Hogwarts: Neville's Insert Chapter 90
He went on to explain his plan in detail. The Cruciatus Curse hadn't destroyed their minds completely—it had forced one part of the brain, the amygdala, to shut down as a kind of defence. That small cluster controlled memory, fear, emotions, and pain—everything his parents no longer displayed. Neville explained how he'd been learning the basics of healing magic, borrowing a book on magical healing from Madam Pomfrey, and filling page after page with his research. His goal was to create a potion designed to isolate the amygdala and rebuild what had been damaged. If he could combine magical theory with what he'd read from Muggle science—and perhaps blend phoenix tears into the brew—it might be enough to restart their brains again.
He laid out sketches of brain diagrams, potion matrices, and messy notations across the table, his voice steady though his hands shook. "So yeah… if I can make this potion…"
His words trailed off as a single drop of water fell onto the parchment. He blinked, staring.
Then his head snapped up. Alice's eyes looked distant as ever, but her lashes glistened—and her cheek bore the faintest trace of moisture.
…
Friday, 30 July 1993 – St Mungo's
The morning sun filtered through the tall glass panes of St Mungo's lobby, glinting off the brass placards and polished marble floors. The air carried that faint, sterile scent of spell-cleansed disinfectant, with the occasional trace of potion fumes drifting by. Healers in green robes moved briskly between the lifts, nurses guided floating stretchers bearing half-asleep patients, and the reception desk rang with the quiet hum of enchanted quills scratching names into ledgers.
Neville walked beside his grandmother through the bustle, his sling bag slung across one shoulder, trying not to bump into anyone.
"Now then," Augusta said briskly, adjusting the tilt of her vulture-topped hat as they passed the reception desk. "Do you remember how to summon the Knight Bus?"
Neville nodded. "Yeah, Gran. You just have to raise your wand up while facing the street and it'll appear."
"Mm." Augusta eyed him doubtfully. "Are you quite sure you'll be all right going alone? I could Apparate you myself, far quicker and far less… chaotic."
Neville shook his head, smiling faintly. "It's fine, Gran. You should head home and rest. Besides, I want to watch a film later—Jurassic Park. Doubt you'd be interested in that. And I've always wanted to take the Knight Bus at least once."
Augusta arched an eyebrow. "Jurassic what?"
"It's a Muggle film," Neville explained. "About dinosaurs. They're a bit like dragons, but, well—extinct. Died out long before humans ever turned up."
She sniffed, unconvinced. "Sounds ghastly. Still, if that's what you children find entertaining these days…"
"They make it look real. You'd like it if you gave it a chance," Neville replied with a playful shrug.
Augusta pursed her lips. "I'll take your word for it, dear." They reached the grand double doors at the end of the corridor. For a moment, she paused, turning to face Neville. "Be careful, and if you get lost—or if anything goes wrong—you are to call for Lumina immediately. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Gran." Neville gave a small grin. "I'll be fine."
"Good." "Good." She reached out and brushed a bit of imaginary dust from his shoulder, straightening his collar with brisk precision. "And mind your manners when you're out there. People judge a Longbottom by how he carries himself."
Neville chuckled. "I'll try not to bring shame to the family name."
"Try harder than that," she said sharply, but the corner of her mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile. "Be back by dinner. I'll have Tinky prepare a cake so we can properly celebrate your birthday."
"Sure, Gran," he promised, returning her smile. "Bye, Gran."
He turned and headed for the doors,
Augusta watched him go, a quiet sigh escaping before she turned toward the Floo point.
...
Neville stepped through the glass and out onto the pavement, blinking against the brightness of the London morning. The moment he turned back, the tall windows behind him shimmered and blurred—what had been the grand lobby of St Mungo's now appeared to be the dusty frontage of an abandoned, red-bricked department store.
He tilted his head, reading the faded gold lettering on the cracked display window. "Purge and Dowse, Ltd," he murmured aloud.
The mannequins behind the glass stood motionless in threadbare robes, and a noticeboard leaned crookedly in the corner, its peeling paper advertising 'Clearance Sale—Everything Must Go!' He frowned slightly. "Small place for a hospital entrance," he muttered.
