Neville sat alone in a corner of the library, hoping to avoid the looks and silent accusations of his fellow pupils. He knew eventually he would have to leave and return to Gryffindor Tower, but he hoped to delay the inevitable as long as possible, so that the castle would be quiet when he left.
It was now two days since the Parseltongue incident and they had been two of the longest days of Neville’s life. For a boy who had never much cared about others’ opinion of him, he was discovering just how painful it was to be universally shunned. Everywhere he went, people avoided him, or walked away. He would sometimes catch sight of them whispering about him in corners, and a couple of times he was sure he had seen someone talking to Hermione, warning her to stay away from him for her own safety.
Hermione had stuck by him, as had a few Gryffindors, notably Harry and Colin. Many of his fellow Gryffindors, however, remained unsure of him. Since he usually kept himself to himself, they only knew him by reputation and were now unsure what to make of him. His exploits at the end of the previous year now served only to heighten the mystery surrounding him. Neville longed for the end of term, which was now only days away, when there might be some respite for him.
He looked at his watch. The library was closing in five minutes; he would have to leave. Reluctantly, he packed up his things and walked out, keeping his head down to avoid seeing anyone looking at him. Outside, the corridor was deserted, and he hurried along, intending to get back to Gryffindor Tower as fast as possible.
“Kill.”
Neville stopped dead in his tracks. No, he thought. Not again. Please, not again. He stood, hoping, praying that he had imagined the voice.
“Blood. Attack. Kill.”
The voice was hurried, frenzied, moving at great speed and Neville could only catch fragments. He drew his wand and began to run. The voice was drawing him, he felt he had to follow, if only to learn the truth, to discover what was truly happening. But as he rounded a corner, barely noticing the huge cluster of spiders fleeing in the opposite direction, he found he was too late.
Floating suspended in mid-air, the translucent form of Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost, was motionless and rigid, as if the spectral form had finally succumbed to death, and been hung from the ceiling like a piece of meat. Neville shuddered involuntarily. Beyond Nick, he saw the prostrate form of a young boy sprawled on the floor. He ran over. The boy was stiff and cold, just as Mrs Norris and Penelope Clearwater had been. The Heir of Slytherin had claimed another victim.
Neville did not recognise the boy. He looked about Neville’s age and there was a Hufflepuff badge on his robe. Neville wondered if he should move the body, or go for help. At that moment however, Percy Weasley came round the corner. The prefect stopped, astonished. He stared at the scene in front of him in shock. “Longbottom,” he stammered. “Longbottom, what have you done?” Percy drew his wand and pointed it directly at Neville, taking two steps towards him, and for a moment Neville flinched, fearing the curse coming his way. He remembered Percy’s reaction to the attack on Penelope.
But Percy did not attack. Neville heard footsteps and another student arrived on the scene. Percy, not lowering his wand, barked “Fetch McGonagall,” and the girl hurried off. Percy faced Neville silently, but Neville could see the outstretched hand that held his wand was trembling slightly, whether from fear or anger he did not know. Neville said nothing, but waited for what seemed like an age.
Eventually Professor McGonagall arrived. She assessed the scene calmly, but with a troubled look in her face. “Mr Weasley, Miss Winters, wait here for help to come. Mr Longbottom you had better come with me.” She beckoned Neville away and, with a last silent glance at a stern-looking Percy, he followed her on through the castle. They were climbing upwards through the floors and Neville wondered if they were going straight to Gryffindor Tower. They turned aside, however, on the seventh floor and walked along a long corridor to where stood the statue of an ugly-looking gargoyle.
“Wait here,” said McGonagall. “Sherbet lemon!” Neville started, confused for a moment, then the gargoyle sprang aside to reveal a rising stone staircase. McGonagall ascended while Neville waited at the bottom with trepidation, and wondering what on earth a sherbet lemon was.
At long last, McGonagall returned down the staircase. “The Headmaster will see you now,” she said curtly, indicating the staircase.
“The Headmaster?” Neville gulped.
