In Another's Hell

Chapter 2:

The Black Wand

Neville watched in bafflement as Harry Potter hustled out of Flourish and Blott's, and the massive green Herbology encyclopedia almost slipped from his arms. Neville absently readjusted his hold. He wondered what business could be so urgent that Harry would leave without even saying hello. I hope he's all right.

Somewhere underneath his worry Neville felt uneasy and disappointed. He had secretly hoped that last year's trials would bring him a little closer to Harry Potter and his exclusive pair of friends. But that seemed foolish now. Obviously Harry was preoccupied with more important things. That must be common fare for someone so important, himself, Neville thought, and nothing to hold against him. It just made Harry difficult to approach. Neville always worried that he might be complicating an already-complex life by trying to become a closer friend of Harry's. I almost stopped him from saving the school in our first year, he recalled chagrined. He has very different ideas about rules than I do. Than I once did, he added.

Neville took a deep breath through his nose; his disappointment spread wings and became a fugitive pride.

The idea of breaking laws and learning how to fight with magic would once have been unimaginable to Neville Longbottom. But the climate of deception and dysfunction at Hogwarts last year had made it not only realistic, but also necessary. Harry had led the secret rebellion against Umbridge's tyrannous rule as High Inquisitor, and Neville had joined it. He had flown with Harry and other D.A. members to the Ministry of Magic to save Harry's godfather. And though they had failed spectacularly at that, Neville felt that the battle had transformed him irrevocably. He had crossed paths with Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who had tortured his parents into madness. And he had been beside Harry when Bellatrix killed Sirius. After that battle he began to realize how similar to Harry he was becoming-even if it had only been a single glimpse of the world that Harry lived in perpetually.

It had been the first experience in which Neville's life and the lives of his friends had depended on his skill with spellwork. In those few short hours, he had felt terror that made the worst of Snape's Potions classes seem like tea parties. He had been overcome with a fury so intense it now frightened him. Neville had never understood so clearly what he was capable of, until that night. He been willing to sacrifice his own life for an idea - the prophecy--

Neville's stomach turned over as that memory hit him. He had been the cause of Harry's prophecy breaking on the stone steps below the veiled gateway. Perhaps that was what lay behind Harry's swift departure-the other boy had not forgiven Neville's incompetence. This time I really did ruin everything. It could only have been worse if He Who Must Not Be Named had gotten hold of the prophecy instead.

Lost in his stricken reverie, Neville almost dropped the Herbology encyclopedia again. A blush filled his cheeks as he snatched at the book. Imagining that Harry had been angry with him all this time, Neville could hardly concern himself with looking up any more rare plants. He returned to the wall-niche where he had found the encyclopedia and shoved the book back into place.

"There you are," said a deprecating voice behind him.

Neville gave a guilty start and turned to face his grandmother. "Oh - I forgot - I'll start looking for my schoolbooks right now."

"I already found all of them," Gran said, pinning him with a stare from beneath the brim of her hat. Neville could tell that she was quite vexed with him. He bowed his head, biting his lips. The effect was somewhat diminished by the fact that Neville was now several inches taller than she. The last two years had given Neville a great deal more height and shed some of the childish roundness from his face. Gran had often said that he was starting to look like his father, though Neville thought she must mean how his father looked before being committed to St. Mungo's - life there had not been kind to the man's physique.

Neville followed his grandmother to the front of the shop, where she counted galleons and sickles out of her red handbag to pay for the stack of books piled haphazardly on the counter. Neville loaded the schoolbooks into his arms, glancing at the titles. He had received O.W.L.s in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, History, and Herbology. Unfortunately, though he was still undecided on a career to pursue, most of the interesting ones required him to have an O.W.L. in Potions. The volume for that class was thicker and heavier than any of the others-Neville put that on the bottom, having no wish to look at it any more than he had to. The book that rested on the top of the stack in his arms was called Chiromancy and had a picture of a hand on the cover. It did not look like anything that Firenze would assign to his Divination class. Neville had a suspicion that he had somehow ended up with Trelawney again.

It was blisteringly hot outside when they left. Neville walked at his grandmother's elbow, unconsciously scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He did see one, in fact-Millicent Bulstrode, a Slytherin girl who had been a member of Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad last year. The sight of her made his limbs tingle as though the blood had deserted them. He also became painfully conscious of the fact that he did not have a wand. Neville held his breath until Millicent passed out of his field of vision. But the next moment, Neville walked right into a velvet-covered table displaying silver and gold contraptions advertised as "Imitation Muggle Wristbands!" The watches all jumped and scattered at the impact, squealing. Neville's books toppled from his arms, hitting the display table and flipping over onto the cobblestones. Several of the wristbands started to giggle in tiny metallic voices.

"Oh, Neville!" Gran said despairingly. At the same time, the watch-vendor growled, "Fool boy, mind where you walk!"

The wristbands took up the chant. "Mind where you walk, Neville!"

"I'm sorry!" Neville cried, hastening to re-gather his books. He could feel his blood pulsing in his forehead and cheeks-he knew that he had turned dark red with embarrassment. He picked up a wristband that had fallen on the ground, ignoring the jeers it directed at him, and apologized once again to the vendor.

"Come along," Gran snapped, setting off at a stiff walk. Neville hurried in her footsteps, struggling to not drop his books again. He was aching to know whether the commotion had drawn Millicent's attention - had she seen him? - but he dared not look back to find out.