No one around him seemed to notice that he'd just stepped through what should've been solid glass. Pedestrians bustled past, chatting, waving down taxis, or vanishing into nearby shops as though the building behind him didn't exist.
'Right,' Neville thought, adjusting his sling bag. 'must be warded with a notice me not like the leaky couldrent.'
He took a step off the kerb, drew his wand from his pocket, and raised it into the air.
There was a faint pop! followed by a shrill, echoing HOOOOONK!
Neville barely had time to brace himself before a large, purple triple-decker bus materialised out of thin air with a thunderous bang, its brakes screeching as it came to an abrupt stop right in front of him.
Neville glanced around. People on the pavement didn't even flinch—one man strolled straight past the enormous bus, flipping through his newspaper as if it weren't there at all.
"Blimey…" Neville breathed, lowering his wand.
The front door creaked open with a hiss, and an elderly conductor leaned out. His face was weathered and lined, his beard stubbly grey, and his left leg seemed stiff as he shifted his weight. He squinted at Neville and barked in a gravelly voice, "Well, what're you waitin' for, lad? Get on, we ain't got all day!"
Neville blinked, startled, then quickly nodded. "Right—sorry!"
He hurried up the steps, gripping the brass rail. Inside, he stopped short.
Instead of the chaotic rows of swinging beds and chandeliers he half-remembered from the films, the bus looked surprisingly… ordinary. Padded seats lined either side like any other city coach. A few witches and wizards sat scattered among them—an elderly witch knitting what looked like a moving tea cosy, a middle-aged man reading the Daily Prophet, and a young witch with a baby Niffler in her lap.
Neville frowned slightly. "Huh… wasn't it supposed to have beds?" he muttered under his breath.
The conductor clomped in behind him, shutting the door with a heavy thunk. "Sit down, lad, or you'll end up kissin' the floor when we start movin'," he grumbled.
Neville quickly slid into the nearest seat by the window. "Right—sorry again."
The conductor nodded curtly, pulling out a well-worn ticket punch. "So, Where to lad?"
"Er—Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," Neville said.
"Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," the man repeated, tapping the details into his brass fare counter. "That'll be eleven Sickles."
Neville reached into his coin pouch and handed the money over. The conductor tore the small paper ticket from his punch and passed it across. "There y'are. Hold tight."
Neville barely had time to tuck the ticket into his pocket before the conductor banged twice on the metal rail beside the door.
The Knight Bus lurched forward with a deafening BANG!—the kind that rattled Neville's teeth and made his stomach leap into his throat. He grabbed the edge of his seat instinctively as the world outside blurred into a purple-streaked smear of buildings and lampposts zipping past at impossible speed.
"Holly shit!" Neville gasped, clinging to the seat as a lamppost narrowly missed the window.
The elderly conductor gave a dry chuckle from the front. "First time, eh?"
Neville managed a weak nod, knuckles white on the seat's edge. "How—how fast does this thing go?"
"Fast enough," the man replied with a grunt, bracing himself as the bus screeched around a corner so sharply that one of the sleeping passengers slid halfway off their seat. "Don't worry, lad. No one's ever died ridin' the Knight Bus—well, not recently anyway."
Neville groaned softly and tightened his grip. 'Yeah,' he thought, teeth clenched as the bus jumped the curb with another BANG! 'This was a terrible idea.'
Neville clung to the rail as London blurred past in a whirl of colour—cars honking, lampposts flashing by inches from the window. Every minute or two, the bus gave a violent jolt and came to a dead stop, sending everyone lurching forward in their seats.
A witch in a dressing gown and pink curlers clambered aboard at one stop, clutching a half-sleeping Kneazle under her arm. At the next, a wizard in mismatched socks stumbled off muttering something about "bloody missed Portkeys."
Neville gripped the bar tighter as the bus rocketed off again with another deafening BANG! "Honestly…" he muttered through clenched teeth, "they should hand out seatbelts." as the bus swerved so hard he nearly kissed the window.