“Yes Longbottom, and I doubt he will wish to be kept waiting.” Under McGonagall’s watchful gaze, Neville stepped onto the staircase and was borne upwards. He found himself in front of a heavy oak door which was half open. He pushed it wider and entered.
The room in which he found himself was wide and circular, and filled with strange and mysterious objects and instruments. Portraits filled the walls. Dominating the room, a huge desk was placed in its centre. Dumbledore himself was standing at the desk, though his back was to Neville and he was leaning over, examining something on the desk. Without turning round, he said, “Come in, Neville, come in. Would you wait a moment?”
Curious, Neville approached the desk to see what the Headmaster was doing. Dumbledore was looking carefully and what appeared to be a large golden dish or wide bowl on his desk. The bowl was filled with a mound of what seemed to be dust or ash and there was the head and neck of some feathered creature. Neville was just thinking that this was an altogether poor way of treating an animal when Dumbledore said, “Ah, good, he is most healthy. I don’t suppose you have ever seen a phoenix, Neville. Particularly not on its Burning Day.”
“A phoenix?” said Neville, surprised.
“Yes, Neville. They burn, and are reborn from the ashes, as I am sure you have heard. Fawkes has been off-colour for some time, and burned this morning. The miracle of death and life in perfect cycle.” Dumbledore smiled and stroked the crest on the tiny phoenix’s head. Fawkes let out a gentle, sweet cry and ruffled his feathers.
Dumbledore turned back to Neville and, peering over the top of his spectacles, looked at him closely with his piercing blue eyes. Neville had the oddest feeling that Dumbledore could see right through him and he dreaded what could happen next. Would he be accused of the attack? Could he be expelled, even arrested? At length, Dumbledore smiled and spoke. “Well, Neville, how are you feeling?”
The simple question totally flummoxed Neville, and he gained a sudden interest in the carpeting of the office. “I, uh, well, not… that is…” he stammered.
Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Neville. I do not think you are responsible for the attacks.”
Neville looked up. “You don’t? But I thought… why did you want to see me?”
“To ask you that question, to begin with. I am aware things have not been easy for you the last couple of days, and tonight’s events will not help. I wanted to be sure you are all right.”
“Thank you,” said Neville, unsure what to say. He was surprised Dumbledore took such an interest in him.
“Secondly, Neville,” continued Dumbledore, “if there is anything you know, anything you wish to tell me, the present is as good a time as any.” The statement was made off-hand, lightly, yet Neville knew Dumbledore was asking him a serious question. He longed to answer, to unburden everything to the kindly Headmaster, but he knew he could not. He dared not speak of the mysterious voice, and he had no proof against Draco. There was nothing he could say. He shook his head silently. “Very well Neville, you may go,” said Dumbledore, with a gentle nod of his head. As Neville turned, he added. “Though it may seem so, you are not alone here, Neville. In all things, there is always help to be found if you seek it.” Neville left quietly.
* * *
Despite Dumbledore’s words, the days after them were no better than the two days before. Indeed, as rumour of Neville’s proximity to the second attack on a student spread, things got even worse. Suspicion turned into outright hostility amongst some Ravenclaws and particularly the Hufflepuffs, who all seemed to have taken the attack on one of their own personally. Most Slytherins appeared to treat the whole thing as a joke, but it was the reaction of the Gryffindors that most affected Neville. Whilst there was as yet no antagonism from them, the uncertainty Neville had detected before had hardened. He recognised sharp looks coming from Seamus and Ron at times, and there seemed to be something of a disagreement brewing between the normally very close Harry and Ron.
Neville was very grateful when at last the end of term came and the majority of Hogwarts’ students returned home. Harry and Ron stayed, and so did Fred and George, up to some mischief of their own, Neville suspected. Most however had gone and the Great Hall felt eerily quiet at mealtimes. Neville didn’t mind, though. He was revelling in opportunity for solitude once more.
Of course, he couldn’t completely relax. He was staying at Hogwarts because he had a job to do. Hermione had informed him that the Polyjuice potion was nearly ready, and they had decided on Christmas Day after the feast to make the attempt, when nearly everyone would be in their common rooms and the corridors would be quiet.