In his nervous humiliation, Neville did not realize that the event he had been anticipating all summer was nearly upon him-not until Gran veered suddenly toward a shop and strode through the front door. Neville caught a glimpse of the writing above the door as he entered after her: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A chilly new excitement took hold of him as a bell rang somewhere within the shop. He had never been in here before-all through school he had used his father's wand. A Death-Eater had broken it - and Neville's nose - in the battle at the end of last school term. Gran had been just as furious about the broken heirloom as Neville predicted she would be. She had been fairly vexed about the whole business, in fact, shouting that underage wizards had no place crossing wands with convicted Death-Eaters. Especially not Bellatrix Lestrange, who was in Gran's opinion the worst of the whole lot. Gran grounded Neville for most of the summer, forbidding him to owl any of his "trouble-making friends." She even talked of keeping him out of school, but word came 'round that Hogwarts had been restored to its former order, and the threat soon lost its venom. And of course, Gran could not send him to wizarding school without a wand.

A tentative joy trickled into his heart. Finally, Neville would get a wand meant for him. One that did not remind him of the legacy he was failing to live up to. One that had not failed its wielder twice against the Death-Eaters.

The shop was very dimly lit. Neville sat down his books by the door and straightened, blinking through the green-cast glow that the sunlight had left on his vision. Gran had settled herself into a rickety wooden chair nearby. She was digging through her handbag, already preoccupied with something else. Neville gazed around at the ceiling-high stacks of wand-cases, and so nearly missed Mr. Ollivander's approach altogether. The old man appeared suddenly before him as though he had Apparated there. Neville stuttered a greeting.

"Neville Longbottom, this meeting is long overdue," Ollivander said softly. Gran sniffed at that, and the shopkeeper added, "Although the practice of passing wands as heirlooms is a common one in wizarding families, we do not recommend it. A wand never performs as well for someone it was not intended for." He pulled a tape measure from his sleeve and proceeded to take measurements from Neville's arm. "We must find the one that suits you - yes, I think you will be pleased with the results."

With that, Ollivander drifted toward one of the stacks and pulled a slender case out from the bottom.

Holding his breath, Neville took the wand that Ollivander gave to him. At last - but then the shopkeeper snatched it right back out of his hand and said, "No good."

"What?" Neville protested weakly. But the old man had already gone back to the wand-cases. He returned with three more wands, and each one he took back again almost the moment Neville touched it. "How can you tell which one is right?" the youth dared to ask.

"Oh, it's never hard to tell. Only difficult to find, sometimes. I can tell you will be one of those customers." Ollivander seemed strangely delighted at the prospect.

"Perhaps a wand like his father's," Gran suggested.

"There is only one wand like that, Mrs. Longbottom. An eleven-inch willow with core of unicorn hair, if I recall. An all-purpose wand, and a good companion for an Auror. But it is broken now - is it not? - or you would not have come here."

Neville shot an apologetic glance at his grandmother, who had a stormy expression building on her face.

"You had better look after the new one," she said sternly to Neville. "Because you won't be getting another."

"I know," he mumbled.

Ollivander, meanwhile, was thrusting another wand at him. "Hmm, give that one a wave."

Neville swished the wand from left to right, a well-practiced motion he had learned in Charms class. "Should I try a spell?" he asked helpfully.

"Oh no, no, that wouldn't do," Ollivander told him, reclaiming the wand and tucking it back into its case. "You would likely misfire and set them all off. No, I think I need to look a little further back . . . something stronger . . ." With those ominous words, he vanished into the shadowy recesses of the shop. Neville was left standing amidst the scattering of tried wands and their boxes.

"Have you got everything packed at home? All your clothes and parchment? Your cauldron?" Gran asked.

"Ah, I think I need some new robes, actually," Neville confessed. "Last year's hang above my ankles." He glanced down at his pants, which were guilty of the same fault.

"We'll go get you outfitted next," she said. "Madam Malkin's is only a few doors down. When we get home I want you to finish packing and double-check to make sure you haven't forgotten anything."

At that moment Ollivander returned with several boxes tucked under his arm. He stood by and handed them to Neville one at a time, starting from the top. These wands were all a little heavier than the ones he had tried out earlier. Neville dutifully waved them, but each time nothing happened, and Ollivander calmly handed him the next of the candidates. Finally, there was but one box remaining in the shopkeeper's hands - a long, grey box with a strand of cobweb trailing from one corner. Ollivander ran his sleeve across the top to clear the dust, revealing that the box was actually black. Then he removed the cover, and Neville peered curiously inside of it. Nestled in red velvet was a glossy black wand with a carved grip.

"Fourteen inch ebony, dragon heartstring core," Ollivander breathed. "I do not have anything more rigid than this one, boy. It will not lend itself to a wide variety of uses. This style was actually quite popular once - before you were born - but we made very few, lest the wrong sort try to - yes, go ahead."

Neville touched the wand tentatively, then yanked his hand back as a bolt of power jumped from the wood into his fingertips.

"Pick it up," Ollivander said excitedly. Neville touched it again; the wand did not shock him this time. He wrapped his fingers around the grip and lifted the wand. He could almost swear the thing was alive; it made his palm tingle.

"Give it a wave," the shopkeeper instructed, watching intently.

Neville swished his arm through the air, feeling a little absurd. Most wands were mere twigs to this one: the grip was as thick as his thumb, and it had a weight and feel that did not seem like wood at all. The color was more than a little dubious. He wanted to put the thing back-surely it was meant for a Dark wizard. I could just see Draco Malfoy strutting around with this in his ha--

Golden sparks burst from the end, bright enough to render the entire shop into hues of yellow and black. The grip became warm, and Neville felt as though ants were crawling up his arm. Ollivander cried out suddenly, and Neville fumbled and dropped the wand in alarm. Oh God, I must have burned something - But the shopkeeper had a wicked grin on his face, and he was saying, "That's the one, no question of it. Had it in the back for decades; never thought you would be the one to walk out with it!"

"But it isn't - isn't it too--" Neville started to protest.

"It's an unexpected pairing, Longbottom," Ollivander said, starting to collect the discarded wands from the floor. "But it is also the right one, I assure you. As they say, the wand chooses the wizard."

Neville bent reluctantly to retrieve the black monster that was to be his. This time nothing alarming happened when he picked it up; the youth relaxed a little. He turned the wand over and examined the raised carving on the grip.

