Harry wasn't certain how they were going to get to Neville's home until Augusta Longbottom made an abrupt stop, turned to them and called, "Diggy!"

Instantaneously, a house elf dressed in a meticulous tea cozy apparated by her side. Whereas Dobby—the house elf Harry knew best—had a nervous streak running through him, anxiety often taking over his upbeat personality at the most inopportune times, Diggy was bubbly and energetic and incredibly positive. Harry supposed that probably came from not living a lifetime in a house where you were routinely punished for the smallest infractions.

Diggy was most pleased to meet Harry and Hermione—but Hermione in particular. "Master Neville says you're the brightest witch," Diggy gushed. "Always helping him with his classes—a good and sweet witch he says!"

And Hermione, who had never gotten the warmest of receptions from house elves, seemed charmed by Diggy. Then Augusta ordered Diggy to take Neville and Hermione home, and Hermione looked like she'd smelled something foul, clearly remembering that Diggy was without much free will. Harry doubted Hermione would last a night before the topic of house-elf freedom came up.

Augusta took Harry's arm in her hand. "I promised Dumbledore you'd stick with me," she said, and before he knew what was happening, she apparated them both.

Harry felt his insides twisting around, felt like the walls were pressing in around him, as everything went black. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, and just when he thought he was about to pass out, everything was suddenly still, and he could see Hermione peering at him anxiously.

"Harry, are you all right? You look a little green," she said, not looking particularly peppy herself.

"Fine," he wheezed out, as Augusta Longbottom looked at him with what he thought was a particularly judgmental face. It wasn't his fault that every wizarding method of transportation except flying was an exercise in torture.

He looked around. They were standing in a neat lane halfway up a valley. There was nothing else around them.

"Er—where's your house?" Harry asked.

Augusta Longbottom procured a slip of paper from her red purse and handed it to the three of them to read. In loopy handwriting that Harry recognized as Dumbledore's were the words: Wiggentree Manor.

Harry looked up and the once-empty valley was now occupied by a large stone house—it was certainly the largest house Harry had ever been invited to, though he supposed it was probably rather small for something called a manor. The house was covered in ivy and in front was a neatly manicured lawn with hedges lining the drive. The hedges were unusual, however, in that they were all in the shape of dancers and were moving around, performing to some unheard tune.

"The hedges change shape every so often," Neville said, looking a little embarrassed.

"They're brilliant!" Hermione declared. She caught Harry's eye and smiled, and Harry had an image of her in a periwinkle dress, beaming delightedly at him, while he twirled her around the dance floor. He had been dreading that night in the worst way, but it had turned out to be one of the best in his life.

They walked closer to the house, Augusta Longbottom levitating their bags behind them. Inside, the house was neat and ordered, if a bit dated. Everything was very formal, and it all looked like it had been decorated in the same manner as Augusta Longbottom's very traditional robes and awful vulture hat—which is to say there clearly hadn't been any updates in at least 50 years. But whereas her hat was moth-eaten, the house was meticulous; the old-fashioned wallpaper might be faded, and the furniture was certainly lived in—by quite a few generations, it seemed—but everything gleamed. Harry doubted even Aunt Petunia could find fault with the cleanliness of this house.

Behind the house was a well-kept knot garden that led out toward the lake—surrounded on one side by a copse of trees—and a greenhouse that rivaled the size of one at Hogwarts.

Neville looked at them apprehensively. "What do you think?" he asked.

"It's lovely," Hermione said.

"Brilliant," Harry added.

Neville showed them to their rooms. Harry was put in a blue guestroom across from Neville's that was twice the size of his room at the Dursleys, while Hermione was given a yellow bedroom about a mile away. Apparently, Augusta Longbottom had some very old-fashioned ideas about boys and girls being friends.

They took a quick tour of the home. Harry was certain he'd get lost as many of the rooms seemed to just be an assortment of parlor rooms with mismatched furniture and ornate mirrors, chandeliers and ironwork that Hermione correctly identified as goblin-made. The standouts were the kitchen, one of the few rooms in the house that seemed delightfully homey; the portrait room, which was filled with Longbottom ancestors good-naturedly bantering with each other—though Harry noticed the empty frames on the wall, which he assumed Augusta and Neville's parents would eventually fill; and the Auror Room, which at first glance looked like nothing at all.

It was an empty room with stone walls and a bare floor, and when the trio walked inside, they could hear their footsteps echoing.

"How does it work?" Hermione asked.

"Just tap this stone over here with your wand," Neville said, indicating a grey stone that was darker than the others. "And then it responds to verbal commands."

Harry tapped the stone as indicated, and while nothing in particular happened, except for the door shutting firmly behind them, the whole room seemed to hum to life. He looked to Neville—what was he supposed to say?

"Reductor Curse," Neville said.

