Disclaimer: I don't own Blackpool Pier, Great-Uncle Algie, Great-Aunt
Enid, Neville Longbottom, Neville Longbottom's grandmother, or Neville
Longbottom's grandmother's hat. They are copyrighted to J. K. Rowlings.
This is a non-profit fan-fiction. J. K. Rowlings had nothing to do with it
and would probably faint from horror if she saw it.
Author's Note: Second in my Neville Longbottom stories (coming soon to a website near you). The 'prequel' is "After the Screams." This is a two- part story – in Part 1, we meet Neville's eccentric relatives. Reviews on this (or on the prequel) would be appreciated. Not that anyone's going to read this anyway … *sigh.*
BLACKPOOL PIER
(No prizes on guessing the subject of this story.)
* * * * *
"…and go put on your best robes. Hurry up, now!"
"But – But Gran!"
Six-year-old Neville Longbottom turned his round face up toward his grandmother, wearing an expression of deepest consternation. "Not my best robes, Gran, please, they're so itchy. Can't I wear something else?"
Mrs. Longbottom sniffed audibly, drawing her thin gray brows together in a wrathful scowl. She looked down -- *way* down – and bent sharp blue eyes on her grandson's pink face. The pink deepened to red, and the small boy turned his own wide blue eyes to his shoes, scuffing nervously at the floor.
"I think not, Neville," she declaimed sternly.
"Yes, Grannie," Neville sighed, sinking his chin into his chest.
"This is a family reunion, Neville. Relatives whom you haven't seen for *years* will be coming. You must look your best."
"Yes, Grannie," Neville muttered, hunching his shoulders. Mrs. Longbottom paused for consideration, wondering if that one comment had been unwise. After all, the last time Neville had seen some of these relatives had been when they came to see Frank and Alice after the . . . well. After the attack.
"They're only itchy because they are new," Mrs. Longbottom continued, banishing unpleasant thoughts from her mind. "And you must be sure to look like a properly-brought-up Longbottom. I don't want you disgracing the family name by running around in a set of robes that look like they've been chewed on by a Murtlap."
"Yes, Grannie," Neville mumbled, staring at the floor as if willing it to swallow him. "I'll go and put them on." He shuffled toward the stairs.
Mrs. Longbottom raised her voice sharply. "And remember to comb your hair!"
Neville halted, blushing fiercely, and retreated to the kitchen to fetch his comb.
Mrs. Longbottom watched his blond hair vanish up the stairs with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, then turned and strode briskly toward her own room. A special occasion like this called for her best fox-fur scarf . . . and a good cleaning charm on her hat would not go amiss.
* * * * *
Neville stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if another ten minutes of vigorous combing would tame the vertical tufts of hair on the back of his head. A moment's consideration convinced him that further combing would be useless, and he turned away from the mirror with a dolorous sigh.
Great-Uncle Algernon would certainly be coming. He never missed a chance to visit his dear sister Iphigenia (only of course he called her "darling Iphy," to Neville's secret amusement). Not that Uncle Algie was a bad sort of chap – he was certainly good-natured, generous, cheerful . . . and Great-Aunt Enid was a great cook and very sweet in an absent-minded way . . . but Uncle Algie *would* go on and on about how the Mortlakes and the Longbottoms had never produced any Squibs yet . . . and then he'd cross- examine Neville for endless minutes.
"Never set anything on fire, eh lad?"
"How about your freckles? Have you ever made any of the bally things vanish?"
"Y'know, Neville, when I was a little shaver like you, I made a whole bowl of gruel (really foul stuff) vanish . . . we later found it at the foot of my Aunt Agatha's bed . . ."
"When my boy Clarence was a jolly little chap of seven, he transfigured his sister's doll into a lizard . . ."
At that point, Gran had turned and scowled at her brother. He had dropped the subject, but the memory rankled.
Neville jumped as a deep voice boomed in the hallway below. "Aunt Iphigenia! How are you? Fine? Capital, thank you! And how's little Neville? Not so little anymore, eh?"
Neville frowned in the general direction of the stairs as laughter filtered up. Just because he was a trifle chubby for a boy of six didn't mean he was *fat.*
When Gran called, he trudge toward the stairs, heart sinking rapidly toward his toes (currently curling up in an effort to avoid scratchy wool socks.) "Hello, Uncle Clarence," he mumbled on reaching the bottom of the stairs. His peripheral vision picked up a scowl on his Gran's face. A wise boy shaped up on seeing that menacing expression, and while Neville had no pretensions to someday join Ravenclaw, he knew better than to ignore the Death Glare of Warning.
