no,” Harry hedges. “Erhm.” He flails a bit. “You don’t have to worry, Nev, really. I mean… It’s like I said. I don’t hate all dogs, like I said. Ripper was just being bad because Aunt Marge never taught him any manners, or any of the rest that she breeds for that matter, because she doesn’t have any to be going on with herself. I’ll be fine with Falkor, really.”
“Falkor is not the point! The point is…” He clamps down on his temper.
“Your aunt raises dogs, Mr. Evans-Potter?” Eliot inquires from the front seat. “To sell?”
“Just call me Haz. Um. Yes? Bulldogs, mostly.”
“And you may call me Eliot,” he returned. “Have you ever seen her facilities?”
“No. She has a place out in the country, and I’ve never been. Because she’s Dudley’s aunt, not mine, and it’s a family home.” Despite himself, and his complete and historical lack of desire to visit the place, he feels suddenly rather bitter over the descriptor. “For family.”
“I see. Well, perhaps I will look into it,” the seneschal says. “And her. I might even send in a scout to investigate her lines.”
“What? Why would you do that?”
“Because now that Longridge has the established program, we are thinking on expanding into other breeds. I’m quite certain that she is the sort that would be intrigued by the possibilities there, if the statements and suggestions were made.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oooh. Good one! We’re going to destroy her,” Neville tells him viciously, and with no little satisfaction. “G-get her in to the p-point where she thinks she has a real in with us and the Royals, b-because our lines source through the Royals, and then, once she’s told everybody, everywhere, about her new prospects…”
“We will offer a formal review,” Eliot finishes. “A very public and scathing, published formal review. On every level there is. Perhaps we will even discuss the problematics through her accountants, with the HMRC.”
“Brilliant.” The young Earl flops back. “And that’s one g-great big fat raise for you, Dagworth. With a great big fat b-b-bonus, even, if you get the actual shot of her snotting it up when they tear every single dog of hers out of her arms, shut down her business with it, and leave her bleeding up a bloody tree. Or better yet, b-bleeding with the bloody tree up her…”
“Wow,” Harry says in awe. “You aren’t just a bit scary, Longbottom. You’re mean. Though there won’t be any accountants to discuss things with, Mr. Dagwor… Eliot,” he corrects himself. “She does her own taxes and things, she says they’re all a load of rotten pud-for-brains swizzlers on the national take.”
“How very colloquial of her. Ah well. What can you do. Lack of breeding, as I’m sure she’d be the first to note, will, and does, out. So… She is the sort that, were she to pay out bribes to anyone whilst cutting corners…”
“It’d be to herself,” Harry finishes. “Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Oh dear,” Eliot Dagworth says sadly. “Home accountancy rarely does work out well, I’m afraid. And that’s me speaking as one of the professionals.” He reaches out to slot a crystal from the selection beside him into the dashboard holder as both of the boys giggle away. “What’s your plea... Oh, I know.” He presses a facet just as the car speeds out the gates, and slants sharply upwards, soaring high. “There. Quite appropriate, I think.”
What would you think if I sang out of tune
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I'll sing you a song
And I'll try not to sing out of key
Oh I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends…
Neville and Harry fall back and absolutely howl. Falkor doesn’t move, but he throws back his head and bays along enthusiastically to the invisible moon.
*
Neville falls asleep just north of Glasgow: a small round ball draped in Burberry and dog. Eliot looks over his shoulder now and again, but says nothing…. He’s not unfriendly, Harry decides, or unforthcoming. Not at all. He’s just not one of those people naturally inclined to talk unless drawn into conversation first. That being said, he does occasionally levitate a biscuit over the back of his seat in his employer’s guest’s direction, as direct indication, it would appear, of how he is best inclined to communicate…. Harry accepts his offerings just as silently, curls up in his own corner and watches the clouds and the landscape below roll by.
“Do loads of people travel this way?” he inquires at one point. Eliot glances back again, smiling. He doesn’t seem to be doing any actual driving any longer, only keeping an eye on the dashboard panel again as he reads his book.