As soon as he said the words, a row of five circular discs, each larger than the next, popped up in front of them, hovering, just waiting for Harry to blast them.

Harry grinned, and aimed for the first disc. "Reducto!" he shouted. The disc cracked.

Hermione frowned. "I think it's supposed to be more of a swish," she said.

Harry tried again and this time he created a fairly significant hole in the disc as it blasted out of the way. Grinning, he tried the larger objects, and got similar results.

"This is great!" he exclaimed.

"Now watch this," Neville said. "Reductor Curse, moving target."

Now all the discs reappeared, fully whole, but this time, they whizzed about the room. Harry and Hermione ran around, trying to aim their curses correctly, but it was a lot tougher with a moving target. Harry, who was used to having to keep his eye trained on the snitch, anticipating where it might move next, fared considerably better than Hermione, even managing to shatter one of the discs into what must have been a thousand pieces.

"Neville, don't you want to try?" Hermione asked, after a bout of laughter as Harry had to do a particularly stupid looking twirl to get out of the way of one of the discs.

Neville looked down at his wand hesitantly. "No thanks," he said.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked.

Neville looked down at his watch. "We'd better go," he said awkwardly. "Dinner's almost ready."

He walked quickly toward the door, while Hermione tapped the stone on the wall to turn off the room. Neville led them out into the corridor, hurrying past a closed door that hadn't been part of their tour.

They sat down to a rather late dinner in an incredibly stuffy formal dining room, all seated at one end of a very long table with Augusta at the head. Looking down the length of the table—he could hardly see the other end and was quite sure they could fit most of Gryffindor here—Harry could only imagine how lonely eating in this room must be for just the two of them.

Just like at Hogwarts, Diggy magically transported their dinner to the table. Hermione frowned slightly, but to Harry's surprise, still didn't say anything.

The dinner was delicious—roast chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy—with samosas as an appetizer and treacle tart for dessert. Harry had a suspicion that Neville directed Diggy to make those in particular—treacle tart was Harry's favorite dessert and Hermione's parents tended to have a more expansive palate than they got at Hogwarts. She'd probably had more servings of shepherd's pie and bangers and mash by the end of her first year of school than she'd had in her entire life prior to that combined.

For his part, Harry was touched by Neville's thoughtfulness.

"What'd you think of the Auror Room?" Augusta asked.

"Oh, it's great," Hermione gushed.

"We'll be able to get a lot done for the third task in there, thank you," Harry added.

"It was really quite a lot of fun to practice in there," Hermione commented, propping her chin in her hand. "I wish Hogwarts had something like it."

"Oh?" Augusta asked, looking between Neville and Hermione. "You two tried it out too?"

"No," Neville answered quietly. "Just Hermione."

Augusta Longbottom snorted and gave her grandson a look that clearly demonstrated how disappointed—and unsurprised—she was by that answer. Neville looked down miserably and Hermione shot a panicked look at Harry—they had to get him a new wand.

The question was how?

They spent the entirety of the next morning in the Auror Room, working on the Reductor Curse and perfecting Harry's Shield Charm. By the time lunch was served, Harry had managed to protect himself against most of Hermione's hexes and jinxes—but Neville still declined to join in, looking at his wand in trepidation as he did.

"We've just got to ask your gran for a new wand," Harry said as they were sitting at the kitchen table eating their sandwiches.

Neville shook his head. "You don't understand," he said. "It was my dad's."

"So that means you've got to use it forever?" Harry asked. It was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.

"When it comes to my dad, she's not always…" Neville trailed off.

"Rational?" Hermione offered, a disapproving look marring her face.

"Well—yeah," Neville admitted, dropping his sandwich and propping his head in his hands.

"Neville," Hermione said carefully, with a quick glance at Harry, "I know she's your grandmother, but that doesn't mean she's always right. You've got to be able to talk to her about these things."

Neville looked like he would rather have a lovely chat with Fluffy.

"Look, I know I'm not as brave as you two are," he said miserably. "But—"

"Oh, come off it, Neville," Harry interrupted. "You're plenty brave. We just—we just need to figure out the right approach."

He looked desperately at Hermione, clearly expecting her to know just what to do. Hermione furrowed her brow.

"Yes, right," she said. "Well… what does your grandmother respond well to?"

"Appeals to family honor," Neville answered. "People who remind her of my dad—who are talented and daring and brave and never back down from a fight."

Hermione cocked her eyebrow at Harry as if to say, "Right then. It's up to you."

Wanting to cheer Neville up, Harry asked him what he'd like to do that afternoon. And so, Neville took them on a tour of the grounds—through the gardens, and by the lake and, finally, into the greenhouse.

It was a long building with rows filled with plants—Harry recognized the gillyweed over in the eastern corner growing at the edges of a small pond. Each area of the greenhouse seemed to have a different climate, one that suited whichever plant was situated there. The back wall was completely covered in moss, with the exception of a small curved door in the corner.