Hastily, he looked up at Uncle Clarence's six-feet-four-inches and walrus mustache, forcing a smile. Quite frankly, he didn't see how Clarence Mortlake could ever have been little, seven years old or not. Crushing handshake over with, he retreated to a corner while Gran greeted Great-Aunt Octavia.
"Iphy!" Octavia enthused, white hair and birdlike eyes bouncing with sheer enjoyment of life. "Darling! I haven't seen you since the last Mortlake family reunion! Oh, I've been so busy – so much to do!" Aunt Octavia had to stand on tiptoes in order to peck her older (and much taller) sister's cheek. As Gran leaned down, Octavia caught sight of the family relic – the great vulture-topped hat. "Oh, how marvelous!" she chirped. "You still have that dear old hat! What a lovely scarf, Iphy! Wherever did you get it?" Without waiting for an answer, Aunt Octavia spun on her nephew Clarence, greeting him in delight.
Neville submitted to being hugged and exclaimed over when his turn came. It wasn't that bad – in fact, Aunt Octavia smelled like lavender and roses. He did shift uncomfortably when she blinked at him with sudden tears in her eyes.
"Darling Nevvie," she whispered. "How much you've grown."
He fled back to his corner when Great-Uncle Algie arrived, clapping his son on the back and kissing both of his sisters. "Neville!" he cried cheerily. "How are you, sonnie? Started flying a broom yet?"
"Algie, leave the poor boy alone," Aunt Enid scolded good-naturedly. "How are you, Neville?"
"Fine, Aunt Enid," he answered, returning her quick hug. "How are you?"
"Doesn't he have perfect manners?" Aunt Octavia beamed. Neville felt his face grow hot and considered a swift withdrawal to the corner which he had begun to regard as a haven. His Gran's reproving eyes lit on him, and he sadly abandoned the idea.
"I've been thinking, Iphy," Uncle Algie continued unquenchably. "About Neville's magic."
Oh, no. Not this again.
"Some people just need a helping push to get it out, don't you know," he declared, obtusely ignoring Gran's frosty scowl. "I was talking to a chap down at the Ministry the other day, and he was telling me about his nephew – little chap of nine, never done a spark of magic. This fellow's brother took him up on a broomstick – twenty or thirty feet up, you know, and dangled him off of it by one hand – oh, don't gasp so, Octavia – he could have caught him with a levitation spell if he fell – and the kid just suddenly disappeared, reappeared on flat ground. Wandless apparition, what? And so I was thinking that we ought to help Neville along, and -"
Gran drew herself up, directing an intense Death Glare of Warning at Uncle Algie. Her gaunt hands clenched angrily. "Neville is only six, Algernon," she hissed. "I'll not have you badgering him about unnecessarily. We can worry about that when he's older. Do not, if you please, raise this subject again today!"
"Darling little Nevvie," Aunt Octavia cut in, seeing that Uncle Algie did not look quenched in the slightest. "Algie, do let him be." She lowered her voice to a whisper, but Neville could still hear her perfectly well. "After the trauma he's been through, poor dear boy, it's perfectly understandable that his development should be a trifle slow. Why, he's only just learned to read. Please don't make things any harder on him, Algie, dear. Please?"
Gran's ice-hard eyes shifted to Octavia. For a moment she seemed about to reprove her sister, then, instead, she humphed and turned to the door. She jerked it open so precipitously that the young man on the doorstep leapt backward. He blinked at her forbidding scowl, then pasted a lopsided grin on his face. "Er … hullo, old girl – ah, I mean, how are you, Great-Aunt Iphigenia?"
"I am quite well, Eugene," Gran answered stiffly, casting a quick, angry look at Uncle Algie. "I trust you are in good health?"
"Never better, actually – positively blooming. Er – nothing like a good family reunion to buck up the old spirits." Still grinning idiotically, he sidled past her only to be seized by Aunt Enid.
Neville tuned out the babble of conversation surrounding the arrival of Uncle Algie's youngest son and focused on his shoes. He felt a sudden irrational urge to cry – he did hate being talked about in that way. And the very thought of being dropped off a broomstick made his stomach twist in horror. As the door opened again to admit Great-Great-Aunt Agatha, the oldest member of the Mortlake family, and her two vociferous granddaughters, Neville began to inch back toward the stairs.
