The Red Handbag (Augusta gen)
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: The Red Handbag
Characters: Augusta Longbottom
Rating: G
Summary: It’s a faithful old warhorse of a bag.
A/N: Does anyone know of a comm that focuses on the female characters of HP? I know I saw one once but can’t find it now. Or genfic in general?
“Oh, Minnie, look!” you exclaim, as your eyes fall on the most gorgeous gown ever to be designed by human hands.
“What is it, Gussie?” Your friend’s slightly impatient voice floats to you through the crowd of Muggles on the sidewalk.
You refuse to budge or elaborate, just on principle, until Minerva sighs and leaves the bus stop. When your friend joins you in front of the window, you point to a dress on a mannequin inside the store. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Minerva pauses a moment to check her lipstick in her reflection before focusing through the glass at the dress in question. “The blue one? I think it’s a bit daring for you, dearest, but if you must…”
“I must,” you volley back firmly. “It would be perfect for the Yule Ball.”
“Mmm. Perfect for catching Francis Longbottom, you mean.”
“Minnie! Really,” you chide, trying to sound scandalized though you are really laughing inside because she’s got you pegged. You head for the shop door with purpose in your step. “If there’s to be any chasing, it will be done by Francis. He is a Seeker, after all.”
You hear Min snicker as she follows you inside. “Perhaps you should wear a dress of gold instead,” she says.
~ :: ~
You shake yourself out of the old memory as you herd Neville past a row of shop windows. The mannequins in their pretty frocks don’t concern you now. You haven’t thought fashion worth bothering about since the days when you could still run to catch a train, when you could stand around at a soiree half the night in heels, when your idea of getting ready to go out consisted of fitting a tin of lip powder into a little beaded clutch.
These days you value practicality over style, your shoes are sensible and flat, and you carry an enormous red handbag. It’s not the most attractive of accessories, but it’s been your constant companion for eight years. It’s magically expansive so it holds a great deal with little weight, a feature you appreciate. Between your old age and Neville’s youth, the two of you require rather a lot of accoutrements.
At the moment it contains many items indeed. Candy… plasters… coins in a faded silk purse with Chinese embroidery… Muggle money (not that you ever get out to Muggle shops any more but one never knew)... your wand… remedies of one kind or another... a packet of crumbly biscuits... miniature quill and inkbottle attached to a cracking notepad… paper menus from local eateries... the keys to the front door, the back door, the gate to a summer cottage you haven’t rented in twenty years, the wine cellar, and your vault at Gringott’s ... hair brush… lipstick… Francis’ pocket watch… a tiny bottle of dried-up geranium perfume you refuse to part with… a brown-edged calling card from 1937 with your mother’s maiden name that you’ve kept tucked in whatever purse you’ve carried since you were a little girl … an enameled Sneakoscope... the book you are currently reading... a spare pair of gloves because a lady is always prepared… and an emergency whistle to summon the nearest Auror, just in case.
It’s a faithful old warhorse of a bag, you think fondly. You carry it in front of you like a shield as you navigate the crowds, like a cowcatcher on the front of a train.
The handbag, you remember well, had been a Christmas gift from Minerva circa 1965. Upon opening the box, your first reaction was that it was the most hideous thing you’d ever seen. Well, the second most hideous. First prize belonged to that hat with the vulture on it that Francis gave you as a joke the only time you’d seriously quarreled. (You’d been on the brink of calling off the engagement, honestly, but the stupid hat had made you laugh and that had led to forgiveness.) The handbag had joined the hat in deep (deep) storage, and you forgot about both of them for decades.
Then one day Francis died, and you found yourself in the attic going through torn boxes and stained steamer trunks. You found the handbag, stiffening in layers of crumbling tissue with the Christmas tag still attached. You figured it was just the right size to tote things around in. Then you went to see what was inside the enormous hatbox, and laughed until you cried when you found the vulture hat. The preserving spells hadn’t entirely held, it was tatty and shedding and would probably frighten small children in the streets, but that only made it all the more appropriate somehow. So the hat and the bag became the only things that gave you the strength to go out in public again. You figured that you were now officially old enough to do whatever you wanted, and no one could say a thing about it.
