Chapter Text
Longbottom Manor is, no matter its master’s protestations to the contrary, quite plainly and unmistakably a castle.
Buckingham Palace might be bigger, but insofar as the themed aesthetics go, Harry has always found it a bit disappointing - more of a really big office building with really old, fancy stonework. Hogwarts is more of an architectural classic, but while it and the visible, purely Muggle side of Neville’s home share the essential qualifiers (towers, turrets, bulwarks and parapets), they are vastly different in arrangement and style. Where Hogwarts stands, imperious as any good gothic, stalwart and brace-backed fortress of old, Rosehaven seems to rise up, spreading white and soft dove grey stone wings from, and over, its fully organic and natural heart.
Harry doesn’t get the full impact of the view straight up. The huge gates don’t lead directly to the Manor, but rather to a trio of manned checkpoints just beyond them. The second and third checkpoints are labeled ‘Security’ and ‘Payment and Vehicle Registration’’, and lead, in turn, to a paved turning circle that branches off in three different directions.
The first checkpoint seems there primarily to ensure that all visitors get sucked into reading the series of brightly illustrated signs posted along the route.
AYUP AGAIN!
GENERAL ADMISSION
£5
SENIORS (60+) AND CHILDREN 3-10
£2.5
SERVICEMEN AND WOMEN (ENLISTED OR RETIRED)
NO CHARGE, AND ALL OF OUR GRATITUDE. SHOW YOUR DOG TAGS/ID AT THE GOLD ROSE BAKERY FOR A COMPLIMENTARY CUPPA AND PASTRY OF YOUR CHOICE.
PARKING
PRIVATE VEHICLES
£5
TOUR BUSES
£50
SCHOOL BUSES
50p/passenger
EXACT CHANGE (AND BRITISH CURRENCY) ONLY
ALL RESIDUALS ARE PUT TOWARD THE CARE AND UPKEEP OF OUR PARKING LOTS, PATHS AND ROADS. DO YOUR PART TO KEEP THEM TIDY, AND WE WON’T HAVE TO RAISE OUR FEES!*
*‘DOING YOUR PART’ DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU SHOULD HELP FERTILIZE OUR PLANT LIFE. WE HAVE A STATE-OF-THE-ART SPRINKLING/IRRIGATION/FERTILIZATION SYSTEM FOR THAT, AND THERE ARE PLENTY OF PERSONAL COMPOST CUBBIES ABOUT WITHOUT THE OTHER.
YES. I, TOO, WISH THAT I WERE TAKING THE PISS JOKING.
SADLY, I AM NOT, IF ONLY BECAUSE MY GRAN-THE-DOWAGER-COUNTESS, ALONG WITH MY GODMOTHER-HER-ROYAL-MAJESTY-THE-QUEEN, TAUGHT ME TIME AND PLACE. I’M SURE YOU’VE HEARD IT ALL BEFORE; EVEN THEY ADMIT THAT IT’S A BIT OF A THING WITH THEM, SO…
LET’S MAKE THEM PROUD!
DO
- DISPLAY YOUR TICKET ON THE INNER FRONT WINDOW OF YOUR VEHICLE (THE WORDS FACE OUTWARDS!)
DON’T
- FORGET TO LOCK UP
- LEAVE YOUR LIGHTS ON
- LEAVE YOUR KEYS IN YOUR IGNITION OR IN YOUR DOORS
- LITTER. THAT’S WHAT THE NICE WHEELIE BINS ARE FOR. PLEASE FINISH YOUR DRINKS BEFORE BINNING/RECYCLING YOUR CUPS, CANS, AND BOTTLES. WE PAY OUR STAFF WELL, BUT NOBODY WANTS OR NEEDS TO DEAL WITH THAT.
