It was a beautiful summer afternoon in the ordinary little village of Huddlesby. Robert Ashcroft was walking up Preston Road, towards the fields at the far end of the village, kicking his football as he went.

Robert was fourteen years old, and currently in the middle of the long summer break between his third and fourth years at the local comprehensive. Huddlesby being a somewhat remote village, “local” in this case meant the outskirts of Blackburn, over half an hour’s bus ride away. Nearly all his friends lived far closer to the school than he did, either in Blackburn or close by, which meant that come the holidays, he almost always found himself alone.

Living in Huddlesby was a frustrating experience for Robert. One the one hand, it was peaceful and relaxed; he could happily walk the streets alone and play in the open fields. But that was it; there was nothing else to do in the village. Usually he got so bored by the end of the summer that he was desperate for school to start again.

Robert’s one greatest passion was football. Every break time at school he would try and gather his friends into a game. He played for the school team, as an aggressive centre-forward, like his hero, Blackburn Rovers’ Alan Shearer. Rovers had won the league last season for the first time in over eighty years, and Robert had been wearing his beloved Shearer number 9 replica shirt virtually every day of the summer. His mother was getting sick and tired of having to wash it so often.

The trouble was, there was virtually no other boy his age in the village, so outside of school he had no one he could play with. He was forced to practise by himself, using a wall or a hedge as a makeshift goal, and pretending he had opponents facing him. It was hardly the same, but it was the only option he had.

On this particular day, he was heading out to the far eastern end of the village, where he planned to play in one of the fields. He tended not to use the same field every day, in case one of the farmers caught him and chased him off. He walked slowly down the road, taking time to enjoy the warm sunshine. It had been a belting hot summer, and even Robert had been forced to stay inside in the middle of the day. But now, as the afternoon wore on, the temperature was more manageable.

The last house on Preston Road, at the very edge of the village, stood a little separate from the other houses. It was a dilapidated old building, quite out of keeping with the rest of the well-kept village. The front garden was overgrown with tall grass and weeds, and there were several tiles missing from the roof. Robert looked up at it as he approached. He thought that the whole place looked like it might fall down at any minute.

The house belonged to some batty old woman, Robert remembered, who kept herself to herself and was rarely seen around the village. She was by no means the only elderly woman living alone in Huddlesby, but from what Robert had been told, she was regarded as something of an oddity. Robert had never met her, and had no particular wish to.

There was a ginger cat sitting on the low wall that ringed the front garden. It flinched slightly as Robert passed, but returned to its sedentary position. Robert kicked his football on past the house’s front gate. He glanced up and stopped in surprise. Sitting under the window to the right of the front door, leaning against the wall, his head barely visible above the long grass, was a teenage boy.

He looked about Robert’s age. His clothes were scruffy and ill-fitting; they seemed too long for him, as if meant for someone taller. He had a mop of dark hair and a round face and, Robert could just make out, there seemed to be an odd-shaped scar on his forehead. His head was down, and the expression on his face was blank as he stared at the ground in front of him.

“Er, hi,” said Robert, but the boy didn’t reply. He didn’t even seem to have noticed that Robert was there. “Hello?” said Robert again. “Are you all right?”

At last, slowly, the boy looked up. There was a redness around his eyes, but he didn’t seem to have been crying. “Oh, hi,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Have you been hurt or something?” asked Robert, pointing to his forehead.

The boy’s hand went to his own forehead and touched the scar there gingerly. “I’m fine,” he replied unconvincingly.

The boy didn’t seem particularly eager to engage in conversation, but Robert was not going to pass up the opportunity to talk to someone his own age. “I’m Robert, by the way.”

“Er, Neville. Neville Longbottom.”

“Do you live here? I thought an old woman lived in this house.”

“Yeah. She’s my grandmother. She’s out shopping at the moment.”

“Your grandmother? What happened to your parents?”

“They’re dead,” Neville answered simply.

Robert shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Oh, um, sorry,” he mumbled. Then, to change the subject, he asked, “What are you doing sitting there in your garden?”

“Thinking.”

The reply surprised Robert. “Do you have a lot to think about, then?”

“More than you could imagine,” said Neville. There was something in the way he said it that made Robert shiver, as if the words were spoken by someone far older. Robert got the feeling this was no ordinary boy of his age.

There was a brief silence, and then Robert eventually said, “Well, you look like you could do with taking your mind off things. Do you like football?” He chipped the ball at his feet up into his hands and showed it to Neville over the garden wall.

Neville looked quizzically at the ball. “Oh, football,” he said. “A friend of mine at school taught me how to play that.” That seemed to Robert to be a very strange thing to say. “No thanks. I’d rather just sit here alone.”

“Oh, come on. You must be totally bored here on your own. I know I am in this dull little village. Just for a few minutes. We’ll only be over the road. What do you say?”

Neville thought for a moment. “Oh, all right,” he said at last. “I’d rather be in your world at the moment than mine, anyway.”

“You do say some odd things, Neville. Come on, then.” Robert carried his ball across Preston Road to the field opposite Neville’s house. Neville got up and followed behind. They climbed over a gate and entered the field. Unnoticed by either of them, the ginger cat got up from its position on the garden wall and followed them.

Neville proved to be a very poor footballer; he was clumsy and awkward and found it difficult to control the ball. Robert eventually put him in goal instead, against the hedge and between two sticks he pushed into the ground. He turned out to be a slightly better goalkeeper, saving one or two of Robert’s penalties, but was not very athletic. Although he didn’t seem to be particularly enjoying himself, he seemed to be a lot less miserable than he had been.

As they played, Robert tried to find out a bit about Neville, but he was a very quiet and reserved boy, and didn’t seem prepared to share much. From what he would say, Robert gathered Neville was a year older than him and went to a boarding school, but he didn’t say where. Like Robert, he was fed up of being out of touch with his friends over the summer, but there seemed more to it than that, like he was waiting on news of something. He said nothing about how he got his scar.

“These summer holidays really drag on, don’t they?” observed Robert, as he lined up a free kick from twenty yards out. “Almost makes you grateful for school. Is yours a good school?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” replied Neville. “I don’t know how I’d cope without it.”

“See if you can stop this.” Robert took a short run-up and struck the free kick hard. The ball sailed up high over Neville’s outstretched hand, over the hedge, and Robert heard it bouncing across the road on the other side. “Oops, sorry, my fault. I’ll get it,” he said.

“No, I’ll go,” said Neville and headed over towards the gate. He went to climb back over it, but as he did so he looked up for a moment as if he’d heard something, lost his footing on the top rung of the gate, and fell backwards to the ground.

Robert rushed over to him. “Neville, are you all right?” he asked. Neville was flat out on the ground, breathing heavily. His eyes were open, but he was staring up past Robert with a strange look on his face. “What are you looking…” Robert stopped mid-sentence. “Is it me, or has it suddenly got really cold?”

An odd chill had come over him. Robert looked up into the previously clear sky, which seemed to be darkening and clouding over by the second. Neville began desperately trying to get to his feet. “Run!” he yelled inexplicably. “Just run!”

He pushed Robert forward and Robert, confused and strangely numb from the cold, started running, along the line of the hedge parallel with the road on the other side. He looked back, and Neville was sprinting behind him, continually looking over his shoulder and struggling to pull something out of the pocket of his jacket. But there was nothing behind them. They seemed to be running away from thin air. And yet, Robert got the strangest feeling there was something following them, like an invisible mist or shadow coming nearer.

He was about to shout back to Neville to stop, to ask him what was happening, when, not looking where he was going, he stumbled on an uneven patch of ground and tripped himself up. He rolled over and over on the grass and when he stopped, he was looking up. At first he thought he must have hit his head, because he could see nothing, only blackness. But he was unhurt; rather, all the light around him had faded away.

The chill that had come over him deepened, and it seemed to gnaw at his insides. He felt alone, alone and hopeless, trapped in the darkness, and he didn’t know why he felt that way. As he seemed to fall deeper and deeper into the dark, he heard himself crying, yelling out for his father…

He was seven years old, and his dad had taken him to see Blackburn Rovers play in the FA Cup. But as they had come out of the stadium, somehow they had got separated, and he’d spent what seemed like hours amongst the strange crowd, desperately searching for him. He thought he’d never see him again…

“Expecto… Expecto Patronum!” A voice crying strange words pulled him back from his memory, and he realised the voice was Neville’s. “Come on, work! Expecto Patronum!”

A flash of light swept over Robert and the fog cleared from in front of his eyes. He could feel his arms and legs again. Pulling his head up, he saw a strange ball of light hovering in mid-air a few yards away. It slowly faded away.

“No!” yelled Neville, and Robert turned to see that he was on his knees, holding a carved wooden stick like a conductor’s baton in his outstretched hand. “That’s all I can manage, and it won’t hold them. I don’t think I can do it again. Let’s go!”

But Robert found it difficult to get up, and he could feel the darkness creeping up on him again. He half rose, but his legs felt weak.

At that moment, behind Neville, Robert saw a man scrambling over the gate into the field. He was short and squat, with bandy legs. He was dressed in a dirty overcoat and the whole look of him was seedy and down-at-heel. Breathing heavily with the exertion, he ran in their direction and raised another baton like the one Neville had. “Expecto Patronum!” he cried.

To Robert’s astonishment, the silvery image of a small dog leapt from the tip of the baton and charged past Robert. It stopped a few yards beyond him, and looked to be silently barking at thin air. The air seemed to clear and warmth returned to Robert. He looked up at Neville and the man, open mouthed.

Neville, still on his knees and visibly shaking, also stared up at the newcomer. “Thank you,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Mundungus Fletcher at your service, sir,” said the man in a broad Cockney accent. Seeing that Neville’s face was still blank, he continued, “No time to explain, let’s get out of here.” He pulled Neville to his feet and looked over at Robert. “Ruddy ’ell, is that a Muggle? That’s all we need, a Muggle mixed up in this.” He walked over to Robert and offered his hand. He smelt distinctively of tobacco. “Come on, lad,” he said. “I ain’t gonna ’urt you, trust me. We need to get inside before any more of those ruddy things turn up.”

Robert accepted Fletcher’s hand and stood up. He found his Blackburn Rovers shirt was torn along the right side seam, but he was physically unhurt. So many questions were buzzing through his bewildered mind, but he asked the most pressing one. “What… what just happened?”

“Time enough for that later. Come on.” Fletcher led Robert and Neville back down along the hedge towards the gate. Both boys were trembling and stumbled along. Fletcher kept looking behind him nervously. When they got to the gate, an elderly woman with a ginger cat at her side was waiting for them. “Got ’em, Figgy,” said Fletcher.

“Where the hell were you, Dung?” shrieked the woman, who looked familiar to Robert. “You were supposed to be keeping watch! We have a Dementor attack, and it’s five minutes before you show up! You’re lucky Mr Paws here found you. Where were you, taking the opportunity to raid some poor Muggle’s house?”

“I was not!” retorted an indignant Fletcher. “I, er, dozed off.”

“Dozed off? Dozed off?” The woman’s voice reached an earsplitting pitch. She lifted her handbag and whacked Fletcher over the head. “Neville Longbottom nearly has his soul sucked out and you dozed off?”

“I got ’ere, didn’t I?” said Fletcher.

“Eventually! And, you know, I’m surprised that awful mongrel Patronus of yours can even drive off Dementors.”

“My Patronus is a terrier,” protested Fletcher.

“It’s a mongrel, and you know it, Dung,” said the woman. “But never mind that now. You, Neville, where’s your grandmother?”

“D-Diagon Alley,” replied Neville.

“Right. You, Dung, get to Diagon Alley and tell Mrs Longbottom. Then find Dumbledore and inform him. I’ll deal with the boys. Go on, get going!” Fletcher nodded glumly, turned slightly on the spot and vanished with a loud "crack". Robert jumped and stared at the space where Fletcher had been in disbelief. The woman shook her head. “Muggles. This is not going to be good. Come on, let’s get inside.”

They crossed the road to Neville’s house. At the gate, Robert noticed his football, which had rolled up against the wall close by. He reached down and grabbed it, clutching it tightly as one familiar thing amidst the sea of craziness that seemed to be happening.

The inside of Neville’s house was much cleaner and tidier than the outside. They walked along a hallway and into a large kitchen, where Neville and Robert slumped into wooden chairs at the table. Neville looked to be even worse off than Robert; he was wide-eyed and still twitching.

Robert looked up at the elderly woman. “I know you,” he said. “You’re Mrs Figg, the woman with the cats who lives down the road.”

“That I am,” said Mrs Figg, whose cat had curled up by the stove and seemed fast asleep. “I expect you’re feeling mighty confused at this point, eh, boy?”

“I didn’t know there was another witch living in the village,” said Neville.

“I’m a Squib, actually,” replied Mrs Figg. “Your Gran knows about me, but we never told you. I moved here shortly after you did as a baby. Dumbledore thought it a good idea to have someone close by who wouldn’t attract attention, who could keep an eye on the family. At first, your Gran and Granddad didn’t tell you because they were trying to shield you from wizarding society. But after he died and you went off to school, it was more a case of letting me get on with my life. Not that any of us can do that any more, of course, with You-Know-Who back.”

“Sorry,” interrupted Robert, “but did you just say witch? And wizard?”

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Figg, shaking her head again. “Look, whatever your name is, I’ll give you the short version, because it won’t matter anyway and we’ve already broken the Statute of Secrecy a dozen times over. There are witches and wizards living secretly in the world, okay? They can use magic, like the stuff you’ve just seen. The creatures that attacked you, you couldn’t see them, but they’re called Dementors. They take away all your good feelings and then, if they’re feeling really nasty, they suck out your soul. They’ve gone now; you’re safe. Don’t ask any more questions.”

If it wasn’t for what he had just experienced, Robert would have burst out laughing. Wizards? Magic? Soul-sucking creatures? It all sounded utterly ridiculous. What sort of mad world was he living in? Next thing, they’d be telling him that unicorns and vampires were real.

Mrs Figg turned back to Neville. “Now listen to me, because this is very important. Did you use magic to drive the Dementors back? Did you cast anything before Dung got there?”

“Y-yes,” stammered Neville. “I-I had to. It was only a weak Patronus, not even a proper one, that’s all I could manage.”

Mrs Figg sighed. “This could get ugly, really ugly. And in front of a Muggle too. Of course, it was in self-defence, but the way things are at the moment…”

But at that moment, there was a loud "pop" from the front garden, and the front door burst open. Into the house strode a formidable looking woman. Dressed in green and wearing an absurdly elaborate hat, she had a look of thunder on her face. Robert could tell that this was a woman not to be crossed.

She marched into the kitchen and bent down in front of Neville, seizing him by the shoulders and staring into his eyes. “Are you all right, Neville?” she said. “You weren’t injured?”

Neville shook his head. “No, Gran,” he mumbled.

“Good.” Mrs Longbottom stood up and turned to Mrs Figg. “Arabella, I want to know everything that happened. I think I’m owed a very good explanation. I’ve already given Dung Fletcher a piece of my mind. I hope his toes never grow back.”

Mrs Longbottom and Mrs Figg moved into the sitting room to discuss what had happened, leaving Robert and Neville sitting in the kitchen. Robert stared across the table at Neville, whose head was down. “So, this is your life, then?” he asked.

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Neville, without looking up.

“Why were those creatures after us?”

“There’s a guy out there who wants to kill me,” answered Neville matter-of-factly, as if discussing nothing more surprising than the weather.

“Really? What sort of a world do you people live in? If this is the sort of thing that goes on, no wonder you keep yourselves secret. Why would anyone want to kill you?”

“I wish I knew.” Neville pointed at the scar on his forehead. “He killed my parents. He gave me this. But I still don’t know why. And now he’s back.”

The chill that the Dementors had given Robert returned to him at Neville’s words. There was long silence, broken suddenly by a scrabbling at the kitchen window that made Robert jump. He looked to the window and saw that there was an owl, of all things, perched on the sill outside.

Neville went over to the window and opened it. The owl hopped inside. It was carrying a letter in its talons, which Neville took. The owl hopped out of the window and flew off again. Robert decided not even to bother asking for an explanation this time. He just wanted to get away from this madhouse and back home.

Mrs Longbottom rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed the letter before Neville could open it. She tore open the envelope and began to read. “No,” she muttered to herself. “No, they can’t do this. They can’t get away with this. I won’t allow it.”

“What is it, Gran?” asked Neville, looking over her shoulder.

“They’re expelling you from Hogwarts. They’re also charging you and Fletcher with gross violation of the Statute of Secrecy. It says it carries a minimum sentence of one year in Azkaban.”

Robert saw Neville’s face turn white. He collapsed into a chair, staring vacantly into space with his mouth half open. “Don’t worry, it won’t come to that, not if I have anything to say about it,” said Mrs Longbottom. “And Dumbledore won’t let them throw you out of Hogwarts. If anyone comes here for your wand, they’ll have to get through me first.”

