The floorboards creaked underfoot as Frank Bryce slowly climbed the rickety staircase of the old manor house. His feeble torch cut only a few feet into the darkness and he leaned heavily on his stick as his old war wound throbbed in his right leg. Eventually, and with much muttering and complaining, he reached the landing and set off in search of the mysterious light he had seen.

Frank had been caretaker of the old house for over fifty years, though for the vast majority of that time it had stood empty and unused. Once it had been the proud home of a rich and important family, the most influential in the district. But that had all come to an end one strange day in the midst of the Second World War, when the last three surviving members of the family were found dead in the house, without a scratch on them.

There had been a perfunctory investigation, in which Frank had been a chief subject, but no cause of death could be established and the whole thing fizzled to nothing. There were bigger things to worry about in those days, and the Riddles had never been popular. That didn’t stop the locals forming their own opinions about Frank however. The same people who had welcomed him back as hero after being injured in combat in North Africa now whispered behind his back over his supposed guilt.

Frank had learned to live with it and in fifty years he had never once thought about moving. He was a stubborn Yorkshireman and Little Hangleton was his home. Besides, he still had his job to do. Shortly after the end of the war he had received a mysterious anonymous letter from someone claiming to have purchased the manor house and retaining his services as caretaker. Following that, a regular stipend was paid into his account every month, but he had never met his employer.

The job amounted to little more than maintaining the garden, keeping the house secure and chasing away occasional trespassers. This warm August evening, from his own home down the road, he had glimpsed light from an upstairs window in the house and had grumpily set off to investigate. He hoped it wasn’t squatters; they could be real trouble to get rid of at times.

He had been surprised to find the front door still locked, and the ground floor seemed undisturbed. Now on the first floor, he passed by several dark empty rooms until he reached the room at the far end. The door of this room was half ajar and light was flooding out into the hallway. Frank switched off his torch, raised his heavy walking stick and was about to push open the door when he heard a high, cold voice from inside the room.

“I am most disappointed, Peter, most disappointed.”

Another voice replied, a thin, squeaky voice that sounded weak and submissive. “Forgive me, my lord, but the target has proved more elusive than we had expected. We are running out of time and soon he will be beyond us. Without him, the plan cannot hope to succeed.”

“Nonsense, Peter,” said the first voice, which strangely chilled the overhearing Frank. “It is a setback, yes, but our preparations will go ahead as planned. Other arrangements will have to be made. My faithful servant will not fail me, no matter how I employ him. If it cannot be as Mad-Eye, then it must be as someone else.”

“I beg you, my lord, is all this necessary? Do we really need the boy? Would it not be better…?”

“Of course it is necessary,” interrupted the high voice. “I must have the boy.” There was a strange hissing sound and a noise as if something heavy had just slid onto the wooden floor. “Now is not the time to lose nerve, Peter. Lord Voldemort will not be denied his…”

But at that moment, the door behind which Frank stood moved slightly on its hinges and Frank half jumped. Yet no one appeared in the doorway. Frank had begun to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard the hissing sound once more and looked down. Slithering out from behind the door had appeared a giant snake, monstrously huge and with piercing eyes. Frank backed away as quietly as he could manage, but the snake just fixed him with a sharp stare and then turned and slid back into the room.

Bewildered and relieved, Frank considered whether to leave or to storm into the room. Suddenly he heard a noise like an ugly, strangled hiss, quite unlike what he had heard before. Almost immediately, the cold voice called out, “Peter, quick, the door.” Frank heard heavy footsteps across the room and the door was flung open to reveal a short, balding man with a round, pasty face and squinting eyes. He held a short wooden stick in his hand.

Frank drew himself up to his full height, determined not to be intimidated by the intruder. “What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded.

From behind Peter, the cold voice said calmly, “Peter, bring in our guest.” Refusing to be manhandled, Frank strode into the room as defiantly as he could, given his walking stick. The room inside was empty save for a long wooden table, on which were several candles providing light for the room, and a high-backed armchair. The chair was facing away from Frank towards a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the giant snake was coiled about the chair’s feet. The voice came from the armchair. “How long have you been listening at the door, Muggle?”

The word Muggle conveyed nothing to Frank, but he countered, “You’ve no right to be asking me questions. I run this house and you shouldn’t be here. And from what I’ve heard, you’re up to no good here, talking about plots and such. I want you to leave now.”

“I have more right than you can know to be here, Muggle. No, I do not think I shall be leaving. And now you have heard too much, I cannot allow you to leave either.” There was a shuffling sound on the armchair and for a moment, Frank caught sight of a small, hideously shaped creature, like some grotesque mutation of a baby, clutching another thin stick in its tiny hands.

“Avada Kedavra!”

There was a flash of green light and the walking stick and torch fell from Frank’s hands.

And, in a house not forty miles away, a boy named Neville Longbottom burst awake.

He sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. He was sweating profusely and the lightening-bolt shaped scar on his forehead was throbbing intensely painfully. Confused images were tumbling about in his brain: a large, grand, decaying house, an old man, a candlelit room, a cold voice. None of it made any sense to him and he was now only left with the burning scar. He rubbed it to try and quash the pain and shivered, though he did not know why.

His bedroom was still dark; the night was not yet over. He turned over and tried to go back to sleep, but the pain from his scar was still too strong. It had never reacted like this before. Yes, it had ached from time to time, particularly back in his first year at Hogwarts he vaguely remembered, but this was different. It was an acute, shooting pain and it had come out of nowhere. Considering the circumstances under which he had received the scar, it was enough to worry him a great deal.

He clambered out of bed, lit a lamp and went over to look in the mirror on top of his chest of drawers. He pulled up his fringe and examined the scar closely. It was a thin, jagged line less than two inches long, just above his left eyebrow. It looked exactly the same as it had always done; a little stretched perhaps as he had grown (though not nearly as much as he would have liked), but otherwise just as he had always remembered it. Yet the pain was not fading.

He went back to bed and sat there, since there seemed nothing else he could do. Unable to sleep, he spent his time thinking, of which he didn’t do nearly enough, and worrying, of which he did an awful lot. His chief worry at this point was what his Gran’s reaction would be if he told her about his scar. He had been lucky so far to have spent the summer free from Gran’s overprotective glare, after she had accepted Dumbledore’s word that escaped convict Remus Lupin was in fact innocent and posed no threat to Neville.

She had seen fit to criticise his exam results, accusing him of spending too much time of concentrating on “lesser subjects” like Herbology and Muggle Studies, than on important ones like Transfiguration and Potions. Neville, who loathed both of the latter two subjects, had listened wearily and then had promised dutifully and insincerely to better in his fourth year. He couldn’t help the subjects he enjoyed and had grown used to Gran’s nagging.

He had no desire however to go back to the way things had been last year, with Gran barely allowing him out of his room, and so decided not to tell her about the scar unless it continued to hurt. He’d write to his best friend, Hermione Granger, and ask her about it instead.

Neville looked up to Hermione in a lot of things, particularly when there was a problem to be solved. She was the cleverest and most level-headed in Neville’s year. His other friends, the Marauders, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and Ron’s older brothers Fred and George, were helpful allies but not the best at giving advice.

The past summer, until this night, had probably been Neville’s happiest since first going to Hogwarts. He had left the school in a good mood, buoyed by the events at the end of the year when he had helped uncover a man’s innocence and had cast his first piece of truly powerful magic. He now had three good friends in Hermione, Harry and Ron, and had stayed in touch with them over the summer. He had even, in an uncharacteristic feat of memory, remembered Harry’s birthday and had sent him a pair of Quidditch gloves. That said, the day was not hard to remember, coming as it did exactly a day after Neville’s own birthday. Hermione, Harry and Ron had all sent him books for his birthday. He had the feeling they were trying to tell him something.

Neville’s mind had wandered so far from fretting about his scar that he was surprised to look up and see that it was light outside. He had actually dozed off again without realising it and it was now morning. He put his hand to his forehead. There was still an ache there, but the worst of the pain had gone. He felt relieved and got up and dressed, made a cursory effort to comb his hair, and went downstairs to the kitchen.

“Up at last,” said Gran from her usual chair when he walked in. “Porridge is on the stove. Oh, and this funny little owl arrived earlier this morning with a letter for you. I think it’s from that Weasley boy, what’s his name?”

“Ron,” replied Neville. The owl would have been Pigwidgeon, Ron’s new pet, an excitable little bird. He was a replacement for Ron’s previous pet Scabbers, who had turned out to be none other than Peter Pettigrew, the traitor who had betrayed Neville’s parents and had now gone on the run. The thought of Pettigrew made Neville stop for a moment, as if he was trying to recover a lost memory, but he had no idea what it could be.

He picked up the envelope, which was indeed addressed in Ron’s sprawling handwriting, opened the letter and began to read.

Dear Neville,
Fantastic news! Dad has been able to get hold of bunch of tickets for the Quidditch World Cup Final this weekend! Apparently someone in the Department of Games and Sports owed him a favour. It would be fantastic if you would come. Harry and Sirius are coming too and I’ve written to Hermione and asked her as well. It should be a fantastic day. Write back and tell me as soon as possible. Ron.

Ron was obviously extremely excited; he had used the word “fantastic” three times in a short letter. Neville was too, he had been listening to the progress of the World Cup on the Wizarding Wireless for the last few weeks and he knew tickets were almost impossible to come by. He had been disappointed when England had been knocked out early but like many in the country had adopted the Irish as a second team and had followed them all the way to the final, where they would play Bulgaria.

Neville showed the letter to Gran. “Hmm,” she said. “I shall have to write to Mr Weasley and ensure that you are properly supervised, but I see no reason why you can’t go. Provided you have that room of yours tidied before the weekend.”

“Fantastic!” exclaimed Neville, catching Ron’s affliction. He was already looking forward to the match, the pain of his scar and the nagging feeling that something had happened last night that he needed to remember were already forgotten.

“Neville, hurry up, what are you doing?” called Gran up the stairs. “It’s gone ten o’clock already.” Neville came clumping down the stairs dragging his suitcase behind him and pulled it into the living room. “Heavens Neville, you’re only away for three days,” Gran said, looking at the bulging suitcase. “How much stuff have you got in there?”

“Just what I think I’ll need, Gran,” Neville replied. He’d always had a tendency to overpack when he went away anywhere. The two of them sat silently in armchairs; they were waiting for Arthur Weasley to arrive and pick up Neville for his trip to the Weasley family home. It was Saturday, and the Quidditch World Cup final was happening the next day. Gran had arranged with the Weasleys that Neville would stay with the Weasleys from Saturday through to Monday, returning home Monday evening.

After only a few minutes, Gran was already tapping her watch, and muttered, “He did say ten, didn’t he?” However just at that moment there was a flash of green flame from the large, old-fashioned fireplace, out of which stumbled a thin, balding, middle-aged man. He scrambled to his feet and brushed the soot off his green robes.

“Good morning, Mrs Longbottom,” he said brightly, offering his right hand. “Arthur Weasley.”

Gran took his hand. “A pleasure, Mr Weasley. We have met before, though I doubt you remember, you were very young at the time. I knew your father quite well from our days at the Ministry. How is he now?”

“Old and frail, but still full of life,” Mr Weasley replied with a smile. “Excuse me, I suggest you step back a bit.” He moved clear of the fireplace just in time as another gout of flame rose from the grate and disgorged a smaller figure onto the Longbottoms’ carpet. The figure, with a full head of red hair and a face covered in freckles, stood up and looked around.

“Hi Neville,” Ron said.

“He insisted on coming to see where you live,” explained Mr Weasley.

“Come on, show me around,” said Ron to Neville, dragging him out of the room. Neville noticed Ron seemed a lot taller than when he had last seen him; he must have had quite a growth spurt over the summer. Neville took him on a cursory tour of the farmhouse, an inquisitive Ron poking his head into every room. “I like it,” was his considered appraisal as they finished up in the wide back garden. “It’s a lot like our house, but a bit less cluttered. You’ll see. Especially as we’ve got everyone there at the moment. Harry arrived a few days ago, and Hermione’s coming this evening.”

“Ron, are you coming?” yelled Mr Weasley from inside the house. “Your mother will be wondering where we’ve got to.”

“Best go before Mum starts panicking,” said Ron. They returned to the front room, where Gran and Mr Weasley had been talking.

“You go first Ron,” Mr Weasley said, pointing to the small pot on the mantelpiece where Gran kept the Floo powder.

Ron took a pinch of the powder, crouched down into the fireplace and cried, “The Burrow!” dropping the powder. In a flash he was gone.

“You next, Neville,” indicated Mr Weasley.

Neville said goodbye to Gran, adding, “Don’t forget to feed Trevor while I’m gone,” before taking his Floo powder and his suitcase and stepping into the fireplace. Steeling himself, he yelled, “The Burrow!” and flung down the powder. Instantly he felt himself jerked forwards, propelled through the magical network. He had always hated the sensation, it made him nauseous, and he was glad when at last he collapsed onto a kitchen floor.

A short, dumpy kind-faced witch Neville recognised as Mrs Weasley helped him to his feet. “Welcome, Neville,” she said brightly. “Welcome to our humble home.” Neville looked about him. The kitchen was smaller than that in his own home, but had the same pleasant, rustic feel; in fact, even more so. It was bright and clean, but had a very much lived-in feeling. Neville didn’t know why, but somehow he instantly felt as home here as he did in Huddlesby.

While Mrs Weasley was distracted by Neville, Ron was a raiding a cupboard for a biscuit. Mr Weasley Flooed in behind Neville. “Mrs Longbottom sends her regards, Molly. Where is everyone?”

“Just a moment.” Mrs Weasley went to the door of the kitchen and yelled up the stairs, “Harry! Boys! Neville’s here!” At that moment there was a massive bang from above their heads. Neville went to dive under the table, but nobody else even flinched.

“What was that?” Neville exclaimed.

“Experiments,” Ron grinned. “The Marauders are branching out.”

“They’ve been at it all summer,” said Mr Weasley with a resigned tone. “Sometimes I wish I knew what they were doing up there, and other times I think it’s best not to know.” There was a pounding on the stairs and Harry, Fred and George entered the kitchen. Their faces and hands were covered in soot and they were grinning broadly.

“That wasn’t the best moment to disturb us, mother dear,” chided Fred. Mrs Weasley gave him one of her patented cold stares. Fred ignored her and turned to George. “Perhaps one less clockwise wand stir next time, eh Wormtail?”

“Exactly what I was thinking, Moony,” replied George. “And we’re going to need a couple of fresh cauldrons.”

“Well, they’ll have to be paid for out of your own pocket,” snapped Mrs Weasley. “We’re not made of money, you know.”

“What happened to the whole ‘secret society’ idea, then?” asked Neville.

“There was hardly much point keeping it secret any more,” Harry replied. “Besides, we’ve got Sirius’ blessing now. So we’ve gone into full-scale prank production, or at least we would be if we didn’t keep going through cauldrons. Fred and George have really got a flair for thinking up great ideas for joke magical items and tricks. We’re thinking of selling some of them at school once we’ve got the problems sorted out. Only trouble is, we can’t decide what to call ourselves. I like ‘Marauding Magic’, but they don’t.”

“I prefer ‘The Magnificent Marauders’ Merriments’” suggested George. That started off a succession of counter-suggestions and arguments between the four Marauders, and Neville left them to it. Mrs Weasley led him up the stairs to the second floor. Next to a room that appeared to have smoke leaking out of it was a door with the name ‘Percy’ proudly affixed to it.

“You’ll be staying here,” Mrs Weasley explained. “Percy doesn’t need it now, he’s starting his new job at the Ministry, and Harry’s bunking down with Ron upstairs. Make yourself at home.”

Percy’s bedroom was surprisingly stark and bare; either the ex-Head Boy had completely cleared out the room before he left or he had preferred a spartan look. Neville unpacked a few essentials from his bag. Footsteps on the stairs and then a series of bangs and fizzes from behind the wall of the room told Neville that the Marauders had returned to what must be Fred and George’s room, he assumed. Finishing unpacking, he left the room to explore the house.

Like his own home, Neville guessed the Burrow had once been a farmhouse, but it could certainly not now be mistaken for a Muggle abode. The house rose precariously into the sky in several storeys, defying conventional laws of architecture. Despite being larger than his house, which only had two floors and an attic, it felt more cramped and overrun. Of course, only Neville and Gran lived in their home since Granddad had died, and several rooms there were now unused.

Despite all this, the Burrow had a quality that Neville could only describe as ‘homeliness’. The house seemed as much a part of the Weasley family as any person in it, and there was an instant sense of being in a place of love. Neville envied Ron and wondered if he truly appreciated the home he had.

Back downstairs again he found Mr and Mrs Weasley busy tidying the house. To get out of their way he passed on through the kitchen to the back door, intending to have a look at the garden. But as he opened the door, he found himself face to face with Ginny Weasley, coming in the opposite direction.

Like Ron, she seemed a lot taller than Neville remembered, and a lot more grown up; prettier he supposed, though Neville was no judge of such things. She was out of breath, sweat glistened on her forehead and her long red hair was in a tangle. “Oh hello, Neville, I didn’t know you’d arrived yet,” she said, surprised. Neville let her past and she collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and took a deep breath, running her fingers through her hair to try and smooth it out.

“Are you all right?” asked Neville politely.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she smiled. “Just been outside practising.”

“Practising?”

Ginny looked around to check if anyone else was listening. “Quidditch,” she explained. “I’ve been borrowing Fred’s broom and flying around above the field out back with an old Quaffle. They never let me play when they have a game,” she jabbed a finger at the ceiling, in the direction of the Marauders in Fred and George’s room, “so I have to learn by myself. They don’t know yet. One day I’ll show them.”

There was a crackle and a strange whining noise from above their heads. “Still at it, are they?” commented Ginny, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “All summer.” There was an exasperated tone in her voice.

“I guess it must be annoying,” Neville offered.

“That’s not the point. They lock themselves away in that room and don’t allow anyone else in. I hardly even see them, much less get involved. I hate being just the girl.”

Neville smiled, he was reminded of a time over a year before when Ginny had yelled similar sentiments into Harry’s face, at the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets. “I suppose it’s hard being the younger sister. Not that I’d know.”

Ginny didn’t seem to hear him. “I mean, Harry’s been coming here since I was six, and not once have they paid me even the slightest bit of attention. It’s as if I don’t exist to them.”

Neville politely half-listened to Ginny continuing to complain, though he wasn’t really concentrating on what was being said. He got the feeling that actually there was something else going on, that there was more to Ginny’s frustration than what she was saying. But he had no idea what it could be. Girls’ minds were just as much a mystery to him as most things in the world. Still, it was good that Ginny appeared to feel comfortable talking to him now. There was a time back before the Chamber incident when she hardly seemed capable of stringing a sentence together in front of Neville, something Neville had put down to his undeserved fame and reputation as the Boy-Who-Lived. Now she had got to know Neville better, and they had faced danger together, that had faded away.

Eventually Mrs Weasley entered, continuing her cleaning of the house, and Ginny finished her rant. “Thanks, Neville. You’re a great listener,” she said, and headed upstairs to her room. Neville was surprised by the remark, given he had hardly paid much attention to Ginny. Maybe being a good listener was simply a matter of not saying anything, in which case Neville genuinely would be a natural.

Neville sat with the whole family around the kitchen table for lunch; he noticed that Ginny was glaring at Harry and Ron the whole time. In the afternoon, the Marauders temporarily abandoned their experimenting, and joined Neville out in the garden under the warm sunshine. Occasionally Neville would look up at the house and catch sight of Ginny watching them from an upstairs window, but she would disappear if she spotted Neville looking in her direction.

Neville asked Harry about Sirius, and Harry told him he was still busy looking for a new job, so wouldn’t be coming to the match. “Plus he’s got, er, his friend to look after,” said Harry, with a quick glance about him in the absurdly unlikely chance that someone was listening. They’d learned to be very careful when discussing Lupin between themselves, as he was still a wanted man.

“How is Moony?” Neville asked. They tended to use Lupin’s Marauder nickname for security, even if it did run the risk of confusing him with Fred.

“Well enough, or as well as can be expected,” Harry replied. “But it can’t be good for him cooped up in that miserable old house with only a demented house-elf for company. I wish he could stay with us, but Sirius says it isn’t safe and his old family home is the most secure place he knows.”

“How come you and Sirius don’t live in the house yourself?”

“Sirius hates even setting foot in the place. Too many bad memories. He loathed his family and the house just reminds him of that. I don’t think he’d been in there from when his parents died until this summer, and I’ve never been in. He wouldn’t even take on Kreacher, the house-elf, though he’s still technically his master. Kreacher just mopes about the old house apparently, and won’t listen to Moony.” The arrangement didn’t sound much like the freedom Neville had hoped for Lupin, but anything was better than Azkaban, he knew.

Late in the afternoon, Mrs Weasley cleared them from the garden so she could set up a table for dinner. There were too many people coming to fit in the kitchen, so they were moving outside. Fortunately Hermione arrived at that point and Neville took the opportunity to catch up with what she had been up to. He was surprised to find that she had arrived by Muggle means, taking a train to local Ottery St Catchpole station and then being picked up in a car by Mr Weasley. “Mr Weasley owns a Muggle car?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, a little blue Ford Anglia. He’s really proud of it and kept asking me all sorts of complicated questions about how cars work, as if I’d know. I don’t think he understands not all Muggles and Muggle-borns are technological experts. Don’t tell him you do Muggle Studies or he’ll corner you too. Did you have a good summer?”

“Yes, thanks. A lot less dramatic than last summer.” Neville scratched the back of his head, then reached into his pocket and took out his Remembrall. The smoke inside was red.

“Forgotten something?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, I thought there was something I wanted to ask you. Trouble is, I haven’t got a clue what it was.” Neville absently scratched the scar on his forehead.

“Well, I’m sure if it was important you’ll remember eventually. Looking forward to the new term?”

“Yes, actually.” For the first time since he started at Hogwarts, Neville was truly enjoying the prospect of returning to his studies. The events of the end of the previous year had instilled in him a new-found confidence and he had promised himself he would put a more serious effort into his classes in his fourth year. Well, maybe not in Potions, but otherwise yes.

There were eleven people around the dinner table in the garden of the Burrow that evening: Neville, Hermione and Harry, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and six of their seven children. In addition to Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, the two eldest of the Weasley children had come home for the family gathering and the match the next day. Bill, the older, who worked for Gringotts, was an affable and easy-going wizard, effortless stylish in the sort of way that would normally make Neville incredibly jealous. But it was impossible to think badly of Bill.

Charlie, the second of the Weasley brothers, seemed a maverick, jokey sort who delighted in teasing his mother, telling only half-believable stories of his wild encounters with dragons where he worked in Romania. Mrs Weasley remained tight-lipped and how she really felt about Charlie’s stories was unclear, but they terrified Neville. He was grateful that he would never have to go anywhere near a dragon.

All in all, it was a very enjoyable evening, with everyone laughing and joking and comfortable in each other’s company. It felt to Neville more like the Gryffindor common room than the sort of home life he was used to. He realised he had never really known what it was like to have a real family. Sometimes it seemed that as he got older all he learned was how much he had missed out on in life.

Be grateful for what you have, that was always one of his Gran’s mottoes. But as he fell asleep that night, he wondered: was it enough? Was there more out there that he could have had, and more that he yet could have?

In the morning, Mrs Weasley roused the household bright and early, and treated them to a hearty breakfast. Afterwards, they all congregated on the front lawn, and Mrs Weasley waved goodbye to them, wished them a pleasant day at the match, and promised to have a fine meal waiting for them when they got home. Mr Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Harry, Hermione and Neville set off in the direction of the slowly rising sun.

“We’ve got to take a Portkey from the top of the hill over there,” Ron explained to Neville. “There’s tight security around the match, to keep the Muggles from noticing, so Dad says.” This news did not particularly thrill Neville, as he had never used a Portkey before and all his previous first experiences with new forms of wizarding transportation had been unpleasant and uncomfortable ones.

Neville was not a morning person, and found the dawn hike arduous and exhausting. Occasionally he would start to fall behind, and Mr Weasley would call back to encourage him to keep up. “Come on, or we’ll be late,” he urged. Neville complained silently to himself about how unfit he was, and how he was still shorter than nearly all his classmates. He wondered if he would ever start to grow properly.

At last they approached the summit of the hill, where they saw two figures sitting on the grass waiting for them, a middle-aged wizard with a short, unkempt beard and a tall, brown-haired boy, somewhat older than Neville. He looked familiar, though Neville couldn’t immediately place him. The man called out in a genial voice, “Arthur! There you are, we were getting worried. You’ve only got a couple of minutes.”

The party approached the pair and the man got up and shook Mr Weasley’s hand. “Good to see you, Amos,” said Mr Weasley. “I don’t believe you’ve met the family. Everyone, this is Amos Diggory, a colleague of mine at the Ministry. He lives just down in the valley and is sharing our Portkey. I guess some of you already know his son Cedric.”

There was a quick round of introductions. When they got to Harry, Mr Diggory said, “So this is Harry Potter, the boy that’s single-handedly preventing my Cedric from getting his hands on the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup. I’m sure you’ll find a way round him this year, eh Ced?” He turned away and glanced at Neville and gave a little gasp. “My, Neville Longbottom,” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise. An honour to meet you, Neville.” He shook Neville’s hand enthusiastically and tried to give him a hug. Behind him, Cedric just smiled and shrugged his shoulders as if to apologise for his father’s over-exuberance. Neville decided he liked Cedric. He now recognised him as the Seeker of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, whom Harry had played the year before.

“Time to go, Amos,” called Mr Weasley. “It’ll be a tight squeeze; they’ve only given us this old hat.” Everybody lined up crouched around a battered white broad-brimmed hat, making sure they had a finger touching the brim. Neville knew that Portkeys were usually disguised as everyday objects. Those that weren’t activated by touch were designed to transport at a pre-arranged time. Neville reached in his right arm, his middle finger just making contact with the hat. There was a pause, and Neville closed his eyes and braced himself.

Suddenly he felt a sharp, painful tug at his abdomen, as if something was trying to suck his intestines out of his body, and he was pulled violently forward. For a moment he was completely disorientated, until he tumbled onto soft ground. Well, at least that didn’t last long, he thought, whereupon he was knocked to the ground as someone else collapsed on top of him. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Neville,” apologised Ginny.

“That’s all right,” he mumbled, his mouth full of grass. Ginny stood up, offered a hand, and helped Neville to his feet. Neville found his head was still spinning.

“Wow, look at that,” said Ginny, pointing. As his eyes refocused, Neville saw that they were standing on a wide open moor. Laid out in front of them was a vast campsite teeming with witches and wizards from across the world. Many had been camping out for days in preparation for the final and the result was a kaleidoscope of world wizardry.

They all made their way down to the site. Ginny, still leading Neville by the hand, followed along close behind Harry and Ron. At the entrance to the site, they said their farewells to the Diggorys and promised to look out for them in the stadium. Then they looked for a place to pitch their tent. The match wouldn’t begin for a while yet and they had time to wait.

Mr Weasley had borrowed a magical tent from a colleague of his and eventually they found a clear patch of ground to set it up. Bill and Charlie helped Mr Weasley assemble the tent whilst the rest sat around waiting. Just as they were finishing, a tall, plump wizard with a shock of blond hair and an over-eager smile approached the group. “Arthur!” he called out. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” He reached into the pocket of his robes, pulled out a sheaf of tickets and handed them over. “Ten of them, all present and correct,” he added. “Best seats in the house. You definitely earned them.”

“Thank you, Mr Bagman,” replied Mr Weasley. “May I introduce you to my family? Everyone, this is Ludo Bagman, head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and the man whom you can thank for these tickets.”

“Not Ludo Bagman, ex- Wimbourne and England?” exclaimed Fred.

“The very same,” beamed Bagman, shaking Fred and George’s hands, who were obviously very impressed. “So what do you reckon to the match, then? Hard to see past the Irish in the form they’re in, but can Connolly and Quigley keep Krum under control?”

“If half the stuff I’ve heard about Krum’s true, I’d be willing to bet they can’t,” replied George.

Bagman’s eyes lit up. “Really? How much?” Mr Weasley shot a disapproving glance in their direction and Bagman changed the subject, and moved on to greet the rest of the Weasleys. When he caught sight of Neville over Ron’s shoulder, he gave a little start. “Well, batter me with a Bludger, it’s Neville Longbottom,” he said, and rushed past Ron to greet Neville, giving him a warm handshake and a pat on the back. “You never told me you knew the Boy-Who-Lived, Arthur. So Neville, any ideas on the match?”

“Er, not really,” answered Neville.

“Hedging your bets, eh? Smart boy. But if you want a tip from me, Troy for top scorer. Keep that to yourself, okay?” He smiled a little too broadly and gave a conspiratorial wink. Not knowing what to say, Neville just nodded politely. Eventually, much to Neville’s relief, Bagman moved on to ingratiate himself with the remainder of the Weasleys, and Neville took the opportunity to dive into the tent. The last he saw was Bagman talking quietly with Fred and George once more.

Neville had been wizard camping once before, on a dull holiday to the Cotswolds with his Gran back when he was nine, so he wasn’t surprised by the grand interior of the tent. Hermione, on the other hand looked much impressed, and there was an expression on her face that Neville recognised instantly. It was the expression she always had when trying to work out exactly how something worked, and whether she could learn to use it herself.

Harry and Ron retreated to a corner to conspire, joined later by Fred and George, so Neville found himself talking to Hermione and Ginny. In fact, the two girls did all of the talking, and Neville just sat and listened, and dozed, for it was a warm summer day.

At long last it was time to leave and make the short journey over to the stadium. They followed the crowds on a path through woodland and eventually the vast bowl of the great World Cup stadium loomed up in front of them. It was huge, big enough to seat 100,000, and shimmering in bright gold. Neville was awestruck just by the sheer scale of it.

Thanks to Ludo Bagman, they were seated in prime position, at the back of the Top Box opposite the scoreboard. A few of the wizarding great and good gave disapproving looks at the rag-tag Weasleys as they took their seats, including the Minister for Magic himself and, as Neville bitterly noticed, Lucius and Draco Malfoy, sitting just along from Cornelius Fudge.

Neville found himself sitting in between Harry and Hermione. The Marauders had all decked themselves out in green, in support of the Irish, but Neville had foregone the opportunity to do the same, even if he was still behind Ireland. Drawing more attention to himself was always the last thing he’d want to do.

In front of him sat a tall, stiff, sour-faced looking wizard by the name of Bartemius Crouch, according to Mr Weasley. Apparently he was Percy’s boss at the Ministry, though Percy was not present. The man sat so tall and straight that Neville could not see over him and had to lean round to get a decent view of the pitch, which annoyed Hermione somewhat. Seated obediently at Crouch’s feet was a short female house-elf, apparently not in the least concerned that she could see nothing from where she was, merely dutifully attending her master. Neville, whose sole knowledge of house-elves was the rebellious Dobby, found the sight rather disturbing.

The pre-match entertainment came and went, but Neville could make out very little, and it was not until the players arrived that he properly began to sit up and take notice. The Irish side looked lean and fast, but the Bulgarians looked stronger, and very determined. Ludo Bagman formally introduced the match and the balls were released.

Neville, used to watching Hogwarts matches, was amazed at the speed of play. The Irish Chasers zipped around the stadium at such breathtaking speed, it was hard for the spectators to keep up with them, never mind the Bulgarians. As Ireland raced into an early lead, Bulgaria’s tactics became clear. Unable to compete effectively in Quaffle play, they were concentrating on slowing the game down as much as possible, by fair means or foul, and relying on their Beaters to protect their Seeker at all costs.

Even Neville, with his limited tactical knowledge of Quidditch, could tell that the Bulgarian Seeker, Viktor Krum, was easily the best, and certainly the fastest, player on either side. Harry by Neville’s side was watching on in awe. Great Seeker though Neville knew Harry was, Krum easily put him in the shade. But the Snitch continued to prove elusive, and the Bludger battle was becoming more ferocious and violent.

As the goals racked up, the Bulgarian play became ever more desperate and ragged. More than once, Neville saw Krum pause from his pursuit and look round at his colleagues, angry that he was not getting more support. Then, in a blistering attack, a ninth goal for Moran meant Ireland extended their lead to 180-20, enough to secure a win even if Krum caught the Snitch. “Now we’ll see what Bulgaria are made of,” confided Harry to Neville. “If they can’t put together a serious counterattack, this game is over. Personally though, I think it might be better if Krum put them out of their misery.”

Barely had the words left his mouth than Neville saw Krum go into a spectacular steep dive from high above the stadium, just as another Irish goal went in. The Irish Seeker Lynch tracked him, but Krum’s dive seemed almost reckless, out of control, hurtling towards the ground. “If he’s pulling a Wronski Feint, he’s going way too fast,” yelled Fred. “Lynch can’t keep up with him. They must have seen the Snitch.” But Krum’s hand was not out for a catch.

He barrelled towards the ground, but now a Bludger was coming up to meet him. Lynch had already pulled out, arcing away to approach the Snitch from another trajectory. Krum continued on, directly into the path of the incoming Bludger. Suddenly at the last moment, he slipped his right leg off his broom, leaving the broom dangling below him. The Bludger missed Krum and impacted the back of the broom hard, slamming it upwards. Somehow, Krum kept one hand on the broom and reached out with the other. Now travelling much more slowly, he grasped hold of something just before hitting the ground. He rolled over and came to rest, before staggering to his feet and holding aloft the Snitch in his right hand.

“Amazing!” exclaimed Ron. “He used the Bludger to slow himself down, cut his speed just enough to catch the Snitch and make a safe landing. Incredible!” The 100,000 strong crowd in the stadium all went wild, and chants of “Krum!” rang out from all sides. The fact that the Irish had won 190-170 was briefly forgotten as the crowd acclaimed their new hero.

* * *

On the way back to the campsite from the stadium, there was much excited talk about what was reckoned to be the best World Cup final for several decades. Widespread praise could be heard for the Irish Chasers, and also particularly for Viktor Krum. “They’ll be calling that move the Krum Manoeuvre from now on,” predicted George.

“It was brilliant!” said Ron, who had been buzzing with excitement ever since the match ended. “Best Seeker I’ve ever seen… sorry Harry.” Harry merely shrugged modestly. “Still, I’m glad the Irish won. They were by far the better overall.”

The crowd was slowly funnelling from the path out of the woods back into the campsite, with the Weasleys’ group in amongst them. The sun was just setting and the last rays of sunlight were lighting the way back to the tents. Everybody, Irish and Bulgarian supporters and neutrals alike, was in a celebratory mood.

Neville had just reached the edge of the first line of tents when he heard a low rumbling sound from the middle of the campsite and the ground seemed to shake slightly. Looking up, he saw a ball of light rise into the sky from the middle of the site, lighting the field in a gentle glow. His first thought was that someone was launching fireworks in celebration, but as the ball of light faded into redness and dissipated, the glow around did not fade but grew brighter.

Licks of flame could now be made out sprouting up in a dozen places. The whole place seemed now on fire, and the fire was spreading at an unnatural rate. People were transfixed in panic and confusion, with no idea what was happening. Some had started running, but without any direction. Those inside the campsite were trying to get out, but they found themselves trapped between the approaching flames and the crowds behind, who were pushing forward to see what was happening.

Neville found himself packed in amongst the crowd, barely able to see the rest of his group. Ginny was close by him, but she too looked at a loss of what to do. From in front of him he heard yells and shouts of warning, and he fear being crushed from those behind him.

Up ahead he could now see flashes, but not of fire. These were wand blasts. Panic now truly set in and people began to run wild. Some were struck and fell, or hoisted into the air. Neville and Ginny found themselves buffeted and had to start running themselves, to avoid being overrun. Nobody seemed to know where to flee, for the route back to the Portkeys by which they had arrived was through the flames. Some of those that could were already Disapparating.

Grabbing hold of Ginny’s hand and sheltering behind a tent, Neville looked out, but none of the other Weasleys or Harry or Hermione could be seen. He thought he caught site of Cedric Diggory running past, wand in hand, for a brief moment, but not his father. All was chaos. Ginny pointed away to their right. “Look!” she said. Advancing between the tents were a group of hooded and black-cloaked wizards, moving in formation, wands outstretched. It was they who were casting the spells left and right, causing the havoc.

Neville and Ginny ducked down behind the tent. “What do we do now?” asked Neville.