PETS (SAVE FOR REGISTERED SERVICE CANINES) ARE NOT ALLOWED ON OUR GROUNDS. IF YOU LEAVE YOUR CIVILIAN CANINE IN YOUR CAR WITH THE WINDOWS CLOSED, HE OR SHE WILL NOT BE THERE WHEN YOU RETURN. YOUR VEHICLE WILL BE, BUT WE MAKE NO GUARANTEE OF THE CONDITION IN WHICH YOU WILL FIND IT. WHY YES, THIS DOES CONSTITUTE YOUR FAIR AND LEGAL WARNING.
IF YOU BRING YOUR UNWANTED PETS HERE AND ABANDON THEM BECAUSE WE’RE A WILDLIFE CONSERVATION SITE, WE WILL TRACK YOU DOWN. WE WON’T RETURN THE ANIMALS TO YOU (WE’LL FIND THEM NICE HOMES THAT WILL RAISE THEM WITH BETTER MANNERS THAN YOU HAVE), BUT YOU WILL BE CHARGED FOR THE INCONVENIENCE. ON EVERY POSSIBLE LEVEL.
THIS IS NOT A THREAT. IT IS A STATEMENT/NOTICE OF LEGAL FACT, AND AS OUR SEARCH AND LOCATION TEAM HAS, THUS FAR, A PERFECT RECORD DATING BACK TO THE DAY WE OPENED TO THE PUBLIC, IT’S TRULY BEST NOT TO TEST THAT.
OR US.
YOU STILL DON’T HAVE MY PERSONAL PERMISSION TO PICK MY FLOWERS. JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING.
CHEERS,
LONGRIDGE
NEVILLE F. LONGBOTTOM, THE RT. HON'BLE. THE EARL OF LONGRIDGE, VISCOUNT ST. ROWAN, LORD OF BOWLAND AND THE FELLS
(DOG-LOVING DEFENDER OF HIS DOMAIN)
“Personal Compost Cubbies? Dog-Loving Defender of His Domain?” Harry repeats as he reads the last.
“It was,” Neville says, exasperated. “A first draft! Really, Eliot?”
“Her Majesty quite liked that bit, I’m told,” Eliot tells him. “With the dogs, I mean. Keep an eye out, Mr. Evans-Potter. It only gets better.”
“Oh for…” Neville slumps, but only for a moment. They have reached the turning circle.
*
The left and right roads are marked PARKING A and PARKING B, but they take, instead, the secured central road - a private avenue, or rather, Avenue, demarcated with long, stately rows of riotously coloured and precisely groomed English oak, cypress and red maple trees. Perhaps a quarter mile on is a second, smaller wrought-iron gate featuring the sculpted design of a rowan tree… Even from the car, Harry can somehow sense the magic of the wards there. It prods at him a bit, offering him the distinct and extremely bizarre impression of a raised, not-quite-skeptical eyebrow before conceding his passage. He glances back at it as they drive through. His face must reflect his confusion because Eliot lifts his own brow at him in the rearview mirror.
“Mm?” he inquires.
“Bit weird is all,” Harry says, and… “Erhm. Is it alive? That gate, I mean? Because it felt like it just gave me a really funny look.”
Eliot laughs. “No,” he reassures him. “Well, not like you mean. You just read, as a Cornish Potter, as a bit off to the wards here.”
“Sorry?"
“Humans have one kind of magical signature,” he explains. “Distinct from those that define Magical creatures and beasts and goblins and house-elves. You’re definitely human, but the wards are responding as if the calling card you’ve just handed off is written in a different script, in a different dialect, on paper born of water rather than wood. They’re quite familiar with your differentials; you’re in their reference banks, but what you sensed just now was likely the local leyline sending out a message to the rest of England, thanks to milord’s temporary amplifying boost - something along the lines of ‘Oh dear. Haven’t seen one of you about in awhile; here we go again. Heads up, lads; the next generation of the Them has arrived.’”
“The Them?”
And Eliot’s wand flicks. This time, though it’s not a biscuit that levitates over his shoulder, but his paperback book. Harry ruffles a few pages, and examines the front and the back covers.