Hermione had planned everything with disturbing precision. Robes had been obtained in Crabbe and Goyle’s sizes. A plan had been developed to keep the two of them away during the hour in which the Polyjuice would last. Hermione had even already obtained a strand of hair from Millicent Bulstrode’s robes for her use. Though she wouldn’t admit it, Neville was sure she was thoroughly enjoying herself.
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, in contrast to the cloud and snow which had dominated much of the month to that point. Neville spent most of the morning a bundle of nerves, but not too nervous to not enjoy his presents. Hermione had got him a book on Herbology, in return, after her dropping several hints, he had got her an Arithmancy book. Apparently she was already preparing for next year. Gran had sent him a new portable Wizard Wireless set, which he spent some time eagerly trying out. Hermione meanwhile put the last finishing touches of her plan into action.
It was at precisely 2:03pm that, as Crabbe and Goyle exited the Great Hall, making their way towards the dungeons, that they encountered Colin Creevey, who appeared from behind a statue and snapped a photograph of them with his heavy camera. Crabbe blinked at the bright flash. “Hey, what do you fink you’re doin’?” he snarled. He grabbed Colin by his collar and Colin trembled. A couple of objects fell from his robe to the floor. Colin instinctively reached down to pick them up, but Crabbe shoved him away and he fell to the floor.
“Hey Greg, look at dis,” he said, and picked up two small sausage rolls, like the ones they’d just had at the feast. “Finders keepers,” he sneered at Colin. “Beat it, kid.” Colin grabbed his camera and darted round a corner. Crabbe and Goyle smiled, took a sausage roll each and swallowed them whole. The smile on their faces held rigid for a moment, then they both swayed, staggered and collapsed to the floor.
Colin and Neville appeared around the corner. “Nice work, Colin,” said Neville.
“Well, it was Hermione’s sleeping draught that really did it,” Colin replied modestly.
“She finally found a use for that. Come on, let’s hide these two somewhere.” They dragged Crabbe and Goyle into a room out of sight and plucked a hair each from their heads. Then they hurried through the castle to Myrtle’s bathroom where they had agreed to meet Hermione.
When they got there, Hermione was waiting for them. She checked her watch. “Nine minutes past two. Excellent. Quick you two, get changed.” They went into cubicles and put on their oversized robes. When they came out, they found Hermione had laid out three cups of an ugly thick, brown liquid. “Hurry up,” she said. “Have you got the hairs?” They held them up to show her. “Well come on, add them to your potion.”
They did so, and the resulting mixture looked even more unappetising. Hermione produced her own hair to add, but as she was about to do so, Colin stopped her. “You’re not going to add that, are you?”
“Why not?” Hermione asked, confused.
“That’s a cat hair,” said Colin.
“What?” exclaimed Hermione, examining it closely. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Definitely,” replied Colin. “We’ve got a cat at home, it’s always leaving hair all over the place.”
Hermione threw down the hair. “Bulstrode has a cat,” she muttered to herself in disgust, angry with herself.
“What do we do now?” asked Neville, worried.
“There’s nothing for it,” replied Hermione. “We haven’t time. We’ve got till Crabbe and Goyle wake up and we won’t get another chance. You two will have to go on without me.”
“But we won’t know what to do,” protested Neville. “We’ll never manage it without your help.”
“Of course you will,” Hermione reassured him. “We’ve gone over it all enough times. Drink up.” Nervously, Neville and Colin picked up their cups and swallowed the contents. Neville retched and desperately fought the urge to throw up. He sank to the floor in pain and closed his eyes. He felt his body expanding, stretching, the contours of his face being pulled into an unfamiliar form. Dimly he could hear the low moans of Colin next to him.
At last the pain subsided and cautiously Neville opened his eyes. Goyle was lying on the floor of the bathroom next to him, groaning. Neville got to his feet. They felt strange and unfamiliar, as if his whole body was out of proportion. He stared into one of the cracked mirrors above the sinks. The face of Crabbe stared back at him, the expression on his face one he had never seen on the Slytherin, that of wide-eyed astonishment.