“What about the Muggle?” asked Mrs Figg, standing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re sending over somebody to deal with him as soon as possible,” replied Mrs Longbottom.

Robert leapt up from his chair. “What do you mean, ‘deal with me’?” he demanded. “What’s going on here?”

“Calm down, boy,” said Mrs Figg. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, you’ll be fine. It’s just, you’ve been exposed to our world, and that needs dealing with. When the official gets here, he’ll explain it.”

“Stuff that, I’m getting out of here,” said Robert, but as he went to the door, Mrs Figg barred the way.

“I’m afraid we can’t let you leave,” said Mrs Longbottom, and when Robert turned to face her, she was pointing her, well, “wand”, Robert gathered it must be, straight at him. “We don’t want to hurt you, but we’re in enough trouble as it is, and you leaving will only make it worse.”

“So I’m a prisoner?” asked Robert. Neville shuddered at the mention of prison.

“Just for a few minutes,” replied Mrs Longbottom. At that moment, another owl appeared at the kitchen window, bearing another letter. Mrs Longbottom opened it. “It’s from Dumbledore,” she said. She read it, nodding at its contents as she went. “Your arrest and expulsion from Hogwarts have been rescinded, Neville, pending a hearing. Good to hear Dumbledore still has some clout at the Ministry. He advises you and I to stay put, as if we were going to go anywhere else.”

Some of the colour returned to Neville’s cheeks and he breathed deeply. Robert looked across the table at him. Although he understood nothing about him, or his world, he felt terribly sorry for Neville. He was only a boy like him, and not particularly strong or clever it seemed, and yet the weight of the world looked as if it rested on his shoulders. He apparently had suffered greatly already, with the prospect of only more suffering to come. How much could one boy take without breaking?

They waited in silence for several more minutes. Robert idly spun his football in his hands, wondering what would happen next. Then, all of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. Mrs Longbottom went to answer it, clutching the letter she had just received. Robert heard raised voices and a firm but determined tone from Mrs Longbottom. They seemed to be arguing over Neville’s fate. Finally, the official said, “All right, Mrs Longbottom. I will check back with my superiors. No further action will be taken against your son tonight. Now, what about this Muggle?”

“Through here,” said Mrs Longbottom. They came into the kitchen. The official was tall and wearing a long black robe, making him look rather intimidating. Robert clutched his football nervously.

Neville leaned across the table towards him. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?” Robert asked.

“For letting me forget for a while,” answered Neville. “I envy you right now.”

“Turn to face me,” said the official, in a commanding tone. When Robert did so, he found that the man’s wand was pointed directly at his head. “Obliviate!”

* * *

It was a beautiful summer afternoon in the ordinary little village of Huddlesby. Robert Ashcroft was walking down Preston Road, towards his home in the middle of the village, kicking his football as he went.

He had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he had forgotten something, but he didn’t know what it was. He had just spent a fun, normal couple of hours practising his football skills in one of the fields at the edge of the village. Now, tired and hungry, he was heading home for his dinner.

He reflected that life in Huddlesby wasn’t all that bad, although it was terribly dull. Nothing interesting ever happened in the village, and Robert was looking forward to school starting again in September. He reached his house, where his mother chided him for getting his clothes so muddy.

She never did find out from him how he’d managed to get a tear in his favourite shirt, though.

Neville Longbottom sat on his bed, his head in his hands. He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, and he didn’t care. He had done little else for days now, ever since the Dementor incident. He didn’t know what to do, what to think or how to react, so he just stared down at the carpet, intently studying the specks of dust or dirt on it, trying to train his mind that that patch of floor was all that existed in the world, and to let no other thoughts enter his head.

It didn’t work, of course. He had to sleep sometime, and when he did, his dreams were plagued by the image of a boy standing motionless, inert, until a wand was waved in his direction. Then, for an instant, there was a look of such terrible shock and horror on the boy’s face, before the green light came and the boy fell. Each time, Neville would yell out, “Cedric!” but the boy heard him no more in the dreams than he had in reality, on the night when everything had changed.

Though he had escaped, Neville felt that in some way he had died that night, and now he was living a new, second life, darker and emptier than the first. The boy he was had vanished, and had been replaced with nothing, a hollow shell. It had been his fault that Cedric had died in that graveyard, and he could never atone for that, never, no matter how long his body continued to live.

He knew too that this was only the start. He remembered the words of Professor Trelawney’s prophecy, made a little over a year earlier, just before he discovered the truth about Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew: A second darkness shall fall and the end of the beginning shall be at hand. Well, now darkness had fallen. Dumbledore had said the beginning referred to Neville. But the beginning of what? It was terrifying to even consider.

He looked up for a moment and glanced out of the window of his bedroom. It was just going dark outside. Even though it was still very warm outside, Neville felt cold, as if the Dementors were still circling around him. It had been nearly a week since the attack, since the one moment of peace he’d enjoyed all summer had turned into another horrific scar on his memory.

All summer, since he returned from Hogwarts, he had been expecting, dreading that something would happen. Yet still the Dementors had come out of nowhere, and he had been unable to fight them off himself. Despite what had happened at the end of his third year, the Patronus Charm remained a spell largely beyond him. He simply wasn’t strong enough or powerful enough. It was his incompetence that had cost Cedric his life, and would no doubt cost him his own eventually. It was only a matter of waiting for the inevitable.

But with each day that passed, the waiting became more and more unbearable, especially as he had no idea what was happening in the world beyond Huddlesby. His Gran had said nothing about Voldemort’s return all summer, and Neville had not asked. It was as if a wall of silence had been thrown up between them, neither of them daring to mention the subject that hung over their lives, afraid that to say anything might break the uneasy apparent calm.

Gran had also kept all editions of the Daily Prophet delivered to the house away from Neville’s eyes, so Neville had received no news about what was going on either. He doubted whether he would even want to read it anyway, the no doubt endless stories of fear and suffering which would be flooding its pages would only serve to blacken his mood further.

He was alone, but alone was good. Alone was safe; no one could hurt him, and he could hurt no one else. After the attack, he had thought of writing to Hermione, his best friend, or Ginny, his girlfriend, letting them know what had happened, but he could not bring himself to put quill to parchment. Somewhere out there he imagined they were happy, safe, away from him. There was no need to burden them with his troubles. Besides, they had not written to him all summer, not even a note on his birthday. Ginny had promised to write to him regularly, obviously she had changed her mind. Neville didn’t blame her; he was sure she had better things to do. Who would want to be associated with a criminal, anyway?

A criminal, that’s what he was now. He had broken the cardinal law of wizarding society: he had used magic in front of a Muggle. Would they really throw him in Azkaban? Gran seemed determined that they wouldn’t, but what could she do? Neville didn’t think Azkaban was the worst place he could be right now, anyway. He would be protected from Voldemort, and it wasn’t as if he had any happiness left for the Dementors to take. They could not make him feel any worse than he did already.

He took out his wand and twirled it between his fingers. This was something he would certainly miss if it was taken away from him; the wand almost felt a part of him now, after four years. He owed it his life, as it had saved him in the graveyard. It had done so because it was the brother to Voldemort’s wand, something Neville had never given much thought to until Dumbledore had reminded him. The wand chooses the wizard, as the strange Mr Ollivander was fond of saying. Was this wand destined to fight Voldemort? If so, it had chosen poorly. Still, the wand had been good to him; it was a better wand than he deserved.

He glanced over at the pile of schoolwork on his desk. He hadn’t touched it all summer. There didn’t seem to be any point; he might not even be returning to Hogwarts anyway. What was the point of doing anything any more? He turned his head to the patch of floor again.

The sound of loud knocking broke the silence. Neville leapt to his feet, clutching his wand, his body trembling for a moment. It’s only the door, he told himself, to try and calm down. Death Eaters don’t announce themselves by knocking at the front door. But he was still nervous and confused. Who was calling at this time of night? He and Gran almost never got visitors.

He went out onto the landing and leaned over the banister to peer down the stairs at the front door. He saw Gran come out of the living room and approach the door cautiously. “Who is it?” she called in a firm voice.

In answer came a gruff voice that immediately turned Neville’s fear to relief and delight. “It is Alastor Moody, Mrs Longbottom. We last met on the grounds of Hogwarts, on the day of You-Know-Who’s return. I’m sure you recognise my voice by now. May we come in? And tell Neville to stop loitering at the top of the stairs and come down.”

Neville twitched slightly. He was used by now to Moody’s magical eye which could see through walls and around corners, but it was still disconcerting to suddenly discover he could be seen. He moved tentatively down onto the stairs as Gran opened the door to reveal the tall, broad-shouldered and unkempt figure of Moody standing behind it. His magical eye flitted this way and that in its socket. Behind him, Neville could just make out a large group of other individuals gathered on the front path.

Not one to stand on ceremony, Moody lumbered into the house without so much as a word to Gran, and passed on into the kitchen. Those that followed him in did each offer a polite “Good evening,” to Gran in turn, but with each that passed, Neville could see Gran’s increasing concern at how many others were going to be invading her house.

Six others filed in behind Moody: a young woman with bright pink hair, who nearly tripped over Gran’s hatstand, an elderly man with silver hair, a smartly dressed woman, a tall black man with a bald head, a woman with long black hair and finally none other than Sirius Black, who grinned at Neville and sauntered into the house as if he owned the place.

Neville came downstairs and followed Gran into the kitchen. The motley crowd of witches and wizards were sitting or standing around the kitchen table. “Is it all right if I make us all a cup of tea, Mrs Longbottom?” asked Sirius, tapping the kettle with his wand, before pointing it at a cupboard, causing it to open. Seven mugs floated out and arranged themselves on the table.

“Good to see you again and in one piece, Neville,” said Moody, seating himself in one of the wooden chairs to take the weight off his one good leg.

“And you, Professor,” replied Neville. Of all the people that could have shown up, he was glad it was Moody. Neville owed the ex-Auror his life thanks to his work helping Neville through the Triwizard Tournament, and plus he looked on Moody as one of the few links he had to the parents he never knew. Most thought of him as half-crazed, but to Neville he had been the best teacher he’d ever had.

“Not Professor any more,” Moody pointed out. “You can call me just Moody from now on.”

“Or you can call him Mad-Eye like the rest of us do,” said the pink-haired witch with a grin.

Gran, looking as if she didn’t know whether to be pleased or angry at this horde of interlopers, forced her way through from the door to the table. “Would someone care to tell me what on earth is going on?” she demanded. “Who are you all?”

“Shall I do the introductions, Mad-Eye?” asked Sirius. Moody gave a non-committal grunt, so Sirius continued, “Well, Mad-Eye and myself you know. Our follicly-challenged friend here is Kingsley Shacklebolt. The elderly gentleman is Elphias Doge, and the two fine ladies to your left are Emmeline Vance and Hestia Jones. And last, but by no means least,” he indicated the pink-haired witch, “this is my relative Nym-” he stopped for a moment, catching sight of a dark glare the witch was giving him, “I mean, this is Tonks, who under no circumstances should be referred to by her first name, Nymphadora. That’s Nymphadora, by the way, if you didn’t catch that. Ow!” Tonks had just jabbed him in the side with the point of her wand.

“Can we get to the serious business at hand?” asked Moody wearily. Sirius flashed a semi-apologetic smile at Tonks and busied himself with making and passing around the mugs of tea. “Right,” continued Moody. “Mrs Longbottom, the Order of the Phoenix has been re-formed.”

“Has it indeed?” said Gran. “And about time too, if you ask me. I was wondering when we were going to stop sitting around waiting for You-Know-Who to make his next move. I suppose you lot are it, then?”

“Us and a few others,” replied Moody. “Dumbledore is in charge as before, but in his absence I am responsible for day-to-day operations.”

“Sorry,” interrupted Neville, “but what is the Order of the Phoenix?” He had a vague feeling he’d heard the name before.

“It is a secret organisation dedicated to combating the Death Eaters and all other supporters of You-Know-Who,” explained Moody. “Dumbledore formed it at the height of the last war when things were getting really ugly. Our job was to stem the tide, and we did our best. Your parents were members, Neville, as were Black and I, and others. Now we are needed again.”

“So it was you who organised the watch on Neville over the last few weeks?” said Gran. “So which of you thought it would be a good idea to have Mundungus Fletcher on guard duty?”

Moody looked grave. “My apologies about that, Mrs Longbottom. We are few in number, and have other things we are needed for.”

“More important than Neville?” Gran exclaimed. “What other things?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mrs Longbottom. Orders.” Gran looked suspicious, but did not argue. “Anyway, we are here because it has been decided that for his own safety it is best if Neville is moved from this house to a secure location. Tonight. I am sorry to spring this on you, but in these times the less people that know our plans beforehand the better. Neville, how soon can you be packed?”

“Just a minute,” said Gran. “Dumbledore has always given me to understand that Neville is under the strongest protection as long as he remains in this house. Are you telling me that is not the case, or if not, why does he need to leave?” Gran’s interruption confused Neville. He’d never heard about any “protection” connected with the house before, and wondered what Gran meant.

“Yes, it is the case, Mrs Longbottom,” replied Moody. “However, that protection does not apply beyond the limits of this property, as recent events have demonstrated. In five days time Neville is required to report to the Ministry in London for his hearing. To avoid any danger of his being attacked en route, we will move him to London tonight and deliver him safely to the Ministry ourselves on Tuesday. He can then spend the remainder of the school holidays with us.”

“But we were just going to Floo to the Ministry.”

Moody shook his head. “Too risky. We have reason to believe the Floo Network may not be secure. We cannot take any chances.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“I can’t tell you.” Seeing Gran’s expression, Moody added, “I genuinely can’t. Fidelius Charm.” Neville had never heard of the charm before, but Gran just nodded. “Dumbledore asked me to say that you are welcome to come with us if you wish, but if you choose to remain then the secret will only be divulged to Neville. We are keeping security as tight as possible.”

“You may thank Dumbledore for his offer, but I have not been moved from this house in over sixty years, and I don’t intend to start now,” said Gran firmly. “I am not too happy about letting Neville leave either, but it seems I have no choice. Neville, you had better go and pack.”

“I’ll help,” said Sirius, gulping down his mug of tea.

As Neville and Sirius left the kitchen and made their way upstairs, Neville overheard Gran say, “Moody, you should know, I haven’t told him about the Ministry. I didn’t want to give him anything else to worry about.” Neville stopped from the stairs and looked up at Sirius, but it seemed he hadn’t heard. He was about to ask Sirius what Gran had meant, but changed his mind. At this stage, whatever they were talking about, he didn’t want to know. For once, he was quite happy to be ignorant.

With Sirius’ help, Neville quickly packed up his possessions into his school trunk and coaxed his pet toad Trevor into his travelling box. Sirius did his best to make light conversation, but Neville wasn’t listening. He was wondering how much of his stuff would ever come out of the trunk again. It was like packing up his whole life. Out of habit, he slipped his Remembrall into the inside pocket of his travelling robe, where he usually kept it, although there was nothing he wanted to remember.

When they’d finished, Sirius levitated the trunk and directed it downstairs. Neville followed, carrying Trevor’s box. Everyone was still gathered in the kitchen. “Right, good, let’s get going,” said Moody when he saw Neville enter. “The faster we get you there, the happier I’ll be.”

“How are we getting there?” asked Neville.

“We had a lot of trouble deciding on a method,” answered Moody, “seeing as how you’re too young to Apparate and Portkeys and the Floo Network are too traceable. The only safe option is to fly there.”

“But I…”

“Relax, Neville. I know you’re uncomfortable on a broom and it’s nearly a four hour flight from here. Fortunately we’ve come up with a solution. I’ve borrowed something from Arthur Weasley. It’s sitting outside. Come on.”

Moody led the way out through the hall to the front door. Gesturing for the others to stop, he carefully opened the door, waited a couple of seconds and then slowly walked out onto the front path. Once he had ascertained the coast was clear, he beckoned the rest to follow.

Neville, leaving the house last, saw that there was a car parked on the road outside the front gate. It was a small, light blue coloured car and, with Neville’s limited knowledge of Muggle vehicles from what he’d seen, seemed rather old-fashioned. Moody hurriedly opened up the boot of the car and put Neville’s trunk inside, whilst the others collected their broomsticks, which they’d propped up against the front wall of the house. “Come on, Neville, get in,” said Moody.

Gran gave him a quick hug. “Do everything Mr Moody says,” she told him. “I’ll see you at the Ministry. Mind you dress smartly for the hearing.” Without saying anything in reply, Neville turned and got into the front passenger seat of the car. Remembering what Hermione had told him about Muggle cars, he buckled his seatbelt.