“‘Good Omens’” he reads. “‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch.’”
“All associative explanations included,” the man confirms. “Enjoy.”
“Oh,” Harry says, as Neville grins at him. “Alright, then, I… Wait, this book stars the Anti-Christ? Like… The devil? People don’t think we’re that bad, do they?”
“No, no, but… Tell me something, Mr. Evans-Potter. Have you ever heard the expression - some say the curse - ‘May you live in interesting times?’”
“... I have now?”
“That’s what it says on your calling card,” he is informed. “No name, no other message… And as you’re the new, and soon-to-be-confirmed Head of the Potter line, i.e. the Them… None needed.”
“But we’re your friends!” he protests. “Your best friends! Allies and Allied, even!”
“And we Longbottoms find that very reassuring,” Eliot reassures him. “We do not, of course, speak for anyone else, considering that our family motto, ‘Absolutum Effectum’ - 'Absolute Accomplishment' - translates to Wizarding as ‘We Get The Thing Done’, and our own Head’s grandmother’s motto is ‘With All Due Efficiency’.”
“Oh. Well… What about Nev’s mum’s family?”
“The MacMillans? ‘Misere succurrere disco.’ ‘We learn to help those in need’. Translated in Alice MacMillan to ‘We’ve learned to help those in need - by whomping on their enemies.’”
“It’s not actually our motto, is it?” Harry says after a moment. “‘May you live in interesting times’ I mean?”
“No, no,” the seneschal reassures him. “That’s just your primary side-effect. Your motto is ‘We Stand.’”
“We Stand,” he repeats. “Stand, and… What?”
“Point and laugh, mostly. I’ve noted that there’s typically a fair bit of snark and heckling with it.”
“Will it make a difference that I’m an Evans-Potter?”
Neville snorts. “Not bloody likely. D’ you know what the Evans motto is?”
“No?”
“‘Pro Libertate Patriœ. ’ ‘For the Liberty of My Country’,” he translates. “Combined with Potter, that’d be ‘I Stand For the Liberty of My Country.’ Historical c-context considered, and since you are the Head of the Potter line, ‘country’ n-now refers to Cornwall again, not England. In Cornwall’s mind - and everyone else’s- your s-statement of individuality is just reinforcing her preferred theme.”
“Cornwall has a mind?”
“Hold that thought,” Eliot advises. “We’re coming up on it.”
“But…”
And then the full view is revealed, and the Boy Who Lived can do nothing but suck in his breath in awe, so hard and deeply that he very nearly gives himself the hiccups with it.
*
Harry can’t actually tell (once he’s recovered from his first glance of that full view) whether they’re facing the front or back doors of the castle. The welcome signs are all there, but from the particular angle, and the angles of the Manor itself, there are no signs of any markets, shops or of the public facilities that Neville had mentioned. There are a pair of arched throughways to the left and right of twin towers that guard the main entrance, but even if they did lead to more courtyards and the buildings and businesses beyond, Harry is too distracted by the contents of the courtyard surrounding to wonder.
Before them, the vast high doors back a curving, grand and graceful swoop of wide and gold-veined marble steps. The steps are framed in turn by ivied-and flowering rails, and a pair of flat stone accessibility ramps that lead down to an enormous round courtyard. The courtyard is a absolute masterpiece of multi-element landscaping -
And its outer perimeter is absolutely packed with people standing four, five, and six deep, all in one version or another of Longbottom’s colours.
Neville’s chin is up again, his shoulders straight as Eliot Dagworth swings the car about, parking parallel to the doors before sliding out and opening the door for him. He offers him a deep, formal bow as he steps down... Then the seneschal nods to one of the smaller footmen (she has to be a footman, Harry thinks; her gender aside, there is no possible way that she could be anything else) to come and open Harry’s door, and to bring him forward.