It took his eyes several seconds to understand what he saw there. The carving depicted a great serpent coiled around the handle, with its spade-shaped head making the butt of the wand. The detail was exquisite: every single scale had been lovingly etched from the ebony. The eyes of the serpent were gold-leafed.

Neville stared at it in shock.

A black serpent - when had a black serpent ever meant anything good? A snake represented Slytherin House. The Dark Mark was a snake coiled around a skull. The Dark Lord himself was notoriously acquainted with snakes. What was the intended purpose of such an evil-looking wand? Hadn't Mr. Ollivander just said that it had a very limited range of use? I'll bet it does, Neville thought. Curses, jinxes, Unforgivables . . . Forget Malfoy, this could be You Know Who's wand! If his grandmother had not been paying for it at that very moment, Neville would have tried to give it back.

But there was nothing to be done about it. Neville stuck the unlucky wand through his belt, feeling as though he was strapping on a sword. The grip was so long that the serpent's head poked him in the ribs. With a deep sigh he gathered up his books and followed his grandmother out of the shop. A day that should have been exciting and promising had instead left him full of misgivings.

* * *

The next morning Neville hurried alone into King's Cross Station. He had his wand concealed safely inside his trunk, and Trevor clutched in his left hand. Gran had insisted on looking through Neville's trunk before he left to make sure he had not forgotten anything. As a result he was running late and fretting about missing the train. Neville pushed through the false wall between Platforms 9 and 10 without bothering to make sure any Muggles had not seen him.

Platform 9 3/4 was filled with adults and young children: families seeing off the Hogwarts students. Steam clouded around the bright red train, but through it Neville could see students bustling in every single compartment window. He took a deep breath and started to run - but he had not gone ten steps when a crash and a shrill screech drew him up short.

Neville looked toward the sound and discovered that another student was in an even worse dilemma than he was. Her overstuffed trunk had tipped over and sprung open. Books and clothes slid out onto the ground. A cauldron rolled out of the trunk and away, spewing several things that had been packed inside of it - namely socks and purple underwear. The screeching came from a startled owl, which made even more of a racket when the mortified girl dropped its cage. She dashed after the cauldron, snatching her undergarments up as she went. By now, everyone on the near side of the Hogwarts Express was gawking at the scene through the windows. He could hear derisive laughter over the constant murmur of conversation and good-byes. Neville felt himself starting to blush on the girl's behalf. For a split second he was torn between his desire to get safely aboard the train, and his pity for the girl who was clearly in greater danger of missing it than he was. But then he let go of his own trunk and trotted over to help. While the girl was busy chasing her cauldron, Neville righted her trunk and tried to shove the contents back into it. This was difficult to do one-handed, especially since Trevor chose that moment to start kicking and squirming.

All this time Neville was conscious of the train preparing to disembark and the many leering faces in its windows. He knew his own face must be as red as a howler by now. Feeling ridiculous, he finally gave up the fight with Trevor, freeing up his left hand to help cram things into the trunk. Even with the cauldron gone it was an extraordinary effort to close it.

"Thank you," said a voice above him.

Neville looked up to see the stricken-faced girl, who was holding back tears with admirable restraint. Her cauldron was in her arms, embarrassing contents out of sight. Neville did not know her, and he had no idea whether she was a first year or a returning student. He said, "The t-train is going to leave, we have to hurry!" Snatching a very irate Trevor in one hand, and the girl's trunk in the other, Neville ran to his own luggage. Once there he stuffed Trevor down his shirt, grabbed his trunk, and made for the Hogwarts Express. All the chores that Gran had given him that summer must have built a little muscle on his arms, because hauling the two trunks was not as excruciatingly difficult for him as it would have been last year.

The girl was not far behind him, burdened with her cauldron and her owl's cage. "Be quiet. Little git," she hissed. The bird continued to shriek its protest, insensible to her reprimands.

Only a few seconds after Neville and the girl managed to heave themselves and their gear on board, the train started to move. Caught by surprise, Neville staggered a few paces and bumped into a third year boy who had been walking down the aisle. "Oh - sorry--!" His apology was drowned out in the piercing train-whistle. It took the three students several minutes and a great deal of effort to sort themselves and their luggage.

When at last he had made it past that obstacle, Neville started moving down the train with trunk in tow, searching for a compartment to sit in. The train whistled again and started gaining speed, but Neville had the hang of walking with it now and the acceleration did not trouble him. He came to one compartment with an empty seat, but there were a bunch of Ravenclaw girls there. He thought it would be better to leave that seat for the unfortunate girl from the cauldron incident.

Neville's skin prickled as he caught a glimpse of white-blonde hair through the glass door of another compartment. He knew without a doubt that Draco Malfoy was sitting in there with his goons. Neville marveled that they were even allowed to attend Hogwarts with their fathers all in Azkaban. Maybe I shouldn't have packed my wand into my trunk, he thought anxiously. Last year he had jinxed Crabbe in a fight, and he was certain that the rugged Slytherin was going to remember that the next time they met. Neville hurried along before they would have a chance to look out and recognize him.

"Neville!"

He started, looking up, and saw Hermione and Ron. They were leaning out of a compartment near the back of the train.

"Come sit with us," Hermione called, waving him over. Ron smiled.

Neville's mouth went dry, but he nodded, doing his best to smile back. He did not realize how exhausted he was until he got to their compartment and Ron came out to help with his trunk.

"Thanks," Neville said breathlessly. Both his arms were stiff and aching.

"Sure, mate," Ron said, securing the trunk with ease. Neville took his seat beside him. On the other side of Ron sat Harry Potter, who was staring out the window at London. Old brick houses squeezed together with laundry-lines strung across their backs. Threatening weather in the distance.