The various members of the Order of the Phoenix, including Moody, climbed onto their brooms and took off, hovering high above the house. Sirius climbed into the driver’s seat of the car. “You’re driving?” asked Neville.

“Let’s just say I’m more familiar than most with enchanted Muggle vehicles like this,” replied Sirius.

“Enchanted? To do what?”

“Watch this,” said Sirius with a grin. He started the car, reversed up a bit to give himself some room, then accelerated the car forwards rapidly. For a moment, Neville was sure they were going to crash into the hedge in front of them, where the road bent round to the left, but at the last moment the car lifted up off the ground, cleared the hedge by inches and rose up into the night sky. Sirius laughed. “What do you think of that, eh Neville?”

Neville did not reply. At any other time perhaps, the experience of being in a flying car would have thrilled him, but not now. As the car banked round to face south and the Order members on their broomsticks gathered in formation around it, with Moody at the head, Neville took one last look back towards his home below them. Gran was standing on the front porch watching them go.

The formation set off southwards into the night. As they sped away, Neville kept his eyes on his home as it disappeared into the darkness. He wondered whether he would ever see it again.

Neville spent the entirety of the journey to London in Mr Weasley’s flying car in silence. Sirius tried to chat to him about the car and Mr Weasley’s modifications and how they worked, but the conversation was entirely one-sided. Neville just sat staring out of the window, at the lights of the towns and cities passing below them. Eventually the land below became just one vast sea of light; they were over the sprawling conurbation of London. Slowly, they descended on the city, and the lights began to reveal streets and buildings, homes and offices.

Sirius briefly turned off the car’s headlights to hide their descent from any Muggles out late at night. He brought the car down on the edge of a deserted park. It was now after midnight. “We’ll have to stay land-bound for the last five minutes of the journey,” he explained. “They’ll keep watch on us from above.”

Sirius took the car out of the park and drove on through quiet residential streets. Eventually, they came to a square surrounded on all sides by tall terraced houses. Neville looked up to read the plaque on the wall that gave the square’s name: Grimmauld Place. Sirius parked the car outside number eleven.

The others on their brooms landed in the centre of the square. Neville and Sirius got out and unloaded Neville’s trunk. “So which house is it?” Neville asked.

In answer, Moody handed Neville a small piece of parchment. “Read this,” he said.

Neville looked at the parchment. In spidery handwriting, it read The Order of the Phoenix has its headquarters at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London. He looked up, searching for number twelve and wondering why Moody couldn’t have just told him. To his surprise, on either side of number eleven were number ten and number thirteen. There was no number twelve.

He was about to ask Moody what was going on when something astonishing happened. Numbers eleven and thirteen began to move. The two houses began to push apart, as if being pulled by some invisible hands. The Muggles in the houses remained oblivious as between their dwellings a new building emerged, forcing itself out into the space created. Eventually, the effect stopped, and it was as if there had always been a number twelve on Grimmauld Place. Neville had never seen such magic before.

Moody hurried him up to the front door. Neville was rather disturbed to see that the door knocker was in the shape of a snake. Inside, he found himself in a long, narrow hallway. The walls were grimy and the wallpaper on them was peeling. A succession of family portraits hung on the walls; they all looked strangely familiar to Neville. At the end of the hallway, Neville found himself at the foot of a long staircase. A further staircase in front of him led down to a kitchen. “Sirius, take Neville up to his room,” ordered Moody. “I’ve got to set up for the meeting. We’re late back; people should be arriving soon.”

Sirius, carrying Neville’s trunk, led the way up the stairs. The walls were lined with what looked like hunting trophies, but on closer inspection, Neville was shocked to see they were in fact house-elf heads. “What is this place?” he asked.

Sirius sighed. “This would be my old family home,” he said. “The official residence of the noble family of the Blacks.” There was heavy sarcasm in his voice. “I’m the only one left now, which is no bad thing.” Neville remembered Harry telling him about the Black family and Sirius’ rebellion. “I hate coming back here,” Sirius continued, “but Dumbledore needed a headquarters for the Order, and there’s no more secure home in Britain than here. My parents strongly discouraged visitors.”

They reached the second floor. “But if this is your old family home,” said Neville, remembering, “then does that mean...”

The door in front of them opened, and a man stepped out. He looked quite different to when Neville had seen him last: he was wearing smart clothes and his face was clean and shaven, but there was still a tiredness in his eyes. “I thought I heard voices. Yes, I am here, Neville,” said Remus Lupin.

“Mr Lupin! How are you?” asked Neville. He had not seen Remus in over a year, not since the dramatic night when he’d discovered the truth about him, and Pettigrew had escaped.

“Well enough,” Lupin replied. “I’ve made this place my home as best I can, and there’s a place in the cellar for my, er, monthly needs, but I’m still a fugitive, so I can’t go out. Sirius supplies me with everything I need.”

“Another reason to have the Order here,” added Sirius. “Remus needs the company. He’s a member of the Order too, ever since the war. Like me.”

“Neville!” a voice cried from behind Lupin. From another door emerged Harry Potter, hair all tangled in a mess and a beaming smile on his face. He rushed up to greet Neville. “Great to see you. How are you? Sirius told me everything that happened. Are you all right?”

“Can I just go to my room?” mumbled Neville. He was tired and miserable and just wanted to be alone.

Sirius, Remus and Harry exchanged glances. “Come on, Moony,” said Sirius. “The meeting’s starting in a minute. You’ll be bunking in with Harry; he’s staying here as long as I am. I couldn’t leave him at home on his own, not with things the way they are at the moment.”

Sirius and Remus headed off downstairs and Harry showed Neville into the room they’d be sharing. It was a little cleaner than the rest of the house, but more untidy as a lot of Harry’s clothes and school things were strewn about the floor. Neville sat down on the bed opposite Harry’s and opened his trunk to find his pyjamas. He did so in silence, not even acknowledging Harry who sat across from him with a look of sympathy on his face.

“Doesn’t do you good to bottle it up, Neville,” said Harry at last. “Come on, talk about it. Let it out. Shout if you want to. It’d be good for you.”

“I don’t want to,” said Neville quietly.

“Okay, then let’s talk about something else. Are you looking forward to going back to Hogwarts? We’ve got OWLs this year, of course, but it won’t be all bad.” No reply from Neville. “Who do you suppose the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher will be? How are you and Ginny getting along? Anything?”

“I just want to go to bed,” replied Neville.

“Fine, suit yourself.” Harry gave up. He doesn’t understand, thought Neville. He can’t understand. My world’s come to an end. Who cares about anything else?

There was a sound from below them of the front door opening. “That’ll be people arriving for the Order meeting,” said Harry. “Let’s go and spy on them; see who’s come.” He got up and made for the door. Neville didn’t move. “No, you’re coming with me whether you like it or not,” insisted Harry, seizing Neville’s sleeve. “You can’t sit around in silence the whole time.” Reluctantly, Neville allowed himself to be dragged out by Harry onto the landing, where they leaned over the banisters and peered down the long staircase to the ground floor.

The first two wizards to pass by, Neville did not know, and were identified by Harry as Dedalus Diggle and Sturgis Podmore. They were followed by a witch Neville recognised as his Muggle Studies teacher. “Professor Burbage is in the Order?” Neville asked.

“Sirius invited her,” said Harry. “I think the two of them are getting quite close.”

A couple of minutes later, they heard the door open again and, to Neville’s surprise, Mr and Mrs Weasley came into view. A tall, similarly red-headed boy pushed past them onto the stairs and looked up. “Ron!” yelled Harry and dashed down the stairs to meet his best friend. Neville followed.

“Harry! They said you’d be here,” said Ron. “Hello, Neville.”

“Neville!” a voice cried behind Ron. Ginny Weasley burst past her brother and wrapped Neville in a massive hug. “Oh, hi Harry,” she added in a surly tone, looking disdainfully at him as she continued to hug Neville.

Neville was suddenly acutely aware that a whole host of Weasleys were staring at him. Mr Weasley and the twins, who were also there, were grinning broadly. Mrs Weasley had a hesitant expression and Ron had suddenly become extremely interested in his shoes.

“We’re all staying here tonight,” said Mr Weasley eventually by way of explanation. You’d better show them to their rooms, Harry, while we start the meeting.”

“Right. Well if the First Marauders are in a meeting of their own, then I think the Second Marauders ought to have one too,” said Fred. “Lead the way, Prongs.”

Ginny shook her head. “Six Marauders under the same roof. It’s a wonder this place doesn’t just collapse now.”

They were all turning to head back upstairs when, down the hallway, the front door opened once more. A figure in dark robes, his face in shadow, stepped through the door and advanced down the hall. As his face came into the light, Neville blanched. It was Severus Snape.

Neville, in terror, turned to flee. He tried to dash back up the stairs, but his way was blocked by Ron and Harry. “Run, everyone!” he shouted. “Run!” But nobody moved. “It’s Snape, run!” he yelled again.

“Neville, what are you talking about?” asked a puzzled Mr Weasley.

“He’s a Death Eater, he’ll kill us all!” cried Neville, shaking with fear.

“Neville, Professor Snape is a member of the Order of the Phoenix,” said Mr Weasley calmly.

“What? No!” Neville looked at Snape, who stared back at him with his dark, piercing eyes. His face was impassive. “He was there in the graveyard. He tried to kill me! Stop him!” Snape just shook his head slowly and walked on by to join the others. “Does no one believe me?” pleaded Neville. He was breathing heavily, and at any moment he expected Snape to turn around and fire a curse at him.

“We believe you, Neville,” said Mrs Weasley sympathetically, “but Dumbledore has vouched for him. He’s assured us Snape is on our side.”

“He’s wrong,” gasped Neville. He turned and ran back to his bedroom, where he fell on his bed crying in fear and frustration. Had everyone gone mad? Why could they believe Snape was good, when Neville knew what he seen? What was Dumbledore playing at? He lay on his bed shivering, until eventually he cried himself to sleep.

That night he dreamed of the graveyard once more, of the horror of Cedric’s death, the pain of Voldemort’s curses, and of Snape standing beside his master and condemning Neville to death, and asking to be permitted to do the deed himself. Neville awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and could not get back to sleep again.

In the morning, he had breakfast in the kitchen with the Weasleys, Remus, Sirius and Harry. He talked only to Ginny, and only briefly. He told her about the Dementor attack, and how he’d been collected from home. Mr Weasley, overhearing, was keen to ask how his car had performed, but Neville just shrugged and it was left to Sirius to tell him.

Sirius then told Neville he’d heard about his reaction to Snape, and proceeded to launch into a massive tirade against the Potions Master. From what he said (and no one contradicted him), the vast majority of the Order of the Phoenix were absolutely incensed about the presence of Snape in their midst, after what Neville had reported about the graveyard, but none of them were prepared to defy Dumbledore. Dumbledore had offered no explanation for his trust of Snape, but had insisted the Order take him on his word. Snape had offered himself as a spy within the Death Eaters, but Sirius refused to trust him one bit, and claimed to have been the only one to directly confront Dumbledore on the subject, but Dumbledore had dismissed his protests. Sirius was particularly furious that Dumbledore had permitted him access to headquarters past all the security measures. “We may not be able to stop him coming,” Sirius said, “but we’re doing our best to keep any important information from him. Though what Dumbledore is telling him, I don’t know.”

Neville was pleased that others took the same view as him on Snape, although Sirius had always loathed Snape anyway. Neville was convinced Snape would try to kill him at the first opportunity, and vowed to do everything he could not to give him a chance.

The subject moved on to Neville’s hearing at the Ministry, which led Mrs Weasley to ask Neville how he was coping with all the attention. “What?” said Neville.

“He doesn’t know, Molly,” said Sirius. “Augusta kept it from him.”

“Well, he has to know,” insisted Mrs Weasley. “He has to be ready for what he’s going to face.”

“Very well,” said Sirius. “Listen, Neville. The Ministry of Magic refuses to believe that Voldemort is back.” Neville stared at him incredulously. “Cornelius Fudge is a frightened, weak man, Neville. He knows what Voldemort did the last time he had power. He cannot bear the thought of his return. So he is denying everything that you and Dumbledore have said. In fact he’s going further than that.” Sirius produced a copy of the Daily Prophet and showed the front page to Neville. The headline read: DUMBLEDORE: LIAR OR FOOL? Underneath, half way down the page, a smaller headline read: THE BOY-WHO-LIVED AND HIS TRAUMA-INDUCED FANATASIES.

“Using his leverage over the Daily Prophet, Fudge has instigated a smear campaign against Dumbledore,” Sirius explained. “He’s become paranoid that Dumbledore is out to take over the Ministry. So he’s set out to discredit him and, by extension, you.”

“They’re using the same line Rita Skeeter used against you last year: that you’re somehow traumatised and half-mad, and that seeing Cedric die caused you to make the whole thing up for some reason,” said Harry. Neville didn’t reply.

“We believe this hearing is Fudge’s latest attempt to attack you and Dumbledore,” continued Sirius. “We’re going to do everything we can to make sure you’re cleared.”

Why bother, thought Neville, but he said nothing. He wasn’t even surprised. It was just another piece of evidence that the world had gone completely mad.

He left the kitchen intending to go back to his room, but on the stairs he almost tripped over a small creature coming in the other direction. “Another invader in my mistress’s house,” muttered the creature. “Werewolves, blood traitors and Mudbloods all.” Neville looked down to see that it was in fact a house-elf. The elf was ancient and gnarled and the rag he wore was black with grime.

He looked up at Neville as Neville stood over him. Seeing the scar on Neville’s forehead his eyes widened. “Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived,” he said with a rasping voice. “Scourge of pure-bloods; the boy who ended the Dark Lord’s reign. How did he do it, Kreacher wonders, and what will become of him now the Dark Lord has returned?”

If only I knew, thought Neville. If only I knew.

The morning of Neville’s hearing was bright and warm, with not a breath of wind. But Neville, sitting up in his bed in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, felt cold and numb. He had not been able to sleep all night and now the sunlight was filtering through the curtains his sense of dread was rising. He knew that by the end of the day he could be in Azkaban.

Harry on the bed opposite him was sleeping soundly, and Neville dressed quietly so as not to wake him. He then went downstairs and made his own breakfast. The last couple of days he’d tended to rise early and eat his breakfast before anyone else was up. It gave him more time to be alone.

It wasn’t until he was just about finished that the Weasleys came down into the kitchen, closely followed by Lupin. They fussed over him, and Mrs Weasley did her best to smarten up his rather dishevelled appearance. Ginny did her best to try and raise his spirits and everybody assured him he had nothing to worry about, but Neville didn’t think they sounded entirely confident.

Sirius joined them a little later, and Harry was the last to rise. He patted Neville on the back and promised him a surprise when he returned. He didn’t elaborate and Neville didn’t ask; the idea that he might return Neville didn’t even want to think about at that moment, in case he got his hopes up.

There was knock at the door; it turned out to be Moody, who announced he’d arrived to escort Harry to the Ministry “I’m perfectly capable of escorting him myself, Alastor, seeing as I’m going anyway,” said Mr Weasley.

“No disrespect, Arthur, but I’d rather do this myself,” insisted Moody. “Neville’s safety is our utmost priority and I would not trust anyone with myself with such a task.” Moody had always been very protective of Neville, stemming, so Moody had told him, from the great respect he’d had for Neville’s parents as fellow Aurors. “You can come along as far the Ministry entrance. It never hurts to have an extra pair of eyes on the lookout for trouble.”

So, ten minutes later, Neville, Moody and Mr Weasley left number twelve, Grimmauld Place and headed out into Muggle London. Moody’s only consideration to being among Muggles was a rather crude eyepatch covering his magical eye; he drew numerous strange looks from the morning commuters. They took the Underground into the centre of London. Neville found the experience rather claustrophobic and uncomfortable surrounded by so many Muggles. Mr Weasley on the other hand was utterly delighted. He wore an expression of pure joy and excitement on his face for the entire journey.

Despite Moody’s concerns, the journey passed uneventfully. When they reached the entrance to the Ministry of Magic, Mr Weasley parted from them, as Moody had to take Neville in via the visitor’s entrance. Moody led Neville to a dirty back street, where they found a rather beat-up old red telephone box.

Moody stepped into the box and ushered Neville inside too. He lifted the receiver and dialled a five digit number, muttering, “The number just spells ‘magic’. Couldn’t they have come up with a more secure code?” He then spoke into the receiver, saying, “Alastor Moody escorting Neville Longbottom to his disciplinary hearing.” The coin return slot then spat out two badges. Neville pinned the one saying Neville Longbottom, Disciplinary Hearing to his jumper. The telephone box descended into the ground.

Neville had never been inside the Ministry of Magic before, and he found his first sight of the vast Atrium extremely daunting. He kept close in behind Moody as they made their way through the crowds towards the lifts at the far end. They were required to check their wands with the security guard, then they boarded a lift up to Level Two.