Now you’re approaching Platform 9 3/4, with your eleven-year-old grandson beside you, and you clutch the handle of this red bag like it’s some kind of lifeline. This is the moment you’ve been both dreading would come, and dreading would never come.
You’re worried for Neville. He’s shy, and he stutters when he’s nervous, and trying to get him to remember anything is about as effective as putting sand in a colander. You’re afraid he might have one of those terrible nightmares the very first week, and you pray that at least one of his dorm mates will have some modicum of understanding about it and not taunt him.
You pray too that the staff at Hogwarts will be able to impress enough skills on him that he will be able to protect himself after you’re gone. Everyone needs that these days, but no one so much as Neville. You’ve always had a secret fear that the lunatics who hurt Frank and Alice will try to come back and finish the job. You know that they are more insane than Frank or Alice could ever be, and you never forget that they are still out there somewhere. Aurors used to come round and check on the house from time to time right after it happened, but no one has been by for years. This has made you bitter, self-reliant, and suspicious, and even in broad daylight you watch the crowds as you shepherd your grandson along. You are always harping on the lad to pay attention to his surroundings, but it seems the more you do, the more he daydreams.
Your own attention is diverted when Neville informs you that his toad is missing… again… and you sigh before you can help yourself. There’s nothing to be done about it now. You’re sure the toad will be able to fend for himself… you’ve never met such a cagey amphibian in your entire life… but the thought that Neville is already distressed and hasn’t even made it onto the train yet is concerning you deeply.
Minerva had better look after him, you think fiercely, or she will answer to you personally. You are already composing a sternly worded letter in your head as you get the last hope of your family bundled onto the Hogwarts Express. You are going to get this boy educated properly, raised safely, and married well if it is the last thing you ever do.
The train pulls off. You stand at a distance from the young, exuberant parents who wave and call out loud good-byes to their offspring. You remember standing here with Francis, a lifetime ago, waving farewell to little Frank with that same kind of tender zeal. Now you can only stare down the tracks, but you don’t indulge in that for long. You are one of the first to leave the station, and you don’t look back.
As long as you are in the neighborhood, you will stop by the ward and visit Frank and Alice. There is plenty of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum rattling around in the bottom of your handbag. And a handkerchief in the secret pocket for the walk home.
Title: The Red Handbag
Characters: Augusta Longbottom
Rating: G
Summary: It’s a faithful old warhorse of a bag.
A/N: Does anyone know of a comm that focuses on the female characters of HP? I know I saw one once but can’t find it now. Or genfic in general?
“Oh, Minnie, look!” you exclaim, as your eyes fall on the most gorgeous gown ever to be designed by human hands.
“What is it, Gussie?” Your friend’s slightly impatient voice floats to you through the crowd of Muggles on the sidewalk.
You refuse to budge or elaborate, just on principle, until Minerva sighs and leaves the bus stop. When your friend joins you in front of the window, you point to a dress on a mannequin inside the store. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Minerva pauses a moment to check her lipstick in her reflection before focusing through the glass at the dress in question. “The blue one? I think it’s a bit daring for you, dearest, but if you must…”
“I must,” you volley back firmly. “It would be perfect for the Yule Ball.”
“Mmm. Perfect for catching Francis Longbottom, you mean.”
“Minnie! Really,” you chide, trying to sound scandalized though you are really laughing inside because she’s got you pegged. You head for the shop door with purpose in your step. “If there’s to be any chasing, it will be done by Francis. He is a Seeker, after all.”
You hear Min snicker as she follows you inside. “Perhaps you should wear a dress of gold instead,” she says.
~ :: ~
You shake yourself out of the old memory as you herd Neville past a row of shop windows. The mannequins in their pretty frocks don’t concern you now. You haven’t thought fashion worth bothering about since the days when you could still run to catch a train, when you could stand around at a soiree half the night in heels, when your idea of getting ready to go out consisted of fitting a tin of lip powder into a little beaded clutch.
These days you value practicality over style, your shoes are sensible and flat, and you carry an enormous red handbag. It’s not the most attractive of accessories, but it’s been your constant companion for eight years. It’s magically expansive so it holds a great deal with little weight, a feature you appreciate. Between your old age and Neville’s youth, the two of you require rather a lot of accoutrements.