Outside, the scenery changed faster than he could blink—London's crowded streets melting into open countryside, then back again into cobbled villages, winding lanes, and flickers of green fields between stops.
After what felt like a dozen stops, the bus screeched to a halt with a BANG!
The conductor turned and barked, "Privet Drive, Little Whinging!"
Neville let out a long breath of relief and stood, clutching his bag. "Thanks," he said quickly, wobbling slightly as the bus tilted.
"Mind yer step, lad," the conductor warned, jerking his thumb toward the door. "And try not to throw up on the way out. Had enough of that last week."
Neville managed a faint smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
The doors hissed open, and Neville stepped down onto the pavement of a perfectly ordinary, painfully neat street.
He turned just in time to see the Knight Bus vanish with another thunderous BANG!—leaving behind nothing but a faint smell of burnt rubber.
Neville blinked at the empty road. "How are there not more accidents with that thing…" he muttered, shaking his head.
He turned toward the signpost on the corner. Privet Drive.
"Right then," he said quietly, adjusting his bag strap. "Let's see… number four."
He started down the pavement, his shoes crunching softly on the gravel. Each house he passed looked the identical save for some of them having bushes on thier lawn.
He came to a stop. "Ah—there it is." at Number Four Privet Drive.
The curtains were drawn halfway, a flowerpot stood by the door, and a small sign reading 'Please wipe your feet' hung neatly beside the mat.
...
Marge sat perched in the armchair like a great, bloated toad, her wineglass wobbling dangerously in her hand as she rambled on.
"You mustn't blame yourself for the way the boy's turned out, Vernon," she was saying, swirling the wine as though giving a lecture. "If there's something rotten on the inside, there's nothing anyone can do about it."
Uncle Vernon gave a sympathetic grunt, nodding along from his seat near the fireplace.
Harry, meanwhile, stood by the door with a broom in hand, sweeping the floor in short, sharp strokes. His face was red, his jaw tight.
Remember the form, he told himself, Think about Hogsmeade. Don't say anything.
Aunt Marge took a deep sip of her wine. "It's one of the basic rules of breeding," she went on smugly. "You see it all the time with dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup—"
The glass in her hand suddenly shattered with a sharp crack!
Wine splattered across her face and lap. She let out a startled grunt, blinking at the dripping shards clutched in her thick fingers.
"Marge!" squealed Aunt Petunia, rushing to her side. "Marge, are you all right?"
"Not to worry," Marge huffed, mopping her face with a napkin. "Must've squeezed it too hard. Did the same thing at Colonel Fubster's the other day. No need to fuss, Petunia—I've a very firm grip…"
Harry's knuckles were white on the broom handle, his heart pounding. He turned away quickly before anyone could notice the flicker of satisfaction on his face.
Just then, a sharp knock came from the front door.
Vernon grumbled, "Boy! Get that."
Harry lowered the broom and walked toward the hallway, muttering under his breath, "Gladly." He opened the door—then blinked in surprise.
"Neville?"
Neville stood on the doorstep, sling bag slung over one shoulder, looking cheerful and slightly windblown. "Hey, Harry.
Harry blinked, clearly surprised. "What are you doing here? I thought you were coming tomorrow."
Neville shrugged, giving an easy grin. "I was, but I got bored. Thought we could go watch that film with Hermione—Jurassic Park, remember? Come on, grab your things. We're heading to her place for lunch."
Harry's expression brightened. "Yeah, give me a minute—"
"Who's at the door, boy?" Vernon's voice bellowed from down the hall.
Harry sighed. "My friend. He's here to get me," he called back.
A moment later, Vernon appeared around the corner, his moustache twitching as he looked Neville up and down. For a brief second, he seemed relieved that Harry's friend wasn't some wild delinquent but a tidy, well-dressed boy with polite manners.
"Oh. Right then," Vernon grunted. "You can go."
Before Harry could respond, Marge's grating voice called from the sitting room. "Go on then, Vernon. Let the lad in. Let's see what kind of friends the boy associates with."
Vernon hesitated. "Marge, really, there's no need—"
"It's all right, Vernon," Marge said. "I just want to see him."
