InsaneJournal

The Spirit of Mim (Parts 1 - 3)
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Written for: 100quills

Title: The Spirit of Mim (Parts 1-3)
Characters: Neville/Hannah, Harry, Luna, and the Mimbulous Mimbletonia
Rating: R
Warnings: can't say without revealing plot, but assume a possibility of slash, femmeslash, or het, just to cover everything.
Summary: It's ridiculous for a woman to be jealous of a plant. Isn't it?
Prompt Table: http://lionille.insanejournal.com/6921.html



.001. Blind.
Three drops of sap, when collected during the last full moon of October and brewed in a tincture, will enhance one's vision of what is really happening around one, for it is well known that there are none so blind as those who will not see.

Neville Longbottom glanced at the grandfather clock face high overhead as he pulled on his coat. “I’m leaving, Gran,” he called. “Can I get you anything from Hogsmeade today?”

Augusta’s querulous voice floated in from the sitting room. “Why on earth will you be in Hogsmeade on a Thursday?”

“I’m taking a group of Third Years down to Wellbrook Field to study that patch of carnivorous midge-snaps, remember?” He picked up the post that had been piling up on the foyer escritoire and leafed through it absently while he waited for her answer.

“And what does Wellbrook Field have to do with Hogsmeade?” she returned waspishly.

“We’ll be walking right through it,” Neville pointed out patiently. “I thought perhaps we’d stop and have lunch at the Three Broomsticks on the way back. You know, as a little treat for the students. I just thought you might like me to pick something up for you while I was there. Some chocolates, or….”

“You needn’t worry about me, young man. I don’t need anything. It won’t be long now before I have no need of the things of this earth at all.”

Neville laid the post back on the table with resignation and walked into the sitting room. “Don’t talk like that, Gran,” he urged her quietly. “You’re fit as a horse, Doctor Humbert said so just last week.”

“Doctor Humbert is an idiot.”

“Well, nevertheless, I do have to …” he gestured tactfully at the door, remembered she couldn’t see him, and continued. “Get on to work.”

His grandmother huffed like an indignant owl. “Oh, your work! I don’t want you taking on airs over this position, young man, you’re only an assistant there, nothing more. You can spare time for your elders! Speaking of whom, you haven’t visited your parents in nearly a month!”

“It’s just a busy time of year for… for Professor Sprout.”

“Professor Sprout?” she nearly shouted. “Did Professor Sprout raise you and sacrifice for you and provide for you…?”

“Of course not, Gran,” he broke in, before she could really get rolling. “I’ll stop by on my way in this morning and visit them for a few minutes, all right? I’ll go right now. Right now.”

Pacified, the woman settled back into her faded chair. Her fixed stare was still aimed somewhere out the window, like a houseplant seeking the light.

Neville escaped back to the foyer, wrapping his coat around his chest tightly. He paused to take a dripping handful of flowers out of the vase on the escritoire, splattering the pile of neglected post, then Apparated to the cemetery.


.002.Need.
It is beneficial to amend the water, but not on a daily basis. Once a week shall suffice. Two parts of fortification to one part water is the recommended ratio.

“Hello, Neville!” Hannah Abbot greeted him with her usual sunny smile, and Neville had rarely been gladder to see a friendly face. “Your usual?” she asked, already reaching behind the bar for a bottle of chilled butterbeer.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied gratefully, and eased into a chair. The Leaky Cauldron was quiet tonight, he noticed, and he wasn't sorry for that a bit.

Hannah walked over and plunked the bottle on the table in front of him.

Neville savored its mere golden presence for a moment before opening it. The thought of it had been the only thing that had gotten him through his day.

It had rained while he was at the cemetery. He had been late getting to Hogwarts and Professor Sprout had been peevish about it all morning. The students had run completely amok during their trip to Wellbrook Field, no one had shown the slightest bit of interest in the carnivorous midge-snaps, Suzanne Bainsley and Benjamin Wheaten had disappeared for a good ten minutes, only to be discovered snogging behind a tree. And to cap it all, Madam Rosmerta had publicly chastised the group for rowdiness during their lunch out, and Neville had been mortified.

He wanted this butterbeer. He needed this butterbeer.

Hannah slid into the opposite chair, a polishing rag in her hand. “Rough day at the greenhouse?” she teased. “You usually only come on Fridays.”

“You mean it’s not Friday?” He pretended to look shocked, and she laughed.

It was so nice to talk to Hannah, he considered for the millionth time, she always knew when he was joking. Truth was, he came in to see her as much as for the butterbeer. When she’d been a barmaid, he’d felt a bit sorry for her, and left her good tips, because he hated to see a friend struggling at such a difficult job. Then Old Tom had died, and to everyone’s shock (except Neville’s) had left the entire establishment to his most reliable employee. Nasty rumors had circulated for a long while after about the reasons for her selection, but Neville knew it had been hard work and loyalty, and felt the windfall couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl.

