that's the power of love
Title: Stiff Upper Lip
Rating: PG
Characters: Augusta Longbottom
Augusta smiles as Frank slips the ring onto Alice's finger, but inside she is churning. It's the same with all mothers, she expects: that mix of fear and happiness and bitter disappointment.
Frank catches her eye as they walk down the aisle, Alice's wedding gown billowing out behind her. He is grinning like she knows she must have grinned, years ago. Alice is already plump with the first signs of pregnancy, but surely most people won't notice - she was never a slim girl at the best of times.
She stands up and adjusts the netting on her hat. She wishes Bilius were here to walk with her, but there is no point in moping about it. She straightens herself up and follows Frank and Alice out of the church, her shoes clicking sharply on the marble floor.
***
Neville is born on the second-hottest day of the summer, a morning that makes Augusta want to sit inside and soak her feet in cold water. The temperature in the delivery room is about a hundred degrees, and Alice's face is sweating as she pushes her way through labor.
Augusta didn't really want to be there, but Frank insisted. "You and Alice would get along, if you just gave each other a chance," he said, and she hadn't wanted to point out that she had no intention of doing so.
"Bloody hell," Alice says, panting, and Augusta purses her lips in disapproval. But she remembers what labor was like, the awful, stretching pain of pushing Frank into the world, so she doesn't say anything. She just sits beside the bed, trying to muster up words of encouragement and watching Alice's hands grip the mattress.
The baby arrives slowly, and Alice is screaming in pain and frustration by the time it is over. But when they hand him to her, this imperfect ball of red, wrinkly skin, her smile is like light through cracked ground.
"Oh, Neville," she says. "Augusta, just look at him."
Augusta does. She's never understood why people make so much fuss over babies - horrible, smelly things, most of the time. Neville is no better than most, and he certainly has inherited his mother's pudgy features.
But he's not crying, and that's something. He just looks up at Augusta with wide, wondering eyes, and she nods in approval.
***
She has never been very good with children - they make a mess and cry for no reason and she never knows quite what they're after. But Neville is content to play at her feet while she writes, and she doesn't mind that. He's mirror image of Alice - plump and pink-cheeked, looking half the time as if he's not quite sure what's going on. Sometimes she gives him a biscuit from the tin in the kitchen, and he smiles.
She watches him every Tuesday and Thursday, when Frank and Alice are out on patrol. She worries about Frank, but she doesn't say anything. He's a man now; he can make his own decisions. But as the war drags on, he looks tired all the time, as if he's not eating enough.
She prodded him into becoming an Auror, and now she's not sure if that was a good idea. Not that anyone's safe nowadays: the news is full of disappearances, shop-keepers and professors alike. Frank is sharp and good with a wand, and she's glad that he is putting that talent to good use, but still. She worries.
Frank never says much about the missions. He doesn't even stay for a piece of cake when he picks Neville up, just grins tiredly and sweeps him out the door saying, "Thanks, Mum. You're the best."
He rarely has time to talk, and she doesn't want to be a nuisance. So she contents herself with Neville and his slow, babbling playtime, and tries to poke a little magic out him every now and then.
He's young, but not too young, she thinks: many children exhibit their first signs of magic before the age of one. Neville is nearing two now, and he's still as unremarkable as ever. She worries sometimes that he might be - but no, she doesn't let herself think that. Algie brings it up at dinner sometimes, and it only makes Frank and Alice upset.
So she does her best, showing him her wand and turning teacups into mice. Simple things, things that she hopes might push him gently into his own magic. But it never really does anything, and she tells herself that he is simply slow to grow up.
"Night night, sleep tight," he says, every time she closes the door to his room.
"Night night," she says, the soft words feeling foreign in her mouth.
***
By Neville's second birthday, she can see that Frank is starting to worry. After his birthday, a little party with a big, white cake and a handful of presents, they put him to bed and sit downstairs chatting.
Augusta prays that Algie won't bring it up, but it's hopeless. Her brother has never understood social graces, and they're only three bites into the left-over cake when he clears his throat loudly.