At the moment it contains many items indeed. Candy… plasters… coins in a faded silk purse with Chinese embroidery… Muggle money (not that you ever get out to Muggle shops any more but one never knew)... your wand… remedies of one kind or another... a packet of crumbly biscuits... miniature quill and inkbottle attached to a cracking notepad… paper menus from local eateries... the keys to the front door, the back door, the gate to a summer cottage you haven’t rented in twenty years, the wine cellar, and your vault at Gringott’s ... hair brush… lipstick… Francis’ pocket watch… a tiny bottle of dried-up geranium perfume you refuse to part with… a brown-edged calling card from 1937 with your mother’s maiden name that you’ve kept tucked in whatever purse you’ve carried since you were a little girl … an enameled Sneakoscope... the book you are currently reading... a spare pair of gloves because a lady is always prepared… and an emergency whistle to summon the nearest Auror, just in case.
It’s a faithful old warhorse of a bag, you think fondly. You carry it in front of you like a shield as you navigate the crowds, like a cowcatcher on the front of a train.
The handbag, you remember well, had been a Christmas gift from Minerva circa 1965. Upon opening the box, your first reaction was that it was the most hideous thing you’d ever seen. Well, the second most hideous. First prize belonged to that hat with the vulture on it that Francis gave you as a joke the only time you’d seriously quarreled. (You’d been on the brink of calling off the engagement, honestly, but the stupid hat had made you laugh and that had led to forgiveness.) The handbag had joined the hat in deep (deep) storage, and you forgot about both of them for decades.
Then one day Francis died, and you found yourself in the attic going through torn boxes and stained steamer trunks. You found the handbag, stiffening in layers of crumbling tissue with the Christmas tag still attached. You figured it was just the right size to tote things around in. Then you went to see what was inside the enormous hatbox, and laughed until you cried when you found the vulture hat. The preserving spells hadn’t entirely held, it was tatty and shedding and would probably frighten small children in the streets, but that only made it all the more appropriate somehow. So the hat and the bag became the only things that gave you the strength to go out in public again. You figured that you were now officially old enough to do whatever you wanted, and no one could say a thing about it.
Now you’re approaching Platform 9 3/4, with your eleven-year-old grandson beside you, and you clutch the handle of this red bag like it’s some kind of lifeline. This is the moment you’ve been both dreading would come, and dreading would never come.
You’re worried for Neville. He’s shy, and he stutters when he’s nervous, and trying to get him to remember anything is about as effective as putting sand in a colander. You’re afraid he might have one of those terrible nightmares the very first week, and you pray that at least one of his dorm mates will have some modicum of understanding about it and not taunt him.
You pray too that the staff at Hogwarts will be able to impress enough skills on him that he will be able to protect himself after you’re gone. Everyone needs that these days, but no one so much as Neville. You’ve always had a secret fear that the lunatics who hurt Frank and Alice will try to come back and finish the job. You know that they are more insane than Frank or Alice could ever be, and you never forget that they are still out there somewhere. Aurors used to come round and check on the house from time to time right after it happened, but no one has been by for years. This has made you bitter, self-reliant, and suspicious, and even in broad daylight you watch the crowds as you shepherd your grandson along. You are always harping on the lad to pay attention to his surroundings, but it seems the more you do, the more he daydreams.
Your own attention is diverted when Neville informs you that his toad is missing… again… and you sigh before you can help yourself. There’s nothing to be done about it now. You’re sure the toad will be able to fend for himself… you’ve never met such a cagey amphibian in your entire life… but the thought that Neville is already distressed and hasn’t even made it onto the train yet is concerning you deeply.
Minerva had better look after him, you think fiercely, or she will answer to you personally. You are already composing a sternly worded letter in your head as you get the last hope of your family bundled onto the Hogwarts Express. You are going to get this boy educated properly, raised safely, and married well if it is the last thing you ever do.
The train pulls off. You stand at a distance from the young, exuberant parents who wave and call out loud good-byes to their offspring. You remember standing here with Francis, a lifetime ago, waving farewell to little Frank with that same kind of tender zeal. Now you can only stare down the tracks, but you don’t indulge in that for long. You are one of the first to leave the station, and you don’t look back.
As long as you are in the neighborhood, you will stop by the ward and visit Frank and Alice. There is plenty of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum rattling around in the bottom of your handbag. And a handkerchief in the secret pocket for the walk home.