Neville took them through the rows—Dittany and Moly and Aconite—perking up as they went before they arrived at the curved door at the moss wall.

"So this next bit is technically still in the greenhouse," he said, "though it'll look like we're outside. It's been enchanted to bloom all year round."

He pushed through the door and they entered what looked like an outdoor space surrounded on the other three sides by tall walls covered in ivy—there was a breeze and everything—but it was considerably warmer than it had been outside. There was a sprawling dirt path beneath them, and everywhere exploded with flowers—rose bushes, peonies, tulips, daffodils, azaleas, snapdragons, delphiniums, larkspurs, poppies and pansies, lilacs, hyacinths, lavender—and right in the center was a large flowering Wiggentree with what looked like a swing settled right below it.

Harry wasn't the most accomplished gardener, but he was fairly certain not all of these flowers should be in bloom at the same time, but that was the point of magic, he supposed. It was all arranged in a chaotic non-arrangement that reminded him of Luna's transfiguration at the Yule Ball. It was bright and wild and beautiful all at the same time.

"Oh!" Hermione cried, twirling around slowly in wonder. She looked positively enchanted, her eyes alight with pleasure, and her face bore the most dazzling smile.

As Harry watched her taking in their surroundings, breathing in the fragrant smell of the flowers with a look of utter delight on her face, an odd thought struck him: She was really beautiful.

It's not that he had thought her ugly before—certainly, she'd looked very pretty at the Yule Ball—but in all honesty, he didn't usually think about whether she was pretty or not. She was just Hermione, with her chocolate-brown, sharp-witted eyes, and who usually bore a wrinkle in her forehead as she was always stressed about something—sometimes classes, but usually she was worried about him. But here, in the garden, her face was open and carefree, and Harry wished she looked like that all of the time. He felt a bit guilty for being a consistent source of stress for her.

"Oh," she whispered reverently, "you have a secret garden."

"It's not secret," Neville replied, confusion evident on his face. "It's been here for ages."

"No," Hermione laughed, a tinkling sound that made Harry smile. "As in The Secret Garden. It was my favorite book growing up!"

"Cool!" Neville said, but it was clear he had never heard of it.

Hermione turned and caught Harry staring, and her smile faded as she brought her hand up to her face self-consciously.

"What?" she asked hesitantly. "Have I got something…"

And Harry, not wanting to admit to her and to Neville that he'd just been staring at her like some sort of nitwit, searched for something to say.

"No," he said quickly, wracking his brains. "I guess I always just assumed you were more of a Matilda reader."

There, he thought, a bit proud of himself. That was a pretty good save.

Hermione frowned slightly. "Oh," she said. "Well, I've read it, of course. But Roald Dahl's not really my thing. He's too dark for me."

"The Secret Garden is about a spoiled orphan and her fake-crippled cousin," Harry said dryly, her comment bringing him out of his stupor.

"Well, yes," Hermione admitted. "But it's all about tone, isn't it? The Secret Garden is a story about hope and rejuvenation and springtime. It's not supposed to be funny like Dahl's work is. I just don't really find the humor in headmistresses who torture their students or want to read about little boys who get turned into mice forever."

Harry had quite liked the stories. Every time Dudley watched Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory on the telly—which admittedly wasn't very many times as the Dursleys didn't like anything that wasn't "normal"—Harry had always imagined it was Dudley getting sucked up by the chocolate river or falling down a chute for being spoiled.

"Why?" Hermione asked. "What was your favorite book growing up?"

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. "James and the Giant Peach," he answered, feeling his neck getting hotter.

"Oh," Hermione said, and from the compassionate look in her eyes, he could tell she understood why perfectly. "Well, yes. That makes sense."

She nodded at him and her lips curved into a smile. "I think that one's quite good."

She was lying, of course. If Hermione didn't like bullying headmistresses, she definitely didn't like bullying aunts, but he appreciated her gesture nonetheless.

"I literally have no idea what either of you are talking about," Neville said, looking a little lost.

Hermione laughed again, and Harry felt cheered, as the three walked to the swing under the Wiggentree and Hermione explained some of the basic plots of the books they had been talking about.

After another brilliant dinner, during which Hermione somehow refrained from saying anything about Diggy—though she had to keep biting her lip rather forcefully—and a night spent in the sitting room playing exploding snap, the pair said goodnight to a reading Neville and walked up the stairs together.

"How have you not said something about Diggy?" Harry finally asked as they clambered up.

Hermione shot him a look. "Well, I can't," she said. "Not until we get Neville his new wand. But we'd better do it soon because I honestly think I'm going to explode."

Frustration was etched in her face and she looked rather grumpy.

