The next morning at breakfast, on the first day of term, Neville and Hermione were a popular topic of conversation on the Gryffindor table. News of their unorthodox arrival at Hogwarts had spread rapidly around the castle, as news was prone to do. It had quickly been embellished with various rumours, ranging from the claim that they’d flown all the way from London on brooms to the suggestion that Snape had somehow engineered the whole thing to get them expelled. Fred and George Weasley, with some support from Harry and Ron, Neville noted sadly, were taking the opportunity to mercilessly tease Hermione for breaking her reputation and receiving her first detention. Though it was largely good-natured, Neville could tell Hermione was not enjoying it.
Neville himself was used to being talked about behind his back and ignored it all. He was just revelling in being back in the familiar and comforting surroundings of Hogwarts. There was something about this place that made it feel more like home than even Gran’s house. He didn’t really understand why.
He looked up and down the Gryffindor table. All the usual faces were there. He saw Dean and Seamus laughing and joking about something. There were Lavender and Parvati, giggling away. He could also see a few new ones. He recognised Ginny Weasley, fresh-faced and eager, sitting among her brothers. She caught sight of him looking in her direction and waved. He half waved back and she grinned, before turning to listen to whatever Harry was saying to Fred.
Suddenly there was a bright flash in front of his eyes and he blinked hard. When the spots disappeared, his eyes focused on a small, brown-haired boy who was excitably bobbing up and down on the spot as if he was desperate to go to the bathroom or something. In his hands he held an old-fashioned camera. “All right, Neville?” he asked breathlessly. “You are Neville Longbottom, right? I’m Colin Creevey, I got sorted into Gryffindor yesterday. I just wanted to say how great it is to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.”
“Uh, hi,” said Neville. Yet another fan, he thought.
“I hope you didn’t mind the photograph. I’m sending them home to my parents. They’re keen to learn all about Hogwarts.”
“Didn’t they come here, then?”
“No, they’re not wizards. No one in my family is, as far as we know, except maybe my little brother. This is all new to me. Isn’t it fantastic?”
“Yes it is, Colin.” He liked this kid, even if he was a bit over-enthusiastic. “You should meet Hermione, she’s Muggle-born as well. Hey, Hermione,” he said. Hermione turned round on the bench and instantly blinked herself as Colin took another photograph. “This is Colin Creevey. He’s a first year Gryffindor.”
“Oh, nice to meet you, Colin,” said Hermione, rubbing her eyes. Colin stood there for a while looking at Neville, as if waiting for something, then when nothing happened dashed off up the hall. Hermione tugged at Neville’s sleeve. “You’ll never guess who the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher is,” she said.
“Huh?” replied Neville absentmindedly. He hadn’t been paying attention.
“Quirrell’s replacement. Look,” said Hermione, passing him a copy of the new timetable. Below the title of the first Defence lesson, scheduled for that afternoon, was written “Prof. G. Lockhart OM(3rd).”
“Lockhart? The author? That guy from the bookshop? What’s he doing teaching at Hogwarts? Does he know anything about Defence?”
“Does he know anything?” replied Hermione incredulously. “Honestly Neville, you really should read more. You’d enjoy it, I’m sure. Gilderoy Lockhart’s done more for wizardry in his lifetime than a hundred other people put together. It’s all in his books. He’s a legend.”
Neville remembered the overdressed wizard with the absurd smile and felt doubtful. Still, he would find out soon. The bell went for the first lesson and for once Neville was looking forward to it, as it was his favourite subject, Herbology. The Gryffindors joined the Hufflepuffs in making their way down to greenhouse 3 where Professor Sprout was waiting for them.
Neville was particularly pleased to learn that the first plant they would be studying that term was the Mandrake. Neville had read about these over the summer (Herbology textbooks were about the only textbooks he got around to reading) and knew a little about them. So, when Professor Sprout asked, Neville raised his hand. Hermione, whose hand was of course immediately up as well, looked slightly surprised, and Sprout chose Neville.