“We need to find Dad and the rest somehow,” replied Ginny. Noises close by suggested duels had broken out; some people at least were fighting back against the attackers. “The only way we can get out of here is our Portkey up by the entrance. Maybe we should try and get there, if only we could get around the fire. Do you know any fire extinguishing spells?” Neville just gave her a look which he hoped conveyed how absurd the question was. “Well, we can’t stay here.”

Keeping their heads down, they set off at a run between the tents, unsure of exactly what direction they were headed in. Barely had they gone a few yards however when from somewhere away to Neville’s right he heard a hissed voice cry out a strange word. It sounded foreign, something like “Morsmordre.” Neville whipped his head round to look, but he could see no one there. Only a spurt of green light, shooting up into the sky like a rocket.

High over Neville’s head, the light slowed and expanded, forming a hideous shape against the night sky. It took the appearance of a macabre grinning skull, in a sickly green hue. From out of the skull’s mouth and wrapped around it grew a glittering snake. “What is that?” whispered Ginny, staring up in astonishment.

Neville knew what it was, though he had never seen it before. His Gran had told him little about the war, the terrible conflict which had eventually claimed his parents and almost him. But she had warned him about this, about the sign that appeared in the sky above the site of every murder, the calling card of the Death Eaters. “It’s the Dark Mark,” he murmured in reply. The scar on his forehead started to burn.

For a moment an eerie calm spread across the field; all eyes were on the sky. Then the panic set in again, only it was everywhere now. People were running in terror and there were even more sounds of Disapparition. To his amazement, Neville caught sight of the cloaked figures running and Disapparating themselves, along with the crowd. The fighting had stopped.

Neville and Ginny stood still, waiting to see what would happen next as the noise died down around them and slowly stillness returned. Neville’s hand was pressed against his forehead, as if it would stop the scar exploding with the pain. Suddenly a hand was pressed against his shoulder and he jumped. Turning though, he discovered it was Bill Weasley. His face and clothes were streaked with mud and his wand was at the ready. “Thank God we’ve found you,” he said breathlessly “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” said Neville. “What about the others?”

“They’re fine. Only you got separated in the crush and we’ve been looking for you. Dad!” he called behind him. “They’re over here!” Mr Weasley emerged out of the gloom. Seeing Ginny, he ran to her and hugged her tightly. Behind him came the other Weasleys, Harry and Hermione. They all looked shaken, but unhurt. Several were gazing up at the Dark Mark still hovering in the sky.

“W-were they… the Death Eaters?” Neville asked Bill, trembling now the shock had passed.

Bill nodded. “They haven’t shown themselves publicly for some years,” said Mr Weasley gravely, “but it’s always been known some escaped capture or were never proved to be involved. But why should they appear now, and why did they leave as soon as the Dark Mark was cast?”

“Good questions,” said another voice. Everyone turned to see another figure approaching. Neville recognised him from the stadium; it was Bartemius Crouch. He had a pale and haggard look and his head was darting from side to side, as if expecting the Death Eaters to reappear at any moment. His house-elf was running along beside him and behind him came two Ministry wizards. “Who are you?”

“Arthur Weasley, sir,” answered Mr Weasley. “My son Percy works for you at the Ministry.”

“What? Oh yes, er, Percy. Fine lad.” Crouch seemed understandably flustered and was still looking about him for danger.

“Has anybody been hurt?” asked Bill.

“No, thankfully, from what we can tell. A couple Stunned but nothing more. It seems they were more interested in making a point than causing injury. But still…” Crouch’s eyes reluctantly turned skywards to the Dark Mark. “We got a report that it,” he pointed his wand in the direction of the Mark, apparently unprepared to name it, “was cast from around here. Did any of you see anything?”

“Um, I heard someone call out,” said Neville. “Just from over there, but when I looked I couldn’t see anyone. It sounded something like Morsmordre.”

“Don’t speak that word!” snapped Crouch. He stared at Neville, perhaps surprised to see who he was. “That’s the incantation,” he explained. He instructed his subordinates to investigate the place Neville indicated. “Weasley, I suggest you take your family home and leave the clear-up to us,” he continued. “Thank you for your help. Come on, Winky.”

“Yes, master,” replied the house-elf happily, and they moved off.

The Weasleys gathered together, along with Neville, Harry and Hermione, and they made their way out through the smouldering ruins of the campsite, under the eerie glow of the Dark Mark. Harry couldn’t resist one last look up at it. “They say it’s a sign of death, but nobody died,” he observed. “So who cast it, and why?” Neville didn’t answer, but he had the terrible feeling it was no coincidence it was cast directly over his head and that whoever had cast it had known full well he was there.

Neville ambled down the corridor aboard the Hogwarts Express, looking for an empty compartment. He found himself confronted by Draco Malfoy coming in the opposite direction. Draco seemed to tower over him even more than before as he grunted, “Move it, Short-Arse,” forcing himself past roughly. Neville said nothing, but glared at Draco as he went, as did Hermione behind him.

“Did you see he was at the Quidditch World Cup?” Neville asked Hermione after he’d gone. “With his father. I’ll bet they weren’t sorry to see what happened, if they weren’t involved themselves.” Hermione said nothing in reply. Neither of them had much respect left for Draco Malfoy after three years of taunts, insults and cruelty.

They found the next compartment full of purple smoke, through which could dimly be made out the outlines of four boys, apparently unconcerned. Neville and Hermione exchanged a knowing glance. “Let’s go in the next one,” said Hermione. “Venturing in there would probably be dangerous for our health.”

Fortunately the next compartment was indeed empty and they settled into the seats. “I’m not sure I like the idea of all this Marauder business,” said Hermione disapprovingly. “I mean, we’re supposed to be keeping Moony a secret. Is it really a good idea for them to go around reminding everyone of the Marauders?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone to remind that matters who doesn’t already know,” observed Neville. “As long as they keep quiet about Moony himself, it won’t be a problem. I’m interested to see what they cook up.”

Hermione gave a look which suggested she was far from being interested in the antics of the four troublemakers. “I still don’t like it,” she said, but didn’t press the issue and changed the subject. “How was the rest of your summer holiday?”

“Not great. Gran was mad when I got back from the World Cup. She had a long rant at Mr Weasley when he dropped me off about putting me in danger, though it was hardly his fault. She can get a bit overprotective, like last year, remember? I doubt she’ll be letting me go on any trips next summer. I had to spend the rest of the holiday inside the house. Funny thing was, she wasn’t surprised when she found out it had been the Death Eaters who’d done it. She said she always knew they’d be back.”

“The Daily Prophet has been keeping remarkably quiet on the whole thing,” said Hermione, taking a copy of the latest edition down from where she’d stowed it in the luggage rack. “You’d think the whole Ministry would be up in arms over the attack.”

“They are, actually, only they’re keeping quiet over it so as to not stir any panic. Apparently they’ve no idea how all their security measures were bypassed.” Hermione gave Neville a questioning look. “Ron owled me a week ago,” he explained. “He got the news from his dad.”

“I wish Ron would send me an owl occasionally,” complained Hermione, before realising she had spoken aloud. “I mean, I like to be kept informed,” she added.

Outside, the urban sprawl of London was slowly giving way to the open fields of rural England as the train sped northwards. Neville and Hermione heard a commotion from the corridor and a girl’s voice yell, “Fine, see if I care!” A moment later Ginny Weasley appeared at the door of their compartment. “Oh, hi Neville, hi Hermione,” she said. “Do you mind if I join you? No one who isn’t in their stupid club is allowed next door it seems.” She took the space next to Neville. “I swear they’re getting worse. Ever since the end of last term they’ve been obsessed with it.” Neville and Hermione exchanged glances. Ginny was not one of those who knew about Lupin. “So, what are you talking about?”

“The World Cup attack,” replied Hermione.

“Oh. Did they ever find out who cast the Dark Mark?” Hermione shook her head. “We were right there. It’s a shame we didn’t see who it was. We always seem to be caught up together in the middle of these big events, don’t we Neville?”

The three of them continued cheerfully chatting together throughout the journey. “I must say,” said Hermione eventually, “despite everything, you seem a lot happier than usual on your way to Hogwarts, Neville. I thought you’d be much more worried.”

Neville was worried, but no more than usual and as he pointed out, there was no safer place to be than Hogwarts. “Maybe the attack was just a one-off stunt to scare people,” he suggested. “They certainly didn’t hang around for long. Besides, you’re right. For the first time, I think I’m actually looking forward to term starting. After last summer, I really want to find out if I’ve go anything to offer.”

“Why, what happened last summer?” asked Ginny.

“Er, well, I found out I might not be as bad at magic as I thought,” said Neville vaguely. “And apparently I do belong in Gryffindor.” It was probably that last point which gave him the most satisfaction.

“Why ever wouldn’t you belong in Gryffindor?” said Ginny, surprised. “You’re just as brave as the rest of us, if not more so.” Neville thought that was a patently ridiculous claim, but Ginny seemed serious. Maybe she was just trying to flatter him, but he couldn’t think why.

When at last they got to Hogsmeade station, Ginny tried to make a point of ignoring the Marauders, which didn’t really work as they hardly noticed. Everyone piled into the ornate carriages that took them up to the castle. Again, Neville got a brief shock at the sight of the strange skeletal winged horses that pulled the carriages, which seemingly only he could see. He found he’d almost got used to them by now, but they still reminded him of how he was set apart, of how there were some ways in which he was always different. He’d always meant to find out more about them, but never got around to it. Taking out his Remembrall in customary fashion, he resolved that this time he would try to remember about them.

Walking into the brightly lit Great Hall of Hogwarts felt more than ever like coming home to Neville. The stars twinkled in the enchanted ceiling and the walls were festooned with brightly coloured banners. On the Gryffindor table Neville met up again with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan and the rest of his year. Everybody swapped stories of what they’d been up to over the summer while they waited for the Sorting Ceremony to begin.

Eventually the side door of the Hall opened and in filed Dumbledore and the other professors, taking their places at the teachers table. Flitwick struggled to clamber up into his seat; Hagrid, who gave a cheery wave to the Gryffindors, was allocated a special large reinforced seat at the end of the table. Snape looked even more sour-faced than usual. Taking the seat next to Professor Burbage was a new teacher Neville didn’t recognise.

This newcomer certainly stood out. He was an old gnarled-looking wizard with a stiff walk. His face was pockmarked and part of his nose seemed to be missing. But the strangest thing about him was his right eye. It had a bright blue iris and was so large that it seemed to protrude out from its socket, from where it swivelled manically and independently of his other eye, scanning the Hall. It looked it was spending a lot of time focussing on Snape, further down the table. “Who is that?” Neville asked.

“Blimey, it’s Mad-Eye Moody,” answered Ron, sitting across from Neville. In response to some of the blank looks around him, he continued, “He’s an Auror, or was. Best there’s ever been, supposedly. Caught more Dark Wizards during the war and after than the rest of the Auror department put together, so they say. Most of them single-handed. Completely bonkers on top of all that as well.”

Any further information from Ron was curtailed however, as the main doors of the Hall opened and McGonagall led in the first-years. Reaching the front, she collected the Sorting Hat and placed it upon its ceremonial stool. The brim of the Hat cracked open, and it began to sing as it always did on this occasion. Only this time its message was somewhat different.

“A millennium and more ago,
When these lands were divided
And wizards shared no common bond,
Unaided and unguided,
The greatest four from out of them
Conceived an epic scheme:
A place where magic had a home,
For, lo, it was their dream
That the youth of wizardry should come
In fellowship together
And build a strong community
To withstand any weather.
To this great task the Founders brought
The talents they possessed.
For each had skills unique to them,
With which they had been blessed.
Brave Gryffindor, of heart so true,
Brought courage, strength and daring.
Kind Hufflepuff thought most of all
Of loyalty and sharing.
Bright Ravenclaw had knowledge, skill
In learning and tuition.
Wise Slytherin put his own faith
In cunning and ambition.
Together they did build this school,
That all might share its wonder.
But all too soon their harmony
And friendship split asunder.
Now all that’s left are Houses four
And me, who must divide you.
So put me on your head right now
And I will look inside you.
But heed my words, for though I’ll say
In which house you belong,
When darkness comes, as darkness will,
And evil seems so strong,
The school must be united
As it once was meant to be,
And each House must bring its talents
For the good of wizardry.”

The song caused much animated discussion on the four House tables as the Sorting began. “What was all that about?” asked Seamus. “It sounded kind of like a warning.”

“It seemed like no more than general good advice to me,” said Hermione. “Unless the Hat knows something we don’t, and I doubt that.” Neville said nothing, but he was intrigued by the song and the reference to darkness coming half-stirred the memory of the prophecy Trelawney had spoken to him a few months before: A second darkness shall fall and the end of the beginning shall be at hand.

The only highlight of the Sorting that Neville took any notice of was Dennis Creevey, the younger brother of camera-mad Muggle-born Colin, being Sorted into Gryffindor. Dennis bounded happily over to join his brother just up the table from Neville. At the end of the Sorting Dumbledore immediately introduced the feast, and Neville hungrily tucked in. Whilst his Gran’s cooking wasn’t exactly bad, there was nothing quite like a Hogwarts feast in his experience. Between mouthfuls he listened to Fred and George’s boasts for their plans for mayhem in the upcoming term and Harry discussing the Gryffindor team’s chances in the Quidditch season.

At the end of the feast, Dumbledore got up from his seat to deliver his customary address. “Welcome, all of you, to Hogwarts, both our new intake and our returning students,” he said warmly. “I have a few notices to give, and then a very important announcement to make. Firstly, remember that the Forbidden Forest is strictly out of bounds and no magic is permitted in the corridors. Our caretaker, Mr Filch, has revised his list of banned items, and copies of the list will be posted in each common room.

“Secondly, I would like to welcome our newest member of staff, Professor Alastor Moody, who has signed a one year contract to be our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Professor Moody has extensive experience in combating Dark magic, and I am sure you will all find his insight most valuable.” There was a polite round of applause but Moody made no acknowledgement; his roving eye merely continued its analysis of the Hall.

“Lastly, the important announcement to which I referred. I’m afraid to say this season’s Quidditch tournament will not take place.” There were loud groans from all parts of the Hall, particularly, Neville heard, from Harry just behind him. Dumbledore however raised his hand for quiet. “This is because this year will see the revival of one of the greatest and most prestigious competitions in the Wizarding world: The Triwizard Tournament. This tournament was held for centuries between the three pre-eminent magical schools in Europe: Hogwarts, the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and the Durmstrang Institute. It was abandoned over a century ago due to safety concerns but thanks to successful negotiations it is to return with Hogwarts as the hosts.

“For those unfamiliar with the tournament, each school puts forward one champion to represent them, and these champions compete in a succession of extremely arduous magical challenges. It is considered a great privilege to be chosen. Representatives from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at Halloween, when the champions will be chosen, and I expect you to extend them every courtesy as our guests. The Triwizard Tournament is an opportunity to bring diverse witches and wizards together, to foster strong ties with our friends from across the continent. It should prove to be a most interesting and exciting year.”

As soon as Dumbledore had sat down, excited chatter broke out amongst all the students. Apart from a few disappointed at the lack of Quidditch, everyone was eagerly anticipating the tournament. There was much debate about who the Hogwarts champion might be; Ryan Llewellyn, the new Head Boy, was an obviously common guess, or Roger Davies, the popular Ravenclaw Quidditch captain. The Marauders all immediately declared their intention to put themselves forward, except Ron who did his best to distance himself from the crazy idea.

Many, including Hermione, were interested to learn about Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, about which nobody seemed to know much at all. A few knew of them by reputation, but little else. “It’ll be interesting to get a different perspective on magical learning,” said Hermione, with her typical academic curiosity. Neville, whose sense of curiosity was more general than Hermione’s, but no less strong, was also interested in discovering more about the Wizarding world outside Britain. Also, though he never enjoyed playing sport, he knew he would be an avid spectator.

However, back in the fourth year dormitory in Gryffindor Tower that evening, Neville was the only one not still discussing the tournament. Remarkably for him, he was reading his Charms textbook, in anticipation of the classes beginning the next day. He wasn’t necessarily understanding much, but he was trying. Regardless of the Triwizard Tournament, Neville intended to make this year an interesting one for him.

Some things didn’t change, however. He’d already forgotten he’d meant to find out about the winged horses.

As it turned out, Neville’s new found enthusiasm for schoolwork barely survived the first day. This was due to a particularly brutal Potions lesson on the Monday afternoon. Professor Snape was for some reason in an incredibly foul mood and felt no compunction in taking it out on his students. The slightest error or mistake was leapt upon and witheringly criticised. In fact, for once, the Slytherins with whom the Gryffindors were sharing the class fared little better than they did. Snape’s anger seemed indiscriminate.

The whole experience did little for Neville’s confidence and he got through the lesson only by copying Hermione at every possible opportunity. He thought he’d done well to only lose Gryffindor ten points by the end of the lesson. As usual, it was Harry who suffered the worst, with Snape stalking round Harry’s cauldron in his black cloak, like some vampire ready to strike. Neville was quietly astonished with the good humour with which Harry took the abuse meted out to him and reflected on how ridiculously unjust it was that Snape should be so cruel to him simply because of what his father had been like twenty years ago.

“What’s got into Snape today?” Ron asked after the lesson was finally over.

“I don’t know,” replied Dean. “Apparently someone saw him having a row with Dumbledore over something this morning. Maybe that set him off.” Nobody else could offer a better explanation.

All things considered, it was then particularly fortunate that Neville’s timetable called for Muggle Studies first thing on a Tuesday morning. Muggle Studies was Neville’s second favourite subject, behind Herbology. This was all the more surprising because, unlike Herbology, he didn’t have a natural gift for the subject. He was a pure-blood, so inexperienced in Muggle matters, and he generally found essay writing, which was a large component of the subject, extremely difficult.

However, he had become fascinated by the subject and was developing a strong respect and admiration for Muggles. This had largely gone unnoticed by his friends, who politely assumed he took the subject as a mere “easy option”. Similarly the Slytherins didn’t call him “blood traitor” yet, but he supposed it would only be a matter of time. He actually thought he would be quite comfortable with the label.

The attendance in the class seemed sparser than in the previous year to Neville when he entered the classroom. Of course Hermione was no longer there, having dropped the subject at the end of the previous year to lighten her workload, but others appeared to have left as well. Nonetheless, Professor Burbage was not disheartened. It was in a large part due to her enthusiasm that Neville had come to like Muggle Studies so much. She launched into an eager informal debate on recent Muggle history, which would be their topic this term.

Neville had been afraid that now being the only Gryffindor in the class, he would be somewhat isolated, but Burbage’s inclusiveness easily prevented that. She discussed with the students the great Muggle wars of the twentieth century, which all seemed vast and terrible beyond Neville’s imagination, until she explained how the deadliest of the wars had created the turmoil in Europe which allowed the Dark wizard Grindelwald to rise to power. Neville had heard legends of Grindelwald, a tyrant and Muggle-hater as bad as Voldemort in his time.

“Some witches and wizards like to believe the Statute of Secrecy means we never affect Muggles and they never affect us,” observed Burbage. “In fact, that is far from being the case. Just as the Second World War of the Muggles led to wizards suffering under Grindelwald’s tyranny, so Muggles suffered under You-Know-Who’s reign of terror. In wars, everyone suffers in the end.”

Neville left the lesson with his determination to improve in his studies restored. Professor Burbage’s lessons always gave him something to think about. As he was leaving, he overheard a couple of Hufflepuff girls, Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot, approach Burbage and rather impertinently ask her about Sirius Black. Sirius had been quite popular among the female students, and obviously some had found out about Burbage’s relationship with Sirius. Burbage gently batted the questions away with a noncommittal answer. Neville wondered if the relationship had ended, or whether Burbage was simply being discreet.

Meanwhile, Neville’s first lesson with Sirius’ replacement as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was still upcoming. He had seen Moody stalking around the halls of Hogwarts occasionally, his magical eye keeping a constant watch on everyone around him. Some Gryffindors had already had their first class with him. Fred’s assessment when asked was “Brilliant, but definitely several ingredients short of a potion.” This mysteriousness added to the anticipation among the fourth year Gryffindors for their first experience of Mad-Eye, as everyone seemed to call him.

That moment finally came on Thursday morning. The Gryffindors took their seats in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, which seemed to have changed little from Sirius tenure; it was still somewhat cluttered and disorganised. Their teacher appeared to be late, so they quietly waited for him to arrive.

Suddenly a flash of red light shot over their heads, instinctively making them duck, and the spell impacted on the blackboard at the front of the classroom, leaving a large scorch mark. From behind them a gruff voice boomed out, “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” Everyone turned. Professor Moody stood in the doorway of the classroom, wand outstretched. He lumbered past them to the front of the room and turned, affixing them with a beady stare from his magical eye.

Without bothering to introduce himself, he growled, “Not one of you was watching the door, and half of you don’t even have your wands out. If you want to have any hope of defending yourselves you need to BE ALERT!” He yelled the last two words so loudly half the Gryffindors jumped in their seats, and everyone scrambled to get out their wands. “You! Potter!” he cried, pointing at Harry.

“Yes, sir?” said Harry, bemused.

“If you’re going to bring Dungbombs into my classroom, I would thank you not to keep them in your desk, boy.”

Harry was astonished, but dutifully opened his desk and removed the Dungbomb, placing it in his robe pocket. “How did he know it was there?” he whispered to Ron. Ron pointed at his eyeball by means of explanation.

Meanwhile, Moody had taken out a copy of the textbook and was holding up to the class. “Everyone has a copy of one of these?” he asked. There were murmurs of agreement and much rummaging in bags to retrieve the book. “Good, because you will need it for the assignments I will set, which will not be easy, I can assure you. But inside this classroom I don’t want to see them. Put them away. Here, and when facing real danger, they are as much use as this.” He tossed the book into a waste paper bin. Hermione looked slightly affronted.

Moody leaned on the teacher’s desk, his wand twitching in his hand. “The world is a dangerous place. Anyone that tells you otherwise is fooling you, or fooling themselves. It is not my job to sugar-coat those dangers, or to tell you that everything is going to be all right. Chances are it won’t be. No, my job is to give you a fighting chance and I intend to do that, my own way. When I took on this job, I told Dumbledore I would do it by my rules, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. So you can forget the syllabus. You’re old enough to know the truth, and I’m going to give it to you.”

He reached back down into the bin and pulled out the book again. Pointing his wand at it, he transfigured it into a small grass snake. “If you’re going to know the truth, that means knowing the worst of it. The Unforgivable Curses.” There was a sharp intake of breath around the room. “The Ministry would prefer you not be told about them; that you’re too young and not in any danger yet. Nonsense. The time is NOW!” Again he bellowed. “We are all constantly in danger, and pretending otherwise doesn’t help. And I know for a fact that for each curse, at least someone in this room has had close experience of it.

“Use of any of the three Unforgivable Curses carries an instant life sentence in Azkaban. Why is that? Some would say there are equally insidious spells out there. I’ll tell you why. A lot of nonsense is put about saying these spells are extremely difficult. They’re not. In pure magical terms, they are relatively simple, requiring little expertise. But the point is, to execute them properly against another human being, you have to want to cause pain and suffering. You have to train yourself into the mindset to take pleasure in the outcome of the curse, to truly desire the effect it has. That is what makes them so evil, and so difficult for most people. Each time a person uses them in anger, it only corrupts them more and more.”

The Gryffindors were sitting on the edge of their seats listening to him, fascinated and terrified by what Moody was saying. “Curse number one: the Imperius Curse.” He levelled his wand at the grass snake and cried, “Imperio!” Instantly the snake stopped slithering, as if rigid. Directing his wand, Moody began to toy with the snake, making move, rise up and fall like an expert snake charmer would. After a few seconds he stopped. “Power over the mind,” he explained. “The Imperius Curse makes the sufferer utterly subservient to the caster’s will, so long as the caster chooses to exercise that power.

“In the war against You-Know-Who, the Imperius Curse was his most powerful weapon. How do you know who to trust, and how do you know if a wizard is truly innocent or guilty of his crimes? Constant vigilance is your only protection.” He paused for a moment. Neville looked round to see that Parvati Patil was shaking a little.

“Curse number two,” Moody continued, “the Cruciatus Curse.” He pointed his wand once more at the snake. “Crucio!” The snake began to writhe and twist in terrible agony. Moody stopped after only a few brief moments. “Power over the body. The Cruciatus curse inflicts terrible, unimaginable pain. If prolonged, it can cause permanent injury, or even death. It is the rarest of the curses only because delight in such pain is felt by few of even the most depraved Dark wizards and witches.” Moody’s eye briefly glanced up to the back of the room.

“The final curse,” he went on, “and the most feared. The Killing Curse. Power over life and death.” Pointing the wand at the grass snake for the last time he cried, “Avada Kedavra!” A jet of green light struck the snake and it fell dead instantly. Everyone in the classroom gasped and Neville shivered, unbidden scraps of memory surfacing in his mind. “I do not apologise for showing you that,” said Moody, seeing the reaction. “Ignorance is far more dangerous than anything the truth can do to you. No known magical barrier is effective against the Killing curse. If struck, the victim dies instantly, leaving no visible mark. On only one known occasion have both those things failed to happen, some thirteen years ago.”

Neville, sitting at the front of the class, could feel the eyes of his classmates boring into the back of him. Instinctively, his hand went to the scar on his forehead, the unique mark that set him apart. It seemed to tingle, as if recognising the spell that had created it.

Moody however paid Neville no attention and merely continued his lecture. He described how to detect evidence that the curses had been used, what defensive measures could be used to combat the Cruciatus Curse, and how to prevent oneself falling victim to the Imperius Curse. “Preparation, determination, and a strong mind are essential,” he said. “Also, never allow yourself to be caught off guard, not even for a moment. A split second mistake can be your last.”

It was clear from listening to Moody that he had a vast array of experience of fighting Dark wizards to draw upon, which, together with his many scars, perhaps explained his rampant paranoia. Neville found himself somewhat in awe of the man, with his imposing demeanour and his blunt no-nonsense approach to teaching. He was both frightening and inspiring at the same time.

At the end of the lesson, everybody left chattering amongst themselves, except for Harry and Ron, who filed out quietly. As Neville was just getting up, Moody said, “Longbottom, stay a moment.” Surprised, Neville glanced at Hermione, wondering what he’d done wrong. Hermione just shrugged and said, “I’ll see you at lunch, Neville,” before leaving.

Moody waited until the classroom was deserted apart from him and Neville before pulling up a chair opposite Neville and sitting down. “I wanted to have a private word with you, Neville,” he said. “It’s good to meet you at last. You may not know, but I knew your parents quite well.”

“Really?” said Neville. He hadn’t known. Nearly everything he’d learnt about his parents he’d got from Gran, and she’d never mentioned Moody.

“Oh, yes. Your mother was the finest recruit I ever taught in Auror training, and your father the most determined. We fought together many times in the war. I attended their wedding. I hardly saw them again after you were born and they had to be put under guard, and I couldn’t protect them in the end. So I’ve always felt I owed something to Frank and Alice’s son.”

Moody drew a hip flask from his pocket and took a swig. He offered one to Neville, who was rather disappointed to discover it was only water. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what were my parents like?” he asked.

“They were soldiers, my boy. Fighters on the front line. Always first into the fray and the last to retreat. Alice Jones, as she was then, was my protégée, and a finer caster of defensive wards I have not seen. But where there was Alice, there was always Frank Longbottom. Inseparable they were. I’ve never met a man so gentle in private, and yet so fierce in combat. Didn’t your Gran tell you about them?”

“Not much,” Neville admitted.

“Funny old woman, Augusta Longbottom,” Moody mused. “Some said she was half mad, though they’ve called me worse. Frank’s death hit her hard. I doubt she likes to dwell on it.”

“She’s always telling me how I have to live up to them,” Neville said.

“A tough ask. If you want my advice, be yourself, Neville. Your parents believed in that, and so do I.” Moody’s magical eye spun to look at the clock on the wall. “Well, I’m keeping you from your lunch. Dumbledore tells me you’ve struggled in some classes and confidence is your biggest problem. I just wanted to say, I’ll be watching out for you, and if you keep up with my class, I’ll make sure we’ll find some of that patent Longbottom courage in you. See you next lesson.”

Neville went to go, astonished at what he had just learnt and wondering what it would mean for the year ahead. But as he approached the door, Moody called out, “One last thing, Neville, towards keeping my promise to watch out for you. I have one further piece of advice, and this is very important. Do not, under any circumstances, trust Severus Snape.”

The first few weeks of term were about the most enjoyable Neville had ever had at Hogwarts. Setting himself the challenge of making every lesson count, he found his studies had begun to improve, and he could approach every subject with a degree of confidence. Even in Potions he actually started to learn things.

Hermione had noticed the difference in him and was much impressed, although she did take it upon herself to encourage and help along his improvement by organising his study periods and generally making a nuisance of herself checking he was keeping up with his assignments. She meant well, and Neville appreciated the help, but it did get a bit annoying at times.

While Herbology and Muggle Studies remained his stand-out subjects, in other ones he was at least now keeping pace with the other students. Nowhere was the turnaround more evident than in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Moody had been as good as his word that he would watch out for Neville, and he regularly singled out Neville for special attention and help in practical lessons.

Hermione had been less than happy about this, and had pointed out to Neville that this was the second year running that a DADA teacher had engaged in favouritism, after Sirius’ treatment of Harry the previous year. Moody however had been scrupulously fair, and he could hardly be accused of going soft on Neville; “soft” was not a word that could be readily associated with Mad-Eye. He ran his lessons in a style that appeared a cross between a fitness instructor and an army drill sergeant. Everybody in the class was convinced he was brilliant, but totally crazy and probably dangerous.

Neville felt different however; he had seen a more human side to Moody. Yes, he was a cantankerous old man, but having been raised by Gran, Neville was quite used to people like that. But he also had a powerful sense of right and wrong, and a fierce loyalty to those he trusted. Neville looked up to him; indeed, he’d found himself copying some of Moody’s habits like his rules on wand safety or the way he’d always wait two seconds after opening a door before entering a room, in case a trap had been set for him.

Neville had managed to have one or two further short conversations with him and had learnt a few more things. Apparently he’d known Neville’s parents for six years, from the time they’d left Hogwarts and enrolled in Auror training until their deaths. Frank and Alice had married immediately after completing their training and becoming full Aurors, and they’d both fought alongside Moody at the very height of the war, until Alice had become pregnant. Moody credited both of them with saving his life on more than one occasion.

Moody had said nothing further regarding his warning to Neville about Professor Snape. Neville had not pressed the issue, since the cruel Potions master was the last person Neville could imagine trusting with anything. Still, he did wonder what had provoked such a vehement warning.

It was plain from the way the two men acted around each other that they shared a mutual dislike, from what Neville had observed. Of course it was nothing new for Snape to have a feud with a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor; to some degree he had disliked every single one during Neville’s time at Hogwarts. No doubt that was partly due to his own desire to hold the post, although he had a very personal grudge with Sirius. But Moody’s attitude seemed different. His problem with Snape seemed less personal, than that Snape somehow represented a serious danger. Was this just Moody’s rampant paranoia, or was there more to it?

Meanwhile, the new Marauders had been busy trying to make as big a name for themselves as their predecessors. Having abandoned their prior secrecy and inspired by what they learned from Sirius, they had seemingly launched on a mission to bring as much mayhem to Hogwarts as they could manage. Hardly a day seemed to go by without some prank or mischief happening and their popularity grew among the more rebellious of the Gryffindors.

Of course in that regard it helped that most of their targets were Slytherins. Draco Malfoy was a popular target; Harry and Ron especially had it in for him after he had nearly had Buckbeak killed the year before. Buckbeak may have survived and had joined Lupin in hiding, but Harry and Ron still felt they had not had their revenge. Malfoy and his cronies Crabbe and Goyle were now becoming regular visitors to the hospital wing with some curse or other.

Otherwise, everyone’s minds were much focussed on Halloween and the arrival of the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang for the start of the Triwizard Tournament. Hermione had been naturally doing some reading on the two schools, and had even considered starting teaching herself French so she properly greet those from Beauxbatons. “Durmstrang draws its intake from several Eastern European countries,” she said, “so I think that’s beyond me. It’s a shame Hogwarts doesn’t teach foreign languages. Beauxbatons sounds a beautiful place. Durmstrang is very interesting. It’s nearly as old as Hogwarts and has something of a sinister reputation for being prepared to actually teach the Dark Arts, although that has lessened a little under its latest headmaster.”

September passed, and October ticked by, and the anticipation was growing within the walls of Hogwarts. But it was not until the Monday of the final week of October that notices went up in the common rooms informing the students that the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang groups would be arriving that Friday, the thirtieth, and that there would be a special welcoming feast in the Great Hall on that evening to officially open the Triwizard Tournament. Excitement grew to fever pitch, and few paid much attention in their studies that week.

On the bright and cool afternoon of the thirtieth of October, a small dot could be seen in the cloudless sky high above Hogwarts. To those who could see from castle’s windows, the dot appeared to grow larger and larger, and sink lower in the sky. Slowly, it revealed itself to be a gigantic carriage, ornate, shimmering blue and the size of a house. It was being drawn by a dozen winged white horses the size of elephants. Everyone rushed to the windows to get a closer look as the extraordinary sight circled twice above Hogwarts before gently coming to rest on the wide lawn in front of the castle’s main entrance.

Those whose windows face south however got an even more impressive sight later in the day. From there they could see the lake, and out from under the water a ship arose. It too was huge, and appeared ancient and spectral, like the carcass of some great sea creature rising from the depths. But light flickered from its portholes, indicating the life within and giving the ship an eerie beauty in the twilight.

Thus, respectively, did the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang parties arrive at Hogwarts. In the evening the Great Hall was packed, and extra space was made on the House benches for the guests. The Beauxbatons students were smartly dressed in pale blue, whilst those from Durmstrang wore thick, warm furs.

As Neville took his seat on the Gryffindor bench, next to him Ron shook Harry by the shoulder and tried to point discreetly across the Hall. “Look who’s there,” he whispered. “Look who it is!” Neville and Harry looked. Ron was pointed in the direction of the Durmstrang contingent. “It’s Viktor Krum!” Ron exclaimed. And indeed it was, sitting quietly with a calm, inscrutable look on his face. Several others had also recognised him, but he had as yet made no acknowledgement towards them.

“What, the Quidditch player?” said Hermione, turning round to look. “I’d have thought he’d be too old to still be at school.”

“He must be only seventeen,” said Harry. “Seventeen, and already Seeker for his country. Lucky git. I guess we know who the Durmstrang Champion will be.”

“If he’s half as good as magic as he is at Quidditch, he’ll win easily,” reckoned Ron.

At the front of the Hall, the teachers filed in. There were four additions to their number. Neville recognised Bartemius Crouch and Ludo Bagman from the Quidditch World Cup. Taking a large seat next to Hagrid was, incredibly, a woman even taller than he was. She was fashionably and elegantly dressed and exhibited a very austere manner. Hagrid seemed to be taking a great deal of interest in her.

Seated between Moody and McGonagall was a middle-aged wizard, heavily built with thick dark hair. He was beardless, but bore a luxuriant moustache on his top lip, above a jovial smile. He was dressed similarly to the Durmstrang students and was sharing a joke with McGonagall which the Head of Gryffindor was obviously finding highly amusing.

Dumbledore rose to his feet to address the Hall. “Good evening students and friends from far and wide. Tonight I am delighted to formally welcome our guests for the revived Triwizard Tournament. To my left, may I introduce Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.” He indicated the tall woman next to Hagrid. There were loud cheers from the Beauxbatons students and Madame Maxime raised a huge hand in polite acknowledgement.

Dumbledore then turned to the man with the prominent moustache. “And to my right, may I welcome Alexander Preminin, Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute.” Fierce applause from the Durmstrang students. Preminin rose and gave a rather theatrical bow. “Also with us,” continued Dumbledore, “are Bartemius Crouch of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and Ludovic Bagman of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, who will be overseeing the Triwizard Tournament. But more of that after the feast. Enjoy!”

He sat, and at once food filled the House tables. As he hungrily ate, Neville noticed that Ron kept glancing over his shoulder at Krum. Hermione must have noticed it to, because she said, “Ron, stop it, you’ll embarrass the poor guy.”

“Come on, Hermione, he’s the best Seeker in the world,” replied Ron. “He probably gets people staring at him all the time. I’ve got to get his autograph.”

Hermione shook her head in bewilderment. “I just don’t get it. It’s only Quidditch, after all.” Harry and Ron stared at her as if she was from another planet, or had suddenly sprouted horns. Neville smiled to himself.

