*****

Neville fiddled awkwardly with his quill as he stared out the window. He'd turned eleven yesterday, and still no Hogwarts owl. Maybe Aunt Ferelne was right. Maybe the bouncing was just a fluke. No owl means no magic. Neville stared down at his scroll, eyes filling with tears. Another failure.

He could hear them down stairs, laughing and joking. His entire family, except his parents. They were all so happy, all such good witches and wizards. And then there's me - can't do a spell to save my life. But I can write well - that has to count for something, doesn't it? Neville sprinkled sand on the ink to dry it, careful not to spill a grain extra. But his sleeve caught the bottle of ink, it teetered on the edge of the table.

Neville dived for it, hand reaching out... and safe. He'd caught the ink! His success was short-lived, however. Neville overbalanced, toppling forward and crashing into a suit of armor. The armor crashed to the floor, the axe knocking into the next suit. Before Neville could even stand up, every suit was down, crashing apart.

"What is this?" A deep voice boomed. Neville gulped as Uncle Fletcher stormed up the stairs. "Oh. YOU. I should have guessed. Can't even manage walking, boy, let alone wizardry. Still no owl, eh? Hmmmph. Bet your gran five sickles you were a Squib. Reparo!" With a deliberately casual wave of his wand, Fletcher set all of the armor aright. Satisfied, he jovially stomped down the stairs.

"Don't think those twiddle poems will put food on your plate, Squib! Only Muggles hold with pansy work like that!" Fletcher called up sagely. Neville bit his lip. Don't cry. Don't cry. Real boys don't cry. Glumly, Neville set the ink down, reading over the poem. It was his best yet, all in Latin. Turning the page, he picked up his quill an began to write. Latin came easier to him than English, far easier. He understood all the spells, yes, but making them work...

If Muggles value this, than a Muggle I'll be. At least then people won't be calling me Squib all the time. That's worth giving up Fizzing Whizbees and Quidditch and moving photos, right? Neville bit his lip again, quill moving steadily across the page, words flowing like wine from him. At least then I won't be a failure again. He dusted the finished poem. It was short, but of the greatest despair that the page seemed saddened by bearing it.

With a sigh, Neville rolled up the scroll and carefully put his things away. He might loose Trevor, but he always knew where his wicker writing box was. Maybe that was one of the omens Cousin Enenad was always going on about.

The more he thought about it, the more appeal the idea had. Yes, he'd to down right now and tell Gran he wanted to be a Muggle. Surely other Squibs had had the idea. Maybe there was a special house for Muggle wannabes - or at least someone he could talk to. Yes, he'd be Muggle, and the best Muggle poet there ever was. Maybe after long enough they'll forget me, or, at least, not see me as a failure. As something more than magic-less. He thought sadly. Mind made up, and for the moment clear, Neville headed to the door.

But an owl was blocking his way. The tawny owl was ruffled, like it'd been in a hurricane. But it was there, parchment grasped in it's beak. Parchment with emerald-green writing.

Neville stared, speechless, as the owl dropped the letter at his feet and swooped gracefully out the open window. After a long while, he picked up the letter.

Mr. Neville Longbottom, I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...

"G-g-g-g" Neville stuttered, then tried again. "G-g-g-Gran! Gran! I made it! I'm going to Hogwarts!" Neville shouted, bounding down the stairs without tripping, elation filling every nook and cranny of his brain, radiating from his round face. "I'm gonna be a wizard!"

~*~

Neville looked up at Professor McGonagall over the tops of his new whiskers. He'd turned himself into a rabbit instead of the hat before him. McGonagall was fit to be tied, eyes flashing with frustrated anger.

"Longbottom! Can't you do anything correctly?!" She shouted, advancing across the room.

Neville remembered his letter, sitting at the bottom of his trunk. It was tattered and worn from frequent reading. I can do SOMETHING right, or else Professor Dumbledore wouldn't have accepted me. There's a reason I'm here, and someday, I'll find out what that reason is.