Colin got to his (or rather Goyle’s) feet next to him. “Cool!” he exclaimed in Goyle’s low voice, looking at his own reflection. “Hermione, you’ve got to take a picture of this. Neville and I together.” He grabbed Neville by the shoulder while Hermione reluctantly operated the camera.
“Happy now?” she said, after Colin had insisted on three separate shots. “Go on, get a move on. Come back here straight afterwards. I’ll wait for you.” Neville and Colin left hurriedly, making their way towards the dungeons, where the entrance to the Slytherin common room was located.
They had not been able to scout out the entrance to the common room earlier, as it would have looked too suspicious to be hanging around, so they were not precisely sure where the entrance was. The plan was to hang around the general area of the entrance and follow someone in, claiming to have forgotten the password, something they hoped was not too out of character for Crabbe and Goyle.
Luck was on their side this time, however, for as they rounded the corner they heard a voice behind them. “Hey, where do you think your going?” They turned to see Draco Malfoy down the passageway. They walked down to meet him, trying to look as unconcerned as possible.
“Nowhere,” muttered Neville. They fell in behind Draco as he walked on, coming to a blank wall.
“Pure-blood,” said Draco, with a smug, self-satisfied air. A section of wall swung back to reveal a doorway and together the three of them entered the Slytherin common room. The sight that Neville beheld was an impressive one. It seemed bigger than the Gryffindor common room, and more ornate if anything, though the ceiling was very low which gave an air of claustrophobia. The light was an eerie green, and looking through a small window, Neville saw only water, with an object or two floating by. Neville realised they must be under the lake
Unlike the Gryffindors, the Slytherins appeared to have made no effort to decorate their common room for Christmas and the general ambience was austere and stern. The room was largely empty, although there were a few students sitting around in little groups. Next to him, Neville realised that Colin was gawping at the room with a wide-eyed stare that was quite out of place on the face of Goyle. He gave him a sharp nudge and a pointed look, reminding him of why they were there.
Draco meanwhile had collapsed onto a couch and was staring up at the ceiling with a bored look on his face. He took an envelope from his pocket and opened it, pulling out a letter which he began to read. Neville and Colin sat down opposite him. “Say, Draco,” Neville began.
“Shut it, Crabbe,” snapped Draco. “Can’t you see I’m reading?” Frustrated, Neville and Colin sat there in silence until Draco had finished. When he did, he stuffed the letter back into his pocket and sat up. “Mostly Mother moaning I’ve not come home for Christmas,” he muttered.
“So Draco, what’ve you been up to?” asked Neville.
Draco stared at him in contempt. “I went up to the Owlery of course,” he said, tapping the pocket where he’d replaced the letter. “You can be right thick sometimes, Crabbe. Father sent me a new broom for Christmas. Says I should try out for the Quidditch team. I’d probably get on it too, they’ve been bloody useless this year. Look at him,” he pointed across the room to a large brute of a boy sitting half-asleep in an armchair. “Thicker than you, Goyle, and he’s the captain. They need a bit of class in the side.” He smiled to himself and leaned back in his chair.
Neville remembered the entry question he and Hermione had practised beforehand. “So, do you think Dumbledore’s any nearer to working out who the Heir of Slytherin is?”
Draco laughed. “Dumbledore? The old fool’s probably hiding in his office, trying to work out how long he can keep this thing quiet. The sooner he gives up and quits the better. Then we can get someone in who knows who the right sort of people are.”
“You really hate Dumbledore, don’t you?” said Neville, surprised. He had never heard anyone who had anything other than good things to say about the headmaster.
“He’s a bloody hero to Mudbloods and Gryffindors. Name one person in the whole school who you’d rather see the back of. Name one person us Slytherins would cheer more if they left. Name one.”
Neville didn’t reply, but Colin chirped up, “Neville Longbottom?” Neville smiled inwardly at Colin’s subtle praise of him, but Draco just laughed again.