“This way,” said Moody, and led the way down a maze of corridors. They passed a door with a sign reading: Auror Headquarters. “Watch this,” said Moody with a smile. He gently pushed the door ajar and stuck his head round to look in. There were almost instantly several cries of shock and alarm, bordering on panic. “Just passing through,” Moody announced, and withdrew his head. “Still got it,” he said to Neville. “Time was the mere sound of my approach would send that whole room into fits of terror. Good to see I’ve not wholly been forgotten.”

They passed on, and eventually came to a door marked: Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and underneath: Mrs A.S. Bones. Moody knocked loudly. There was no reply. Moody knocked again. Still no answer. “Wand out, Neville,” said Moody, withdrawing his own.

“She’s probably just not in yet,” said Neville.

“Never make assumptions, Neville,” replied Moody. “Constant vigilance.” He pointed his wand at the door, which unlocked and swung open. He paused for a moment, then cautiously entered the office. Neville followed behind. It was empty.

“See, I was right,” Neville observed.

“She was always one for punctuality from what I remember of her,” muttered Moody to himself. He returned to the corridor and, seeing a passing office worker, seized him by the collar and demanded, “You! Where’s Amelia Bones?”

The poor man was quite flustered, and Moody was an intimidating figure to anyone. Eventually he managed to blurt out, “I-I think she’s down in Courtroom Ten. Y-you know, the old courtrooms down by the Department of Mysteries. Something about a Wizengamot trial, I think.”

Moody growled angrily and released the man, who fled as fast as he could run. “Come on!” barked Moody to Neville. He set off down the corridor, back the way they’d come, as fast as his artificial leg would allow.

Neville hurried after him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“It sounds like Fudge is playing games,” replied Moody. “A full trial, what is he playing at? They won’t stand for it �“ they’d better not.” They returned to the lifts and took one heading down. Neville saw Moody was looking even more anxious and agitated than normal.

The lift descended past the Atrium to Level Nine. “Department of Mysteries,” announced the lift voice. Neville stepped out into a dark empty corridor, quite unlike those of the higher floors. A heavy black door stood at the end of the corridor and a passageway led down some steps to the left. Moody hurried him towards the steps. “What’s in there?” Neville asked.

“Never you mind,” Moody replied. “This way.” They reached the bottom of the steps and rushed along another corridor before reaching a large oak door. “In you go,” said Moody. “Stay calm, be honest and don’t let them bully you. I’ll be waiting out here.” He opened the door and pushed Neville inside.

Neville was shocked to find the room in which found himself was familiar to him. It was huge and bowl-shaped, with rows of raised benches surrounding the sunken central area into which Neville walked. Neville remembered when he had seen this room before �“ in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, when he had witnessed Snape selling out his Death Eater colleagues and buying his way out of Azkaban. The thought of Snape made him briefly shiver.

Two chairs had been placed in the centre of the room. One was empty, on the other sat Mundungus Fletcher; evidently the Ministry had decided to conduct their trials simultaneously. Sat on the benches were rows and rows of purple-robed witches and wizards. In the centre on the front row sat Cornelius Fudge himself, flanked by two witches Neville didn’t recognise. One had grey hair and wore a monocle; she looked very forbidding. The other resembled nothing less than a squat ugly toad, with a squashed face and protruding eyes. At the end of the row, Neville recognised Percy Weasley, Ron’s older brother, but he was steadfastly refusing to catch Neville’s eye.

“You’re late,” snapped Fudge. “Sit down.” Neville took the empty seat, and Fudge banged a gavel to call for order. “This disciplinary hearing, held on the fourteenth day of August, 1995, is hereby convened,” he announced. “Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Amelia Susan Bones and Dolores Jane Umbridge presiding. The defendants, Mundungus Archibald Fletcher, of number three, Walford Street, London, and Neville Eric Longbottom, of number twenty-six, Preston Road, Huddlesby, are charged with production of magic, namely Patronus Charms, in full view of a Muggle, thus violating the International Statute of Secrecy and, in Mr Longbottom’s case, the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.”

Fudge leaned forward over the bench and looked down on Mundungus and Neville. “I observe that you have both declined representation,” he said.

“That would be incorrect, Minister,” said a calm voice from behind Neville. Neville turned and was overjoyed to see none other than Dumbledore striding across the room towards them. “My apologies to the court,” he added. “Since arriving at the Ministry, I have been directed to three different places in different corners of this institution, where I was told this hearing would take place. All due to a totally accidental series of misunderstandings, no doubt.”

Fudge glared at Dumbledore, but said nothing in response. Instead, he turned back to Mundungus and Neville. “How do you plead?” he asked.

“Not guilty!” said Mundungus loudly, in a way that suggested he had had much practise of saying those words.

Neville looked across at Dumbledore for reassurance, but Dumbledore was not looking at him. “Not guilty,” he mumbled timidly.

“Then you both deny making a Patronus?” said Fudge.

“Oh no, I made one,” answered Mundungus, “but only because of ’em ruddy Dementors.”

There was a murmur around the courtroom. Fudge gave a weak laugh.”Dementors? You don’t really expect anyone to believe...”

But he was interrupted by the grey-haired witch. “Are you serious?” she asked. “Dementors, in a place such as Huddlesby? I suggest you give us a full account of the event, Mr Fletcher.”

“I don’t think the Wizengamot wants to hear any fanciful made-up stories...” said Fudge.

“Excuse me, Minister,” interrupted Dumbledore, “but I believe in any criminal case the accused has the right to speak in his own defence. Is that not so, Madam Bones?” The grey-haired witch nodded.

Fudge sighed. “Very well. In fact, I am most anxious to know what Mr Fletcher of London was doing wandering about a Lancashire village with only one wizarding family.” He shot a suspicious glance at Dumbledore, but Dumbledore continued to smile serenely.

“Well, you see,” began Mundungus, “I was, um, visitin’ an old dear friend of mine. She’s a Squib, you see, an’ lives in Huddlesby. Well, that evenin’ we were out for a walk, an’ we just happened to pass by this field near where Neville lives.” Neville shifted uncomfortably in his seat. For a career criminal, Mundungus was a terrible liar. He’d obviously had some instruction from Dumbledore not to reveal anything about the Order of the Phoenix.

Mundungus continued his story. “Well, then I hear shouts, so I look in the field and see these two Dementors attacking these two boys. One of ’em has a wand out, so I know he’s a wizard, and is trying to cast a Patronus. He gets off a weak one, but it’s not enough to drive the Dementors away. So I rushed to help him and drove ’em off myself. It was only then I discovered the other boy was a Muggle.”

“Is that what happened?” Madam Bones asked Neville. Neville just nodded silently, not daring to speak, and desperately hoping Mundungus would be believed.

“I don’t know how anyone could believe such a pack of lies,” said Fudge. “Many members of the Wizengamot will know that this man is a recidivist criminal who has been prosecuted for numerous offences over the years. Who could possibly take anything this man says seriously?”

“Mr Fletcher is not on trial for any crimes he many have committed in the past, only for this particular offence,” said Dumbledore calmly. “If however you will not accept him at his word, then the Squib that he mentioned, Mrs Arabella Figg, is waiting outside the courtroom at this very moment. She is a woman of blameless character and utmost integrity, and is prepared to testify to corroborate Mr Fletcher’s account.”

Mrs Figg was ushered into the courtroom and gave her evidence. Fudge did his best to harass and intimidate her, but she stuck firmly to the same story Mundungus had given. Fudge was getting more and more flustered. “Look, I’m sorry, but how can two Dementors possibly have ended up in Huddlesby of all places?” he argued.

“Logic dictates that there are only two possibilities,” said Dumbledore. “Either they went under instruction from within the Ministry, or under instruction from without.”

At this point the toad-like witch, who had remained silent so far, cleared her throat with a soft but audible hem, hem. “That is a very serious allegation against the Ministry, Professor,” she said in an airy, high-pitched voice. “I hope you have evidence to justify such a slander.”

“I was not making accusations, Miss Umbridge, only voicing possibilities. If the order came from a Ministry member, well, it is not my place to comment on what goes on within the Ministry, particularly as I am no longer a member of any of its institutions. I am sure the Ministry’s internal procedures will be more than adequate to clear up the mystery. Of course, if the order came from without, then there is only one possibility as to who could have issued it.”

Dumbledore looked pointedly at Fudge, who was boiling with barely contained rage. “I do not think we need to hear any more,” Fudge snapped.

“I quite agree, Minister,” replied Dumbledore. “The matter is quite simple. Since the law is quite clear that magic may be used before Muggles if one’s life or the lives of others are in danger, then if you accept the testimony before you, there can be only one verdict. We await your decision.”

Neville, who had not spoken throughout the entire proceedings, could not bear to look. He buried his face in his hands and waited as the vote was called for conviction or acquittal. There was a horrible long pause before Fudge said, in a disgruntled voice, “Both acquitted.”

An incredible rush of relief flooded over Neville. He looked up to offer his heartfelt thanks to Dumbledore, but the Headmaster had already gone.

* * *

Stepping outside the courtroom, Neville found himself quite unexpectedly smothered in a big hug from his Gran. “Thank God,” she said. “I got here just after you, but they wouldn’t allow me inside. We just saw Dumbledore, and he told us.”

“Did Dumbledore not stay?” Neville asked.

Moody was standing just behind Gran. “Afraid not,” he said. “He’s got important business to attend to. I bet he twisted Fudge around his little finger in there, eh, Neville? Good to hear there’s still some justice left in this place.”

At that moment, the courtroom door opened. Mundungus stepped out first, and hobbled away up the corridor. He was followed by Fudge, who strode past Neville, Gran and Moody without even acknowledging their presence, even under Moody’s piercing glare. Immediately behind him toddled the short figure of Umbridge. She paused in front of Neville and gave him an appraising look, as if trying to determine something. She then caught sight of Moody staring suspiciously at her, gave him a thin smile and walked on. Neville saw Moody’s magical eye swivel in its socket, watching Umbridge go. “Do you know her?” said Neville.

“Only by reputation,” Moody replied, and did not offer any further explanation.

“Right,” said Gran, “I think we’ll all go out for a meal to celebrate. Will you join us, Mr Moody?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question, Mrs Longbottom,” insisted Moody. “For his own safety, Neville has to return to Headquarters immediately. The less hanging about, the better. Let’s go, Neville.”

They walked down the corridor away from the courtroom and climbed the stairs to head back to the lift. At the top of the stairs, Neville suddenly felt his scar burn. He stopped and rubbed his forehead. “What is it, Neville?” asked Gran.

“Nothing,” Neville lied unconvincingly. He turned and looked behind him to see the closed heavy black door he had seen on the way down. Something about the door seemed oddly familiar to Neville and the pain in his scar flared again at the sight of it, but Moody quickly took him by the arm and led him away.

There was much celebration in number twelve, Grimmauld Place when Neville returned to the house. The Marauders (both old and new) never needed an excuse to go wild of course, and Ginny was ecstatic, Mrs Weasley was beaming and even Moody allowed a brief smirk to cross his normally taciturn face.

The only ones in the house who were not in a celebratory mood were Kreacher, who muttered to himself furiously as always, and Neville himself. Though he was immensely relieved to have been cleared, the removal of one burden simply served to remind him of the extent of all his other troubles. He was still marked for death by the most powerful Dark wizard alive.

Even the fact that he was returning to Hogwarts did not cheer him as much as it normally would have. He had a mountain of homework he hadn’t even touched all summer, Hermione wasn’t around to help him, and, as Gran had reminded him as they had parted, he was entering OWL year, when his workload would become immense. Not to mention the fact that he would be entering a school and a classroom with Snape in it, a man who had already stated his intention to kill Neville. Neville could not see how he could avoid taking Potions, but he swore never to allow himself to be alone with Snape at any time.

He spent some time in the afternoon wandering about the lower floors of the house. Though the place was dark and gloomy, in the year that Lupin had spent in the house he had cleaned and tidied it as best he could, and it was perhaps not as forbidding as it otherwise might have been. In one room he found a large tapestry that appeared to be the family tree of the Blacks. He looked, but could not find Sirius’ name anywhere, though the tapestry was scorched and burned in several places. He was shocked however to see Draco Malfoy’s name on the tapestry, via his mother, Narcissa Black, and even more so to see that Narcissa’s sister was named Bellatrix, married to a Rodolphus Lestrange.

Neville knew the name Bellatrix Lestrange, for it had been one of the names he recalled Snape had given up to the Wizengamot in his testimony that Neville had seen in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. The Lestranges, he remembered, along with Barty Crouch Junior, had been responsible for the attack on Harry’s parents that had left them in St Mungo’s. Neville was horrified to think that Harry’s own guardian and godfather was related to the woman who had destroyed his parents’ minds. He wondered if Harry knew; surely he had to. The way Harry and Sirius had spoken about the Blacks, he knew they were bad, but he had not realised the extent of their crimes.

That evening, Mrs Weasley laid on a special meal in celebration of Neville’s acquittal. Several Order members were also present, including Tonks and Moody. The meal was also by way of a goodbye, as the Weasleys were returning to the Burrow the next day for the remainder of the school holidays. Neville was disappointed to hear that, as it meant that the house would be far emptier, and he had not so far been able to spend much time with Ginny. But then Harry took the opportunity to reveal the surprise he had promised Neville before he left for the Ministry. “I asked Sirius and he agreed,” he said. “We want you to come and stay with us at our home for the rest of the holidays.”

Neville was about to enthusiastically accept when Moody interrupted. “No chance,” he growled. “Neville has to stay here, where he’s best protected. I can’t allow him to go wandering off across London by himself.”

“He won’t be by himself, Mad-Eye, we’ll be with him,” said Sirius. “I promise we’ll go straight there and he won’t leave the house. My place is just as well protected as any other Order member’s. He’ll be perfectly safe. You have my word.”

“I don’t like it,” Moody replied. “What if you’re attacked en route? What if a Death Eater forces his way into your house? It’s not Fidelius Charm protected like this is.”

“I’m quite capable of defending my own home, Mad-Eye,” retorted Sirius. “You can’t keep the boy locked up in here for the rest of the summer with only Remus and Kreacher for company. Sorry, Moony,” he added in Lupin’s direction. “What I mean is, all his friends will have gone. What’s he going to do with himself for the next fortnight? I know you’re obsessed with protecting him, Mad-Eye, but you can’t imprison him just so you’ll be a hundred per cent certain he’s safe. You’ve got to let him live.”

“Look,” said Moody, “when Frank and Alice Longbottom died, I made a promise to myself that if ever...”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Sirius. “I gave you my word. We have to trust each other if the Order is going to work. But if that’s not enough, then what, do you want me to make an Unbreakable Vow?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Black.” Moody took a long sigh. “Very well, he can go. But straight there, remember, and he goes under cover of darkness in Arthur Weasley’s car. By land.”

“Best get packed up, then, shouldn’t we, lads?” said Sirius.

“Not until after dessert, I hope,” said Mrs Weasley, levitating an enormous pudding onto the table.

An hour and a half later, quite full, his trunk repacked and Trevor found once more and returned to his travelling box, Neville was ready to go. Moody insisted on going out into Grimmauld Place to check the coast was clear and stood guard as Neville, Harry and Sirius loaded their belongings into Mr Weasley’s car. Neville climbed in the back, with Harry in the passenger seat, and Sirius drove off.

Moody had nothing to worry about; the journey passed uneventfully, although Sirius did defy Moody by taking a scenic route to their destination, to show Neville some of the sights of central London. Eventually, they crossed over the river and passed through what seemed like miles of urban sprawl until they came to a narrow street flanked by long rows of two-up-two-down Victorian terraced houses. Sirius parked up on the left hand side, in front of a house with a red door. “Number seventeen, Bromley Way,” he announced. “Home sweet home.”

They unloaded the car and Sirius surreptitiously took out his wand and tapped the door handle. The latch sprang open and Sirius led them into the house.

From the outside, the house looked as tiny as the rest of those on the street. But inside the front door, Neville found that it opened out into a far larger space than its Muggle facade concealed. Although still smaller than Grimmauld Place, it felt more open, and far more homely. There were four bedrooms upstairs and room downstairs for a large kitchen, sitting room and dining room, and a small office. There was even a big, high-walled garden out the back. “Not bad, is it?” said Harry. “Come on, Neville, you can have the spare room next to mine.”

Neville was exhausted after a long, stressful day, and quickly went to bed. He slept soundly and woke to bright sunlight streaming through the window. He dressed and went downstairs to find that Harry and Sirius were already up and he had missed half the morning. “We thought you needed the rest,” said Sirius.