Harry, who was used to living with stubborn, set-in-their-ways people—not that he thought Augusta Longbottom was nearly as bad as the Dursleys; at least she cared whether Neville lived or died—tried to think of the ways he'd gotten Uncle Vernon to do what he wanted.

Mostly, Harry tricked him—he used his convicted murderer godfather or threatened to make a scene when the Masons were coming over. Was there a way to trick Neville's gran into it? The Sirius excuse wouldn't exactly work with her, but maybe there was a way to make her think it was all her own idea?

Or was it better to just confront her directly? Neville did say she respected people who were stubborn and daring.

He was still mulling it over as he got ready for bed. He had just pulled the covers back on the enormous cherry wood bed when he heard a soft knock at the door.

"Come in!" he called, and Neville poked his head inside.

"What's up?" Harry asked.

Neville shuffled in, clutching something to his chest. "Er, I asked Diggy to pull this out of storage," Neville said.

He held the object out to Harry. It was a blanket made of the softest material Harry had ever felt. And yet, as he unfolded it, it was like no blanket he had ever seen before. It was dark—though Harry couldn't tell if it was black, midnight purple or a deep blue—and scattered throughout the blanket were stars. It was as if someone went outside and captured the real night sky, and shrank it down in size.

Examining the stars closer, Harry saw that it was an exact replica. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Cassiopeia, Andromeda, Pegasus—all were in their right spots. Looking at it, it felt like it went on endlessly, like he was looking at something light years away. And yet, it was right in front of him, solid in his hands.

Every once in awhile, a shooting star shot past.

"Do you—do you have anything like this from when you were little?" Neville asked.

"No," Harry said, shaking his head. "The only thing I've got from my parents is my cloak. Even if I ever had one, Aunt Petunia would've burned it if she saw it. The Dursleys thought anything remotely magical was a stain on their house."

Including him.

He traced the edges of the blanket. It was lined with a silver thread, and then like a punch to the gut, he realized why Neville was asking. There, in the corner, the silver thread expanded into the shape of a flower—a lily.

When Sirius told them his mother had made them both baby blankets, Harry had expected something knitted—something like what Mrs. Weasley usually made. Harry had never expected anything like this.

"Gran always said this is a good bit of magic," Neville whispered.

Harry felt his throat getting tighter. He'd never had something of his mother's before. But she'd created this. And somewhere there was a blanket just like this that she had created for him.

Harry felt his insides twisting, imagining Aunt Petunia setting fire to it in her perfectly designed house, which she worked very hard to bear no remnants of Harry.

Oh god, Harry thought, hoping more than anything that Hagrid hadn't wrapped him up in this blanket when he'd taken him to the Dursleys.

Harry stared down at the blanket reverently—his mum had been brilliant.

Neville cleared his throat. "You should keep it," he said.

Harry's head shot up, and he knew his eyes were wide as saucers. "But it's yours," he said, and to his embarrassment, his voice sounded strained.

Neville shook his head. "No, your mum made it. I want you to have it."

Harry looked down at the blanket again.

"Thank you," he whispered, not taking his eyes off his mum's handiwork. He felt Neville pat him on the shoulder, and then heard him turn to leave the room.

"Good night, Harry, "he said.

"Good night, Neville."

Harry climbed into bed and stayed up late into the night, watching as the blanket's night sky transformed into one nebula after another, before finally returning to its original design.

As he finally fell asleep he had one last thought—this had been a really good day.

He woke up the next morning and the first thing he saw was his mum's blanket.

Right, he thought, energized by Neville's gift. It was time to return the favor.

So when they went to the Auror Room that morning, Harry stood determinedly in front of Neville.

"Neville," he said. "It's your turn."

"I don't want to," Neville said. "Honest."

And so, Harry stuck out his hand and offered up his wand. "Try mine."

Neville looked at him curiously. "Really?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "Why not?"

Hermione looked a little anxious—she was biting her lip and shooting Harry a look that said, "What if the borrowed wand works just as poorly as Neville's? Then he'll think it really is his fault."

But Harry was certain it would be all right.

Neville took Harry's wand cautiously and moved to the center of the room.

"Summoning Charm," Harry called out, knowing it was a spell Neville had never quite mastered, and a pile of pillows popped into the center of the room.

"Accio pillow!" Neville shouted, and to his surprise, one of the pillows flew across the room and landed a few feet in front of him.

Neville blinked in surprise. "I've never done that before," he said.

Hermione grinned. "Try mine," she offered, and Neville handed Harry back his wand and tried out Hermione's. This time, the pillow flew directly at him, and Neville, astonished that it had actually worked, forgot to catch it and it hit him full on in the face.

Neville stared at them blankly.

"How did it feel?" Harry asked.

Neville looked down at Hermione's wand. "Better," he said. "Not right, exactly, but it didn't feel unnatural in my hand."

"Did it feel connected to your hand at all?" Hermione asked. "Like there was a sort of warmth flowing through you?"

