Chapter 636: The Meaning of Longbottom
The wheat field swayed in the mist, the golden ears rubbing against each other with a rustling sound.
Neville lay prone on the ground, the pain making his breathing shallow and rapid.
He tried to prop himself up with his right hand, but an unreasonable pain flared in his arm; with a muffled groan, he fell back to the ground.
The grazes on his knees oozed beads of blood, which dropped into the white mist like tears falling into a white ocean, quickly vanishing from sight.
He wanted to rest for a moment.
Just lie there for a bit, and then stand up.
Neville closed his eyes, slowing his breathing.
But just then, a breeze blew past.
He saw that flower again.
It had been blown to less than a foot from the tip of his nose, lying there quietly, sparkling.
Neville blinked.
Sweat blurred his vision for a second, but the flower was still there.
Five petals, each a different colour. The red one looked like a strawberry sweet wrapper, the green one shimmered with a peppermint gloss; there were gold, purple, and blue ones. They had been carefully folded and pinched together by an invisible hand, shining like a tiny, stubborn star amidst the lifeless white mist.
Neville reached out to grab it.
The moment his fingers touched the petal, he heard a voice.
It was soft and gentle, laced with a smile, yet carrying a particularly familiar patience born of countless repetitions—
"...Come, Neville, look at this. It's a sweet wrapper, isn't it? We fold it like this... yes, fold it like this... Look, what has it become?"
Neville froze.
His fingers stiffened in mid-air, his pupils slightly dilating.
He had heard this voice before.
But... when had he heard it?
The repeatedly cast Memory Charms left him unable to recall a single clue; only a buzzing sound echoed in his ears.
His palms began to sweat again.
The sweet wrapper suddenly moved.
It floated up gently from the ground, as if plucked from above, waved in front of him, and then drifted leisurely forward.
Neville instinctively wanted to chase it, but the injury on his leg made him draw a sharp breath. He gritted his teeth:
"Don't... go..."
Miraculously, he scrambled up and hobbled after it, dragging his injured leg.
The sweet wrapper didn't float fast, as if intentionally waiting for him.
After covering some distance, Neville saw a second sweet wrapper.
It had been folded into a bird, with pointed wings and a perky tail, resting in a fold of the mist.
As Neville bent down to pick it up, that voice rang out again—
"—It's become a little bird, Neville, look—"
This time, the voice held a laugh, the kind of suppressed chuckle that suggested the speaker knew the game was childish, but simply couldn't resist playing it with him.
Neville stared blankly.
His nose stung, and the hazy world seemed to grow even hazier.
"Who... are you?"
His voice was timid, short, and soft.
The sweet wrapper danced into the air, and Neville followed it without a moment's hesitation.
The third sweet wrapper was a star.
The fourth was a small boat.
The fifth was a lopsided heart.
Each one lay directly in his path, and every time he picked one up, that voice would sound.
It was as if someone were standing at the end of the road, talking to him constantly, using those sweet wrappers as signposts, pinning them one by one into the void, waiting for him to pick them up.
Neville's leg hurt more and more, but his pace grew faster.
He started to run.
Limping, stumbling, running.
He held more and more sweet wrappers in his hand, and the voices grew in number, layering over each other like a disjointed song.
"Neville..."
"My Neville-kun..."
"Look at what Mummy folded for you—"
Neville stopped dead in his tracks.
He stood in an open clearing. The mist around him had suddenly thinned significantly, as if someone had drawn back a transparent curtain.
He could see the edge of the wheat field; he could see the churning black, white, and red mists in the distance; he could see that beneath his feet was not a void, but something soft, like grass.
But he had no mind to look at any of that.
Because not far ahead of him stood two people.
A woman was crouching on the ground, holding an unfinished sweet wrapper flower.
Her dark brown hair was tied back messily, with a few strands escaping the hairband to frame her face. Her eyes were exactly like Neville's—not big enough, not bright enough, but when she smiled, they curved into two gentle arcs.
She was looking up at him, her hands stilling.
The man beside her stood ramrod straight, as if standing guard. He had a square jaw, broad shoulders, and wore the exact same Auror robes that Neville remembered from that photograph. His hand rested on the woman's shoulder, his fingers tightening slightly.
Neville stood there, utterly motionless.
His palms were slick with sweat, the sweet wrappers he clutched dampened, their colours bleeding into the lines of his hands. He wanted to speak, but his mouth opened and closed, his throat only managing to emit a muffled syllable, as if he were being strangled.
"...Mum... Mummy?"
The woman—his mother—swayed slightly at the sound of that word.
Then, she smiled.