“Longbottom? Short-arse? The Boy-Who-Hid? Why should I care about him? Waste of space. The idiot probably bored You-Know-Who to death.” He paused for a moment, but something seemed to be bothering him and he spoke again. “You know, he’s got no respect, that one. Doesn’t even have the decency to acknowledge me any more when I’m humiliating him. Time was I could get him running or grovelling on the floor. You remember last year. I think it’s about time we did something big, to put him in his place again. Any ideas?” Neville and Colin shook their heads. “Didn’t think so,” he continued. “Always me who has to come up with the plans. What you two would do without me, I shudder to think.”
Neville was momentarily stunned. He realised with surprise that he had actually manage to annoy Malfoy. Simply by the expedient of doing nothing, of ignoring him, he had apparently managed to rattle Draco. It wasn’t much, but he felt it was something to be at least a little proud of. Then he remembered why he was there. He looked across at Colin, who was fretting and pinching his skin, probably to see if it was changing. He spoke up. “Half the school thinks Longbottom’s the Heir of Slytherin,” he said to Draco.
Draco smirked. “Yeah, that’s an amusing one, isn’t it?” he said. “Can you think of someone less likely?”
“He is a pure-blood, though,” Neville replied.
“Oh, the Longbottoms lost whatever nobility they had long ago. They’re just a rag-tag bunch of ignorant, uncultured northerners. I heard he lives in a shack.”
“It’s n-,” began Neville, but stopped himself just in time. Draco appeared not to have noticed.
“No, he won’t be the Heir,” Draco continued. “He’s going down the path of being a Mudblood-lover, you can tell. Look at all the time he spends with that Granger.” He spat out Hermione’s name as if it were poisonous.
Neville was wondering if this reply meant definitely that Draco wasn’t the Heir or not, but Colin was way ahead of him. “So who do you think the Heir is?” he said.
Draco rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you a hundred times Goyle, I don’t know!” he replied, exasperated. “I’ll tell you what, though,” he added, “I think my father knows who it is. Oh, he wouldn’t tell me the name, but he says the last time this happened, that…”
Neville interrupted in surprise. “What, this has happened before?”
“Bloody hell, Crabbe, I told you last week. Don’t you ever listen? It was fifty years or so ago, way before my father’s time. Anyway, he says that a Mudblood was killed then, and the culprit was caught soon after and expelled. From what my father said, though, I gather he’s still around. I wish he’d get on with it, actually. Two Mudbloods and a cat Petrified is hardly much. Once the killings start, then they’ll start running.” An ugly grin stretched across Draco’s face. “Not before Granger gets it, I hope,” he added.
Neville was half out of his chair towards Draco before he could stop himself. Draco looked confused. “What’s up with you?” he asked.
Neville composed himself and stood up properly. “I, er, just remembered something I have to do,” he said. He had no intention of staying a moment longer here. “Come on, Goyle,” he added. Colin looked reluctant to leave, but Neville grabbed him by the forearm and with one last look around the common room, Colin followed Neville out. Draco watched them go with a quizzical look on his face, but said nothing.
Once outside the door, Colin exclaimed. “Wow, that was…”
“Sssh, wait until we’re back upstairs,” said Neville, looking around to check they were alone, which they were. They hurried back up through the castle. By the time they reached Myrtle’s bathroom they had begun to feel themselves changing. They ran into the bathroom and dashed past Hermione standing there into cubicles. When they emerged seconds later they were themselves again.
“That was so cool!” Colin finally exclaimed. “You should have seen their common room, Hermione, it was amazing! And Malfoy didn’t have a clue! I wish I’d had my camera.” He was buzzing with excitement.
Hermione looked across at Neville, who was not sharing Colin’s enthusiasm. He was thinking about everything Malfoy had said, about the Muggle-born who had died, and Malfoy’s enthusiasm for more deaths. It all made him sick. He looked up at Hermione. “Malfoy’s not the Heir,” he said. “But I don’t think that makes things any better.”
Things seemed to have become even more serious than Neville had feared. Someone’s going to die, he thought. Someone really is going to die, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.
Neville Longbottom and the Chamber of Secrets by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which a second student is Petrified and Neville visits Dumbledore’s office. Later Neville and Colin transform into Crabbe and Goyle and interrogate Malfoy.