Unnamed

Neville Longbottom adjusted his charcoal gray robes after he stepped out of the floo into Saint Mungo's. He couldn't begin his summer until he visited his parents. He strode down the hall towards the ward that housed them with a confidence and determination that came from his first year at Hogwarts.

He was actually not supposed to be visiting until tomorrow, but he had found out that visiting hours had extended after dinner, and he had to go. He suspected that Gran was going to be most put out when she discovered where he was.

No one stopped or even questioned Neville as he turned into the ward. He did not give the air of someone looking for help, nor the air of uncertainty and despair that he had before he arrived at Hogwarts. He no longer was the uncertain boy looking for his toad on the Express. He had finished fifth in his year, as was acknowledge among them as a Herbology genius.

More importantly, he had friends, friends who liked him for what he was. Friends who had taught him how to be confident. It was as Dean had said, if you looked like you knew where you were going, no one questioned you until you got some where important. It looked like Dean was right, because he got all the way to the door of the Janus Thickey Ward before someone even addressed him.

"You're here awful earlier that I expected, young Mister Longbottom," Nurse Higginbotthom said from her post at the door. "Your parents have just finished dinner, though, so we'll let your right in. How is your Gran doing? I imagine she'll be along."

"I imagine she'll be here shortly," Neville said with a smile. "Might be a bit put out with me though. Mum and Dad still in the same place?"

"No need to move them, and change does tend to upset many in the ward," Nurse Higginbotthom said, turning towards an idling nurse. "Nellie! Nellie Forbush! Show young Mister Longbottom to his parents."

"Yes, Mistress Higginbotthom," the young statuesque blond said, moving away from the wall, and sliding her sickle novel into her front pocket. "Follow me, Mister Longbottom."

Neville followed Nurse Forbush through the rows of curtained beds to the pair that contained his parents. With a wave of her wand, the curtains parted, revealing his parents. His mother's once dark hair had been turning white over the last few years, and only a few strands remained of it's original color. It was always his mother that seemed to be first to approach him.

Her hand caressed his cheek as Neville spoke. "Mum. I just finished my first year at Hogwarts and I couldn't wait until tomorrow to come and tell you and Dad." His mother smiled at him, she always seemed to the most understanding of the two. Unable to talk, to really communicate, but in so many ways she still managed to convey her love to Neville. His mother sat down on the bed, and Neville sat down beside her.

"I ended up fifth in my year, thanks to Hermione Granger. I don't do think I'd even have come close to that if it wasn't for her. I think I told you about her at Christmas. She finished first of course, but I'm first in Herbology. Harry finished second ... actually Gryffindor managed to shut out Ravenclaw from the top ten in my year ... well, with the help of Malfoy.

"I don't know what happened to Malfoy. It's like he became a different person the moment he got to hold his nephew. It's kind of neat to see, the moment someone puts Patrick in his arms, suddenly it's as if whatever though was going through his head was wiped away and replaced with a smile. I wonder if the same thing will happen to Harry after Hermione has his baby.

"It's kind of been strange this year, with Hermione living in the wardrobe in our dorm. I mean, it's different watching a pregnancy happen up close. She's due any day now. I kind of expected her to end up having the baby on the Express..."

"Neville Francis Longbottom!" Neville looked up. It seemed that his Gran hadn't been as far behind as he expected. He knew that she'd be after him as soon as she realized where he'd gone. "What possessed you to go here all alone?" his Gran's voice dropping from challenging to stern.

With his Mum trying to hid behind him, Neville stood, and for the first time in his life looked his Gran right in the eyes. "I couldn't wait to tell my parents about my year."

"Neville, you are eleven-years-old, going off on your own, even to a relatively safe place like Saint Mungo's, without permission will not be ..." Gran began, pausing for a moment. Neville could tell she was trying to keep her tone sharp, but not loud. "Countenanced."

Somehow, Neville managed to grin, as he replied, "I asked, you said yes."