"So, Frank," he says, brushing cake off his moustache. "No signs of magic yet, then?"
Frank looks at Alice. "Not yet, Uncle Algie," he says carefully. "But he's only two, and some children don't even start showing until they're three or four."
"Hmph," Algie snorts. "I was showing my first signs by the time I was nine months. When were you, Augusta? A year?"
"Eleven months," she says carefully, watching Frank's face. They've had this conversation at least four times in the last few months, and she knows that he hates it. "But it was only small things, Algie. Accidentally moving toys and things."
"Well, we haven't seen so much as a peep out of Neville, have we?" he says gruffly. "I'm starting to strongly suspect that he might be - well, you know."
Augusta can see Alice begin to flare up, so she cuts in. "Algie, there's no reason to think that," she says. "The Longbottoms are historically a very magical family."
"Yes, but what about the other side, eh?" Algie says, eyeing Alice suspiciously. "Got any Squibs in your line, have you, girl?"
"Not that I know of, Uncle Algie," she says with gritted teeth. "But if you ask me, I think Neville will be absolutely brilliant whether he's a wizard or not."
"Not!" Algie splutters. "Not a wizard!" He brushes his moustache furiously with his finger. "If I were the boy's father, I'd be prodding him day and night - "
"Yes, well, you're not, are you?" Frank says rather loudly, and Algie falls silent. There’s an uncomfortable moment, and Alice gets up to clear the plates. She goes into the kitchen, and Frank follows her, his eyes on the floor.
Algie huffs as the door closes behind him, and Augusta looks at him, annoyed. "You always have to do that, don’t you?" she says, exasperated. "You have to know that it bothers them."
Algie shrugs. "Don’t pretend you’re not worried," he says gruffly. "A Longbottom, a squib? It’d be unheard of."
Augusta looks away. She thinks of Neville upstairs, plump and pink and quiet in his crib. Augusta has spelled the mobile above his bed to change with the time of day, but Neville ignores it. Unheard of, she thinks. But not impossible.
***
They are all prepared for another year of war, but everything ends abruptly on Halloween night. The Order pulls James and Lily Potter's bodies out of Godric's Hollow, and the wizarding world erupts in celebration. In pubs across the country, there is no mention of the young couple left in the rubble of their ruined house - just fireworks and rounds of drinks, toasts to the name of their little boy.
Augusta has only seen little Harry Potter once, when James and Lily brought him over to play with Neville. He was a happy, burbling little boy, already sporting a great mop of black hair. She wonders how he will manage now, with his talented, beautiful parents gone.
There is a small funeral, but even that is tinged with a feeling of celebration. Wizards nod to each other happily in doorways, smile with the great relief of a weight lifted from their shoulders. It is how Augusta felt after Grindelwald was defeated, but she is more careful now. She has lived to see Dark wizards rise and fall, and she is not foolishly optimistic: she knows they will rise again.
Still, she is pleased to see Frank so happy. When he finds out, he lifts Neville into the air and laughs out loud.
"He's gone, Neville," he says, pressing his lips to his son's cheek. "Mum and Dad can be with you all the time now."
Augusta smiles, and Frank settles down into a chair, Neville squirming happily on his lap.
***
Four days after Voldemort's defeat, Augusta is sitting in the living room, watching Neville move little toy trains around a plastic track. Frank and Alice are out having a drink with some other Aurors, and she has never minded watching Neville.
At nine o'clock, she puts him in his crib and folds the blankets over him. He always kicks them off in the night, but she tucks him in carefully anyway.
"Goodnight, Neville," she says slowly. He is still doesn't talk much, and she is determined that when he starts speaking fluently, he will speak clearly and with proper pronunciation.
"'Night, Gran," he mumbles, and turns over.
She leaves him there and goes down to read a book for a little while. The neighborhood is quiet tonight - none of those noisy Muggle children on their skateboards, for once - and she sips her evening tea comfortably.
At ten o'clock, there is a knock on the door. She opens it expecting Frank and Alice, but instead, it's Alastor Moody. He looks even more worn than usual, and before he opens his mouth, she wishes she hadn't answered the door.
