The Three Brothers: The Cure

Of Needles and Twigs

12th September 1991

"Relax, Nev. It's going to be alright," said Mark, trying to reassure his nervous friend. "Plenty of people have never flown on a broom before they come at Hogwarts. I'm one of them too."

"Oh please," retorted Neville, barely slowing down as he walked towards the Great Hall. "I'll bet six sickles you'll be flying around fine. It's like you're naturally talented or something."

"I beg to differ —"

"Then beg," interrupted Neville.

Mark snorted. His friend had really started showing his sense of humour lately. Deciding not to back down, he tried to seem unfazed.

"As I was saying," he continued, "I'm not naturally talented. I'm shit at Herbology, and you know it." Mark started counting on his fingers but got stuck when he couldn't think of anything else at the moment. Looking at the sole digit on Mark's hand, Neville chuckled.

"Exactly," he said. "You even managed to turn your matchstick into a needle at the first attempt."

"Not so loudly," hissed Mark, "I don't want Hermione to hear that."

Neville gave him a confused look as he shook his head. Slumping onto an empty seat at the Gryffindor table, he turned sideways at Mark.

"I still don't understand why you want her to take the credit for it and gloat around."

Mark bit his tongue. It was so bloody difficult to explain his actions to other people. Especially when it was based on knowledge that was not openly available. He decided to take a different approach—after all, the best lies were the ones wrapped in truth.

"Because if she finds out, she won't leave me alone. She'll keep on pestering me, wanting to know what I did differently in the class. You know how dogged she is." Mark began piling on the eggs and bacon, having remembered something.

"And to counter your earlier point," said Mark. "I'm not what one would call athletic," he finished pointing the fork in his hand towards his gut. Neville snorted and pointed towards Mark's plate.

"And you're not going to be anytime soon if you eat like that."

"Oi! Keep your evil eye of me cheese," Mark called him out, trying to imitate a pirate accent. Seeing no reaction from Neville, Mark realised that his friend had probably never seen a pirate movie before. Dejected, he turned his attention back to his plate, his joke crashing before it could take off.

As he reached for the pitcher of water—the pumpkin juice was just too sweet—the morning mail arrived, delivered by hundreds of swooping owls. A large barn owl landed near them; a brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied to its feet.

"It's from my Gran," said Neville, untying the leather strap off the regal-looking bird. Mark watched as Neville offered it a piece of bacon from his plate. "Here Harold."

"What is it?"

"It's a Remembrall," said Neville holding up a glass ball. The size of a large marble, Mark noticed that it was filled with white swirling smoke inside. Down the table, he could feel Hermione Granger's eyes rise up from the book she had been reading—Quidditch through the Ages—and locking onto the magical object in Neville's hand, obviously eager to learn about any new thing she could.

"The smoke's supposed to turn red if you forget something," began Neville, immediately stopping as an odd look in appeared in Mark's eyes—he had sensed someone coming up behind them. Mark watched as a pale hand tried to swipe the Remembrall off Neville's hand, missing just by a bare inch.