As the feast came to its end, Crouch brought out a heavy wooden chest and placed it in front of the teacher’s table. Dumbledore came forward, opened the chest and removed a large stone cup which he placed on the table. “If I may have your attention,” he called out to the Hall. “It now falls to me to explain the details of the Triwizard Tournament.” Everyone listened eagerly. “Firstly, for reasons of safety it has been agreed with the Ministry of Magic that only students who are of age may enter the Tournament.”

This got a loud murmur of dissatisfaction from around the Hall. The four Marauders glanced at each other with disappointment. Dumbledore gently raised a hand for quiet. “To ensure fairness,” he continued, “the selection of the champions is performed by the Goblet of Fire.” He indicated the stone cup on the desk. “Any student brave enough to enter must write their name on a piece of parchment and place it in the Goblet before the Halloween feast tomorrow night. Be sure you know what you are letting yourself in for before entering. This is a difficult and challenging competition. Once you have entered, there is no going back and you cannot withdraw. I wish you all the best of luck and formally declare the Triwizard Tournament open.”

At the moment Dumbledore spoke the last word, blue flames danced up from inside the stone cup. They quickly filled the cup and rose high into the air, burning continuously. “The Goblet of Fire lights only for each Tournament,” Dumbledore explained, “and its magical flames last for exactly one day. We will reconvene for the Halloween feast tomorrow where our three champions will be chosen. For the course of the tournament, myself, Madame Maxime, Mr Preminin, Mr Crouch and Mr Bagman will act as judges. Good night, and we shall see you all tomorrow.”

* * *

In the morning, the Goblet of Fire was to be found placed on a pedestal in the centre of the Entrance Hall. Around it, an Age Line had been drawn, to prevent over-eager yet underage students from entering their names. However, this had not deterred the Marauders, who had stayed up in the Gryffindor common room half the night, plotting how to overcome the restriction. They left breakfast early, and Neville and Hermione wondered what they were up to.

All through the day there was a steady procession of seventh-year and older sixth-year students into the Entrance Hall to put their names forward to be the Hogwarts Champion. Some were doing it just for a laugh, or were encouraged by their friends. Others appeared genuinely serious and dropped their slips of parchment in very carefully.

The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang groups passed through early in the morning. Nearly all of those who had come entered their names. In general, they seemed to treat the whole thing much more seriously than their Hogwarts counterparts, regarding the Goblet of Fire with a great deal of reverence. Neville and Hermione were among those watching when Viktor Krum added his parchment just after breakfast, and he did so silently and soberly, as if undertaking a solemn promise.

Shortly before lunch, Neville was in the common room when Seamus burst in through the portrait hole. “You’ve got to come quick!” he exclaimed. “They’re doing it, Harry and the Weasleys, they’re doing it!”

“What are you talking about, Seamus?” said Hermione, looking up from a book.

“They’re making their attempt on the Goblet of Fire!” Seamus answered excitedly. A whole host of Gryffindors, including Neville, hurried out of the common room and down the long staircase to the Entrance Hall. Hermione reluctantly followed, though she refused to leave behind her book.

In the Entrance Hall they found the four Marauders standing just outside the Age Line. Fred had his right sleeve rolled up to his shoulder and George was helping cake it in some sort of thick orange coloured cream. “Hi guys!” said Ron as they entered.

“What on earth are you doing?” asked Neville.

“It was George’s idea,” grinned Ron. “They call this Combining Cream apparently. It’s designed to effectively mix the active properties of ingredients in potions, apparently.”

“So that’s what it is,” said Hermione. “But what use is that to you?”

“Ah, this is the clever part,” said George. He finished covering Fred’s arm. “Gentlemen, your pins.” Each of Harry, Ron and George took out a small pin. Holding their fingers over Fred’s arm, they each pricked them and let a couple of drops of blood fall onto the arm. Instantly, the cream turned a muddy brown colour.

“Ouch!” complained Ron. “I hope that was worth it.”

“You see,” explained Fred, “To cross the line, you need to be seventeen. None of us are. But together we’re far older. My arm is now a mixture of the four of us. It’s hardly a perfect combination, but we only need my arm to be five months older. It’s brilliant!”

“It’s utterly crazy,” said Hermione. “There’s no evidence Combining Cream can even work in that way, and even if it did that’s Dumbledore’s magic you’re going up against. But if you want to make a fool of yourself, go ahead.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” replied Fred with a grin. “Watch this. George, the parchment please. My name first. Once we prove it works, I’ll do yours.” George handed him a slip of parchment. He scrumpled it up in his cream covered hand, took a deep breath and plunged in his arm through the Age Line. Everybody held their breath, but nothing happened. There was a loud cheer.

Grinning broadly, Fred swung his arm back and forth and then tossed the little ball of parchment into the Goblet’s flame. The moment it touched the flame however, there was a bright flash of blue light and what looked like lightening shot from the Goblet into Fred’s arm. He was flung backwards across the Entrance Hall. The charred parchment dropped to the floor and crumbled away.

The other Marauders and the onlookers rushed over to Fred. He was staring down at his arm. The cream had melted away, and his arm was thin and horribly wrinkled, as if it had aged and decayed rapidly. All the hairs on it were grey. Fred looked up at his brother. “This was all your fault, Wormtail,” he moaned.

“Hey, you volunteered, Moony,” chuckled George. “I did say it wasn’t foolproof.”

“You did not! For Merlin’s sake, my arm looks like Auntie Muriel’s!”

“You know,” laughed Ron, “I think that was worth it.”

As they led Fred away to the hospital wing, Neville stopped to talk to Harry. “Would you really have put your name in for the Tournament?” he asked.

“No,” said Harry. “I said I would, but you’d really need to be at least a sixth year to have any chance, and even then you’d have to be really talented. I doubt Fred or George would have been picked anyway.”

They walked out of the Entrance Hall, passing a boy Neville recognised as Cedric Diggory on the way. “Still, it would be an adventure, wouldn’t it?” continued Harry. “The whole school cheering you on. Sirius would think it would be brilliant.”

Neville smiled. He had seen first hand Sirius’ recklessness and love of danger, and Harry was very much Sirius’ godson. He took a different view. The whole tournament sounded incredibly dangerous and he did not envy the three who would be chosen that night. He only hoped they would be capable enough to cope with whatever was thrown at them.

Fred Weasley was released from the hospital wing with a newly rejuvenated arm only a few minutes before the start of the Halloween feast. Madam Pomfrey had advised him to stay under her supervision, but Fred was never one to pay much attention to advice, however sound. He made it into the Great Hall just in time to take his seat with the other Marauders, and Neville and Hermione.

The Halloween feast itself was once more a spectacular and mouth-watering event, but for once it was overshadowed by what would immediately follow it. Everyone was eagerly waiting to see who the champions for the Triwizard Tournament would be. Even Neville was excited, caught up in all the anticipation.

“I don’t care who the Hogwarts champion is, as long as it’s a Gryffindor,” Ron declared in between mouthfuls of food, to general murmurs of agreement around him. House rivalry had certainly been stoked by the Tournament, with each house fiercely behind its own candidates.

“I don’t care, as long as it’s not a Slytherin,” replied Harry. “I’d support Beauxbatons if that happens.”

“So much for what the Sorting Hat said about House unity,” muttered Ginny, sitting close by. No one paid any attention to her. She glared at Harry, before turning away to talk to one of her friends.

At the close of the feast, the Goblet of Fire, its blue flames still burning brightly, was carried into the Great Hall and set down in front of Dumbledore, standing in front of the staff table. “If I could please have your attention,” he called unnecessarily, since everyone’s eyes were already fixed on the Goblet. “The time has come to reveal our champions, the three brave souls who will compete in this Tournament. To the winner will go a reward of one thousand Galleons, and this.” He indicated as Ludo Bagman came forward from his seat among the other judges and held aloft an ornate gleaming silver trophy. “The Triwizard Cup,” Dumbledore explained, “which will be retained and displayed in honour by the winning school until the next tournament. This is the prize at stake.”

At that moment, the flames from the Goblet of Fire shot higher into the air, burning more ferociously. Cautiously, Dumbledore approached the Goblet as the flames swirled and changed colour, before with a spurt expelling a delicate scrap of parchment high into the air. It fluttered gently downwards and Dumbledore caught it. There was complete silence as he carefully unfolded it.

“The champion for Beauxbatons is… Fleur Delacour,” he announced at last. A tall beautiful girl with long blond hair leapt to her feet from amongst the Beauxbatons students, who clapped and cheered her loudly. The Hogwarts students, particularly the male contingent, gave her warm applause as she made her way up to the front and shook hands with Dumbledore and Madame Maxime. She was ushered away towards a side room.

“Not bad,” Harry observed to George, earning him another glare from Ginny. There was no time to dwell however as a second parchment had already been flung out from the Goblet of Fire and caught by Dumbledore.

“The champion for Durmstrang is… Viktor Krum,” Dumbledore declared, to nobody’s surprise. A solemn Krum made his way forward, to general acclaim from all sides. The Marauders, in particular Ron, cheered him all the way. Preminin, a broad grin under his thick moustache, clapped Krum on the back. Krum went on to the door where Delacour had left.

That left only the Hogwarts champion to choose and everyone waited with baited breath. A slip of parchment burst from the flames and there was a pause that seemed to last an age before Dumbledore called out the name, “Cedric Diggory!” The Hufflepuff table erupted in cheers as Cedric was mobbed by his friends and housemates.

“Never expected a Hufflepuff would win,” Ron muttered. Nonetheless, Cedric seemed a popular choice and was applauded from all sides. Neville remembered he’d been impressed with the quiet, modest Cedric when they’d briefly met before the Quidditch World Cup and was glad that he’d been chosen.

After Cedric had received his congratulations and left, the atmosphere in the Hall seemed to settle down a bit. Dumbledore turned from chatting to Maxime and Preminin to say a last few words. “Well, we…” he began.

But suddenly the Goblet of Fire burst into life again. The flames shot upwards and everyone gasped and turned to look at Dumbledore. But even the headmaster seemed nonplussed. He stared at the Goblet in confusion and drew his wand, though with no clear idea of what to do. A single jet of flame licked up towards the enchanted ceiling, and when it fell back, a fourth slip of parchment was revealed, gently floating to the floor.

With trepidation, Dumbledore caught and examined it. He seemed to stand motionless for an age, as if unable to believe what he was looking at. Finally, and with a half-broken voice, he looked over to the Gryffindor table and called out, “Neville Longbottom.”

Every head in the Hall turned to stare at Neville, but he himself sat unmoving, unbelieving. He was in a daze, and the whole situation was unreal to him. It wasn’t my name, he thought. It couldn’t be. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s just a mistake. I must have heard wrong.

But Hermione nudged him in the back and he found himself standing and walking forward, even though his conscious brain refused to believe what his body was doing. His mind was elsewhere, in a disbelieving fantasy of its own making, whilst his body walked on past the stony, shocked and angry faces of his schoolmates.

He passed the now gently burning Goblet of Fire and reached Dumbledore. He looked up into the headmaster’s bright blue eyes and saw a look of shock and fear he had never seen there before. Dumbledore placed the slip he had collected into his hand. Neville stared down at the smouldering scrap of parchment. There, in neat handwriting that was not his own, was printed the name NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM.

A deathly chill spread over Neville, as if a Dementor had wandered into the Hall. His name, in clear black and white, drove cold, hard reality back through Neville. It was only then he realised how quiet the Hall was. Not a sound was to be heard. Dumbledore took Neville gently by the shoulder and guided him towards the side door. He passed the glaring Maxime and Preminin. His head turned to look at Professor Moody, still sitting in his place at the staff table. Moody was facing straight ahead, expressionless, deep in thought, but his magical eye was sympathetically trained on Neville.

Dumbledore held open the side door, and Neville walked through alone. He found himself in a small, high-ceiling antechamber, lavishly furnished and with many portraits lining the walls. At the far end of the room stood the three champions, talking with one another. They stopped and looked up confused as Neville entered. “Who are you?” demanded Viktor Krum in a thick Bulgarian accent. “Vot are you doing here?”

Neville didn’t reply, he simply sat down on the floor just inside the door. He was shaking. It had all happened so fast. The parchment with his name on it was still in his hand and he stared at it, as if hoping the name would miraculously rearrange itself into something else. He was still unable to comprehend what it meant. What did he have to do with the Tournament? What was going to happen?

Cedric whispered something to Krum and Delacour, and their expressions towards Neville changed to ones of puzzlement and shock. Krum approached Neville. “You are Longbottom?” he asked. “The Boy-Who-Lived?” Neville didn’t reply, nor look up, but was still shaking. “Vot is that in your hand?” Neville tremblingly opened his palm, revealing the parchment. Krum’s eyes widened. “Vot does it mean?” Neville said nothing.

But before Krum could press the issue, the door to the room was flung open, almost flattening Neville who was sitting behind it. A procession of people marched into the room, arguing vociferously. There was Dumbledore and the heads of the other two schools, Madame Maxime ducking to pass through the doorway, followed by Crouch, his house-elf and Bagman, and lastly McGonagall, Moody and Snape. They were so caught up in their argument that they barely noticed Neville sitting in the corner, however Moody came straight over and awkwardly crouched down on one knee in front of him.

“How are you holding up?” he asked. “Courage, boy. I’ll get to the bottom of this, mark my words.” He took the parchment from Neville’s hand and held it up to his magical eye to examine it. “Headmaster, look at this.” Dumbledore broke away from the argument to join Moody, who had hauled himself to his feet again. “I have marked several assignments of Neville’s,” Moody said. “I would swear this is not his handwriting. Someone has framed him.”

“’E could ’ave got someone else to write and submit the name,” challenged Maxime.

“Nonsense,” replied Moody. “Four names came out of the Goblet, four. That can only mean it must have been Confunded, and do that to something so powerful would require expertise beyond virtually every student in this castle. Besides, I know Neville. Entering himself in the Tournament would be the last thing he would do.”

“As much as it may surprise many to hear it,” spoke up the laconic voice of Professor Snape, “I agree with Professor Moody. Longbottom has a great many faults, but bravado is not among them. He is well aware of his own mediocrity.” Moody eyed Snape suspiciously, seemingly doubting the genuineness of his show of solidarity.

“Why on earth would someone else want to get Longbottom into the Tournament?” said Bagman.

“You always were a naïve fool, Bagman,” replied Moody bluntly. “Why do you think someone would want to co-opt the Boy-Who-Lived, a boy known to have limited magical skill, into an extremely dangerous and potentially lethal competition? Use your head, man, if the Bludgers left any sense in it.” Bagman bristled, unused to being addressed in such a fashion, but Moody was an imposing figure and Bagman chose not to reply.

There was a brief silence whilst everyone took in what Moody had said. Moody seemed to catch on to the long pause and the uncomfortable looks of several of the faces. “Now hang on a minute,” he said. “You’re not seriously telling me you’re going to make him compete, are you? You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, Professor,” said Crouch solemnly. “There is an extremely powerful magical charm set on this Tournament, and has been since the beginning. Being selected as a Champion constitutes a solemn magical oath, akin to an Unbreakable Vow. Mr Longbottom has no choice. He has to compete.”

Moody marched up and down the room furiously, boiling with anger. “This is ridiculous. Some ex-Death Eater or wannabe Dark Wizard wants to get this boy killed and we have to sit back and let it happen? You bunch of spineless cowards. How do I know it wasn’t one of you who planted the boy’s name?” His magical eye twisted to pointedly look at Snape.

“Calm, Alastor,” soothed Dumbledore, though Moody showed no sign of taking his advice. “This is not the time to go throwing wild accusations about. Cool heads are needed. Believe me, I don’t want Neville to compete any more than you do, but if we have no other choice, then we are going to have to discuss how to proceed. I suggest we have no further need to detain our champions any longer. Mr Diggory, Mr Krum and Miss Delacour, you are free to go. I am sorry this could not be the occasion of celebration it was intended to be. Minerva, would you be so kind as to accompany Neville back to Gryffindor Tower?”

“Certainly, Headmaster,” replied McGonagall, and gently took Neville by the hand. Neville slowly stood up and allowed McGonagall to guide him to the door. He glanced back at Moody, who merely gave a supportive nod.

Crouch leaned wearily against the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “This is going to be a long night,” he sighed. “Winky, bring me a stiff drink.” The house-elf nodded obediently and vanished with a quiet “crack”.

McGonagall led Neville up through the deserted castle to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. She spoke the password and the Fat Lady’s portrait moved aside. “Good night, Mr Longbottom,” she said softly. “Try to get some sleep.” She left and Neville stepped through the portrait hole into the common room.

The common room was packed and everybody looked up as he entered. Hermione ran over to him and hugged him. “What did they say, Neville?” she asked. “What happened?”

“I have to play,” Neville answered simply. Saying nothing more, he walked on, head down, through the crowd of people and straight on up to his dormitory. There he sat on his bed and, needing something to distract him, took Trevor out of his box and watched him happily hop about in front of him on the duvet. He so envied the carefree little toad.

A small crowd, including the Marauders, Seamus and Dean was gathering at the door to the dormitory, but none seemed prepared to enter the room. Eventually Harry was pushed forward and approached Neville. “Are you alright?” he asked. Seeing Neville’s expression, he hurriedly added, “Well, no, of course not. Silly question. Sorry.” He sat down on the end of the bed and let Trevor hop up onto the back of his hand.

Neville looked up to the doorway, where the other students poorly pretended they weren’t looking in. “You got volunteered to talk to me, then?” he muttered.

Harry smiled. “Sort of, yeah. Look, don’t worry, I’m sure Dumbledore will sort it out. He always does.”

“I don’t think he can this time.” Neville sighed deeply. “It’ll never end, will it Harry? There’ll always be something. There’ll always be this.” He prodded the scar on his forehead. “After last summer, I thought I’d got over it. I thought I’d finally be able to cope with whatever happened next. Now this happens.” He shook his head sadly. “What’s everybody been saying down there? I dread to think.”

“Oh, no one that knows you thinks you put your name in yourself,” said Harry truthfully.

“And those that don’t know me?”

“They’ll come around. And if they don’t, they’ll have us to deal with. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and I, we decided we’d run your supporters club, if you were taking part. We’ll make sure Gryffindor at least supports you. We’ve got Hermione and Ginny signed up already.”

“Supports me for what? I’m hardly going to win. If I live through this, it’d be a success, and I have no idea how I’m going to do that.” Neville picked up Trevor and returned him to his box. “Look Harry, thanks, but I’m just going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.” Harry nodded and left quietly, shooing away the onlookers from the door.

Neville got into bed and tried to get to sleep, but for a long time found he couldn’t. All the confidence and hope he had built up over the previous few months seemed to have drained away. He kept thinking about what Professor Moody had said, and the same thought kept reverberating around in his head: I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

When he did finally fall asleep, he was plagued by dark dreams. He saw the pallid face of Professor Snape and the searching eye of Professor Moody. Then there was a searing blast of flame followed by a choking sense of drowning in dark water. Then the Dark Mark in the sky over the Quidditch World Cup campsite, followed by a gathering of teachers standing over his own dead body. Finally he saw an old man with a torch and a walking stick. There was a glimpse a tiny deformed hand and a flash of green light.

* * *

Neville was extremely grateful that the next day was a Sunday and that he didn’t have to attend classes. Nonetheless, he had to go down to the Great Hall for breakfast, and there received a number of ugly looks and jeers from other students, mainly Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, annoyed at the limelight being stolen from their own Cedric Diggory.

“Just ignore them,” was Harry’s advice, but it was hardly easy. However the Marauders, good as their word, surrounded Neville and made it plain without having to say anything that anyone messing with Neville was messing with them. The Second Marauders were rapidly developing a mystique around Hogwarts, so their intervention certainly helped.

Neville intended to go straight back to his dormitory after breakfast, however he was approached by Professor McGonagall. “Mr Longbottom, Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you at once,” she said curtly. “If you would follow me please.” Reluctantly, Neville left the Marauders and trailed after McGonagall up through the castle to the Headmaster’s office.

When they reached the gargoyle that stood in front of the entrance to the office, McGonagall said, “Jelly babies,” and the gargoyle moved aside. “The Headmaster is expecting you,” said McGonagall, and left. Neville climbed the spiral stairs up to the heavy wooden door. He was about to knock at the door when he heard a shrill raised voice from inside. He recognised it immediately. It was his Gran.

“This is outrageous!” Gran was yelling. Neville, who had heard that tone of voice on many occasions, felt an instinctive twinge of sympathy for Dumbledore. “What sort of a school are you running here? I was under the distinct impression that this place was supposed to be safe for my grandson. Was this ridiculous Tournament your idea? If you want my opinion, it was asking for trouble.”

“I believe this tournament can do a great deal for the magical community, and may yet, Augusta,” replied the calm voice of Dumbledore. “Yet all I can do is apologise for the failure of security and assure you that I am as angry as you are. But what’s done is done, and cannot be undone. The rules of the tournament are fixed and cannot be changed.”

“Have you at least any idea of who was responsible for this?”

“I am afraid not. An investigation has been launched, but frankly anyone with access to the Goblet of Fire over the last two days could have been responsible, and that’s a lot of people. Now, as I’m sure that by now Neville is loitering outside the door, perhaps this would be a good time to let him in.” The door swung open and Neville rather sheepishly entered.

This was the second time Neville had been in Dumbledore’s office, and it had not changed much. Fawkes was still sitting on his perch behind the desk; the Sorting Hat was lying on top of a glass cabinet containing, Neville noticed, the Sword of Gryffindor. Dominating the room however was the imposing figure of Gran, hands on her hips and a thunderous look on her face directed at the seated Dumbledore.

The moment Neville appeared, Gran grabbed hold of him in a rough embrace. “There you are, Neville. You took your time getting here. Have you been listening at the door long?”

“N-no, Gran,” stammered Neville.

“Considering what has happened, it was necessary to inform your grandmother at once,” Dumbledore explained. “She insisted on coming here immediately.”

“Do you expect me to sit at home when this happens?” exclaimed Gran. “I’ve half a mind to pull Neville out of this school. That way he can’t compete. It’s not like he learns much here anyway.”

“Your grandson receives an excellent education here, Mrs Longbottom,” retorted Dumbledore, “and has learned a great deal. Anyway, Hogwarts already has a Triwizard champion. It would appear that whoever entered Neville into the Tournament did so under an invented fourth school. Removing Neville from Hogwarts would not help.”

“Look, you know as well as I do that Neville is simply incapable of competing in this tournament. He hasn’t got the ability. I will not have him humiliated in front of the entire school, to say nothing of the danger he’d be facing.”

Dumbledore smiled. “I think Neville’s capabilities may surprise you, Augusta, and perhaps even himself. But I can assure you that steps are being taken to ensure that Neville’s participation is a meaningful and safe one. That was the main reason I wished to speak to you both. I wanted to make you a promise that I will do everything in my power to protect Neville.

“Neville, as a Triwizard judge I am obliged to remain impartial during the competition. However, I think you will not have to look far for assistance. I advise you to pay attention to your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” He gave Neville a twinkling smile.

“Well, I will take you at your word, Dumbledore,” said Gran stiffly. “But want to be informed of anything significant, and I will be attending every Task. Neville’s time at Hogwarts has been quiet up to this point and I intend it to stay that way.”

Dumbledore and Neville exchanged a brief glance. Gran was largely ignorant of Neville’s adventures over the previous three years and Neville was happy for it to remain that way. Neville wondered what Gran’s reaction to this would have been if she had known. Probably no different. After all, Neville drew no confidence from those adventures. He was facing something entirely new, and this time through no choice of his own. He could only hope that whatever Dumbledore and Moody had planned would work. Because otherwise Neville could only see his future as bleak indeed.

The week following Neville’s surprise induction into the Triwizard Tournament was one of the most uncomfortable and miserable he had experienced. The presence of not one but two Hogwarts champions in the Tournament had sharply divided the four Houses, with only Gryffindor coming down on Neville’s side. Even then, respect for Neville within Gryffindor was not universal. The Marauders had been using their influence within the house to drum up support for Neville, but among those who had no knowledge of the mysterious and reclusive Boy-Who-Lived, there was a definite degree of suspicion, and among many of the rest ambivalence. Outside of Hermione and the Marauders, only Ginny had actually approached Neville and said she believed him and was a hundred per cent behind him.

From the other three houses, the hostility was far more open and marked. Everywhere Neville went, there would be someone jeering him, or making sarcastic or unpleasant remarks behind his back. He heard people calling him an attention grabber, a cheat, a liar and worse things besides. Neville was reminded of the time in his second year when he was briefly suspected of being the Heir of Slytherin and the school had turned against him. This was if anything worse, as then the students had been somewhat afraid of him. Now, this was outright hatred.

Draco Malfoy had been beside himself with glee at being presented with another opportunity to taunt ‘Short-Arse’ and the Gryffindors. He spent most of Monday’s Potions lesson making snide jokes about Neville’s impending demise and the various number of embarrassing (to Neville) and amusing (to Draco) ways in which it could happen, without incurring a single rebuke from Snape. Later that day, his ears mysteriously swelled to four times their normal size and he had to be taken off to the hospital wing. Seeing the Marauders laughing loudly amongst themselves over dinner, Neville felt he knew how it had happened.

Despite Dumbledore’s promise, Neville saw nothing of either him or Moody all week, until his Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson on the Thursday. Neville waited to see what he had to say, but Moody conducted the lesson as normal and barely acknowledged Neville. Only at the end did he mutter, “Longbottom,” as the class was filing out. Neville stopped and waited behind. “Longbottom, I want to see you in my office tonight at eight pm sharp,” said Moody bluntly, and no more. Neville nodded, and left. He got the impression that Moody didn’t want the meeting to be widely known.

Just before eight that evening, Neville slipped out of the Gryffindor common room when he hoped no one was looking and made his way down through the castle to Professor Moody’s office. He knocked on the door, and Moody opened it. Glancing up and down the deserted corridor behind Neville, Moody ushered him in.

Moody’s office was quite different from when Sirius had occupied it the year before. It had a very sparse, functional look, with little in the way of furnishings. Various strange magical devices were scattered around the room. Propped up against a wall was a strange mirror which reflected nothing but a dark mist. Sitting on Moody’s desk, a large circular object in a frame span gently by itself.

Moody lumbered over to a chair. “Were you followed?” he asked.

“Er, I don’t think so,” replied Neville.

“Not good enough, but it’ll have to do,” said Moody, tapping the circular object. “Nothing on the Sneakoscope at least. Sit down, Neville, we have a lot to talk about.” Neville took a seat as Moody stretched out his legs, and Neville noticed for the first time that one of them was artificial. Spotting Neville’s interest, Moody tapped the leg. “The one time I was careless,” he said, without further explanation. “Constant vigilance.”

Moody gave Neville a short, silent stare before saying, “So Neville, do you want to win the Triwizard Tournament?”

The question surprised Neville. “No,” he said quickly. “I mean, I shouldn’t even be in it, and it’s not fair on the others. Besides, I can’t.”

“Good,” replied Moody. “The last thing we want is you getting a sudden attack of competitiveness or over-optimism. My job is not to help you win, it’s to help keep you alive, and I will do that job to the best of my ability, provided you follow my instructions precisely. I will not lose another Longbottom on my watch.”

There was an almost pained tone in Moody’s voice, which Neville noticed. “Sir, you weren’t responsible for my parents’ deaths,” he said.

Moody’s one natural eye looked down at the floor. “Wasn’t I? I don’t mean to boast, but I was probably the most skilled member of the Order at that time, save Dumbledore, and definitely the most experienced. I should have taken the lead in protecting them. At the very least I should have put more effort into searching out the traitor. But the war was going badly and we were far too overstretched. And the threat to Frank and Alice was vague; apparently someone else could equally have been the target. It’s still no excuse. Too many people died in that war, far too many.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, which eventually Neville tried to fill. “So, what are we going to do about the Tournament then, Professor?”

Moody leaned forward. “We’re going to cheat, Neville,” he replied. “Cheat like crazy.”

“Can we even get away with that?”

“There’s nothing in your magical contract preventing it. Of course, if we’re found out the other schools will kick up a stink, but let them. Everybody cheats in the Triwizard Tournament anyway. Admittedly not on the scale we’re going to do it, but in this case the ends certainly justify the means. This is about your safety, not some stupid trophy.”

Moody took a quick swig from his hip flask. “Right, this will be the plan. You will report here every Tuesday and Thursday at eight o’clock. It would be best to keep these meetings confidential. Do you have some way of getting out of Gryffindor Tower without being noticed?”

“Erm, I suppose I could ask my friend Harry if I could borrow his invisibility cloak. It’s a good one.”

“Is that Harry Potter the troublemaker? No wonder he gets away with so much. Do you trust him?”

“Absolutely,” Neville replied with conviction.

“Okay. In these meetings I will coach you one-to-one on the specific skills you will need for each task. We will formulate a plan for each task and I expect you to follow it precisely. Do you understand?” Neville nodded. “These training sessions will be tough and arduous, beyond anything you may expect in my regular classes. We will test the limits of your capabilities and see how far we can push them.

“The schedule for the Triwizard Tournament is as follows: Next week will be the introduction ceremony known as the Weighing of the Wands. Thereafter the competition will consist of three tasks, held in late November, late February and late June respectively. There’s a scoring system, but we don’t have to worry about that. Officially, none of the champions is supposed to know the particulars of the task beforehand, so that’s the first rule we’ll be breaking. The First Task involves confronting a dragon.”

“A dragon? You’re joking!” exclaimed Neville.

“I never joke,” replied Moody sternly. “They’re shipping them over from Romania in a couple of weeks. Caused quite an upheaval when we told them there had to be four instead of three. There are various methods of dealing with dragons; we shall have to see which one best suits your capabilities.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and Neville jumped. Moody’s magical eye however swivelled in the direction of the door and he nodded. “Ah, good. Neville, I thought it would be useful for you to have a training partner for these sessions; someone to face off against and provide a comparison whilst I concentrate on your technique. Fortunately there was an ideal person around here already. That’s him right now.”

Moody got up, walked over and opened the door. “Come in,” he said. Into the room entered a tall, confident man with thick dark hair and a broad smile.

“Sirius!” Neville exclaimed in surprise.

“That’s no way to address a former professor of yours, Neville,” said Moody.

“That’s exactly how he should address this former professor, Mad-Eye,” replied Sirius Black with a grin. Sirius looked healthy and was smartly dressed; he still exuded that effortlessly self-assured manner. “Hello again, Neville. Bet you didn’t expect me to be back here so soon.”

“As your last Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Mr Black was an obvious choice,” said Moody. “Since he’s not on staff any more, there is less chance of a breach of security within the school over these meetings.”

“Plus I was going to be in the area regularly anyway,” added Sirius, “and Dumbledore was happy to arrange access to the school for me.”

“What were you going to be doing here?” asked Neville, wondering if it had anything to do with Remus Lupin, and how much Moody knew.

“Um, seeing Charity, that is Professor Burbage,” replied Sirius a little sheepishly. Moody rolled his non-magical eye and shook his head. “Hey, we can’t all be confirmed bachelors like you, Mad-Eye. Some of us like to trust someone else once in a while.”

“I wasn’t sure whether you two had broken up,” said Neville.

“Well I had a lot of explaining to do about why I left here all of a sudden, but I won her round. It wasn’t easy, particularly as I couldn’t tell her the whole truth.”

“I thought you said you trusted her, Black,” pointed out Moody.

“We all have our secrets, Mad-Eye,” said Sirius, with a sideways glance at Neville. Evidently Moody was not in on the truth about Remus. Dumbledore had apparently told no one in the school and Neville reckoned that Moody, with his obsession with secrecy and security, would want it that way.

Neville spent the next half-hour discussing Moody’s plan and catching up with Sirius, but they did not begin any training, deciding to wait until the next meeting on Tuesday. Moody did however load Neville up with several books he advised Neville to read. Sirius explained he’d got a temporary job working Magical Maintenance at the Ministry until he could find a more permanent career, and making regular evening trips up to Hogsmeade to see Professor Burbage.

When they finished, Sirius left Moody’s office with Neville, and Neville took the opportunity of their being alone to ask how Remus was doing. “Well enough, he’s fit and healthy, though I don’t envy him having to live in my parents’ house,” Sirius replied. “His presence is at least driving Kreacher crazier than usual, which is one fun thing to come out of this.” Sirius laughed to himself. “Actually, I couldn’t say in front of Mad-Eye, but one of the reasons I took the Magical Maintenance job is I get access throughout the Ministry, including the Auror Headquarters. With any luck, if they get any leads in the search for Remus, I’ll overhear about them before they act, and be able to take action.

“Good night, Neville. See you next week. I’ll pass on your regards to Moony.” Sirius patted Neville on the shoulder and walked away, whistling to himself, while Neville turned to make the long climb back up to Gryffindor Tower, weighed down by Moody’s books.

* * *

The ostracism and abuse heaped upon Neville from three of the four houses of Hogwarts continued into its second week. Graffiti proclaiming “Longbottom the Loser” had begun appearing on corridor walls in random places, and Filch was finding it remarkably tough to remove. The Slytherins would gang up to heckle him almost everywhere he went. He never ventured out of Gryffindor Tower unless he had to.

Harry had readily agreed to let Neville borrow his invisibility cloak for his lessons with Moody and Sirius. Neville had decided to tell only Harry and Hermione about the meetings; Harry had not even told the other Marauders. Hermione enthusiastically approved of Moody’s plan, and took it upon herself to assist Neville with the preparatory reading Moody had given him. She was already half way through the pile of books already.

In the first couple of lessons Moody had not discussed offensive strategy, concentrating instead on teaching Neville the Incaloris Charm, which produced a shield against heat around a person. Moody had chosen it as a relatively simple charm, and Neville after the second lesson could produce and sustain it for a while, given enough time to prepare. Moody was a good tutor, tough but extremely clever, and Sirius was full of encouragement and enthusiasm. Under their guidance, for the first time Neville felt confident about learning. “It’s a start,” Moody had said. “Long way to go yet.”

Neville had been forewarned about the Weighing of the Wands ceremony taking place at the end of that second week, but it was still a pleasant surprise when he was called out of Potions early on the Friday afternoon. Potions, shared as it was with the Slytherins, had been even more of a nightmare than usual for Neville, and Snape’s disdain and disregard for him had not changed in the previous two weeks. As such, Neville counted it a small mercy that he was allowed to escape the Potions dungeon early for once.

It was raining outside, so he was led into the largely deserted Great Hall. However, all the judges were already there, as were the other three champions. Krum and Delacour ignored him, but Cedric smiled and nodded in his direction. He looked nervous, far more so than the other two.

Of the only other people in the hall, Neville instantly recognised one, the wizened figure of the old wandmaker, Ollivander. Two others he did not recognise: a flashily dressed middle-aged witch with overly coiffured blond hair, and standing next to her a fat, scruffy-looking wizard carrying a large camera. The witch flashed Neville a wide, insincere smile as he entered, but Neville didn’t notice.

“Good, now we’re all here, we can begin,” said Bagman cheerily. “Welcome to the Weighing of the Wands. Tradition dictates that at the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament, each champion must have their wands evaluated by an expert to ensure they are fit to compete. Our thanks to Mr Ollivander for filling the role, and a warm welcome to the representatives from the Daily Prophet covering this event.” Bagman was obviously relishing his role of master of ceremonies. Behind him Crouch had a terse, stoic expression on his face, looking like he’d much rather be somewhere else.

Ollivander’s job proved to be nothing more than describing the composition and properties of each wand and performing a couple of test spells. Each wand duly passed, and Neville was last to hand his over. Ollivander took it in his thin fingers. “Ah yes, the famous wand of a famous owner,” he proclaimed. “Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. The brother of another, even more famous wand.”

Neville had almost forgotten about his wand’s connection to Voldemort’s through the phoenix feathers in their cores. He had not given it much thought since Ollivander had mentioned it on the day he had bought his wand. He treated as just another one of those coincidences and acts of fate that surrounded him as the Boy-Who-Lived. He was very attached to his wand, indeed he believed he would have been an even poorer wizard without it. He reckoned it had a strength far above his own capabilities and could not imagine losing it.