Harry, saucered-eyed, slides out, shaking out his coat automatically. The footman (footperson?) doesn’t smile with her mouth, but her own eyes are crinkled and encouraging, and as she returns to her position, her hand barely brushes Harry’s right elbow. Harry gets the hint, stopping a few steps back from the other boy as he waits for further instructions… As he glances about, he spots a few photographers, their cameras bearing the logos of their various sponsors. None of them, he notes, are shouting questions, or shoving forward, or exhibiting any of the noxious habits that the British paparazzi are famed for… Harry immediately understands that they are there for exactly one reason and one reason only; as Rosehaven is a world heritage site and such a popular tourist destination, and its lord, The Rt. Hon’ble Neville Longbottom (Longridge), the Queen’s beloved godson, it would have appeared odd to the unwitting Muggle staff if they weren’t.
Nev just stands, feet braced wide and firmly and hands in his pockets, Falkor leaping out lightly to stand proudly at his side as he offers up that small crooked smile to the gathered, cheering staff… Harry’s vision seemed to blur, just for a second. The other boy’s long, late-afternoon shadow seems suddenly huge and somehow bright, comprised, not just of his own current small and half-sized effort, but of a blended line of similarly themed figures, stretching back across not just space, but time itself.
“Ayup, thee!” Neville Frank Longbottom, Longbottom of Longbottom, Earl of Longridge, Viscount St. Rowan and Lord of Bowland and the Fells, calls clearly. “Ahreetcha?”
“AYUP, LOOOOOOOOONGBOTTOM!” It is a prompt and enthusiastic, if eminently proper, roar. Eliot’s face wears as big and fierce a grin as Harry had ever seen on anyone.
And then the great doors open and Augusta Longbottom descends. Clad in dark hose, heels, a prim green blouse, pearls, and a trim tweed skirt suit, her surprisingly dark-and-glossy hair upswept and pinned as a coiled (distinctly serpentine) crown, she sweeps forward, with as much regal magnificence as her-best-friend-the-Queen ever had. Instead of standing back and surveying her grandson with those sharp, beady eyes of hers, though, she sweeps forward again -
And drops to her knees right there on the flagstones, gathering him in her arms and burying her face in his neat blond hair as if she’ll never let him go.
*
Silence falls, instantly and completely. Neville just stands there, arms loose by his sides and utterly shocked. Harry glances around… Everyone, Eliot included, seems as paralyzed as the young Earl himself. Twenty (long, long) seconds later, the smaller boy makes an executive decision. He takes two quick steps forward and kicks his friend’s shin from behind. Hard, once, before stepping back again… Neville yelps, quietly, then twines himself about his grandmother, burying his own face in her hair. She rubs his back gently with both hands as he struggles not to sniffle too obviously. The recovering gathered staff looks both astonished and abjectly sentimental.
“There now,” the Dowager Countess says finally. She rises and straightens his collar, dabbing at her eyes and her grandson’s cheeks with an immaculate linen hanky before smoothing his navy-clad shoulders. “Let’s get you settled, shall we?” She turns to Harry, giving him the sharp-eyed up-and-down that Neville had escaped. He stands just as tall as he can, devoutly thankful, just at that moment, that he had had the brains to delay their departure for the sake of his wash and change of clothes. “Mr. Evans-Potter. Welcome to Rosehaven.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He actually manages it without squeaking. “And thank you for the invitation.”
She doesn't bother with a response; she simply nods, and, taking his arm firmly, brings him forward as she turns to address the staff. “Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you all to Mr. Haz Evans-Potter of Mousehole, Cornwall. My son’s wife was Mr. Evans-Potter’s godmother, as his own mother was the Earl’s. Given that, he should have come, by virtue of their legally witnessed and binding arrangement” - that last is most unsubtly emphasized - “to live here with us at Rosehaven at least half the time, after his own parents perished. You have, of course, your very adequate guardian now,” she says, turning back to Harry. “But you should, at the very least, have grown up thinking of me as an equivalent grandparent. Now that we are all becoming properly acquainted - and your guardian has reassured me that regular visits will be part of that new acquaintance - I think that we shall simply adopt what should have been as our new status quo. You may,” she announced regally again, not just to him, but to all persons present - “call me Gran.”