“No,” he says. “Actually. It’s a bit tricky to enchant a car to fly; the particular invisibility spells, never mind the warp drive, are really advanced, and you pretty much have to be on the level of a Head of House to get the permits for both. We’ve got a dozen or so done up that are registered. Tychon Longbottom - Himself’s great-granddad - took blatant advantage of his position as Head Auror in his time to write himself off the necessary.”
“Oh,” Harry says. “A dozen? Really? Wait, warp drive?”
“The spells that allow you to Apparate the entire vehicle,” the man translates. “Mid-air. You can’t do it just anywhere; there are assigned aerial zones over certain towns and cities that act as focal points for the magics involved, particularly around the national borders, and you have to make appointments for an assigned time to jump. If you miss your scheduled beacon, you have to land and refile for another.”
“So when do we reach the first one?”
“When we get to the English border. We could have gone over Hogsmeade, but we’re taking the scenic route today. Flying in the cars puts him to sleep." He nods to Neville again. “Especially if Falkor is aboard, and Professor Flitwick said he needs to catch up a bit, and that it might be an idea for him to get a couple of hours in before we get back to the Manor.”
“Oh.” Harry tucks his feet up. Eliot waits a moment to see if there are more questions forthcoming, but in the end, just returns to his book.
*
They activate the warp drive directly over Gilnockie Tower, located in the tiny village of Hollows just north of the border between Scotland and England.
“There it is, see?” The Earl hangs half over the side of the car and points. Harry, hanging prudently (if unnecessarily, the wards considered) onto the back of his belt, peers over his shoulder, noting a tall, vaguely rectangular shaped pile of stone far below. “It doesn’t look like much, and it’s been knocked over and rebuilt loads of times over the course of history, but the Ministry always makes sure it goes back up, around the one p-particular anchor stone there. It’s got all sorts of weird spirals and marks on it that they say d-denotes its historical significance, but really, we Magicals just put them there to m-make sure the Muggle governments ensure it’s not interfered with. As long as they do think it’s significant, no one will t-touch it or move it, at least not in any permanent way.”
“But there’ve only been cars in the last hundred years,” Harry points out, perplexed. “What was it needed for before that?”
“Dragons, mostly,” his best friend says matter-of-factly. Harry blinks at him. “For whatever reason, this section of the border used to be one of their p-preferred party spots. The Welsh Greens and Hebridean Blacks, specially; they’d all come in on the regular schedule for their version of Quidditch matches. We only really c-cleaned them out back at the t-turn of the century, when we developed Confundus charms powerful enough to affect them, and to drive them to the one point while flying that would activate and Apparate them to m-more appropriate locales.”
“Quidditch matches,” Harry repeats.
“Mm. It sounds fine, and was - to the point where they would start all take breaks for refreshments, and would fly down f-for take-away. Never mind all the farmers and p-peasants and hapless m-maidens, Granddad told me once that Southern Scotland was at real risk of running out of sheep.”
“Did he, now. Alright, lads,” Eliot checks the tempus on the dashboard. “Hold onto your haggises - haggisi? We’re going down.” He presses a rune. “At your leisure, milord.”
“Ayup, below!” Milord hails obligingly. “Longbottom for St. Rowan’s, via Manchester. Do we have the all-clear?”
“Ayup, Longbottom!” a scratchy, tinned voice responds busily. “Welcome home! Apologies, but we just got the call that Manchester’s out. You’re being re-routed to Clitheroe.”
“What?” Neville sits up in dismay. “What? Why?”
“The Manatees are having problems with the overhead anchors on their mass perceptus grid, sir,” a second, female voice reports. “The Department of Magical Games and Sports has frozen everything related and unrelated there till they get it all sorted, hopefully in time for the match day after tomorrow.”
“Oh, f-for…” He throws himself back, disgruntled. Falkor grumbles in agreement. “Quidditch again,” he explains to Harry. “The p-perceptus grid keeps the local stadium hidden. Be a bit of a mess if it were to suddenly appear out of nowhere; it’d literally displace all of C-Canal Street.”
