Harry Potter and the Sixth Year

Friday ended with Double Potions as usual. They had spent Wednesday’s lesson making notes: now they had to make the potion. The recipe wasn’t particularly difficult, but as Snape said with the characteristic curl of his lip, it did need care and patience. He looked scathingly across at the Gryffindors, and, as usual, this came with a smirk from Malfoy.

Now they were in Advanced Potions, they had to work on their own. Harry turned his mind to what he was doing and did his best to tune out Snape. This was quite easy, since Snape was still giving him the silent treatment, ignoring him completely no matter how many times he put his hand up in class. When actually making the potions, this was more help than hindrance. The last thing he needed was Snape looking over his shoulder all the time.

Instead Snape would hover round Ron, Hermione, and Neville. Hermione had the singlemindedness to ignore him: it was Neville who suffered the most, often losing all concentration. But that afternoon Neville hunched over his cauldron, doing his best to pretend Snape didn’t exist at all. Finally Neville stood back from his cauldron, and carefully measured out his potion into a glass phial. Snape swooped over, held it up to the light, sniffed it, shook it.

Finally: “Too good to be your own work, Longbottom. You must have had assistance from Miss Granger. Ten points … ”

But Neville interrupted him in a loud, firm voice. “I made that potion all by myself.”

The room, if anything, went even more silent. Malfoy was goggling at the sight of a defiant Neville. Harry quailed at the thought of what might happen next.

“I beg your pardon, Mr Longbottom?” said Snape in his silkiest voice.

Quieter this time, Neville repeated: “I made that potion by myself. No one helped me.”

Snape stared at him for a long, long time. To take those points from Gryffindor meant calling Neville a liar, and with Neville in his present mood that could mean trouble. Snape had no evidence of any cheating – indeed, since there hadn’t been any cheating, he would have had a problem finding evidence.

Snape held the phial up to the light again. “All your own work, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Neville stood his ground.

Again a long, long silence.

“Are you sure of that, Longbottom?”

Harry held his breath. Don’t push it, Neville, he whispered mentally.

But Neville stood there, stolidly: “Yes, sir,” he repeated. His tone was neutral, matter of fact. He didn’t look at Snape, but instead stared at the phial containing his potion.

Finally: “Very well, then. Class dismissed!”

Harry let out a long sigh of relief. Without daring to glance Snape’s way, he hastily bottled his own potion, labelled it, put it on the front bench, and rushed out into the corridor. A crowd of Gryffindors, all patting him on the back, surrounded Neville. Cries of “Well done, Neville!”, “That’ll show him!” were echoing down the corridor. Harry followed at a safe distance. Finally, as they were walking back to the Gryffindor common room, Harry caught up with Neville and said quietly: “Well done.”

Neville turned and blinked. “Thanks,” he stammered.

Harry thought he owed Neville something. “Neville, you know you asked us once whether we’d come and meet your father …”

It was worth saying that to see Neville’s face light up. “Would you really?” he asked excitedly.

“Of course,” Harry nodded. “We said we would.”

“This Sunday?”

“OK by me. Better check with the others.”

“OK. I will.” And Harry watched him go down the corridor, a much more confident Neville than he remembered from the past.

At supper that evening, even people from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were coming up to the Gryffindor table and patting Neville on the back; all in full view of Snape.

Hermione was worrying: “Suppose it turns Snape nastier still?”

“How can it?” asked Ron. “How could Snape be any worse?”

“I suppose there is that,” muttered Hermione.

Harry saw Professor McGonagall making her way down the Hall. Behind her was Percy. Perhaps she was going to break up the impromptu demonstration, but instead she stopped in front of Ron, Harry and Hermione.

“Neville tells me you would like to go and visit his father this weekend.”

Harry nodded. “If that’s okay with you, Professor.”

As he spoke, he saw Percy’s head bob up over McGonagall’s shoulder.

“I hardly think …” Percy began.