Neville glanced uncertainly at Harry. "Er… do I have to?"
Harry grimaced. "Yeah. Best just humour her," he muttered.
Neville sighed, stepping inside and wiping his shoes carefully on the mat before following Harry into the living room.
The smell of roast beef and wine hung thick in the air. Marge sat in a large armchair, her broad frame nearly swallowing it whole, while Harry's Aunt Petunia hovered nearby with a fresh napkin. Uncle Vernon remained by the doorway, watching like a hawk.
"Well," Marge drawled after giving Neville a long, assessing look. "At least this one looks normal."
Neville blinked, taken aback. "Er… thank you?"
Vernon gave a forced chuckle. "Right, right. Harry, go on—grab your things and off you go."
Harry nodded, eager to leave, and started for the stairs—
"Wait," Marge said sharply. "Not so fast."
Everyone turned to look at her.
She pointed at the wine-stained carpet and the shattered remains of the glass still glinting beneath the table. "Boy, clean it up before running off."
"Now, Marge," Petunia said hurriedly, wringing her hands,"There's no need; I can handle it myself."
"Nonsense!" Marge, waving her off. "You let him laze about enough as it is. He should earn his keep. If he wants food on the table, he can start by cleaning the floor."
Harry stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned slowly toward the broken glass. "Yes, Aunt Marge," he muttered flatly.
Neville frowned. "You've got to be joking…" he murmured under his breath, but Harry shot him a quick warning look—one that clearly said, 'don't get involved.'
Neville pressed his lips together and leaned back against the wall, arms folded.
Harry knelt, gathering the shards with shaking hands. The faint scrape of glass on tile filled the tense silence.
Vernon coughed awkwardly. "There, see? Teaches discipline. Builds character."
Neville's brow furrowed, but he stayed quiet, watching Harry with growing unease.
Aunt Marge sniffed, swirling the fresh wine Petunia had poured her. "If you ask me, it's the only sort of work he's fit for. If my dogs made a mess like that, I'd—" She paused mid-sentence, her small eyes flicking to Neville. "And what about you, boy? Where're you from?"
Neville glanced up from where he stood near the wall, his tone polite but guarded. "Lancashire."
"Lancashire, eh?" Marge said, leaning forward in her chair, clearly sizing him up. "And where are your parents, then? Can't didn't they come to fetch you your friend?"
Neville gave her a flat look, his voice cool. "They're busy. So I came to get Harry myself."
"Busy," Marge repeated with a scoff. "Right. what should i expect form a parent of a delinquient,."
Neville tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk forming. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
The room went still for a beat. Petunia froze mid-wipe, her hand clutching the napkin, and Vernon gave a strangled cough.
Marge's eyes narrowed. "What was that, boy?"
Neville met her gaze calmly. "Just agreeing with your keen sense of observation, ma'am."
Harry passed by him, carefully holding the dustpan of broken glass toward the bin. Their eyes met briefly — Harry's warning, Neville's steady.
Marge sniffed again, her voice rising. "You've got a mouth on you, haven't you? They musnt be teaching you to properly behave at that school of yours." She looked at Vernon pointedly. "what awas the name again vernon ."
marge snaped her fingers "St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, Are you sure it's a good one?, it doesnt seem that effective"
Neville arched an eyebrow. "Incurably Criminal Boys?" he echoed, feigning confusion.
Vernon's face twitched. "Ah—yes, that's—uh—the one! A very strict institution! Best in the country!" He shot Neville a desperate look, his hand flapping slightly — a silent plea to play along.
Neville's lips twitched. "Oh, absolutely," he said cheerfully. "Taught us all sorts. For example, how to scoop someone's eyes out with a spoon." He looked straight at Marge, his tone deceptively pleasant. "I could give a demonstration, if you'd like?"
Petunia went pale, and Vernon made a choking noise.
Marge's mouth opened and closed like a startled goldfish before her face twisted into fury. "What cheek! You're a insolent little shit, aren't you?"