“Oop.”
“Mm,” Neville agrees. “What can you d-do. Ahreet, then,” he says to the dash. “On thy word, wi’ all associated blessings from on High. Take ‘er away!”
“Thankee, sor,’ the first voice reports. “On three. One… Two…”
“I thought Apparating was supposed to make you sick up?” Harry asks as he recovers gradually from the sensation of his spine plastering itself (quite possibly as a permanent fossil) into the back bench seat. It hadn’t been what he’d describe as pleasant sensation, but it hadn’t been as unpleasant as he’d been led to believe either. Being squashed by magic was much better than being squashed by Dudley and his mates, if only because he hadn’t had to smell them with it.
“Buffer wards.” Neville peers down, this time at the sprawling pastoral landscape below. “They act like shock absorbers, so the car itself takes most of the impact.”
“Oh. Also? Urgh.”
“Mm,” Eliot agrees as he adjusts his seat so that he might take the wheel proper once more. They coast down slowly, landing without so much as a bump on the smooth and deserted country road. “Thirty minutes. Have you had a chance to go over the house rules with Mr. Evans-Potter, milord?”
“Um. Not really, no?”
“Very well. First and most importantly, Mr. Evans-Potter, we at Rosehaven do not perform magic anywhere save in the Family Wing. We will provide you with a discreet map, and…”
“Rosehaven?” Harry looks, puzzled, at Neville. Neville doesn’t wilt, exactly, but he does attempt to cover his face with both of Falkor’s ears. Eliot sighs. It is not remotely melodramatic.
“Neville…”
“I didn’t know how to tell him!” the boy pleads desperately. “It’s embarrassing, Eliot!”
“Rosehaven,” their driver informs his employer’s guest. “Is the name of the visible, non-magical section of Lord Longridge’s ancestral home. The Family Wing comprises the rest of it - the magically hidden sections. Longbottom Manor is what Magicals call the entire affair, visible and not.”
“Oh.” Harry eyes Neville, now wilting again behind Falkor. “How much of it is invisible, then? I mean… In terms of percentage. Of the ninety-seven rooms and thirty-one bedrooms Nev mentioned… How many make up the Family Wing?”
“All of them. The Family Wing is comprised of one hundred twenty-eight rooms, those thirty-one bedrooms included. Rosehaven, as a separate entity, has one hundred forty-three rooms, thirty-six bedrooms included.Together, Longbottom Manor boasts a grand total of two hundred seventy-one rooms. That, of course, excludes all of the working outbuildings, the associated hunting lodge and staff cottages, Gardeners’ Row, and the Western and Eastern Gatehouses. That last is my own residence, though I have offices, of course, in the Manor itself. Both sides of the Manor.”
“Two hundred sev …” Harry is speechless. “Are you serious? You might as well be living in a castle!”
“It was a castle, once,” Neville admits, lowering Falkor’s ears a bit. “Not as big to start, obviously, but it’s grown a bit with all the additions from the different Heads of Longbottom who’ve lived there over the last thirteen hundred years. And c-castles used to act as entire villages, right, with all of the amenities inside their walls? Shops, b-businesses, community gardens, schools, churches… We don’t really have the walls anymore, not as fortifications and all, but the crucial elements are still there, and they’re all really well preserved. Bits of it are d-done up a bit in the different styles of d-different eras; a bit of a hodge-podge, you’d reckon, but it’s been d-done deliberately in that it’s all meant to blend together really, really well as…” His eyes defocus a bit as he quotes. “A living testimony to the past, and to the ongoing evolution of West European architecture and design, encapsulated in a single aesthetic vision that demonstrates, in turn, the ongoing temporal evolution of the entity and society as a whole.”
“Oh,” Harry says blankly, and because he doesn’t quite know what else to say… ”Gardeners’ Row?”
“A block of flats, designed to match the style of the rest of the place. All of our gardeners and their families live there. We have a load of gardeners, full and part time, and all of their student apprentices that come in from the agricultural colleges all across the UK. When you’re working with forty thousand acres, it’s just easier for them to live on site.”