Harry blinks at her. Neville mirrors him. They look at each other, the identical message telegraphing between them.
Legally witnessed and binding arrangement???
“Erhm,” Harry says, shoving all of his questions hastily aside, at least for the moment.. He pokes a bit at his own feelings, and decides that he is rather pleased at the idea, if equally intimidated. He can’t help but wonder if Professor Flitwick had actually discussed the matter of the visits with the woman before him, mind, or if she’d simply informed him on How Things Would Be. “Yes ma’a… Erhm. Is that alright with you, Nev?”
“Of course it is.” Neville steps up and takes his hand firmly, even as his grandmother withdraws graciously. “Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying. He’s in with me, Gran, right?”
“Bernard has prepared the Terrace Room in your private suite, yes. You will, of course, have permanent quarters of your own, Mr. Evans-Potter, and Neville will show you your alternatives in due time, but for now, and as I have been notified that the two of you have become quite inseparable, you will simply have to dodge all of the stray foliage.”
“I don’t mind at all,” Harry reassures her. “I like plants. Specially when it’s someone else’s job to take care of them, and Nev won’t let anyone else touch the ones he’s got at school who’s not got an advanced degree in botany, the Royal Decree, written permission, and his personal supervision anyway, so that’s alright.”
“They’re my babies!” Neville protests in self-defence, as he had at the garden cafe where they’d first met. “You wouldn’t let someone who’s not properly trained and qualified and appropriately m-m-motivated care for your babies, would you? Things happen when you do that!”
“Mm,” the smaller boy concedes. “Only I hope you’re not bound to project there, because if you are, I reckon I feel bad for your future wife, anyway, given how many proxies you’ve got to be going on with.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Augusta Longbottom agrees, as the hordes choke properly on their giggles. “I do look forward to your eventual efforts, Neville, but there are yet, as I’ve told you repeatedly, limits.”
“I might be only eleven, Gran, but I do know the difference b-between plant babies and human b-babies. Even if my plants, at least, are people. Four will be fine.”
“Four…”
“Children. Two boys and two girls. Three of each would be even nicer, b-but that’s up to their mother. Four’s my minimum though.”
“Got it all planned out already?’ Harry asks, amused. He’s not entirely sure whether the other boy is joking, but he knows him well enough by now to be able to detect that he’s playing it up for the crowd and the cameras.
“These things are important,” he is informed with dignity. “I would have liked brothers and s-sisters to b-be going on with. Wouldn’t you?”
“Depends on the brothers and sisters. I have one cousin, and believe you me, he was - is - more than enough.”
“Raising them properly does count for something,” Neville concedes. “Not everything, b-but something.” The giggles are not quite as controlled now.
“If nothing else, we can always consult Anthony,” his friend agrees. “I’m sure he’d be very helpful. Along with Susan, and Padma, and…” He considers “We’ve got a great load of really excellent potential aunts and uncles there, actually. D’you reckon we’ll stay friends with them all?”
“We will if we all decide to,” Neville says firmly. “And we will. You’ll see, cock.”
“I... What did you just call me?”
“Uh? Oh. Cock. Old Lancashire dialect for ‘mate’,” he says. “Friend?” There is definitely a smirk there now... It complements the self-amusing gleam nicely. Someone is definitely taking the piss. Gran twists his ear, but lightly.
“And that,” she says firmly. “Will be quite enough of that. You may be genetically bound to channel your grandfather now and again, but you will leave the vulgarity out of it.”
“Yes, Gran,” Neville says meekly, or rather, dulcetly. “I’m sorry.”
“And?” she prompts.