Neville didn't even flinch. He simply stood there, calm and steady, his eyes fixed on her with a cold, unblinking stare that made the room feel several degrees colder.
Marge huffed, looking between Petunia and Vernon as if for support. "It all comes down to blood," she declared loudly, gripping the armrest of her chair. "As I was saying just now—if the bitch—"
That was as far as she got.
The lights above them flickered once. Then again. Harder. The ceiling lamp rattled faintly on its chain.
Neville's voice cut through the air, quiet but firm. "Harry, go get your things. We're leaving. Now."
Harry stopped mid-step, looking from Neville to Marge, then nodded quickly before bolting up the stairs two at a time.
Marge sneered after him, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're not done cleaning, boy!"
Neville's gaze snapped back to her, eyes narrowing.
She turned her glare on him. "And who do you think you are, boy?"
Neville closed his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose, his tone clipped. "You'd better keep your mouth shut, you overgrown whale."
Her eyes widened at his audacity before she let out a sharp, barking laugh. "Or what?" she sneered,
Neville's hand flicked, almost lazily.
the next second Marge's words slurred mid-sentence, her eyes rolling slightly as she swayed back in her chair. Within seconds, she slumped against the cushions, snoring loudly.
"That's better." Neville muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
"WHAT DID YOU DO?!" Vernon roared, his face purpling as he surged up from his seat. "You little freak!" and rushed at neville
Neville didn't even bother to turn around. He snapped his fingers.
Vernon froze instantly, his arms snapping stiffly to his sides as though bound by invisible ropes. His eyes bulged in panic as his body locked rigid, and he toppled over like a felled log, landing flat on the carpet with a heavy thud.
Petunia shrieked and grabbed Dudley, who was pressed against the wall, eyes as wide as saucers.
Neville turned his head just enough to look at Vernon on the floor. His voice was calm but carried the quiet weight of warning. "You should tell your sister to watch her mouth. Not everyone will be as kind as I was. Someone else might've killed that overgrown whale instead of putting her to sleep."
He stepped closer, his tone dropping to an even quieter level. "And don't try to attack me again, Vernon. Next time, I won't be so lenient."
For a long, tense moment, the only sound in the house was the faint hum of the flickering lights.
Then Footsteps thundered on the stairs, and Harry appeared at the landing, dragging his trunk. He froze halfway down, eyes wide as he took in the sight before him—Vernon stiff on the floor, Marge snoring in the chair, and Petunia trembling in the corner.
"What did you do?" Harry asked in disbelief.
Neville looked up at him mildly. "Nothing serious. Just put the whale to sleep." He clicked his fingers again, and Vernon's body loosened instantly.
The man gasped and scrambled upright, face blotchy red. "GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he bellowed, spittle flying.
Neville nodded, unbothered. "We'll be out in a minute."
He turned to Harry. "You got your Hogsmeade form signed yet?"
Harry blinked, shaking his head. "No. He wouldn't."
Neville sighed and held out his hand. "Give me the form."
Harry quickly reached into his trunk and passed it over neville.
Before Neville could speak, Vernon roared, "I'm not signing a ruddy form!"
Neville sighed, looking mildly exasperated. "You really ought to stop shouting like that," he said calmly. "You'll give yourself a heart attack, looking at your physical state."
With a flick of his wrist, Vernon froze once more—his arms snapping to his sides, eyes bulging in silent outrage.
Harry blinked. "You petrified him again?"
Neville shrugged. "Couldn't risk him rupturing something before we're done."
He glanced at the form in his hand, then turned to Petunia, who was standing stiffly by the table, wringing her hands. "Right then," Neville said, voice polite but firm. "Since he's indisposed—who's going to sign it? You, or do I have to stun you as well?"
Petunia's lips trembled. She looked between Vernon's rigid body and Neville's unflinching stare before quickly snatching up the pen. "I'll do it," she said quietly, scrawling her signature with a shaky hand.
"Good," Neville said simply. He took the parchment back, checked the signature, then folded it neatly and handed it to Harry. "There you go. All official now."