That smile was so bright, Neville felt it could illuminate and scatter the surrounding mist.
Her eyes welled with tears, but she didn't cry. She simply raised the sweet wrapper in her hand, holding it out to Neville.
It was a new flower.
It wasn't finished; only three petals had been folded. Neville saw his own hands trembling, saw the sweet wrappers he had collected slip through his fingers and scatter in the air like a flock of colourful butterflies.
"I..."
Neville heard himself failing to form any words; he sounded completely foolish.
"Neville."
Alice's voice was barely a whisper.
Neville tried to step forward, but his legs suddenly gave out. He fell to his knees with a thud, bursting the scabs on his knees and causing fresh blood to seep out.
Frank moved instantly.
The man who had been standing as silently and steadfastly as a tree closed the distance in two large strides and hauled Neville up from the ground.
His movements were rough, like yanking a wounded comrade up on a battlefield, but his grip instantly gentled the moment he touched Neville's arm.
"Does it hurt?"
Frank asked.
Just three words.
Neville had never heard Frank—his father's—voice.
He had heard countless stories recounted by others, heard the title "the Longbottoms" mentioned time and again, heard people speak of the heroic Aurors with reverence, pity, and deep emotion. But he had never actually heard his own father's voice.
So this is what it sounded like.
Deep and gravelly.
"...A bit."
Neville said.
He didn't know why he felt the need to be honest. He always lied to his Gran, saying "It doesn't hurt" every time he fell, or "I just woke up hot" every time he had a nightmare.
"You've grown so big."
Alice said, moving her hands to cup Neville's face. Her thumbs gently wiped the dirt from his cheeks.
"Better than I could have ever imagined. A million times better than I imagined."
Neville's tears finally fell.
He cried without a shred of dignity, snot and tears smearing his face, his shoulders heaving.
He wanted to talk, had so many things he wanted to say. He wanted to say, "I've been looking for you," he wanted to say, "Gran misses you all the time," he wanted to say, "I don't know what Longbottom means."
"You've grown sturdy," Frank said, looking at him.
The sky suddenly darkened, massive storm clouds obscuring vast swathes of the realm. The Lands Between trembled; thunder flashed in the distance, the rumbling sound carrying from far away.
"There isn't much time left," the veteran Auror said.
He looked at Alice, and Alice suddenly pulled Neville into a tight embrace.
Neville stood rooted to the spot, dazed.
"You must go now," Alice said, holding him tightly.
"I'm not leaving," Neville sobbed, his voice so loud it startled even himself.
"I'm not leaving! I just found you—"
"You never lost us," Frank said.
"Do you know what Longbottom means?"
"I don't know..."
Neville was unwilling to voice his own shameful interpretation.
Always at the bottom, always beneath...
"You will know,"
Alice smiled, the tears finally rolling down from her eyes, tracing her laugh lines and flowing over her lips.
"Dearest Neville, you do not belong here yet. You still have a path to walk, my Neville-kun. You have a very, very long way to go."
She pressed the sweet wrapper into Neville's palm.
Three petals, unfinished.
"This is not a dream."
She said, her tone resolute.
Neville had heard such a resolute tone before; it was the Castle Spirit Cat telling him that he would definitely find his way here.
Neville looked down at the sweet wrapper.
It was crumpled, half-dampened by his sweat and his mother's tears, but it still sparkled brightly.
A cat's meow echoed, sounding very, very close.
Frank stood up, resuming that ramrod-straight, standing-guard posture. He looked at Neville, his lips moving as if he wanted to deliver a long speech, but he ultimately squeezed out just two words.
"Stay sturdy."
Neville stood up, clutching the sweet wrapper.
His leg still hurt, his arm was difficult to lift, his eyes still stung, and his palms were still sweating.
But he stood up.
He walked backwards, his eyes sore, not daring to blink.
His mother was still crouching where she was, waving at him. His father stood beside her and gave a single nod.
As Neville took his fifth step, the mist surged forward.
He turned around.
The world spun.
He was back in the Gryffindor dormitory.
He bolted upright in bed, gasping for air.
His gaze instinctively shot to his palm.
It wasn't a dream!
The sweet wrapper with three petals was clenched tightly in his hand, gripped with all his might.
Tears, seemingly the cheapest thing in the world, fell once again.
The night wasn't over yet.
But an ugly grin spread across Neville's face. He knew he would still trip and fall in the future, he would still be scolded, and he would still have nightmares. His palms would still sweat.
But it didn't matter anymore.
He finally knew what Longbottom meant.
Longbottom meant always being at the bottom;
But the things at the bottom are always the most sturdy and strong.