Neville, who almost never answered a question, suddenly realised everyone was staring at him. “Er, they have roots that look like little people and they scream terribly,” he stammered. “They’re used for cures or antidotes and such like.”
“Right, Neville. Well done,” beamed Sprout, and awarded Gryffindor eight points. She explained a few more points, including that the scream could be harmful, and fatal with full grown Mandrakes, and got them all to put on earmuffs. They spent much of the rest of the lesson repotting and tending the Mandrakes, which Neville found most fascinating and enjoyable, though Hermione didn’t. Ron and Harry down the far end were messing about and nearly let their earmuffs slip off. They were severely rebuked by Sprout.
Neville went to lunch in a good mood, and afterwards followed Hermione up to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. When he entered he immediately noticed the place had apparently been redecorated. In contrast to the dark, smelly atmosphere of the room under Quirrell’s tenure, now it was light, bright and airy, with the afternoon sun streaming in through the windows. The walls were lined with pictures, every single one of them featuring the beaming smile and impeccably tended features of Lockhart himself. The pictures seemed to be staring across the room at each other and ignoring the entering students.
Everyone found their seats and waited. They waited for a long time. Eventually, with a nonchalant air and without the slightest hint of concern, Lockhart breezed into the room, his bright cloak swishing behind him like the tail of some great tropical bird. In his right hand he clutched his wand, in the left he held a small cage, covered with a cloth. He put the cage down on the teacher’s desk. It rattled and rocked on the desk. Lockhart turned away and faced the class. He folded his arms ostentatiously across his chest.
“Good afternoon, Gryffindors,” he said brightly. “Welcome to your second year of Defence Against the Dark Arts with me, Gilderoy Lockhart. I am by nature an understated person, but I am sure you are not likely to encounter a better instructor than myself. You are indeed most fortunate students.” Neville shot a quizzical glance at Hermione, but she appeared to be unconcerned. “I have encountered, fought and defeated some of the vilest and dangerous creatures in our world and now I am here to pass the accumulated knowledge of these many challenges onto you. Open your desks.”
They did so and inside they each found several volumes of Lockhart’s own books, with bright garish covers and absurd titles. Neville turned them over in confusion, Hermione looked excited. “Excellent,” continued Lockhart. “Everything you will ever need is contained in these books. Learn them well and you need never fear the Dark Arts again. Except you don’t fear them at all, do you Neville?” Suddenly he had rounded on poor Neville, sitting next to Hermione at the front. “I had forgotten you already had a celebrity in this class. One nearly as famous as me, eh Neville?”
“Er, thank you, Professor,” said Neville quietly and uncomfortably, not knowing what else to say. He felt the eyes of everyone boring into the back of his head.
Lockhart leaned closely in to Neville and whispered in his ear. “You’re a quiet one, Neville, I can see that. Sensible. If you’ll take my advice, never pursue your fame. It will come to you in your own time.” He winked disconcertingly at Neville and turned back to the cage on the desk. He addressed the class. “To give you a taste of what you can expect from my class I have a surprise for you today.” He whipped the cloth off the cage to reveal a seething mass of small blue creatures packed inside and scrabbling to get out.
“Are those pixies?” asked Lavender curiously.
“Indeed they are, Miss Brown. Eager and fresh all the way from Cornwall. The first thing you have to know about pixies is that you should never take your eye off them for a moment. They may seem harmless, but they can catch you unawares if you’re not careful. I included a section on pixie tracking in Travels with Trolls. The key is always to look at…” The back of his robe swung against the cage and it clattered to the floor. The door sprung open and the pixies leapt out. Gleefully, many of them attached themselves to Lockhart’s back and head. The rest scampered among the desks and students, spreading utter chaos.
Neville ducked away from the advancing horde and put up a couple of Lockhart’s heavy books as protection. The Gryffindors scattered left and right, desperately trying to fight off the blue menaces. Hermione took out her wand, but the pixies were moving too fast for her to stop. “Professor, do something!” she pleaded.
