Within a few hours the news had spread throughout Hogwarts like wildfire. The talk in every common room and every dormitory was of nothing other than the attack. The Heir of Slytherin had made good on his threat for the first time, and though Penelope Clearwater was not dead, only Petrified, this did nothing to reassure the rest of the Muggle-borns among the student body. Some of the more nervous ones were even talking of quitting the school, or not returning after the Christmas break.
No one seemed to know how or why Penelope or Mrs Norris had been Petrified, a most strange form of attack. A thousand rumours or ideas were being spread, each as improbable as the next, stoked by the fact that the teachers could not or would not provide any explanation. There was a more noticeable presence of the staff in the corridors in the evenings and at break times, only serving to increase the nervousness.
Neville noticed how easily suddenly it was to tell the Muggle-borns from everyone else. They were ones with the nervous looks, the uncertain expressions, and in some cases giving the impression of determination and defiance. All sorts of people. It had never even occurred to him before to consider the blood status of those around him, and now he did, he didn’t like it. Why should it matter? Without this threat, no one could tell who was who, not on appearance, not on skill, not on anything. After all, he knew for a fact the witch he most idolised, Hermione, was Muggle-born, while the wizard he most despised, Malfoy, was pure-blood.
Pure-blood. That was what he was. Though Gran had never had time for any ideas of blood purity, he’d always been brought up to be proud of his heritage. Now he was almost ashamed of it. He felt undeservedly favoured, because of the parents he never knew, while others were suffering and in fear, others far more worthy than he. He wished he was one of them, that he could take their place, that he could take the place of Hermione. That would be so much fairer, it seemed to him.
Hermione, in contrast to almost everyone else, said nothing about what had happened for the first couple of days, and didn’t seem to change her attitude or routine at all. Neville decided to wait and not press the issue until she was ready to talk. On the third evening, however, she pulled Neville aside after lessons and said “Meet me on the second floor by Lockhart’s office in twenty minutes,” before hurrying off up the staircase.
When Neville arrived where Hermione had said a little over twenty minutes later, he found her already there, carrying a laden cauldron and with a heavy-looking book under her arm. “There you are,” she said. “Come on, I’ve got the perfect place where we won’t be disturbed.” She led Neville along three corridors, then with a quick look around her to check no one was looking, she opened a door into a bathroom. Neville followed.
The bathroom was dim and shabby, it looked like no one had been in it for years. The wooden doors to the cubicles were rotten and in a couple of cases loose on their hinges. The sinks were all cracked or chipped and the floor was damp. Neville looked around and realised something. “Er, Hermione, isn’t this a girls’ bathroom?” he asked.
“Yes, it is!” cried a shrill voice, as if from nowhere. For a moment Neville thought he was hearing voices again, then he saw a translucent head poking out through the door of one of the cubicles. The head was that of a girl with a round, pimpled face and thick glasses. The rest of the girl was nowhere to be seen. “Go away, you shouldn’t be here!”
“You’re a ghost, aren’t you?” said Neville, in one of his usual fits of stating the blindingly obvious.
“Oh, very good,” said the ghost, and floated through the cubicle door to reveal the rest of herself. Neville could see she was wearing Hogwarts robes. “I suppose you think that’s funny, don’t you? Come to tease me? Oh yes, let’s all go down to the bathroom and laugh at the dead girl, it’s so much fun!” She spat these words out with such spite that Neville backed off a few paces. He’d never been comfortable around ghosts in general and tended to avoid them if possible, but they weren’t usually this unpleasant.
“He’s with me, Myrtle,” said Hermione quickly. “We’ve just got some work to do in here, we’ve not come to tease you, we promise. Have we, Neville?” Hermione gave Neville a stern look.
“No, no, not at all,” stammered Neville.
“Well why shouldn’t you?” Myrtle snapped. “Everyone else does. Everyone hates miserable, ugly, fat Myrtle, with her horrid hair and her spotty face and…” But the rest of her ramblings were drowned out by her loud, heavy sobs. Still bawling, she dived back through the cubicle door and Neville heard a splash.