“I’m sorry, Haz.”
“Not a problem,” Harry returns, and just as clearly and amiably, his own hands in his pockets now - “Prick.’ The cameras swivel avidly. Neville physically turns and stares, astonished. “Modern Cornish Chav,” he clarifies. “For cock?”
“Cheeky!” Augusta says, exasperated, hands on her hips. “Really, Mr. Evans-Potter? We have been through this!”
“It’s lovely to see you again,’ he offers politely. “Ma’am. You have a beautiful home. Oh, and I really like your hair like that.” The footperson turns hastily, stuffing her fist in her mouth as she pretends to cover a cough. Eliot’s face is eminently, perfectly, bland.
“Yours needs a trim,” Augusta returns without a blink. “When was the last time you had it done?”
“Beginning of August, ma’am.”
“Quite past schedule, then.”
“I don’t actually have a schedule there,” he offers, and remembering a quote from Mr. Ollivander on the subject of his grandfather - “I just cut it when it starts progressing to the point of active sentience."
“My schedule,” she informs him kindly. “Do feel free to adopt it as your own? No longer than once every six weeks, now. Your paternal relatives considered, monthly might be better. You may enlist the services of Neville’s in-house valet for the cause while at school.”
“Val…”
“Oh, Gran,” Neville chimes in, dismayed. “No! B-Bad enough with all the security, but if you s-start in with all that, I’ll never ever hear the end of it from my blokes!”
“It’s true,” Harry tattles primly (and loudly). “He won’t. He already gets ragged on for his way with a tea service. Never mind the teddy bears on his pyjamas, and the hedge hog slippers.’
Neville shoots him an absolutely filthy look. He grins back at him, openly. Fang ily, he hopes; he’s been practicing his ratchet-toothed smile in the mirror, but it’s hard to do without the other boys pointing and laughing.
“They were a gift,” Neville tells him between his own clenched teeth. “From the Queen."
“Mm. Not really a good defensive argument there, cock. For the record.” Harry considers. “Could be worse, I suppose. They could have pretty gold roses all over them. And the slippers could be corgis."
“Shut up, Evans-P-Potter!”
“Yes, milord,” he says obediently. The filthy look turns positively septic. Harry smirks at him. Augusta twists both of their ears as she drags them firmly through the great front doors of Longbottom Manor. The undignified guffaws and gales of mirth are properly restrained till after they are out of sight.
“You two!” she says, exasperated, releasing them only once the doors have closed. “What Her Majesty will say when she sees the papers tomorrow, I do not know!”
“She’ll probably have a right laugh with it,” Neville observes, straightening and rubbing his ear gingerly. “Knowing her. From what I’ve been reading in the p-papers, she could use one.”
Augusta sniffs, then actually sighs at that.
“There is that,” she admits, surprisingly.
“We were just playing it up for the cameras, Gran,” Nev reassures her. “Haz is my best friend forever now, which means, n-never mind the family bonds, the connection will be noted in public. Having fun with the t-traditional English-Cornish rivalry c-could be good press there, in both the short and long-term.”
“English-Cornish rivalry?” Harry queries. “Sorry. My primary didn’t really go into that kind of history, and I’m only on Chapter Four of my granddad’s book.”
“Ah. Professor Flitwick will be coming by in the next day or two to explain all matters concerning there. In the meantime… Your ancestral instincts carry over admirably.”
“I meant it when I said I like your hair,” Harry offers. “I’ll bet Lady Sarsaparilla would like it too.”
“Lady…’
“Slytherin’s basilisk. Professora Hernandez introduced us this morning. She sort of reminded me of you.’
There is a pause. Neville’s expression is absolutely priceless.
“I shall take that as a compliment,” his hostess says finally. “And we will leave it at that.’