Across from the three boys sat Hermione and Luna Lovegood. The latter appeared odd as usual with her necklace of Butterbeer caps and her wand tucked behind her ear. "How was your summer?" she asked.

"Good," Neville said automatically. Then he tempered himself with, "Well, it was all right. How was yours?"

"My father and I went to look for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack in Sweden."

"Oh. I hope that went well," Neville said vaguely.

Luna nodded, enthusiastic. "We found some tracks that could definitely have been left by a Snorkack, though we were unable to follow them back to the creature itself. They went in a complete circle."

A silence fell. Hermione was visibly withholding any comment.

"I wanted to write all of you," Neville confessed. His serious tone broke through the air of tolerant incredulity between them. Everyone in the compartment looked at him. Edgy, Neville started to grow quieter without even realizing it. "But Gran wouldn't let me near the family owl this summer. She was pretty upset about the-well, you know," he finished lamely, in a whisper. He dared not mention his wand.

"Oh, I know what you mean. Mum near took my ears off," Ron said, sounding jarringly loud in comparison. His cheer was just a little forced. "Say, have you been following Quidditch?"

"No."

Ron launched into a description of the exploits of a team that Neville had never heard of - he really didn't follow Quidditch - until Hermione countered the redhead with, "Well, Viktor didn't see it that way." The pair immediately got into a heated debate with each other. Neville tried to listen for the sake of politeness, but his attention soon wandered beyond them.

He realized that Harry had not said a thing since he had arrived. Harry - who was ordinarily in the very thick of things - was ignoring his two best friends and staring out the window again. He looked almost like a scarecrow, with long, wiry limbs and wild dark hair in need of a trim.

Neville watched him for a while, seeking some fragment of memory that the image stirred in him. Then he hit upon it: from this angle, with his bright eyes turned away, Harry resembled the man who had fallen through the veil. Sirius Black. You must be thinking of him now. Neville felt a familiar ache in his breast; he knew all too well what it was to lose someone close. To be estranged from everything, and everyone . . .

The English countryside ran by outside, its green tinged with gold from the summer heat wave. Suspended on the windowpane before it was the reflection of Harry's face, pale and remote. Neville gazed at the image for a long time, welling with sympathetic misery.

And then, something strange happened: Harry smiled.

It was a gradual expression, and a little weak, as though the effort to curl his lips was almost too much for Harry. Neville stared transfixed as Harry's reflection mouthed two silent words: thank you. But Harry's gratitude, and his eyes, were not directed at Neville. He followed the line of Harry's reflected gaze to another face in the window - Luna Lovegood's. She was also smiling, warmly, and she gave the slightest of nods.

At that moment Neville experienced two very different feelings. He was relieved, even glad, that Harry had received some comfort. If his housemate could find reasons to smile again, then he was starting to recover.

But Neville was also painfully aware of how outside he was, how far from Harry and everything that went on in Harry's life. Harry and Luna had their shoulders turned to the rest of the compartment, excluding even Ron and Hermione from their private moment. The latter two had settled down somewhat and were presently exchanging tales from their summer holidays. And Neville . . . he sat beyond them, barely inside the compartment at all. A very small, unforgiving part of him wanted to know how Luna had insinuated herself so far into Harry's circle so quickly - but Neville ignored that adder's voice. Luna belonged right where she was, providing solace to Harry in his time of grief. Neville was completely unsuited for such things; there was no point in envying her. He would be mortified if it were up to him to come up with the right things to do and say for Harry's pain.

Which reminded him: I have to get Harry alone at some point and apologize. Neville took comfort in imagining Harry brushing the whole issue aside. "Don't fret about that rubbish, Neville. I'm just going through a lot right now, and I don't want you to take it as a snub . . ."

But at least Neville did realize that his mental dialogue with Harry did not have a very realistic Harry in it. He sighed, looking down at his hands. Harry never made excuses for himself, or tried to make other people feel more comfortable around him. He simply was. A bold survivor, a force to be reckoned with - and that was one of the things that Neville admired in him.

"Neville," Ron said slowly, bringing him out of his reverie. "Something's moving in your shirt . . ."

"Oh." Neville turned rose pink. "Trevor-my toad," he added for Luna's benefit. "I had to use two hands to pull all the luggage, so I just put him the first place that came to mind."

He untucked the front of his shirt, and the toad leapt onto his knee, glaring balefully. "He's getting really old. Gran said that if he's gone by my next birthday, she'll get me a cat." He smiled at Crookshanks, who was curled up half asleep on the seat across from him.

"I can't believe I've never asked before, but when is your birthday?" Hermione put in tentatively.

"July thirty-first."

"Are you serious?" Ron demanded.

"That's Harry's birthday too." Hermione explained.

"Ooh!" Luna leaned forward, hands on her knees. "What times were you each born?"

"Eleven fifty-nine at night," Neville said gamely.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Trelawney told me that it's a bad omen." He had been born at a moment of transition - not only between hours, but between night and day, even between months. Trelawney had informed Neville that he would never belong to one side or another; that he was doomed to walk alone, with chaos in his wake. Until he died horribly at a premature age, of course. With his clumsiness and ill luck, Neville was half inclined to believe it.

"Oh, don't listen to anything that old fraud says." Hermione sniffed. "You'll just make yourself miserable for no reason. I don't understand why she's been kept on as a professor this year."

"What about you, Harry?" Luna prompted, ignoring Hermione's rant.

Harry stirred slowly, almost unwillingly, from his silence. "I don't know what hour I was born. I have no one to ask."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Luna backed off the subject gracefully enough that it did not create an awkward moment. Harry went back to looking out the window. His friends went back to chattering, and Neville went back to watching it all. Trevor sat skew-eyed by his left foot.