“What was all that about?” he asked Hermione.
“They call her Moaning Myrtle,” Hermione replied. She’s always been here and she’s always like that. First thing you learn is to avoid this bathroom. That’s why we’re here, there’s no chance of us being disturbed.”
Neville glanced back to the cubicle. “She lives in a toilet?”
“She haunts a toilet,” Hermione corrected. “She doesn’t live anywhere any more.” She began unloading and setting up her cauldron. Neville looked at the strange things piling up by the cauldron, leeches, knotgrass and other stuff he didn’t recognise.
“So what are we doing here, then?” he asked. In answer Hermione opened the book she was carrying and showed Neville a page. “Polyjuice Potion,” he read. “Enables the taker to transform into the appearance of any other human being. Come again?”
“You make this,” said Hermione, just as if she was explaining something in class “put a bit of someone else in, like a hair, and it changes you to look exactly like them. You can pretend to be anyone you like.” She lit a gentle fire under the cauldron.
“What good’s that, then?”
“Don’t you see? We don’t need to beat up Slytherins to find out what Malfoy’s doing. We can be Slytherins and just ask him! It couldn’t be simpler!”
“So you agree Draco might be responsible, then?”
“Well, someone is, clearly and this is the best lead we’ve got. Do you want to do it?”
“What, now?”
“No, it takes a while to brew the potion. I’m afraid it won’t be ready until well into the Christmas break. And we’ve got another problem. We’ll need someone else to help us.” When Neville looked puzzled, Hermione continued “Well, I figured you could turn into Crabbe, but he’s never out of sight of Goyle, so we’ll need someone to take his place too, or we’ll never get away with it.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“I’m not turning into a boy!” said Hermione, shocked at the idea. “That’s just disgusting! No, I’ll turn into Parkinson or Bulstrode or someone. We’ll need another boy for Goyle.”
Neville thought for a moment. “How about Harry?”
“No,” said Hermione firmly. “He’d only make it into a joke and wouldn’t take it seriously. Besides, you involve him, you’d need to involve Weasley as well and the less people the better.”
“Fine then, what about Colin? Colin Creevey. He’s always buzzing around me, looks up to me for some reason. I’m sure he’d certainly do it if I asked him.”
Hermione looked doubtful but eventually said “All right, you can ask Colin. Now help me stir in these ingredients.”
* * *
A few days later, Neville still hadn’t got around to asking Colin. At that moment he was more worried about the letter he’d got that morning from Gran, complaining about the fact that Neville wasn’t coming home for Christmas. Fortunately she’d stopped short of insisting Neville come home, but she had a knack for making Neville feel guilty and it was made worse by the fact that he couldn’t tell her the real reason he was staying.
He was having supper in the Great Hall, sitting next to Hermione. He could swear that Ginny Weasley was staring at him down the table from where she sat by her brother Ron. Ron seemed lost in thought and didn’t notice. Neville looked up, but Ginny turned her head away. “Strange girl,” he thought.
As he left the Great Hall, he spotted Colin, taking several photographs of one of the statues in the Entrance Hall, and decided to take his chance. He approached the first-year. “Colin?” he asked.
Colin was momentarily dumbstruck at the fact of Neville Longbottom coming and talking to him, but wasted no time in snapping another photo of his idol. “All right, Neville?” he asked.
“Yeah, look, there’s something I need to ask you.” Walking with Colin up towards the Gryffindor common room, Neville carefully explained the Polyjuice plan to him and why they needed his help. “Will you do it?”
Colin beamed. “Of course. I was planning to stay here over the holidays anyway. Does this mean we get to see inside the Slytherin common room?” He was brimming over with excitement.
“Perhaps. It depends where Malfoy is at the time. And no, you can’t take your camera. Goyle doesn’t carry a camera, I doubt he even knows what one is.”