“And you had to build them all extra housing because you haven’t got enough bedrooms to be going on with?”
Eliot sniggers.
“Shut it, Eliot.” His Lordship revives slightly. “It doesn’t quite work like that, Haz. There aren’t a load of staff who live in the Manor itself; I mean, there are some, of course, but most of the Muggle side of the house, along with the immediate grounds surrounding, are set up as a kind of a working historical museum. We’ve got all the gardens, and a craft brewery and a dairy, and a bakery, and the greenhouses - not my greenhouses, the ordinary ones - and a year-round farmer’s market set up all across the southern courtyards and all, but most of the people who work for us and manage those things commute in. We Longbottoms built St. Rowan’s, that’s the village I told you about, just for that purpose, originally - so everybody would have a place to live that was a bit apart. It’s evolved a b-bit too, but pretty much every flat or house or c-cottage that comes up for let there now offers priority to those who work, one way or another, up what they call The Big House.”
“And nobody bothers you? Living there? How does it work, if you live on the Magical side?” Harry is absolutely fascinated. “Do they even know you do live there?”
“Of course. It’s not…” Neville fumbles a bit. “The Magical and Muggle parts of the property… It’s not like Hogwarts, where you have a distinct tower or section of the castle for each House, right? The magical bits are scattered and hidden throughout. You can walk down a hall, for example, and if you’re Magical, or keyed in magically, you see doors and staircases and rooms that you don’t, or wouldn’t, if you’re not. You can tell if they’re magical, because they all have the gold roses engraved on the wall next to the entrances. That t-tells you that if there are other people about, you need to m-make sure nobody notices you disappearing. It’s not random at all, there are patterns to it, and shortcuts, and secret passages, and alright, it takes a load of time to get used to them all, but there’s a map too, like Eliot said, that we’ll give you, that really helps. As for p-people seeing me, or me and Gran and Eliot, and the rest of the Magicals who come through… The Muggles know the family lives there, but even with the Muggle areas, not every part of the interior is open to the public. There are scheduled tours, and guides, and loads of security measures, and whenever anyone thinks about it, or us, too much, the diverto wards just n-nudge them toward … Not thinking about it. In terms of a distracting ‘ooh, isn’t that statue neat, I’d rather think about that’ sort of way.”
Harry tries to grasp the sheer amounts of magic - really, really complex and refined magic - that would go into maintaining conditions like Neville is describing. He can’t.
“I’d say that’s brilliant,” he says finally. “And it is, but mostly it just sounds complicated. I can’t believe they put you in charge of it all at eleven!”
“They didn’t, really. Not like you’re thinking,” his best friend explains. “Gran and Eliot are the ones who actually run everything, and as for the actual t-titles… The only other available direct descendant after Granddad died was my great uncle Algie, and he made it clear to Gran and Granddad straight up after Dad and Mum went into St. Mungo’s that he d-didn’t, and would never, want it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it involves interacting with people. Strangers, all the time, and he’s really, really bad at it. He’s like Zacharias Smith down in Hufflepuff; he’s not a bad person, exactly, but he’s got no social skills or instincts at all, and is really good at offending people besides. He practically never talks to anyone outside the family, and still manages to t-tick off every one of us, specially Gran, to the p-point where she threatens to disown him, or at least ban him from the property, at least once a month.”
“Is he mean to you?”
“Mean’s the wrong word. More…”
“Utterly and incomprehensibly insensitive?” Eliot suggests. “I wouldn’t say he means well, Mr. Evans-Potter; he’s got more than a bit of natural arse to be going on with that complements and enhances the specifics of his unfortunate social challenges, but he does care about the family in his own very special and perplexing way. And he’s most definitely not unintelligent. Quite the contrary; he proved himself quite invaluable to milord's grandfather over the decades in any type of matter that concerned the legal and administrative side of the family trust. One simply has to have the patience to work around his negative charisma in order to reap the benefits he offers otherwise.”
“And you're sure he doesn’t want your position?” Harry probes.