“It was a compliment!” he protests. “She’s wicked brill. She’s so wicked brill her name should be wicked brill! I reckon she would really like you too; you should ask Professora Hernandez if she’ll introduce you before she goes back. That’d give you something to tell the Queen about when you have tea with her, yeah? If she needs a distraction?” He considers his own words. “I’d pay good brass to see the two of them meet. The Queen and Lady Sarsaparilla, I mean. That would be something. Best if she leaves the corgis at home, though. Maybe Prince Philip, too. And definitely all of her children, from what I’ve read. The boys, anyway. Maybe not Princess Anne. She seems the type that’d think it a proper lark.” He cocks his head, curious. “How many of them know about magic?”
“Good God,” Gran says, but in spite of herself... “Her Majesty and Prince Philip, and Princess Anne. Anne would not be on the need-to-know list, save for that one of her preferred childhood companions is a Muggleborn, and first demonstrated in front of her. One does not Obliviate certain of the Royals. Their minds do not take to it well.”
“So Prince Charles doesn’t know?”
“No,” Neville says. “He’s nice, really nice, b-but not really….”
He pauses.
“He hasn’t proven himself to have the best judgement in certain arenas," Gran tells Harry briskly. "He's intelligent, certainly, but with an occasional tendency toward impulsiveness, and on taking the lead without due notice or protocol when his heart, rather than his head, is involved. Not typically, but when he does, he's quite immovably stubborn with his desires of the moment, to the point where he disregards the long-term consequences."
“He would tell his girlfriend,” Neville translates. "He’s not allowed to decide who he can tell and can’t. That’s our job. As liaisons, to advise, technically, but it’s actually telling. If we think they can’t understand that, and accept it, and cede to our judgement, they don’t get to know. He might improve, but… It’s like the fiendfyre. It gets out of control. And it’s hard to cover up, really hard, on that level. Princess Anne, though… She’s all practicality and c-common sense.”
“But won’t he have to know when he’s King?”
“No. As long as there’s one high ranking senior Royal who knows, that’s wh-what matters. K-King George - the Queen’s father - knew. The Queen Mum doesn’t. His brother, D-David - the one who abdicated - never had a clue, and never would have, even if he’d been King his whole life. That would have been a shit-show.” He shudders. “The Queen’s known since she was s-seventeen. Granddad and Gran went to visit her, when he was made Earl, and they told her together. They didn’t intend to tell Prince Philip, or were still thinking about it, but they came to Rosehaven to v-visit, after the war, and he went for a walk after they got here early, and caught Granddad in the woods as a bear. There are no bears in England, much less Kodiak bears, so he had some fast talking to d-do, let me tell you.”
“What did he say?”
“He promised his soul and his firstborn if only we would arrange for him to ride a dragon,” Gran says dryly. “We settled on a vow of eternal secrecy and a hippogryph. An excellent decision in the long run, on our part. Algie is enough of a cross to bear on his own, without all of the cultivated martyred melodrama.’
“Wow.” Harry shakes his head, once he’s done sniggering. “Are there dragons you can ride?”
“Not if you’re the Queen. Which means, not if you’re the Prince Consort. She’s not usually that p-petty, but she said that if she’s not allowed to, he’s not allowed to. On conjugal p-principle, not as a matter of royal safety and protocol. He spent years trying to wheedle Granddad into sneaking him one, or to one, b-but Granddad j-just said he might be a bear, but that didn’t mean his head was stuffed with fluff, and if Gran ever found out, and she would, he’d never be riding anything again.”
“Brooms?” his friend offers.
“He was never b-big on brooms. I m-mean, he played Quidditch at Hogwarts, but after he graduated, he p-pretty much gave it up. Between the Lynx and his other favourite car, the Jaguar XK120 that he bought himself for his twenty-third birthday, he didn’t see the point.”
“Mm,” Gran agrees. “Why don’t you two go on from here, and settle in. I have a few calls to make; I’ll want to let the core specialist know you’ve arrived, Neville, so she can floo over tonight and review your cases. How are you feeling after the flight in, Mr. Evans-Potter?”