"No," Neville said, with an astonished look on his face. "Blimey, is that what it feels like when you hold your wands?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed, feeling a surge of anger toward Augusta Longbottom.

"Oh," Neville said awkwardly.

It was possible that Hermione had worked out a 15-step plan to get Neville a new wand that Harry was sure was genius and would absolutely work. She didn't seem to have one yesterday, but she was always coming up with things.

It's also possible that Harry could've tricked Augusta into seeing Neville using one of their wands and let her come to the conclusion herself.

But Neville said she favored the bold—Harry could certainly tell she wasn't a fan of the weak-willed—and the next time he saw her—in the sitting room, listening to Celestina Warbeck—his anger took over him a bit.

Neville had given him one of the most thoughtful presents of his life the night before, and Harry wasn't ending this day without an agreement to get him a new wand.

As they were sitting on the couches, getting some of their schoolwork done, Neville told his grandmother about their afternoon, and how they had crossed the Shield Charm off their list of spells for Harry to learn.

"That one always comes in handy," she said. "Alice—Neville's mum—was a champion of defensive spells. A lot of wizards go right for the attack spells, but a well-done shield charm can protect and attack."

"Neville did really well, too," he told her.

Augusta looked at Neville sharply. "You did a Shield Charm?" she asked.

"No," Neville said. "A Summoning Charm."

"Still," Augusta said, a hint of pride in her voice, "you've never done that one before, have you?"

"No," Neville replied, before turning back to his essay.

"Of course," Harry added, "he had to use mine and Hermione's wands to do it."

Neville's head shot up from his work. Augusta Longbottom narrowed her eyes, and looked at the three of them accusingly.

"And why didn't you use your wand?" she asked Neville, puffing up. "Your wand belonged to your father—you should be proud to continue his legacy!"

Neville shrank back, clearly at a loss for words, as he shot Harry a worried glance.

"If the wand belonged to his father than that means it doesn't belong to him," Harry said.

"Poppycock," Augusta responded, waving her hand dismissively. "It's a fine wand—there's no fault with it."

Neville seemed to grow smaller at his grandmother's words and Harry had to tamp down his anger.

"There's no fault with Neville either," he said through gritted teeth. "That's the point. Ollivander said that the wand chooses the wizard. You can't just pick up another wand and expect it to be yours."

Augusta's mouth narrowed into the thinnest line Harry had ever seen—and he had known Professor McGonagall for years. "And yet, you seem to think that Neville can do just that with yours and Hermione's wand."

Harry shrugged. "Maybe our wands are closer to what Neville's wand is supposed to be," he suggested. "His best try was with Hermione's so maybe he needs a vine wand, or one with a dragon heartstring core. Or maybe our wands somehow know Neville's a friend."

He wasn't sure at all how any of this worked—maybe it would've been better to do a bit of research on it first—but those seemed like as good of explanations as any. And besides, if Augusta Longbottom gave Neville a used wand, she couldn't know too much about wandlore either. As far as she knew, everything Harry said could be factually accurate.

"It's true," Hermione piped up. "I read all about it in Wandlore: A Witch's Guide and What Your Wand Says About You."

Harry should have known that Hermione had already done the research.

"The texts say that the first time a witch or wizard waves their wand, there should be some sort of magical connection forged, even if they don't say a spell. That's why Ollivander makes you wave it around when he tests out wands at his shop. In my case, my wand shot out purple bubbles," Hermione added.

"Mine was red and gold sparks," Harry said.

"Did that ever happen for you, Neville?" Hermione asked kindly.

"N-No," he stuttered, shaking his head softly with a quick glance at his grandmother.

"He just doesn't have enough magic in him," Augusta argued, watching Neville with an appraising eye.

"He had enough magic in him to go to Hogwarts," Harry retorted. Neville had told him once that his family thought him a half-squib, but they didn't give squibs Hogwarts letters. Where was she coming up with this rubbish?

"Neville was perfectly well accomplished with our wands," Hermione argued. "And he's perfectly well accomplished at Herbology—which probably shouldn't be a surprise since it's one of the few classes where you don't need a wand and he hasn't got one suited to him."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "Look," he said. "Our friend Ron used his brother Charlie's old wand back when we were first years, and it took him forever to learn spells."

"But his parents bought him a new one last year, and he's loads better at magic now," Hermione said. "Because he's got a wand that suits him."

Granted, Ron was still far from the top of their class, but Harry figured that was down to Ron's lack of caring in classes, and not any fault of his wand. And he had significantly improved the past couple of years.

Augusta looked between Harry and Hermione, her mouth open with astonishment. She clearly wasn't used to being argued with, and here they were, Neville's stalwart defenders.

And then Neville did something that surprised them all—he disagreed with his Gran.

"I think they're right," Neville said, his voice so low the others barely heard him.