Neville scoffs at that. “No. He was absolutely t-terrified that I’d turn out Squib, because it would mean that he’d have to step up and deal with the M-Muggles again. Politely, all day every day, as one of them, and in his mind -in m-most of the Wizarding C-Commonwealth’s mind - there’s not enough money in the world to make up for that.” He smiles a bit wryly. “It’s a bit funny, really. Give it another s-six months, and you’ll know just how sorry everyone at Hogwarts really is for me.”
“Sorry for… Is that why nobody in the other Houses complains about things like your bath, and the house-elves, and brekkie brought up and all?”
“Pretty much,” he admits. “Even Draco Malfoy would be ‘poor sod, he might as well enjoy the p-perks here because he’s bound to go home and live in a shed with the animals for the rest of his life.’ He’d still try to b-bully me, but it wouldn’t be about that much, anyway. For most Magicals, being home is the holiday. For Longbottoms, school’s the only holiday you’ll ever get in your life.”
"So they like you because you do what they don’t have to.”
“They appreciate the fact that someone’s there to do the job,” the young earl corrects. “It’s not personal. Pretty p-purely self-interested, actually. I make living their lives the way they prefer possible.”
“Is that really a good idea?”
“It’s a b-balancing act. I’m not what they call a segregationist. That’s somebody who believes in the total separation of the two worlds. But I do think that desegregating on the wholesale level is a b-bad idea for now. It’d be way t-too scary for… Everybody. It’s best done on the individual level, or with small g-groups of people, to build community slowly. That’s what we - I - do. F-find out who’s ready to know, and who isn’t, and do the p-prep work, behind the scenes for the day when everything will blow. When somebody says ‘oh my God, did you know,’ and they say ‘well, yes, they’re nice really, let me introduce you, come to dinner, and you realise that everybody, really, b-by degrees, is already friends, and comes with personal recommendations of someone else you like and trust.”
“That’s really neat,” Harry says with honest admiration. “And smart. It’s a good job. No, I reckon it’s an absolutely brilliant job. Maybe not on the day-to-day details… But because it’s important. It means something."
Neville smiles at him a bit crookedly. “I think so,” he says. “Everything, really, when it c-comes right down to it. It has to b-be done right. Carefully. Over generations, and hundreds of years. All of t-time and history working towards it. Towards the moment when everything either comes together, or f-falls apart. There won’t be any m-middle ground then, see? There can’t be.”
“I spose not,” he agrees. “D’you reckon it’s like fighting a war?”
“No,” Neville says. “It’s….” He tilts his head back, petting Falkor. “I don’t reckon… It sounds stupid.”
“What?”
“It’s building,” he says. “Building joy. The happy ending. The happy-ever-after. Every moment of every day. That’s my job. And it’s not a job. It’s a privilege. A t-trust. Like Eliot says.”
“Is that why you drink builder’s?” It is meant to be a joke, but…
“Yes,” Neville says. "It’s a Longbottom thing. We’re all taught to drink it that way, deliberately, from the t-time we start, to actively remind us of who and what we are and where we’re going with it. As w-we work toward Getting The Thing Done.”
“That’s brilliant,” Harry says again. “You ever need any help with that, let me know.”
Neville doesn’t say anything more, but the quirk turns to a genuine full smile. He opens his mouth, but even as he does, Harry sits up suddenly as sudden realization hits him like the proverbial bolt of lightning.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says. “Rosehaven? Wasn’t there a big documentary made there on the BBC, summer before last?”
“Erhm. Yes? I wasn’t in it, it was about the history and the architecture and conservationism, and. Erhm. They had people in to host it, and… Really? You’ve watched that?”
“Yes, of course! Well, bits of it. Aunt Petunia’s got the tapes of it; she’s completely obsessed. She says that once Dudley’s done school and they have a bit more ready brass, she’s going to take out the greenhouse and build one modeled after your indoor conservatory.”
“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, Evans-Potter. We have three of those.”
“Erhm. The one with the domed roof and the orange trees.”
“And that b-brings it down to two. The medieval one or the modern one?”