Lockhart wasn’t listening. Several pixies had seized his robes by the collar and lifted him into the air. They dropped him onto one of the hooks hanging his pictures. The hook came away from the wall and Lockhart crashed to the floor, the painting coming down on top of his head. He staggered to his feet, took out his wand and looked around him. Neville waited to see how he would stop the pixies. Instead, with a quick furtive glance as if to see if anyone was watching, he kept his head down and fled from the room.
* * *
“He’s a complete joke,” said Harry, shaking his head and tending his bit finger. “Where did he get to? He just scarpered and left us to deal with the mess. Bloody coward.” It was between lessons and most of the Gryffindors were sitting out in the courtyard, having left behind them the chaos of the Defence classroom.
“Professor Lockhart’s a hero, he’s not a coward, Potter,” said Hermione defiantly, but a little unsure. “I’m sure he had a good reason for leaving, right Neville?” Neville didn’t answer. He’d seen the scared look on Lockhart’s face as he’d left and didn’t want to embarrass Hermione.
“Probably didn’t want to mess up his hair,” said Ron. Harry sniggered. Neville didn’t. He got up, stretched his arms and trod on his undone right shoelace. He lost his balance and went sprawling on the ground. To his surprise none of the Gryffindors laughed. But he heard several noises that sounded like ugly snorts coming from across the courtyard.
“Like the taste of dirt, do you, Short-arse?” said the unmistakeable sneering voice of Draco Malfoy. Neville raised his head an inch. There he was, flanked as always by Crabbe and Goyle and walking straight towards him. His hand was fingering the wand at his side, as if he couldn’t quite decide which curse to use. “Or maybe you’re more comfortable on all fours.”
Neville felt himself being pulled to his feet. It was Hermione who had come over to lift him up. She turned on Malfoy, anger in her eyes. “You leave him alone, Malfoy,” she snarled. “He’s ten times more than you’ll ever be.”
Malfoy rounded on Hermione and his voice became icy cold. He pulled out his wand and jabbed it under Hermione’s chin. “Mind your tongue,” he said slowly, “you dirty gutter-bred Mudblood.”
Almost without thinking, Neville whipped out his own wand. How dare he, he thought, how dare he? “Besciatomo!” he yelled. The tip of his wand spluttered and sparked, but nothing happened.
Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle laughed in Neville’s face. But unknown to him, behind him the Gryffindors to a man had drawn their own wands and they were most definitely not laughing. Ron of all people spoke first. “Close enough, Neville. But I think you’ll find it’s “Bestiavomo.” He almost jabbed his wand in the side of Malfoy’s face as he spoke the incantation. There was a flash and Draco fell to the ground. He looked up at Ron in amazement, tried to stagger to his feet and raise his wand, and doubled up as if he was choking. He pounded his stomach and belched. Something horrid, black and slimy flopped out of his mouth and onto the ground.
Harry leaned over Ron’s shoulder to see what it was. “Slugs,” he said. “Nice choice, Ron.”
“Thanks,” Ron replied. “It seemed to suit him.”
Malfoy retched as another slug fell out of his mouth. He turned to Crabbe and Goyle. “Get, retch, them,” he spluttered. But the two Slytherins were all too aware of the seven wands still pointing at their chests, and did as befitted their house. That is, they saved their own skins first, and ran. Malfoy hobbled off after them, glaring silently back at his attackers, a trail of slugs left in his wake.
“Uh, thanks, We-, I mean Ron,” said Neville to Ron. Ron merely nodded, and stowed away his wand.
Hermione looked visibly shaken. “What just happened? What did he say? What’s a Mudblood?”
“You mean you don’t know?” said Harry, but it was clear from Hermione’s face she didn’t. Harry looked sympathetic. “You’d best explain it to her, Neville,” he said. Everyone began to disperse and Neville took Hermione aside to explain.
Later that day at supper, a grimmer looking Hermione took her place at the Gryffindor table. As she passed the place where the Weasleys were sitting chatting away to each other, she stopped. “Thank you, Ron,” she said. “I hope you didn’t get into too much trouble.”