The rain caught up with them half way to Hogwarts, bringing with it a blessed reprieve from the muggy heat. As raindrops darkened the outside world, the inner one became a little merrier: the lady with the snack-cart trundled up through the train cars. In his typical unthinking generosity, Harry bought everyone Chocolate Frogs and Every Flavor Beans. Not long after that, Ginny came by to visit them. She was already dressed in her school robes, and she had a Prefect badge pinned to them. Neville thought he remembered Ron mentioning it at some point, but could not be sure. He stood to shake Ginny's hand and congratulate her, while Ron said proudly, "She's just keeping up the family tradition!"

Ginny surprised all of them by hanging onto Neville's hand when he started to sit down again. "I saw what you did out there," she said. "It was gallant of you. That poor first year! People are already calling her names."

"What happened?" Hermione asked. No one else had seen anything; they were on the wrong side of the train for it.

"Er, nothing," Neville put in quickly. He gently reclaimed possession of his hand. Ginny told the story for him, and was mercifully quick about it. Then she had to go attend to her duties as a Prefect, and visit other friends, so she took her leave of them. The remainder of the train ride was pleasantly uneventful. The rain ended, but the clouds did not part. When they disembarked in Hogsmeade it was forbiddingly dark out, and there was a chilly wind playing accompaniment to the noise of conversations, owl cries, and Hagrid's great bellow: "Firs' years, over here!"

Neville had been pulling on his school robes just as the train began to slow. He was taking his time on purpose, so that all his friends would be out of the compartment when he removed his wand from his trunk and shoved it through his belt. His new robes were a little too big for him - Gran didn't want to keep buying new ones, and figured he would grow into these soon enough - so he was able to arrange a loose fold of cloth to cover the wand. Thus prepared, Neville hurried out of the compartment to catch up with his friends.

Half a minute later, fighting against the press of students trying to get off, Neville made his way back to the compartment. He had forgotten Trevor in his rush. He pushed the door open and scanned the floor by the light of the train's interior lamps. There was a Merlin card left over from one of the Chocolate Frogs, bright against the dull red floor - but no toad to be seen. Neville moaned.

A hasty search of the neighboring compartments proved equally fruitless. For an almost-dead toad, Trevor must have wandered especially far. Either that, or someone had picked the critter up and walked off with him. Worried that the latter might be the case, Neville trotted off the now-deserted train and scanned the gathering of students on the platform. Half the school had already climbed into thestral-drawn coaches to ride up to Hogwarts castle. The remainder were pressing toward the line of remaining coaches. Neville walked slowly across the platform, squinting in the dark for any sign of Trevor. At last he had to give up and use his wand for light-he might have walked right over the toad without seeing it. He surreptitiously drew the black wand and whispered, "Lumos" over it. Bright, gold-tinted light burst from the tip, throwing the platform into sharp relief. A couple first years yelped in surprise, but no one else seemed to notice. Wincing, eyes dazzled, Neville renewed his search.

With his head bent and his thoughts revolving around his toad's welfare, Neville was ill-prepared for what happened next. His search brought him toe-to-toe with a group of other students. He started to veer away without even looking to see who it was, but a hand shot out and took a fistful of his robes. It was Crabbe. The scowling Slytherin was taller and far more muscular than the absent-minded Gryffindor in his grip. He single-handedly pulled Neville right off his feet.

Terrified, Neville jabbed his wand forward. "St-stupif-ah . . ." Crabbe's fist hit his solar-plexus in time to abort the jinx. The Gryffindor sagged, hanging from Crabbe's other hand. The black wand fell to the ground.

"Cover his wand," said a cold voice. The bright golden light promptly went out under Goyle's foot.

"I have something you were looking for," the voice said with satisfaction. A weight dropped into the hood of Neville's cloak. Crabbe and Goyle snickered. Heart thundering, Neville looked up into Draco Malfoy's pale, thin-lipped face.

"Let go of him," Malfoy said softly.

Crabbe loosened his grip, and Neville fell to his knees. Malfoy towered over him, sinister, half in shadow. He drew breath to say something, but seemed to reconsider at the last second. That hesitation was all Neville needed. The Gryffindor lunged for Goyle's legs. He hit the Slytherin off-balance and snatched up his wand. Without really aiming, he cried "Stupif--"

"EXPELLIARMUS!" someone else roared. All three Slytherins yelped as their wands jumped from their hands. Neville's wand would have flown off too, but it was still mostly under Goyle's foot. Goyle fell hard on his rump a second later; Neville stumbled over his robes trying to rise, but managed to gain his feet and stand beside Harry Potter, who had his wand trained on Malfoy. His body ached horribly where Crabbe had slugged him, but this was no time to curl up and cry.

Harry was livid, breathing hard as though he had run to get there. "You don't have to give me an excuse, Malfoy," he hissed.

"What?"

Harry just stared at him. Neville could almost feel the hatred in that look, the fury only just checked. He looked ready to do murder.

"I already have more than enough reason to curse you straight to hell," Harry said at last. His wand hand was trembling, ever so slightly, like a beast straining to be unleashed. "Touch my friends . . . and you'll make it that much worse for yourself."

Something unspoken passed between Harry and Malfoy - an invisible struggle of wills. But the Slytherins had no wands, and if the students did not mount coaches soon, they would all be in trouble. Malfoy gave way, signaling for Crabbe and Goyle to back off as well. Somehow the blond Slytherin managed to smirk through his defeat, and Neville had an uneasy feeling that it was not just a show of disdain. Malfoy knew something that they did not.

As the Slytherins haughtily turned their backs on the Gryffindors, Harry shoved his wand away and stalked off toward one of the coaches still waiting for students to load. After a few uncertain moments, Neville followed, his heart heavy as stone. He tucked the black wand back through his belt, carefully nestling it under a fold in his robe to keep it hidden. He dared not speak as he joined Harry and a few other students in one of the coaches-Harry did not seem open to conversation, not even to receive thanks. Not that Neville was eager to say anything: breathing hurt. As they sat in the darkness of the coach interior, Neville tried to think about something else to take his mind off of what had just happened.