When a hand dropped onto his shoulder, he involuntarily jumped. Spinning around, he caught an odd mixture of concern and pity in Eugene Mortlake's eyes before his cousin smiled sunnily. "Hello, Neville – and where are you off to?"
Neville blinked up at him, at a loss for words. He had not seen Eugene for almost four years … not since he had skipped a day's worth of reviewing for the NEWTs to come comfort Gran when It had happened. Neville vaguely recollected his then-eighteen-year-old cousin stumbling out of the room in St. Mungo's where They were being kept, sitting down on the edge of Neville's bed, burying his head in his hands, and crying. Probably Eugene had liked Them a lot. Everybody did, Gran said.
Not that Neville himself would ever know.
"Nowhere," he finally answered. "I – I was just going to – to – to - "
"I understand completely," Eugene informed him. Sinking his voice into a stage whisper, he added, "Rather dull, these family functions, what? You and I are the youngest ones here, actually, since Clarence didn't bring his wife and baby. Poor little lass has got a nasty case of allergies, apparently. She's inherited Clarence's lungs, you know – when she cries, you can hear her from one end of the house right to the other." He screwed up his face thoughtfully. "Guess that's why I've put a stop on my visits – she doesn't like me much, and getting an earful of baby howls is a bit much."
Neville smiled uncertainly at the flood of words. "H-how are you?" he asked, recollecting his manners.
"Topping, thanks. I've less than six months to go before I'm a fully capable Hit Wizard – three cheers and all that. Of course, just between you and me, I already think I'm /more/ capable than some of those dunderheads they've got in the department. Why, just the other day, some less-than-Ravenclawish chap panicked in the middle of a bunch of Muggles (he was cleaning up the effects of a spot of accidental magic), and apparated away smack in the middle of a town square. It took another squad a whole afternoon to finish wiping Muggles' memories! If a chap's afraid of Muggle dogs, he oughtn't to be a Hit Wizard, don't you think? But, anyway, how are /you/ doing?"
"Fine, thank you," Neville replied. Oddly enough, he did feel a trifle better now. "I didn't know you were going to be a Hit Wizard," he added wistfully. "Is it – is it – exciting?"
"It's deadly dull, actually," Eugene answered, shrugging. "Hopefully I'll get some more interesting assignment once I've got a spot of seniority, but, you know, it's not like being an Aur -" He shut his mouth abruptly, eyes shadowing over.
Neville looked down at the floor again. That was always the way it was. Nobody ever wanted to talk about Aurors, about illnesses, about the War, even about normal families, in front of him. It hurt, especially since their abrupt halts only served to remind him of /why/ they wouldn't talk about those things.
He could feel Eugene looking down at him. "It's not like being an Auror," he said softly, and Neville looked up, startled. Eugene's mouth twisted into a smile, and he shrugged again. "Being an Auror was – is – was very dangerous. Only the bravest of the brave, only the best, ever become Aurors … and each Auror did more during the War to keep us all safe than the whole crew of Hit Wizards. And Frank was one of the best Aurors. When I was a kid, he was my hero … I wanted to grow up to be just like him …" He stopped and cleared his throat.
Neville kept his eyes on his cousin's face, silently willing him to go on. Tell me about my father, he wanted to cry. Was he already an Auror when you started Hogwarts? What made him one of the best Aurors? Why did you admire him so much? What was he like? Is he still a hero?
Can he still be /my/ hero?
But he didn't say anything. Instead, he looked toward the staircase, knotting his hands nervously in the sleeves of his robe.
Eugene turned on his heel, looking toward Uncle Algie, who stood alone in the midst of a gaggle of females, gazing mournfully toward Clarence and Octavia's son Augustus, who had gotten away into a corner to discuss Quidditch. "Dad!" he called jovially. "Have you noticed that the weather's incredibly beautiful today? What say we have a picnic out by the pier?"
Uncle Algie's face lit up instantly. "Corking idea, Eugene! Iphy – let's have a picnic! Just like old times! It'll be jolly good fun – don't be a wet blanket, Iphy. You know you want to."
Gran shook her head sadly, her face settling into its Pained-Tolerance-of- Utter-Immaturity expression. "Very well, Algernon," she said in resignation. "I am willing to drag our elaborate luncheon and best silver down to the marshy banks and eat in the mud if nothing else will satisfy you."
"Nonsense! You'll enjoy it!" Uncle Algie smiled broadly, and Neville felt a sudden chill as his uncle's eyes settled on him. "We'll /all/ enjoy it – right, Neville?"
