It was a dull, gray Tuesday. There was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. But, happen they did. Owl sightings, shooting stars, and people in strange clothing talking about strange things were all over England. Snippets of conversation from these strange people contained phrases such as "You-Know-Who gone at last," "the Longbottoms, that's right," "-yes, their son, Neville-"
But one house was quiet with mournful people. One such person was a man who was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearning long robes, a purple cloak that swept the wooden floor of the room, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.
He was walking toward one of the people in the room. A rather formidable-looking old witch wearing a long, green dress. She was holding a handkerchief to blot at her eyes with a shrivled, clawlike hand. "Is the child with you?" She asked, seeing Dumbledore.
"Alastor went to get him."
"Oh, of course," she looked around the room as though searching for someone she had lost.
"There is, however, something I would like to speak with you about."
Her attention went back to the man in the half-moon spectacles, "yes?"
"I had thought it might be best for the boy to not know about his fame," he paused for her response.
She lowered the handkerchief, "What do you mean?"
"I understand that it would be difficult."
"He'll be growing up with every child in our world knowing his name! He'll be famous - a legend," a severe-looking woman with square glasses who was standing nearby spoke up. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
He turned toward the woman who had spoken, "My dear professor, it would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off he'll be, growing up without all that until he's ready to take it?" He looked imploringly back at the first woman, "Mrs. Longbottom?"
The professor opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes - yes, you're right of course."
Mrs. Longbottom held herself up higher, "But I'm not going to lie about how his parents died. He should be proud of their sacrifice."
"I quite agree with you Augusta. We're relying on you to ensure that the boy grows up levelheaded. Fame does strange things to people."
"I will do my duty by my son and grandson," she held her head high as the door opened. A man with a long mane of grizzled, dark gray hair stood in the doorway. He had a face that looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces were supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash and a large chunk of the nose was missing. He had small, dark, and beady eyes. A dull clunk echoed through the room at his every other step as he walked into the house.
He limped toward the small group of people, carrying a baby in a bundle of blankets in his arms.
"Any problems?" Dumbledore asked.
"No. House was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right," the grizzled man responded gruffly.
Dumbledore, Mrs. Longbottom, and the professor all peered into the bundle to get a look at the baby. He had a round face and was fast asleep. Under a tuft of dark hair over his forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.
"Is that where -?" whispered the professor.
"Yes," said Dumbledore . "He'll have that scar forever."
"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"
"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground."
They watched the baby sleep for a few more minutes in silence before Mrs. Longbottom looked up at the man holding him, "Thank you Alastor. Thank you for bringing my grandson back to me." She lifted her handkerchief back up to her eyes, blotting the new tears from them.
"I wasn't the one who kept him safe, his parents did that - your son and his wife."
"They were good people."
"They were."
Not long after, the baby was brought to his newly prepared room and laid in a crib. Neville Longbottom rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. He slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing his grandmother was crying softly down the hallway... He couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Neville Longbottom - the boy who lived!"
