At precisely six o’clock in the evening on the 26th of August, the fireplace in the sitting room erupted in brilliant emerald flames.
A moment later, Harry Potter stumbled out of the hearth, landing rather ungracefully on the polished wooden floor.
He wore formal robes of a deep, almost black forest green silk that caught the light with subtle elegance.
Beneath them, an emerald shirt matched the vivid green of his eyes.
Before he could fully regain his balance, a boy of similar age with sandy-coloured hair and neat formal robes of deep crimson stepped forward with a friendly grin, offering his hand.
“Thank you,” Harry said, accepting the help with a sheepish smile.
“I’m not used to Floo travel yet.”
“It takes some getting used to,” the boy replied warmly.
He stepped back and adopted a more formal tone.
“I, Neville Francis Longbottom, Heir of Longbottom, formally welcome you to Longbottom Hall and extend to you our hospitality this evening.”
Harry, well-prepared by his extensive reading on wizarding etiquette, responded with equal formality.
“I, Harry James Potter, Heir of Potter, thank you for your welcome and graciously accept your hospitality, Heir Longbottom.” From within his robes he produced a small, elegantly wrapped package and offered it.
“I bring this gift in accordance with the old traditions.”
Neville accepted it with a respectful nod.
“I accept your gift with gratitude, Heir Potter.”
With visible relief, Neville let the stiffness drop from his shoulders and grinned.
“Thank Merlin that’s over. You can call me Neville, by the way.” He extended his hand once more.
Harry shook it firmly, his own grin widening.
“And I’m Harry. Just Harry.”
Neville straightened slightly.
“I’m to escort you to the sitting room. Gran—er, Madam Dowager Longbottom—is waiting for us.”
“Lead the way,” Harry replied with a nod.
The two boys crossed the impressive Entrance Hall and entered a warmly lit sitting room.
There, an elderly witch who appeared to be in her mid-seventies by wizarding standards awaited them.
Her posture was regal, her expression stern yet kind.
Harry offered her a formal greeting, which she returned with a graceful inclination of her head before gesturing for him to take the seat opposite her across a low coffee table.
“Now that the formalities are behind us,” Madam Longbottom began, her voice measured, “how have you been, Mister Potter?”
“Just Harry, please, ma’am,” he replied gently.
“After all, you’re the grandmother of my godbrother, Neville. And I’ve been… well enough.”
“Godbrother?” Neville blurted, startled.
“Neville!” Madam Longbottom scolded.
The boy flushed, looking properly chastised.
Harry stepped in smoothly to ease the awkwardness.
“Yeah, Neville. From what I’ve learned, your mother is my godmother, and my mother was yours. As far as I can tell, that makes us godbrothers—brothers in all but blood.”
“He is quite correct, Neville,” Madam Longbottom confirmed, her tone softening.
“Your parents and the Potters were very close. Their bond grew even stronger when dear Alice and Lily found themselves expecting at nearly the same time.” She turned back to Harry, her eyes filled with quiet sorrow.
“And I am truly sorry for your loss, Harry. I loved your parents as if they were my own.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Harry said softly, a flicker of genuine sadness crossing his face.
“That means a great deal.”
After a brief pause, Madam Longbottom continued, a touch of hesitation in her voice.
“Since you are Neville’s godbrother, as you so aptly put it, I would be honoured if you called me Gran, as he does.”
Harry blinked, momentarily taken aback, then offered a small, sincere smile.
“Thank you… Gran. I’d like that very much.”
“Good,” she said, satisfied.
“Now, perhaps you can tell us where you have been these past ten years?”
Harry let out a quiet sigh.
With careful weariness, he gave them an abridged account of his life with the Dursleys.
He revealed enough to convey the truth of his suffering without exposing every secret or the full extent of his abilities.
A house-elf appeared midway through his tale to announce dinner, and Harry continued his story once they had returned to the sitting room.
Madam Longbottom sipped sherry while the boys enjoyed cold butterbeers.
Though he remained cautious, Harry felt it was an important gesture of trust to share his father’s letter.
He withdrew it from his robes and handed it to the Dowager Lady.
As she read, her usually composed expression darkened.
When she finished, she muttered several rather colourful curses under her breath.
“It appears, Harry,” she said, returning the letter once she had regained her composure, “that you should have been raised here at Longbottom Hall.”
“Pardon? I was under the impression that Uncle Frank and Aunt Alice were… currently unable to care for me.”
He winced at his own bluntness.
“Sorry. That was rather abrupt.”
Madam Longbottom’s face showed a shadow of old pain.
“Not your fault, dear. But I believe an explanation is in order.”
She proceeded to recount the timeline: the attack on the Potters on October 31st, followed by the assault on the Longbottoms nearly a week later on November 5th.
Harry had been placed with the Dursleys on the evening of November 1st—four days before Frank and Alice were attacked.
The realization hit Harry like a Bludger.
“That means I should have been here… instead of with the Dursleys when it happened.”
“Yes, dear,” she confirmed gravely.
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“Dumbledore completely ignored my parents’ wishes.” His voice grew low and edged with anger.
“I find more and more reasons to hold that man responsible for what I endured. What I still don’t understand is why he did it.”
“I cannot answer that,” Madam Longbottom admitted.
Harry straightened in his seat.
“Then I suppose I’ll have to ask him myself when the time comes.” He paused, then shifted topics.
“In the meantime, I was hoping you might offer some guidance regarding the Greengrasses and the betrothal contract with Lady Daphne.”
They discussed the matter at length.
Madam Longbottom offered Longbottom Hall as a neutral meeting place, but Harry politely declined while gratefully accepting her broader advice—which aligned closely with his own instincts.
By the end of the evening, Harry felt a quiet sense of accomplishment.
He had successfully re-established the alliance with House Longbottom, gained valuable insights into his past, and formed what felt like the beginning of a genuine friendship with Neville.
They agreed to meet on the Hogwarts Express the following Sunday morning.
“I’ll probably be sitting with Lady Daphne, at least,” Harry mentioned.
“She is my betrothed, after all. I hope that won’t be an issue?”
“Nope,” Neville replied easily.
“I’ve met Daphne. She’s nice. She’ll probably want to sit with her friend Tracey as well, and I’ve got no problem with her either.”