“Yeah,” interrupted Ron rather loudly. “That’s right - you hardly think.”

Percy went brick red, and started to say something, but McGonagall turned to him. “We are discussing Gryffindor business here, Professor Weasley.”

If possible, Percy went redder still, stood where he was for a moment or two until McGonagall turned again and raised an eyebrow at him, then beat a hasty retreat back to the top table. Professor McGonagall turned back to them.

“It’s very kind of you to offer. I remember Frank Longbottom well – he was an excellent pupil, and a member of Gryffindor too.”

“We’d be glad to go,” said Hermione formally.

Harry knew that Ron wasn’t quite so keen, but the two boys muttered their agreement.

“Good. Sunday afternoon, after lunch. You may use my fireplace again.”

“Thank you, Professor,” replied Hermione.

“Not at all.”

Harry wasn’t exactly looking forward to the visit, but he felt he owed Neville something for his efforts over the past few months, and he also felt a great deal of sympathy for Neville’s father. To be tortured like that – the two of them – after Voldemort had been vanquished seemed peculiarly pointless. And – though he wasn’t pinning his hopes on it – he hoped that Neville’s potion had helped too.

Hermione swept Harry and a rather reluctant Ron up after lunch on Sunday, and, together with Neville, they made their way to Professor McGonagall’s study. They had dressed fairly informally: they didn’t think school robes were really appropriate. McGonagall cast an eye over them, but to Harry’s relief, didn’t try to smooth down his hair. Ron too had done his best to look smart.

Neville went first, and the others followed. Harry found himself back in the Longbottom’s front room; familiar from his earlier visit. Neville’s grandmother was there too, looking a little less formidable than usual. She smiled at them all, then said: “Thank you so much for coming.”

She paused, then went on: “Frank is a good deal better these days. I think your potion has helped him a lot, Neville.” Harry could see Neville going slightly pink. “But I am afraid that there is a lot of nerve damage that will never really heal. This means that Frank will always find it difficult to move around, and so on, and tires very easily. But his mind is a lot sharper nowadays.”

She paused again. “Anyway, come along and see him. He’s expecting you.”

She led them out into the hall and then into another small room. This had obviously been furnished specially for Frank Longbottom. He was sitting in a chair near the window, with everything close to hand. He looked up as they came in.

“People to see you, Frank.”

He caught sight of Neville, and his face brightened.

“Neville,” he whispered.

“Dad!”

Neville sank to his knees in front of his father, and they reached out and clutched hands. Harry felt slightly embarrassed to be here – it was almost as though they were intruding. But after a few moments, Neville turned round.

“I’ve brought some people to see you, Dad.”

He stood up and took one of the hardbacked chairs from against the wall, placing it at his father’s elbow and sitting down.

“This is Harry Potter, Dad.”

Feeling distinctly foolish, Harry too went onto his knees in front of Mr Longbottom.

“How do you do?” he said clearly, but not too loudly.

Mr Longbottom nodded. “Harry Potter,” he whispered.

Harry could feel himself being inspected – again, he knew it was not for who he was but for what he was – the Boy Who Lived. Did Mr Longbottom know that? From the expression on his face he did.

“Yes, I’m Harry – the son of Lily and James.” He paused. “And I’m one of Neville’s friends from Hogwarts.”

The pale blue eyes flickered sideways towards his son, then back again. “Hogwarts,” he whispered. “I remember Hogwarts.”

Harry glanced at Neville too, then stood up. Ron knelt down as before.

“I’m Ron Weasley. Son of Arthur Weasley. I’m another of Neville’s friends. In Gryffindor.”

Softly: “I remember Arthur. And Molly.”

Then it was Hermione’s turn.

“Hermione Granger. But my parents are Muggles. I’m a friend of Neville’s too.”

A slight smile. “Muggle parents?”

