The countryside was quiet when Neville arrived at the care home. The cobbled path leading to the entrance shimmered faintly under the floating lanterns that lined the walkway, enchanted to glow softly in the evening air. A gentle breeze rustled the hedgerows, trimmed neatly by a combination of hand shears and well-placed wandwork and somewhere in the distance, an old wizard's wireless crackled with the sound of a brass band playing a tune that felt oddly familiar.
Neville adjusted his coat, feeling the weight of his day settle onto his shoulders. It had been a long journey from Hogwarts, where his new life as a professor was beginning to feel like home. But this, this place, was a different kind of home, one that felt smaller than he remembered, and emptier too.
He hesitated at the door. A young witch at the front desk, her robes pressed and crisp, glanced up at him and gave a knowing smile. “Mrs. Longbottom is in the garden,” she said. “She’s been expecting you.”
Neville nodded and made his way through the corridors. The air smelled of chamomile and parchment, mingling with the faintest hint of potion fumes from the medical wing. Portraits of retired Ministry officials murmured softly to each other as he passed, their discussions turning to whispers as they recognized him. He paid them no mind, his thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the past and present like overgrown vines in an abandoned greenhouse.
When he stepped into the garden, he saw her. Augusta Longbottom sat on a stone bench beneath a hovering sunshade, her hat as grand as ever, though slightly askew. She looked older now, frailer than he remembered, but there was still fire in her sharp eyes as they locked onto his.
“You’re late,” she said, though there was no real bite to it.
Neville chuckled, moving to sit beside her. “You’d think by now I’d have mastered punctuality.”
“Hmph,” she scoffed, adjusting her hat. “Still room for improvement.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, watching the enchanted lilies bloom and close in a slow, rhythmic dance. Neville glanced at his grandmother’s hands, now thinner, veined like the old roots he tended to in the greenhouses. They had once been so strong, so commanding, pointing him toward his future with unwavering certainty. Now, they trembled slightly as they rested in her lap.
“How’s Hogwarts?” she asked eventually. “Still standing?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” he said with a grin. “No thanks to my first years. You wouldn’t believe the mess they made of the Venomous Tentacula last week.”
Augusta sniffed. “I assume you handled it.”
“Eventually.” He hesitated, then added, “Sometimes I still feel like I don’t belong there. Like I’m playing the part of someone braver, someone more sure of himself.”
She turned to him, her gaze piercing through every doubt he had ever carried. “Neville, you spent years proving yourself to be more than capable. You stood against the worst of them, led a rebellion, fought in a war. And now, you teach the next generation to do the same.” She shook her head. “You’re not playing a part. You are exactly who you were meant to be.”
His throat tightened. He looked away, watching as a pair of young witches, apprentices, likely, helped an elderly wizard to his feet. They whispered between themselves, their hands careful but sure. Neville had been them once, looking after the ones who had come before. And now, here he was, on the other side.
“You were always watching, weren’t you?” he murmured. “People. The way they held themselves, the way they carried their burdens.”
Augusta’s lips curled slightly. “It’s the best way to understand them.” She tilted her head toward him. “And what do you see now?”
Neville swallowed, his heart a strange mixture of sorrow and gratitude. “I see you,” he said softly. “And I see myself.”
She smiled then, small but warm, and reached for his hand. “Good. Then you’re paying attention.”
The garden hummed around them, soft lantern light casting a golden glow, leaves rustling with whispered conversations of their own. Neville squeezed his grandmother’s hand gently, anchoring himself to the moment, knowing that even as the world kept moving, some things would always remain.
On the way back to his lodging in town, Neville found himself people-watching. It was something he had done unconsciously as a boy, back when he didn’t quite know where he fit in the world. Now, it was different. He observed the shopkeepers locking up for the night, a mother tugging her child's hand as they hurried across the street, two old friends sharing a quiet laugh over pints outside a pub. Life continued, with or without him.
At some point, his feet carried him down a familiar road, past old homes with crooked chimneys and window boxes bursting with enchanted blooms. His grandmother’s house stood at the end of the lane, looking just as it had when he was a child, though the ivy creeping up the brick seemed wilder now, left unchecked. The gate still squeaked as he pushed it open.
He lingered on the doorstep, unsure why he had come. The house was empty now, just a shell of what had been. He could almost hear the echo of his grandmother’s voice from years ago, berating him for scuffing his shoes or slouching at the dinner table.
He had been embarrassed by it then, the constant criticism, the sharp words that felt like they were chipping away at him rather than shaping him. As a child, he had wondered if she was disappointed in him, if she wished for a grandson more like his father, braver, more naturally gifted, less awkward. He remembered the way her gaze would linger on him after a failed spell, the frustration in her voice when she told him to stand taller, to try harder. It had felt suffocating.
And yet, there had been kindness too, though it had often come wrapped in iron. The late nights she spent by his bedside when he had nightmares, the way she had defended him fiercely against anyone who dared to doubt his worth. He had never heard her say the words outright, but he knew, now, that love had been woven into every stern command, every lesson she had thought him.
It had all led him to where he was today, and Neville enjoyed his life. He loved his work at Hogwarts, tending to the greenhouses, guiding students who like he once had doubted their own abilities. He had a home of his own now, filled with warmth, laughter, and the steady presence of his family. His wife, ever patient and understanding, had a way of steadying him when old doubts crept in, reminding him of who he had become. His children, still young, had yet to fully understand the weight of the name they carried, but he hoped they would grow up knowing they were enough just as they were. He had built a life beyond the war, beyond the boy who once felt invisible. And yet, standing here, he realized how much of himself was still rooted in the past.
His fingers brushing the old brass doorknob, he felt the weight of it all, the misunderstanding, the unspoken gratitude, the years they had spent growing into their understanding of one another. He had always thought she was too hard on him, but now, standing here, he understood. His grandmother had only wanted him to be strong enough to survive in a world that had taken so much from their family.
His breath hitched slightly as he took a step back. Then another. The wind rustled the ivy, whispering against the windows, and Neville turned away.
Instead of opening the door, he let it be.
He inhaled deeply, let the night air settle in his lungs, and walked away.
A few days later, Neville was in his office at Hogwarts, marking a stack of essays on Mandrake properties. The late afternoon sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting shifting colors across the wooden desk. He rubbed his eyes, stretching back in his chair when a soft tapping at the window caught his attention.
An owl.
His stomach twisted as he rose to open it. The bird held a letter with a crisp, familiar seal. The parchment trembled slightly in his fingers as he broke it, scanning the words he already felt in his bones.
His grandmother had passed in the night, peacefully, they said. A good death, if there was such a thing.
Neville sat down heavily, staring at the letter. He had always known this day would come, but knowing didn’t make it any easier.
After a long moment, he stood. He needed air, to walk, to watch. To see the world move around him, even when he felt like standing still.
And so he did.