Ollivander tested the wand by producing a shower of purple sparks before handing it back to Neville. He, along with the other champions, was then herded by Bagman in front of the photographer, who took so many pictures that Neville was left blinking with spots in his eyes by the time he was finished. The blond woman with the fake smile then shook his hand vigorously. “Rita Skeeter, Mr Longbottom. Daily Prophet reporter. I’ll be interviewing each of you for tomorrow’s edition. Big news, this tournament, especially you. Shall we take a walk?” With that, and before Neville could protest, she seized him by the shoulder and led him out via the side door to the room Neville had been in the night his name had come out of the Goblet of Fire.

She thrust him into an armchair and took the seat opposite him, removing from her handbag a length of parchment and a luminous green quill. She placed them on the table in front of her and the quill danced up, point downwards over the parchment. “It’s just a Quick-Quotes-Quill,” she said. “Just ignore it. So Neville, how do you feel being a Triwizard champion?”

Neville hesitated, unsure of what to say. The quill began to write: Neville Longbottom, fourteen, a boy of modest height and quiet demeanour, paused to consider the question. “Well, um, scared,” he said at last. He admittedly frankly to feelings of apprehension at the possibility of being outshone by competitors far more experienced and talented than himself, wrote the quill. “But that’s not what I meant,” he protested.

“I’m sure it was, more or less,” replied Skeeter, pulling the parchment closer to her, and before Neville could add anything, continued, “Of course, you are by far the most famous boy at this school. Do you think that by competing in this tournament you can help yourself live up to that immense reputation?”

“Er, I’ve never really wanted to. I mean, it’s not like I actually did anything to deserve my reputation.” The quill scribbled furiously; Neville thought he could just make out the appearance of the words modesty and arrogance? on the parchment.

“Yet with that triumph came tragedy,” persisted Skeeter, apparently oblivious to what he had just said. “The loss of your parents at such an early age must have affected you deeply.”

“I try not to think about it too much,” admitted Neville, wondering what the point of all these questions was.

“Hmm, repressed trauma,” Skeeter mused. “Perhaps the shock of your parents’ deaths is what led to the suppression of your magical potential, or subconsciously drove you to seek out dangerous and life-threatening situations.”

“I don’t think so,” said Neville, nonplussed, but the quill was busy writing an essay all of its own. Neville tried to lean over to read it, but Skeeter took him by the shoulder again.

“I think I’ve got all I need,” she said. “Thank you very much, Neville. You’ve been very helpful.” She guided him back towards the door.

“But I hardly said anything.”

“You said enough. Send what’s-his-name, Diggory in, would you?” Neville left the room, confused but glad that it was over. He went over to Cedric and told him it was his turn.

“Oh, right,” replied Cedric, seeming a little distracted. “Say, Neville, would you mind hanging around for a minute until I’m finished? There’s something I want to talk to you about.” He went on in, and Neville wondered worriedly about what Cedric wanted to say. This was the first time he’d seen him since he was put in the tournament and he hoped Cedric wasn’t going to be as angry as so many others in his house had been.

Skeeter took what seemed like barely a few seconds to interview Cedric, compared to the time she had spent with Neville. Neville had sat down on one of the Great Hall benches to wait for him. He noticed that Viktor Krum, waiting his turn to be interviewed, was watching him, unlike Fleur Delacour who took no notice of him. At first he assumed Krum was just annoyed at his presence, but the look on his face was more one of puzzlement and deep thought than anger. Neville had no idea what it meant.

When Cedric emerged, they left the Great Hall together. “Look,” said Cedric as they came into the Entrance Hall, “I just wanted to say that I know you’ve been getting a lot of stick over the past few days, and I’m sorry. You don’t deserve it, of course, and some of it seems to have been pretty vicious. I’ve done my best to stop the Hufflepuffs getting involved, but I can’t do much about the other houses. I hope it hasn’t been to rough on you.”

“Um, thanks,” said Neville, surprised but very grateful that Cedric was apparently as fair-minded as his house’s reputation. “Say, you seem a bit distracted about something. Are you all right?”

“Just a bit nervous, is all. I don’t think I’m going to do well in the First Task. Between you and me, I think there’s a bit of cheating going on.”

Neville nervously scratched the back of his head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure that both Viktor and Fleur know what the task is about already. They’re both looking very confident, and I overheard Maxime talking to Bagman earlier and it sounded like she knew. Now you and I are the only ones going in blind. I just feel I’m going to let everyone down.”

Neville felt rather guilty, and Cedric looked genuinely worried. He decided he owed Cedric something for being so understanding. They had reached the main staircase where Neville would head up to Gryffindor Tower and Cedric would go down to the Hufflepuff common room. “Er, Cedric, thanks again and if you want my advice, you might want to think about looking up about dragons,” Neville said quietly.

“Dragons?”

“Yeah,” said Neville, and went off up the stairs. He hoped he’d done the right thing, but if he and everyone else was getting an advantage in the tournament, it seemed only fair that Cedric should as well. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous this tournament seemed to him. Couldn’t they have come up with a better and safer way of deciding which the best school was? He only hoped the whole thing would pass as quietly as possible.

However, when he saw Hermione’s copy of the Daily Prophet at breakfast the next morning, he realised that hope was very much forlorn.

The final ten days before the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament saw much feverish preparation on the part of the four champions. Viktor Krum was seen regularly in the Hogwarts library, poring over various heavy tomes with a furrowed brow. Crowds of predominantly male onlookers watched Fleur Delacour practise spells with other Beauxbatons students on the grounds. Cedric Diggory’s regimen was more low-key but no less intense, going for long early morning runs along the shore of the lake before most of the students were up.

It was the fourth champion however that was working harder than anyone. Neville had thrown himself into Moody’s crash course in defence against dragons with an intensity that he had never shown in any lesson or subject before. There was something about a looming confrontation with a forty foot fire-breathing lizard that tended to focus the mind.

Moody was an uncompromising taskmaster; he would not accept failure or excuses. His blank refusal that Neville could not perform certain spells had become a challenge to Neville, determined to repay Moody’s faith in him. One of the things that Neville had always lacked was concentration and focussing on one particular spell at a time had really helped. “There’s not been a spell invented that any wizard couldn’t do with enough time, patience and determination,” Moody had said. “We may not have much of the first, but enough of the other two will make up for that.”

Inevitably, as a result of this focus, his regular schoolwork had suffered, but he found that all his teachers (with the notable exception of Snape) were very lenient and understanding towards him. Although their behaviour seemed genuinely to be on account of the pressure they knew Neville was under, Neville couldn’t help wondering if maybe they had read Rita Skeeter’s article in the Daily Prophet and were feeling sorry for him.

Neville had only skimmed over the article, enough to convince him he would not enjoy reading the rest, but Hermione had dutifully waded her way through the whole thing and had looked thoroughly disgusted. In her rant to Neville, she had used the words “hatchet job” which, although a Muggle expression with which Neville was not familiar, felt like it had an appropriate ring to it.

Skeeter had painted a picture of Neville as a disturbed, repressed child, haunted by his past and unable to form relationships with other people. She also implied that Neville could be an extremely powerful, dangerous wizard, as evidenced by his defeat of Voldemort, but had bottled up his magic on account of the trauma he had suffered, and that magic risked exploding out at any moment. Her theory was that Neville’s entry into the Triwizard Tournament was driven by a subconscious need to release that pent-up magic and anger.

“It’s ridiculous,” Hermione had said, fuming. “She’s halfway to having you committed as a mental patient. What nerve!” The Marauders had laughed it off, with Fred offering to conjure a concrete wall around Neville’s bunk in case he exploded. Most of the comments he’d got from the other Gryffindors had been supportive, but for the rest of the school it was just another reason to steer clear of him. He began to notice he was getting odd glances wherever he went, and other students seemed to be wary of him. Draco and the Slytherins found it just another way to taunt him, baiting him to go mad and attack them or feigning mock terror whenever he came near. Neville continued to ignore everything in silence.

He had dreaded the inevitable letter from Gran, but when it came all it had contained was a stern warning to Neville not to talk to Rita Skeeter ever again. Neville knew that Gran’s opinion of the accuracy of the Daily Prophet was very low indeed, and was glad that had not changed in this instance. Gran always knew a lie when she saw one.

Gran had also reminded Neville she would be attending the upcoming First Task, and that did not thrill him. It had only really just dawned on him that he would be competing in front of hundreds of people, all of whom knew who he was. It was a frightening prospect. He’d mentioned it to Sirius at the start of one of his lessons with Moody. “Don’t worry, Neville,” Sirius had said with a smile. “I expect you’ll be concentrating more on the great big dragon. You won’t even notice the crowd.” Somehow this did not make Neville feel better.

Moody had learned that the task would involve retrieving an object from close to the dragon, so he had devised a simple and easy to follow strategy for Neville. “There’ll be an Anti-Summoning Charm on the object, so the obvious idea’s out,” he had said. “That leaves three options: attack the dragon directly, find some way of outpacing or outmanoeuvring the dragon, or distract it in some way. The first would require powerful magic I don’t have the time to teach, and might only enrage the creature. For the second, I could cast any number of powerful charms on you, but they’d be detected immediately. Or I might provide you with a magical item to Summon, but anything more sophisticated than a broom could raise too many suspicions and be denied to you. Since you’re no flyer, that leaves option three.

“Here’s what we’re going to do. Dragons rely primarily on their senses of sight and smell to detect their prey. So we’ll employ two simple curses. The first is Nasus Obstructo, which fills the nostrils of the victim with a noxious fume, making it impossible for them to smell anything. The other is Exammuscae. It produces the effect of a swarm of flies buzzing in front of the eyes, disorientating the victim.

“Both these spells are relatively simple and within your capabilities, and used in conjunction should give you approximately four minutes, with the Incaloris Charm as a safeguard, to retrieve the object. Let us get to work.”

Using the unfortunate but uncomplaining Sirius as a subject, Moody schooled Neville carefully in the application of the two spells. Although, as Neville pointed out, Sirius didn’t exactly make a very convincing dragon, Neville was able to perform both of them with a sufficient degree of success to satisfy Moody by the end of their last lesson, the day before the task.

At the end of that lesson, Moody sat Neville down to talk to him. “Listen Neville, I’ve just got a few last words I want to say. You’ve learnt well and really applied yourself, and I’ve been impressed with that. I think that when you really put in the effort, you become a far better wizard than you might think. But magical skill alone will not be enough tomorrow. Out there in that arena, it’ll be about keeping calm, and keeping your nerve. I shouldn’t have to talk to a Gryffindor about courage, but in my time I’ve seen Hufflepuffs rush into battle where Gryffindors would not go. Everyone is different.

“If you want inspiration, look no further than your mother. She was coolness under pressure personified, never reckless but always determined, a thinking fighter. You have her sense of purpose, but your father’s technique. I always had to tell him not to rush his wand movements. Very fiery at times, your dad. Think of them when you go out there tomorrow. They would believe in you. I believe in you. All you need is to believe in yourself.”

“Good luck, Neville,” added Sirius. “Make sure you get a good night’s sleep. I’ll be there tomorrow as well. I’ll see you after it’s over.” Neville thanked them both, slipped on Harry’s invisibility cloak and made his way back up to Gryffindor Tower.

He hardly slept at all however, tossing and turning in his bed and repeating the same words over and over again to himself: “Nasus Obstructo, Exammuscae, Incaloris. Nasus Obstructo, Exammuscae, Incaloris.” He knew that his life depended on those three spells, and desperately wanted them to be the only things in his memory for the next day.

* * *

Perversely, Neville still had lessons that morning, with the First Task set for two o’clock in the afternoon. He sat unmoving throughout Charms, paying no attention to Professor Flitwick’s lecture and taking no notes at all. Even in Herbology he said and did nothing, loitering in the corner of the greenhouse. Professor Sprout let him stand there and did not call on him for any demonstrations, as she did in most lessons. She gave him a sympathetic smile as he left.

At lunch in the Great Hall he noticed that most of the Gryffindors avoided him, giving him a wide berth to leave him alone with his thoughts. But as he was about to leave, he was approached by Ginny Weasley. “Good luck, Neville,” she said brightly. “Go out there and show them what you can do. I’ll be cheering for you.” Neville was surprised at her confidence in him, but it still made him feel a little better.

The grand bowl-shaped arena that had been constructed for the First Task was located on the edge of the Forbidden Forest and by early afternoon the stands were already filling up with spectators. At about half past one, Neville and the other champions were gathered together in the Entrance Hall by the three headmasters and were led out across the grounds. As they skirted by the edge of the forest, Neville thought of how easy it would be to dash off, disappear into the forest, and never be found. However he knew deep down that he could never do that. He was done with running away, more than anything because it would let too many people down.

The champions were led into a large tent on the edge of the arena. As Neville entered, he felt the flash of a camera and turned to see Rita Skeeter and her photographer loitering close by. There was a look of greedy anticipation on Skeeter’s face. Neville ducked quickly inside the tent.

Inside, he found Bagman and Crouch, the other two judges, waiting for them, with Crouch’s house-elf Winky again in attendance. Crouch looked bored; Bagman, clutching a small purple bag, was grinning with excitement. “Gather round, champions,” he began. “The day has arrived. I’m sure you’ve all been wondering what the First Task will be.” Neville looked around him. He knew full well that none of them had been wondering at all.

“Now I can reveal the truth,” Bagman continued. “Each of you in turn will enter the arena behind me, where you will each confront one of four dragons. The dragons are nesting mothers and within each nest we will place a golden egg. Your task is to safely retrieve the egg, which will provide a clue to the next task.”

He held out the small bag. “Please select your dragon.” Each of them reached into the bag and pulled out a small moving model dragon. Fleur drew a Swedish Short-Snout and would go first. Cedric pulled out a Chinese Fireball and would go third. Krum got what seemed to be regarded as the toughest draw: a Hungarian Horntail and last in the order. That left Neville with a Welsh Green and second up. He looked down at the little dragon crawling around on his palm and wondered if that was good or not. Moody had never said anything about different types of dragons.

The judges made their way to their seats while Fleur prepared to enter the arena. The other champions sat down on a bench to wait. At a signal, Fleur stepped forward and disappeared out of the tent. There was a loud roar from the crowd, and then a deeper roar from the dragon. Neville began to tremble and tried to shut out the noise from outside.

Cedric leaned over to whisper to him. “I never got to say thanks. I don’t know what I’d have done without your tip. I’m still nervous as hell, though. I wish I was going out before you. Get it over with quicker. I hate waiting.” Krum sat brooding in silence, twirling his wand in his fingers.

After a few minutes there was a loud, sharp yell of shock from the crowd outside. Everything then went quiet, and Neville tensed, wondering what had happened. The silence continued for several more unbearable minutes before a booming voice announced, “Would Neville Longbottom now enter the arena, please.” A muted chorus of boos followed.

Neville got to his feet and Cedric patted him on the back. “Good luck,” he said. Neville walked over to the entrance of the tent. “Nasus Obstructo, Exammuscae, Incaloris,” he muttered to himself. He closed his eyes and an image of his parents drawn from he knew not where swam into his brain. Make them proud, he thought, and then opened his eyes and stepped forward.

The terrain he was confronted by was rough and uneven. Surrounding him on all sides were stands packed with spectators of all ages. He could see in front of him the stand in which the judges and teachers were sitting, including Moody. Somewhere else he knew Gran was watching him and elsewhere Hermione, Ginny and the Marauders were cheering him on. But he didn’t have time to stop and look around for them.

He scrambled up behind a hillock and peered out. Some fifty yards in front of him in the middle of the arena a huge scaly green dragon sat nestled peacefully on a clutch of eggs. Its left hind leg was chained to a post by a thick, sturdy and rather long (to Neville’s eyes) chain. It twisted its long neck and briefly adjusted its wings, revealing its huge wingspan. Neville gulped, but his brain moved on to automatic as he prepared to instigate Moody’s plan. Need to be closer, he thought. I’m not in effective range yet.

Moody had drilled his charge well. Neville slowly edged forward, keeping low and using whatever cover he could find. Twice he froze as his foot slipped on a pebble and made a sound, but the dragon did not move. Once he got within twenty-five yards Neville lay flat on the ground and readied his wand. It was now or never.

As rapidly as he could he scrambled to his feet and pointed his wand squarely at the dragon’s head. “Nasus Obstructo!” he cried. A flash of blue light burst from his wand and struck the dragon square on the snout. It writhed and roared for a moment before shaking its head violently and shooting gouts of flame from its nostrils, trying unsuccessfully to clear its nose.

Neville knew this meant his spell had worked, but he had no time to celebrate. The flames from the nose of the Welsh Green came perilously close to his position and he dived back down for cover. This was not the plan. He was supposed to cast the second curse immediately, before the dragon could react. As soon as he heard the flame stop, he got to his feet again.

The dragon was looking almost straight at him. He aimed his wand and cried “Exammuscae!” A white jet from his wand flew straight over the dragon’s head into the sky. He had missed. The dragon, now seeing its attacker, raised itself onto its feet for the first time and began to advance on Neville. For such a huge beast it moved fast across the ground. Neville backed away, stumbling. The crowd gasped.

With one last desperate attempt, Neville’s arm stretched out once more. “Exammuscae!” he cried again. This time the jet struck the dragon square on the forehead. It was close enough. A buzzing black cloud burst from the point of the curse’s impact and spread across in front of the dragon’s face. The Welsh Green roared angrily and its head sunk to the ground as it scrabbled fruitlessly at the cloud with its front claws.

Neville knew there was no time to lose. Holding his wand point upwards, he said, “Incaloris.” There was a brief orange glow around him. Neville knew the charm did not last long. Hurriedly he began to run in a wide arc around the dragon, heading for its now vacated nest.

Although disoriented and with feeble hearing, the dragon knew there was something somewhere near its nest. Its savage maternal instinct kicked in and it began expelling fire wildly in all directions. The one unchained hind leg flailed perilously close to Neville and the gust of wind it generated blew him off his feet. He scrambled quickly to his feet again. “Constant vigilance,” he muttered under his breath.

As the dragon continued to thrash about, Neville reached the nest. He could see the golden egg resting in between the others. He dashed forward and reached out his hand for it. But he had reckoned without the unfailing instinct which draws a mother back to her nest. The dragon had turned. Confused it may have been, but it still could still sense where its children were.

A blast of flame struck Neville in the back. The Incaloris Charm absorbed most of the heat, but Neville was thrown to the ground away from the nest, his back scorched. The crowd fell silent as the dragon closed in. It pulled itself alongside the nest and swung its front claws in front of itself, mercilessly searching for its foe.

Neville rolled onto his side. His back felt in agony and knew the Incaloris Charm would now have failed. He was helpless. The dragon’s claws pounded the ground in front of him and he knew it was only a matter of time before one found its mark. He tried to move but he couldn’t, paralysed by fear and pain as the dragon loomed over him. He raised his arms to feebly protect himself as a huge scaly arm descended on him.

Suddenly he felt a massive force push against him, hurling him to the side as the claw smashed down right where he had been. The force seemed to have come out of nowhere and he knew nothing had struck him; it must have been magical. He was thrown against the ground a few feet away, and right by the nest. Not stopping to wonder at his miraculous escape, he pulled himself painfully up and seized the golden egg. Desperately he set off at a run to get clear of the dragon, not daring to look back.

But the cloud was just clearing from the dragon’s eyes. It sought out the fleeing Neville and sent one last massive blast of flame in his direction. The very edge of the fireball caught Neville in the side. He fell with a cry of pain, hit his head on a rock and blacked out.

* * *

Neville awoke painfully in the familiar surroundings of the hospital wing. The whole left side of his body ached terribly and it was uncomfortable to move. His eyes swam into focus. A girl was leaning over him. “Madam Pomfrey!” the girl called behind her. “He’s awake.” Neville’s eyes finally adjusted enough to register that the girl was Hermione.

She was not the only one there. Harry and Ron were standing at the foot of the bed and Ginny was next to Hermione. Madam Pomfrey the nurse came hurrying over. “Don’t try to move too much,” she said. “I’ve fixed your skin but it will still take time to heal, and that head wound needs to be treated with caution. You end up in here far too often, Mr Longbottom. I knew this Tournament would be trouble the moment I heard about it.”

Neville’s right hand felt the bandage round his head. “What happened?” he asked.

“You suffered second-degree burns to fifteen per cent of your body and a slight hairline fracture of the skull,” replied Madam Pomfrey. “Fortunately the dragon handlers were able to pull you clear after you passed out.”

“How long have I been out?” The chandeliers in the hospital wing were lit and Neville looked over at the far windows to see it was dark outside.

“It’s now half past eight in the evening. I’ll be keeping you in overnight for observation. Your friends can stay for five more minutes, all right?” Neville nodded, and Madam Pomfrey walked over to another bed. Neville was surprised to see Fleur occupying the bed.

“She got injured as well, though not as bad as you,” explained Ron. “Her robes briefly caught alight.”

Neville tried to sit up a little, but it was difficult. “What else happened out there?”

“You scored twenty-one out of fifty,” Hermione told him. “Last by some distance, but don’t worry about that. Viktor Krum did the best, though his dragon went as mad as yours did. Cedric Diggory was just behind him. They’re both okay. Oh Neville, I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“Neville’s a survivor,” said Harry. “He’s been through enough tough scrapes already. It’ll take more than a dragon to beat him.”

“I thought you were brilliant out there, Neville,” put in Ginny. “They were far too harsh on their scores. It was incredibly brave of you.”

“I don’t know about that,” muttered Neville. “More lucky. Or…” He thought of his mysterious rescue from under the dragon’s claw, but said nothing. Instead he asked, “Has Gran been in? I bet she was mad.”

“Just a little,” grinned Harry. “She left a few minutes ago to go harangue Dumbledore again over your safety. She was on the warpath all afternoon. Sirius was also here but had to head home. I’d better owl him to tell him you’re all right. By the way, they left you your egg.” Harry indicated the golden egg lying on Neville’s bedside table. “No one’s tried to open it yet.”

A short while later Madam Pomfrey returned and told them all it was time to leave. They said their goodbyes to Neville and filed out. Ron hung around for a moment by Fleur’s bed before Ginny dragged him away. When they’d gone, Neville glanced at the egg and thought about trying to open it, but as he couldn’t yet grasp it with both hands he realised he couldn’t.

He settled down to rest when only minutes later the door to the hospital wing opened and Moody strode in. Madam Pomfrey went to accost him. “Visiting hours are over,” she informed him curtly.

“This won’t take a minute,” growled Moody and, ignoring Pomfrey’s protestations, strode on her past her to Neville’s bedside. “Good to see you awake, Neville. How are you feeling?”

“Lousy, but alive, sir. I messed up. I didn’t manage to stick to the plan exactly.”

“Nonsense. You performed admirably and to the best of your abilities, that’s all I can ask. If anything it is I who should be apologising. I didn’t find out they were putting you up against a nesting mother. That complicated matters. I shall be more diligent in researching the tasks in future.”

Moody picked up the golden egg from the bedside table and gave it a once-over with his magical eye. “Hmm, interesting. Make sure you bring this to our next meeting, first week of next term. We’ll investigate it further.” He glanced round at a stern-looking Madam Pomfrey. “Well, I just wanted to see you were all right, and to tell you your parents would have been proud of you today. You fought bravely and well. How you got out from under that claw in time, I’ll never know.”

“Then that wasn’t you?” exclaimed Neville. Seeing Moody’s puzzlement, he explained, “Someone magically pushed me out of the way as I was about to be crushed. They saved my life. I’d assumed it was you.”

“I can assure you it wasn’t me,” replied Moody. “Nor was it anyone around me, or I would have seen the spell. Very mysterious, and I don’t like mysteries. How would someone manage that and not be noticed, and why? Thank you for telling me, Neville. Good night.” He turned and left the hospital wing with a concerned look on his face.

Neville too was puzzled, but not so concerned. Moody’s paranoia was on show again. After all, whoever his unknown helper had been, they had saved Neville’s life, and so were obviously on his side. Neville hoped he or Moody did find out who it was, so that Neville could thank them in person.

Madam Pomfrey eventually released Neville from the hospital wing late in the afternoon on the day after the First Task. Although his left side was still sore, his skin had healed remarkably quickly, a testament to Madam Pomfrey’s considerable skills. Indeed, Hermione informed him later, a Muggle under similar circumstances would have needed weeks to recover from such injuries.

Earlier in the afternoon Gran had come to see him before returning home, and they had shared one of the oddest conversations Neville had ever had with her. She had alternately berated him for his carelessness and fussed over his injuries, as if she couldn’t make her mind up whether she was happy or irritated with him. In the end she settled for directing most of her ire at Dumbledore and the other Tournament organisers, before warning Neville to keep his head down and maintain his effort in training for the next task. Neville had listened patiently and said very little.

Supper in the Great Hall had already finished by the time he left the hospital wing, so Neville gingerly made his way up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, carrying the golden egg under his right arm, intending to slip quietly up to his dormitory to rest and check on Trevor. However he had reckoned without the reception he got when he stepped through the portrait hole into the common room.

The moment he was seen the whole common room burst into applause in front of him. The Marauders unfurled a large banner suspended from the ceiling against the far wall, reading: Neville �“ Our Champion. Neville was thoroughly embarrassed as he was surrounded by his classmates each taking their turn to congratulate him. His exploits against the dragon seemed to have earned him much credit among the Gryffindors, even if he himself didn’t think he deserved it.

“I was lucky to get away with it really,” he said to Hermione later in a corner of the common room, after all the fuss around him had died down. “I didn’t follow the plan exactly, and I panicked at the worst times. I should have done better.”

Hermione raised her bushy eyebrows in the way she always did when someone said something she thought ridiculous. “Neville, when are you going to stop believing that you’re not brave? You faced down a dragon and survived, for God’s sake. Do you think half of us could have done that? It’s one thing to be modest, Neville, but that’s just crazy.” Neville didn’t reply. He couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t feel brave, and he supposed he would know if he was.

The Marauders wandered over to join them. “Have you tried opening that egg yet, Neville?” Ron asked. “Come on, we’re all dying to know what’s inside.”

“All right,” replied Neville, curious himself. He picked up the golden egg from where he had put it down next to his chair. There was a small clasp on the top. He twisted the clasp and allowed the egg to fall open.

There was a terrible wailing, screaming sound, an inhuman sound of horrendous pain or suffering. Everyone in the room clasped their hands to their ears at once. “What is that?” exclaimed Ron over the din. “It’s horrible.”

“Stop it!” yelled Harry with feeling. Neville turned to look at him. He was visibly shaking and looked quite affected by the sound. “Close it up!” he cried desperately. Hurriedly, Neville shut the egg and reattached the clasp. The noise stopped.

Harry was still trembling and there was an expression of shock on his face that Neville had never seen before. “Harry, what’s wrong?” asked Ron, seeing his friend’s reaction.

“N-nothing,” stammered Harry, obviously untruthfully. He turned and hurried quickly up towards the dormitory. Ron ran after him.

“What was that?” asked Hermione. “I’ve never seen him like that before.” Neville shook his head, equally mystified.

By the time Harry returned to the common room later in the evening, he was his usual self and it seemed like nothing had happened, but he didn’t talk about it with anyone and if he had said anything to Ron, Ron also kept his friend’s confidence. Neville did however notice Harry eyeing the golden egg suspiciously at times.

* * *

Over the next few days and into the month of December Neville was pleasantly surprised to discover that his performance against the dragon had significantly lessened the anger against him from the other three Hogwarts houses. Partly perhaps because they realised he was no threat to Cedric, the main Hogwarts champion, but principally they just appreciated his effort and the threat he was under. A few, who still believed what Rita Skeeter had written, continued to harass him, and a sullen Draco Malfoy remained his mean self, but otherwise Neville was feeling much better, and the Second Task seemed a long time away.

Skeeter’s article on the First Task had devoted half its coverage to Neville and virtually none of it concerned his performance against the dragon, instead concentrating on his “state of mind” and his injuries. Ron told him Skeeter had tried to get into the hospital wing while Neville was there but had been prevented. Neville intended to do everything he could to avoid her.

The end of term was now fast approaching and everyone was making their plans for the Christmas holidays. Many were staying at Hogwarts, but Neville had assumed he would be returning home to Huddlesby for the holidays, as he had for two of the last three years. So Professor McGonagall’s announcement in Transfiguration a week before the end of term caught him quite by surprise.

At the end of another lesson in which he had completely failed to complete the assigned task (Transfiguration was one subject which remained a closed book to Neville), McGonagall held back the class from going to lunch for a moment. “I have something important to tell you all,” she said, “as your head of House now, rather than your Transfiguration professor.”

“It is a long-standing tradition of the Triwizard Tournament that on Christmas Day the host school organises a Yule Ball to be attended by all three schools. This year will be no exception. All students in the fourth year or above are invited to attend. Younger students may not attend except as a guest of an older boy or girl. It is a formal occasion and dress robes must be worn.

“Mr Longbottom, as a Triwizard champion, it is the tradition that you and your partner will lead the first dance with the other champions.” Neville looked horrified; he hadn’t the faintest idea of how to dance. At the back of the class, Ron sniggered. “Thank you, Mr Weasley,” snapped McGonagall. “As you will be present as representatives of the School and Gryffindor House I strongly urge you all to find dance partners for the occasion and to behave in a responsible and dignified manner. Including you, Mr Weasley. That is all I have to say. I shall not detain you from your lunch any further.”

All the talk about the common room that evening was about the Yule Ball. When Neville entered he overheard the Marauders talking about it. Their discussion mainly seemed to consist of Fred and George teasing Ron that he had as much chance of getting a date for the ball as “Mad-Eye Moody has of becoming an optimist,” in George’s words.

“Well, do you have any idea who you’re going with?” retorted Ron.

“We have a few irons in the fire, so to speak,” replied Fred with a grin. “Don’t you worry about us, Padfoot. It’s you and Prongs who need to be concerned. Although I think I know who Prongs has got his eye on, eh?”

“Mind your own business,” said Harry quickly, with half a grin on his face. He looked up and spotted Neville for the first time. “Hey, Neville. What about you? Got any idea about who you’re taking?” Neville just shrugged. He’d been more concerned with the fact that he would have to dance in front of the whole school than who he would be dancing with.

“If you don’t have anyone else in mind, you’ll take Hermione, surely,” said George. “She is your best friend, and all.”

This made sense to Neville and he was about to say so, but Ron interrupted, eyeing Neville with an odd, slightly worried expression on his face. “Not necessarily. Maybe Neville does have someone else he wants to take. Maybe Hermione doesn’t want to go with Neville. She might want to go with someone else. She might not want to go at all.”

“Don’t be stupid, Padfoot. Of course she’ll want to go,” said Fred. “Everyone’s going.”

“I’m just saying we shouldn’t take anything for granted,” said Ron, looking somewhat embarrassed. Neville wondered why, but it had been a rather odd thing to say. He knew Ron was rather the junior member of the Second Marauders, with Harry more into Fred and George’s schemes and pranks than he was, and that he hated being shown up or embarrassed in front of his older brothers. Neville went on up to his dormitory to start on his homework and thought no more about it.

Having no better idea, he decided to ask Hermione to the ball as soon as possible. However, as was quite common, she had been spending a lot of time outside lessons in the library and he didn’t get a chance until the evening two days later. He was waiting in the common room when eventually Hermione entered, arms weighed down with books. Neville waved to her and she came over. “Have you finished your Charms essay?” she asked. “I’d be happy to look over it for you.”

“Not yet,” Neville answered. In fact he’d hardly started it. “Listen, Hermione, I’ve got something to ask you. You know I’ve got to take someone to this ball thing. Well, I was thinking, if you’re not going with anything else, it would make sense if maybe we went together. What do you say?”

Hermione looked a little uncomfortable. “Er Neville, as flattering as that obviously well thought out and eloquent invitation was,” she said with a grin, “I can’t accept.”

“Oh. Are you going with someone else yet?”

“Well actually, I’ve not been asked yet, but I’m waiting for someone to ask me. I don’t know if he will, but I’ve got to give him a chance. If he doesn’t, then sure I’ll go with you, but could you wait a few days to see if he does?”

Neville was puzzled, but agreed. “So, who it is then?” he asked.

“I’d rather not say, not just yet,” Hermione replied mysteriously. “I’m sorry, Neville, but I’m sure there are any number of girls you could ask. You’re a Triwizard champion. You’re Neville Longbottom, after all.”

“You wouldn’t call that an advantage if you were me,” muttered Neville, but Hermione didn’t hear. Neville didn’t have a clue who else he could ask. He hardly knew any of the other Gryffindor girls in his year and didn’t know any of them in the other houses. Neville had always had a very small group of friends, and beyond that there were very few he spoke to that much at all.

Neville patiently waited for news from Hermione as the last days of term ticked away. Meanwhile the atmosphere around Hogwarts was becoming more and more tense. Neville couldn’t really understand what all the fuss was about, but increasingly stressed students were rushing about everywhere desperately trying to secure dates whilst trying to avoid appearing to be desperate, or else pining that their choice was unavailable. Neville watched the whole spectacle with detached amusement, quietly pleased that the whole thing didn’t get him so bothered.

He learnt that Fred and George were taking a couple of girls from the Gryffindor Quidditch team, but as yet Harry and Ron had not secured dates. Harry in particular was acting strangely, hanging around odd parts of the castle on his own and spending less time in Gryffindor Tower. Neville had wondered whether the Marauders would launch some spectacular prank at the Yule Ball, but they seemed far too busy to plan anything.

Two days before the end of term, Neville went to see Hermione in the library, to see whether she had an answer for him yet. As he entered, he passed Viktor Krum on his way out. Krum, who Neville noticed was not carrying any books, gave him a dark stare before striding on past without a word. Neville had got the impression that Krum didn’t like him, but he wasn’t sure why, unless he resented Neville’s place in the tournament. It was difficult to know, because Krum had barely spoken to him in the weeks since he had arrived. He spent a lot of time in the library, a place Neville avoided as much as he could manage.

Entering, Neville found Hermione sitting in her usual place, surrounded by stacks of books. He peered over the top of a pile and whispered, “Hi, Hermione. Can I talk to you?”

Hermione looked up, surprised to see him. “Oh, hi Neville. Actually I needed to see you anyway. Have a seat.” Neville pulled up a chair and sat down. “I’m afraid I can’t go to the ball with you. Someone has asked me.”

“Oh,” whispered Neville disappointedly. “Who was it then?”

Hermione smiled sheepishly. “Viktor Krum,” she said at last.

“Krum?” exclaimed Neville, a little too loud. Madam Pince the librarian gave him a stern look from behind her desk. “Seriously?”

Hermione nodded. “He’s been in here a lot. I helped him out a couple of times and we got to talking and, well, he asked me.”

“But,” Neville was astonished, “isn’t he a bit old? And…”

“QUIET!” yelled Madam Prince. Neville’s voice had risen in volume again.

“Come on, let’s go outside before she throws you out,” said Hermione, and dragged Neville out of the library. Once in the corridor, she faced Neville, hands on hips. “Look,” she stated firmly. “He’s only two years older than me. I’m not a little girl any more, you know. I’m fifteen. I don’t see why it should be a problem to you.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Neville defensively. “You can go with who you like. I’m just surprised. He seems rather sullen to me, and doesn’t look as if he gets on easily with people. I don’t think he likes me.”

“Viktor’s very quiet and likes to keep himself to himself,” replied Hermione, “but he’s really lovely when you get to know him. He has no problem with you at all; we’ve talked about you quite a lot. Because he’s famous, everyone just thinks of him as a big Quidditch star and it’s tough for him to make friends. People just get the wrong impression of him because he doesn’t say much. I think you’d get on great if you got to know each other, you’re quite similar actually.”

“What did Harry and Ron say when you told them? They’re big fans of his.”

“I haven’t told them yet. I’m thinking of keeping it a surprise. So don’t tell anybody, will you?”

Neville smiled. “Okay. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces. Hey, this means we’ll be sitting together at the champions’ table. That’ll be good.”

“It’ll be exciting, won’t it? Thanks for being so understanding, Neville, I was worried how you’d react. I hope you find somebody else to take.”

“I’d forgotten about that! I admit I was hoping I wouldn’t have to ask someone else. So you always expected Krum would ask you, then?”

“Not exactly…” Briefly, Neville caught an expression of disappointment and annoyance on Hermione’s face, but she didn’t elaborate. Neville said goodbye to her, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower, wondering what he would now do. He guessed he would just have to ask one of the girls in his year, and hope they said yes. He wondered what would happen if he turned up at the ball without a date. Would it really be such a problem?