“That’s right.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

Neville’s Gran pulled out some more chairs, and they all set round in a semicircle. This sort of conversation would have been difficult enough at the best of times, but it was made worse because they were all anxious not to confuse or overtire Mr Longbottom, so conversation didn’t exactly flow easily. It wasn’t easy to find things to talk about either: Harry hardly thought it tactful to start on the topic of Voldemort or Death Eaters.

After a little while Mrs Longbottom went out and came back with some tea, the cups and saucers on a tray gliding in front of her. Neville made sure that there was somewhere to put his father’s cup.

There was silence for a few minutes while they all had a cup of tea and a biscuit. Then Mrs Longbottom caught Harry’s eye.

“We’re going to go and wash up the tea things,” she told her son, who nodded.

Harry and the others took the hint and followed her out. Neville stayed behind.

When they got to the front room, Mrs Longbottom sent the tray on ahead.

“That can wait,” she said. She turned and looked at them. “Thank you for coming.”

“It was the least we could do,” said Harry.

Mrs Longbottom nodded and stared through the big window, which looked out onto a small winding road, with drystone walls either side. The landscape was much bleaker than the leafy lanes of Little Whinging: there were few trees, and the fields rose up steeply on the other side of the valley.

“The saddest part of it all,” she said quietly, “was that it was all so unnecessary. Frank and Alice were captured after …” she looked for a moment at Harry “… after that business at Godric’s Hollow. Voldemort had gone by then.”

They all nodded.

“We saw Bellatrix Lestrange at the Ministry last summer,” said Hermione quietly. “She’s mad.”

Mrs Longbottom nodded. “Mad – and yet sane in other ways. She knows what’s she’s doing. The trouble is that she enjoys it. And she was one of the ones that got away.

“I must admit, I was a bit doubtful about that potion of Neville’s. But it’s certainly made a difference to Frank. He was coming on quite well before, but nothing like what he is now. Mind you, he’ll never be right again.”

“Neville’s standing up for himself more now at school,” Ron told her.

“Is he?”

Ron started telling her about the episode with Snape.

“The thing is,” he finished, “is that Snape always takes points from Neville because he thinks Neville’s no good. And this time Neville stood up to him.”

“Did Neville make that potion all on his own?”

Hermione nodded. “Snape was hovering around him all the time. It really undermines Neville’s confidence. But this time he did it all on his own, and told Snape that.”

“Well, good for Neville.” Mrs Longbottom surveyed them all. “Thank you for being such good friends to Neville.”

They shuffled their feet, embarrassed, then Harry said: “There’s more to Neville than you think.”

“I’m beginning to realise that.”

“Fighting off Dementors,” said Ron.

“Yes, I heard about that too. Produced quite a powerful Patronus, I gather. Did he learn that from you?” she asked Harry.

Harry hesitated, then: “To begin with. But we’ve been doing them in lessons too.”

“Yeah, but it was you first of all,” said Ron loyally.

Harry shrugged. “We’ve an Auror teaching us Defence Against the Dark Arts now.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“Kingsley Shacklebolt.”

Mrs Longbottom shook her head. “Not someone I know.”

“Well, he’s quite young really.”

“I see.” She looked at her watch. “I’d better get back to Frank and Neville. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” said Hermione. “We’ll go for a walk outside.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“We’ve got our cloaks to keep us warm.”

“Right then.”

She let the three of them out of the front door, and they began walking down the lane. As they came over the brow of the hill, they saw a small village in front of them, full of grey stone built houses, with red tiled roofs.

“Better not go down there wearing our cloaks,” said Hermione.

“I suppose not,” sighed Ron. “Where is this place, anyway?”

“At a guess, somewhere in the North of England.”

“You can tell that from the way Neville talks,” remarked Harry.

“The only way you’ll find out is by walking down to the village.”

“It’s not that important anyway. Let’s take a walk across those fields.”

It was a bright but fresh day, and they were grateful for their cloaks. They needed to walk briskly to keep warm. Most of the fields were empty, apart from one. This had a flock of sheep in it, and they looked up curiously as the three youngsters climbed over the stile. One or two started moving forward, then the rest followed and they found themselves surrounded.