Augusta turned to Neville in disbelief.

"Why don't you come down to the Auror Room and see?" Neville suggested. "I can try all of the wands."

Neville looked terrified at the thought of having to do magic in front of his grandmother, but kept a steady gaze on her—and that, more than anything, seemed to sway her.

"Fine," Augusta said. "Let's go see what you've got."

And so they found themselves back in the Auror Room. First, Neville used Hermione's wand—made of dragon heartstring and vine wood—and had similar results to their first session in the Auror Room. Then he tried Harry's phoenix feather and holly wand, producing spells that were better than he usually did, but not as good as with Hermione's wand.

"Now yours," Augusta said, and Neville looked down at his wand—Ash and unicorn hair—anxiously.

He took a deep breath, pointing his wand at the disc and shouted, "Accio pillow!"

Nothing happened. The pillow didn't even roll over. Augusta Longbottom blinked.

"Try again," she said, and Neville complied, but four tries later, still nothing happened.

Neville looked at his gran miserably. "Try mine," she commanded, handing him her wand.

"Accio!" Neville shouted, and the pillow flew into his arms.

Augusta blinked in surprise yet again.

"What type of wand do you have?" Harry asked.

"Fir and dragon heartstring," Augusta replied, and Harry felt an incredible sense of satisfaction—she had the same wand core as Hermione.

Neville studied his Gran, his face brimming with hope. She watched him silently for a few moments before nodding.

"All right," she said. "We can go to Ollivander and see what he has to say."

And Neville—looking as certain as Harry felt that Ollivander would agree with them—nodded happily.

When Augusta Longbottom decided to do something she didn't dally. So early the next morning, Harry found himself clutching her hand, feeling like he was going to barf, in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron. Apparating hadn't been quite as bad as the last time—at least he knew what to expect—but he suspected his body was rebelling against two trips in such quick succession.

Tom, the barkeep, handed him a small glass of something with a knowing grin. Harry smiled gratefully as he gulped it down.

The pub was rather quiet—it was a Tuesday morning—but it was still busy enough for Harry to feel the whispers the moment he arrived. Clearly everyone here had read the Daily Prophet.

He was certain Dumbledore wouldn't exactly approve of their jaunt to Diagon Alley, but Neville's gran didn't seem too concerned, and this was too important. Besides, what were the chances Voldemort would attack him here?

Diggy arrived with Neville and Hermione, and after Hermione downed a glass of Tom's concoction, Augusta set off for the back wall where the entrance to Diagon Alley was hidden. In no time at all, they had stepped into Ollivander's shop—and to their relief, it was empty.

Mr. Ollivander surveyed them. "Augusta Longbottom—Fir and dragon's heartstring, 8 inches, unyielding," he recited. "It's been a long time since you've been in my shop."

With a pointed glance at Neville, he added, "Too long."

Augusta scowled at him. "So I've heard," she said dryly, and gestured to Neville to show Ollivander his wand.

Ollivander examined it. "I remember selling this to your son," he murmured, and then looked up sharply at Neville. "You haven't been trying to use it, have you?"

"Yes," Neville answered.

Ollivander shook his head. "The ideal owner for an ash wand is stubborn and courageous," he said, earning a broad smile from Augusta as she thought of her son. "But ash wands cleave to their true master more than any other wand type. They can never be gifted without losing power."

Augusta's face lost her smile, and Harry thought he saw regret creeping into her eyes.

Ollivander looked at Neville. "If you've been able to make this wand do anything for you at all, it's a miracle," he said.

"So you're saying that still belongs to my Frank?" Augusta demanded.

But Ollivander was inspecting the wand with a frown on his face. "I don't know," he murmured. "Something's different about it."

Harry and Hermione exchanged confused glances, and all were silent as Ollivander continued his study.

"Could it belong to Barty Crouch Jr.?" Neville asked quietly. "After he used it, it felt like him."

Ollivander blinked in surprise. The only version of the story he would have heard was Rita Skeeter's, but at his shrewd look between Neville and Harry, he seemed to have realized what must've transpired at Hogwarts.

"It's possible," Ollivander said, a far off look on his face. "Wands have been known to change allegiances under the right circumstances."

"But you just said this wand never belonged to Neville," Augusta insisted. "So how could Crouch have won it off him?"

Ollivander fixed her with a solemn look. "I liked your son and daughter-in-law very much," he said.

"Everyone did," Augusta agreed impatiently and Harry silently agreed. What did that have to do with the wand?

"I went to their trial," Ollivander continued. "And I distinctly remember Rodolphus Lestrange boasting"—he hesitated, with a quick glance at Neville—"at how Frank Longbottom had been captured. It took the four of them, but Barty Crouch Jr. was the one Lestrange said disarmed him."