He had a bad feeling about this.
-------------
A/N: Well, I'm sure that bored you all to death, but the second half will be better. Promise.
Reviews are welcome.
Author's Note: Second in my Neville Longbottom stories (coming soon to a website near you). The 'prequel' is "After the Screams." This is a two- part story – in Part 1, we meet Neville's eccentric relatives. Reviews on this (or on the prequel) would be appreciated. Not that anyone's going to read this anyway … *sigh.*
BLACKPOOL PIER
(No prizes on guessing the subject of this story.)
* * * * *
"…and go put on your best robes. Hurry up, now!"
"But – But Gran!"
Six-year-old Neville Longbottom turned his round face up toward his grandmother, wearing an expression of deepest consternation. "Not my best robes, Gran, please, they're so itchy. Can't I wear something else?"
Mrs. Longbottom sniffed audibly, drawing her thin gray brows together in a wrathful scowl. She looked down -- *way* down – and bent sharp blue eyes on her grandson's pink face. The pink deepened to red, and the small boy turned his own wide blue eyes to his shoes, scuffing nervously at the floor.
"I think not, Neville," she declaimed sternly.
"Yes, Grannie," Neville sighed, sinking his chin into his chest.
"This is a family reunion, Neville. Relatives whom you haven't seen for *years* will be coming. You must look your best."
"Yes, Grannie," Neville muttered, hunching his shoulders. Mrs. Longbottom paused for consideration, wondering if that one comment had been unwise. After all, the last time Neville had seen some of these relatives had been when they came to see Frank and Alice after the . . . well. After the attack.
"They're only itchy because they are new," Mrs. Longbottom continued, banishing unpleasant thoughts from her mind. "And you must be sure to look like a properly-brought-up Longbottom. I don't want you disgracing the family name by running around in a set of robes that look like they've been chewed on by a Murtlap."
"Yes, Grannie," Neville mumbled, staring at the floor as if willing it to swallow him. "I'll go and put them on." He shuffled toward the stairs.
Mrs. Longbottom raised her voice sharply. "And remember to comb your hair!"
Neville halted, blushing fiercely, and retreated to the kitchen to fetch his comb.
Mrs. Longbottom watched his blond hair vanish up the stairs with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, then turned and strode briskly toward her own room. A special occasion like this called for her best fox-fur scarf . . . and a good cleaning charm on her hat would not go amiss.
* * * * *
Neville stared at himself in the mirror, wondering if another ten minutes of vigorous combing would tame the vertical tufts of hair on the back of his head. A moment's consideration convinced him that further combing would be useless, and he turned away from the mirror with a dolorous sigh.
Great-Uncle Algernon would certainly be coming. He never missed a chance to visit his dear sister Iphigenia (only of course he called her "darling Iphy," to Neville's secret amusement). Not that Uncle Algie was a bad sort of chap – he was certainly good-natured, generous, cheerful . . . and Great-Aunt Enid was a great cook and very sweet in an absent-minded way . . . but Uncle Algie *would* go on and on about how the Mortlakes and the Longbottoms had never produced any Squibs yet . . . and then he'd cross- examine Neville for endless minutes.
"Never set anything on fire, eh lad?"
"How about your freckles? Have you ever made any of the bally things vanish?"
"Y'know, Neville, when I was a little shaver like you, I made a whole bowl of gruel (really foul stuff) vanish . . . we later found it at the foot of my Aunt Agatha's bed . . ."
"When my boy Clarence was a jolly little chap of seven, he transfigured his sister's doll into a lizard . . ."
At that point, Gran had turned and scowled at her brother. He had dropped the subject, but the memory rankled.
Neville jumped as a deep voice boomed in the hallway below. "Aunt Iphigenia! How are you? Fine? Capital, thank you! And how's little Neville? Not so little anymore, eh?"
Neville frowned in the general direction of the stairs as laughter filtered up. Just because he was a trifle chubby for a boy of six didn't mean he was *fat.*
When Gran called, he trudge toward the stairs, heart sinking rapidly toward his toes (currently curling up in an effort to avoid scratchy wool socks.) "Hello, Uncle Clarence," he mumbled on reaching the bottom of the stairs. His peripheral vision picked up a scowl on his Gran's face. A wise boy shaped up on seeing that menacing expression, and while Neville had no pretensions to someday join Ravenclaw, he knew better than to ignore the Death Glare of Warning.
