The Longbottoms
There are all sorts of families, that much is certain. The number of children fluctuates, and the treatment of said childen differentiates even further. The previous case studies have explored the extremities of strict parents. But to truly understand the study of families, one must explore the grey area between strict and uncaring. The difference between love and neglect.
The Longbottoms are such a case. With a pureblood son — and quite a few squibs in the family — it could be understandable. Their fear of having squib children, that is.
Frank Longbottom was an only child, and the only heir to the Longbottom name. His mother and her brother, both carriers of the Longbottom name (which seemed to far exceed the importance of his father’s and thus he switched his last name instead) were incredibly involved in Frank’s life.
“His grades must reflect a Longbottom!”
“I will not have a dunce of a nephew!”
His uncle, Algernon, was unbelievably qualified. Having a gift in Herbology he’d prayed would be passed down to his nephew, he’d done all he could to tutor Frank in the subject since he could first babble. He’d be growing plants all around the house that his sister would chuckle at and that his brother-in-law would frown at.
Safe to say, Uncle Algie wasn’t a personal favourite of Frank’s father. Not that the feeling was reciprocated much.
His father, a first generation immigrant from the Philippines, had always been the cook for their family. He still prioritised grades, though not as severely as Augusta and Algernon. Instead, Andres was focused on encouraging little Frank to find his interests and pursuing said interests.
Augusta couldn’t care less about Andres’s background. Though Algernon didn’t quite take to it as she did. Haughty comments on the food, or snide remarks about Frank’s Filipino nose he’d inherited from his father — whatever it was, Andres took in stride.
Frank didn’t know how his father did it.
His uncle had gotten his way with Frank’s name. Frank, meaning free man. A more western take on the Filipino name ‘Franco’. He’d been publicly grateful that Frank’s skin was the same shade as his own. He commented on the possible lack of his intelligence, coming from his father’s side. (Which was stupid; no one could be smarter than his Tátay).
“Don’t teach him to make that freak stuff. Men don’t cook! That’s a woman’s job. He needs to work on his magic, lest ‘e be a squib.”
“Oh, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
Algernon was terrified his son would be a squib. Frank hadn’t shown any displays of accidental magic either. Well, not around him at least. So he took to making sure his nephew would.
“Algie! What were you thinking?”
“Are you insane?”
Uncle Algie had startled little Frank to the point where he flinched at the sight of his uncle. He’d shook him as child, frequently enough that Frank jumped when a hand brushed his shoulder. And of course he’d tried to anger Frank enough that the magic would fizzle to the surface.
First it was his toys. Demolished toy cars, singed blocks. Of course any of his toys that had been even slightly ‘girlish’ had been destroyed long ago. Then when it didn’t evoke enough of a reaction, there’d been his Tátay.
Sabotaging Tátay’s food, commenting on his clothes. Soon enough there were comments on Andres’s parents accents and the light tan of their skin. There’d been mocking of the delicacies and scorn at the quality of their work.
Frank always wondered why his mother never stopped it. He probably always would.
Of course, Algernon got exactly what he wanted. Frank blew up, exploding Algernon’s meal and setting his uncle’s chair on fire. Maybe if Algernon had paid better attention to his nephew, and never stooped to such cruelty, he wouldn’t have gotten those burns. Frank apologised later (though he still didn’t get why he had to), not meaning a single word.
His parents loved him. But did they even love each other?
If Augusta truly loved her husband, would she let him experience such ridicule from her family? Was it because Andres loved his wife that he stayed? And if they really loved him, would they really be okay with Uncle Algernon’s methods?
They’d limit his downtime in favour of studies, claim it was ‘for his own good’. They’d let Uncle Algernon tutor him, even if his methods always left Frank near tears. They were strict enough that he rarely went out to a friend’s house (and he never invited them near Uncle Algie).
Was it love that made them so afraid? Was it love that was behind each lesson? Should a parent not love their child unconditionally? Should they not be the ones to dry their child’s tears?
If he’d been a squib, what would they have done? Would they let Uncle Algernon have his way? He was lucky to have never found out. Was it really that lucky to be creeping along a path of thorns?
He wouldn’t let Algernon near his own children. He didn’t know if he’d even let his mother near his own children. Would she lead Algernon right to their doorstep?
Would he even have children? Andres had found a wife in his mother, sure, but who was to say Frank would succeed the same?
“It’s a miracle he found you, eh Auggie? No one else would probably take ‘im.”
It was pure luck Frank wasn’t a squib. But he didn’t need luck to get out. No, he would achieve all he wanted with nary a visit from the leprechauns.
He’d find his own people, so diverse his Uncle Algie would faint. He’d create his own foods with friends, all of whom were delighted to try his own creations. It’d take a while, but he’d learn to share. His dreams, his laughter and his fears. And he wouldn’t be scorned. No, Frank would finally understand what it is to be appreciated. What it is to be truly, unconditionally loved.
He’d learn his features weren’t weird and freakish like his uncle suggested, and that maybe he wasn’t as bad looking as he thought. He’d learn to not flinch at a touch; that maybe not all contact is bad. Maybe not everyone is out to get him like Uncle Algernon.
A boy told he was unworthy, expected to be more. Frank Longbottom would soar.
A prodigy, much farther than his uncle dared to dream and successful in his own right.
Such is the tale of Frank Longbottom.