"I was distracted by Miss Brocklehurst," Gran replied, before looking up at the ceiling. "I don't know what it is about Longbottoms. The moment you go away to Hogwarts you suddenly blossom into impertinent little men. Your father was just the same way."

Suddenly there was an updraft in the curtained area, and a soft amber glow rose and fell. Neville turned to the direction of the light, and discovered that his father was standing there, instead of laying on his bed, trembling, he held the wand. Neville had left it sticking from the wand pocket on his belt, ready to be drawn. It seemed that his father had drawn it.

"My wand," his father said, his voice some what raspy due to lack of use. For the first time since Neville could remember, there was an expression of recognition on his father's face. It was as if he suddenly seeing everything for what it was.

"Mother? Alice?" his father continued, his voice clearing with each word, until in a clear tone he said the one word that his son had long wished, without realizing that he wished it, to hear. "Neville?"

Neville couldn't stop himself from breaking the spell that seemed to have held the room stillness with a word of his own. It was said softy, almost without a breath, as if it was a dream. "Dad."

The word was repeated, as Neville suddenly found himself being hugged by his father for the first time. "Dad." Another set of arms came around him, his mothers, and then the were joined by his Gran. Tears began to flow down Neville's cheeks, as he felt his fathers wand touch his chin.

The amber glow rose again, this time encompassing the whole Longbottom family. "Neville," the trembling name was echoed again first by his father, then with great surprise from his mother.

"Neville, my little boy," the trembling soprano said as the glow flared again.

And then the glow departed, leaving the four Longbottoms, son, father, mother, and grandmother, holding each other, unwilling to let go of each other, afraid that the moment they did so, everything would end.

Dean Thomas dropped his trunk at the foot of the bed in his new room. The replacement of the tank that had busted over Christmas had not gone well. And when the hot water heater went, explosively, shortly after bad replacement main pressure tank, insurance had financed a complete rebuild of the north side of the house.

There was not much left from his old room. Some art supplies that he'd left behind from Christmas, a couple posters, the rest having been ruined by the roof and wall collapse. Dean was actually surprised that his Salvador Dali print had survived. So, he had a new room, most of which had been decorated without his input. The walls were plain white, but that outside wall, on the north side of the house was filled with windows. There was the one right over his desk, that was currently opened out into the garden, and then to its sides, high above his bed and high above the book case were a pair of windows even with the top of the walls. All of them let in that most precious of quantities for an artist, Northern light.

He moved to his desk, opening the drawers to discover that his parents had filled them with art supplies. There were pencils and pastels, paints and brushes ... it was a young artist's dream. He looked at the pad of paper laying on the desk and could not resist pulling out the pencils to begin his first work of the summer.

It started with scarlet lines, turning into wood panels outlining the scene. Then some burnt umber began to show the curls of hair, around deep chocolate eyes. Ebony locks, skewed ever which way appeared over emerald eyes. Saffron and cream blended together for their skin, with bit of pink highlighting their lips. A deep ecru mixed with a bit of olive to form the boy's shirt, and scarlet and burgundy traced over the swollen breasts and womb of the girl.

Back to the boy's face, Dean gave it a laughing expression, as if a great joke had just been given. To the girl's tilted head, he added a small smile. The boy's hand snaked around her shoulders, and the girl's head rested on his. Dean filled out the background of the compartment, remembering the day's journey. He worked on the reflection on the window, carefully allowing the scenery of the journey to be seen through the reflection of the couple.

It was getting dark by the time he'd finished, signing his name in auburn pencil, the northern light almost gone. As he noticed this, his lights flickered on.

"I don't think you can draw in the dark, Dean," his mother said, moving from the door way to stand behind him. "That's beautiful. Who is it?"

"My friends Harry and Hermione on the train today. I had to commit it to paper as soon as possible, or I'd forget it."

"They must be good friends," his mother said, sitting down on his bed. "You have to really know them well to get that detailed."