As he reached the top of the stairs on the seventh floor, lost in thought and not looking where he was going, he almost ran into Ginny Weasley going in the other direction. “Hi Neville!” she said brightly, and then noticing his worried expression added, “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” muttered Neville, about to go on, and then suddenly rare inspiration struck him. After all, Ginny was a girl, and someone he actually knew. “Hey Ginny, were you planning on staying here over Christmas?” he asked.

“Yes I was,” Ginny replied. “How come?”

“Well, you see, I don’t have a date for this Yule Ball, and I know third-years aren’t allowed to go, but they can if someone older invites them. So maybe, if you like, you and I can go to the ball together.”

Ginny stopped and looked at Neville for a moment, and Neville got the horrible feeling she was about to say no. But suddenly she burst into a smile. “Really? You mean it? Oh Neville, I would love to go to the ball with you.” She flung her arms around Neville and hugged him, a reaction which caught Neville completely by surprise. Ginny almost seemed surprised herself at her reaction, and quickly let go.

“I shall have to owl Mum so I can buy a dress,” she said excitedly, “and I’ll need to get my hair done. So much to do; it’s barely a week away. I must get started. See you later, Neville.” She dashed off happily down the stairs, a broad smile on her face. Neville watched her go, realising how much of a mystery to him Ginny Weasley always had been and still was.

* * *

“Ginny?!” exclaimed Hermione. “You asked Ginny Weasley?”

“I had to take someone, and she’s about the only other girl I know,” explained Neville. It was the evening of the last day of term and Neville had finally got hold of Hermione in the common room to tell her the news.

Hermione looked even more surprised than Neville had been when she told him about Krum. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” she said.

“Why not? What’s wrong with Ginny? Yeah, she’s only a third-year, but that’s not a problem.”

Hermione stared at Neville with a furrowed brow. “Neville, you do know that Ginny used to have a crush on you, don’t you? She may still do, for all I know.”

“What? What are you talking about?” exclaimed Neville. This was entirely news to him.

Hermione shook her head in bewilderment. “Honestly Neville, do you pay any attention to anything that goes on around you? Everyone knew Ginny had a crush on you. Didn’t you notice how odd she was around you in her first year?”

“I thought she just nervous because I was famous.”

“Yeah, but nobody else acted like that around you, did they? She had a crush on you precisely because you were famous. Every wizarding family has talked about you for years, and the Weasleys are no exception. And then you saved her life from the basilisk, which must have helped. I’m astonished you didn’t know. It was obvious to most other people.

“She’s been acting a lot more normally around you this year, so she may have got over it, but I can’t know for sure. It’s not fair to lead her on if you’re not interested. You’re not interested in her, are you?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Neville answered truthfully.

“You never really think about anything, do you Neville?” Hermione was exasperated. “Really, you can be quite hopeless sometimes. Other people besides you have lives, you know.”

Neville felt chastened. “Should I tell her I can’t take her to the ball, then?” he asked.

“No! That’s the last thing you should do. That would be even crueller. Do you understand girls at all, Neville?”

“I don’t understand people,” Neville observed sadly. “Girls are just a part of that.” He felt embarrassed and really stupid. The reason for Ginny’s behaviour had never even occurred to him. He got wrapped up in his own problems so much, he didn’t notice half what was happening around him. Even when he did, he found the behaviour of other people just another mystery to him. He wondered what other “obvious” important things he didn’t know about. “So what do I do?” he asked.

“When you’re at the ball, talk to her, listen to her, and try to get to know her for once. It’s hardly advanced Transfiguration, Neville. Just be friendly towards her. Make sure she enjoys the ball. Anything else, you’re on your own. I just hope she’s not expecting you to be someone you’re not.”

Everyone always expects me to be someone I’m not, thought Neville. It’s the story of my life. He hoped he wouldn’t embarrass Ginny. He’d never forgotten how brilliant and brave she’d been in the Chamber a year and a half ago, and she deserved to be treated better than he could usually manage. It would be a challenging evening.

“And then there’s Harry…” Hermione muttered to herself.

“What about Harry?” Neville asked.

Hermione looked up, unaware she had spoken out loud. She shook her head in the same way as she had before. “If you don’t know that either, I don’t think I’ll say anything. I’ve said enough already. We’ll worry about that one when we get to it.”

Neville felt confused and dim again. When it came down to it, did he really know anything that went on at Hogwarts? The world seemed a far more complicated place to him than it had a mere ten minutes before.

“Lavender Brown!” laughed Fred Weasley rather cruelly. “Of all the girls you could have picked �“ Lavender Brown! That girl’s head’s so full air, it’s a wonder she doesn’t float away!”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” muttered Harry rather glumly. “It was virtually Lavender or no one at all.” The Marauders were having their regular evening “staff meeting” in the Gryffindor common room. Sat a few feet away, Neville was listening in as he often liked to do. He thought they were being a bit harsh on Lavender, but he was used to the often biting humour the Marauders used amongst themselves by now. It seemed Harry and Ron had struggled even more than he had to find dates for the Yule Ball.

“It’s your own stupid fault for leaving it so late, Prongs,” said George. “I mean, term ended yesterday. No wonder there was no one left. Even Neville’s got a date, even if it is only our little sister. Er, no offence, Neville,” he added quickly, realising Neville was there.

“None taken,” replied Neville amiably. He’d been a little worried at what Fred and George might say when they found out he was taking Ginny, but their inevitable jibes had all been good natured; they didn’t seem to mind at all. Ron had so far said nothing to him; he had had concerns of his own.

“If you’re taking Lavender, which poor girl has been lumbered with Padfoot here?” asked Fred.

“Lavender’s friend Parvati Patil,” replied Harry. Ron looked no more excited at the prospect than Harry was. Fred had been dropping hints that Harry had wanted to ask somebody else, from a different house, to the ball but had been turned down, explaining why he was so late in finding someone. What Ron’s excuse was, Neville didn’t know. Perhaps he found girls as much of a mystery as Neville did.

Since his talk with Hermione three days earlier, Neville had been doing his best to take more of an active interest in the doings of people around him, but it hadn’t been easy. He was by nature a solitary person and always found it uncomfortable putting himself forward in a conversation.

He hadn’t talked to Ginny since he’d invited her to the ball, but he’d seen her sitting in the common room with her friends a couple of times. She didn’t seem to be any different than usual. Given what Hermione had said, he tried to think back over all he knew about Ginny Weasley, but only found himself more confused. If all that odd behaviour she’d shown around him in her first year (his second) had been due to a crush, then should he have known? Why did nobody say anything to him at the time?

As far as his usually unreliable memory could recall, the climatic events at the end of that year had marked the end of Ginny’s strange behaviour. At the time, Neville had not been surprised. After all, her display of bravery in facing down Riddle and the basilisk must have given her a great deal of confidence, and shown her she was braver than Neville could ever be. She had no reason to be shy anymore. But Hermione seemed to factor the incident in favour of the crush, so how could that be?

Hermione had said that Neville had saved Ginny’s life, although Neville didn’t see it that way. He’d always felt he’d failed in the Chamber, and it had been a blow to his confidence from which he’d not really recovered until the night of the Patronus back in June. But, it now occurred to him, maybe Ginny didn’t see it that way. After all, everyone else had had nothing but praise for his killing of the basilisk, even Dumbledore. They all thought he truly had been a hero. But Ginny was there. Didn’t she know?

His mind turned to Hermione’s “and then there’s Harry” comment. What had she meant by that? From his observations it seemed to him that Harry barely acknowledged Ginny most of the time, and hardly seemed to notice her, considering how much time he spent around her brothers. No matter how he thought about it, the whole riddle only puzzled him all more.

“Oi, Neville. Neville?” A voice broke Neville out of his reverie. It was Harry himself, trying to get his attention.

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

“I could see that. We were just discussing who Hermione’s mystery date is. Can’t you give us a hint?”

“Sorry, I’m sworn to secrecy,” Neville answered with a smile.

“Probably no one, and she just doesn’t want to admit it,” was Ron’s quickly voiced opinion. Neville wondered what Ron’s reaction would be when he found out.

* * *

The week between the end of term and the Yule Ball on Christmas Day saw much activity, preparation and excitement. As if on cue, snow had begun to fall, covering the castle and grounds in a thick, white blanket. Neville idly wondered if the atmosphere around Hogwarts was bewitched to ensure snow every Christmas. He certainly didn’t remember it snowing very often in Huddlesby at Christmas when he was younger.

Whilst everyone else played outside in the snow, Neville spent a lot of time in his dormitory, trying to work out how to dance. He was far too embarrassed to ask anyone else to practise with him, so he had taken to using Harry’s broomstick as a stand-in partner. It didn’t really help; he kept tripping up over the brush, but he knew come the ball as a champion he had to open the dancing and he was terrified of making a complete fool of himself. He hoped Ginny at least would know what she was doing.

He did at last manage to talk with Ginny a couple of times during the week, but they discussed nothing more than how they were looking forward to the ball and what they were hoping to get for Christmas. Trying to take Hermione’s advice, Neville did his best to listen to Ginny and take an interest in what she had to say, but he couldn’t see anything unusual or out of the ordinary about their conversations. He was beginning to suspect that Hermione was worrying over nothing.

Christmas morning when it came dawned bright and cold. Ron unsurprisingly was the first one awake in their dormitory and wasted no time in waking the rest. They all opened their presents quickly. Gran, obviously deciding that Neville would be too cold staying at Hogwarts over the winter break, had sent him a whole set of woollen winter wear. Sirius had got Harry some new Quidditch robes. Dean’s uncle had sent him a new football which, as none of the rest of them knew what it was, they proceeded to toss around the room like a Quaffle, causing havoc until Seamus fell over and nearly crushed Trevor’s box with the poor toad still inside. They then decided it was best to wait until they could get outside.

It had stopped snowing the day before, but the heavy snow showed no signs of melting quite yet. Neville joined the rest of the boys playing on the grounds, building snowmen, having snowball duels and hopelessly trying to learn the rules of football from Dean (it didn’t help that the ball kept getting lost in the snow). For Neville, who was used to stuffy, dull family gatherings at Christmas, it was the most fun Christmas he’d ever had.

As the evening drew in, everyone began to get more and more excited or, if they were Neville, more and more nervous. In the dormitory, he had pulled out the navy blue dress robes Gran had sent him and was awkwardly putting them on. They seemed a bit short for him, and he supposed he had finally started growing upwards for once, instead of just sideways. Indeed, the rigours of the Triwizard Tournament seemed to have slimmed him down a bit, although he could still stand to lose a fair bit more weight.

Harry walked past him and patted him on the back. “Very smart, Neville,” he said.

“It itches,” replied Neville, scratching his neck. “I don’t see what’s so special about dress robes. I prefer my normal clothes.”

Harry smiled. “See you in the Great Hall, Neville,” he said, and left. Neville tugged at his collar, shrugged and decided to leave as well. Before going, he slipped his Remembrall into an inside pocket; he never went anywhere without it.

He passed Ron, who was wearing a quite hideous outfit, all frilly and threadbare. “Don’t ask,” said Ron gloomily. “Here Neville, mind you take care of my sister, all right? I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Er, sure,” said Neville, not sure if Ron was being friendly or warning him. “See you later.”

The Gryffindor common room was thronged with stylishly dressed boys and girls, meeting their dates or passing through on their way down to the Entrance Hall. Neville cast around and spotted Ginny sitting quietly in front of the fireplace. She was wearing striking scarlet dress robes which, combined with her long flame-red hair, made for quite an eye-catching look. She smiled as she saw him approach and stood up to greet him. “Nice robes,” she said. “The colour suits you.”

“Same to you,” replied Neville. She had obviously put a lot of effort into getting ready for the evening and Neville wondered if he should say anything. “I like your hair,” he settled on at last. It sounded really dumb and he regretted it as soon as he’d said it.

“Thank you,” was all Ginny said in reply. She took his arm and together they made their way out of the common room and down the staircase to the Entrance Hall. Coming down the broad stone staircase was hardly inconspicuous and several heads turned to look up at them as they arrived. “Are they staring at us?” Ginny whispered to Neville.

“Don’t worry, I get that a lot,” said Neville, though privately he suspected that most of the boys were not looking at him. Now he finally thought about it, he had to admit Ginny was attractive. She certainly stood out in a crowd.

The Entrance Hall and the grounds immediately outside the main doors had been lavishly decorated, and the guests were beginning to flood in, Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students all together. A sour-faced Severus Snape, still wearing his typical black robes, was stalking through the crowds, ostensibly maintaining discipline and glaring at anyone who even remotely looked like they were having a good time. “I bet he hasn’t got a date,” said Ginny, indicating the lank-haired Potions master.

“Hey, Neville!” called a deep voice from close by. Neville turned, and was surprised to see who it was: none other than Sirius Black, looking debonair and smiling broadly.

Neville and Ginny walked over. “Hello Sirius, I didn’t expect to see you here,” said Neville.

“I’m Professor Burbage’s ‘plus one’,” Sirius explained, nodding towards the Muggle Studies teacher who was talking with Professor Flitwick a few feet away. “Quite an occasion, isn’t it? I wish there had been one in my time. I’m glad I caught you, Neville. I have something for you.” He reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out a small, stiff envelope. “A, er, friend wanted you have this.”

Neville took the envelope and opened it. There was a card inside, which at first glance appeared to be blank, but as he ran his fingers over it, a picture emerged of a smiling man standing in front of a Christmas tree and next to an enormous grey hippogriff. The inscription inside read simply “Thank you. Merry Christmas.”

Neville quickly put the card away in case anyone was looking. He felt a bit guilty; he had almost forgotten about Remus Lupin in all his troubles. “He looks well,” he told Sirius.

“He is,” Sirius replied simply, and left them to join Professor Burbage on her way into the hall. Neville thought about that summer night six months earlier when so many lives had turned upside down, including his own. It seemed almost half a lifetime ago now.

“What was all that about?” Ginny asked, confused.

“Oh, nothing,” Neville replied. “I think Professor McGonagall wants to talk to us.”

McGonagall, it turned out, was in charge of looking after and directing the champions prior to the start of the ball. She had already gathered together Fleur Delacour, whose date Neville saw was Roger Davies, captain of Ravenclaw’s Quidditch team, and Cedric Diggory, who was with an Asian girl Neville didn’t recognise. “We’re just waiting for Mr Krum,” said McGonagall. Everyone else was making their way into the Great Hall. Eventually, Krum arrived, leading Hermione in through the main doors from the grounds.

It took a moment for Neville to register that it was in fact Hermione, for she had undergone a remarkable transformation. Her usually bushy hair had been straightened and as she walked she seemed taller and more confident. She gave Ginny a hug and they whispered something to each other. Krum merely nodded politely to Neville but, for the first time, Neville noticed a flicker of a smile on his normally taciturn face.

When the time came, McGonagall lined up the four champions and their partners and together they processed into the hall, to loud applause from the assembled students. Neville looked around to see Harry and Ron’s reactions to seeing Hermione. He finally located them sitting together with the other Marauders. Harry’s expression was one of surprised amusement but, to Neville’s surprise, Ron looked furiously angry.

The champions were seated at the top table, along with the three headmasters and the other judges. Ludo Bagman was grinning broadly, Bartemius Crouch was more sullen and subdued. Dumbledore wasted no time in getting the feast started. Everybody talked animatedly as they ate. “Excellent show, Albus,” Preminin was saying in between mouthfuls of well-done steak. “Ven the Tournament comes to Durmstrang, ve shall be hard pressed to match vot you have done here.”

“Oh, I’m sure Durmstrang has many charms of its own that we cannot hope to match, Alexander,” Dumbledore replied modestly. Further down the table, Hermione and Krum began a conversation over the relative merits of the two schools. Neville turned to talk to Ginny.

He realised he’d never had that many real conversations with her and, as they chatted, he found she was fun to talk with. Neville, whose only female friend was Hermione, discovered he could talk with Ginny much more on his own level, whereas the erudite Hermione would often leave him well behind. They discussed the pressures of schoolwork, their home lives and their other friends.

Neville glanced over at the table where the Marauders were sitting. “I don’t think Harry’s having a good time,” he observed. Harry was sitting next to Lavender, who talking and giggling loudly, waving her arms about theatrically. Few were taking any notice of her, and Harry, head down, looked glum.

“Serves him right,” said Ginny firmly. “He should be miserable.” Harry gave a brief wistful look up to the top table, but not to where Neville and Ginny were sitting.

“What do you mean by that?” Neville asked, but before Ginny could reply, Dumbledore rose to his feet and asked everybody to stand. The meal was over, and it was time for the part of the evening Neville had dreaded the most: the first dance. “Can you dance?” he whispered to Ginny.

“Not really,” answered Ginny, as Dumbledore swept the tables aside and introduced the band. “I’m sure we’ll manage somehow.” Nervously, Neville walked out with Ginny and the other three couples on to the dance floor. He could feel hundreds of eyes staring at him as he awkwardly took hold of Ginny. “Not so tight, Neville,” said Ginny. The music started up and they began to dance.

It was quickly obvious to Neville that dancing with a broomstick bore no relation to dancing with a real human being. It was terrible, and it was all he could do to keep from falling over and not tread too many times on Ginny’s toes. There wasn’t really any actual dancing going on. He kept his head down, not daring to look up for fear of seeing everybody laughing at him. When others joined the dancing, he tried to hide in the middle as much as possible and as soon as the song ended, he rushed to sit down at the side of the room.

Ginny sat down next to him. “That was so embarrassing,” Neville moaned. “I’m sorry, Ginny.”

“Don’t be,” Ginny said sympathetically. “Nobody cared. They don’t expect you to waltz across the floor or anything. Half of them a just as bad. So dancing isn’t your thing. Gives us more chance to chat.”

They continued talking happily as the music played and everyone was dancing. Later they were joined by Hermione and Krum. Hermione was having a fantastic time, and Neville discovered that Krum could be quite amiable when he allowed himself to relax for once. He even complimented Neville on his performance in the First Task, which Neville thought was extremely generous of him.

He glanced up to see that the Marauders were out on the dance floor with their partners. Lavender was dancing wildly and Harry was just doing his best not to get flattened by her. Neville noticed that Ron was staring in their direction with a vicious look.

A few minutes later, Harry and Ron, together with Lavender and Parvati, broke away from the dancing and headed over to Neville’s group. Lavender was trying to drag Harry by the hand back on to the dance floor. “Come on Harry, just one more dance,” she was saying.

“If you want keep dancing, I’m not stopping you,” said Harry curtly.

“Fine, I will,” said Lavender, and stormed off.

“Thank God for that,” muttered Harry and sat down next to Neville.

“That wasn’t very polite,” said Ginny.

“She was starting to get on my nerves,” Harry replied. Ginny rolled her eyes and shook her head as if to say “typical”. Harry fell silent, staring out across the hall. Ron was also oddly silent, at least until Headmaster Preminin came over and ushered away Krum, keen to show off his star pupil to some of the other guests.

“Good riddance,” he said, just loud enough to make sure everyone in the group heard him. “What a miserable git.”

“I beg your pardon?” exclaimed Hermione.

“You heard me. He’s an arrogant, surly, stuck-up git. I don’t know why you’d want to be anywhere near him.”

“Don’t you dare talk about Viktor like that!” said Hermione angrily. “He’s perfectly charming, and if you’re too pathetic to see it, that’s your problem. I thought he was your hero, anyway?”

“Yeah, well, that was before I met him,” snapped Ron. He had his arms folded and was slumped in his chair, glowering at everything.

Parvati pulled at his shoulder to get his attention. “Are we going to dance again, or are you just going to sit here and argue all night?” she asked. Ron didn’t reply, but his expression clearly indicated he had chosen the second option. Seeing that, Parvati got up and went to find her sister Padma on the other side of the hall, leaving just the five of them behind.

Ron paid no attention to her leaving. “Anyway,” he continued, “he’s way too old for you. You want to watch it around guys like him.”

“He’s seventeen, Ron,” retorted Hermione. “I’m fifteen now; he’s only two years older than me. You’re just being stupid.”

“I am not! Harry, back me up here, isn’t he too old. Harry?”

Harry, startled to here his name, turned around. “What? What did you say?”

“He’s not listening to you, Ron,” put in Ginny. “He’s too busy staring at Cho Chang over there.” Ginny nodded in the direction of the Asian girl dancing with Cedric Diggory.

Harry reacted defensively. “I am not!”

“Oh, come on Harry. It’s all you’ve done the entire evening. Moping around the whole time, just because she picked Cedric over you. Everyone can see it.”

Harry was stung by the criticism, but seemed even more surprised that it was coming from Ginny. “I haven’t been moping. Besides, it wasn’t that she picked him over me, it was just that he asked first.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, you might just believe it.”

“Look,” said Harry, facing Ginny directly for the first time, “what’s your problem?”

“Oh, so you have noticed I’m here,” exclaimed Ginny. “What’s my problem? I’m not the one feeling sorry for myself because I was too lazy to get myself a date. I’m not the one who pays no attention to anyone around them. I’m not…”

“Hey, steady on, Ginny, that’s not fair,” interrupted Ron. The atmosphere was beginning to get heated.

“Oh sure, take his side Ron, like you always do,” retorted Ginny. “You know Hermione, you’re right. Boys are all the same. They’re so wrapped up in their own lives, they haven’t the slightest clue about what anybody else is feeling. It’s pathetic.”

“Are you calling me pathetic?” yelled Ron.

All of a sudden, heads were beginning to turn in their direction. What had begun as a short spat between Ron and Hermione had now descended into a full-blown four-way blazing row. Neville slunk down in his seat between the warring parties, feeling as embarrassed as had on the dance floor, as Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny continued to argue loudly, heedless of the attention they were now getting.

At long last, all of them having seemingly exhausted their lungs, Ginny got up and made to storm off. Hermione stood up to join her, but couldn’t resist getting in the last word. “The next time there’s a ball, maybe you’ll both remember to think about somebody other than yourselves for once.” She then turned, and together with Ginny stormed out of the hall.

Harry and Ron watched them go in bewilderment. They looked at each other. “Girls,” they said in unison, and shrugged.

Neville, who finally felt he understood at last, waited a moment before getting up himself and following after the girls. He found them out in the Entrance Hall, sitting on the bottom step of the main staircase. Hermione had her arm around Ginny, who was composed, but looked like she might have been crying. Hermione was still seething with anger. Neville went over to them. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Ginny nodded. “I’ll be fine. Things just got a bit out of hand back there. I’m sorry if I spoilt your evening, Neville.”

“Nonsense,” Neville replied. “I think we had a good time, didn’t we?”

Ginny gave a slight smile. “I think we did. Listen, I’m going to take off. You stay and enjoy the rest of the ball. I’ll see you tomorrow, all right? Good night, Neville. Bye, Hermione.”

Ginny turned and headed off up the stone staircase. Neville watched her go, before turning to Hermione. “So, Ginny and Harry, eh? I think I understand what you meant now.”

“She’ll get over it eventually,” replied Hermione. “It would help if Harry wasn’t so clueless. You know, after all that warning I gave you, you were great tonight. It was the rest of us that were the trouble. Come on, let’s go find somewhere in the hall away from those boys.”

Neville followed Hermione back into the ball. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t think it would be appropriate to do so, but felt he had learnt something not just about Ginny and Harry in the last few minutes, but about Hermione and Ron as well.

The frosty atmosphere in certain areas of the Gryffindor common room in the days after Christmas had little to do with the cold temperature outside. Ron spent most of his time sulking in a corner and being generally rude and miserable. Hermione was barely in the common room at all, spending most of her time with Krum and taking the opportunity to avoid Ron as much as possible. Harry was walking about with a confused expression on his face, as if he knew he was partly responsible for the situation but had no idea why.

The only friendship that was in any way flourishing at this time was that between Ginny and Neville. Having found that they got on so well at the Yule Ball, they spent a lot more time in each other’s company. Ginny found that Neville was a good ear she could use to moan about life in general and her brothers in particular, and Neville was always grateful for any new friend that came his way.

Like his friendship with Hermione, Neville’s friendship with Ginny was a bit lopsided, in that she did most of the talking, although with Ginny he could at least make useful contributions to the conversation. Nonetheless, he found it a very rewarding friendship. He learned a lot more from Ginny about the social life of the castle and the complex alliances and rivalries of teenage interaction. Neville did notice however that while she mentioned the Marauders a lot, usually disparagingly, she almost never mentioned Harry individually. Yet her eyes would invariably turn when Harry entered the room.

New Year’s came and went, and the school term approached once more. For Neville, that meant not only a return to the drudgery of schoolwork, but the beginning again of Triwizard Tournament preparation sessions. In a strange way, he was looking forward to them for though he dreaded the impending Second Task, set for late February, Mad-Eye Moody and Sirius Black were two of his favourite adults and he would enjoy meeting up with them again.

The first meeting was scheduled for the first Tuesday of term and Neville was full of eager anticipation throughout his Monday and Tuesday lessons. He realised that unlike Transfiguration or History of Magic, where he spent almost all of his time bored or bewildered, Moody was actually teaching him practical magic which he could use, and which was not completely beyond his capabilities.

At eight o’clock on Tuesday evening, hidden under Harry’s invisibility cloak and carrying the golden egg he won in the First Task, he knocked on the door to Moody’s office. “Enter,” came Moody’s gruff voice from inside. Slipping off the cloak, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. He was warmly welcomed by Sirius, who was already there. “Sit down,” said Moody in business-like manner. “Pass me the egg.”

Moody took the golden egg, set it on his desk and, his wand at the ready, opened the clasp at the top. The egg sprang open, releasing the hideous screeching sound within. Neville and Sirius immediately clasped their hands to their ears, but Moody did not. Seemingly oblivious to the noise, he tapped at the egg with his wand, muttered something under his breath and examined the egg’s interior. Eventually he shut up the egg and the others could release their hands. “Blimey, how can you stand that, Mad-Eye?” asked Sirius.

“I’ve been in war,” answered Moody darkly. “I’ve heard worse.” There was a brief silence. “I think I recognise the charm,” Moody continued at last. He walked over to a wooden barrel standing in the corner of the room. “Help me with this, would you Black?” Together Sirius and Moody dragged the heavy barrel into the middle of the room.

“What on earth do you keep in here, Mad-Eye?” said Sirius.

“Just water,” Moody replied. “Never drink anybody’s drink but my own. This is my personal supply, kept magically sealed so nobody but me can get at it.” Sirius shook his head at Moody’s paranoia as Moody pointed his wand at the barrel and the top came loose. He removed it, took the egg and plunged it into the barrel. As he opened the egg once more, Neville prepared to cover his ears, but instead a sound like music floated up from the barrel. “Neville,” said Moody, “stick your head in the barrel and tell me what you hear.”

If it had been anybody else but Moody telling him to do that, Neville would have questioned it vociferously. Instead, he simply stepped forward, took a deep breath and plunged his head into the water. To his astonishment, the sound that greeted his ears from the egg was beautiful. A musical voice sang:

Come seek us where our voices sound,
We cannot sing above the ground.
An hour long you'll have to look
And to recover what we took.

Neville pulled his head up, gasping for air. Moody transfigured a roll of parchment on his desk into a towel and handed it to him. As he dried himself off he recounted what he’d heard. Moody pondered for a few seconds, before asking, “So Neville, what do you think it means?”

It was blatantly obvious that Moody had already figured it out; he was just doing the usual teacher’s trick of testing Neville. “Something that can only sing underwater �“ merpeople?” he suggested.

“Excellent, Neville. Merpeople’s voices can only be heard properly through water. So tell me, can you swim?”

“Yes, quite well,” replied Neville. Normally ungainly on land, he had found himself quite comfortable in water on the opportunities he’d had to swim when he was younger. “But wait, are you suggesting what I think?”

“The verse is very clear. I don’t know if you’re aware, Neville, but there is a village of merpeople in the lake outside. Clearly the task involves recovering something from that village, and it is expected that this will require up to an hour of underwater swimming.” Moody scratched what remained of his nose, considering the situation. “Well, the standard method of providing breathable air is the Bubble-Head Charm. But creating one that will be stable for up to an hour is a difficult undertaking and will require a lot of work. In addition to that, we’ll need to work on your fitness and I’ll have to coach you in dealing with merpeople. There’s a lot to be getting on with, so let’s get started.”

They spent the meeting dealing with the basics of the Bubble-Head Charm, which Neville found extremely complex and difficult to grasp, and had little time to do anything else. Afterwards, Moody said to Neville, “Don’t worry, plenty of time to go yet. I want you to do up to half an hour’s running each day, after lessons. It’ll help you get more in shape. I remember your father used to swear by it to keep himself fit. Make sure that cloak’s covering you all the way back up to your common room. Constant vigilance.” Neville left, not entirely thrilled with the prospect of exercise work, and with the nagging feeling that there was something that would be useful for this task that he couldn’t quite remember.

* * *

Three days later, and Neville’s fears over exercise had been most definitely realised. He leant panting against the stone wall of the castle by the great front doors, feeling dizzy and a little nauseous. He’d chosen to do his runs from the Entrance Hall down to Hagrid’s and back, which seemed like a reasonable distance. Unfortunately it meant that the return leg was mostly uphill, climbing up to the cliff above the lake on which Hogwarts was placed. It meant that each time as he approached the castle he was so tired as to slow to almost a crawl. The day before a group of Slytherins had been at the entrance to “welcome” him with mock cheers. He wished he wasn’t so weak.

Staggering into the Entrance Hall, he was surprised to find this time not Slytherins but Ginny there waiting for him. “Hi Neville,” said Ron. “I was just on my way up to the library and I saw you struggling up the hill, so I thought I’d wait and see how you were getting on. You look awful.”

“Thanks a lot,” replied Neville, blinking to clear the spots from his eyes. “I’m parched. I really need a drink. I’m going straight up to Gryffindor Tower.” He headed for the staircase, but on reaching it stared up at the long line of stone steps and promptly sat down on the bottom one. “I’ll wait,” he said. “I don’t think I’m quite ready to tackle that climb yet.”

Ginny had a thought. “You don’t have to. Follow me, I’ll show you something.” She led Neville through the door to his right and down the steps that led towards the Hufflepuff common room. Neville followed her a short way along a corridor until she stopped in front of a rather dull-looking painting of some fruit. “Watch this,” she confided, reaching up and stroking a pear in the portrait with her index finger. “I’ve seen my brothers doing this when they were out on one of their pranks.” Suddenly there was a sound like a little giggle and the pear transformed into a door handle. Ginny pulled on the handle and the portrait swung back. “Come in,” she said.

The sight that greeted Neville as he stepped through the doorway revealed behind the painting was not one he had been prepared for. He was standing in a vast, cavernous room, as big as the Great Hall. Long tables stretched down its length, piled with food and cooking equipment, whilst against the walls were stacked all manner of pots, pans and other paraphernalia. But most astonishing was that the room was thronged with dozens and dozens of house-elves, all busy as beavers preparing and cooking mountains of food. “We’re in the kitchens,” said Neville unnecessarily, open-mouthed.

Several of the house-elves closest to them noticed them and approached. Neville thought they were going to shoo them off, but instead they crowded around, and one spoke, saying, “Yes sir, miss, how may we be helping you? We have some excellent roast chicken if you are interested.”

“My friend is thirsty and would just like a drink,” explained Ginny.

“Right away miss, right away,” said the house-elf chirpily and dashed off, returning only seconds later with too huge tankards of pumpkin juice which he presented to Ginny and Neville.

“Er, thank you,” said Neville gratefully.

“Gratitude is unnecessary, sir; a house-elf’s work is its own reward,” replied the elf. “You are the great Neville Longbottom, are you not, sir? We house-elves are greatly honoured to have you in our kitchen, sir. Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else?”

“No thank you,” said Neville, with an embarrassed smile. He and Ginny sat on a couple of upturned saucepans and drank their pumpkin juice, keeping out of the house-elves’ way. “I never even knew we had house-elves working the kitchens,” Neville whispered to Ginny. “I mean, the food just appears at meals, you know.”

“Food can’t be conjured out of thin air, Neville,” replied Ginny. “Hasn’t McGonagall taught you that?”

“Probably on a day I wasn’t paying attention. That happens a lot in Transfiguration.” Neville looked around the kitchen. “They seem to be happy,” he observed.

“All except that one,” pointing the far side of the hall. “The rest of them seem to be giving him a wide berth for some reason.” Neville looked where Ginny was indicating. There indeed was an isolated elf, busy working by himself without any help. He had longer, slightly more pointed ears than most elves, but the one unique thing around him was that, aside from the dirty rag he wore, he had a single shoe hanging from around his neck like an oversize necklace, tied in place by its shoelaces.

Neville leapt to his feet in astonishment. “Dobby!” he exclaimed. So loud was Neville’s cry that the elf, who had not noticed the two interlopers until now, turned and gave a little cry of surprise. Neville ran over and embraced Dobby in a huge hug, which led to disapproving looks from the other elves. “Dobby, this is a surprise! What are you doing here?”

“Dobby works here now. Since Neville Longbottom freed Dobby, Dobby has found it hard to get work, sir. Wizards do not want to pay a free elf. But Professor Dumbledore has kindly agreed to employ Dobby, sir.”

“It’s not right, masters paying elves,” muttered a nearby elf.

“Dobby is not popular with the other elves,” Dobby acknowledged, “but Dobby does not mind, sir. Dobby is most grateful to be free.”

Ginny came over and Neville introduced her. “This is the famous Dobby?” said Ginny. “Our family owes you a great deal, I understand. But why do you have a shoe tied around your neck?”

“Is that my old shoe?” asked Neville.

“Yes, the very same with which you freed Dobby, sir. It is the mark of Dobby’s freedom and Dobby wears it with pride. Dobby is sorry he had to shrink it a little, sir, it was a little too heavy around his neck.”

Neville smiled. “If I’d have known, you could have had the other one and worn them properly. In fact, I think I’ve still got the other one in my trunk; you can have it if you like.”

Dobby’s face brightened into an expression of delight. “Neville Longbottom is very generous, sir. Dobby is not worthy of such honours.”

“Dobby is more than worthy,” Neville countered. He’d always been uncomfortable with house-elf deference, something he knew he shared with Hermione, and especially when it came from Dobby, whom Neville greatly admired. “I’ll come find you tomorrow and bring you the shoe, okay?”

So it was that the next day, Saturday, saw one of the stranger sights ever seen on the Hogwarts grounds, a place not unaccustomed to the unusual. Back and forth across the grounds was jogging a short, slightly podgy boy with a scar on his forehead and happily running alongside him was a house-elf proudly wearing a pair of brightly polished black shoes. Neither was particularly fast or strong, but they talked cheerfully to each other as they ran, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

Dobby had insisted on joining Neville on his run and taking the opportunity to help him in any way he could. Neville was very fond of Dobby, and he was delighted to see how much happier the elf was than when he was under the thumb of the Malfoys. Dobby for his part still idolised Neville. It was the oddest of friendships, but it gave Neville a brief chance to escape from his worries and be reminded of happier times.

As they reached Hogwarts once more, Neville remarked, “That’s impressive work to get those shoes to fit so well, Dobby. How do you shrink them so effectively?”

“House-elf magic is different to wizard magic, Neville Longbottom,” replied Dobby. “Wizards are often surprised at what we can do.”

“I’ll say,” said Neville, remembering the time Dobby had sent Lucius Malfoy flying half-way across the very Entrance Hall in which they were standing. “Well, goodbye Dobby. Thank you for coming with me. See you again soon.”

“Goodbye, Neville Longbottom,” said Dobby. He snapped his fingers and vanished with a loud “crack”. Neville headed up the staircase to Gryffindor Tower. On the way he ran into Hermione, who was coming from the library.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Out for my run,” Neville explained.

“You’ve only just come back? You left ages ago. I know you’ve got to train, Neville, but you can’t neglect your schoolwork. You do know we’ve got a Herbology essay due for Monday, don’t you?”

“Oh, so we have.” Then all of sudden, Neville’s slow memory was jolted, prompted by Hermione’s remark. “Herbology! That’s it, that’s what I’ve been trying to remember.”

“What about Herbology?” asked a puzzled Hermione, but Neville had already gone, rushing up the stairs as if granted a new burst of energy. He dashed into the Gryffindor common room and on up to his room, pulled out his well-thumbed Herbology books and pored over them, looking for the reference he needed. Herbology was his favourite subject, the one he loved the most, and it looked like it could finally be useful to him.

Eventually, he found what he was looking for. It was perfect. He knew exactly what he needed to complete the Second Task without having to learn new magic and, thanks to his friendship with Dobby, he knew exactly how to get it.