If Ron was surprised at receiving thanks from Hermione, he didn’t show it. “Hey, what’s another detention?” he smiled. “I’m used to them.” Hermione gave what looked like half a smile, and went on to sit down next to Neville.
* * *
Neville entered the deserted Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom that evening as the moon was just beginning to rise into the sky. The place was still an absolute mess, the devastation left by the marauding pixies covering the room. To his surprise Neville discovered that Professor Lockhart was still in the room, idly sitting at his desk, looking through piles of paper. He glanced up in surprise. “Neville, my boy, what can I do for you?” he said brightly, though Neville thought he looked far more down and uncomfortable than that morning.
“Er, Professor McGonagall said that if I cleaned up the mess in here this evening without magic that could count as my detention.”
“Excellent, excellent, I wondered why no-one had been round to clear up before. Don’t mind me, Neville, go ahead.” He returned to his reading while Neville set to work. He wondered why Lockhart hadn’t magically cleaned up the room himself, rather than just sitting there in the mess. McGonagall had expected him to have left a long time ago.
He noticed that Lockhart occasionally paused to peer over at him, and he found it quite unnerving after a while. He finally decided he’d have to make polite conversation to break the mood. “Doing some marking, sir?” he asked amiably.
Lockhart held up a few sheets, which Neville could now see were letters. “Fan mail,” he said, with a grin. “Always take the time to read it. Keeps ones finger on the pulse. I hope you do the same.”
“But I don’t get fan mail, sir,” said Neville, bemused.
“Really? It’s important to keep in touch with one’s public, Neville.” He put down the letters and leaned conspiratorially over the desk. “You know, Neville, fame has responsibilities. People look up to you, expect you to maintain a certain standard. It’s not easy to maintain that place at the top, believe me. I know you’re young, you’ve plenty of time ahead of you, but it never hurts to take a little friendly advice from one who’s been there before.” He gave Neville a little wink and went back to reading the fan mail.
Neville shook his head in disbelief. Harry was right, this Lockhart fellow was a right oddity. Having fans pestering him the whole time was the last thing Neville wanted, especially as he hadn’t done anything to deserve them. He was glad he didn’t have any, unless perhaps you counted that kid Colin, who’d turned up in some odd places today to just happen to run into Neville.
“I come.”
“Sorry sir, what did you say?” said Neville, absently.
Lockhart looked up surprised. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“But I thought… nothing,” Neville quickly added, looking around him at the dark, empty room. Maybe he had just imagined it.
“I come to hunt. I come to kill.”
Neville jumped. The voice sounded cold, hollow but sharp and, though it barely rose above more than a whisper, it seemed to echo against the stone walls of the castle, so Neville could not trace the source. Lockhart continued reading, apparently oblivious to what Neville had heard. Cautiously, his heart beating rapidly, Neville stuck his head out of the classroom door and looked up and down the dark corridor. It was empty.
“I am yours to command, master.”
Neville swallowed hard. Lockhart glanced up. “Ah, Neville, finished, have you? Superb. Bye. See you at the next lesson.” Neville merely nodded. In fact, he hadn’t quite finished, but he wasn’t going to hang around here any longer. He left the room at a brisk walk towards the staircase.
“I am ready. I will kill…”
Neville didn’t stop to listen to any more. He broke into a sprint, charged to the staircase and ran up six flights without stopping. Finally he paused outside the Fat Lady’s portrait, panting heavily and cursing his out-of-shape physique. Eventually, and with great relief, he recovered, spoke the password and entered. The common room was busy. He saw Harry sitting by the fireplace reading a Quidditch book, but there was no sign of Hermione. He went on up to his room and collapsed on his bed, still trembling. Though he could no longer hear it, the cold whisper continued to echo inside his head.
“Kill, kill, kill, kill…”
Neville Longbottom and the Chamber of Secrets by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which classes begin, Draco insults Hermione and Neville starts hearing a strange voice.