In the sunlight, the house seemed even more welcoming to Neville. The walls were all painted in gentle shades of red (Neville suspected Sirius was highlighting his Gryffindor credentials) and had many posters and photographs, both Muggle and wizarding, hanging from them. Rather than using more traditional equipment, Sirius had bewitched several more modern appliances to run his kitchen. Neville was reminded oddly of Hermione’s home, that he had visited before the start of his second year, though, but with a more comfortably wizarding atmosphere.

Sirius was undergoing one of his periods of temporary unemployment, so he was able to stay at home all day with Harry and Neville. His last job had been a dead end one at Magical Maintenance in the Ministry, which he’d only taken up after resigning from Hogwarts so as to keep track on what they knew about Lupin. Now that the Order, including some who worked in the Auror department, were in on the truth about Lupin, he no longer needed to worry about that, and so had quit. Unfortunately he had as yet no idea what his next career was going to be.

He insisted on giving Neville a quick guided tour of the house, showing him every room and every nook and cranny. He was very proud of the home he had created. “I bought this place when I was seventeen, as soon as I came of age,” he told Neville. “I’d walked out of Grimmauld Place when I was sixteen and went to live with Harry’s grandparents. But then an uncle of mine left me some money in his will and I was able to buy this. It was virtually an empty shell when I moved in; the previous wizarding family who lived here had died out. It’s taken me years to get it how I wanted.”

They looked into Harry’s bedroom, which was a complete mess, with clothes and books and bits of parchment and other assorted junk strewn across the floor. The walls were covered in Quidditch posters. Neville noticed he still had a wallchart up from the Quidditch World Cup the previous year.

Outside on the landing, Neville noticed a trapdoor in the ceiling immediately above him. “What’s up there?” he asked.

“Oh, that’s just the attic,” said Sirius. “Here, I’ll show you.” He pointed his wand at the trapdoor, which sprang open. A ladder descended through the hole. Sirius climbed up, and Neville and Harry followed him.

It was pitch black in the attic, and Sirius lit his wand to reveal a small space piled high with all manner of junk and discarded items. “Anything we don’t need or want anymore gets shoved up here,” he said. “Most of it is from Grimmauld Place, actually. When my parents died, I went round to the place and cleared it out of virtually everything, so I’d never have to set foot in it again. Funny how things work out. Anyway, half the stuff I sold, and the rest ended up here.”

He picked up a cardboard box and absently picked through it, finding a cracked dinner plate, a necklace with half the beads missing, a dirty old locket and a broken watch that seemed beyond repair. He chucked them back on the pile. “This is all that’s left of my parents' legacy. Here gathering dust amid a heap of rubbish. Fitting in a way, isn’t it?” Sirius smiled mirthlessly.

They went downstairs and finished up in the sitting room. There hanging above the mantelpiece, Neville saw that two photographs were given pride of place. One of them was of the original Marauders; four boys standing arm in arm and grinning madly. The other was a large group photo of a motley array of people. Neville instantly recognised Hagrid towering over everybody else at the back, and Dumbledore standing at the front in the centre next to Moody.

“Ah, I thought you’d be interested in that,” said Sirius. “I got a copy of that from Moody. That’s the original Order of the Phoenix, from back in the day. Look, there I am, at the back with Moony. And see who’s down the front here.”

Sirius pointed to a couple on the front row, and Neville stifled a cry of shock. Standing with their arms around each other and beaming happily were his parents, looking just as they did when their forms appeared out of Voldemort’s wand two months earlier. They were standing tall and proudly, honoured to be a part of this august group. “Just like them to be at the front,” said Sirius. “Never found them hanging back, your parents. Always first in and all in, or not at all. I’m sorry I didn’t know them better.” Neville said nothing, but just stared at his parents and thought about how unlike them he was.

Sirius scanned the rest of the photograph. “God, I forgot how many of these people died. Molly’s brothers there; they were as fierce fighters as your parents. Benjy Fenwick, he looked out for me when I was new. Oh boy, there’s Peter.” Standing alone to one side of the photograph, with an eager grin on his rat-like face, was Peter Pettigrew.

“I see he’s still in that photo,” said Neville, pointing to the one of the Marauders. “You didn’t think about removing him?”

“No, I couldn’t do that,” said Sirius. “The Marauders were always four, nothing can change that. That is Peter as he was, our friend. The war changed him; it’s easy to see that now. It changed all of us, to be honest. You can’t live through something like that and not change.”

Neville was surprised to hear Sirius to talk almost pityingly about a man he had once been prepared to kill. Sirius must have noticed Neville’s reaction, because he added, “You didn’t know him, Neville. He was once a good person. He was in trouble at school far less than James and I were. I can hate what he became, but I can’t forget what he was. Nobody is born evil, not even Voldemort, I reckon. They make the wrong choices, like Peter did, or they have it drummed into them at an early age, like my family. Did I ever tell you about my brother?”

“No,” replied Neville. He didn’t even know Sirius had a brother.

“He was a year younger than me and, like the rest of our family, he had the pure-blood ideology forced down his throat from day one. We all had to be taught that Muggles and Muggle-borns were scum, and that the pure-bloods were the rightful rulers of wizarding society. The thing is, Regulus was a good kid. I think he could have been a decent man. But he was a good little mama’s boy and dutifully did everything our parents wanted. So he became a proud Slytherin and parroted the pure-blood line like the rest of them. Straight out of school, he joined the Death Eaters. My parents must have been so proud.”

Sirius shook his head sadly. “He didn’t know what he was signing up for. He wasn’t into murder and torture, he just wanted to make Mummy and Daddy happy. Within a year or two, so I heard, he’d got cold feet, tried to pull out, and Voldemort had him murdered. No one’s allowed to just walk away from the Death Eaters.”

He gave a rueful sigh. “I had a saying about my parents when I was younger. Everything was Black and White to them, and the Blacker the better. A bad pun, sure, but I was only a kid. And it was true. That was the way they saw the world. They couldn’t have been more wrong. If your run-in with the Ministry of Magic has taught you anything, Neville, it should be that right and wrong, good and bad, are often found in places where you won’t expect them. There’s nothing simple about the world we live in.”

Neville was left to ponder those words as Sirius turned back to the photo of the Order, once more reminiscing. “Sturgis Podmore, he’s still around. Dumbledore’s brother, I wonder what became of him?” he muttered. He then stopped as his finger reached a young couple standing on the right hand side of the picture. “Ah, there they are, of course,” he said in a wistful tone.

Neville followed the line of his finger and recognised the couple immediately, though he had never seen them before. The man with his unkempt dark hair and glasses, and with an older and wiser face than that of the boy in the photograph opposite. The woman with long flame-red hair, bright green eyes and a warm smile. “You look just like him,” Neville said to Harry, “but you’ve got her eyes.”

Harry leaned in closer to see the images of his parents. “Yeah, I know,” he said quietly. He stared at the picture in silence for a long time, and Neville didn’t know quite what to do or say.

It was Sirius who finally broke the silence. “Did Harry tell you what happened?” he asked.

“I, er, I know,” said Neville uncomfortably. “I found out. From Dumbledore,” he offered by way of explanation. He was worried that Sirius and Harry would be mad, but Sirius simply nodded and Harry gave him a weak smile.

“My best friend,” said Sirius. “The day it happened my world nearly ended. Remus was already in Azkaban and Peter was supposedly dead. I had no one left. But there was Harry. Someone had to take care of him, and I think it’s what James would have wanted.”

“You don’t have any other family of your own, then?” Neville asked Harry.

“No, not that I know of,” Harry answered. “I think my mum had a Muggle sister, but I’ve never met her.”

“I was happy to adopt Harry,” said Sirius. “I think we needed each other, in our own ways. It’s been my honour to raise James and Lily’s son.” He hugged Harry, who said nothing, but his eyes beamed with pride. Sirius took one last look at the photograph. “The war was over,” he added bitterly. “They were just after information on Voldemort. I’ve never understood why they chose James and Lily to target.”

“Your own relative,” Neville blurted out. Seeing Sirius and Harry’s shocked reaction, he stammered, “I-I saw your family tree.”

“Oh,” said Sirius, nodding. “Yes, my cousin Bellatrix. The Blackest of the Blacks, and that’s saying something. There’s true evil for you. One of three sisters, you know. Narcissa married Lucius Malfoy, but Andromeda married a Muggle-born and is Tonks’ mother. The psychotic, the noble pure-blood and the rebel. One family. Not so Black and White, eh?”

Neville looked back at the photograph, at the Potters and his parents, and all those smiling faces of people who had died. “It’s going to happen again, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “The war, the deaths, the suffering?”

“I’m afraid it probably is, Neville,” replied Sirius gravely. “It probably is.”

“Neville!” cried a loud voice. Neville looked up to see Hermione Granger running along the platform towards him. She reached him and enveloped him in a massive hug. “How are you? I heard about everything that’s happened. It’s beastly what the Ministry’s doing, isn’t it? It’s absolutely terrible. Thank goodness you were cleared. What’s going on with You-Know-Who? You must tell me everything.” The words had all poured out of her in a breathless rush.

“Slow down, Hermione, give Neville a chance,” said Harry. “We’ll tell you everything when we get on the train.”

It was the first of September and the Hogwarts Express was preparing to depart from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Neville had come with Harry from Sirius’ home, escorted by Sirius and Moody, who had shown up that morning insisting on going along with them.

Neville was delighted to be reunited with Hermione, who he had not seen since they had parted at the end of the previous term. Hermione had always been his best friend, and he looked forward to unburdening his problems to her, but Hermione dashed his hopes by saying, “We won’t have time on the train. I’ll have prefect duty, see.” She pointed to the shiny new “P” badge on her robes.

“Well of course you got made a prefect,” said Harry.

Hermione ignored the comment. “So who’s the prefect for the boys, then?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “Must be Seamus or Dean. It wasn’t Neville, and you wouldn’t catch any of the Marauders being a prefect.”

“Hey, Moony was one in his time, you know,” said Sirius, overhearing their conversation.

“Don’t tell Fred that,” Harry said with a laugh. “He’d be most disappointed.”

Harry filled Hermione in on a few details as they loaded their trunks. The Weasleys arrived soon after and there were more happy reunions before it was time for everyone to board the train. Just as Neville was about to get on, Moody came over and put his hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself at school,” he whispered. “Keep your head down, stay out of trouble and keep your eyes open. Constant vigilance. Got that, boy?” Neville nodded and Moody let him go.

Once on the train, Fred, George, Ron and Harry left to find their own compartment for a Marauders meeting and Hermione sheepishly said goodbye to Neville and headed off to the prefect’s carriage. Neville was left alone with Ginny.

Neville suddenly realised that this was the first time he’d been alone with Ginny all summer, and he immediately felt very uncomfortable. All the previous year, he’d found talking with Ginny and being around her very easy and fun. Now, things seemed more complicated. He wasn’t sure what Ginny expected of him, and he certainly wasn’t in any sort of mood to talk about their relationship, if indeed that was what they had. He wondered what he’d do if Ginny started kissing him. True, they’d kissed only once, at the end of the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament, but that one had come completely out of the blue for Neville, and he had no idea under what circumstances it would happen again.

Ginny however did not seem the slightest bit uncomfortable or uneasy. She grabbed Neville’s hand and said, “Come on, let’s see if we can find a compartment.” They walked through the carriages as the train pulled out of the platform. Unfortunately, most of the compartments were already full, and they had to walk a long way before eventually Ginny stopped and said, “This one will have to do.”

“But there’s somebody already in there,” Neville objected, glancing into the compartment. A girl with very long blond hair was sitting in the corner against the window, reading a magazine. She had her wand tucked behind her ear and from that ear hung what looked like a small radish.

“Oh, that’s only Loony,” Ginny replied, and opened the compartment door. Neville followed her inside. They both sat down on the same side, opposite the girl, who looked up from her magazine. Neville’s immediate reaction was that he had never seen anyone with such a natural air of oddness before. The girl’s eyes, which protruded alarmingly from her face, had an airy, faraway look as if totally unfocussed on anything immediately around them. She had no earring on her right ear to match the one on her left and the effect, together with the wand also behind the left ear, was to make her look distinctly lopsided, an effect that was only magnified when she tilted her head unnecessarily to look at them.

“Hello, Ginny,” she said dreamily, as if her voice was coming from far away. She moved her head to look at Neville, and stared unblinking at him for a disconcertingly long time. Eventually she said, “You’re Neville Longbottom.”

“Er, yes,” said Neville.

“That’s nice,” the girl replied, and went back to reading her magazine. Neville was completely flummoxed. He was used to odd reactions from people recognising him, but never had anyone described his being Neville Longbottom as “nice” before. It was certainly not the word he himself would have used. He looked to Ginny for some sort of explanation.

“Neville, this is Luna Lovegood,” said Ginny. “She’s in my year, in Ravenclaw.” Silently, she mouthed, “She’s a bit crazy.”

“Lost your voice, Ginny?” asked Luna, looking up again. “You might have swallowed a Wheezlebug. I know a spell that’ll get rid of it if you want.”

Ginny’s face turned as bright red as her hair. “Er, that’s all right, Luna, I’m fine,” she stammered, cringing with embarrassment. Luna however showed no sign of offence or concern, and her expression remained serene.

“What’s a Wheezlebug?” asked Neville. Ginny gave him a look which suggested that was the wrong question to ask.

“They’re tiny creatures which look like dust,” Luna replied confidently. “They fly inside your throat if you leave your mouth open and steal your voice.”

“There’s no such thing, Luna,” said Ginny wearily.

“Of course there is,” Luna retorted. “Why else would people suddenly lose their voices?” Ginny looked like she was going to respond but thought better of it. Neville was flummoxed. He was never entirely certain when it came to facts, but he was fairly sure Ginny was right. The world was confusing enough already, without adding things that didn’t even exist to it.

The three of them sat in silence for a long time as the train rolled on northwards. Luna continued reading. Ginny fidgeted awkwardly on her seat; it was clear she wanted to talk to Neville, but couldn’t with Luna present. This suited Neville, who was happy to pass the journey in silence, left to his own thoughts.

All of a sudden, Luna put down her magazine and said, “You two kissed after the Second Task last year, didn’t you?” Taken aback by this unexpected conversation opener, Neville and Ginny didn’t respond. “I didn’t go to see the Second Task,” Luna continued thoughtfully, gazing out of the window. “It was too cold and I’d lost my shoes. Still, I expect there wasn’t a lot to see. All underwater, wasn’t it?”

She turned away from the window and stared at them for an uncomfortable length of time before finally saying, “You haven’t seen my earring, have you?” She indicated the one hanging from her left ear. “Only the other one has gone mysteriously missing and it upsets the whole balance of the magical field.” She waved her hands by the sides of her head as if trying to indicate what she meant, though it conveyed nothing to Neville or Ginny.

“Er, sorry, no I haven’t, Luna,” replied Ginny.

“That’s a shame,” said Luna wistfully. “I shall have to make a new one.”

At that moment, Hermione appeared at the door of the compartment. “Ah, there you are, Neville,” she said, and entered, sitting down next to Luna. “Dean’s the new Gryffindor prefect for our year. And, God help us, Malfoy’s a Slytherin prefect. He’s already strutting around like he owns the place.”

“I don’t know you,” interrupted Luna bluntly, but gently.

“Oh, er, I’m Hermione Granger. I’m a friend of Neville’s. Nice to meet you.” There was a long pause. “And you are...?”

“Luna Lovegood. But people sometimes call me Loony, if you prefer.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “That’s not very nice of people.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s quite harmless. I like your hair, it’s very different.” Hermione’s brow furrowed as she tried to work out if she had just been insulted or not. Ginny giggled to herself.

Luna picked up her magazine again. “What are you reading?” asked Hermione. Seeing the title on the cover, she said, “The Quibbler? Why on earth would you want to read that?”

“Because my dad’s the editor,” replied Luna. “Would you like a copy? I think I have a spare one. It never hurts to broaden one’s mind.”

“Er, no thank you, I’m fine,” said Hermione quickly. She exchanged glances with Neville, who shrugged. Understanding people was not Neville’s strong point, but Luna seemed almost to encourage bafflement in those around her. Neville was not familiar with The Quibbler but if it was anything like Luna he could understand Hermione’s reticence.

The uncomfortable atmosphere in the compartment, affecting everyone but Luna, lasted all the way until the train arrived at Hogsmeade station. Disembarking, Neville became immediately aware that dozens of eyes were looking at him. He was very used to being noticed, but this was different. He got the impression that everyone on the platform was looking at him, and not just that but examining him, as if trying to work out what he was thinking, or expecting some kind of reaction or outburst from him. Even Hagrid’s familiar cry of “Firs’ years, firs’ years this way,” was absent, and nothing broke the silence. Neville put his head down and headed for the carriages that would take them up to Hogwarts.