“Gillyweed?” said Moody, when Neville explained his discovery at their next training session. “Very impressive, Neville; it’s not something that had occurred to me. Professor Sprout has been known to comment on your talent for Herbology at staff meetings. I can see what she meant. The trouble remains how to procure some. It is not a native plant to this country. No doubt Snape keeps a supply in his stores, but it would raise too many questions if I simply asked him for it, even if I could stomach asking him for anything.”

“Don’t worry sir, I have a plan,” replied Neville. “I have, er, a friend who will definitely be able to get it from Snape’s stores without alerting anyone. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Excellent,” said Moody. “With this issue dealt with, it frees up plenty of time to deal with other problems you might encounter. The only truly dangerous creature in the lake is the Grindylow. Vicious creatures, fortunately there are several jinxes which might serve to repel them. Let’s begin. Wand out.”

Neville took out his wand, but before Moody could introduce the first spell, interrupted to ask, “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking, what exactly is it between you and Professor Snape? Is it some kind of rivalry,” Neville glanced over at Sirius, “or is it more serious than that?”

Moody looked grave. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Neville. But suffice to say it is more serious, far more serious, and Severus Snape is not someone worthy of trust under any circumstances. Nor should he be teaching at this school.”

“Dumbledore seems to trust him,” Neville pointed out.

“Dumbledore has his faults, same as anyone else. I only hope this one does not come back to haunt him. I have made my views clear to him on the matter, but if he chooses not to listen, there is nothing I can do. That’s all I will say on the matter.” Neville did not press the issue any further.

Over the course of that lesson, and the next several, Neville learned a number of new spells and was reacquainted with some old ones. Using Sirius once more as a duelling partner, Neville practised Relashio, Impedimenta and Petrificus Totalus amongst others, but perhaps the most important new spell Moody taught him was the all-purpose Stunning spell, Stupefy. Neville had seen the spell used before, but had never learnt to use it himself, and Moody regarded the spell as essential to any wizard’s basic repertoire.

“Stupefy is the most fundamental and most effective of all combat spells,” explained Moody. “It’s relatively simple once mastered, easy to use and versatile. Unfortunately it is relatively easy to counter, but that will not be an issue here. The key to the spell is a strong wand arm and a good aim.”

It took Neville five sessions of intensive practise before he could finally produce the spell, but once he had, he felt very comfortable using it. There was something about it that felt very comfortable to him, compared to many other supposedly simpler spells he had struggled with before. He remarked on this to Moody, who nodded his head and told him, “I am not surprised. Your father was an avid exponent of the Stunning spell. In fact, it was sometimes all I could do to get him to use something else occasionally. It’s not a good idea to get too fixated on one spell, no matter how good you are at it.”

With training sessions and fitness work taking up much of his time and thought, Neville’s schoolwork again suffered in the run-up to the Second Task and he was once more paying little attention outside of his favourite subjects: Herbology, Muggle Studies and Moody’s Defence Against the Dark Arts class. In Potions, rather concentrating on the concoction in front of him, he found himself studying Snape, trying to work out the root of Moody’s particular paranoia towards him. But Snape was just his usual stern, impassive self, except that Neville did notice he had developed a habit of absently scratching his left forearm at times.

Away from the classroom, Hermione was spending more time with Krum or, it being February and Hermione being Hermione, already worrying about the end-of-year exams in June. The Marauders were busy making mayhem by themselves, so Neville was increasingly spending his time with Ginny. As they became closer friends, Neville was beginning to see more of her usual energetic, outspoken, popular personality. The fun times they had together helped take Neville’s mind off the approaching Second Task.

Two weeks out from the Task, Neville had been feeling confident, but as each day ticked by, he began to get increasingly nervous. Whilst this challenge did not seem so terrifying as facing the dragon, he had started to imagine all the ways it could go wrong. What if the Gillyweed didn’t work, or didn’t last long enough? What if he became trapped by the Grindylows or some other creature? It increasingly fell to Ginny to calm Neville’s anxiety.

When the day of the Task finally came, Neville awoke early to a crisp, clear morning. Dressing and making his way down to the common room, he found the Marauders there waiting for him. “Hail to our Champion!” they cried, and Fred threw a tiny firework into the air which burst and showered golden sparks down on Neville.

“Er, thanks, guys,” said Neville, a little embarrassed. “Have you seen Ginny and Hermione?”

“Sorry, no,” replied Harry. “I expect they’ve already gone down to breakfast. Let’s go.”

But neither Hermione nor Ginny were in the Great Hall for breakfast and nobody had seen them that morning. After breakfast, Neville took a detour from the Entrance Hall down to the portrait which concealed the entrance to the kitchens. After a short while waiting there, Dobby appeared in front of him. “I have it, Neville Longbottom,” he said, opening his palm to reveal a wad of slimy grey-green plant tendrils.

“Thank you, Dobby,” said Neville, taking the Gillyweed and putting it in his pocket. “Did you have any trouble?”

“No trouble. Dobby was in and out very quickly.”

Neville reached into his other pocket and pulled out a pair of red thick woollen socks. “These are for you,” he explained. “You need a pair of socks to go with those shoes or you’ll hurt your feet.”

Dobby took the socks reverently. “Dobby is most honoured. Good luck, Neville Longbottom.” Dobby bowed, and vanished. Neville once again reflected on the remarkable abilities of house-elves, for which he was most grateful.

The north-west shore of the lake was already crowded with people when Neville arrived. A couple of temporary stands had been set up for spectators although, Neville thought, there was hardly going to be much to see. The Marauders had erected a banner proclaiming “Go Neville!” Sirius was with them and they all cheered as they saw Neville arrive. Moody was sitting quietly in a corner, his magical eye carefully surveying the scene. A mixture of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students made up the crowd, each giving vocal support to their own champion. There was still no sign of Ginny or Hermione.

A shrill voice from just behind him cried out, “There you are, Neville! I was beginning to worry you would be late.” Neville turned to find himself confronted by none other than his Gran. Although Neville knew she was coming, he was still startled by her sudden appearance. She looked him up and down sternly. “Your hair’s a mess. Did you comb it this morning?”

“It’ll be soaked through with lake water in a minute, Gran,” Neville pointed out.

“Don’t talk back, Neville. Well, it seems that teaching you to swim wasn’t an entirely wasted activity. Are you prepared? Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Yes, Gran,” Neville replied. Before Gran could say anything further, Bartemius Crouch called over to Neville to take his position with the other champions. Neville was lined up on the shoreline with Viktor, Fleur and Cedric in front of the special seats set aside for the five judges. Neville noticed with a smile that Dumbledore had transfigured his seat into a plush armchair and was relaxing with a contented look on his face.

Crouch took his seat while Ludo Bagman rose to introduce the task. “Last night, something of great value was taken from each of our champions, and is now being guarded by the merpeople at the bottom of this lake,” he explained. “Our champions have one hour to find and retrieve this item and return safely to the shore. Points will be awarded for speed in completing the task as well as inventive and effective use of magic.” He looked at his watch and paused for a moment, before announcing, “Champions, your time starts now.”

The four students waded out into the shallows of the lake. It was horribly cold. As the water reached Neville’s waist, he pulled the Gillyweed out of his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. It tasted foul and he swallowed it as quickly as possible before diving beneath the surface.

The lake deepened rapidly away from the shore and Neville found himself sinking rapidly in the cold water. At first, nothing seemed to happen and he quickly found himself desperate for air and scrabbling to return to the surface. Then suddenly there was a tingling on either side of his neck like a developing rash. He put his hand to his neck and felt the gills growing there. Within seconds, cool much-needed air was flooding into his lungs and he began to relax.

But the Gillyweed had not yet finished. Webs were growing between his fingers and toes, and his feet were becoming like flippers. He kicked forward with his legs and found that he was propelled forward with impressive speed. Swimming seemed almost effortless as he glided through the water. It was an exhilarating sensation.

He muttered, “Lumos,” to light his wand and dove down deeper and deeper to where the sunlight from above struggled to reach. Moody had advised him to keep as close as possible to the lake’s bottom to help navigation; the merpeople’s village was at the deepest point of the lake and all Neville had to do to reach it was to ensure that he kept travelling downhill.

Curiously, the further he dived, the warmer the water seemed to get, or else his body was becoming acclimatised to the cold. The bottom of the lake was thick with weeds and the light from Neville’s wand did not cut far into the darkness. Keeping as clear from the weeds as he could, he set off cautiously, keeping a close watch out for Grindylows.

He did not have long to wait. He heard a slight hiss behind him and, swinging round his wand, lit up a green creature with long fingers bearing down on him. Neville’s first Stunning spell missed, and caused his mouth to fill with water, making him instinctively gag until he realised he was unharmed. His second Stunner struck the Grindylow in its flank, and it disappeared out of view. Neville breathed a sigh of relief through his gills.

But the red flash of the spell had only served to attract further Grindylows, and before he knew it, a whole shoal of them was bearing down on him. Neville kicked forward, swimming as hard as he could, but the Grindylows pursued him, snapping at his heels. Neville’s attempts to blast them away seemed ineffective and, in desperation, he dived down into the thick weeds, hoping they would not follow him.

The weeds tangled themselves around him and it became impossible to move at more than crawling pace through them, but the Grindylows did not follow. Neville briefly extinguished his wand, hoping they would lose interest and swim away. He waited for as long as he dared before emerging and relighting his wand. To his relief, the Grindylows seemed to have gone. Not wanting to wait around for another confrontation, Neville set off again as fast as his arms and legs would manage.

He swam on and on for what seemed like ages. Wondering how long he had been underwater, he looked at his wrist. It was only then he discovered he had forgotten to put on his watch that morning. Cursing his errant memory, he kicked on with further determination. Soon, as his arms were beginning to ache, up ahead he saw an eerie light in the distance. The light seemed to be rising up from than trickling down from above. Neville swam on towards it.

Above, at the shore of the lake, the crowd waited for any news, staring out over the perfectly calm water. No champion had yet been seen. Bagman was pacing up and down nervously, glancing at his watch every ten seconds. Crouch was sitting alone, idly sipping a cup of tea supplied to him by his house-elf. The three headmasters were engaged pleasant conversation. In the stands, Sirius whispered to Harry, “They should be reaching the village about now.”

Luminescent water creatures trapped inside crudely fashioned transparent containers sent on poles provided the light that had attracted Neville to the mermish village. Neville approached cautiously; Moody had warned him to be wary and respectful of the merpeople and not to seem like a blundering intruder. Reaching the edge of the village, Neville could see that it was little more than a hotchpotch collection of stone houses and buildings, clustered around a central square. All seemed quiet.

Slowly, Neville picked his way between the buildings towards the square. Emerging into the open area, he saw that it was thronged with merpeople. Neville had seen a merperson before, and he thought they looked an ugly sight. They were thin, their bodies tapering into scaly fish’s tails. They had bony arms, wide eyes and straggly hair. Many carried rudimentary spears and looked menacing. None however moved to block Neville’s approach.

Neville swam gingerly forward, expecting at any moment for the merpeople to charge down at him, but none moved. Then, in the middle square, bound securely by thick ropes to a stone statue, Neville spotted four figures. They were motionless, and their heads were bowed. As he got closer, Neville gasped and swallowed a large quantity of water. He instantly recognised two of the figures. They were Ginny and Hermione.

At once Neville understood. These were the “items” they had to recover. Now he looked closely, he could see that the other two were the girl Cedric had taken to the Yule Ball, Cho Chang, and a small blond-haired girl who could only be Fleur’s sister. Clearly, they each had to rescue one person. Cedric would come for Cho, and Fleur for her sister. But who was Neville supposed to rescue?

It took a moment for Neville to realise that the answer was obvious. Whilst Krum would come for Hermione, none of the others were close friends with Ginny. He wondered who decided it would be Ginny of all people who would be taken from him. Was it the judges or the merpeople themselves?

He reached the four girls unhindered. They each appeared pale and stiff, and did not seem to be breathing. Worried, Neville felt Ginny for a pulse. He could not seem to find one, but knew he probably wasn’t doing it properly. Surely they were alive? What was the point of trying to rescue them if they were already dead?

Neville paused for a moment, and tried to think calmly and Hermione-like about the situation. Of course the four girls were safe. This was only a game, after all. He realised he should be more worried about himself. How long had he been underwater, and how long did he have left? And if he did not return to the surface with Ginny within the hour, perhaps then she might be in trouble.

It was then Neville realised something which astonished him, something which his slow brain had only just grasped. All four girls were still here. That meant he had got here first. How was that possible? Was he lucky to have only been attacked once, or were the others still lost, searching for the village? He knew though that he did not have time to dwell on his good fortune. He had to get Ginny out of the lake as soon as possible.

He lifted his wand to sever the ropes binding Ginny, but realised rather sheepishly that he didn’t know any spell that would work. He cast around for something sharp. A thin-edged stone was sticking up out of the mud close by. He tugged it out and tried to set to work sawing through the rope, but it was too tough and barely a few strands frayed away.

Whilst he was wondering what to do next, he caught sight of an object approaching out of the corner of his eye. Looking up, he saw that it was Cedric, swimming down to join him. A bubble of air was conjured about his nose and mouth, and he had a gash on his left arm. Neville indicated the ropes and held up his stone to show what he was trying to do.

Cedric nodded to show he understood and retrieved a stone of his own. He then held out his hand to ask for Neville’s stone. Puzzled, Neville handed it over. Cedric took the stones and chipped away at them with each other, sharpening both. When he’d finished, he handed one back to Neville. Neville mouthed, “Thank you,” and together they continued on cutting through the ropes.

Neville seemed to have the sharper stone and, as he had already made some progress before Cedric had arrived, cut through his rope first. Cedric indicated not to wait for him. Neville pulled Ginny free and, gripping her by her right arm, kicked upwards from the lake floor. Despite the buoyancy provided by the water, Ginny was still heavy to haul for Neville’s weak arms and only slowly did they move up and away from the merpeople’s village.

Just as they rose clear of the stone houses, something fast shot down past Neville. It moved like a blur, but Neville could swear it looked like a shark, though he knew there were no sharks in the lake. He did not stop to look back, but swam on. Moody had warned him against rising to the surface too quickly, so he swam at an angle, up and back the way he had come. It was still a long way back to the shore. He was beginning to see sunlight above.

Suddenly, and out of nowhere, he was surrounded by Grindylows again. A dozen of them rose up out of the depths below him, trying to seize at his and Ginny’s feet. Desperately, he tried to fight them off with Stunning spells, but they were ineffective. One grabbed hold of Ginny’s leg and he had to bash at its hand with his fist until its fingers broke and let go. It seemed inevitable they would be overwhelmed.

Then, just as suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light all around him. It had not come from him, or the still unconscious Ginny, and it blinded Neville for a moment. When his eyes focussed again, the Grindylows had scattered and fled. Neville was at loss to explain this unexpected rescue. Maybe he had done some unconscious magic, but that seemed unlikely.

His confusion was forgotten about however, as soon as he realised the webs between his fingers were dissolving. The Gillyweed was wearing off. Hurriedly, he kicked once more for the surface, rising up as fast as possible, keeping a firm hold on Ginny. He could feel the itching sensation on his neck again. The light was getting brighter and brighter above as he held his breath for the last few yards.

His head broke the surface just as the gills on his neck faded away. Thankfully, he gasped in the cool air as he lifted up Ginny beside him. As she too felt the air on her face the enchantment on her broke and she opened her eyes, the colour returning to her cheeks.

Neville looked around. He was still over a hundred yards from the shore, where the crowd was clapping and cheering. He looked closely at the crowd, and then all around him. There was no other champion to be seen. Amazingly, unbelievably, he had returned first. “You did it, Neville!” gasped Ginny. “You saved me! You won!”

Neville was astonished. He and Ginny swam to the shore. They had nearly got there when, behind them, Cedric and Cho emerged. Exhausted, Neville staggered up onto the shore, where he was smothered in a towel and checked over by Madam Pomfrey the school nurse. Ginny sat down next to him as they watched Cedric and Cho come in, followed a short time later by Viktor and Hermione. They all had to wait a long time before Fleur and her sister reached the surface. Fleur looked injured; she had several cuts to her face and arms. It was discovered later that she had suffered quite badly against the Grindylows.

The judges went into conference, while Ginny hugged Neville and Sirius and the Marauders cheered and chanted, “Ne-ville, Ne-ville!” Eventually, Bagman stepped forward to deliver the results.

“In reverse order,” he announced, “fourth place to Miss Delacour, 33 points. Third to Mr Krum, 41 points. Second to Mr Diggory, 45 points, and the winner, with 46 points, Mr Longbottom!” There were wild cheers, and more loud applause.

Then the most unexpected thing of the whole day happened. Amidst all the euphoria, Ginny threw her arms around Neville and, after a sideways glance at Harry, kissed Neville full on the lips.

All of a sudden, everyone seemed to go quiet, as if nobody quite knew how to react. It was Neville’s first kiss, and he found it warm and very pleasant indeed. When Ginny finally released him, he looked around at the various faces. Gran had a look of mild bemusement. Sirius and the twins were grinning; Harry looked surprised but not concerned. Ron’s face was a mixture of confusion and fierce anger. Hermione had a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Oh, why not?” thought Neville, and kissed Ginny again.

The news that Ginny Weasley had snogged Neville Longbottom at the conclusion of the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament, and that they now apparently were going out, spread through Hogwarts like wildfire, and quickly became the number one topic of conversation in the corridors and common rooms of the school. The fact that the Boy-Who-Lived, and a Triwizard Champion to boot, had now acquired a girlfriend all by the age of fourteen aroused a degree of jealousy among some of the older boys, whilst the girls busied themselves wondering exactly who Ginny, who was not very well known outside her year, really was.

Amongst Neville and Ginny’s friends and acquaintances, the overriding reaction was one of surprise; no one had really seen it coming. The Gryffindor common room was full of much muttering and debating as everyone compared recollections and pondered what they knew about the two.

But by far the most surprised and bemused person in the whole of Hogwarts was Neville Longbottom himself. He spent the next few days wandering around in something of a daze, trying to make sense of it all. The idea of him having a girlfriend was something that he had simply never thought about before. Sure, he was aware of the concept of having a girlfriend, but it was something that happened to other boys, not to him. He seemed to have acquired one purely by accident.

Although Ginny was a very attractive young girl, he had never thought of the two of them as anything other than good friends. He was under the vague impression you had to feel something towards your girlfriend, but he had no idea what that feeling was, and he didn’t feel any different than he had the day before the Second Task. He had always felt warmly towards Ginny, though, and he enjoyed spending time with her. Maybe that was just it. And he liked the idea of having a girlfriend; after all, it was a new and exciting experience for him.

His confusion had not been helped by the blazing row he’d had with Ron on the evening of the Second Task. They had not got back to Gryffindor Tower until the evening of that day, having been celebrating Neville’s unexpected and surprising victory in the Task. All day, Ron had been quiet and barely joined in the celebrations, glaring at Ginny and Neville, who had been arm in arm most of the time.

It wasn’t until the five fourth-year Gryffindor boys had returned to their dormitory at last that Ron had rounded on Neville. “Stay away from my sister,” he snapped bluntly.

The atmosphere of conviviality drained out of the room at an instant. “What?” stumbled Neville, taken aback. Everyone else fell silent.

“You heard me. Stay away from my sister.”

“Why? What’s it got to do with you?” Neville was surprised at his own reaction. He had never stood up to Ron before, who was several inches taller than him.

“I’m her older brother. It’s my job to look after her. She’s only thirteen.”

“She’s not a baby, Ron. She can make her own decisions. She kissed me, if you didn’t notice.”

“I didn’t see you complaining.” Ron angrily paced up and down the room, trying to think of something else to throw at Neville. “She-she-she’s too young for you,” he weakly settled on eventually.

“Don’t be such a prat, Ron,” said Seamus unhelpfully. “She’s only a year younger than us.”

Ron turned to stare down Seamus. “Oh, so I’m a prat, am I?” he yelled.

“Yes, you are,” said Harry firmly. “Just calm down, Ron.”

Ron now faced Harry. He looked betrayed by his best friend. “Oh sure, you all take his side, don’t you? Mr Boy-Who-Lived-Champion-Scar-on-his-Head can do no wrong, can he? I should have known.” He sat down on his bed sulking, refusing to look at anyone else. Harry mouthed Sorry in Neville’s direction.

Since that evening, Ron had refused to talk to Neville and had largely ignored him whenever they were together. Neville learned later from Hermione that he had argued with Ginny too, a row which had ended with Ginny hexing pimples onto Ron’s freckles. Ginny had said nothing of the incident to Neville. Fred and George had approached Neville to say they’d heard about what had happened and wanted to apologise for their idiot brother. “Although, if you do upset Ginny in any way, we will have to torture you to death,” Fred had added. “I’m sure you understand.” Neville was almost certain he had been joking.

The whole thing did trouble Neville, though. He had long counted Ron if not exactly one of his closest friends then still a good one. He wondered how long Ron’s anger would last, and if he really was doing the right thing.

“Ron’s just being immature as usual,” was Hermione’s view. “He’s still not talking to me on account of Viktor, you know. He’ll get used to it eventually. But what about you, Neville?” she had asked. “Are you sure about this?”

“What, you don’t think I should go out with Ginny either?” said Neville.

“I didn’t say that. I just wanted to make sure it’s what you really want to do. You know what I told you about Ginny and what happened at the Yule Ball.”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” replied Neville honestly. “This is all new to me. But Ginny’s tough. She’s tougher than I am. I don’t think you need to worry about her. Look, we’re just going to see how it goes. Isn’t that what everybody does?”

Hermione smiled. “Not me; I’d probably over-plan and over-think it to death. I guess I worry too much,” she said, reciprocating Neville’s honesty. “Viktor’s always saying I should relax more.” Neville grinned inwardly, thinking that Viktor Krum was one of the least relaxed-looking people he knew.

Neville and Ginny took to meeting up every evening after supper in the Great Hall, if their homework loads permitted it. They would sit in the Gryffindor common room and talk, much as they had done before. At weekends they would take walks in the grounds together. To Neville it seemed that little had changed. They had not done any more kissing since the Task, and Ginny had as yet shown no inclination to change that. But there was a greater closeness between them, he had to admit.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that Neville finally asked Ginny the question he’d been plucking up courage to ask. “Ginny, why did you kiss me at that moment?”

It sounded a ridiculous and embarrassing question now he voiced it, but Ginny just smiled. “Why not?” she replied.

“Hey, that’s what I was thinking at the same time,” said Neville, and they both laughed.

* * *

The changes to his personal life had temporarily driven all thoughts of the Triwizard Tournament from Neville’s mind. However, Professor Moody had far from forgotten about the competition, and there was still one task to go. He permitted Neville only two weeks rest from training before beginning the evening practise sessions once more.

In the first meeting, he asked Neville to give him a full account of the events of the Second Task from start to finish. When Neville got to the part where the mysterious flash of light had scattered the Grindylows as he was escaping, Moody became very anxious and concerned. He made Neville go over the incident time and again, seeing if there was anything further Neville could remember, but without success.

“I don’t like it,” Moody muttered. “This has happened in both tasks so far. Someone is continuing to interfere in this Tournament.”

“But if they are, they’re helping me, so what’s the problem?” asked Neville.

“Yes, but to what end? Unexplained details make me nervous.” Everything makes you nervous, thought Neville. “From what I’ve learnt, you were less attacked by the Grindylows than the others anyway, which is why you won. I’d remind you again, we’re not in this competition to win it.”

“I wasn’t trying to win,” Neville replied. “It just happened that way.”

“Things don’t ‘just happen’,” said Moody sternly. “There’s always a reason.” His magical eye rolled in its socket, as if scanning the room for hidden dangers. “I’m going to talk this over with Dumbledore,” he added eventually. “In the meantime, keep your eyes open for any further suspicious activity. Constant vigilance.”

The next morning at breakfast, Neville saw Moody speaking with Dumbledore at the teachers’ table. Occasionally Moody’s eye would glance in the direction of Neville on the Gryffindor benches. Neville wondered what Dumbledore’s reaction to Moody’s continued paranoia would be.

The morning post owls arrived, and Hermione sitting next to him collected her copy of the Daily Prophet. She had barely opened it up when she gave a strange strangled cry, catching Neville quite by surprise. “Er, Neville, I think you’d better have a look at this,” she said, laying down the newspaper in front of him. The headline emblazoned atop page four read:

ROMANCE AND AMBITION AMID THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT
By Rita Skeeter

Neville groaned and reluctantly began to read.

Mystery, intrigue and celebrity have permeated this year’s revival of the ancient Triwizard Tournament since its beginning. Now, in the latest of a series of reports behind the scenes of this prestigious event, I reveal how the arrows of Cupid and the lure of fame have left their mark on recent proceedings.

The competition was thrown wide open two weeks ago by the surprise victory of the tournament’s most famous competitor, Neville Longbottom, in the Second Task. The controversial entrant, whose mental fortitude and magical ability have been called into question, stunned onlookers by emerging first from the Hogwarts lake after a gruelling underwater challenge.

But far greater was their surprise when, immediately following the announcement of his victory, the Boy-Who-Lived engaged in a passionate moment with one Ginny Weasley, a third-year Gryffindor student. The two are rumoured to be very close, according to sources inside Hogwarts.

Longbottom’s choice of girlfriend must be called into question, however. Weasley, of a minor pure-blood family, has developed something of a reputation at Hogwarts as an attention-seeker and lover of the limelight. “She struts about the school like she owns the place,” said one third-year student who chose not to be identified. “And some of the stuff she comes up with is ridiculous. Like that crazy rumour that got put about that she and Longbottom were responsible for saving the school from the Heir of Slytherin two years ago, though everyone knows they had nothing to do with it.” The mysterious series of attacks blamed on the so-called “Heir of Slytherin” briefly threatened to close the school. No culprit was ever charged for the crimes.

Longbottom is known to be an emotionally repressed teenager, and is perhaps seeking female companionship, having lost his mother at such an early age. We can only hope for his sake that Ginny Weasley genuinely likes him and is not merely using him for her own personal advantage.

Meanwhile, Durmstrang champion and Quidditch superstar Viktor Krum has been spotted in the company of another Gryffindor girl…

Neville stopped there; he could not bear to read any more. Hermione however insisted on reading the whole article, though with visibly increasing irritation. When she had finished, she angrily threw the newspaper aside. “Honestly!” she exclaimed. “Where does she get this rubbish? Does she have nothing better to do than poking into people’s lives and making up ridiculous lies about them?”

“How is she getting this stuff anyway?” asked Neville. “She’s wasn’t even at the Second Task and no one’s seen her around in ages.”

“Dumbledore banned her from the grounds after she was annoying the teachers. Maybe she’s sneaking back in somehow, though I don’t know how she hasn’t been seen.” Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Sources inside Hogwarts, unnamed students �“ somebody’s feeding her information.” She glanced up across the hall to the Slytherin table. “I wouldn’t put it past them. You know they’ll take any chance they can get to have a go at Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, but why did they have to go pick on Ginny? Oh, she’ll be mad when she finds out.” Neville looked down the table, but Ginny wasn’t there; she had already left.

When they had finished breakfast, Neville and Hermione parted, as they had different lessons. Hermione left for Arithmancy, whilst Neville made his way towards the Muggle Studies classroom. But as he rounded a corner on the first floor, he almost ran into none other than Dumbledore himself, who was standing idly gazing out of a window on the grounds below.

“Ah, Neville, this is most fortuitous. I was hoping to speak with you,” said Dumbledore breezily. Neville had the strangest feeling that Dumbledore had known exactly where he would be and had been waiting for him, but said nothing. Dumbledore continued to look out of the window. “I think we might be in for some rain later, by the look of it.”

“Er, right, sir,” said Neville, confused.

“I have just had a most interesting talk with Professor Moody,” continued Dumbledore, as nonchalantly as if he was still discussing the weather. “He is concerned about you and about certain events, and whilst Professor Moody is sometimes prone to over-excessive worry, in this case I share his concern.” He glanced over his shoulder, apparently checking if the two of them were alone. “If you should experience or learn of anything unusual or out of the ordinary relating to the Tournament, then if it is urgent, I want you to report it to me at once. My door is always open. Figuratively speaking, of course. The current password is Cockroach cluster.”

“Um, thanks,” was all Neville could think to say.

“You’d better get going, Neville. Professor Burbage would not want you to be late.” Dumbledore looked out on the grounds once more as Neville left. “The snowdrops will be out soon,” Neville heard Dumbledore say to himself. “Spring is on its way.” Despite Dumbledore’s attitude, Neville felt nervous. He trusted Dumbledore’s judgement as much, if not more than Moody’s. If both of them thought there was a problem, then there was definitely something to be worried about.

That evening, Neville met up with Ginny as usual outside the Great Hall. Nervously, he asked, “Did you see the Daily Prophet today, Ginny?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Ginny with a smile. “I’ve been getting stick about that all day. It’s all a bit crazy, isn’t it?”

“You’re not angry, then?”

“At that Skeeter woman, of course. But there’s no point getting upset over this stuff. She could have come up with a lot worse, after all.”

Neville smiled. “You know, that’s what I like about you, Ginny. You always surprise me.” Ginny returned Neville’s smile with a beaming one of her own and, arm in arm, they headed up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower.

As spring came to Hogwarts, and March passed on into April, time seemed to pass more quickly for Neville as the days grew longer and warmer. It was as if time itself was in a hurry, rushing on towards the day of the third and final Task of the Triwizard Tournament, late in June after the end-of-year exams. Neville preferred not to look so far ahead however, trying to enjoy the present as much as possible.

He continued to be amazed at Ginny’s relaxed attitude to the snide comments, and in some cases abuse, she was getting over Rita Skeeter’s muck-raking article about her in the Daily Prophet. Most of the time she simply ignored it all, although she wasn’t above the odd well-directed hex if she thought it merited. Neville learned that Mrs Weasley had written a very angrily-worded letter of complaint to the Prophet, which it had printed �“ in tiny font in the bottom corner of page thirty-five. So far Mrs Weasley had not been in contact with Neville himself and if she had written anything to Ginny, Ginny had not told Neville about it. Neville hoped that was a good thing. He did not like the idea of incurring the wrath of Molly Weasley.

Gran’s recent letters to him had praised him on his performance in the Second Task, but had not mentioned Ginny. Neville wondered if Gran was trying to pretend it hadn’t happened. Ron was still sulkily refusing to speak with him and was moping around, generally being miserable. The Marauders’ latest pranks and experiments had been conducted with one member missing.

Intensive training with Moody and Sirius for the Third Task had not yet begun in earnest. Moody had informed Neville that he was still waiting to discover details of the Task, but it was expected to be an all-round test of wizarding skills. Moody encouraged Neville to practise his general conjuring and duelling skills and had taken to calling him forward more often in his regular Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons.

Moody continued to be on edge for anything suspicious surrounding Neville but, despite his and Dumbledore’s worries, nothing unusual had happened. Neville had noticed that Moody’s magical eye now seemed to be focussed almost continuously on Snape whenever they were in the Great Hall together. Snape, if he noticed the attention at all, ignored it completely. Yet he did seem even more irritable than usual, perhaps because he had apparently developed a rash on his left forearm. He scratched at his arm regularly through his Potions lessons.

When the Easter holidays came, Neville spent them at Hogwarts along with most of the Gryffindors. It let him spend more time with Ginny, and away from any awkward questions Gran might ask. The holidays passed pleasantly until the final night before term was due to start again. Ron had been particularly grumpy that evening in the dormitory, and Neville had gone to bed in a bad mood, with an itch in his scar.

He saw a small village amid rolling hills, a graveyard, and a large, grand old house. Then, suddenly, he was in an upstairs room. The light of a flickering fire was all that illuminated the space, revealing a large wooden table, an armchair and a small man kneeling in front of it. The man was shabbily dressed, unkempt and balding and there was a mixture of fear and excitement on his face.

“My lord, everything is in place,” the man said in a gushing, wheezy voice. “Your plans are proceeding perfectly. We only need wait.”

“Excellent,” said another voice. Neville could not see the speaker. The voice was high and cold and it had a tone of pleasure and delight. “I knew my faithful servant would not fail me. I grow tired of waiting, Pettigrew. I grow tired of this form. Soon it will all be over, and I shall reward those who have been loyal to me.”

“My lord knows I wish only to serve him,” replied Pettigrew.

“Your sycophancy is transparent, Pettigrew,” spoke the voice, “but your aid has not been unwelcome. Without you, none of this would have been possible. After all these years, Pettigrew, the impatience is almost too much to bear. I feel as I have not done for a long time.”

The dream faded away and Neville sat bolt upright in bed, back in his dormitory once more. His scar was searing with pain and he was sweating profusely. Dimly he started to recall images from what he had seen, and he knew he recognised the high, cold voice. The idea of a happy Voldemort filled him with dread. Dumbledore, he thought. I have to tell Dumbledore about this. If this doesn’t qualify as urgent, nothing does.

* * *

All through lessons the next day, Neville’s mind was on only one thing. He couldn’t concentrate on the subject, or any work at all. All he could think about was his dream, and what Dumbledore might say about it. Taking Moody’s attitude on secrecy to heart, he had not told any of his friends about the dream. He could not even see Moody to tell him as he did not have Defence Against the Dark Arts on a Monday, and there was no reply from his office when he knocked at lunchtime. He had to wait until the evening after supper before he eventually made his way up to the headmaster’s office.

Standing in front of the gargoyle which guarded the entrance, he remembered what Dumbledore had told him and said, “Cockroach cluster.” The gargoyle silently moved aside, revealing the stone staircase. Nervously, Neville ascended. He reached the large oak door and knocked.

There was no reply. Neville knocked again, but still silence. Thinking he might just not have heard Dumbledore, Neville tried the handle. The door swung open. Neville peered cautiously into the room. It seemed empty. He took a few steps inside to get a closer look.

It was the third time Neville had been in the room and everything was much as he remembered it: the walls lined with bookshelves and portraits, the odd silver instruments, Fawkes on his stand. But there was no sign of Dumbledore.

Suddenly a voice above him yelled, “Intruder! What are you doing here, boy?” Neville turned to look. The voice came from a portrait of an elderly wizard with a pointed beard, dressed in green and silver.

“Er, I came to see Dumbledore,” replied Neville. “He gave me his password.”

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” said the portrait sarcastically.

“Do you know when he’ll be back? It’s quite urgent.”

“The Headmaster does not keep me informed of his minute-by-minute private schedule,” snapped the wizard. “He will return when he returns.”

“Fine, I’ll wait,” said Neville.

“Just do it quietly,” said the wizard, and settled back in his chair to snooze. Neville wandered over to Dumbledore’s wide desk and leaned against it, taking the weight of its legs. He wanted to sit down but the only chair was Dumbledore’s and Neville did not fell right about sitting in it; it would be disrespectful.

His arm brushed against something and he turned to see what it was. It was a shallow stone basin perched on the edge of the desk. It was filled with what at first glance seemed to be water but, as he looked closely, lights and colours seemed to rise up from the swirling liquid. Curious, Neville leaned over and prodded his finger into the liquid. It seemed to stick to his fingertip and he had to prise it clear. The surface of the liquid fell flat again and Neville’s finger felt dry.

As he looked closer, the colours seemed to resolve themselves into images. It was like looking down a long tunnel or through the wrong end of a telescope. Deep in the bowl he could make out the sight of a tiled floor surrounded by high benches, as if he was viewing a tiny room from above. Puzzled, he leaned forward to get a closer look, and his face was an inch from the surface of the liquid.

Suddenly, he was falling, tumbling through fresh air as if the ground had vanished from underneath him. Below him the floor he had seen came rushing up to meet him. He threw his hands up in front of his face, expecting to crash into it, but inexplicably he landed lightly on his feet.

He looked around him. He was in the room that he had seen. It was huge and bowl-shaped, with a circular central area surrounded by the benches that rose above it. Seated on the benches, taking up maybe a quarter of the available space, were rows of identically robed wizards, talking amongst themselves. None of them seemed to have noticed Neville’s arrival. Where am I? thought Neville.

In the centre of the room was a single chair, currently unoccupied. Neville saw that there were manacles attached to its legs and arms. He looked around for more clues and came almost face to face with Professor Dumbledore. “Professor!” he called elatedly, but Dumbledore did not hear him. He was nervously pacing up and down the room in front of the benches, muttering to himself. Neville tried to attract Dumbledore’s attention, but it was if the headmaster could not see him. It seemed nobody could. What is this place? he thought.