He turned back to Petunia and, without breaking eye contact, reached into his sling bag. He pulled out a thick stack of pound notes, bound neatly with twine, and tossed it onto the coffee table with a soft thud.
Petunia's eyes went wide. Dudley leaned forward instinctively, then froze when Neville looked his way.
"That," Neville said evenly, "is for letting Harry stay over the summer. I know you weren't exactly given a choice in the matter, so consider it compensation. There's about twenty thousand pounds there—enough to cover everything he's eaten, worn, or breathed near since June."
Petunia blinked at the bundle, speechless.
Neville went on, tone still calm but with a steel edge beneath it. "Dumbledore keeps insisting that Harry must stay here every summer. I think it's rubbish, but that's his rule. So here's the deal—leave him be, don't make his life miserable, and I'll see that you get another thousand pounds every summer he spends here. Do we understand each other?"
Petunia swallowed hard and nodded quickly. "Y-yes."
"Good." Neville nodded once, satisfied. "Glad we're all on the same page."
He snapped his fingers again, and Vernon instantly relaxed, he sat up with a grunt. "Bloody freaks"
Neville ignored him completely, waving his hand toward Harry's trunk. It shimmered briefly before shrinking down to the size of a matchbox.
Harry quickly pocketed the miniature trunk.
"Right," Neville said, adjusting his bag strap. "We're done here." then gave a short nod to Petunia "Try not to wake the whale until we're gone. She'll sleep it off." He turned for the door, "come on harry lets go"
Petunia said nothing—just stood frozen, clutching the edge of the table.
The front door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the muffled sound of Vernon's low grumbling.
Harry let out a long breath. "Thanks for that," he said quietly.
Neville glanced at him. "For what? The money?"
Harry gave a small nod.
Neville waved it off with a flick of his hand. "It's nothing. Just making sure they've got one less excuse to treat you like dirt."
Harry smiled faintly. "Still... it was nice seeing them actually shut up for once."
Neville snorted. "A rare sight, I'm sure."
Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. "Won't you get into trouble for using magic like that?"
Neville grinned sheepishly. "Right... about that. I won't."
Harry gave him a look. "you won't? Doesn't the Trace work on wandless magic?"
Neville rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, it does. but you See, the Trace doesn't actually tell the Ministry who did the magic—just where it happened. And since you're the only wizard living in this area, it'll flag you as the one who cast it."
Harry blinked, dumbfounded. "Wait—so I'm the one who'll get the warning?"
"Yup," Neville said with an apologetic grin. "Just a warning, though. Nothing serious."
Harry sighed, shaking his head. "Brilliant. Well, at least I'm not getting expelled... and honestly, it was worth it just to see their faces."
Neville chuckled. "Can't argue with that."
They reached the end of the cul-de-sac, where the street lamps flickered dimly over the tarmac. Neville glanced around, then down the quiet road where the Knight Bus had dropped him off earlier.
Harry looked around, frowning. "So... how are we getting to Hermione's? Didn't your gran come with you?"
Neville shook his head. "No, I came alone. Didn't want to disturb her—she's probably having tea by now."
Harry raised a brow. "Then what, we're taking a taxi?"
Neville smirked. "Better. We're taking the Knight Bus."
Harry blinked. "The what?"
Neville chuckled, pulling his wand from his pocket. "Trust me—you're going to love it."
Harry looked sceptical. "That doesn't sound very reassuring."
Before he could ask more, Neville stepped forward and raised his wand high into the air.
There was a deafening BANG!
A massive, triple-decker purple bus materialised out of nowhere, with a echoing HOOOOONK! and the brakes screeching as it came to an abrupt halt right in front of them. Harry staggered back, eyes wide.
"What the—!"
Neville grinned. "Told you."
The doors hissed open, and a middle-aged conductor leaned out, wearing a deep purple uniform and a bored expression. "Evenin', lads. You call for the Knight Bus?"
"Yeah," Neville said cheerfully. "Two to Hampstead Garden Suburb, London"
The man nodded. "Well, hop on then. Don't got all day."