“I’m fine,” Harry reassures her. “I was a bit sickish for a couple of minutes after the jump, but I’m fine now.”
“Very good. We’ll get you checked out in any instance. I take it that the rerouting to Clitheroe means that you boys haven’t had your tea yet?”
“N-no, Gran.” Neville perks hopefully. “Curry?”
“Not with Mr. Evans-Potter’s nausea. However pacified, I think it best that we wait on that.” She catches his disappointed look, and sighs magnanimously. “You may order a pizza, just this once. Do try for at least one vegetable with it, aside from the tomato sauce?”
And she sweeps off regally once more. Neville watches her go.
“That was weird,” he observes. “D-do you think that was weird, Haz?”
“I dunno,” Harry says. “What’s normal?”
“She hugged me. Properly, in front of everyone. In front of the c-cameras. And she was joking with us. With everyone. And t-told us to order pizza. She hasn’t hugged me like that since b-before Granddad died. Or joked, and she’s never let me order pizza before. She thinks it’s horrid for your health, and whenever I’ve h-had it, it’s because Eliot and I have sneaked it.’ He pets Falkor’s ear absently, and abruptly focuses as he looks down. “What… What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be in the Big House! If Gran sees you…’
He stops, uncertain. Really, Harry reflects, for somebody so smart, the other boy can be awfully dumb.
“You almost died, Longbottom,” he says bluntly. “If she’d had her way, if everybody had had their way, we’d have been Sorted to Gryffindor, and both of us might be dead. Also, she knows by now about the leech plants, that’s what the healer’s about, right? She’s prolly been worrying her head off, and thinking that it’s a good thing things changed up there, no matter what she thought she wanted for you, because it means you’re here. Here for her to hug, and joke with, and next to that, what’s a bit of pizza or letting the dog inside?”
Neville opens his mouth, then shuts it.
“Pretty sure that the pizza at least, is a one-off,” he concedes. ‘She’ll be back to s-salad and p-plain roasted potatoes and wheat toast without butter tomorrow, I’ll bet.”
“Maybe not?” Harry says hopefully. “You have gone a bit skinny. And I’m just stuck that way.”
“It’s not about being skinny. It’s habit, f-from when she grew up. During the Depression, and the Second World War, and the early Fifties, during the rationing. They d-didn’t have white bread then, and you didn’t use b-butter on toast, you used margarine, or just a bit of jam, and never b-both because it was greedy and unpatriotic. And you were supposed to eat a salad a day, and as the C-Countess of a Muggle Earldom, this one in particular, she had to set the example, like the Queen did. She’s the s-same way, the Queen I mean. In certain ways. She eats a load of the same things she did back then, and never has more than the allotted water in the tub - though Gran got over that one, at least, the second the Armistice was signed, and has never used a tea-bag twice since - and fish and chips are alright because they were never rationed, but take-away pizza is just self-indulgent. Even the home-made kind would have been iffy because it uses up s-so much of your rationed cheese and meat.”
“And the dog?”
“Great Pyrenees dogs shed like anything,” his host explains. “And drool buckets. Falkor’s got charms on his collar so he d-doesn’t do either, but if he was inside all the time, the Muggles would notice he doesn’t, and think it f-funny. Also, he’d try to herd them." He looks down as the individual in question bumps his hip pointedly. “Like that. Alright, alright. We’re going. This way.” He nods - and for the first time, as they begin to walk, Harry takes proper note of their surroundings.
“Bugger me,” he says inelegantly. “Bugger me, Longbottom!”
“Just keep walking,” Neville pleads. “Please? I’ll g-give you the tour later, but I really am awfully hungry, and if you stop to notice everything there is to notice now, it’ll be midnight b-by the time we get there.”
“Right, right.” And he walks obediently, trying his best not to notice (or at least not to stop with it), but only succeeding, in the end, in giving himself the hiccups with it again.