They climbed up the steep stairs. Colin leapt over one instinctively, reminding Neville to do the same. He hated the trick steps. “Still,” Colin continued, “it’ll be cool to look around. Thanks, Neville.”
They reached a landing and Neville paused for a moment to get his breath back, Colin had bounded up the stairs far faster than Neville usually did. There was something else he needed to ask Colin, what was it? He took out his Remembrall. The smoke inside was its usual red. The colour did seem to connect with something. Of course! Red hair, that was the connection. “One other thing, Colin,” he asked. “Do you know Ginny Weasley?”
“Ginny? Fairly well, I guess. She’s usually top of our class.”
“Does she strike you as being a bit… well, odd?”
“Odd? Not at all. She’s quite popular, really. Everyone seems to get on with her, she’s quite chatty, very friendly. I think we look up to her a bit because she’s got cooler older brothers she hangs out with a lot.”
Neville was puzzled. “It’s just, well, I haven’t talked to her that much, but whenever I see her she seems to be acting strangely. Is it just me?”
“Well, you are Neville Longbottom,” pointed out Colin. It was the answer Neville had been dreading. Could no one treat him normally, just because of this stupid scar on his forehead? How could he ever lead a normal life, if he could turn an ordinary girl into a nervous wreck just by who he was? He shook his head sadly as they reached the Fat Lady’s portrait and entered the common room. The room was quiet and fairly empty, it was still early in the evening. Neville looked around for Hermione, but she wasn’t there. Colin had stopped to read the noticeboard near the door. “Hey Neville, have a look at this,” he said, and pointed to a garish pink notice pinned to the centre of the board.
The script on the notice was ornate and pretentious. “Professor G. Lockhart, OM, extends an invitation to all brave and daring souls to participate in his DUELLING CLUB,” read Neville. “Next Thursday, 8pm, in the Great Hall.”
“Are you going to come?” asked Colin eagerly. “I definitely will if I can.”
“I don’t know,” said Neville unenthusiastically. “I don’t think so. It’s not really my thing.” He didn’t like fighting in general, plus it would only be an opportunity to further embarrass himself over his lack of skill. He had no intention of letting the whole school see his ineptitude at once. He said goodbye politely to Colin and went up to his room to check on Trevor.
* * *
By the next Thursday it seemed like everyone in the Gryffindor common room was talking about the Duelling Club and planning on going. Everyone that is, except Neville. Hermione, who was keen to attend herself, had tried unsuccessfully several times to persuade Neville to come, but he had stuck firm. When everybody trooped off to the Great Hall that evening, Neville said goodbye to Hermione and returned alone to his room.
He spent the evening watching Trevor, and trying to catch him whenever he hopped off somewhere. Usually the toad was quite happy hopping around the dormitory, but he could be desperately difficult to catch if he got under one of the beds or disappeared from view. Also Neville was worried he might get too close to Scabbers, Ron Weasley’s pet rat, who scuttled around his large cage by Ron’s bed. The rat was mostly harmless, but Neville was concerned that a stray paw could do some serious damage if Trevor got too near the cage.
To someone who didn’t know Neville, it might seem that he was lonely and bored. In fact, Neville quite liked the solitude and quiet, and he didn’t feel he was missing out on anything. By himself, he had no expectations to live up to, or hopes to disappoint, or excuses to be made. Life was so much simpler. Indeed it felt something of an intrusion when his roommates returned and insisted on telling him in long-winded detail everything they had learned that evening, and how Snape had embarrassed Lockhart, and how Malfoy had been a complete git as usual. All their comments were prefaced with “you should have been there, Neville,” but even as he went to sleep that night, Neville did not regret his choice.