Harry frowned. "But how can a Disarming Charm cause a wand to change allegiances?" he asked. "We do them all the time at Hogwarts!"

Augusta looked like she too wanted the answer to that question.

"A Disarming Charm alone won't cause an allegiance to change," Ollivander explained. "You and Miss Granger could practice disarming each other all day long and nothing would happen. But during a high-stakes duel—when death or torture was on the line—absolutely it could."

"You talk about wands as if they have feelings," Harry said.

"Of course they do," Ollivander answered. "How else would they choose their owners?"

"So Barty Crouch Jr. won it off Mr. Longbottom 13 years ago—and Neville's been using it ever since?" Hermione clarified.

"I believe so," Ollivander nodded.

"Then why did it only start to feel like him after he used it?" Neville asked, looking disgusted and confused.

Ollivander shook his head. "Perhaps he never took hold of it 13 years ago," he said. "If he disarmed your father, but one of the Lestranges caught and held the wand… Perhaps that day in Hogwarts was the first time owner and wand were united."

"But it didn't shoot out bubbles or sparks or anything," Hermione murmured, looking puzzled.

"It wouldn't if he used a spell," Ollivander explained. "The reason that happens here in my shop is because I don't want you using spells—a witch or wizard can channel almost any instrument to produce results from a spell, so I wouldn't be able to definitively know if that wand truly belonged to you if spellwork was involved. But no other witch or wizard could've produced those purple bubbles you made three years ago just by waving the wand."

Neville took in everything Ollivander was saying, and looked at his Gran in horror.

"The boy needs a new wand," she said sternly. "You can burn that one."

And so Ollivander took out his measuring tape and had Neville test wand after wand, shuffling around his store, muttering under his breath about unicorn hairs and dragon heartstrings.

Finally, after they'd been there an hour, he procured a reasonably flexible wand made of cedar and dragon heartstring. Neville took it in hand and blue smoke in the shape of vines shot out.

Harry and Hermione beamed, and Neville looked down at his hand in awe.

"That's what it's supposed to feel like?" he whispered joyously.

"Oh, Neville," Hermione gushed, giving him a quick hug.

Harry had pegged Augusta Longbottom as the type to never make apologies, but she surprised him when she clasped Neville on the shoulder. She didn't say anything, but they looked at each other wordlessly, a sorrowful look on her face, and Harry could tell that something was transpiring between them.

And then she treated them to the largest ice cream sundaes they could buy at Florean Fortescue's.

It wasn't really an apology, in Harry's opinion, but Neville seemed happy enough just to have his wand.

Neville was like a man possessed now that he had a proper wand. He wanted to spend all day every day in the Auror Room trying out every spell he'd never been able to master—and seeing as how it rained almost every day that first week and Harry really did need to train, Harry and Hermione were most agreeable.

Reducto, Expulso, the Trip Jinx—Harry mastered all in no time at all. The room provided whatever objects they needed, and while Neville and Hermione still had to stand in to duel Harry, it also provided pillows to protect them and—in the case of one particularly powerful Banishing Charm that sent Neville into the wall—the walls themselves felt like pillows, lightly cushioning their hit.

Of course, they still had all of their other course work to do too, and Hermione had made a schedule for that—though she was sure to leave plenty of time in the evenings for games of exploding snap and long talks with Neville's Gran.

She'd surprised Harry one evening when they were lounging in the sitting room when she'd compared him to his grandmother.

"You're a bit like her, you know—obstinate, certain you're right… always doing something to make people gossip about you," she said, though there was no malice in her tone.

"You knew my grandmother?" Harry asked in surprise.

"I was at her wedding," Augusta commented, and then added dryly, "Of course, she wasn't."

"What?" Harry asked.

Augusta sat back in her armchair, now clearly having all of their rapt attention. Harry stopped petting Crookshanks, Neville stopped shuffling his cards and Hermione's book lay forgotten beside her.

"She was a Fawley," Augusta explained. "They're an old wizarding family—though the only ones left moved to Australia."

She said it with a tone of condemnation.

"Her parents wanted her to marry Darius Parkinson—right old drip he was."

Parkinson? As in Pansy Parkinson? Harry shuddered at the thought of being related to her. Of course, if the marriage had happened, he never would've been born.

"She had an arranged marriage?" Hermione asked, scandalized.

"Not so much arranged as expected," Augusta replied. "She swore up and down that she'd never marry him, but her parents planned it all anyway, figuring she'd do as she was told. So there we all were, gathered on their estate, waiting for the bride, when all of a sudden, there was a huge explosion."

Augusta chuckled a little. "She'd blasted out the wall of the room she was supposed to be getting ready in, and flew out on her broom—she was quite a good flyer, too," she added, with a shrewd look at Harry.

"So what happened?" Harry asked.

