Chapter 18: Try Again
Neville didn't know this professor very well; he only knew he taught elective courses.
First-year students didn't take electives until the end of their second year, but his grandmother had already planned all of Neville's future courses. They were ambitious, rigorous, and certainly didn't include Muggle Studies.
Ten years earlier, Alice and Frank Longbottom had been captured by deranged Death Eaters and forced to reveal Voldemort's whereabouts. Tortured until they lost their sanity, they could no longer care for themselves and were confined to the closed wards of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, tended to by healers. The Longbottom family lost two famous Aurors and Neville lost his parents.
Since then, his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, had become his guardian.
For nearly a decade, the elderly witch had been planning and dreaming of training him into the most outstanding heir the Longbottom family had ever seen.
Neville could clearly feel those expectations but he couldn't live up to them.
His abilities were unremarkable, his magical power had not truly awakened, and he showed no signs of magical strength. The neighbors and family friends had even suspected Neville might be a Squib.
That suspicion lasted until 1988.
On the eve of the summer solstice that year, one month before Neville's birthday, his Uncle Algie accidentally dropped him out of a window. In that moment of crisis, his magic burst forth and Neville bounced like rubber, completely unharmed.
Grandmother Augusta rejoiced for months at his magical awakening, but only for a few months.
Neville's talent turned out to be mediocre. He could barely cast spells correctly. The wand he had inherited from his father, Frank, felt like a piece of dead wood in his hand, unresponsive no matter how hard he tried.
The Longbottom family's magical training proved useless, and Neville performed little better than a Squib.
Augusta eventually pinned her hopes on Hogwarts, believing that the thousand-year-old magical school might enlighten the Longbottom boy and guide him into becoming a great wizard who would restore the family's honor.
A week after school began, Neville no longer believed that was possible.
Professor McGonagall had taught them to transfigure matchsticks into silver needles in their first Transfiguration class but Neville still couldn't do it. Professor Flitwick had shown them the Fire-Making Charm, but his wand hadn't produced even a spark. And then there was Potions class, where he had nearly burned himself to ashes…
Neville felt he lacked Harry's talent and Hermione's intelligence. He wasn't interested in Transfiguration, Charms, or Defense Against the Dark Arts. What he truly loved was the humble art of Herbology. He found peace caring for magical plants.
His grandmother and Uncle Algie had urged him to write home every week with school updates. That week's letter was already finished and tucked in his desk drawer. In it, Neville described the excitement of being sorted into Gryffindor, and how his roommate was Harry Potter. He wrote about the Great Hall feasts and the moving staircases but left out any mention of his classes.
Perhaps he would never meet his grandmother's expectations. And with that realization, Neville simply wished to live out his seven school years quietly.
"I happen to know a very useful spell for finding lost things."
When Neville heard Professor Lewynter say that, he hesitated for a few seconds before whispering, "Is it the Summoning Charm?"
Born into one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families, Neville had been exposed to such spells since childhood. Though he couldn't cast them properly, he understood their effects.
He hesitated again before explaining that the Summoning Charm could indeed find things but it had a range limit of about ten meters. If the professor cast it, however, his reach could extend hundreds of meters, perhaps covering several nearby classrooms.
But Neville no longer remembered where he had left the list. It could be in the infirmary just a few dozen meters away… or in the corridor staircase, the courtyard, the Potions classroom, even somewhere out on the castle grounds a thousand meters or more.
"You know this spell too?"
Melvin raised an eyebrow. "Then cast it."
"I… I don't know how." Neville was nearly in tears again.
"If you don't know, you can learn," Melvin replied calmly. "I'm the teacher you're the student."
He demonstrated the spell slowly, speaking with patient clarity:
"Wave your wand, picture your list clearly in your mind, point your wand where your intuition leads you, and say: Summon the List."
That night, in that moment, Neville found himself unable to refuse. He followed his teacher's instructions instinctively and prepared to cast the spell.
He pulled his wand from his pocket. It was old, black-tung wood, inherited from his father. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, aimed toward one side of the corridor, and shouted with determination:
"Summon the List!"
Half a minute passed. Nothing happened.
Neville's heart sank. Tears welled again. After a full week of failing at magic, he didn't blame his teacher's instruction he blamed himself. Disappointed, he even regretted wasting the professor's time.
Melvin stepped closer, placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
Neville's voice trembled. "Professor, please don't waste your time on me. I can't learn anything. I'm a Squib."
Melvin didn't comfort him. He simply spoke, calm and soft:
"Try again."
Neville wanted to refuse but the words didn't come. He lifted his wand once more and shouted:
"Summoning Manifestation!"
Instantly
A powerful wind surged through the corridor, stronger than ever before. Windows rattled, robes whipped in the gale. It felt as though the very air around the castle was rushing toward them, threatening to tear it apart.
Standing at the center of the storm, Neville's first thought was that he had cast the spell wrong and caused a disaster. His second thought was that he would be expelled from Hogwarts. Oddly, that thought brought him relief. He had no magical talent anyway he shouldn't even have been here…
Absurd thoughts swirled in his head until a spark of joy broke through.
At least the spell had worked.
Neville quickly noticed how unnatural the wind felt. It roared through the hallway, shaking the windows as though about to shatter them. But Professor Lewynter, standing beside him, didn't even flinch. He waved his hand lightly, and the violent gust softened into a gentle breeze.
Melvin patted his shoulder, signaling him to wait.
Neville wasn't sure whether to calm down. His heart pounded with both panic and elation fear of expulsion mixed with the thrill of success. His cheeks were flushed, his hands trembling.
The magical wind danced through the corridor, making the torches and oil lamps flicker wildly along the brick walls.
From behind the staircase, Dumbledore quietly watched, sipping his hot chocolate. His silver beard stirred in the breeze, and he felt, for once, a pleasant chill.
The storm in the corridor suddenly died down.
A crumpled, torn piece of parchment drifted gently through the air, tracing an arc before landing softly in Neville's outstretched hand.
(End of Chapter)