“The modern one,” Harry decides. “If it were the medieval one, it was prolly built by monks, right? Aunt Petunia doesn’t hold with anything built by monks, and I’m pretty sure anything with that kind of design wouldn’t suit the space she’s got to be going on with anyway. Never mind the decor on Privet Drive.”
“And now I want to go home and remodel. D’you reckon Will and P-Professora Hernandez could recommend some n-nice Catholic architects, Eliot?”
Eliot sniggers.
*
It doesn’t take long at all to reach the outskirts of the pretty, cheerful little village of St. Rowan’s - a village that, while managing to host all the modern amenities and shops, still (like so many other hamlets and small towns across England) appears as if it’s a step out of time. As they drive through the central street, Harry is somewhat taken aback to see all the residents’ faces light up as they process the beautiful car, and, in particular, the occupants... Vigorous halloos abound, from the shoppers emerging from the tidy little Tesco, the teenaged skateboarder with the candy-coloured walkman and matching mohawk, and several white-haired men and women ducking out of their flowering cottages or the local pub to wave… Every dog within a ten mile radius seems to be apparating in to greet Falkor with raucous joy. He, of course, greets them back… It’s more of a laughing boom than a bark, deep and resonant enough to make the cobblestones shiver.
“La,” Harry admires. “Don’t I feel the bloody Queen!” Neville snorts.
“They’re r-really nice,” he says. “All of the people here, I mean. They’ve all known me s-since I was a baby, and through everything that came after.” He pushes his hair back, his eyes shadowing a bit again. “It’s not b-been a good decade for the Longbottoms. Not for Longbottom; nobody in our charge has suffered for any of it, but for us as a family. And it’s been a long time since they’ve seen this car out. It’s my favourite, but it was Granddad’s favourite too. He never drove any of the others, really. After he d-died… The collection went to me, not as the Heir or Earl, but to me personally, along with his private hunting grounds up north. I’ve ridden in loads of the others, but not this one. I was s-saving it, for when I was Earl too.”
“It’s beautiful,’" is all Harry can think of to say, and then, impulsively… “It really suits you. Or maybe you suit it. Or both. I mean…” He trails off. “What did my Granddad drive, d’you know?”
"A custom fishing boat,” Eliot says, as he swings onto a side road. “One of a small fleet of watercraft. He collected them like Lord Tychon collected cars. And a broom, of course.”
“He liked boats?” Harry says with delight. “Only… Really?”
“He did. None of his ancestors did, but Potter Keep is situated on the coast by the sea, and it was bound to have its effect eventually. I believe when he came in as a first year, he brought his own sailing dinghy. There was some fuss of course, but as he pointed out, there were no rules against them, for first years or otherwise. Only broomsticks.”
“Potter Keep?”
“It’s all in the book,” Neville advises. “Ooh, slow down, slow down! They have the new signs up!”
“New signs?”
“Yes. They had to redo all the ones all over the m-main property this summer. Some of them serve as legally enforceable warnings, and as such, they had to be m-made over with my name and signature and seal on them.” He nods. Eliot slows almost to a crawl in order to allow Harry to read the first.
AYUP, THEE!
GUESTS OF ROSEHAVEN ARE REMINDED THAT THEY ARE RESTRICTED, PER CROWN DIRECTIVE, TO PHOTOS AND RECORDINGS OF THE GROUNDS THEMSELVES. THOSE WHO INTRUDE WITHOUT FORMAL PRIOR ARRANGEMENT UPON THE PRIVACY OF THE EARL AND HIS IMMEDIATE FAMILY WILL BE ESCORTED FROM THE PROPERTY, AND PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW.
ALL OFFENDING RECORDING DEVICES, PER GENERAL STANDING WARRANT OF THE CROWN, WILL BE POLITELY, FIRMLY AND IMMEDIATELY CONFISCATED AS LEGAL EVIDENCE.