“I don’t like this,” said Ron, looking at the sheep rather apprehensively.

“I thought you were supposed to be a country lad,” said Harry.

“Yeah – but we don’t have many sheep down our way. Cows maybe – not sheep. Shoo!”

But if anything the sheep pressed closer.

“Better go back,” said Hermione practically.

“Before they have us for supper,” said Ron.

“They can’t mistake you for grass with hair that colour.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” said Ron with dignity. “That was quite uncalled for.”

“But it’s true.”

Ron had no answer in the face of the incontrovertible.

The sun was quite low before they got back to the house. Mrs Longbottom was waiting for them as they came in the front door.

“I’m glad you’re back. Frank’s getting rather tired now. Neville does like to stay and talk to him, but he can only take so much. I’ll go and dig Neville out.”

She came back a few minutes later with a distinctly reluctant looking Neville in tow.

“Thank you all once more for coming to talk to Frank. I think it helps him a lot, though we do have to be careful not to overtire him.” She gave them all a rare smile. “Have a good trip back and say thank you to Professor McGonagall for me.”

“Can I just go and say goodbye?” asked Neville.

“Do you promise just to be thirty seconds?” his Gran asked sternly.

“Yeah.”

But it was nearer five minutes before Neville returned.

“He won’t get better if you keep tiring him out,” said Mrs. Longbottom.

Neville muttered something inaudible.

One by one they climbed into the grate and took their pinch of Floo powder. When they re-appeared back in Gryffindor, Professor McGonagall was sitting behind her desk, marking homework from her fifth year class.

“And how was your father, Neville?” she asked.

“Oh, a lot better, thank you, Professor,” Neville said enthusiastically. “And Gran says thanks for letting us visit.”

“Not at all.” Then she looked at the other three. “And thank you for supporting Neville and his family.”

Again, they were embarrassed, and it was only Hermione who could say: “I’m glad we went.”

Harry glanced round the room. One wall was filled with books from floor to ceiling. A large window behind McGonagall’s desk looked out onto the castle grounds, and, beyond that, the Forbidden Forest. The room looked warm and comfortable, and Harry wondered whether being a teacher at Hogwarts might not be even better than being an Auror. He was suddenly aware Professor McGonagall was looking at him quizzically.

“Sorry, Professor. I was miles away,” he apologised.

“Wool gathering?”

He smiled. “No – that’s Ron.” And Harry told her about the sheep.

“Really? I hope you never have to work with something more aggressive, Mr Weasley – like dragons, perhaps?”

The reference to Charlie made Ron go red again. “Yeah, well, they were rather … fierce … sheep.”

“Indeed? Well. You’ve learned something else from your trip then.”

Harry thought he’d better rescue Ron. “Thanks again for letting us go, Professor.”

“I’m glad you were able to.”

When they were outside, Ron turned on Harry. “Thanks a bunch!”

“For what?”

“Telling McGonagall about the sheep!”

“What’s it worth not to tell the rest of Gryffindor?”

“If you do, I’ll tell them about …”

“Yeah? About what, then?”

But before Ron could think of anything incriminating, they were in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Quaffle!” snarled Ron.

“Temper, temper, dear,” said the Fat Lady, before letting them through.

The next Quidditch match was on the following Saturday, but this one was Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw. After the humiliation of their defeat at the hands of Hufflepuff, Harry hardly dared go and watch. But Ron dragged him along, and he sat with Ron, Hermione, Neville and Ginny. Luna Lovegood wandered over just before the match began.

“So, who are you supporting?”

“After our last game, Hufflepuff,” said Harry.

“Ah yes,” said Luna. “They caught the Snitch, didn’t they?”

“There’s no need to make an issue of it,” said Ron angrily.

Luna raised her eyebrows. “Not an issue. An observation.”

“It’s okay, Ron,” said Harry. “I’m not losing sleep over it.” Well, not quite.