Hermione and Ginny went with him and, uninvited, Luna followed on behind them. When Neville got to the nearest carriage, he intended to climb straight in and escape the peering eyes, but instead he stopped. His gaze was drawn once more to the strange black horse with leathery wings that was pulling the carriage. Every year coming to and from Hogwarts he saw these horses, but somehow this year they seemed different: larger, darker and more imposing and frightening. He had never noticed how strange, how out of place they looked before. He stood looking up at the horse in front of him for some moments, but trying not to look too obvious, because he knew the others could not see the horses.

But Luna suddenly appeared at his shoulder, staring up in the same direction. “You can see them too,” she said. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

Neville was shocked. “You mean, you can see them?” he exclaimed.

“Oh yes, the whole time I’ve been coming here.” Luna reached out and patted the side of the creature, which shook itself gently and adjusted its wings.

“Snape once told me that only certain people can see them,” said Neville. “Do you know why?”

“No. We’re just lucky, I guess.” Luna gave a half smile. “I wonder what we have in common? Perhaps we’re quite alike in many ways. Come on, Neville Longbottom, we don’t want to be late for the feast.” She climbed into the carriage, whistling to herself.

Neville, Ginny and Hermione got in. “What was that about?” Ginny asked. Neville didn’t reply. He was looking at Luna and thinking about what she said. He barely knew the girl, but he could immediately see there were similarities between them, and that worried him. They were both outsiders; they didn’t fit in or make friends easily. They were both regarded with suspicion or uncertainty by others. And right now they both had firm beliefs in things which others thought ludicrous. After all, to most people, wasn’t Neville’s claim that Voldemort had returned just as ridiculous as some of Luna’s ideas? But Neville could see one big difference between them: Luna appeared supremely confident and content in who she was. Neville felt anything but that, and he envied Luna for it.

When they reached Hogwarts, they all filed up to the Great Hall. Luna skipped off to the Ravenclaw table, where she sat alone on the end of a bench. Neville tried to find a corner to sit in where he wouldn’t be noticed, but he saw that even some of the Gryffindors were looking at him strangely. Dean Thomas, a bright prefect’s badge on his robe, nodded politely to him, but Seamus Finnigan next to him glared angrily.

The teachers were taking their places at the front of the hall. Neville noticed that the large figure of Hagrid was missing; in his place was a witch Neville didn’t recognise. Snape entered, and Neville instinctively tensed with fear, but the Potions master was not looking in his direction. He was engaged in terse conversation with the witch on his left.

That witch was dressed all in pink, with a small pink bow on her forehead. Neville looked closely and gasped. It was Umbridge, the toad-faced woman from his hearing. She had a sickeningly sweet smile on her face as she gazed out across the hall. Neville looked up and down the teachers’ table and realised with amazement that she must be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

He turned to tell Hermione, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Professor McGonagall with the new first years. McGonagall brought out the Sorting Hat and placed it on its stool in front of the teachers. The Hat began to sing.

When I was just a plain old hat
Before my owner gave me life,
The world of magic in these lands
Was torn apart by war and strife.
Each witch and wizard thought that they
Knew best, and listened to no other,
And many cliques and factions formed
And warred, and brother fought with brother.
Too many died, as each side sought
Revenge for each imagined slight,
And widows mourned, and all despaired
For there seemed no end to their plight.
But there were four who stood apart,
Who said that peace could be achieved,
With justice free and fair for all,
And friendship given and received.
Gryffindor, from South he came,
A warrior bold, his valour true,
Hufflepuff, out of the West,
A kindly friend to all she knew,
Ravenclaw, the North her home,
A brilliant mind without a peer,
Slytherin, man of the East,
A wizard shrewd, of purpose clear.
The culmination of their hopes
Was reached when this school was begun.
A place to bring together all
To build a world where all were one.
At first this purpose seemed attained
For there was peace across the lands,
A community was formed at last
And Hogwarts flourished in their hands.
But old divisions and old fears
Crept in at last to tear apart
All that was built and set in place
And Slytherin, he did depart.
And ever since that fateful day
The unity the Founders sought
Has never been achieved again
And all their efforts seem for nought.
It is my role to split you up
And place you into Houses four
Yet I am grieved, for I do fear
You’ll be divided evermore.
This cannot be, for evil comes
And darkness that I prophesied
Is now around us, and our foes
Do threaten Hogwarts from outside.
We must not stand alone, for then
Our enemies will surely win
Together is our greatest strength,
And hope, it can be found within.
A House alone, a man alone
Cannot survive against the dark.
Now let the Sorting at last start
But I do hope my words you’ll mark.

When the Hat fell silent, the Great Hall burst into fevered conversation on all sides. “Really going for it this year, isn’t it?” said Ginny. Neville nodded. This was the second year in a row that the Hat had delivered a warning, but this year its words seemed starker and much more sombre to Neville. He glanced up at the teachers’ table again. Snape was sitting stiffly, to his left Umbridge’s eyes were narrowed as she stared suspiciously at the Hat. He turned to look about the hall, and instantly regretted it. More heads were turned in his direction; more surreptitious whispers were being muttered. It was all very well for the Hat to talk about unity and togetherness, but at this moment Neville had never felt more alone.

When Neville got to the Gryffindor common room after the Welcoming Feast, the entire room fell silent as he entered. Neville put his head down and headed straight for the dormitories, avoiding the looks of his fellow Gryffindors. He thought he heard the Marauders in a corner loudly trying to distract everyone, but he didn’t stop or look up. When he got to his dormitory he methodically unpacked his case, got Trevor out of his box and fed him, and sat on his bed, trying not to become lost in his own thoughts.

After a while, the door opened and Seamus entered the room. He had a copy of the Daily Prophet under his arm which he flung on his bed. Then he turned to face Neville and said bluntly, “So, do you still stand by it?”

“Stand by what?” muttered Neville, hardly looking up. He’d barely acknowledged Seamus entering the room.

“That You-Know-Who’s back, of course,” snapped Seamus. “Do you really believe that?”

Neville at last looked up and met Seamus’ eye. Seamus was looking down at him with a mixture of fear and anger, waiting to see what his reaction would be. “Yeah, yeah I do,” said Neville quietly.

Seamus made a weak half-hearted attempt at a laugh. “Come on, Neville, you can’t really believe that. What really happened?”

“It’s true,” Neville said, his voice again getting barely above a whisper. “I saw him.”

Seamus took a step backwards. “You are mad,” he said, almost to himself, but loud enough to be certain Neville heard it. “Neville, it’s all in your head, there was no You-Know-Who, you must see that.”

“I know what I saw,” said Neville. The last thing he wanted was an argument, but he wasn’t going to lie. Neville, who had lived so much of his life in ignorance, knew the importance of the truth.

“Look, Neville, even the Ministry, the Prophet are saying...”

But at that moment Dean walked in. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Did you know he’s still saying You-Know-Who’s back?” said Seamus, pointing at Neville.

“Yeah, I did,” replied Dean. “What of it?”

“Don’t tell me you believe him?” exclaimed Seamus incredulously.

“I don’t know what to believe,” said Dean. “But I trust Neville. We both know him, Seamus. Do you really see him making up something like this? So if it comes down to a choice between trusting Neville or not, well then yes, I do believe him. So does Dumbledore, for that matter.”

Seamus shook his head “You’re all as mad as he is.” He took one last apprehensive look at Neville and stormed out.

“Sorry about that,” Dean said sympathetically. “His mum was threatening not to let him return this year, apparently.”

“Don’t worry about it,” mumbled Neville. “He’s not the only one.”

Neville went to bed early that night, hoping to use sleep to escape from his worries for a short time. But memories of Cedric’s death still invaded his dreams, as did other strange images of dark corridors and locked doors that he didn’t understand. He woke no less agitated or troubled than before.

* * *

There was much talk in the corridors of Hogwarts on the first day of term, and not all of it was about Neville Longbottom. The curious absence of Hagrid from the school and the teaching staff was much remarked upon; a substitute teacher for Care of Magical Creatures had been appointed, but no explanation had been given for why the half-giant was missing. The lack of information had led to a number of wild rumours flying about the school.

The other major topic of conversation was Professor Umbridge, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. The fact that she was a Ministry official had already widely circulated, and indeed it was now being claimed in several quarters that the Ministry had appointed her directly, over Dumbledore’s head. What this meant for the subject was unclear, though those believing the Daily Prophet were naturally delighted that the Ministry was standing up to Dumbledore. Hermione seemed apprehensive.

Neither of these subjects was particularly of immediate concern to Neville however. He didn’t take Care of Magical Creatures, and didn’t have Defence Against the Dark Arts for a couple of days. His most pressing worry was the fact that he had double Potions that afternoon, and would have to walk into a classroom with Snape in it. He was terrified at the prospect and though he had not confessed his fears to Hermione, she must have known. She was as shocked as anyone who knew what happened that Snape was still a teacher and appeared nervous about the lesson herself.

Neville’s first lesson of the week was Charms, and Professor Flitwick began the lesson with a long lecture reminding the students (as if they needed telling) that this was their OWL year, and that consequently their workload would be a lot heavier and their studies more intense in the coming months. The prospect of more schoolwork would at any time in the past have panicked Neville, but now he just accepted it; he had many far bigger worries.

The warnings from the teachers over OWLs continued throughout the day, even in Muggle Studies, where Professor Burbage normally took a very relaxed attitude to the subject. Only in History of Magic did Professor Binns not mention OWLs, but then he barely noticed whether his students had turned up or not and just ploughed on with his notes. By the afternoon, Hermione was already fretting madly and planning a six-month revision timetable.

All too quickly, the time for Potions had arrived, and Neville and Hermione made their way down to the dungeons together. They entered the classroom, and Neville insisted on sitting near the back and away from the door. Hermione, though she generally preferred to sit at the front, agreed. They found seats on a bench just along from Harry and Ron.

Precisely on time, Snape marched into the room and straight up to the front of the class. To Neville’s relief, Snape did not even look in his direction, but instead launched into a lecture on OWLs similar to the other teachers. “I expect each and every one of you to achieve at least an Acceptable in your exams,” he said coldly, “but only students achieving Outstanding may pass to NEWT level in my class. That means that likely a great many of you will be leaving this class at the end of the year, which in some cases will be no great loss.” Snape’s words provided a small measure of comfort to Neville. Whatever happened, he would at least be rid of Snape by the end of the year, a long way off though that seemed at present.

Snape set them the task of preparing a Draught of Peace, and Neville alternated between working on the potion and keeping a wary eye on Snape, in case he moved to attack. With his attention diverted, his work was even worse than usual and it wasn’t long before his cauldron was bubbling furiously and belching forth smoke. Hermione did her best to help him without Snape noticing. Snape however had not moved from his seat at the front of the class, not even to conduct an inspection of the students’ progress. He waited silently until the time was up.

“Stop,” he instructed curtly. “Step away from your cauldrons. Let me see how you have fared.” He walked around the class examining each cauldron in turn, and Neville became more and more apprehensive as he approached the back of the room. When he got to Harry, he stopped. “Potter, what is this sludge?” he barked. “Do you revel in your mediocrity? Dispose of this before it eats away at your cauldron and damages this table.” He passed in sullen silence over Ron and Hermione’s work before reaching Neville.

Snape leaned in close over the top of Neville’s cauldron. Neville’s hand tightened over his wand beneath his robes. Snape looked up and his dark eyes fixed Neville with a cold stare. There was a long pause that seemed to last an eternity to Neville. “Characteristically abysmal, Longbottom,” Snape said at last, and walked away. Neville breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Once the lesson was over, Neville and Hermione walked up from the dungeons together. “Actually, he doesn’t seem to have changed much,” said Hermione. “He was always unfair to Harry, and to be honest that wasn’t your best potion, Neville.”

“I don’t know,” Neville replied. “There was something in that look he gave me. He’s still out to kill me, I’m sure of it. He just can’t do it in a room full of people.”

“If only Dumbledore would have told us why he allowed him back,” said Hermione.

“There’s a lot Dumbledore’s not telling,” Neville complained. “He hasn’t even talked to me since June. You’d think he’d at least ask how I was doing.”

They crossed a courtyard heading for the main staircase. Just as they reached the middle, Neville heard a loud voice from his right call out, “Hey, Short-Arse, had any more hallucinations lately?” Neville instantly recognised the voice and turned with dread to see Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, striding towards him. He made to quickly move on, but Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle broke into a run and moved to bar his way. “Running away, Short-Arse?” Malfoy taunted. “You’re good at that. Was that why Diggory died? Did you run away and leave him to die?”

Neville said nothing, but stared back at the three Slytherins. He remembered that all three of their fathers had been in the graveyard that night. They knew why Cedric had died. “Nothing to say for yourself?” spat Malfoy.

“Get lost, Malfoy,” said Hermione.

“You can shut it, Mudblood,” Malfoy snarled. “I’m just a concerned citizen. Longbottom here is a danger to himself and others, so the Ministry says. He shouldn’t be walking about the school. He should be locked up in St Mungo’s. They’ve got a place for loonies like him. Do you fancy that, Short-Arse? Chained up with all the other nutcases drooling down their chins? You just wai-... ugh.” Malfoy never got to finish his sentence. A Stunning spell had sprung out of nowhere and struck him square in the chest. He was catapulted ten feet backwards and lay motionless on the ground.

Crabbe and Goyle desperately scrabbled for their wands, but before they could get hold of them, two more Stunning spells shot out and struck them down. Neville turned to see Harry, seething with fury, advancing towards them, his wand outstretched. He marched right up to Malfoy and stood over his prostrate form, levelling his wand at Malfoy’s head.

Ron charged over and seized Harry by the arm. “Leave him, leave him, Harry, he's not worth it,” he urged desperately. For a moment, Harry seemed not hear him, and stood stock still, keeping his wand pointed at Malfoy’s head. Then finally he relented, lowered his wand and let Ron lead him away.

“That was a bit over the top, even for Harry,” said Hermione. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they wake up.” Neville didn’t reply as he had promised to keep Harry’s secret, but he knew exactly why Harry had reacted the way he did and frankly, he didn’t blame him.

* * *

The next two days for Neville consisted of further rounds of OWLs warnings from the teachers and more sideways looks and whispered comments from the other students. This was ostracism on a scale Neville had never experienced before, neither in his second year when he was briefly suspected of being the Heir of Slytherin, nor in his fourth, after his mysterious entry into the Triwizard Tournament. Then, there were merely suspicions about him, but now it seemed everyone was convinced he was dangerous, or mad, or both. To avoid it all, he never left Gryffindor Tower unless it was necessary, and rarely spent much time in the common room.

He had to head out into the castle for lessons, though, and he had come to dread the walks between classrooms. On his way to his first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the term he was scowled at by a group of Ravenclaws and he hurried on by without a word.

When he got to the classroom, he found it neat and sparse, in contrast to the haphazard mounds of clutter that had usually been found in Moody’s classrooms. The desks were arranged in carefully ordered rows and there were no teaching aids or materials anywhere. Umbridge was not present, so the Gryffindors sat down and waited, chatting amongst themselves.

As the clock reached the hour, there was a quiet but forceful hem, hem from behind them. They turned to see Umbridge standing in the doorway, dressed all in pink, her arms folded. She waited there for several seconds before saying in her girlish voice, “Students will fall silent and stand when I enter the room.” The Gryffindors shuffled reluctantly to their feet as Umbridge walked to the front of the class. “Good morning, class,” she said. Receiving no reply, she instructed, “You reply, ‘Good morning, Professor Umbridge’.”

“Good morning, Professor Umbridge,” mumbled the Gryffindors, exchanging glances with each other.

“Good, you may be seated,” Umbridge said, flashing one of her sickly sweet smiles. “Wands away and books out, please.” A murmur of disappointment spread around the room. Neville stowed his wand and took out his copy of the textbook Umbridge had put on the booklist for the year. It was called Defensive Magical Theory by a Wilbert Slinkhard. Neville had of course not opened it once since he’d got it.

Umbridge stood in front of her desk, her hands clasped in front of her. “As your other teachers have no doubt told you,” she began, “this year is an important one for you. You have suffered in the past from massive inconsistency in the quality of teaching in this subject. I am sorry to say that the Headmaster has allowed his professors to teach any syllabus they see fit, without regard to Ministry standards. You will be glad to know that this is about to change.

“From now on you will be taught a strict, ordered curriculum carefully designed to give you the complete theoretical background in defensive magic that you will require for your OWL. You will study in detail the circumstances in which defensive magic is necessary, the appropriate options available, and how to come to a decision as to what action to take. Everything you will need can be found in Mr Slinkhard’s excellent book. You may now open it and begin to read chapter one.”

Neville drearily turned back the cover of the book to read. But to his left Hermione’s hand shot into the air immediately as Umbridge stopped speaking. Umbridge did her best to ignore her but Hermione’s hand was pointed so insistently skywards that eventually she relented and said, “Yes, Miss...?”