At the entrance to Hogwarts, the coach drew to a halt and the students climbed out. Neville noticed a funny weight on his back, and remembered that Malfoy had done something to his hood while Crabbe held him. With a sudden dread, Neville halted on the stone steps and reached back for his hood. It was heavy and distended: there was definitely something in it. Neville bent forward a little and tipped the hood over his shoulder. A great heap of mud slopped out with a sickening plop. But instead of splattering everywhere, the slop held together in a bulbous shape. Neville crouched, ignoring the students chatting and passing along on either side of him. There was a strange shape sticking out from the mud ball-almost like a thick, stubby root, or a misshapen animal limb. With horror, Neville recognized it as one of his toad's forelegs.

He gently lifted the creature and tried to wipe the mud off with his fingers. In the uncertain light coming from inside the open doors of the hall, Neville discovered that Trevor's tongue was bulging out of his mouth. There was dark blood streaked over his head: one of his eyes was gone, and the other was encrusted in mud. The limbs were limp, but already starting to stiffen. There was no sign of life in the body.

Nausea swept through Neville as he stared at the tiny corpse in his hands. He wanted nothing more than to curl up around his tender gut and weep. But he could not do that - not with the feast about to begin inside the Great Hall. Neville turned around and marched slowly down the steps, heading out onto the grounds. He glanced without interest at Hagrid and the first years who were disembarking on the lakeshore - little shadows gathered near a greater one. The incoming students were very quiet, obviously intimidated by the monstrously huge man who was their guide.

Neville turned his shoulder on them and went his own way, disappearing into the shadows where no one would see him. He did not feel capable of interacting with other human beings at the moment.

His somewhat aimless search bought him near Hagrid's hut. Neville briefly considered the location - perhaps a place under the steps, or behind those rocks? - but as he slowed, a shrill keen went up from the back of the hut, where the garden was. At first Neville thought it sounded like some kind of alarum, but then the voice began to gibber, "Akritakrit! Akrit!" Neville backed away warily. Hagrid's dog, Fang, started barking from inside the hut and scratching at the door. The gibbering from the garden continued, driving the dog into a frenzy. Neville heard something crash inside the hut - like a table falling over onto its side - and Fang's shapeless head popped up, silhouetted in one of the windows. He sank back down a few seconds later with a discontented huff.

Neville approached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, flinching as a spray of old rainwater blew out of the tree boughs and showered down on him. There was nowhere else to put his friend but here. Crouching, Neville set Trevor down gently and started to dig in the moist soil with his hands. The grave was small and shallow, but after finding a lump of rock to set on it, Neville was satisfied that no wild animals would try to dig the toad up, nor would the rain carve the body out and expose it. He wiped his tears on his sleeve, for his hands were gloved in filth, and then he stood up to walk back to school. Lights shone in the castle windows, some steady, others flickering enough to suggest Peeves was knocking about.

Once inside the castle, Neville went to the nearest water-closet and washed his hands and face thoroughly. There was nothing to be done for the mud on his robe, so he did not bother with it. Checking his wand a final time to make sure it was well concealed, Neville walked out and made his way to the Great Hall. He entered just as the cheer for the last-sorted first year faded. Everyone was chattering excitedly, though the Gryffindor table was noticeably less lively than usual, with Fred and George gone. Harry Potter sat near Hermione and Ron, his head braced up on his arm as though he was exhausted, and one of his feet tapping against the floor impatiently. Glancing surreptitiously at the Slytherin table, Neville observed that Draco seemed equally put out, glowering down at his empty gold plate.

Neville took a shaky breath as he found a spare seat at the Gryffindor table and sat down. It promised to be a rough year, and he had not even seen the worst part yet: who would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?

Dumbledore rose from his place at the center of the high table and silence spread over the students. The Headmaster was garbed in his favored purple robes, but even from a distance Neville thought he looked too weary for it to be truly fitting. As Dumbledore began to speak, Neville's gaze slid sideways, past McGonagall, Flitwick . . .

Snape was next, staring up vacantly as though reading portents in the floating candles and the dismal, clouded ceiling. His hands were set before him on the table, fingers laced together. Neville instinctively glanced up at the ceiling as well, in time to catch sight of a bolt of lighting that temporarily dazzled him. He blinked, wiped away the few leftover tears that chose to spill at that moment, and returned his gaze to the high table.

Beside Snape was a stranger. Her thin white face hung above the darkness of her robes like a waning moon. She sat rigidly straight, and her black hair was bound back in a severe queue. Even as Neville watched, Dumbledore said, "Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is a graduate of Hogwarts with many honors - an individual very experienced in the subject she has graciously agreed to teach. It gives me great pleasure to present Simone Gearing."

The woman stood smoothly as the Headmaster named her. Looking closer, Neville saw that her hair was flecked with grey, and her deep black eyes were smudged and worn. He could not tell how old she was. She scanned the Great Hall and smiled wanly at the Slytherin table. Then she sank back down, and Snape leaned over to whisper something to her. She shook her head once, smiling back at him.

I am dead, Neville thought, horrified.

Dumbledore had finished speaking. Steaming food appeared before them, but Neville's eyes were inured to the trick, and he had no appetite. Neville felt faintly guilty that he had not paid attention to the Headmaster's speech - it had been something about order and security, probably meant to reassure the students who were unnerved after last year's chaos, and the realized threat of Voldemort.

Nearly-Headless Nick drifted through the Gryffindor table, his wake troubled with the shrieks of students he ghosted through. Neville shrank in on himself a little, afraid Nick might come too close. But the jovial ghost paused when he neared Harry Potter and his friends. Hermione asked Nick a question, and his answer carried clearly to where Neville sat.

"Professor Gearing? She was in House Slytherin. Extraordinarily talented. It's comforting to have her on our side." Nick drifted on, down the middle of the table. Neville leaned back when he passed, but his ear was cocked for what Harry would say to that.