"Augusta," he says. "Can I come in?"
This is not a courtesy call, she knows. Something has happened. But what? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone, and unless Frank has had too much to drink and passed out in the Three Broomsticks -
"There's been a bit of an incident," Alastor says. He's being careful, and Augusta's stomach clenches. Alastor doesn't usually mince words.
"What is it?" she says, frightened. "Just tell me what's happened. Frank's injured, is that it?"
"Frank and Alice were attacked," Alastor says heavily. "Ambushed, more like it. By Death Eaters."
"Death Eaters?" Augusta doesn't understand. "How? The war is over."
He sighs. "Yes, well, it seems that the Order wasn't able to get all of his followers. Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange and his brother Rabastan eluded us. It seems they thought that Frank and Alice might have information about Voldemort's whereabouts."
No, Augusta thinks. No, no, she will not let this happen. She prides herself on control, and whatever is coming - it is something terrible, something that Alastor could not just come out and say.
"They were Crucio'd for information," he says, and she stares at him. "They're alive, but - "
"But what?" She wants to scream and shake his shoulders."
"They haven't said much, but it seems that they - " He looks down, and then straight at her. "They've gone mad."
"When will they be better?" She knows the question is a stupid one; she knows, but she can't stop herself.
Alastor looks pained. "I don't think they will, Augusta. I asked about previous cases at St. Mungo's, and they said it will likely be permanent."
She feels dizzy. Somewhere, through a haze of growing comprehension, she manages to say, "What about Neville?"
Alastor hands her a folded letter, and she runs her finger over Dumbledore's seal. "He'll stay with you," he says. "That's all right, I suppose."
She slumps into the armchair. Her whole body feels heavy, and for a moment, she thinks that this might just be a dream. This is how she felt when Bilius died: this spreading, weighty feeling, as if she has been suddenly filled with stone.
The room feels sharp and cold, and she can think of nothing but Frank. Frank with Neville on his back, Frank long and lanky and pale in his Hogwarts robes. Frank in her arms, smiling up at her, no bigger than Neville. Neville.
"Of course," she says, the words coming out automatically. "Of course he'll stay here."
***
The week after Frank goes to St. Mungo's, Augusta isn't sure what to do with herself. She's always had a plan, always a careful list of instructions to follow. Now she feels adrift. She wanders into rooms without knowing what she was looking for. She takes care of Neville, but when he goes to sleep, she sits on the couch and stares into space for hours.
She knows she's not the only person to lose someone in the war. The grief is all-consuming, and she feels selfish and weak when she can hardly get out of bed in the morning. She often has to ask Neville to repeat himself. She can only think of Frank.
He pesters her memory like a child wanting to play, and at night, her dreams are full of him. The dreams are happy, but she wakes up startled and confused, the way she used to wake expecting Bilius and find only cold, empty sheets. Those moments are the worst. Every day she wakes up having forgotten what's happened. Every day the shock is fresh.
She doesn't know how to explain it to Neville. She tells him that his parents are seriously ill and that he won't be able to see them for a while. It would be easier to explain, if they had died, but this is different. How does she explain this kind of incomprehensible cruelty to a two-year-old? She doesn't even understand it herself.
She fantasizes sometimes about chasing Bellatrix Lestrange down. She wants them all dead, but she wants Bellatrix to suffer. It isn't fair that Bellatrix is free and mad and happy when Frank and Alice are ruined and Neville is orphaned and she is drowning.
She visits St. Mungo's on Sunday, a week later. Frank and Alice are blank and happy and confused, and she doesn't know what to say to them. She is bad at talking to children, and that is what they are now.
"Hello? Hello, hello," Frank says when she tries to talk to him.
She tries to be firm with him. "Frank," she says sternly. "This is your mother, and I won't tolerate any nonsense. I know you are still in there."
"In there," Frank says, and his face is empty of understanding. "Where? There."
She cannot let herself crumple in front of the nurses. She says goodbye quickly and professionally, and later she cries for her son.