"Her family made noises about it, but once she married your grandfather, they settled down," she said. "He came from a respectable enough family for them, even if he was a bit of an oddball—always inventing something or another. The Parkinsons were another story. Darius went on to marry the Nott chit, but his mother never forgave your grandmother. Some say she put a curse on her—that's why your grandparents didn't have your father until after Althea Parkinson died—but I think it's all rubbish. Your grandmother was an adventurer—loved her flying—and just didn't want to settle down until she was good and ready."

Augusta's face was a mixture of disapproval—she was clearly someone who believed in duty to one's family—and admiration—she also seemed to respect those who knew their own mind.

But from then on, Harry pestered her with questions about his family. She hadn't known his grandmother well—Augusta had been a few years younger—but they both came from the same circles, and so she did have stories about her. There was the garden party where his grandmother had "accidentally" dumped the punch all over that horrible Marian Goyle—she'd turned Lizzie Prewett's braids into snakes—and the time she'd put on a stage performance of "Babbitty Rabbitty and Her Cackling Stump."

And now he knew her name—Euphemia.

Listening to Augusta—who hadn't even known his grandmother that well—he couldn't understand why he'd never asked before. Why had he been so content with the crumbs and scraps people had given him about his family? He hadn't even asked for a picture of his parents—Hagrid had taken that upon himself.

He supposed he had learned a long time ago not to bring them up—his aunt and uncle had forbidden talk of the Potters in their house. But almost four years had passed, and he still didn't know much more about his mom and dad—or anyone in his family—then he had the day Hagrid told him he was a wizard.

One week at Neville's house and he had his mother's blanket and his grandmother's stories.

Hermione also seemed to enjoy her conversations with Augusta. The evening that Neville got his wand, Harry had come upon them debating the merits of house-elf slavery in one of the many parlors, and while he could tell Augusta thought Hermione was a bit of a nutter, she didn't actually call her that. It seems it had been quite awhile since Augusta Longbottom had a proper sparring partner, and Hermione was a worthy adversary.

"Honestly, her way of thinking is so backwards," Hermione had confided to Harry one day. "But at least she listens to your arguments so she can try to refute them—and besides, if we want to change anything, we'll likely have to get those who actually own house elves on our side. At least she's listening."

Harry quickly got used to the familiarity of Neville's home. The blue room with his mum's blanket felt more like his bedroom than anything did but his dorm at Hogwarts, and he quite liked the afternoons when Hermione suggested they go out to the secret garden to do their homework.

He looked forward to seeing the change on her face every time they entered the space, though something kept him from questioning why exactly that was. He occasionally heard Sirius' voice in his head—why was she so important?—but it's like he had some sort of mental block on the answer. Hermione had always been there for him, and he liked things exactly as they were.

He woke early one morning—early morning mist was still out in full force and the sun hadn't completely risen yet—to find Hermione in the Longbottom portrait gallery. She was questioning the oldest paintings, and admitted to Harry that she was trying to figure out if they knew anything about house elves.

"The Longbottoms are one of the oldest wizarding families, aren't they?" she said. "They might know something useful."

"Have they said anything?" Harry asked.

"They only want to talk about dragons," she said, clearly disappointed. "Apparently, the Longbottoms used to keep them as pets."

"Never tell that to Hagrid," Harry warned, earning a laugh from Hermione. "He'd be up here in a minute asking all about pet maintenance."

"Dragons, honestly," Hermione said, shaking her head. "It's no wonder they've got a Wiggentree here." Touching the bark of a Wiggentree was said to keep witches and wizards safe from dark creatures.

He assumed they'd do what they usually did in the mornings—go to the Auror Room—but Hermione surprised them by giving him a book on jinxes and hexes to read, and instructing Neville to brew a Girding Potion.

"But we haven't even studied that yet," Neville remarked.

"Do you trust me?" Hermione asked.

"Of course," he replied automatically.

"Then you'll brew the potion," Hermione said.

And so he did, without any help at all from Hermione—which was far from usual for her. Harry looked at Hermione quizzically, but she shook her head slightly with a nod at Neville and a significant look that told him she'd explain later.

And when Neville was done, the result was better than his usual offering. It wasn't quite as green as it should be—it was lime instead of grass green—but Hermione thought it could easily achieve an A or maybe even an E.

Hermione looked very pleased with herself, and Neville was fairly astonished. Harry was looking forward to a moment alone with Hermione so she could tell him exactly what she had up her sleeve with that potion.

But then Augusta Longbottom swept into the room, a grim look on her face and a letter in her hand, and it made Harry forget all about potions and house elves and secret gardens.

"I've just gotten a letter from Dumbledore," Augusta announced with a significant look at Harry and Hermione. "Amelia Bones has requested your presence at the Ministry of Magic on Thursday."

Hermione's gaze flew to Harry's but it was like he couldn't see anything at all—this was it. This was Sirius' chance. This was Harry's way to help him go free.