It was Hermione who spoke first. "Why have we never heard of her before?"

"I've heard of her," Ron said. "I think," he amended.

"Where?"

"Meetings of the--" He lowered his voice too much for Neville to make out.

Less than a minute later, Harry pushed back his empty plate and stood, stepping over the bench. "Where are you going?" Ron asked him.

Neville did not hear Harry's muttered response, but he thought he could guess it by the troubled look that Hermione and Ron shared after Harry walked away. Neville decided that this was the perfect opportunity to talk to Harry alone. Find out what, if anything, was ill-disposing Harry toward him. Neville got up and hurried after his dorm-mate before he could talk himself out of it.

It was a relief to leave the Great Hall. After what had happened to Trevor, Neville just could not stomach large crowds and festivities. But even as he started to relax, loosening his shoulders and breathing a little deeper in the dim silence of the corridors, a new source of anxiety tightened his gut. Every step that brought him closer to Harry made it feel a little worse, but he wanted the relief of finally confronting it. At the bottom of the staircase Neville caught a glimpse of his quarry at the top, about to turn off to enter Gryffindor Tower.

"Harry!" he called. "Hang on a moment!" His voice echoed up the stairs.

Harry went a few more steps before glancing back over his shoulder. Neville started up the staircase at a run, though he lost his wind half way there and had to slow down. Glancing up, he saw that Harry was waiting for him. He looked eerily unlike himself - a tall, thin shadow, more a man than a boy. His face wore not a trace of smile on it.

"Harry--" Neville gasped out, pulling himself up the final steps with the aid of the banister. "I wanted to tell you - thank you."

Neville was startled to hear the words that tumbled out of his mouth. He felt himself start to flush, and only partly from the exertion of the climb. As Harry watched him, eyes dark and unreadable, Neville stuttered, "A-actually, I meant - Harry, I'm sorry."

Harry just looked at him. "You're sorry."

Neville unconsciously shrank in on himself. His gaze lit on Harry's collar; he could not meet his eyes. "I . . . well I am really sorry for bringing you into the fight with Malfoy when we got off the train, I should have been smarter than to walk right into him, I mean I didn't do it on purpose, I just didn't look where I was going--" Neville abruptly cut himself off, squeezing his hands together to keep them from trembling. "Actually, that wasn't what . . ." he murmured.

Harry blinked once, very slowly. His shoulders gave a tiny hitch, as if he were shaking off a gnat. "Are you finished, Neville? I'd like to go to sleep."

"No . . ." Neville mentally berated himself for his slow-witted, fumbling attempts. Just say it. He cannot get any more angry at you than he already is. As Neville spoke he watched Harry apprehensively, finally daring to study his face. "I'm sorry about the prophecy."

Harry's face spasmed suddenly, a quick twitch at his widened eyes. Neville could have sworn his lip was quivering. "You . . . How can you . . ."

"It was my fault," Neville interjected, desperate to have it out and over with. He could not bear the way that Harry was looking at him; anguish roiled in his gut. The prophecy shattered because of me. Neville took a hesitant step closer and forced himself to meet Harry's gaze steadily. "I am so sorry," he whispered.

Harry half shook his head. His brow furrowed and he glared at Neville for a long moment. Then all the energy seemed to slide out of him. He passed a thin hand over his eyes.

"Neville . . . Bloody hell . . . The prophecy's not your fault." His glasses slid precariously close to the end of his nose before he nudged them back into place.

"You're not angry at me?"

"What could I possibly have to be angry at you for?" Neville could hear Harry's annoyance in the way the words snapped from him, like tiny lashes.

Neville's mouth twitched into a grimace. "You just seemed angry. I wanted to know if it was me."

Harry's expression shifted over the line into a definite frown. Neville swallowed. "Fine. Neville. I'm angry with you. Furious, actually. Now, are we finished, because I am fucking tired!"

Neville blanched and backed up a step, precariously close to the edge of the landing. He almost spoke, but the last of his courage withered when he drew breath. An ache tightened in his throat, and behind his eyes. "Oh."

That was all. He nodded once and turned away. Unprepared for how close the stairs were, he half-slipped off the landing, but managed to catch himself with a hand on the banister. He started limping down the stairs, tears brimming at his eyes. If not for Trevor, he might have held up a little better.

* * *

The first day of classes opened with Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall seemed just as collected and forthright as ever. She even looked a little cheerful; unlike most of her students, she was a morning person.

"This course begins at the point when Transfiguration becomes truly fascinating. You are all - or nearly all - students who have received an O.W.L. in this subject, and I am making a few allowances for those who demonstrated promise but were unable to devote full attention to the exams because of events which I am certain I need not name. I will expect the utmost in effort from every one of you." She swept her gaze across the classroom, which was composed of equal parts Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. There were even a few seventh years mixed in with the sixths. Neville felt a little apprehensive, but excited as well - he had earned an O.W.L. in Transfiguration, so he was probably not the worst student in the room. And with his new wand, perhaps--

"Open your books to page forty-four and follow along with me." McGonagall's instructions reined him back into the present, and Neville hurriedly pulled his textbook from his bag and started flipping through the pages.

They spent most of the hour learning about the adverse and strange effects of improperly-cast epimorph spells, of which there were several particular varieties, and what the difference was between them and the much more complex and difficult transformare-class spells. Three minutes before the end of class, McGonagall ended the lecture and gave them their first assignment. "Read the rest of this chapter and all of chapter three by Wednesday. On Monday, bring your pet or familiar to class. You will be expected to transfigure a mouse to look like your familiar, and you will also be expected to demonstrate that you know how to tell the difference between the true animal and the transfigured one. Consider it your first test."