***
Neville grows awkwardly, in fits and spurts. His hands grow before the rest of him, shoot out of his wrists like ballooning rubber gloves. The rest of him follows suit, eventually, but for a time, Augusta is constantly altering robes and moving furniture and watching Neville trip over his too-large feet.
He is nothing like Frank was, as a child. Frank was all sinew and bone and lean muscle, even as a toddler. Augusta never needed to move end tables to ensure his safety. She thinks that Neville must have picked this up from Alice - this unrelenting clumsiness.
Still, he is not a difficult child. Aside from his constant falls down the stairs - always followed with an, "Oof! Sorry, Gran!" - he is easy to manage.
He is constantly appearing at her side when she cooks. "Need any help, Gran?" he says, peering around her at the pot of beans.
"No thank you, Neville," she says firmly. "Have you tidied your room like I asked you to?"
"Oh," he says, turning red. "Sorry, I forgot." She watches as he puts his hands in his pockets and runs upstairs, shaking his head.
She watches him go, knowing full well that he will trip on his trailing socks before he reaches the top stair. When he does, he looks down at her, red-faced.
"Hurry up, Neville," she says, and watches him blunder up the stairs, no spark of magic in his steps.
***
It happens, finally, when Neville is eight. Algie comes over one Sunday afternoon, and after four biscuits and two cups of tea laden with sugar, he marches Neville upstairs.
"Feeling any different today, boy?" he asks, and Neville shakes his head. "Well, I'm sure we can sneak it out of you. Up on the windowsill, then."
Neville looks worried, but he clambers up there anyway. Augusta knows that he's scared of Algie - not surprising, considering the boy seems to be scared of everything. She wants to tell Algie to leave him alone, but there's always a glimmer of hope that maybe this time it will work.
Algie's latest idea has been to put Neville into dangerous situations, try to scare the magic out of him. Augusta thinks it's about as effective as watering a plant with Butterbeer, but she doesn't like to say so. Anyway, Algie's as stubborn as a mule, and she knows he wouldn't listen.
She comes into the room just as Neville's shorts disappear over the windowsill. Algie is gripping his ankles, shouting, "Anything yet?"
"I - I don't think so, Uncle Algie," she can hear Neville say. He sounds terrified.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Algie, put him down," she says.
Algie turns, startled, and Neville's ankles slip out of his hands.
"Neville!" she cries, and they both run to the window. Her stomach clenches, and she braces herself for the worst - Neville, crumpled broken on the lawn.
But when she peers out, he is standing upright, brushing grass off his shorts and grinning up at her. "Hey, Gran!" he shouts excitedly. "Gran! I bounced!"
***
Neville's magic comes more quickly, after that. She teaches him small spells in her free time - how to make plates move on their own, how to clean dirt off his nose with the flick of a wand. He doesn't pick them up as well as she would like, and he forgets things frequently, but he has his magic. That is enough for now.
His Hogwarts letter comes in the mail the morning after his eleventh birthday, and he runs to her with it, holding it above his head. She doesn't like to be soft with him, but in that moment, he jumps into her arms before she can stop him. She pats his back awkwardly.
Algie buys him a toad, and she gives him his father's old wand. She could buy a new one, but she's never been able to throw Frank's away, and well - this will be good for Neville. Perhaps the wand will make him into the man Frank was.
They visit Frank and Alice the week before Neville heads off to school. They are as blank and dormant as always, but Neville looks proud, all the same. He shows Frank his old wand, and when Frank nods, he says, "Gran, I think Dad understood!"
Augusta nods, but she doesn't believe it. She gave up hope of a resurrection a long time ago.
Neville is awkward and bumbling when they reach Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and Augusta watches him nervously. He has never been an expert at making friends, and she hopes he can come into his own at school. In the first weeks, he doesn't write at all, and she tries to stop herself from worrying. Eventually, she owls Minerva McGonagall to check on him.
Minerva must say something, because Neville sends letters home frequently, after that. Gran, I met Harry Potter! he writes in messy scrawl. He sleeps in my dorm, and he's so cool! He doesn't mention the bad parts, as much, but she can tell that he won't excel in his subjects the way Frank did. When his report comes over winter break, he is doing dismally in Potions and Transfiguration.