So now she was the proprietress, and Neville enjoyed the status of ‘friend of the owner’, a perk which netted him immediate service and a guaranteed five minutes of her time, ten if things were slow.

“… and honestly, I don’t know why it’s so difficult to get a simple delivery of olives on time. Are you listening to me, Neville?”

“Sorry. Olives.”

“Oh, there’s Professor McGonagall. I wonder what she’s doing here?”

Neville turned in his seat, and realized the former Head of Gryffindor House was making her slow way towards him and Hannah, her wizened fingers tight around the lion’s head at the top of her cane. She looked extrememly serious. More so than usual, even, and Neville felt his blood go cold. Her eyes were fastened upon him, and when she was close enough to address him, she drew a breath and spoke.

“Neville,” she began quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

.003.Gold.
A gold Galleon planted beneath a new rootling will enhance vigor. Too many, however, will stunt the growth.

Hannah was waiting for him in front of the solicitor’s office. She was dressed in dark blue robes, with a prim white lace collar, and her usual tumble of blonde curls was tamed into a bun, to match with her overall theme of solemnity.

“I appreciate you coming with me on all these dreadful errands,” he said quietly, as her gloved hands enfolded his in greeting.

“Of course, Neville. There’s just the reading of the will to go, a few formalities, that's all, and then you can concentrate on getting some rest. Have you considered a vacation?”

“I really just want to get back to work.” He opened the door and ushered her into the musty, echoey offices he remembered being dragged to many a time as a child.

Spively Shineboot had been his grandmother’s accountant since time immemorial. The man looked to be a hundred and twelve, but his eyes were sharp and vaguely disapproving as they swept over Neville, and then Hannah.

“Mr. Longbottom. Madam. Please have a seat.”

He and Hannah took the two tapestry chairs across from the desk and accepted cups of tea from the secretary, who seemed a spry eighty, and watched as Mr. Shineboot sank majestically behind his desk.

“My condolences to you, young man. Your grandmother was an admirable and sensible woman, if a bit profligate with her money.”

Neville tried not to spray his tea across the man’s desk. He chose not to argue the point, however, one didn’t spend one’s life among the elderly without learning to pick one’s battles.

The man took out a long scroll of parchment and began to unroll it. “The terms are quite simple. Inheritance to remain in trust until marriage.”

Neville stared. He was only dimly aware of Hannah rescuing his teacup from his hands before it landed on the faded carpet.

“Can she do that?” Hannah exclaimed, sounding horrified on his behalf. “I mean, isn’t he the heir? He’s the last one in the family!”

“I believe I am well versed in the genealogy of the Longbottom family, Miss,” he said coldly. “If Mrs. Longbottom had chosen to leave her earthly possessions to the Wayward Owl Fund, she could have done so. As it stands, she’s bequeathing all to her only grandson, after he marries.”

“But… what if he doesn’t?”

“There was an arrangement made for that possibility, of course. If he has not married by the age of sixty, the stipulation is waived.”

Neville finally located his voice, and attempted to use it. “What about the house?”

“You have a year, sir, to satisfy the conditions of the will. After that, it will revert to the trust of the house elves. Keys will be returned to you, of course, immediately upon your engagement to any suitable young lady.”

Neville stood up, ashen faced. Hannah also rose to her feet, rested a fluttering hand on his arm. “Now, Neville, I know this is a shock, but don’t do anything rash.”

Neville ignored her. He fixed Shineboot with a steely glare. “I’ll be out of the place by tonight,” he said tightly.

Hannah’s hand gripped him harder. “Neville, please don’t make this sort of decision when you’re upset,” she entreated. “You know that she must have meant well…”

“She meant to run my life! Which she succeeded in doing very well, Hannah, until today. You can keep the house and everything else,” he told the solicitor. “I’ll make my own way from here on.”

He stormed out of the office, Hannah a pace behind. Once they were out in the fresh air again, he drew in several great breaths to calm himself and then strode off down the sidewalk. He was nearly a block along before he realized Hannah was nearly jogging to keep up with him and starting to puff a bit in the chill autumn air. He slowed, then stopped altogether. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

“Neville, you don’t have to give up your house. I’m sure Mr. Shineboot doesn’t really expect the keys in the morning.”

“Well, he’s getting them.” He turned to face her, stared down into her cornflower blue eyes.

“Can you let me a room at the Leaky?”

She offered him a sad smile. "If that's really what you want, I can give you a very good rate."