"Well, I did live in a room with them, Neville, Ron, and Seamus," Dean said. He stepped over to his trunk and pulled out one of his many sketch books. He opened it almost randomly, finding a picture he'd sketched of the three playing football with three girls. He sat down beside his mother and showed her the sketch. "That's Neville with the loosened tie. He didn't exactly expect to play, but I twisted my ankle. That's Seamus in the light blue. It's apparently his local football club's colors. Ron's in the goal. That garish orange outfit is apparently his Quidditch team. West Ham and Drogheda may have been regulated in the last couple years, but they've never been as bad as the Chudley Cannons."

"They can't be that bad," his mother said, as he turned the page to show a better picture of the girls.

"Mum, their motto is 'let's cross our fingers and hope for the best,'" Dean said before pointing out the girls. "That's Sally-Anne on attack. She was responsible for my ankle. Don't think she's all athletic, though. She finished fourth in our year."

"Smart girl then," his mother said, as he turned the page. "And in case I haven't mentioned it, I'm proud of how much you improved your grades since the beginning of the year. Ninth in your year is quite good."

"If it wasn't for Hermione's plan and everyone in Gryffindor in my year's help I wouldn't have done half as well," Dean admitted, pointing out another picture. "That's Lavender Brown. Never underestimate her. I first thought she was an air head, but she actually is sixth in our class. She can pick any lock, and she's got a right hook that put Goyle out like a light."

He turned the page again, revealing a picture of Parvati standing before the fire in the common room, singing. You could see most of Gryffindor in the crowd around her. "That's Parvati Patil, she's got this goal of singing 'Rule Britannia' at the Royal Albert. With her and Seamus around it seems like we're always one step away from a song. This is from after we won the Quidditch Cup. She and Seamus traded off until Professor McGonagall sent us all off to bed. It took me weeks to get their duet of Danny Boy out of my head."

Another page turn revealed very pregnant Hermione, nibbling the tip of her quill as she paused to think between lines of her essay. Dean wasn't sure what class it was, but he'd worked hard to get that expression of concentration just right. "That's Hermione, she's the reason my grades went up ... well, her and Harry. She's so smart that sometime she requires a translator."

"She's due soon, isn't she?"

"Any day now," Dean replied turning the page again. He tried to turn the page quickly, but his mother stopped him. The sketch was the one he'd made of Harry's scars. It had been one of the most difficult sketches he had made. The one in the sketch book was his first attempt. It had taken four attempts before he'd been able to finish it. Harry had asked him to do it after a particularly stupid letter from Child Protective Services.

Harry was laying on his stomach, naked, on his bed. You couldn't see his face, but with the curve of his back and the slope of his shoulders, it was clear that he was afraid. In a later sketch Dean had added a mirror on the bed, positioned to reflect his face. Harry had wanted each scar labeled, every burn mark, every whip mark. As Dean had sketched the long belt marks Harry had received for getting better grades than Dudley, the burns of the fire poker for not having breakfast ready, and the scratches from the rake for not weeding the flower beds right, Dean had nearly lost his dinner. He'd abandoned the first sketch because it needed to be bigger.

"What is this?" his mother asked, in a very worried tone.

Dean replied tentatively, "That's Harry's back. He asked me to sketch it after Child Protective Services told him that they wanted him to reconcile with his Uncle Vernon. This one wasn't good enough."

"He is no longer residing with his Uncle, I hope," Dean's mother said.

"He's with Hermione's parents," Dean said, finally able to turn the page. That page was of Victoria Price-Malfoy and her then newborn baby.

"I'm surprised that her parents took them in, given that he is responsible for their daughter's condition," she said as Dean turned the page again, this time to a picture of Ron guarding the football goal from Sally-Anne.

"Responsible, only because he also saved her life from a troll. And no, I don't want to discuss the troll in the dungeon again." The next page was what Dean considered a very poor attempt at a self portrait of himself writing.

"I don't know, it might make a good painting for either of your walls," Mrs. Thomas said. "Your father has decided that you may cover both your East and West walls with paintings of your choice. Your sister wants you to do a unicorn on hers."