There was a loud bang and Neville turned to see the wizard obviously in charge, sitting centrally in the front row, banging a gavel to bring the assembled wizards to order. To Neville’s surprise, he recognised the wizard as Bartemius Crouch. He looked younger and less careworn, but there was a tiredness behind his eyes. “Order!” he yelled. “Order!” The assembled wizards fell silent. Dumbledore stopped pacing to listen.

“This special closed session of the Wizengamot, on the fifteenth day of January, 1982, is now called to order,” announced Crouch. “Before we proceed, I would remind everyone present that this is a closed session and so we are all under an oath of silence concerning anything you may learn here today. I trust you accept the necessity of these security measures. Are there any objections?” There was no reply. “Good. Bring in the prisoner.”

Two Aurors stationed on either side of the door of the courtroom departed into the corridor. When they returned a few moments later, Neville noticed that one of them was Alastor Moody, sporting his familiar magical eye but with a few less scars on his face. Between them they now escorted their prisoner, whose head was bowed so that his long black hair covered his face. He was led forward to the central chair, into which he sat calmly and willingly.

The manacles on the chair sprang to life and secured his wrists and ankles. As they did so, the man looked up to face Crouch. Neville gasped. The prisoner was Severus Snape.

He looked a lot younger than Neville knew him, perhaps early twenties, but there was no mistaking the sallow face, the lank, greasy hair and the black, impenetrable eyes. His expression betrayed no emotion at all, save an air of complete calm. He did not attempt to struggle or fight the restraints, but simply sat waiting.

“Your Honour, before we begin, may I make a brief statement to the court?” asked Dumbledore.

“Proceed,” said Crouch.

“Members of the Wizengamot,” began Dumbledore, “it has now been ten weeks since the unexpected defeat of the greatest threat ever to befall this community �“ Lord Voldemort.” There were murmurs of discontent at his use of the name. “A number of his Death Eaters remain unidentified or on the run. A month ago, some six weeks after the fall of Voldemort, Severus Snape voluntarily turned himself over to the authorities. In this process, I have acted as guarantor of his safety, to ensure that he receives a fair hearing.

“Mr Snape has confessed to having been a Death Eater for the past three years, although he expressly denies committing murder in support of that cause. Rather, he says that it was a misplaced love of the Dark Arts that drew him into the clutches of Lord Voldemort.” Moody gave a none-too-subtle snort of disagreement from the back of the room, but Dumbledore ignored him. “Nonetheless, he is aware of the severity of his crimes and asks only that what he has to say is taken into account when deciding his punishment.”

“Very well,” said Crouch. “Mr Snape, what do you wish to tell us?”

Snape spoke calmly and deliberately, a speech he had seemingly long prepared. “I offer no excuse or rationalisation for my actions, for my crimes. I offer the only thing that I can �“ the names, that I am aware of, of those who committed far worse deeds than I. My one-time colleagues within the Death Eaters.”

There were whisperings of excitement and interest around the court at this, but Crouch banged his gavel and said, “Continue. But I remind you that you will be judged on the quality of the information you give.”

“Firstly, Augustus Rookwood,” said Snape. “He was a spy placed inside the Ministry. Then Antonin Dolohov. He murdered numerous opponents of the Dark Lord. Igor Karkaroff, he helped raise money and recruit for the Dark Lord on the Continent. And Travers, he was a murderer too.”

Crouch carefully recorded each name as Snape spoke it. “The Wizengamot thanks you for your information,” he said. “You will be returned to your holding cell while we consider your case.”

“I still have four more names,” interrupted Snape, “and I can personally vouch for their guilt. As you know, shortly after the Dark Lord’s demise, the house of noted wizarding citizens James and Lily Potter was attacked by Death Eaters. The Potters were tortured by use of the Cruciatus curse in an attempt to discover information about what happened to the Dark Lord, and were driven permanently insane. I know who was responsible. Three of them were from the Lestrange family: Rabastan, his brother Rodolphus and Rodolphus’ wife Bellatrix. The fourth…” here he paused for the first time and gazed directly into Crouch’s eyes, “…the fourth was Bartemius Crouch, Junior.”

There was uproar in the court. Everyone began talking at once, whilst Crouch just sat unmoved, staring at Snape with horror and disbelief etched on his face. But at that moment the image of the courtroom began to dissolve in front of Neville’s eyes. He felt a great rushing all around him and before he knew it he was back in Dumbledore’s office once more, flung out of the basin onto the floor.

He scrambled to his feet and found himself face to face with the present-day Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster was seated in his chair, regarding Neville with a calm, placid look on his face. “Well, that will teach me to leave memories unattended,” he said gently.

“Uh, Professor, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…” stammered Neville, but Dumbledore raised a calming hand.

“Relax, Neville, you weren’t to know. This is a Pensieve. It can be used to store one’s memories and view them again at one’s convenience. I had been studying some of my old thoughts and carelessly left this one in the bowl. In my defence, I must say I was not expecting any callers this evening.”

A hundred questions were flooding into Neville’s mind, but he voiced the most urgent. “P-Professor Snape was a Death Eater?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Yes, he was, Neville.”

“And you let him become a teacher?”

“Impertinence!” yelled the portrait Neville had talked with earlier, who was evidently not asleep at all. “Questioning the Headmaster’s decisions!”

“Thank you, Phineas,” said Dumbledore. “Yes, I chose to appoint Professor Snape, and I stand by my decision. I consider him a reformed man, and worthy of a second chance. He has left behind the indiscretions of his youth.”

“Has he really?” asked Neville. All his fear and mistrust of Snape now seemed justified. “Professor Moody doesn’t think so, and I can see why now.”

“I am aware that Professor Moody remains sceptical of Professor Snape. He never believed he had made an honest conversion.”

“But did he really make an honest conversion? He only turned himself in after You-Know-Who was gone, when he would have been caught eventually anyway. Then he sold out the other Death Eaters to escape Azkaban. Wasn’t he just betraying them to save his own skin?”

“I do not believe so,” replied Dumbledore calmly. “Yes, your summary of what happened is correct. He did not turn his back on the Death Eaters until after Voldemort’s fall. And his evidence to the Wizengamot was considered sufficient to commute his sentence and permit his release. But I am certain that the reasons for his actions were entirely honest and sincere. If they were not, I would not have appointed him a teacher a year later.”

Dumbledore seemed impassive, and Neville decided to move onto a different question. “What happened to the people Snape named?”

“They were arrested and imprisoned, every single one of them. Rookwood, Dolohov, Karkaroff, Travers, the Lestranges, even Barty Crouch, Junior. It nearly broke Crouch’s heart to have to send his own son to Azkaban. He’s never been the same man since. His wife died soon afterwards and the Ministry quietly moved him out of Magical Law Enforcement and into International Magical Cooperation. His son died in Azkaban. The rest, as far as I know, are still alive and imprisoned there.”

“Including the Lestranges? I mean, that’s horrible what they did to Harry’s parents. I knew something had happened to them in the war, but I never guessed… Harry never told me…”

“It is not something that either Harry or his godfather like to discuss much, I know, and I would ask you to respect their privacy. James and Lily still live in St Mungo’s hospital, unaware of who they are, or anyone else is. Dark magic cannot be reversed, and they will remain that way for the rest of their lives. Harry and his godfather visit them regularly in the holidays. I believe Harry is very proud of his parents, as he should be. They were fine people.”

Neville stood in silence for a moment. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to carry around such a secret. Often, Harry had seemed to him like he didn’t have a care in the world, so cheerful and fun. But he remembered Harry’s reaction to the screaming golden egg and shivered a little. They had more in common than he ever realised.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. “But I presume you did not come to see me tonight to pry into my memories, Neville.”

Neville was flummoxed for a moment. The revelations he had just discovered had driven out of his head all thoughts of why he had come in the first place. At last, he said, “I had a dream, Professor.”

Dumbledore listened in silence while Neville recounted the dream as best as he could remember it. “And the thing is, sir,” added Neville when he had finished, “I have the strangest feeling I’ve had a dream like it before, only I can’t remember anything about it. It was some time last summer, I think.”

“Did you have any idea where Voldemort and Pettigrew were in the dream?” asked Dumbledore. “Did you recognise anything?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid not. Do you really think it happened?”

“That, I cannot say. But it is certainly possible, yes. I knew it was likely that Pettigrew would try to seek out his former master. But the ‘faithful servant’ that Voldemort speaks of, I do not know who that could be.”

“But how can I have dreamt it? I’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

Dumbledore peered closely at Neville over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “I would not worry yourself about that, Neville,” he said eventually. “As I said, it may be nothing more than a dream. But you were right to bring it to my attention. If nothing else, it is a warning to be vigilant where Voldemort may be concerned. Good night, Neville. Sleep peacefully tonight, and may no such dreams disturb you.”

“Good night, Professor.” Neville left Dumbledore’s office, his mind racing with all that he had seen and heard. But one thing more than any dominated his thoughts. Professor Snape: was he ever truly reformed, or did he remain a Dark wizard who had sold out his friends for his freedom?

“I can’t believe Snape was a Death Eater,” said Hermione. “How did it never become known?”

“He gave evidence secretly and the whole thing was kept quiet,” replied Neville. “Even Moody wouldn’t tell me exactly why he distrusted Snape.” Neville had taken the first opportunity to tell the two people he trusted the most, Hermione and Ginny, everything he had seen in the Pensieve. Everything except what he had learned about Harry’s parents. As Dumbledore had asked him, he respected Harry’s privacy. Then again, he wondered if Ginny already knew. Ron knew, he was sure of that; perhaps it was common knowledge among the Weasleys. Even his Gran had known about it, he remembered; presumably it had been well-known and reported at the time.

“But why would Dumbledore make him a teacher?” asked Ginny. “I mean, can you imagine the uproar if this got out?”

“He just said he deserved a second chance,” said Neville. “But Moody obviously thinks he doesn’t. I don’t know who to believe.”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about it, but one thing’s for certain, I’ll be warier of Snape in future,” said Ginny.

Afterwards, Neville was still thinking about Harry and his parents. He had always looked up to Harry in a way, but what he had learned had given him a new-found respect for the warm-hearted Marauder and Quidditch star. Whilst he understood what it was like to lose one’s parents, he could not image what it must be like to lose them, but have them still there.

He thought about how much Harry, and Sirius, hated Snape, and also the antagonism that had existed between Snape and Harry’s father. He wondered what Harry would say if he were ever to learn that Snape had been the one that had given the evidence that put his parents’ attackers behind bars.

* * *

A few weeks into the new term, a strange sight began to appear on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. The stands surrounding the pitch had been partly cleared away and something was growing rapidly across the whole area: massive thick hedges rising up to twenty feet high. In their next training session, Moody informed Neville that what was being created was a massive maze that would form the basis of the Third, and final, Task of the Triwizard Tournament. “The maze will contain an assortment of obstacles, enchantments and magical creatures, so a more all-round, general approach will be needed,” he said. “I have managed to get some idea of what will be placed in the maze, but I can’t know which in particular you will face. I shall have to do my best to prepare you for every eventuality. You will be expected to make a fair attempt to compete, but remember this isn’t about winning, so don’t go being reckless or overstretching yourself. If you need to withdraw, do so. You’ll have done your part.”

The Third Task was set for the end of June after the end-of-year exams. As a champion, Neville was exempt from the exams, the one good thing for him about the whole affair, as he saw it. That gave him more time to prepare for the task, and Moody threw him into an intense course of Defence Against the Dark Arts training. Much of it had no effect whatsoever, but Neville was able to pick up a few useful jinxes and charms.

Several times, Moody staged full-on open-ended duels between Neville and Sirius, with himself acting as referee. The idea was, so he said, to test Neville’s reactions to unexpected attacks and his split-second decision making. Sirius always won, but Moody did not seem to think the efforts wasted. His main criticism against Neville was his over-reliance on the Stunning Spell at the expense of other options.

All through May and into June, Neville was on the lookout for anything that might point towards his dream about Voldemort and Pettigrew being true, or anything that might indicate what it meant. But nothing happened that suggested it was anything other than just a dream, and he was beginning to believe that was all it was.

What free time he had in those weeks he spent with Ginny. The two of them had now become quite comfortable with being together although, as they were in different classes and both had a lot of work, the only real free time they both had was at the weekends. They were already making plans to meet up over the summer.

At long last the week of the exams came. Every Hogwarts student was stressed and nervous, but none could claim to be more apprehensive than Neville. He found it ironic that everyone around him was desperately looking forward to Saturday, whilst he was dreading its coming more than anything. He saw very little of any of his friends that week as they rushed from exam to exam, and deliberately avoided the celebrations on the Friday evening. He stayed in the dormitory instead, fretting and trying desperately to remember as much as he could of what Moody had told him. When Harry and Ron finally entered the dormitory late that night, they found Neville fast asleep on his bed, still in his robes, his Remembrall clutched tightly in his right hand.

The morning of the Third Task was hot and humid, but Neville did not notice the warmth. In the Great Hall, as he had twice before, he ate breakfast alone, left to his own thoughts by the other Gryffindors. He then went straight back to his dormitory and spent the rest of the morning pacing the room, absently twirling his wand, muttering to himself, unable to calm his mind.

The champions had all been instructed to gather in the room off the Great Hall at lunchtime. When Neville entered, he found that he was the last to arrive. The families of each champion were also present, including Gran. She put a firm hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Well, Neville, this is the final day,” she said with an air of relief. “Come tonight, this will all be over.”

Cedric’s father Amos approached them. “How are you feeling, Neville?” he asked. “Nervous, I expect. You may have done well in the Second Task, but my Cedric is still well ahead. I don’t think anything could stop him winning now.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Neville. Of all the other champions, he wanted Cedric to win, in spite of the bragging of his father. He thought Cedric the most talented and fair-minded of the competitors. Of course, he had been careful not to mention that to Hermione.

Immediately after lunch, Neville and Gran went out into the Entrance Hall, where they found Moody waiting for them. He asked to accompany them on their walk around the grounds, and they discussed the Tournament in general and the upcoming Task. “I just want to thank you for everything you’ve done for Neville this year,” Gran told Moody.

“It was the least I could do for Frank and Alice’s son,” replied Moody. “You have a fine grandson here, Mrs Longbottom. He may not have his parents’ exceptional talent, but he has his father’s determination and his mother’s integrity. I have confidence in him.” Gran did not reply, but there was a definite look of happy surprise on her face.

There was a grand dinner laid on in the evening for the champions, their families and the Triwizard judges. Neville noticed that Ron’s brother Percy was present as Mr Crouch’s assistant. Crouch had brought along his house-elf again as well. Bagman was noticeably agitated and squirming in his seat, constantly peering around the room. Dumbledore, Preminin and Maxime were jovial and relaxed. Amos Diggory was loudly boasting about his son’s achievements to anyone in earshot, whilst Cedric and Mrs Diggory retained a dignified and modest silence.

After dinner, they were all lead out to the maze. It was now late in the evening, less than an hour before sunset. The stands were already packed with spectators, although they had little chance of seeing anything within the maze. Neville nervously waved to Ginny, Hermione and the Marauders, who were sitting in a top tier with Sirius. Gran and the other family members made their way to their reserved seats as Bagman made the announcements.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the rules of the Third Task are very simple. The Triwizard Cup has been placed at the centre of this maze, guarded by an assortment of magical obstacles. The champions will enter the maze in the order of their current positions in the Tournament. That is, Mr Diggory first, followed by Mr Krum, then Mr Longbottom and, finally, Miss Delacour. The first champion to seize the Triwizard Cup will win the Tournament. If a champion finds it necessary to withdraw at any point, they may send up red sparks from their wand and Hogwarts staff patrolling the perimeter will extract them. Champions, take your positions.”

Cedric, Viktor, Fleur and Neville each moved in front of one of the four entrances to the maze. Moody, who had been standing close by, stepped forward and whispered to Neville, “I’ll be one of those on patrol. Don’t think twice if you need to come out. Good luck, Neville. Whatever happens, it has been a privilege to tutor a Longbottom once more. Remember, constant vigilance.” He walked away, his magical eye busy scanning anything it could see, leaving Neville standing alone.

At the blast of a whistle, Cedric entered the maze, quickly followed by Viktor. It seemed an age before Neville finally got his signal to go in. With a deep breath, he ran forward. The noise of the crowd faded behind him as he turned the first corner, wand out, ready for whatever he might face.

As he had no clear plan of what to do, and was in no particular hurry, he quickly became lost amid the hedges, choosing directions at random and moving at a leisurely pace. He was struck by how little in the way of challenges he seemed to encounter and guessed it was because he was nowhere near the cup. He began to wonder how long he would have to wander around before someone else won.

He rounded a corner and was confronted by a wall of fire blocking his path. The fire was magically contained and not setting the hedges alight. Whilst he tried to think of an extinguishing spell, suddenly he heard a loud bang from somewhere to his right and a stifled scream which sounded like Fleur. Neville turned away from the wall and tried to find a path towards where the scream had come from, but the maze defeated him.

He turned left at the next junction and recoiled in horror. Standing there in front of him was none other than Lord Voldemort himself, in hideous snake-like form. Bewildered, Neville turned to run, until he realised he had seen this sight before, in Sirius’ classroom the better part of two years ago. Voldemort was far away, and a disembodied spirit. This was a boggart.

Neville struggled to master his fear. “It’s not real,” he muttered to himself, raising his wand. “Riddikulus!” he cried. The image of Voldemort shrunk to tiny dwarf size, wearing a comical pink robe and with a clown-like painted face. Neville ran on past it, relieved that Riddikulus at least was one spell that he could usually manage.

The sun had now almost set, and Neville lit his wand as the darkness closed in. He thought he saw a flash of light up ahead and ran to investigate. There was nothing there, but as he went on a little further, he saw a figure slumped against a hedge. When he got close enough to see, Neville was shocked to discover it was Viktor Krum.

He was unconscious, but still breathing. There was a nasty cut on his forehead and his ankle looked twisted. Neville was at a loss to explain how he suffered his injuries; there was nothing else around and Viktor’s wand was still in his hand. With no idea what else to do, Neville fired red sparks into the air and moved on, hoping that Moody or one of the other teachers would be able to help Krum.

He was growing more and more anxious by the minute, with the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong, but with no idea why. He felt even more acutely alone in the dark, and the hedges seemed to close in around him, leaving him feeling trapped and helpless. Were he and Cedric the only competitors left?

He took a right turn and found himself confronted by a huge troll wielding a heavy club. Wondering what else this crazy Task would throw at him, Neville tried to back away slowly, but the troll caught sight of the light from his wand and charged. Desperately, Neville tried to think of an appropriate spell. He had only ever encountered a troll face to face once before, in the rooms leading to the Philosopher’s Stone in his first year, but that one had already been rendered unconscious by Quirrell. He tried a Stunning spell, but it just bounced right off the troll’s chest.

Suddenly, there was a cry of “Neville!” behind him and a spell shot over his head and struck the troll in the face. The troll staggered, seemingly temporarily blinded by the curse. It turned and crashed into the hedge, crushing a section as it fell to the ground. Neville turned to see Cedric rushing to his side, his wand still outstretched. “Are you all right?” he asked breathlessly.

Neville nodded. “It’s been mad, this Task,” Cedric added. Neville saw that his face was dirty and there was a thin gash on his left forearm. “Something happened to Fleur back there, she’s out.”

“Krum’s out too. I just passed him,” replied Neville.

“Hogwarts all the way then, eh?” smiled Cedric. He indicated the troll. “Is it knocked out?”

“I think so. Let’s not wait around for it to wake up.”

“Good idea. Let’s go.” Neville and Cedric ran on together, but soon they came to a T-junction. “We can’t be far away,” reckoned Cedric. “Tell you what: you go left, I’ll go right. May the best man win.” He held out his hand.

“Okay,” agreed Neville, and shook Cedric’s outstretched hand. They turned away from each other and took their respective paths.

Neville’s path soon turned right again, and then again, so he was almost doubling back on himself. Suddenly, and to his astonishment, he saw the glinting light of the Triwizard Cup in the distance far ahead, standing on a pedestal. Neville couldn’t believe it. Could he actually win?

He ran forward, but when he was still far from the cup, a blast of wind knocked him back. A small magical tornado had risen up to block his path, a last challenge to overcome before victory. But Neville had no idea of how to get past it. His tired, agitated brain could think of no appropriate counter-spell. He thought about maybe blasting his way around or underneath the tornado, but it seemed unlikely and he doubted any Reductor Curse he could generate would be powerful enough. Desperately, he took the only course of action he could think of. He charged forward and leapt headlong into the centre of the tornado, hoping against hope that he would be thrown out in the right direction.

The tornado lifted him up and whipped him around violently, before throwing him out hard against a hedge. He smashed into it and crashed painfully back down to the ground, thumping his head on the solid earth.

Every part of him ached and he struggled to raise his head. Dazed, he looked forward and could see the Triwizard Cup in the distance, but he could not find the strength to lift himself up.

Then, from out of a side passage up ahead, he saw Cedric emerge. Not seeing Neville, Cedric ran on down the path. From his position prone on the ground, Neville saw Cedric reach the pedestal, victoriously seize hold of the Triwizard Cup, and vanish.

Sore and exhausted, Neville struggled to pull himself up into a sitting position. He leaned against a hedge and breathed deeply, rubbing the ugly bruise that had appeared on his forehead. Slowly, as his mind cleared, he began to realise the truth: it was over. It was all over.

The Triwizard Tournament, which had dominated Neville’s life for almost all year, had come to an end. It seemed like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders; a burden he had carried for so long. No longer would he have to desperately try to learn spells far beyond his capabilities; no more would he have to fret over unknown dangers. For the first time in eight months, he could relax.

He looked up into the night sky and took one last deep breath. What now? he thought. All was still silent about him. Even the magical tornado into which he had foolishly thrown himself had faded away. He could not hear any cries of celebration from outside the maze, or anything besides a gentle breeze blowing between the hedges. He wondered what he was supposed to do next.

He had been surprised to see Cedric disappear when he had grabbed the Triwizard Cup to seal his victory, and wondered what it meant. They’d not been told anything about that happening beforehand. Neville guessed that the cup was a Portkey, it was the only explanation he could think of, but to where? Had he gone on to some other final challenge, or had he been taken back to the spectators at the entrance? But if so, why couldn’t Neville hear anything?

He glanced up and down the path. He didn’t much fancy wandering through the maze looking for the entrance again; there was no telling what else he might run into. Nor did he relish the idea of waiting around until someone eventually came to find him. Figuring it didn’t matter much anymore, he raised his wand and fired red sparks into the sky. The Tournament was over, Cedric had won, and he had done his part. It was time to leave.

He sat waiting for a couple of minutes for help to arrive, rubbing his bruises and stretching his aching limbs. The night seemed to be getting darker and only a thin crescent moon was visible in the cloudless sky. Neville was just beginning to wonder if anybody was coming when he saw the light of a wand appear from round a corner in the distance. The light hurried towards Neville, and as it got closer it illuminated the figure of Mad-Eye Moody.

“Neville, are you all right, what’s happened?” asked Moody in a worried voice.

“I’m fine,” replied Neville. “I just didn’t want to make my way out by myself.”

“What are you talking about? You know you can’t just withdraw from the Task for no reason. Unless you’re genuinely unable to compete, you have to carry on.”

“But the Task’s over. We’re finished. Cedric grabbed the Cup; he won.”

Moody looked puzzled. “That’s not possible. If he’d touched the Cup, we’d know about it. Are you sure of what you saw?”

“Yes! I was right here and Cedric took the Cup from right up there, and then he vanished.”

Moody’s puzzled expression turned to one of concern and worry, and his magical eye began roving this way and that. “Vanished? But how… that’s not…”

But before Moody could complete his sentence there was another loud cry of “Neville!” from up the path. Moody spun round and levelled his wand. Neville finally pulled himself to his feet to see who it was. He was astonished to see Cedric running down the path towards them in a desperate, almost panicked sprint. Moody looked at Neville in confusion, but Neville could offer no explanation for Cedric’s sudden reappearance.

“What is it, Diggory?” asked Moody when Cedric reached them.

Cedric stopped in front of Moody, paused a moment to take in a deep breath, then lifted his wand and, to Neville’s astonishment, cried, “Stupefy!” There was a flash of red light and Moody collapsed to the ground, Stunned.

“What are you doing?” Neville demanded wildly.

“It’s a trap!” cried Cedric. “Neville, come on, you’ve got to come with me.” He seized hold of Neville’s wrist. “Neville, come on, this way. Leave him,” Cedric urged.

Panicked and bewildered, Neville didn’t know what to think. He looked from Cedric’s imploring face to Moody’s unconscious form and back, before finally allowing Cedric to pull him away, back up the path the way Cedric had come.

Cedric was sprinting and Neville’s tired legs found it hard to keep up, but Cedric kept a tight hold on Neville’s wrist. “Cedric, where are we going?” he asked, but got no reply.

They turned a corner in the maze, and there, lying on the ground in front of them, was the gleaming Triwizard Cup. Cedric pulled Neville towards it. “What’s going on?” Neville asked. “Cedric, you’re hurting my wrist.” But Cedric did not respond. He dragged Neville over to the Cup and seized hold of it with his other hand.

Instantly, Neville was jerked forward, feeling as if he was being pulled through himself as the world seemed to collapse around him. A moment later, he was sprawling across uneven ground, finally coming to rest against a stone slab. Pulling himself up to see where he was, Neville discovered that the slab was a tombstone.

The Cup had indeed been a Portkey. Looking around him, Neville found that he was standing in a graveyard. He did not recognise it, yet it seemed strangely familiar. He turned to Cedric, who was getting to his feet a few yards away, next to where the Cup had fallen. “Where are we?”

But at that moment, an intense pain shot across Neville’s forehead, such as he had never experienced before. It felt like something was trying to burrow his way out through his skull, through the lightening-shaped scar. He screamed and doubled over in agony. As he did so, he became aware of someone approaching. Looking up as the pain overwhelmed him, he saw a small, scruffy man carrying some kind of bundle under his arm. The man raised a wand and Neville was thrown against another tombstone, this one large and grand. Neville lost his grip on his own wand and it fell away out of reach. Ropes appeared out of nowhere and bound Neville to the stone.

“Cedric!” Neville yelled, but Cedric just stood there, unmoving, watching on. “Cedric, help me!” he cried as the ropes pulled themselves ever tighter around him, but Cedric seemed deaf to his pleadings. He stood stock still, staring out across the dark graveyard as if Neville was not even there.

“Excellent,” said a high, chilling voice that seemed to emanate from the bundle under the man’s arm. “It goes to show that even the best laid plans can always benefit from a little improvisation when needed. Pettigrew, remove the Imperius Curse from the boy and dispose of him.”

Pettigrew pointed his wand at Cedric. For a moment, for one terrible moment that Neville could never forget, he saw Cedric’s eyes focus, and saw the realisation begin to spread across his face of where he was and what he had done. Then, Pettigrew intoned, “Avada Kedavra,” there was a flash of green light, and Cedric fell dead to the ground.

Neville’s skin went cold and his stomach lurched. His mind refused to acknowledge what his eyes had clearly seen. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. No, he thought. No, he can’t be. Nothing seemed to make sense to him. How had this happened? What did it all mean? The pain in his scar continued to burn, and he felt hot tears trickle down his face.

Pettigrew, meanwhile, was paying no attention to him. He had set down the strange bundle and had fetched a large cauldron full of a clear potion, which he set up in front of Neville. After lighting a fire underneath, he took up the bundle and dropped its contents into the cauldron. Neville caught a brief glimpse of it; it looked like some horrible mutation of a baby, with snake-like features.

Next, Pettigrew pointed his wand at the patch of ground in front of Neville. It began to shake and tear apart, and a bone rose up out of it and floated over to the cauldron. “Bone of the father, unknowingly given. You will renew your son,” spoke Pettigrew, and dropped the bone into the potion. Neville desperately wriggled to see what was carved on the tombstone behind him, but all he could see was the first name Tom.

Pettigrew had now drawn out a sharp blade, and held out his right hand over the cauldron. “Flesh of the servant, willingly given,” he said, and sliced through his wrist. His severed hand fell with a splash. “Y-you w-will revive your m-master,” he stammered in agony, blood pouring from the wound before he sealed it with his wand.

Now he approached Neville with the same knife. Neville closed his eyes, anticipating the worst, but Pettigrew pulled back Neville’s sleeve and cut into his arm, drawing a thin flow of blood. When Neville opened his eyes, he saw that Pettigrew had collected his blood in a vial and had returned to the cauldron. “Blood o-of the enemy,” he whimpered, grimacing in pain, “forcibly… taken. You will res… resurrect y-your foe.” And he poured in the blood.

Thick black smoke began to rise from the cauldron, twisting and swirling around like some pillar or column of cloud. Slowly the fumes began to dissipate, and out of them, rising up himself from the cauldron, emerged the figure of a tall man, hairless and with pale scaly skin. He stepped from the cauldron and Pettigrew wrapped him in a black robe. As he did so, the man turned so Neville saw his face for the first time.

The face was flat, as if the nose had been eaten away and had left only two small slits for nostrils behind. But the features that most dominated were the eyes. They burned red, like fire, piercingly bright in the darkness.

This was no boggart. This was Neville’s greatest fear made flesh, and the reality was far more terrifying than what his imagination had conjured back in the maze. Lord Voldemort had returned.

Voldemort held out his right hand, and Pettigrew placed into it the wand that he had been using. Voldemort held up the wand, twirling it in his long, spidery fingers and feeling his grasp upon it. “Ah, reunited with an old friend once more,” he said to himself. “The time has come at last, Pettigrew. My time.” He seized Pettigrew’s intact left arm and pushed a bony finger into the flesh. Pettigrew screamed in agony and Voldemort let him fall to the ground, whimpering once more. “They will come,” declared Voldemort. “At least, those not too cowardly to refuse.” Neville saw on Pettigrew’s forearm a prominent, blackened tattoo in the shape of the Dark Mark.

Ignoring Pettigrew’s cries, Voldemort turned and slowly walked towards Neville. The pain from the scar rose to agonising levels once more and Neville longed to pass out and be relieved from the torment. But he did not. Voldemort stopped in front of him and stared down with his red eyes. “Neville Longbottom,” he said softly. “We meet once more. Three years it has been since Quirrell and the Stone, since your mother’s protection was all that saved you. But such obstacles can be overcome. Your mother’s protection lives in you, and so by using your blood to restore this body, it now lives in me.

“Do you think you are here by accident? No, months of planning and careful work have brought you to this place, away from Hogwarts and Dumbledore’s watchful eye. And now your blood is in me, and you can no longer harm me.” He seized hold of Neville’s arm from where the blood had been drawn. Neville cried out as the scar burned, but Voldemort only laughed, a thin humourless laugh laced with malice.

Voldemort released Neville and made to turn away. It was only then that he noticed the body of Cedric lying close by. “And yet, so nearly all that planning went to waste,” he mused. “No plan is foolproof if one really is relying on fools to ensure its success. I should have realised that despite all the efforts of my faithful servant, you would still be incompetent enough to fail to reach the Triwizard Cup first, Neville.

“So, really, this boy’s death is on your account. Given all that was being done to ensure your victory, if you had any sort of talent you would have got through the maze first. If you had, then he would never come here, and I would not have been forced to have Pettigrew put him under the Imperius Curse and send him back via the Portkey to collect you. I shall leave you to ponder that, Neville. My Death Eaters are coming.” Voldemort turned and walked away, leaving Neville staring at Cedric’s body in anguish and despair.

The dim light of the crescent moon and the smouldering embers of the fire beneath the great cauldron illuminated the pale figure of Voldemort pacing impatiently to and fro amongst the silent graves. Only the swish of his black robes and the low moans of Pettigrew could be heard. Neville, his eyes focussed on the body of Cedric, made no sound.

Voldemort did not have to wait long. Soon, dark figures began to emerge from out of the gloom into the middle of the graveyard. Their robes were hooded and their faces masked, and they approached in silence as they formed a ring around Voldemort, waiting for him to speak.

Voldemort prowled around the circle, staring at each Death Eater in turn. “My old companions,” he said at last, “welcome. It has been too long since we were all last gathered together, too long. I offer my… regrets for my enforced absence. But now that I have returned, what do I find my loyal followers have become in that time? What indeed?”

His red eyes flashed. “A bunch of cowardly, weak-willed, useless, incompetent failures!” he snarled. “None of you tried to continue our great work after I was gone, or fought on in my name. No, each of you fled and hid back in your own petty lives, as if your allegiance to me meant nothing to you. None of you tried to find me or bring me back. Were you all so foolish as to believe I was truly dead? Death cannot claim me, you should know that. I have power over everything, even death.

“Only one of you sought me out in the end, and that was because he had nowhere else to go.” Voldemort stopped in front of the prostrate form of Pettigrew, who was still sobbing quietly. “I know you bear me little loyalty, Pettigrew, but you have at least done me service, which is more than can be said for anyone else here. Get up.” Pettigrew slowly got to his feet and Voldemort seized his injured arm. He pointed his wand at the stub and from the wrist grew a silver hand.

Pettigrew flexed the fingers and looked at it in amazement. “Thank you, my lord,” he said.

“You are now truly one of us, Pettigrew,” replied Voldemort. “Never forget that.” He turned back to the other Death Eaters. “See, Lord Voldemort is a just lord,” he said. “He rewards those who serve him, and punishes those who seek to be his enemies. Where will each of you stand?”

Suddenly, one of the Death Eaters gave out a piercing cry of shock. Neville looked up to see a giant snake curling itself about the feet of the hapless Death Eater, hissing and baring its fangs. “Do not be alarmed, Macnair,” said Voldemort casually. “That is only Nagini. Her bite is fatal, but she is completely under my control. She will do exactly as I tell her.” None of the Death Eaters looked reassured by Voldemort’s words, and each stiffened nervously as the snake slithered on, winding its way around the circle between their legs. Each knew that at a whim, Voldemort could order the snake to strike.

“So, will you serve your lord once more, Macnair?” asked Voldemort. “What about you, Goyle? Or you, Avery? Crabbe? Nott? And what about you, Malfoy?

Voldemort had stopped in front of a tall Death Eater who, when he replied, spoke in the unmistakeable silky tones of Lucius Malfoy. “My lord, I have never ceased to believe in our cause, and it pains me to hide each day behind the mask I must present to the world. I gladly return to your side. But forgive me, I truly thought you were lost to us. All of us did.”

“Not all, Lucius. Some fought on, knowing I would return, and died or were imprisoned in my service. Which brings me to your old friend here…” Voldemort moved on from Malfoy to stand in of the Death Eater next to him. “Of all my former servants, I did not think that you would dare come here tonight, after your crimes,” he said, and pointed his wand at the man. “Crucio!”

The Death Eater fell and writhed on the ground in agony as Voldemort kept the Cruciatus Curse on him for several seconds. His hood and mask slipped from his head as the pain overwhelmed him. Eventually, Voldemort stopped. “Get up, Snape,” he said.

Neville gasped in shock. The Death Eater got to his feet, and it was indeed Snape. He pushed his matted greasy hair away from his face and bowed his head before his master. “Do you seek my forgiveness, Snape?” asked Voldemort. “Lord Voldemort does not forgive likely. I know what you did after I was gone. What excuse can you give for the betrayal of your friends?”

Snape looked up and almost imperceptibly raised an eyebrow. “Friends, my lord? I was not aware that we were supposed to all be friends together. My loyalty is to you alone. Like Lucius and the others, I truly believed you were gone. The Ministry were hounding us, and there was no safe place to go. I did the only thing I could, and what any true Slytherin would do. I looked after myself.

“For the price of telling the Ministry what they wanted to hear, I bought my freedom. If those I named were either foolish enough to believe they could escape, or sought noble but useless martyrdom, that was their problem. I do not regret my actions. With my freedom, I decided to obey your last order to me, and so I became a teacher at Hogwarts. I did not know you had survived until your attempt on the Philosopher’s Stone three years ago. Since then, I have eagerly awaited your return.

“I would not be so presumptuous as to ask for your forgiveness, my lord. I can offer only my loyalty and my usefulness. I am yours to do with as you see fit.”

Snape had spoken stiffly, through the pain inflicted by Voldemort’s curse, but calmly and clearly. Voldemort’s red eyes narrowed as they stared at Snape. “You speak well, as always, Snape,” he said at last, “but trust cannot so easily be earned. Are we to believe that you have spent thirteen years at the side of Albus Dumbledore and still remain loyal to us? Perhaps you are here on his orders. Perhaps he hopes you will somehow save the boy.” He gestured in Neville’s direction.