PLEASE INFORM/REMIND YOUR CHILDREN AND/OR FELLOW BOTANICAL ENTHUSIASTS THAT IT IS INCREDIBLY RUDE TO RAID OTHER PEOPLE’S GARDENS WITHOUT THEIR PERSONAL PERMISSION. LEGITIMATE SOUVENIRS OF YOUR VISIT (INCLUDING A WIDE VARIETY OF LOCALLY SOURCED FRUIT, VEG AND FLORALS) ARE AVAILABLE IN THE EAST AND SOUTH COURTYARD MARKETS, THE GOLD ROSE BAKERY, AND THE CHAPEL COVE GIFT-AND-GARDEN SHOP.
ENJOY YOUR VISIT, AND REMEMBER, I MAY BE AN OFFICIALLY TITLED TOFF, BUT HOLES IN MY FLOWER BEDS MAKE ME JUST AS SAD AS THEY WOULD YOU, WERE YOU TO FIND THEM IN YOURS. YES, WE HAVE THE MONEY TO REPLACE THEM. THAT IS NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS, IS THAT EVERYTHING THAT YOU SEE FROM THIS POINT ON IS PART OF AN INTERNATIONALLY PROTECTED WORLD HERITAGE SITE, AND WHILE WE ALSO HAVE THE LAWYERS TO SUE YOU, WE DON’T, AND WON’T, HAVE TO DO THAT EITHER, UNLESS YOU MAKE IT NECESSARY.
TA MUCHLY!
LONGRIDGE
NEVILLE F. LONGBOTTOM, THE RT. HON'BLE. THE EARL OF LONGRIDGE, VISCOUNT ST. ROWAN, LORD OF BOWLAND AND THE FELLS
“Bit aggressive, yeah?” Harry ventures, once he’s processed all that.
“Yes. Yes, it is. You d-do know that the drafts I wrote up were just that, right?” Nev says to his seneschal. “First drafts, as part of the p-purely hypothetical assignment that G-Gran gave me, before I left?”
“Were they?” Eliot picks up a bit of speed again. “The sticky notes informing me of the fact must have fallen off when she sent them over. Along with all the red ink and comments. I simply had them printed up the way they arrived. After I corrected the spelling, of course.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. The locals, especially, find them all very entertaining.”
“The Queen, you mean.”
“I believe she was on the committee that approved them, yes."
“G-Gran is the committee!”
“I like it,” Harry offers. ‘I’m sure I’ll like the rest, too. They’re very you. I can actually hear you saying all that, when I read it.” He considers his own words. “If I get a camera this week, can I have official permission to take pictures of all of them before we go back? And one of you, officially, standing next to this one? With me?”
“Why?”
“Aunt Petunia said not to send her letters. She didn’t say anything about anyone else. You can even add sticky notes explaining the connections, Eliot, as long as it’s not in my handwriting. And a bit of magic that stops her from showing or telling anybody else, maybe.”
“Naturally. What a wonderful idea,” Eliot approves. “I’d be delighted to assist.” He smiled again, in the rearview mirror. “And if it’s not too forward of me to say it… Your choice of attire does match your hair quite perfectly. I’m sure that Her Ladyship will appreciate your sense of the appropriate there.”
“Mm,” Neville agrees, leaning over to peer into the rearview mirror as he fishes for a comb. He settles his windblown hair neatly. Harry smooths his down with his hand, and gives it over as a bad job. It definitely needs a bit of a trim again, he thinks... Even as he sits back, he looks about a bit. The road they are traveling now runs through the edge of a forest rather than parallel to it, presenting now as a veritable overarching tunnel of trees… The impression, the deeper they go, is of swimming through, rather than down, a green and sun-ridden river that flows overhead and all around. His jaw drops in delight as ahead of them, a small, beautiful spotted deer bounds across the road, disappearing into the underbrush. He spots at least half a dozen rabbits, and more squirrels than he can count.
"This,” he says whole-heartedly. “Is completely wicked brill."
“Wait for it,” Neville grins, and suddenly commands, “No. Pull over a moment, Eliot, before we reach the last t-turn."