Hastily, he looked up at Uncle Clarence's six-feet-four-inches and walrus mustache, forcing a smile. Quite frankly, he didn't see how Clarence Mortlake could ever have been little, seven years old or not. Crushing handshake over with, he retreated to a corner while Gran greeted Great-Aunt Octavia.
"Iphy!" Octavia enthused, white hair and birdlike eyes bouncing with sheer enjoyment of life. "Darling! I haven't seen you since the last Mortlake family reunion! Oh, I've been so busy – so much to do!" Aunt Octavia had to stand on tiptoes in order to peck her older (and much taller) sister's cheek. As Gran leaned down, Octavia caught sight of the family relic – the great vulture-topped hat. "Oh, how marvelous!" she chirped. "You still have that dear old hat! What a lovely scarf, Iphy! Wherever did you get it?" Without waiting for an answer, Aunt Octavia spun on her nephew Clarence, greeting him in delight.
Neville submitted to being hugged and exclaimed over when his turn came. It wasn't that bad – in fact, Aunt Octavia smelled like lavender and roses. He did shift uncomfortably when she blinked at him with sudden tears in her eyes.
"Darling Nevvie," she whispered. "How much you've grown."
He fled back to his corner when Great-Uncle Algie arrived, clapping his son on the back and kissing both of his sisters. "Neville!" he cried cheerily. "How are you, sonnie? Started flying a broom yet?"
"Algie, leave the poor boy alone," Aunt Enid scolded good-naturedly. "How are you, Neville?"
"Fine, Aunt Enid," he answered, returning her quick hug. "How are you?"
"Doesn't he have perfect manners?" Aunt Octavia beamed. Neville felt his face grow hot and considered a swift withdrawal to the corner which he had begun to regard as a haven. His Gran's reproving eyes lit on him, and he sadly abandoned the idea.
"I've been thinking, Iphy," Uncle Algie continued unquenchably. "About Neville's magic."
Oh, no. Not this again.
"Some people just need a helping push to get it out, don't you know," he declared, obtusely ignoring Gran's frosty scowl. "I was talking to a chap down at the Ministry the other day, and he was telling me about his nephew – little chap of nine, never done a spark of magic. This fellow's brother took him up on a broomstick – twenty or thirty feet up, you know, and dangled him off of it by one hand – oh, don't gasp so, Octavia – he could have caught him with a levitation spell if he fell – and the kid just suddenly disappeared, reappeared on flat ground. Wandless apparition, what? And so I was thinking that we ought to help Neville along, and -"
Gran drew herself up, directing an intense Death Glare of Warning at Uncle Algie. Her gaunt hands clenched angrily. "Neville is only six, Algernon," she hissed. "I'll not have you badgering him about unnecessarily. We can worry about that when he's older. Do not, if you please, raise this subject again today!"
"Darling little Nevvie," Aunt Octavia cut in, seeing that Uncle Algie did not look quenched in the slightest. "Algie, do let him be." She lowered her voice to a whisper, but Neville could still hear her perfectly well. "After the trauma he's been through, poor dear boy, it's perfectly understandable that his development should be a trifle slow. Why, he's only just learned to read. Please don't make things any harder on him, Algie, dear. Please?"
Gran's ice-hard eyes shifted to Octavia. For a moment she seemed about to reprove her sister, then, instead, she humphed and turned to the door. She jerked it open so precipitously that the young man on the doorstep leapt backward. He blinked at her forbidding scowl, then pasted a lopsided grin on his face. "Er … hullo, old girl – ah, I mean, how are you, Great-Aunt Iphigenia?"
"I am quite well, Eugene," Gran answered stiffly, casting a quick, angry look at Uncle Algie. "I trust you are in good health?"
"Never better, actually – positively blooming. Er – nothing like a good family reunion to buck up the old spirits." Still grinning idiotically, he sidled past her only to be seized by Aunt Enid.
Neville tuned out the babble of conversation surrounding the arrival of Uncle Algie's youngest son and focused on his shoes. He felt a sudden irrational urge to cry – he did hate being talked about in that way. And the very thought of being dropped off a broomstick made his stomach twist in horror. As the door opened again to admit Great-Great-Aunt Agatha, the oldest member of the Mortlake family, and her two vociferous granddaughters, Neville began to inch back toward the stairs.
When a hand dropped onto his shoulder, he involuntarily jumped. Spinning around, he caught an odd mixture of concern and pity in Eugene Mortlake's eyes before his cousin smiled sunnily. "Hello, Neville – and where are you off to?"