“Dumbledore does not know I am here,” replied Snape. “After all, if he did, every available Auror would be Apparating here at once. I snuck away as soon as I felt the Mark burn. As for the boy,” he turned to look at Neville for the first time, and Neville saw that his dark eyes were cold and pitiless, “kill him.”

“The boy is nothing,” Snape continued. “He is weak and talentless. He has been nothing but a hindrance in my classroom since he came to the school. To tell you the truth, I would be glad to see the back of him even if he wasn’t the so-called ‘boy-who-lived’. In fact, I will kill him myself, if you would allow me.”

Neville looked into Snape’s cold eyes in horror. He knew that Snape meant every word that he had said. Neville had always disliked and feared Snape, but he had never imagined that Snape would so casually wish him dead. How could Dumbledore have been so wrong about this man?

“That will not be necessary,” said Voldemort. “It must be me who kills the boy; I understand that now. But you are wrong about one thing, Snape. He is not nothing, pathetic though he may be. You know that better than anyone. He is a symbol. A symbol of all those who oppose me, of all those who believe they can defeat me. And so, when I take his life, they will see that resistance against me is in vain.”

He brandished his wand at Neville, and the ropes binding Neville to the tombstone were sliced through. “Get up, Neville,” snarled Voldemort. “Pick up your wand and come face me.”

Trembling, barely able to stand, Neville got to his feet and picked up his wand. He stumbled forward into the circle of Death Eaters. He did not know what he was doing; the only thought in his head was the hope that his death would be quick.

“Behold a blood traitor,” said Voldemort. “This pure-blood boy comes from an ancient line of wizards, and yet I have learned he is fascinated by Muggles and consorts with Mudbloods. The pollution of our noble blood must be fought in the heart and mind as well as in the body. We must demonstrate the superiority of our cause. Here, now, you will see not just Neville Longbottom die, but the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived die with him. This will act as a warning to all other blood traitors to repent of their mistake. Come, Neville, duel with me.”

With no idea what to do, Neville limply raised his wand, expecting the green light of the Killing Curse. But Voldemort had a mind to play with his victim first. “Crucio!” he cried, and pain shot through Neville’s body from head to toe. He screamed in agony and fell while around him the Death Eaters laughed.

When Voldemort released him, all resistance in him had gone, and instinct took over. He turned and ran, diving behind a tomb to hide. “Come out and fight, you coward!” screamed Voldemort. “Your parents at least died like the fighters they were. How do you want to die?”

At those words, Neville, cowering in terror behind the tomb, had a sudden memory. A memory of something Moody had said to him, months before.

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what were my parents like?”

“They were soldiers, my boy. Fighters on the front line. Always first into the fray and the last to retreat.”

His parents had been soldiers. They had known how to die. They understood that, no matter how inevitable the outcome, their stand mattered.

A resolve grew within Neville. He knew he had never been able to live up to his parents’ example in life. But at least he could do it in death. One last stand by the Longbottoms. He stood up.

Calmly, he walked forward to face Voldemort once more. Voldemort’s lips cracked in a mirthless smile as he pointed his wand. Neville lifted his own and cast the only spell he could think of. “Stupefy!”

“Avada Kedavra!” cried Voldemort.

The red jet of the Stunning Spell and the green light of the Killing Curse burst from their respective wands and headed for their targets. But as they approached in mid-flight, suddenly they were pulled together, crashing into one another and merging.

The spells were locked. A jet of flame connected Voldemort’s wand to Neville’s, and would not be broken apart. Angry and confused, Voldemort thrashed his arm around trying to prise away his wand, but to no avail. Neville just held on for dear life, since every second that he remained alive seemed like a miracle to him.

The Death Eaters around began to murmur in concern and some drew their wands, but Voldemort ordered them to stop. Neville looked over at Snape, the only Death Eater not wearing his mask. He had a look of utter bewilderment and surprise on his face. No one knew what was happening.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a sound grew in Neville’s ears, a gentle sound that spoke of something Neville thought had been lost forever: hope. He was sure he had heard it before, but he could not place it. The sound warmed his heart and strengthened his aching limbs, and for the first time a quiet voice spoke deep inside him: maybe all is not lost.

Voldemort’s anger and frustration that he could not break the link was visibly growing, and he seemed to be struggling with his wand. Then, there was an abrupt flash from the wand’s tip. The sound of agonised screaming began to pour from the end of the wand, filling the graveyard with its ghostly wail. There was a pause and then the screaming started again.

As it died away, the strange ethereal image of Pettigrew’s new silver hand rose up from the wand and curled around Voldemort’s head as it rose into the sky. It was followed by another, larger form. Neville was amazed to see the ghostly figure of Cedric appear, floating in the air above them. He seemed more substantial than a ghost, but less than alive, like an image in smoke. Cedric smiled down on Neville and whispered, “Hold on.”

A strange wisp of cloud came next from Voldemort’s wand and curled itself like a fog around the head of the image of Cedric, obscuring his face for a while before it faded. Next came another person, an old Muggle man that stirred a memory in Neville of a dream he had long since forgotten. Cedric and the man stood either side of Voldemort, silently watching him, and at the sight of his returned victims, for the first time Voldemort looked afraid.

The next figure to emerge was a woman, and Neville knew her at once. He had only ever seen her in pictures, but she had a face he would recognise anywhere, for it was so much like his own. It was his mother.

The spirit of Alice Longbottom floated to Neville’s side. “Keep fighting, Neville,” she urged in her soft Welsh tones. “Don’t give in now. Be strong. We’re with you.”

Neville looked again at Voldemort, and saw a last image rise from his wand: Neville’s father. Frank Longbottom, his thick hair parted in the same odd way as Neville’s, came to the other side of his son. “Just a little longer,” he said in a broad Northern brogue. “When I say, pull your wand away. When the link breaks, we’ll have a moment to distract Voldemort, and you’ll have to run. Get to the Cup as fast as possible.”

“Take my body with you, please,” begged Cedric. “Let my parents bury me.”

“Give Mad-Eye our thanks,” said Alice. “Remember, we’re always with you.”

“Are you ready?” asked Frank. Neville didn’t want to be; he wanted to stand there forever with his parents, looking into their faces, but he knew he could not. He nodded. “We fight side by side one more time,” continued Frank. “The last stand of the Longbottoms will not be in vain. Now!”

Neville pulled away his wand and the connection was broken. The four ghostly victims of Voldemort descended upon him, surrounding him in mist and smoke. Neville did not stop to look back. He ran, ran for all his life, ran as fast as his short legs could manage. He fled from the Death Eaters and the treacherous Snape, ignoring their cries and their desperately flung curses that missed wildly.

The Triwizard Cup was lying close by the body of Cedric. Neville seized Cedric’s cold hand, pulled his body forward a few inches and stretched out his other hand to touch the Cup. As his fingers made contact with the metal and he was whisked away from the graveyard, he heard Voldemort’s loud cry of anger and rage behind him.

Neville landed heavily on hard ground. The Triwizard Cup slipped from his fingers and rolled a few feet away to rest against a hedge. Neville looked up. He was back in the maze, back on Hogwarts grounds once more.

He was near the entrance; he could just make out in the distance the crowd still eagerly awaiting the outcome of the Third Task. The Triwizard Tournament felt like it had happened a century ago to Neville. In fact, he had only been away less than an hour.

His left hand still clutched hold of Cedric’s; he found that he could not let it go. Cedric’s lifeless eyes were still open and his last look of horror was still fixed upon his face. Neville could not bear to look at it. It had been his fault. But now he knew what to do. Ignoring the Triwizard Cup and leaving it to lie where it fell, he bent down, put his arm around Cedric’s chest and lifted him onto his shoulders.

The weight was almost too much for Neville to manage, but Neville didn’t care. He began to walk forward. Cedric was much taller than Neville, and his feet dragged on the ground, adding extra resistance, but Neville pressed on. He did not notice the pain he was feeling, nor the blood still seeping from the cut on his arm, nor the sweat pouring from his brow and the tears streaming down his face. All his focus was on one thing: carrying Cedric’s body out of the maze.

Slowly, he inched forward, gritting his teeth and forcing his aching, tired legs to take each small step. As he approached the entrance of the maze, the crowd caught sight of him and began to cheer, but gradually they started to fall silent as he got closer. With one last effort, he crossed the threshold of the maze and came out into the open, before collapsing to the ground.

The body of Cedric fell next to him. The world was beginning to fade in front of Neville’s eyes; pain and exhaustion were overwhelming him. He was vaguely aware of screams and cries from the crowd, and people running over to him. He felt himself being rolled onto his back, and a blurry face looked down at him. “He’s alive, Professor,” said a voice that Neville recognised as that of Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, “but he’s been badly hurt.” Neville head was pushed back and a thick, sticky liquid was poured down his throat. “What about Diggory?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead, Poppy,” said the grave voice of Professor Dumbledore. Madam Pomfrey gave a strangled cry of shock, and Neville could hear other gasps close by.

“Stay back, all of you,” Neville heard Professor McGonagall say. “Please, stay in your seats.” There was a general murmuring from the crowd as Neville felt more people crowding around him and Cedric. Suddenly, a terrible scream rent the air, a wailing cry that shook Neville as much as anything he had experienced that night. He knew what it was immediately: Mrs Diggory had seen the body of her son.

The potion, whatever it had been, was beginning to have its effect. Neville’s eyes were coming back into focus. A large group was standing or kneeling around him. The Triwizard judges were all there, along with Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. Cedric’s distraught parents were being consoled by Professor Sprout.

“How could this happen?” asked Ludo Bagman.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, examining Cedric’s body. Neville tried to speak, but could not find the energy.

“Vot do ve do, Albus?” asked Preminin.

“Minerva, who’s still out on patrol?” said Dumbledore.

“Alastor and Filius,” replied McGonagall. “I’ll go find them at once.” She left hurriedly.

“Professor, Longbottom must be taken to the hospital wing at once,” advised Pomfrey.

“Very well,” said Dumbledore. “Olympe, Alexander, look after your own students. Try to keep everyone calm. Pomona and I will deal with the body.”

“I think Ludo and I should go with you, Madam Pomfrey,” said Crouch. Dumbledore nodded. Pomfrey conjured a stretcher and laid Neville on it. “Come, Winky,” said Crouch to his house-elf.

The stretcher rose up and floated away towards the castle, past the silent spectators and across the grounds. Pomfrey, Bagman, Crouch and Winky walked alongside. Neville was still too weak and exhausted to speak. When they reached Hogwarts, Neville was taken straight up to the hospital wing.

They found the wing deserted when they got there. Pomfrey laid Neville on a bed and fetched further potions, which she made him swallow. Crouch and Bagman stood by, keeping guard. As the potions began to take effect, Neville felt his strength returning.

His voice had recovered, and he was just about to shout out a warning about Voldemort, when Crouch saw him sit up, and asked Pomfrey, “Is he going to be all right, Madam Pomfrey? Will he recover?”

“Certainly, Mr Crouch,” said Pomfrey. “He’s fine. He’ll be right as rain in a minute.”

“Very well,” said Crouch. “Winky, now!”

It happened so fast. The house-elf raised her hand and there was a bright flash. Madam Pomfrey fell to the floor. At the same time, Crouch took out his wand and, with a jet of red light, Bagman fell, Stunned. Neville sat in shock as Crouch yelled, “Winky, seal the door!” Winky turned and sent a blast at the great door of the hospital wing, which shook and seemed to expand to fill in the crack between it and the frame.

Crouch advanced on Neville on the bed, his wand pointing at Neville’s chest. The usual bored, morose expression on his face had vanished, replaced by a vicious sneer, and he was moving with a quick eagerness quite unlike his usual slow, middle-aged gait. “How did you survive?” he demanded.

He seized Neville’s arm and pulled back the sleeve to reveal the bloody gash made by Pettigrew’s knife. “It worked, didn’t it?” he said with excitement. “I felt the Dark Mark burn. It has happened. The Dark Lord has returned.”

Neville stared into Crouch’s wild eyes and, slowly, terrible realisation began to dawn on his face. He remembered Voldemort’s words about his “faithful servant” who had ensured Neville would be delivered to him. “I-it was you?” he stammered. “Y-you put my name in the Goblet?”

Crouch snorted. “That bit was simple. As an organiser of the Tournament, I had easy access to the Goblet of Fire, and all that was needed was a Confundus Charm and a scrap of parchment. No, the really hard part has been making sure you won the Tournament and touched that Cup. We needed to get you out of Hogwarts, away from its protective charms and the watchful eye of Dumbledore. The Triwizard Cup was the only way of getting a Portkey onto the grounds. Again, as an organiser, I could take care of that.

“But it was obvious to me from the start you did not have the talent to win, even with Mad-Eye’s coaching. Oh yes, I know about that; I have kept a discreet close eye on you all year. I was happy to turn a blind eye to Dumbledore’s bending of the rules, as it suited my purposes. But you were going to need help to succeed. Fortunately, I had the perfect ally.”

He waved an arm in the direction of Winky, who was standing keeping watch on the sealed door. “Few wizards acknowledge it, but house-elf magic is remarkably powerful, and not bound by as many limitations as our own. As a judge, I was in no position to use magic to help you, but Winky was. She could be hidden away out of sight, ready to step in whenever needed.

“It was Winky who pushed you away from the dragon’s claws in the First Task. It was she who drove the grindylows away from you. Tonight, I let her loose in the maze to eliminate your opponents. Although she only took out Krum and Delacour, it seems it was enough. It is incredible what a house-elf can do if you give it the right orders. She has done everything I asked of her, even ensuring I had the regular… supplies I needed. We have always been close, Winky and I.”

Neville sat paralysed in fear and shock. His wand was in the right-hand pocket of his robes, but he did not dare go for it, not with Crouch standing right over him. The mad glint in Crouch’s eye was getting brighter. “Master, it is about time for your potion,” Winky called over.

“Not now, Winky,” said Crouch. “Bigger things are at hand. The Dark Lord is among us once more. How much of an honour it must have been, Longbottom, to be the first to see him return. Did the others come to him?” Neville nodded feebly. “The cowards came crawling back to him then, to beg forgiveness. None of them stayed loyal when he fell. They all fled, or hid, or turned traitor. I remember how they all scattered in fear when I sent the Dark Mark into the sky at the Quidditch World Cup. None of them truly believe in him. But I do. I never gave up my faith.

“And now, I have the chance to become the greatest of his servants. I have already ensured his return. Now, I have the Boy-Who-Lived himself in my power. Somehow, you escaped the Dark Lord’s clutches. And you came all the way back here… right to me. Fortune smiles upon me. How the Dark Lord will reward me for ridding him of his one loose end. Goodbye, Neville Longbottom.”

Crouch levelled his wand, but at that moment there was an almighty explosion. In a blast of light and flame, the door to the hospital wing was blown inwards, shattering into pieces and knocking Winky to the ground.

As the dust cleared and the light faded away, Neville saw a single small figure standing in the doorway. Its right hand was outstretched and it was wearing nothing but a thin, dirty rag, a pair of red, woollen socks and a pair of brightly polished black shoes. “You will not harm Neville Longbottom!” cried Dobby.

Dobby charged through the doorway and bore down on Winky. Winky got back to her feet and aimed a spell back at Dobby, which he blocked. The air between the two house-elves began crackle with energy, and flashes and sparks spilled out across the hospital wing. This was a house-elves’ duel, and Neville had never seen anything like it before. Raw magic was pouring out of both elves in a ferocious battle of power and force. It seemed to Neville they would not stop until they had torn the whole room apart in their struggle.

Crouch, astonished by the sudden turn of events, turned to help Winky, but at that moment, another larger figure came crashing into the room. Mad-Eye Moody had a look of ferocity on his face such as Neville had never seen. Crouch aimed a jinx at him, but he deflected it with ease and the two wizards began to duel.

There was no contest to the duel. Crouch was completely overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught of Moody. The former Auror defeated his opponent with ease, and pinned him down to another of the beds. Winky, seeing her master fall, was distracted for a brief moment, and Dobby, with one last huge effort, blasted Winky back against the wall, where she fell, unconscious.

“Great work, lad,” said Moody to Dobby. Dobby merely nodded, and ran to check Neville was unhurt. Neville barely had a chance to stammer out a thank you to his rescuers, when Professor Dumbledore swept into the room.

Ignoring the wreckage and the unconscious figures strewn across the hospital wing, Dumbledore went straight to Neville. “Neville, are you all right? As soon as we found Professor Moody Stunned, we knew something was wrong,” he said. There was genuine worry in his usually calm expression.

“I came as soon as I was revived,” stated Moody, “but it seems this house-elf was here before me.”

“Dobby overheard voices; he knew you were in trouble,” Dobby explained. “Dobby would not let anything happen to Neville Longbottom.”

“I-I’m all right,” said Neville, unconvincingly. “Professor, it was him, it was Mr Crouch…”

“Oh, I don’t think that is Barty Crouch, Neville,” said Dumbledore.

Crouch, still pinned down under Moody’s spell, began to laugh. “Oh, but I am, Dumbledore,” he said in between his crazed giggles. “I really am. All this time and you do not see.”

“What do you mean?” snarled Moody, his magical eye looking Crouch up and down.

Crouch looked down at his right hand and felt his fingertips with his thumb. “If you wait just a couple of minutes, I think you’ll find out,” he said with another chuckle.

“We don’t have time for this,” growled Moody.

Dumbledore raised a hand, “No, Alastor, we will wait.” Moody stayed watching Crouch, while Dumbledore checked on the health of the other people in the room. Bagman and Pomfrey were quickly revived. Dobby stood guard over the prone form of Winky.

Suddenly, Crouch began to spasm and convulse. As Neville watched, Crouch’s body twisted and contorted, changing its shape. Wrinkles were smoothed out, the moustache faded away and the hair turned from grey to sandy blonde. It was as if thirty years had been stripped away from him.

Moody’s natural eye widened. “Barty Crouch, Junior. You’re supposed to be dead.”

The younger Crouch smiled. “When my father condemned me to Azkaban, my mother, the only person who truly cared about me, begged for my reprieve. She was already dying, and in the end, with the simple aid of Polyjuice Potion, she took my place. Not that my father kept his side of the bargain. He kept me locked up for years at his house, under the Imperius Curse. Winky was my only companion. But, at last, the Dark Lord secured my freedom, to return to his service.”

“Where is your father?” asked Dumbledore.

“Dead!” Crouch spat. “Dead and good riddance! I hated him! I took just what I needed from him, enough to make the Polyjuice Potion I needed to take his place, and then I killed him. I have endured his decrepit shell for months, and I am glad to be rid of it. The last of my father is gone.”

“So that’s why you were always taking drinks from your house-elf,” muttered Moody. “I should have realised you were not just following my cautious example.”

“But what have you done, Barty?” said Dumbledore. “What have you done?”

In answer, Barty Crouch, Junior rolled up his left sleeve. There, etched into the skin, was the Dark Mark. It was thick and jet black and stretched right across his forearm. “It burns,” Crouch said with glee, “and the fire stirs my soul. You understand what this means, don’t you, Dumbledore? He has returned.”

The face of Dumbledore turned ashen grey. “I’m sorry, sir,” said Neville, and his tears began to flow again. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. He’s back.”

The revelation of Voldemort’s return hung in silence over the hospital wing for a few seconds. Then, Dumbledore sprang into action and began giving orders. “Alastor, take Barty and his house-elf and secure them in your office. Then go and round up the other members of staff and have them meet in the staff common room as soon as possible. Ensure all the students are safely in their dormitories. You’d better ask Maxime and Preminin to join you as well. Dobby, go with Professor Moody and stand guard over the prisoners. Ludo, please contact the Ministry at once, although I’m sure Fudge will have heard and will be on his way here already. We haven’t much time in which to act.”

Moody, Dobby and Bagman set about their orders immediately. When they had gone, taking Crouch and Winky with them, only Neville, Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey remained behind. Dumbledore came and sat on the end of Neville’s bed. Neville was still sobbing, his head in his hands. “Neville,” said Dumbledore softly, “I know this is hard, and you’ve been through so much already, but I must ask you to tell me everything that happened. Start from the very beginning.”

Slowly, haltingly, Neville told Dumbledore about his journey through the maze, about Cedric touching the Cup and his disappearance and return, and how Cedric had taken him back to the Cup and on to the graveyard. But when he got to the point where Pettigrew had appeared, he found he could not go on, and Dumbledore had to gently coax what happened next out of him, bit by bit: the murder of Cedric and the gruesome potion that had restored Voldemort’s body.

Dumbledore examined the cut on Neville’s arm while Madam Pomfrey attended to it. “He took your blood,” he murmured.

“Y-yes,” stuttered Neville, “H-he said it would break my protection against him.”

The faintest smile creased across Dumbledore’s lips. “He was right, in a way. That’s why he wanted you, Neville. He wanted your blood, the blood that carries your mother’s protection, so that he could overcome it. But does he understand what he has done?”

Neville had no answer to Dumbledore’s odd question, and Dumbledore did not offer one himself. Instead he continued, “Tell me what happened next, Neville. He would have summoned his Death Eaters, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes. Th-they all came, even…” But at that moment, Neville was interrupted by loud, angry shouts from outside the hospital wing. Neville and Dumbledore looked up to see none other than Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, storm into the room, closely followed by Moody.

“Ah, Dumbledore, they said I would find you here,” said Fudge. He looked panicked and flustered, and was out of breath.

“Headmaster, do you know what this idiot has done?” yelled Moody furiously.

“I beg your pardon?” said a shocked Fudge. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

“Yeah, a spineless, short-sighted, bureaucratic idiot,” replied Moody, who always said exactly what he meant. “Headmaster, I was down in the Entrance Hall when this fool comes barging in, demanding to see the prisoner. Well, I could hardly refuse him, so I told him where my office was, but then I discovered he’d brought a Dementor with him.

It was Dumbledore’s turn to be angry. “A Dementor, in my school?”

“He went straight up there, pushed that house-elf out of the way, and went in. The Dementor got one look at Crouch and went straight for him. It had sucked out the man’s soul before I could raise a wand to stop it.”

“I do not see your problem,” said Fudge. “I have received a full report of what happened here, and I acted as appropriate. Crouch’s guilt was obvious, as was the fact that he was clearly under the influence or orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I must see that justice is done.”

“Justice?” said Dumbledore incredulously. “Where was the man’s fair trial, or his chance to speak in his own defence? What of the opportunity to question him, to see what he knows? What did you do with his house-elf? Bring her down here at once.”

Fudge shifted uncomfortably. “The house-elf was obviously deranged, given its actions. In the interests of safety, I had it put down.”

For a moment, Dumbledore was almost speechless with fury. “Put down? You mean, you killed her? Have you no humanity, Cornelius? House-elves are bound to obey their master’s orders, you know that. She had no choice, whatever her own feelings may have been. She too deserved the right to be heard, the same right that Crouch had.

“Not only have your actions been morally reprehensible, but you may have just thrown away our greatest assets, Cornelius. Whatever report you have received, it could not have been in any way full. Crouch was indeed working for Voldemort. And his plan succeeded. Voldemort has returned to power.”

“What?” spluttered Fudge, and he staggered a little and had to support himself on the end of one of the beds. “What nonsense are you talking about, Dumbledore?”

“Voldemort has returned,” repeated Dumbledore. “This very night, he captured Neville and used him to restore his body. He is even now regathering his forces. We must act quickly and decisively.”

“No, no,” stammered Fudge. “He can’t be… it’s not possible… he’s not. You can’t know that, Dumbledore. Where’s the evidence? Where’s the proof? Don’t you understand, he just can’t be back, he just can’t be.”

“You yourself have disposed of some of the best evidence we have, Cornelius. Fortunately, Neville here was stubborn enough to escape Voldemort’s clutches and warn us all.”

“It’s true, sir,” said Neville. “I was there. I saw him.”

“Nonsense,” said Fudge. He pulled his bowler hat from his head and mopped his brow. “The boy is traumatised, he’s been through so much, he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He just thinks he saw things. Is this some plot of yours, Dumbledore?”

“Cornelius, you are not thinking rationally,” said Dumbledore calmly. “You must listen to Neville; you will see that he speaks the truth. Neville was just about to tell me about the Death Eaters that Voldemort summoned to him, weren’t you Neville?”

“They w-were all in black robes and masks,” said Neville. “I didn’t see their faces, but he called them by name.” Neville struggled to remember the names. “There was Crabbe and Goyle, and an Avery and a Macnair…”

“These are just names of former accused Death Eaters,” countered Fudge. “They were all exonerated.”

“And Lucius Malfoy was there too,” continued Neville. “And… and Professor Snape.”

At the mention of Snape’s name, for a moment, the calm, self-assured bearing of Dumbledore collapsed completely. He turned to look straight at Neville, and his face was white. “Snape?” he said, in a panicked voice. “Did you say Snape?” The sudden change in Dumbledore’s manner quite unnerved Neville, who just nodded. “Snape, no…” Dumbledore muttered to himself.

“I warned you about Snape, Headmaster,” pointed out Moody. Dumbledore did not reply. His eyes were half-closed; Neville could tell his mind was working furiously.

“I won’t believe it,” said Fudge, but Dumbledore was now hardly listening to him. “I won’t accept it. He isn’t back. Do you understand, Dumbledore? He is not back.”

Dumbledore finally looked up at him. “If you will not see reason, Cornelius, then I would ask you to leave. I have work to do, and if you will not help me, then at least don’t get in my way.” Fudge glared angrily at Dumbledore, and then turned and marched silently out of the hospital wing.

Dumbledore did not watch him go, but looked back at Neville. “Neville, you must finish your story. Please. Tell me everything.”

Exhausted and numb with shock, Neville struggled to continue his story, while Dumbledore listened in silence. He managed to get as far as the moment that his and Voldemort’s spells connected, but he found it impossible to describe, let alone explain what happened next.

Dumbledore understood, though. “Priori Incantatem,” he said. “Do you remember when you first bought your wand, that Ollivander told you it shared a core with Voldemort’s wand?” Neville nodded. “A tail feather from the same phoenix. My phoenix, Fawkes, as it happens. Ollivander informed me of your purchase at once. You see, Priori Incantatem is a curious side-effect of wand construction. When two wands with such identical cores do battle, they become locked, and one of the wands is forced to regurgitate its most recent spells, in reverse order. Cedric reappeared, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Neville. “And another man. And… my parents.”

Dumbledore peered closely at Neville over the top of his spectacles. “The dead cannot return, Neville, but they leave an imprint upon the earth that they have left, and that imprint can always be found, if we look hard enough within ourselves. Thank you, Neville. Your courage and endurance have been remarkable. Sleep now, and forget your troubles for a while. Madam Pomfrey, a sleeping potion for Neville, if you would be so kind.”

While Pomfrey was off fetching the potion, Dumbledore turned to Moody. “Alastor,” he said, “the Order must be reformed.”

“I thought you might say that,” replied Moody. “You know, this means the end of my time here. But then, I wasn’t planning on staying anyway. I’ll start rounding up the old faces.”

“Go first to Sirius Black,” said Dumbledore. “Tell him that I told you to ask about a friend staying at his old family home. He will explain everything.” Moody nodded and, without a further word, hurried off.

Madam Pomfrey returned with the sleeping potion and Neville swallowed it gratefully. As he started to drift off to sleep, he heard Dumbledore say quietly, “You know, Professor Trelawney was right. The end of the beginning is indeed at hand.”

“The end of the beginning of what?” asked Neville with a yawn.

“You,” Dumbledore answered simply, as Neville drifted away into a welcome sleep.

* * *

A solemn quiet lay over Hogwarts in the last few days of the school year. Students and teachers alike wandered the corridors, not saying a word to each other. It was as if an enchantment of silence had been placed on the whole castle. Everybody waited to see what would happen next.

Dumbledore had barely left his office since the fateful night of the Third Task. Professor Moody had not been seen inside the school at all. Nor had Professor Snape. In the absence of any solid facts, dozens of whispered wild rumours had spread through the common rooms, but separating fact from fiction was impossible.

As for Neville Longbottom, after spending a night and a day in the hospital wing, he had returned to his dormitory, from where he had refused to step outside, not even for meals. His friends had been forced to bring food to him, and beg him to eat. Hermione, Ginny, Harry, Ron, each had tried to get him to talk about what had happened, without success. His Gran, perhaps understanding him best of all, had returned home without speaking to him, though not before a long and reportedly frank conversation with Dumbledore.

Neville sat for long periods on his bed, rolling his Remembrall around in his hands and staring into it, but the smoke inside remained defiantly white. He fought the urge to hurl it at the wall, to smash it to pieces. He desperately wanted to forget. But, for once, he couldn’t. He could never be rid of the memories of that night, and the look on Cedric’s face the moment before the Killing Curse struck haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

It was only on the last day before the Hogwarts Express would depart that Neville was finally persuaded to leave Gryffindor Tower. Ron and Ginny came to his room and told him that Professor McGonagall had asked them to ensure that Neville was present for the Leaving Feast that evening. Apparently Dumbledore wanted every student to be there. Reluctantly, Neville agreed.

The Gryffindor common room fell completely silent as he came into it that evening. Everybody turned to look at him, and Neville kept his eyes downwards to avoid meeting any of their stares. He was met by Ginny, who gave him a long hug, and took his arm and led him out of the portrait hole and down the long staircase to the Great Hall.

The hall was packed out as Neville entered, and more were still streaming in. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students were all there too. Viktor Krum, sporting a large bruise on his forehead, nodded briefly to him as he passed. He could see Fleur Delacour talking happily with her friends further down the hall.

Ginny and Neville squeezed into a space between Hermione and the Marauders on the Gryffindor table. Everyone knew better than to ask Neville, “How are you?” so they all just talked of normal things, such as how the end-of-year exams went, or what they were all doing over the summer, or the Marauders’ latest schemes. Neville listened politely, but did not join in the conversations.

He looked up at the teachers’ table. All the professors were there, as well as Maxime and Preminin. Moody had even returned, and was sat at one end looking tired and nervous. The only teacher that was missing was Snape. Neville reflected that Snape’s return to the Death Eaters would at least mean he would be spared any further Potions lessons with him. He wondered what had happened to Snape, and the hope came to him that perhaps Voldemort would finally decide to kill him in punishment for his earlier treachery. Neville hoped never to hear of Severus Snape again.

The feast was excellent, as usual, though the mood in the hall was sombre. At the feast’s end, Dumbledore rose to speak. “If I might beg your attention to say a few words before you each return to your common rooms,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “Firstly, I have one announcement to make. I regret to inform you that Professor Moody will not be returning to teach at Hogwarts next year. He has given exemplary service to this school over the past year, but has decided to move on, to take up other important projects. He will be greatly missed.” There was a mixed, but largely disappointed reaction amongst the students to the news.

“And now, to the matter that has occupied all our thoughts these past few days,” Dumbledore continued. “We meet at a time of great sorrow and loss. Many of you were privileged to know Cedric Diggory personally; to others he was just a name, or a face seen from a distance. Yet we all feel his absence, because Cedric Diggory embodied Hogwarts itself. He was not just a talented student, a skilled Quidditch player and our Triwizard representative, no, more important than that, he demonstrated the personal qualities on which this school was founded: bravery, intelligence, wit, wisdom, as well as the abundance of loyalty and dedication that made him a true Hufflepuff.

“Many of you have been speculating as to how he died, I know. There are those who would rather you didn’t know, who would prefer that the truth remain hidden or confused. That cannot be permitted. The fact is, Cedric Diggory was murdered on the orders of Lord Voldemort. Our greatest enemy has returned, and his first act was to senselessly take the life of this brave boy, whose only fault was that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It is important the truth is known, for without it, his death would have been in vain.

“At the beginning of this year, the Sorting Hat warned of darkness coming. Well, now the darkness has arrived. It also urged us to pull together, to stand united as one. We now have this opportunity. Here we are, gathered with friends from other lands, people we have welcomed among us, and who have been generous in returning that welcome all year. Let us take this opportunity to strengthen these ties of friendship, to bind ourselves together in common cause. Together we must form Hogwarts into a community of one; each house, each individual dedicated to upholding all the virtues on which this school was founded, and in which Cedric Diggory believed. That is the true way in which to celebrate his life, and honour his memory.

“The times ahead will be hard, and difficult choices will have to be made, but if we each hold the example of Cedric in our hearts, then we will stand firm, and do what is right. That is his greatest legacy to us. If we cherish that legacy, we will never forget him.”

* * *

The next morning, his suitcase packed, Neville joined the other students outside the main doors of the castle, waiting for the carriages to take them to Hogsmeade station. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students were leaving too, and were making their goodbyes. Neville noticed Ron’s sour glare at the length of the embrace and subsequent parting conversation between Hermione and Viktor. When Viktor left and Hermione came over to the other Gryffindors, Ron tried to find out what they had said to each other, but Hermione wouldn’t tell him.

Neville used the wait to properly say goodbye to Ginny. They promised to write to each other as often as possible, and talked of the possibility of Neville visiting the Burrow over the summer. When Ginny kissed him, Neville glanced over at Ron, but, unlike with Hermione and Viktor, this time he seemed unconcerned. Perhaps he had got over his dislike of the two of them together, or else he had decided to go easy on Neville. Neville didn’t know which it was.

He spotted Professor Moody standing by the doors, keeping watch over the students. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said to Ginny, and hurried over to Moody. “Do you really have to leave, sir?” he asked him.

“I’m afraid so, Neville,” replied Moody. “There’s a war coming, and I’m a soldier. I’m needed elsewhere. But don’t worry; I have a feeling we’ll still be seeing a lot of each other in the years ahead.”

“Um, sir, one more thing. You heard me say how my parents appeared in the graveyard? Well, they, er, asked me to thank you from them.”

Neville was surprised to see the glistening of a tear in Moody’s one natural eye. “It was my pleasure, Neville. I can only apologise for not keeping my promise. I failed to protect you. I should have reacted more quickly in the maze.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” said Neville, and he believed it. Things had to happen the way they did that night, and the only person to blame was himself. “Goodbye, Professor, until next time.”

“Goodbye, Neville. Remember, constant vigilance.”

Neville walked back to Ginny. “He was nuts, but he was all right, wasn’t he?” said Ginny.

“He was the best teacher I’ve ever had,” replied Neville. “I’ll miss him.”

The carriages arrived, pulled again by the strange winged horses, and everybody climbed aboard. Neville and Ginny got into one of the last carriages with Hermione, Harry and Ron. Harry was glancing at a copy of the Daily Prophet. “Anything in there?” Hermione asked. “You know, about…”

“Not a thing,” said Harry. “Weird. They’re keeping it all very hushed-up.”

“At least they’ve stopped writing stupid stories about you, Neville,” observed Ron.

“Oh, I don’t think we need to worry about that any more,” said Hermione, and took something out of the pocket of her robes. It was a small jar, inside which a large beetle was scurrying around furiously. Seeing everyone’s confused expressions, she added, “I’ll explain it all when we get on the train.”

The carriage began to move off. Neville glanced back at the entrance to the castle. It was deserted now, except for a single solitary figure standing in the doorway. It was Dumbledore, apparently come watch his students depart. Except, Neville noticed, he wasn’t looking in the direction of the carriages, but off to the side, vaguely in the direction of the Whomping Willow and the Forbidden Forest.

Neville followed Dumbledore’s eyes, and saw another figure approaching the castle from the way Dumbledore was looking. Neville saw Dumbledore wave a greeting to the man; apparently he had been expecting him. As the man got closer to Dumbledore, Neville, rapidly being pulled away from them down the road, strained to try and make out who the man was.

Suddenly, he shouted, “No!” a cry which made everyone else in carriage jump. “No!” he yelled again. He had seen who the man was. It was Snape.

Neville stared in disbelief as Snape, the man who had openly rejoined the Death Eaters, the man who had been prepared to kill Neville himself or watch him die, reached Dumbledore, who looked to be greeting him warmly. What is Dumbledore doing? thought Neville. I told him everything that happened. Why would he possibly welcome back such a man? He remembered Dumbledore’s shocked reaction to hearing that Snape had been present in the graveyard. What had changed since then?

The two men stood talking for a moment in the doorway. Neville wanted to get off the carriage, to run back and warn Dumbledore, to stop him making such a terrible mistake, but it was too late. Neville saw Dumbledore usher Snape over the threshold into Hogwarts, just as the carriage turned a corner in the road and the castle passed out of sight.