"You just need to study more, Neville," she says, ignoring the way he scuffs the ground with his shoe. "I won't accept you getting sub-par scores in anything. You come from good stock, and you can do better than this."
"I did really well in Herbology," he says faintly. And it's true: he got full marks and a glowing report from Professor Sprout. But Herbology is a soft subject, not like Potions and Transfiguration. Herbology will not help Neville become an Auror.
She sighs and lets him go, noting his untied shoes and his soup-stained shirt. She had hoped Hogwarts would straighten Neville up a bit, help him to know his past and walk tall because of it. But the light in her grandson is forever dull, and he barely wants to talk about Frank and Alice anymore. When they go to the ward to visit, he shuffles behind her with his face hidden, in case anyone sees them.
Where did she go wrong, she wonders. What did she do wrong to produce this forgetful, clumsy boy, poor in school and slow to make friends? She watches Neville, and she wonders. And waits.
***
At the end of his first year, Neville meets her on the platform glowing.
"Gran!" he says, his voice carrying over the chatter of the other students. "Gran, we won the house cup! And I helped!"
"Keep your voice down, Neville," she says, but she's pleased to see him so happy. His tie has come undone, as usual, but his eyes are bright and full of life.
"See you, Neville!" a dark-haired boy says, clapping him on the back and heading over to his parents. Neville grins at him and shouts something in return, and Augusta raises an eyebrow in surprise.
"Good end of the year, was it?" she says, and Neville grins widely.
"Didn't you read it in the paper, Gran?" he says buoyantly. "Harry - Harry Potter, that is, we're friends now - defeated You-Know-Who in this secret chamber under the school! And him and Hermione and Ron, they all got loads of points for Gryffindor, and I helped! I got an extra ten points for standing up to them, when they were going to break the rules!"
Augusta smiles.
"'Cause Dumbledore said, he said it takes a lot of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but even more bravery to stand up to your friends!" He grins and scratches his head, looking embarrassed. "So then we won the cup."
Augusta puts a hand on his shoulder and steers him towards the portkey Algie has set up. Neville looks up at her, and she can't miss the disappointment in his eyes. She sighs and squeezes his shoulder.
"Very good, dear," she says, and he gives her a small smile before the portkey tugs them away.
***
Small praise becomes her anthem, over the next few years.
She is reluctant to dote on Neville too much, in case he becomes too conceited. But she must admit, Harry Potter is having an effect on him. He still does abysmally in Potions, and Severus Snape has no kind words to spare about him when she visits, but he is getting better.
He comes home for the holidays glowing, flushed with stories about Harry Potter and the Weasley children and Hermione Granger. Augusta thinks briefly of a chubby, untalented tag-a-long, following a group of heroes, but she brushes the thought away.
They visit Frank and Alice on the holidays, but she can tell that Neville is itching to leave. She can't blame him, really. She has long ceased to find anything comforting or gratifying in his parents' blank faces. He looks up at her, his wide eyes posing a nervous question, and she nods and takes him home.
***
At the end of Neville's fifth year, there's a mess at the Ministry, and Augusta only finds out the real story days later. Albus Dumbledore writes her a letter, explaining Neville's role in everything, and Augusta is taken aback. To see Neville's name in print, followed by Albus' sloping signature - this is something unheard of.
He is bashful and scared when he approaches her, and she can't imagine why he's upset. She asks him - rather too firmly, she thinks later - what on earth the matter is, and he produces Frank's broken wand.
For a moment, she feels something - anger or sadness, maybe. But a broken man has no use for an equally broken wand, so she just pats Neville firmly on the head and tells him to cheer up. She takes the wand and puts it away, and they go to Diagon Alley to buy a replacement.
***
The world lurches into war over the next year, and Augusta worries about Neville. She knows that he is glued to Harry Potter's side, and she is afraid for him. He doesn't write home more than once all year -Augusta's not positive what's going on at Hogwarts, but she thinks she has some idea. She waits around for eight months before realizing that she must join him.