Neville's heart contracted painfully. After class he would have to explain that he could not use Trevor for the test, and why. Neville closed his eyes. He had spent most of the class bent over his textbook, brow resting in palm. Very aware of Harry Potter sitting two rows behind him, and Draco Malfoy in the back corner with a group of talented Slytherins - though he had never once looked. Neville had not seen Harry since last night, when they parted on the stairs. He had roused himself half an hour early that morning so as to be out of the dorm by the time anyone else - namely Harry - woke up. After a hasty breakfast Neville had wandered out to visit Trevor's grave and think.

Transfiguration came to an end. Neville did not move, though everyone around him was packing up their things and shuffling toward the exit. The classroom emptied within half a minute. As the last two students hurried out the door, McGonagall drew up beside Neville's desk.

"Longbottom?"

He lifted his head from his hands. Calmly as he could manage, he said, "I can't bring my familiar on Monday, Professor. Trevor died last night."

McGonagall frowned, but not in a hostile way. "I am sorry to hear that, Neville. Do not worry over it. You can partner with someone else and use his or her familiar." She touched his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

He nodded. "Thank you, Professor. I have to go to my next class now." Neville was hardly looking forward to it, though. Divination. With Trelawney.

Divination was one of the few classes he had that was still organized by house rather than O.W.L.s. He was one of the last up the ladder; shuffling to an empty chair, Neville pulled out his Chiromancy textbook and prepared himself for another hour of avoiding Harry Potter. But Neville was surprised to notice that he felt considerably more at ease in the musky, velvet-draped Divination classroom than he had in Transfiguration. He did not figure out what it was until a few surreptitious glances confirmed that Harry was not among the attending Gryffindors.

Chiromancy utterly baffled Neville. Trelawney never explained what it meant, to begin with. His textbook was filled with darkly-inked diagrams of hands. Golden labels appeared when he ran his finger over various parts of a diagram, but they were written in cramped script and very difficult to read. They said things like "Girdle of Venus" and "Jupiter," which made no sense at all. Eventually Neville caught on that Chiromancy was some kind of palm-reading. He gathered from the planetary references that it was related to the astrology they had first become acquainted with three years ago. But he could not understand how, exactly. Trelawney assigned them the task of reading their own palms and writing thorough interpretations of them for next week.

After that, Neville had his worst class. Remedial Potions, with third year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws. Snape ignored him for the most part, but Neville still felt horribly self conscious. He towered over the other students; there was no way for him to hide among them. His last comfort - the thought that none of them could possibly recognize him - was also soon stripped away. Dennis Creevey waved at Neville when he first entered the room, and later insisted on being Neville's partner for the potion-brewing. To make it worse, Creevey kept asking him questions about Harry. Half way through the class, he was asking, "What's his favorite Quidditch team?"

"I don't know." Neville winced as he cut a strip of his snakeskin unevenly. "I don't know anything."

"Do you think you could ask him for m--aah, don't put that in yet!" Creevey yelped, grabbing at Neville's hand a moment too late. Yellow-tinged mist started rising from the surface of their potion.

"I thought snakeskin was the next ingredient."

"It was, but we were supposed to coat it in resin first," Creevey exclaimed. Neville felt his stomach turn over.

"Indeed you were, Longbottom," drawled Professor Snape, who had approached at the first sight of yellow mist. He was speaking loudly enough to draw the attention of the entire class. "Perhaps I should have bumped you back to first year Potions. Even Mr. Creevey has a clearer understanding of the directions - which are written right there at the front of the class. Step four, coat the snake skin in resin on both sides."

Neville cringed as Snape continued coldly. "Not that I expected you to be capable of comprehending such a simple thing, given your history. But Professor Gearing will be disappointed to hear that she will have a thoroughly untalented and incompetent student in her advanced class this year. If you are unable to produce a better potion by five o'clock then I will make a point of forewarning her. Creevey." Snape jerked his hand toward another group. "Since you seem to know what your partner should have been doing, you can join them for the rest of the hour."

It was silent in the chamber after that. Neville made the long, awful walk up to the front of the room to collect fresh ingredients, struggling not to cry. Even if he managed to get everything right this time, he would still be late getting out of class - the potion had to steep at various points for up to ten minutes, and there was scarcely that much time left until four-thirty, when the class ended. Neville wiped his nose on his sleeve and went to dump out the frothing contents of his cauldron.

The sample that Neville turned in a few minutes past five was a little weak, but at least it had a green tinge instead of a yellow one, and it wasn't smoking. Snape made no comment on it, not even looking up from the ledger he was writing in as Neville came up and left the corked vial on his desk.

Neville trudged up from the dungeons to the Great Hall for dinner after that. He sat on the opposite end of the Gryffindor table from Harry Potter and his friends, which put him with a group of the third year students that he had just taken Potions with. Neville did his best to ignore them, though he did feel their gazes on him from time to time.

At times like this in previous years, Neville had always taken some small comfort in doing extra projects with Professor Sprout. There hadn't been much time for gardening last year, though - what with practicing for the D.A., trying to stay out of Umbridge's sight, and studying for the O.W.L.s. Neville decided that he would ask Professor Sprout if he could get involved in that again when he had Herbology tomorrow morning. Though the thought of gardens led Neville to memories of digging in the dirt while Trevor sat nearby and stared hungrily at bugs. He had never been a very exciting familiar, but in the past six years Neville had had no companion more constant or friendly than Trevor was. Though he did try to run away an awful lot, Neville reminded himself.

His gaze drifted up from his meal to the next table over. Slytherin. In all his fretting over Harry, Neville had never given much thought to the question of whether Malfoy and his gang had killed Trevor or simply come upon his carcass and decided to return it to him in that gruesome fashion. But he was prepared to believe the worst.

Neville's fingers clenched around his fork as his eyes picked out the distinctive blonde-haired youth from his housemates. I don't need Harry Potter to stand between me and you, he thought at the back of Malfoy's head. I fought against your father and his gang.

Do you think you're anything compared to them?