“Granger, Professor,” replied Hermione. “I’ve been looking over the book already,” (by which Neville knew she meant she’d read it cover to cover) “and from it and from what you said, I’m worried there doesn’t seem to be anything about the actual practical use of magic.”

Umbridge’s posture stiffened slightly and she unclasped and reclasped her hands several times as she looked down at Hermione. Finally, she said, “That is right, Miss Granger. There will be no need for you to perform spells in my class. As I said, you are here to acquire a theoretical knowledge of magic in order to pass your exams. That is what the Ministry requires of you, and that is what you will learn.”

“You’re not actually going to teach us any magic?” asked Dean incredulously.

“If a student wishes to address me, he or she will raise their hand first and wait to be called upon to speak,” stated Umbridge firmly. Dean at once raised his hand. Umbridge ignored him, but soon half of the rest of the class had also raised their hands.

Reluctantly, Umbridge called on Parvati. “But isn’t half the exam a practical test?” she asked.

“Once you have mastered the background, you should have no trouble producing the appropriate spells in controlled conditions,” said Umbridge firmly. “The Ministry has the upmost regard for your safety, and this class has been designed to ensure a safe and secure learning environment with absolutely no risk to you whatsoever. After my predecessor’s recklessness the need for this is more evident than ever.”

“But isn’t the whole point of this class to teach us to defend ourselves?” interrupted Harry.

“You will raise your hand if you wish to speak!” insisted Umbridge.

“But...” began Ron.

“You will listen!” screeched Umbridge, briefly losing her composure for the first time. She quickly recovered. “There are rules for how my classes are conducted, and these rules will be obeyed. You will stand when I enter. You will address me correctly. You will raise your hand when you wish to speak. You will not interrupt or contradict me. Penalties for transgressing these rules will be strictly enforced. Do I make myself clear?” There was a deafening silence in the room. “I said, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Professor,” murmured the Gryffindors.

Umbridge smiled. “Good. As for the last outburst, your concern is understandable, if mistaken. No doubt many of you have heard the rumours circulating about the supposed return of a particularly dangerous Dark wizard. Let me assure you that the Ministry has fully investigated this matter, and these scurrilous rumours are totally without foundation. They have been put about by subversive and misguided individuals seeking to undermine the Ministry and destabilise the wizarding world. You have absolutely nothing to fear.”

Her eyes rested on Neville as she spoke. Neville, whose frustration had been building ever since Umbridge had started speaking, now found it turning to anger and shock. How could she stand there and lie to everyone? Neville thought of Cedric, callously murdered in front of his eyes with barely a second thought, and now this woman was brazenly denying that it ever happened. He couldn’t bare it. He wanted to stand up, to shout out that it wasn’t true, that Voldemort was back, that Umbridge and the Ministry were wrong.

But he couldn’t. He found himself seemingly frozen to his seat, unable to speak the words he desperately wanted to say. But no spell was affecting him. He remembered the words of Moody at King’s Cross about keeping his head down and not causing trouble, but more than that, it was fear. He was terribly afraid.

There was something about the look in Umbridge’s eye as she stared down at him that terrified Neville. This wasn’t like telling the truth to Seamus, this was a teacher, someone in a position of power over him. He had been through so much already; he just wanted it to stop. He couldn’t face any more trouble. So he sat in silence, though the truth burned inside him, desperate to get out.

“Of course,” said Umbridge, her sugary tone returning, “there may be some of you who doubt what I have said. Maybe there are those among you who have a different opinion, or who are convinced that their own version of events is true.” She walked forward, passing up and down the rows of desks, until eventually she stopped in front of Neville. “What about you, Mr Longbottom?” she asked, in the sweetest tone she could muster. “Do you have anything you want to say to me, to the rest of the class?”

She wants me to defy her, thought Neville. She wants me to stand up to her so she can put me down. And he so wanted to. He so wanted to cry out, to tell the truth to everyone and forget the consequences. But he couldn’t. He put his head down and said nothing, and Umbridge smiled and walked away.

“It’s intolerable!” exclaimed Hermione, pacing angrily up and down the Gryffindor common room in front of Neville, Ron and Harry. “How can we hope pass our OWLs if she won’t teach us any magic? To say nothing of the fact that this is the one time more than ever that we need to know how to defend ourselves. She’s an absolute hag! How can Dumbledore let her get away with this?”

“She’s got the Ministry behind her,” said Ron. “There’s nothing Dumbledore can do. I reckon the Ministry are so desperate to pretend that everything’s fine they’re trying to say there's no need for anyone to know any defensive magic.”

It was the end of the second week of term and there had so far been no change in Umbridge’s teaching. Every lesson had solely consisted of reading a portion of Defensive Magical Theory in silence, with the only interruptions being occasional repetitions by Umbridge of the official Ministry line that everything was fine and that there were certainly no Dark wizards out there threatening their safety. She always looked pointedly at Neville whenever she made these pronouncements, but Neville had remained silent, unable to bring himself to speak.

“I’ve written to Sirius to ask him if he knows any more about what’s going on,” said Harry. “I should get a reply in the next few days. Hopefully he’ll also let us know more about how, you know,” he glanced about to check no one was listening, “the Order are doing. Everything seems so quiet at the moment. I mean, Voldemort must be up to something.” Everyone else winced slightly; Harry was still the only one of the four comfortable with using Voldemort’s name. He changed the subject quickly. “How are you holding up, Neville? You seem awfully quiet there.”

“I’m fine,” Neville said flatly. Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione, and was about to say more when Fred and George entered the common room and wandered over to the group.

“Hi guys,” said George. “Padfoot, Prongs, we need to have a business meeting. You got a few minutes?”

“Sure,” said Harry, and he and Ron got up and followed Fred and George over to a quiet corner of the common room, where they sat down to chat. The Marauders had gone commercial. Not content with simply cooking up various magical experiments, the Marauders were now offering some of their creations for sale to the other students. They were mostly mischief-making tools: stuff for pranks or to get out of lessons. They were operating on a tight budget, but seemed to be making quite a success.

Hermione disapproved of the whole enterprise, and had pored over the school rules, looking to see if they were breaking any, but had come up with nothing, unless something they sold actually did serious damage, which so far hadn’t happened. Now she watched them suspiciously for a few moments, before turning to Neville and saying, “I’ve got an Arithmancy essay to write, so I’ve got to go. Look, there’s Ginny over there, you should go talk to her. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Neville nodded and Hermione left. Neville looked over to where Ginny was sitting by herself reading a book. He started to get up to over to her, but stopped. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her. He used to find it so easy to talk to her, but now it seemed easier just to let her be. He turned and headed up to the dormitory alone.

* * *

On Monday morning, the students found signs pinned on every noticeboard in Hogwarts. The signs, written in a bold, stark font on thick parchment, read simply:

BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Dolores Jane Umbridge is hereby appointed to the post of High Inquisitor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

This appointment is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, as enacted by the Ministry.

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Ron to Neville, reading the notice. “What on earth is a High Inquisitor?”

Neville shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll ask Hermione if she does.” They went down to breakfast in the Great Hall, where they found Hermione intently studying a copy of the Daily Prophet. “Have you heard...?” Neville began.

“It’s ridiculous,” interrupted Hermione. “They’re completely crazy. Here, look at this.” Ron grabbed the newspaper and began reading, with Harry peering over his shoulder. “Basically, Fudge has given Umbridge free rein to do what she likes at Hogwarts,” Hermione explained to Neville. “She’s going to be inspecting the teachers, and she can probably get them suspended or fired if she wants. That’s all the article says, but I reckon that’s not the extent of what she’ll be allowed to do. The Ministry’s trying to take over Hogwarts, to sideline Dumbledore, and they’re using Umbridge to do it.”

Umbridge was not present inspecting any of the classes Neville took that day, although he later overheard the twins telling Harry that she’d been in their Transfiguration class. “McGonagall treated her like a piece of dirt on the sole of her shoe and still didn’t give her anything to criticise,” said Fred. “It was fantastic.” Neville suspected though that not all the teachers would be able to deal with Umbridge so effectively.

His found his theory put to the test the very next day when he walked into Muggle Studies to find Umbridge sitting at the back of the classroom, a clipboard in her hand. The students nervously took their seats. When Professor Burbage entered, she gave a polite nod towards Umbridge and moved to her customary position at the front of the class to begin the lesson.

“So far this term we have been looking at important events in British Muggle history, and today we shall be discussing the Industrial Revolution, when Muggle ingenuity and endeavour began to overcome some of the limitations due to their lack of magic. The Industrial Revolution began at a time when wizards...”

“Hem, hem,” came a loud cough from the back of the room. Umbridge had stood up. “If I may just interrupt for a moment,” she said, smiling, “what exactly is the purpose of this lesson?”

Burbage looked nonplussed. “As I just said, to study the Industrial Revolution.”

“Yes, I heard you, but why? To what end?”

Burbage was unsure of how to respond for a moment. “It is a significant period of Muggle history. It is important in understanding how modern Muggle society developed.”

Umbridge smiled once more. “You have misunderstood my question. What is the purpose of studying Muggle history at all? Surely it has no relevance to witches and wizards today.”

Burbage stared at Umbridge carefully for several seconds. “On the contrary, I believe it is extremely important. It can lead to a far greater understanding of Muggles, which is after all the purpose of this class.”

“Hmm. Interesting,” said Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. “You may continue.”

The rest of the lesson passed without interruption, although Neville noticed Burbage keeping a wary eye on Umbridge throughout. At the end, Umbridge approached Burbage. “One final question,” she asked. “You have been in this post for how long now?”

“This is my sixth year teaching here,” Burbage replied. “I took over when my predecessor left for a year on sabbatical, and when he returned he took over the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.”

“Ah yes, the unfortunate Mr Quirrell,” said Umbridge, glancing in Neville’s direction. “Very well, you shall be receiving the results of your inspection in a few days time.”

The next day in Divination, Professor Trelawney was shaking and nervous throughout the whole lesson. Rumours were spreading through the school that Trelawney’s own inspection by Umbridge had not gone well. Neville didn’t rate Trelawney too highly as a teacher, but he had a great deal of sympathy for her.

That afternoon, it was time for Defence Against the Dark Arts once more. “If anyone should be inspected, it should be her,” muttered Harry as they entered the classroom. As always, everyone shuffled to their feet as Umbridge entered, and intoned, “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.”

“Good afternoon, class,” said Umbridge. “You may be seated. Wands away, and open your books to chapter three, please. You will read the first four pages of the chapter, and then copy out the relevant information onto parchment for the remainder of the lesson. Begin.”

Wearily, Neville opened his book and began to scan the meaningless words on the page. Behind him however, Ron had raised his hand. When Umbridge finally deigned to acknowledge him, he asked, “How are we supposed to know what information is relevant, Professor?”

“All information in the book is relevant, Mr Weasley,” said Umbridge sternly, “otherwise Mr Slinkhard would not have included it. But you may phrase your notes however you see fit, so long as they are comprehensive. Your creativity must be encouraged.” Hermione barely stifled a snort.

“But the first page of this chapter is all about how to talk to people so as not to antagonise them. How is that relevant to Defence Against the Dark Arts?” asked Ron.

“It is extremely important, Mr Weasley. By not provoking others, you prevent confrontations from occurring, thereby protecting oneself without needing to resort to magic. Decorum and civility is of vital importance in dealing with others. Fortunately we live in exceptionally peaceful times, so such learning to do so will be easy for you. The chances of any of you being threatened with violence or facing any danger are utterly insignificant.”

“No,” muttered Neville. It was barely more than a whisper, and he hadn’t meant to say it, it had just slipped out unintentionally. But Umbridge heard him, and rounded on Neville immediately.

“What did you just say?” she snapped, a look of triumph in her eyes. “Did I not say that any interruption or contradiction of me would be severely punished? You will receive detention, Mr Longbottom. See me in my office at eight o’clock this evening. Now continue with your reading, all of you.” Neville just stared at her in shock.

“What a complete monster!” said Hermione in the corridor outside the classroom after the lesson. “There’s no way you deserved detention, Neville, even if what she was saying wasn’t complete rubbish. You barely said anything. It’s not like you’ve been the first person to interrupt or challenge her in the class, and she’s given no one else detention yet. It’s totally vindictive. You’ve got to complain to McGonagall about this.”

“What good will that do?” replied Neville. “She’s High Inquisitor now. Like you said, she can do what she likes.” He was devastated. After three weeks of being too afraid to stand up to Umbridge, he’d now got detention without even actually standing up to her. He didn’t know what to do.

“Come on, let’s head back to the common room before supper,” said Hermione.

“You go on,” said Neville. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll catch up with you later.” He wandered off down the corridor. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular; he just wanted to be alone for a while. He walked aimlessly through Hogwarts, avoiding meeting the eyes of anyone he passed, lost in his own thoughts. Solitude was his one source of relief; it made him feel safer.

Eventually he stopped by a large window that looked out onto the Hogwarts grounds. Neville leaned on the windowsill and stared out of the window. In the distance he could see Hagrid’s hut, still deserted; Hagrid had not returned from wherever he had gone. Beyond lay the wide expanse of the Forbidden Forest, dark and impenetrable.

As Neville watched, something rose up from out of the Forest. It was thin and black and it spread wide wings as it glided in an arc above the trees. Neville realised it was one of the mysterious horses that pulled the Hogwarts carriages. Even hovering against the blue sky it looked out of place.

“Majestic, isn’t it?” said an airy voice behind him. Neville jumped and turned to find himself face to face with Luna Lovegood. She was not even looking at him, but straight past him out of the window as if he wasn’t even there. “Hello, Neville Longbottom. I’ve always loved this view. I like to watch them circling above the Forest. It reminds me of all the wondrous unexplained things there are in the world.”

“Oh, er, right,” said Neville.

Luna now looked straight at him. “I believe you,” she said simply. “I believe that You-Know-Who has returned, and that the Ministry have organised a conspiracy against you and Dumbledore to suppress the truth. They won’t win forever. The truth always comes out in the end. You’ll see.”

“Um, thank you, Luna,” said Neville. It was good to hear that someone at least believed him, though Luna Lovegood was hardly the person he would have picked.

“It was nice talking to you, Neville,” Luna said, and skipped happily off down the corridor. Neville noticed she was wearing mismatched shoes.

When Neville got back to the common room, the Marauders and Hermione were sitting in a corner together and waved him over. “I got a reply from Sirius,” Harry told him. “Here, look.” He took out a letter and placed it on a table in front of Neville. At the top of the letter was written simply:

Dear Harry,
Just like with the map.
Sirius.

The rest of the paper was blank. “Sirius is being careful,” Harry explained. “Watch.” He tapped the letter with his wand and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” Writing appeared on the remainder of the paper. Neville read.

Dear Harry,
Sorry about the security, but we’ve had reports the Ministry has started intercepting owls, so we’re being extra careful with correspondence. Best if you don’t reply to this letter. I’m not surprised Umbridge isn’t teaching you any magic, it fits with what we’ve learnt. Fudge’s paranoia is now so great, he thinks Dumbledore is assembling his own private army to overthrow the Ministry, including recruiting the school. Thankfully he hasn’t found out about the re-formed Order yet, or we’d all be in trouble. Watch your step around Umbridge, she reports directly to Fudge. Sorry, no news of Hagrid yet. He should have been back by now, but don’t worry, he can take care of himself. Keep up the good work of the Marauders,
Sirius.

“So that’s why old toad-face won’t let us learn any magic,” said George. “How much more stupid can the Ministry get?”

Hermione reread the letter carefully. “This can’t go on,” she said, almost to herself. “Something’s got to be done.”

“Yeah, but what can we do?” asked Ron. Hermione didn’t reply, but sat back in her chair with a thoughtful expression on her face.

At eight o’clock, Neville trudged down to Umbridge’s office on the second floor. He knew the way; it had been Moody’s office the year before and Neville had spent a lot of time there training for the Triwizard Tournament. He knocked on the door. “Come in,” he heard Umbridge say. He pushed open the door.

The room was hardly recognisable from the time Moody had occupied it. The various instruments and Dark magic detectors were all gone. The walls were hung with rows upon rows of china plates, each depicting the image of a nauseatingly cute kitten. Every surface was covered in lace or pink cloth, including Umbridge’s desk, which was neatly arranged with stacks of papers in plastic trays. Umbridge was sitting behind the desk, and indicated that Neville should take the seat opposite.

Neville sat down. In front of him had been placed a length of parchment, on top of which lay a thin black sharp-pointed quill. “I hope you understand why you are here, Mr Longbottom,” said Umbridge, smiling broadly. “You must learn respect and deference towards authority and your superiors. You must learn to accept the truth when it is told to you. For too long you have been led astray by others. It is time you were guided back to the right path. Please pick up that quill and write out, oh, let us see, how about I must not tell lies.”