Augusta is panting when she reaches the final battle, sweat collecting uncomfortably at the waistband of her dress. A small crowd of Neville's friends is gathered in the Room of Requirement, and she waits with them, adjusting her hat in a faded mirror.
Harry Potter arrives after a minute, looking dirty and exhausted.
"Ah, Potter," she says firmly, brushing a few of the smaller children out of the way. "You can tell us what's going on."
"Is everyone okay?" Ginny and Tonks say. Tonks hair has been changing constantly since the beginning of the battle, and Augusta finds it very distracting.
"'S far as we know," Harry says, wiping his glasses on his shirt. "Are there still people in the passage to the Hog's Head?"
Augusta shakes her head, thinking of the dirty, cramped passage. "I was the last to come through," she says hurriedly. "I sealed it. I think it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub." She glances around the group, looking for a sign that Neville is nearby. "Have you seen my grandson?"
"He's fighting," Harry says.
For a moment, pride blossoms in Augusta's chest, and her mouth squeezes into a tight, pleased smile. She grips her wand tightly. "Naturally," she says. "Excuse me, I must go and assist him."
She pushes her way up the grand staircase. She pauses for a moment at the top, searches the room. Neville is in the far corner, dueling with a large man in a mask. She watches him for a second: the quick, adept sweep of his hexes, the way his feet find their footing easily on the marble floor.
"Stupefy!" she says clearly, and the Death Eater crumples to the ground. She takes Neville's arm.
"Gran," he says, surprise registering on his face. "What are you doing here?"
"Careful!" she shouts, and he ducks, narrowly avoiding a misfired curse. "I'm here to help you, Neville," she says matter-of-factly. "Where else would I be?"
"Right," he says, looking confused and more than a bit surprised. "Well, let's go, then."
***
Wars progress in much the same way, Augusta thinks later, once the battle is long over. The Second War ends with the same celebration as the First, friends toasting each other in pubs and chortling Harry Potter's name. Augusta lets herself drink in the happiness, but she is not fooled. She wonders whose children will still be tortured before the trouble is over.
She visits Frank and Alice two weeks after the war ends. She doesn't know what she expects - finality, maybe, closure - but she gets nothing. The closed ward is affected by neither time nor war, and Frank and Alice are as blank and unfeeling as always.
Neville invites her out with his friends for a drink, but she turns him down gently. Three wars have run through her, and for the first time in a while, she is tired.
She thinks she sees Frank and Alice still, sometimes - in the lift of Neville's eyebrow, in his pink-faced, awkward surprise. Whenever she sees a dark-haired man cradling a child, her breath catches for a second.
She has never been one to dally in longings for the past, though. Nostalgia is for fools and simpering housewives, and Augusta is certainly neither of those. She finds a comfortable routine: a strong cup of tea in the morning, a daily stroll to the shops, and a good book in the evening.
Neville is growing up fast now. He has become more serious, the tone of the war built into his thinning face. After the war, he moves into a flat with Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas, and every week, he comes for tea and chatters about Herbology for an hour. He is suddenly tall, taller than Augusta, and she finds herself looking up at him.
Somewhere, overnight it seems, he has grown up.
The third of August, two years after the war, he comes running down the garden path as she is tending the begonias.
"Gran!" he yells, barrelling through the gate.
"Neville, would you watch where you're going!" she says sharply. "You'll be replacing that gate if you break it."
"Right, sorry," he says, but he's grinning broadly. "You'll never believe this, Gran."
He holds out a letter, and she takes it grudgingly. She skims it, her lips pursed.
The realization sets in a moment before it bursts out of his mouth. "I'm going to teach at Hogwarts! They've given me the Herbology position, now that Sprout's retired!"
She looks at him, and that old feeling blossoms again - that burst of pride, swelling, searching for release. She doesn't scream or shout or dance around the garden, but she looks at him and smiles, and she thinks he understands.
"Well, thank goodness for that," she says, and Neville's smile fills the garden. "Come inside, and I'll make some tea. Where did you find those robes, in a dustbin?"
She leads him into the house by the wrist, and his too-large trainers scuff on the step as he ambles inside.
***