Madam Hooch came onto the pitch. It was a perfect day for Quidditch. It was bright and sunny, with only a few clouds in the sky, and a light breeze. It was cold enough, though, in the stands to need not only Harry’s cloak but also three of the jumpers Mrs Weasley had knitted for him.

Unfortunately the game was quite predictable. Hufflepuff, despite their showing against Gryffindor, were quite outclassed. Ravenclaw scored goal after goal, and it must have been a relief for the Hufflepuff team when the Ravenclaw Seeker caught the Snitch after fifty minutes, with a final score of 280 to 30.

It did, however, give the Gryffindor team a lot to think about.

“Ravenclaw were good!” said Ron.

“Of course,” said Luna composedly. “We’re not just brain boxes.”

“I can see Katie getting us out for more practices after this,” muttered Ron darkly.

“We don’t play them until next term,” Hermione told him.

“Yeah, but you know what she’s like.”

“There’s only a week left until exams,” said Hermione sternly. “I hope you’ve started your revision.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Ron. “We have.”

And for once he was telling the truth: he and Harry had started revising. Mind you, they found that having kept up with all their notes and homework that term meant that revision was proving to be a lot less difficult than usual. When the exams themselves came round, Harry felt that for once he was doing himself justice. Even Ron didn’t groan quite so much at the end of each one.

They were free on the last Tuesday of the term: the others were doing a Herbology exam, which they’d all dropped. They had the Defence Against the Dark Arts practical the next day, but even Hermione felt sufficiently confident about this to take a break in the afternoon and walk round the castle grounds with the other two. The exams had gone well: in Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall had asked him to change a chair into any animal of his choosing (no large mammals allowed) and he had produced a white rabbit in a top hat, much to her amusement. Professor Flitwick had asked them to fly a paper dart around the room, making it loop the loop and perform barrel rolls. Even Potions had gone well: for once Snape had kept his distance from the Gryffindors, so they were able to concentrate without his malevolent presence breathing down their necks.

In the distance, Hagrid could be seen with a group of third years, with a roaring bonfire. Harry guessed that he had some salamanders for them. The flames flickered and danced against the dark outline of the trees of the Forbidden Forest.

“What are you doing for Christmas, Harry?” asked Ron.

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. Staying in the castle?”

“Come and stay with us. Mum and Dad would be thrilled to have you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. No problem. And we can practice some Quidditch.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “What are you doing?” Ron asked her.

“Going home.”

“Do you want to come over on Boxing Day? Mum and Dad always go and visit some of our relatives, and you coming over would be a good chance to get out of it.”

“Oh,” said Hermione tartly, “you mean that given a choice between us and your relatives, we’ll do instead?”

“Come on, you know I don’t mean it like that. It’d be good to see you.”

Hermione suddenly smiled. “It’s all right, Ron, I was just teasing.”

“Yeah? The problem is, you can’t always tell with you.”

“That’s something I thought you would have learnt to live with by now.”

“Thanks for that, Hermione.”

“Come on, you two,” said Harry, “stop bickering, and let’s go over and see what Hagrid’s doing.”

It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon: standing in the gathering twilight, basking in the warmth from the fire and watching the salamanders scampering over the hot embers. Harry looked at the group of third years, trying to remember what it was to be young again. To Ron, all the juniors were just little pests to be kept under the thumb. “I’m sure we weren’t as cheeky as that when we were that age,” he would moan. But Harry knew they were. If not worse.

The Christmas Feast was as good as ever. The Hall was decorated in grand style, and the weather had obliged: snow could be seen falling from a leaden sky above them. Even Nearly Headless Nick viewed the food on display with approval – though as a ghost, he could neither smell nor taste it. And after the Feast, they had to sort out the juniors, and made sure they were all in their dormitories (“The brats!” grumbled Ron). Finally they could all sit round the fire in the common room. Harry was pleasantly relaxed: the holidays were here: three weeks at the Weasleys, and next term seemed a long, long way away.