The next day was like any other, with an onerous workload as usual. Hermione enthused to him about the new spells she had learned and he listened politely, but the rest of the time he got on with the business of making it through his lessons. After lunch he took a walk around the ground floor to clear his head. He was spotted by Colin, who hurried over to talk to him. Before he had a chance to say anything however, Neville turned a corner and found himself face to face with Draco Malfoy, who was lounging against the wall. “Morning, Short-arse,” Draco sneered, and stuck out a leg to trip Neville up. Neville dodged it and ignored Malfoy.
“Didn’t see you at the Duelling Club,” Draco continued. “Scared of getting hurt?” Neville continued to ignore him and walked on. In anger, Draco drew his wand. “Don’t you turn your back on me, Short-arse,” he yelled, his wand outstretched. Neville didn’t turn round and kept walking. Draco trembled with rage. “See what you missed, then,” he shouted. “Serpensortia!”
Every student in the courtyard turned to look as Draco shouted. Neville tensed instinctively, waiting for the pain in his back he expected from a curse, but it didn’t come. He turned. Slithering across the stone floor towards him, having sprouted from the end of Draco’s wand, was a huge snake. It hissed and bared enormous fangs. Neville backed away a couple of steps and Draco laughed. No one moved. The serpent reared itself up in front of Neville and readied to strike.
Neville froze, not knowing whether to run. He had never encountered a snake before. “Go away,” he whispered without thinking in the snake’s direction. To his astonishment, it stopped and looked up at him. “Go away,” he repeated louder, waving his arms as if to shoo off the creature. “Get away from me.” The snake turned around and slid off in the opposite direction, back towards Draco. Neville looked up at Malfoy who, a shocked expression etched on his face, turned and ran. The snake settled down in a corner.
It was only then that Neville realised how quiet the courtyard was. Looking around, he saw that all twenty or so faces were staring at him, with mingled looks of horror and fear. Neville saw Colin, worried and confused, and Harry and Ron together across the courtyard, with similar expressions to the rest. Nobody seemed willing to move. At last, after what seemed like an age, Harry broke ranks and walked over to Neville. He put a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Neville, are you alright?” he said.
Neville nodded weakly. “What just happened?” he asked.
Harry’s brow furrowed. “Neville, you talked to the snake.”
“I know,” said Neville, confused.
“No, Neville. You talked to it.”
Neville looked up into Harry’s worried face and understood. The enormity of it hit him like a blow between the eyes. “P-Parseltongue? But… I didn’t mean to. I mean… but…” He trailed off. There was nothing to say. Neville knew about Parseltongue. It was almost a legend. The gift of communication with snakes, an ancient art passed down in the blood, nowadays seemingly lost forever. The proud distinguishing mark of Salazar Slytherin himself, who took the snake as his emblem, and the emblem of his House. The man who’s Heir had supposedly returned to continue his cause, the cause of blood purity.
The Heir would be a pure-blood, of course, descended through countless generations, bearing the blood of the Founder, bearing his mark. The eyes now staring at Neville all betrayed the same thought. Here was the Boy-Who-Lived, who as a baby had destroyed the greatest Dark wizard of his age. Could this be the Heir of Slytherin?
Neville swayed dizzily, unable to take it all in. “I’m not!” he cried weakly to the onlookers, but now they all hurried on, suddenly desperate to be somewhere else. Only Harry remained, and Ron and Colin who looked on as Harry led Neville away.
When Neville stepped into the Gryffindor common room that evening, there was a sudden hush, and all eyes turned towards him. News travelled fast at Hogwarts. Neville put his head down and made to walk through the crowd, but Harry ran up to him and asked him to stop. “Listen!” Harry called to the room. “Parseltongue’s just a trait, like a Metamorphmagus or a Seer. Neville’s no more the Heir of Slytherin than I am!” He waited for a response, but none came.
Neville looked around at the sea of faces all looking at him silently, with fear and uncertainty in their eyes. Here, amid a crowd of people, for the first time in his life he felt truly alone.
Neville Longbottom and the Chamber of Secrets by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Hermione explains her plan and Neville encounters a snake for the first time.