Neville blinked up at him, at a loss for words. He had not seen Eugene for almost four years … not since he had skipped a day's worth of reviewing for the NEWTs to come comfort Gran when It had happened. Neville vaguely recollected his then-eighteen-year-old cousin stumbling out of the room in St. Mungo's where They were being kept, sitting down on the edge of Neville's bed, burying his head in his hands, and crying. Probably Eugene had liked Them a lot. Everybody did, Gran said.
Not that Neville himself would ever know.
"Nowhere," he finally answered. "I – I was just going to – to – to - "
"I understand completely," Eugene informed him. Sinking his voice into a stage whisper, he added, "Rather dull, these family functions, what? You and I are the youngest ones here, actually, since Clarence didn't bring his wife and baby. Poor little lass has got a nasty case of allergies, apparently. She's inherited Clarence's lungs, you know – when she cries, you can hear her from one end of the house right to the other." He screwed up his face thoughtfully. "Guess that's why I've put a stop on my visits – she doesn't like me much, and getting an earful of baby howls is a bit much."
Neville smiled uncertainly at the flood of words. "H-how are you?" he asked, recollecting his manners.
"Topping, thanks. I've less than six months to go before I'm a fully capable Hit Wizard – three cheers and all that. Of course, just between you and me, I already think I'm /more/ capable than some of those dunderheads they've got in the department. Why, just the other day, some less-than-Ravenclawish chap panicked in the middle of a bunch of Muggles (he was cleaning up the effects of a spot of accidental magic), and apparated away smack in the middle of a town square. It took another squad a whole afternoon to finish wiping Muggles' memories! If a chap's afraid of Muggle dogs, he oughtn't to be a Hit Wizard, don't you think? But, anyway, how are /you/ doing?"
"Fine, thank you," Neville replied. Oddly enough, he did feel a trifle better now. "I didn't know you were going to be a Hit Wizard," he added wistfully. "Is it – is it – exciting?"
"It's deadly dull, actually," Eugene answered, shrugging. "Hopefully I'll get some more interesting assignment once I've got a spot of seniority, but, you know, it's not like being an Aur -" He shut his mouth abruptly, eyes shadowing over.
Neville looked down at the floor again. That was always the way it was. Nobody ever wanted to talk about Aurors, about illnesses, about the War, even about normal families, in front of him. It hurt, especially since their abrupt halts only served to remind him of /why/ they wouldn't talk about those things.
He could feel Eugene looking down at him. "It's not like being an Auror," he said softly, and Neville looked up, startled. Eugene's mouth twisted into a smile, and he shrugged again. "Being an Auror was – is – was very dangerous. Only the bravest of the brave, only the best, ever become Aurors … and each Auror did more during the War to keep us all safe than the whole crew of Hit Wizards. And Frank was one of the best Aurors. When I was a kid, he was my hero … I wanted to grow up to be just like him …" He stopped and cleared his throat.
Neville kept his eyes on his cousin's face, silently willing him to go on. Tell me about my father, he wanted to cry. Was he already an Auror when you started Hogwarts? What made him one of the best Aurors? Why did you admire him so much? What was he like? Is he still a hero?
Can he still be /my/ hero?
But he didn't say anything. Instead, he looked toward the staircase, knotting his hands nervously in the sleeves of his robe.
Eugene turned on his heel, looking toward Uncle Algie, who stood alone in the midst of a gaggle of females, gazing mournfully toward Clarence and Octavia's son Augustus, who had gotten away into a corner to discuss Quidditch. "Dad!" he called jovially. "Have you noticed that the weather's incredibly beautiful today? What say we have a picnic out by the pier?"
Uncle Algie's face lit up instantly. "Corking idea, Eugene! Iphy – let's have a picnic! Just like old times! It'll be jolly good fun – don't be a wet blanket, Iphy. You know you want to."
Gran shook her head sadly, her face settling into its Pained-Tolerance-of- Utter-Immaturity expression. "Very well, Algernon," she said in resignation. "I am willing to drag our elaborate luncheon and best silver down to the marshy banks and eat in the mud if nothing else will satisfy you."
"Nonsense! You'll enjoy it!" Uncle Algie smiled broadly, and Neville felt a sudden chill as his uncle's eyes settled on him. "We'll /all/ enjoy it – right, Neville?"
He had a bad feeling about this.
-------------
A/N: Well, I'm sure that bored you all to death, but the second half will be better. Promise.
Reviews are welcome.