Well, there are worse things she could have made me do than lines, thought Neville. “How many times?” he asked.

“I will tell you when you can stop,” Umbridge replied.

Neville picked up the quill and then realised something. “I don’t have any ink,” he said.

“You won’t need any,” said Umbridge. “Please continue.”

Neville put the quill to the parchment and wrote I must not tell lies for the first time. The words appeared on the parchment in red ink. Neville was about to write the second line when suddenly a shooting pain went through his right hand. He dropped the quill with a cry and cradled his right hand with his left. “Pick up the quill and continue,” said Umbridge, still smiling.

“But my hand...” began Neville.

“Continue,” repeated Umbridge.

Neville took up the quill again and saw that the back of his hand was red. He wrote I must not tell lies again, and again intense pain flared through his hand, making him drop the quill once more. “I will not tolerate these interruptions, Mr Longbottom,” said Umbridge. “We will stay here until I am satisfied you are finished, however long that takes. Pick up the quill.”

Neville looked down at his hand. The redness there was now not spread across the hand, but localised in thin lines like scars. The scars formed letters, and words. They spelled out I must not tell lies.

Neville looked up at Umbridge in horror. Umbridge was still smiling. “You must be taught a lesson, Mr Longbottom,” she said, “and the best lessons are those that are deeply ingrained. Keep writing.”

In disbelief, Neville picked up the quill once more and, with gritted teeth, carried on writing. Each stroke of the quill cut deeper into his hand, and it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out or letting the tears that were welling up in his eyes from pouring down his face. He did not want to show any weakness in front of Umbridge, but all he could wish for was for the pain to stop.

He wrote and he wrote, and Umbridge sat silently across from him, the same fixed smile upon her face. Eventually, after what seemed an age, she reached across and grabbed his hand, removing the quill from it. She examined the hand closely, holding it tight as Neville was shaking. “Well, it is a start,” she said. “I hope you have learned something today, Mr Longbottom. But if there should be any further instances of insubordination in my class, then we shall have to return here and see if we can’t drive home the message a little deeper. You may go.”

Neville got up and left. As soon as he was outside the office, he broke into a run and dashed to the nearest bathroom. He rushed over to a sink and ran cold water from the tap over his hand, trying to dull the pain, but it still ached and throbbed. He sank to the floor, clutching his hand, and the tears which he had held back in Umbridge’s office now flowed unstoppably. What does she want? he thought in between the sobs. She’s torturing me and I haven’t even done anything. What is she trying to do?

When he got back to Gryffindor Tower a while later, he kept his hands in his pockets and said nothing about what had happened to anyone.

In the days following his detention with Umbridge, Neville did everything that he could to conceal the injuries on his hand. He kept himself to himself as much as possible and in classes hid his hand as best he could. When he was asked about the detention, he lied and said nothing more than he was given lines. He couldn’t bear to let anyone know what had really happened.

In Umbridge’s Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, Neville’s energies were now entirely focussed on staying silent and not giving Umbridge the slightest opportunity to give him detention again. He could see that Umbridge was watching him like a hawk every lesson, waiting for the chance to pounce on any slip Neville might make. Neville had so far remained resolutely mute, in spite of Umbridge’s occasional goading, keeping the frustration and anger he was feeling bottled up inside.

Between his fear of Umbridge and his fear of Snape, who was continuing to ask as if nothing had changed, Neville was restless and agitated all the time during waking hours, and his sleep was not much better. He continued to be troubled by dreams of long, dark corridors and locked doors. It seemed in his dreams that he was searching for something, but he had no idea what it was. Every time he got close he found the way blocked and he woke up both frustrated and confused.

Over time, the scars on his hand began to fade, and if his friends had suspected anything, they kept their suspicions to themselves. Ron had just joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team as their new Keeper, which meant that aside from the Chasers, the entire team was now made up from the Marauders. What with that, and their burgeoning business enterprise, the Marauders were exceptionally busy. Hermione was delving herself into schoolwork even more than usual, fretting about OWLs. Neville hoped that they were so busy in their own lives not to notice what was going on in his.

He did spot some strange goings-on with them, though. He occasionally saw the Marauders, Hermione and sometimes Ginny having whispered conversations with each other, and with some of the other Gryffindors. Neville had no idea what these conversations were about, and he didn’t ask. He was happy to leave others alone if they left him alone.

September passed and October came, and it was nearly time for the first Hogsmeade visit of term. The prospect however didn’t excite Neville; he was thinking of not going at all. Although he would miss visiting the shops and enjoying a change of scenery, he was not keen to leave the safety of Gryffindor Tower and run the risk of being stared at and taunted all day long.

But on the Wednesday evening before the trip, Ginny accosted him as he entered the common room. “Hey, Neville, long time no see,” she said brightly.

“Um, er, yeah,” Neville replied apologetically. “Sorry. I’ve had a lot of work, you know, and stuff...”

Ginny smiled gently. “I understand. Anyway, so the Hogsmeade trip is this weekend, and I was wondering if maybe, well, you and I could go together. It would give us the chance to have some time to ourselves.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, sure, why not?” Neville felt rather embarrassed. He should have asked Ginny out to Hogsmeade himself ages ago, but he simply hadn’t been thinking about her. He knew with all that had been going on, he had neglected Ginny. It was time he started changing that. He hoped too that some time with Ginny would help to take his mind off his many troubles for a while. “I’ll meet you here on Saturday at ten, all right?”

“I’ll be here,” said Ginny, and headed off towards her dormitory. Neville didn’t spot the subtle nod that passed between her and Hermione, who was sitting reading by the fireplace.

* * *

Saturday morning was cold and windy, with dark clouds over Hogwarts threatening the possibility of rain later. Neville, wrapped up warm against the cold, met Ginny in the common room as promised and together they went down to the Entrance Hall where the students were gathering ready to leave. As they set out on the road to Hogsmeade, Ginny asked Neville, “So what’s the plan for today, then?”

“Um, I don’t really have one,” replied Neville. “I figured we’d just do the usual things, you know, visit Honeydukes, maybe drop into Zonko’s, and probably end up at the Three Broomsticks.”

“Oh. Oh, all right,” said Ginny.

“Why, is there something you wanted to do?” Neville asked.

Ginny hesitated momentarily. “No, no. I just wondered if you had anything particular planned.” Neville got the feeling there was an implied criticism in her words, but decided to say nothing. It had never occurred to him that he should have the day planned out in any way. They did not seem to be getting off to a good start.

Neville chose to hang near the back of the group as they walked to Hogsmeade, hoping to go unnoticed in the crowd. As they entered the village however, Colin Creevey walked past him and Ginny. “Hi Neville, hi Ginny!” he said brightly. “Can’t stop, I’m supposed to be watching Dennis. I’ll see you later, all right? Looking forward to it!” He rushed on ahead of them to catch up with his brother.

“What was all that about?” asked Neville.

“Oh, nothing,” said Ginny quickly. “Come on, let’s try and get into Honeydukes before it gets too crowded.”

Honeydukes, as it turned out, was already incredibly busy and Neville didn’t like being trapped in the crowd. They spent a short time there, but Neville persuaded Ginny to leave as soon as possible. “What’s going on?” Ginny asked when they got outside.

“I just don’t want to have to deal with all the trouble, all right?” said Neville.

“You can’t hide in a corner the whole time, Neville,” replied Ginny. “And it wasn’t like anyone in there was getting at you, anyway. What’s the point of coming to Hogsmeade if you don’t want to do anything while you’re here?”

“You don’t understand. I just want to forget about everything that’s going on, just for a while at least. I came because I wanted to spend some time with you. I know we’ve barely seen each other so far this year.”

“Fine, that’s all well and good,” said Ginny, “but so far today, you’ve barely said anything to me until now. How am I supposed to understand if you won’t talk to me? It seems like you’re wandering around in a world of your own these days, Neville.” Neville looked at her. He knew she was right, but he still couldn’t find anything to say. “Look,” continued Ginny, “let’s go find a quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks and just and talk for a while, okay? Then later I’ve got something that might just cheer you up.”

They made their way to the Three Broomsticks and managed to find themselves a place near the back of the pub. Ginny sat down across from Neville and waited for a while. Then, when Neville showed no inclination to speak, she prompted, “So, how are you holding up, then?”

Neville gave a non-committal answer. When Ginny prompted again, Neville began to say more, but the conversation quickly drifted away from his problems. He simply couldn’t talk to Ginny about Cedric and the graveyard, and there was no way he was going to talk about Umbridge. They were his troubles and he alone could understand them. Talking about them could only make things worse.

They talked about schoolwork, about OWLs, about what the Marauders were up to, anything but Voldemort, the Ministry or Umbridge. Even thinking about Umbridge made the back of Neville’s hand start to itch and he quickly blocked it out. Neville could tell that Ginny was getting increasingly frustrated and after a while he caught her glancing at her watch. “Do you have somewhere you need to go?” he asked, almost in hope that their tortuous conversation would be over.

“In a few minutes.” She looked up at Neville, as if trying to decide something. “You know, I thought I understood you, Neville,” she said eventually, “but now I’m not sure. I’m beginning to wonder if this is a good idea.”

“If what’s a good idea?”

Ginny stood up. “Follow me and you’ll find out,” she said. “We might as well get going, it doesn’t seem like there’s much point staying here any longer.”

Neville got up and followed Ginny out of the Three Broomsticks. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“We’re going to take short walk down to the Hog’s Head,” Ginny answered.

“The Hog’s Head? Why are we going there?”

“You’ll see.” Ginny led Neville down the High Street and off into the side road where stood the dingy, half-forgotten old pub that Neville had been in only once before. They went in. The pub was almost deserted; just the barman and three or four unsavoury-looking types wearing hoods and with their faces concealed behind their tankards. Ginny made her way towards a back room, indeed the same back room where Neville had once overheard a conversation between Professor Flitwick, the Minister for Magic and the head of the Auror department.

Stepping into the room, Neville stopped dead in shock. The room was filled with perhaps two dozen students, seemingly eagerly waiting for him to come in. Hermione was there, as were all four Marauders and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. There was Dean, and Lavender Brown, and both Patils, and Colin and his brother Dennis. Several Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws were also there, including Cho Chang, sitting next to Harry, and Luna Lovegood, sitting on her own at the back humming merrily and looking around with detached amusement.

“Oh, you’re early,” said Hermione, who was sat at the front. “There’s still a few more to arrive, I think.”

“What on earth is going on?” asked Neville.

“Take a seat, Neville, and we’ll explain in a moment,” said Hermione. Neville sat down next to her, feeling extremely uncomfortable. Everybody in the room seemed to be staring at him, and he wondered what was going to happen next. A few more students came in; Neville vaguely recognised Justin Finch-Fletchley among them. They squeezed into the available space and waited expectantly.

After a couple more minutes, Hermione said, “Well, I think that’s everyone that’s coming. Shall we start? Who wants to say something first?”

“Well, this was your idea, Hermione,” replied Ginny. “I think you’d better start.”

“Right, um, okay,” said Hermione, nervously getting to her feet. “Well, er, as we all know, Umbridge isn’t letting us learn any defensive magic. So we came up with this idea, well, I came up with this idea, that we should teach it to ourselves.”

“What are you talking about, Granger?” asked a tall Hufflepuff boy leaning against the far wall.

“We form a club,” Hermione answered. “A sort of study group. It’s not against the rules, at least not yet, but we should keep it quiet, because if Umbridge heard about it, you can bet she wouldn’t be happy. We’ll meet once a week and learn proper practical defensive magic.”

“Why would risk the wrath of Umbridge for the chance to do extra homework?” the Hufflepuff boy asked sullenly.

“It’s about more than that,” Hermione insisted. “This isn’t just about our OWLs. This is stuff we have to learn, because You-...” she stopped deliberately and took a deep breath, “because Voldemort is back.”

Hermione’s pointed use of the name had the desired effect. A murmur of shock and unease spread through the room. Neville himself shuddered involuntarily. Hermione herself looked relieved she had just been able to say it.

“Yeah, but is it true?” said a voice from the back. “I mean how do you know for sure? Everybody’s saying something different. Where’s your proof?”

“Dumbledore says it’s true,” Hermione pointed out, “so if you trust him, you have to believe it. And if you want proof, well, it’s sitting right there.” Hermione turned and pointed at Neville.

Neville had sensed that this was coming, and had been dreading it. What had they dragged him into? The surly-looking Hufflepuff boy let out a snort. “Longbottom?” he said with a sneer. “That’s what you’re basing this on, him? Can you really believe him?”

“I believe him,” said an airy voice from the corner. It was Luna Lovegood.

“Wow, Loony Lovegood, there’s a ringing endorsement,” said the Hufflepuff boy sarcastically.

“I believe him too, Zacharias,” spoke up a smaller Hufflepuff boy sitting in the centre. “And like Hermione said, I trust Dumbledore.”

“I do too, Ernie,” added Dean.

“We believe him,” said the Marauders in unison. Several others voiced their agreement, but not everyone in the room.

“Well, I’m not sure,” countered Zacharias. “I’m not saying I believe the Ministry, but no one saw what happened the night Cedric died. All we saw was Longbottom carrying his body out of the maze. How do we know what happened?”

All eyes turned to Neville, who was sat in silence, his heart beating hard against his chest. Memories were flooding into his head, memories of that night in the graveyard that he had tried so hard to suppress. “I can’t... I can’t talk about it,” he said quietly, not even looking up. “It happened, okay? He’s back. But don’t ask me to talk about it.”

He glanced pleadingly at Ginny next to him. “It’s all right, Neville, we understand,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you what was going on, but we were afraid that if we did, you wouldn’t come. We know it’s hard for you. But we need you here. We need your help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Neville, this isn’t like some school project,” Hermione explained. “We’re talking about really learning to defend ourselves, really preparing ourselves for what’s out there. We need someone who knows what that’s like. We need someone who’s been through such things before. We need you. We want you to be our leader, our inspiration.”

Neville was both confused and horrified. “What good would I be to anybody? I can’t teach anything, and I’ve never done anything inspiring.”

Ginny burst into loud laughter. “Neville, there’s modesty and there’s just being ridiculous. You’ve faced down You-Know-Who. Three times. You stopped him getting the Philosopher’s Stone. You competed in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Yeah, and don’t forget killing a basilisk and saving Ron here,” added Harry.

“There was that amazing Patronus you cast to drive away all those Dementors in our third year too,” said Hermione. “You’ve seen things, you’ve done things we can’t even imagine.”

“No!” insisted Neville forcefully. “I didn’t do any of those things, not the way you think. When we went after the Philosopher’s Stone, I didn’t know You-Know-Who would be there, and I couldn’t fight him anyway. In the Chamber of Secrets, I was a coward, and it was Ginny here who was the hero. I only managed the Patronus because of the weird circumstances with the Time-Turner. I’ve never been able to cast a proper Patronus since, and I never will. I didn’t enter the Triwizard Tournament, You-Know-Who’s servant forced me in, and the only reason I survived was because he needed me to win. And Cedric...”

He stopped; there was nothing more he could say. Slowly, he got to his feet. The faded scar on the back of his hand began to itch again. “You were right,” he said to Ginny. “If you’d told me, I probably wouldn’t have come.” He turned to face the rest of the gathering. “I think Hermione’s idea is a brilliant one,” he said. “With You-Know-Who back, we’re all in danger, and since the Ministry won’t let you learn defensive magic, it’s right to teach yourselves. But do it for your own good, don’t do it because of me. I can’t be your leader. In fact, I can’t be part of this at all. I’m sorry.” And to the astonishment of everyone present, he turned and walked out of the Hog’s Head alone.

They were all so surprised, that no one went after him. When eventually Ginny went out to look for him, he had gone. The meeting continued without him.

Neville had slipped down a side-street and hurried off; he didn’t want to be found. He felt like he’d let everyone down, that he’d abandoned them. But it wasn’t fair of them to spring that surprise on him. He couldn’t be part of their scheme; he couldn’t risk going up against Umbridge. He couldn’t face any more pain and fear. He scratched at the back of his hand and walked away.

* * *

Hermione eventually caught up with him in the Gryffindor common room that evening. She was carrying a sheet of parchment. “Neville, please,” she begged him. “We’re going ahead with the group, and look, everyone who was there signed up.” She showed him the parchment, which was filled with signatures. “Neville, please join us. Just sign the parchment.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I can’t,” said Neville.

Hermione shook her head. “Neville, I don’t understand.”

“No,” said Neville. “You don’t.” He hurried away and went up to his dormitory, where he went to sleep early.

He slept uneasily, and dreamt of rows of students staring at him unendingly. Then the dream changed, and he was once again in a long dark corridor. He reached a door at the far end, a door that seemed oddly familiar. He pushed the door open; it was unlocked this time, but beyond seemed only darkness and when he woke he felt a sense of anger and frustration he could not understand.