Eliot obliges amiably. Neville hops out of the car, beckoning to Harry. They make their way to the boot, retrieving their coats and helping each other into them, before straightening each others’ scarves. Eliot, turns, arm over the back of his seat, and inspects each of them carefully, before nodding approvingly. “Good,” he says. “Alright. Front seat, Falkor.”
Falkor leaps out, and back in, obligingly. The two boys follow… Neville shakes out his shoulders and sits up straight, taking a deep breath and lifting his chin as he accepts a small object from the man before him. Harry watches as he slides the beautiful sapphire and gold signet ring on the fourth finger of his right hand.
He looks around suddenly, snub nose wrinkling as Eliot turns the key.
“Is it just me, or…”
“Oh, it’s definitely you,” Eliot says dryly. His own clothing shimmers a bit, his red windbreaker changing to a lightweight wine-coloured blazer with the Longbottom crest on the breast. His jeans turn to crisp, pleated navy slacks, his trainers to dark shining dress shoes… His t-shirt transmutes to a beautiful ivory silk dress shirt, the open-throated collar trimmed in navy and cream and gold. There is suddenly a wide, rose-gold band on his own right hand. Even from where he is sitting, Harry can see the engraved rowan branches. “We’ve never had a literal hedge wizard heading up the line before, and as you were inducted a month before harvest time, it’s showing. We’re having to bring in extra seasonals from as far north as Cumbria to manage the extra crops.”
“Innat nice,” Neville says, pleased, and at the dour Look… “Erhm Sorry? Pay yourself double overtime; I’m sure you’ve been putting in loads of extra hours for your trouble.”
“Tell it to the Ministry. It’s one thing when crops don’t meet the projections, but they don’t like having to explain things."
“You’re saying that the coastal leylines are my fault? Blackpool, and Manchester, and the Manatees and all? That my magic is affecting things all the way out at sea?”
“That is,” his seneschal informs him. “Exactly what I’m saying. Not directly, but leylines and leypaths do connect to each other, Lord Longridge, and St. Rowan’s does sit squarely on top of our local node. Not quite close enough to affect all of England, but still. Your official induction - your magical induction, not the merely titular one - has, and is having, effects.”
“Cor blimey! Nobody’s been hurt with it, have they?”
“No, no. As organic and environmental overlords go, you’re being, and have been, quite benevolent with it. Things will calm down eventually, but in the meantime, we might want to work you up a meditative regimen to help things along...”
The two continue to talk, but Harry is no longer paying attention. The tunnel of trees is widening, the road straightening, and before him…
Before him…
“Alright then, Haz?” Neville asks him solicitously.
“A bit enormous?” Harry manages, turning to his seatmate in disbelief. “A bit enormous?”
Neville Longbottom looks simultaneously heartily embarrassed and bashfully proud.
“It gets the job done,” he says in modest tones.
“The job of… What?” Harry clutches his hair. “Making the bloody Queen feel like she’s living in an ugly one-bedroom flat? One thing’s certain, anyway; Aunt Petunia’s officially lost out on the prize for the nicest garden in England!”
Eliot guffaws, loudly. “Thirteen centuries, we have a bit of an advantage,” he agrees. Harry’s eyes just grow rounder and rounder… Neville sits back again, crossing one leg over the other and folding his small hands on his knee as they approach the gigantic, iron-wrought cathedral gates. Soaring up and up, they are easily, easily twice the size of those that lead to Hogwarts, never mind the apparently endless stone walls winding out from each framing stone pillar… Towers, really, Harry thinks, and indeed, there are windows and doors in each, and winding stairs about the circumference of both, carved straight from the original stone again. The land itself, an endless perfect sea that has to be comprised of every shade of green God had ever invented, seems to flow from within that wall, literally rising and growing out of it rather than hosting it as an architectural afterthought.
“As you were, Dagworth,” Neville Frank Longbottom, Longbottom of Longbottom, Earl of Longridge, Viscount St. Rowan and Lord of Bowland and the Fells, says. Every word is crisp and clipped and precise. “Let’s Get This Thing Done.”
And Eliot Dagworth pushes a rune on the dash, and the doors of the gates roll back, and they drive through.