Neville clapped Harry on the shoulder as he entered first. "Come on, let's go, Harry,"
Harry hesitated only a second, then followed Neville up the steps, muttering under his breath, "Something tells me I'm going to regret this…"
...
The Knight Bus came to a screeching halt with a thunderous BANG! right in the middle of a quiet suburban street. The purple triple-decker wobbled slightly before settling.
Neville and Harry stumbled toward the exit, clutching their bags for balance.
Harry nearly tripped on the last step, muttering under his breath, "Remind me never to take that bloody bus again."
Neville stepped down after him, steadying himself on the rail. The doors hissed shut, and the Knight Bus shot off down the street with another deafening BANG! before vanishing entirely.
Neville adjusted his sling bag with a weary sigh. "Yeah, I'm not sure how they don't crash every five minutes. That's the definition of reckless driving."
Harry shook his head, still looking a bit green. "Reckless driving? That was attempted murder on wheels."
Neville chuckled as they started walking down Heathgate, the quiet street lined with trees and neatly trimmed hedges. The houses here were large, double-storey detached homes, each with manicured lawns and flowerbeds arranged to perfection.
Harry glanced around. "So what's Hermione's house number again?"
Neville pulled a folded letter from his sling bag, checking the handwriting. "Number eight," he said.
Harry squinted at the house beside them. "That's number twenty-five—and the one before was twenty-four—so we're definitely going the wrong way."
Neville blinked, then turned on his heel. "Right, then. Other way."
They retraced their steps down the road, passing a few curious neighbours tending to their gardens. Eventually, they stopped in front of a neat brick house with a white fence and a silver Volvo station wagon parked in the driveway. The number 8 gleamed on the post box.
They walked up the driveway and stepped onto the small front porch. Neville reached out and pressed the doorbell.
They hadn't been waiting long before the door swung open with a sudden yank.
Hermione stood there, arms crossed, her curls slightly frizzed and her expression torn between relief and exasperation. "Where have you two been? I've been waiting for ages!"
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Neville interrupted him, raising an eyebrow. "First off, we aren't late; it's just turning one. And secondly, really? That's the first thing you say? Not 'Hi guys, good to see you,' or 'Happy birthday, Neville'?"
Hermione blinked, her eyes widening slightly as she realised. "Oh! Oh, right—happy birthday, Neville!" she said quickly, a flush rising to her cheeks. "Sorry, I've just been so worried—you were supposed to be here half an hour ago!"
Before Neville could respond, a voice called from behind her.
"Hey, boys! Glad you finally made it."
Mr Granger leaned into view from the hallway, smiling warmly. "Hermione, love, maybe let them in before you start interrogating them, yeah?"
Hermione flushed a deeper shade of pink. "Oh—right!" She stepped aside hastily. "Come in, both of you."
Neville grinned as he took of his shoes and stepped through the doorway. "Nice to see you again, Mr Granger—and thank you for having us over for lunch."
Harry followed close behind, smiling. "Good to see you, sir. And thanks again for inviting us."
Mr Granger chuckled, waving them in. "Oh, no need to thank me. You're just on time, actually. Hope you boys are hungry—Hermione's been in the kitchen helping Bonnie cook all morning."
Neville turned to Hermione with a teasing grin. "You cooked? Well, I'm sure it's good, then."
Hermione's cheeks turned crimson upon hearing Neville's praise.
At that moment, Mrs Granger appeared from the kitchen, balancing a tray bearing a beautifully roasted ham glazed with honey and herbs. She was wearing an apron dusted lightly with flour, her hair tied back neatly.
"There you are!" she said warmly, smiling at the boys. "Good to see you, Harry, Neville—come in, come in, sit down! Everything's ready."
The smell of roast ham, buttery potatoes, and fresh bread filled the air as she set the tray down on the dining table.
"Wow," Harry murmured, eyes widening. "That smells incredible."
"Thank you, dear," Mrs Granger said, pleased. "Hermione helped with the sides—and didn't burn anything this time, which is a good sign."
"Mum!" Hermione exclaimed, face going crimson.
Neville chuckled, sliding into a seat at the table. "I'll take that as reassurance."
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