The month of December arrived cold and snowy. The snow lay thick in blankets across the grounds of Hogwarts, obscuring all features. Only the Whomping Willow lay bare, as it would shake off any snow that fell onto it. On a Friday a week before the end of term, Neville was sitting in the Gryffindor common room, staring out of a window at the sea of white, and feeling thoroughly miserable.
The reason for his misery was that he had just been informed by McGonagall that he would not be able to go on the second Hogsmeade trip of the year, taking place tomorrow. McGonagall had offered the reason that Neville would have to pass the Dementors to visit the village and after the recent incident it would neither be safe nor wise to let him do so. Neville was extremely doubtful of this reason. He suspected it had far more to do with Remus Lupin and the need to keep a tight watch on Neville’s movements than with Dementors. Although he had never told anyone what he had seen by the Whomping Willow that fateful night, Lupin was never out of the wizarding news and everyone was still worried. Neville wondered if his Gran had anything to do with this.
He sat at the window, feeling sorry for himself and wondering what he was going to do the next day, when there was a loud commotion outside the portrait hole. Clambering through the hole burst four figures: Fred, George, Ron and Harry. Fred was in the lead and clutching an open parchment. “Over there, over there!” he pointed, towards a corner near where Ginny was sitting reading. The other three dived forward, scrambling under tables and behind chairs.
Something small shot out from under an armchair and Ron pounced on it. “Scabbers!” he cried, holding it up. “Found you at last!” The familiar form of his scrawny pet rat with the thin curly tail struggled between his fingers. Ron grasped it tightly whilst Harry, Fred and George gathered round, congratulating him (and themselves) on the capture.
Neville got up and came over for a closer look. He noticed Fred hide the parchment behind his back. “How on earth did you find him?” he asked.
“Just luck, I guess,” answered Fred with a smile.
Behind him came a gentle snigger, from the place where Ginny sat, still reading her book. “Oh come on,” she said, not looking up. “It’s obvious. They used the map.”
The three Weasley boys and Harry span around, staring down at Ginny in astonishment. “How do you know about the map?” demanded George. “Not that there is a map or anything,” he added, unhelpfully. Fred gave him a dig with his elbow.
Ginny finally put down her book and looked up. “Did you really believe I hadn’t found out? The Burrow’s not that big a place, you know, and you’re not nearly as good at keeping secrets as you think you are. I know all about the map, and about your little club. All those meetings up in Ron’s room, or in a corner of this common room while you’re at Hogwarts. Of course I knew.”
“You haven’t told anyone, have you?” asked Fred, aghast.
“No, I haven’t. I don’t care what you get up to. Play your little games if you want.” She returned to reading her book, but Neville got the impression she really did care, only she wasn’t prepared to show it.
“Bloody little sisters,” muttered Fred, though without any malice. “Who else knows, I wonder?”
“Well if it’s the same map Harry showed me last year, I know about that,” volunteered Neville.
The Weasley twins rounded on him instantly. “In Merlin’s name,” exclaimed Fred, looking at Harry, “what is the point of a secret society if everyone knows about it?”
“What society?” asked Neville, thoroughly confused.
“He doesn’t know about that,” said Harry. “I only showed him the map. And it was an emergency. Ron was missing, he’d been taken into the Chamber, and I needed Neville’s help…”
“Look,” said Neville, interrupting, “Someone is going to have to explain things to me, because, as usual, I have no idea what’s going on. But I think you might be able to help me out with something.”
Fred and George looked at each other, engaging in the sort of silent debate that only twins can do. Finally Fred spoke. “Okay, we’ll tell you. I mean, you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. If we can’t trust you, who can we trust? First let’s go somewhere private where we won’t be overheard.” He gave a sideways glance at Ginny and the five of them trooped off towards the dormitories.
The third-year dormitory was empty, or at least empty of people, the place was somewhat of a mess. Ron finally returned Scabbers to his long-empty cage. The rat scrabbled at the bars, seemingly angry at being cooped up once more. Neville took the opportunity to check on Trevor whilst Fred cleared the table and unfolded the parchment onto it.
Everyone gathered around the blank parchment. “Watch this,” grinned Fred and tapped the parchment with his wand, intoning, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” Suddenly the parchment seemed to spring to life. Ink flowed across its surface, forming words and intricate pictures. The map of Hogwarts that Neville had seen before, with its little dots labelled with every inhabitant of the castle, emerged into being. But now Neville could read the title of the map emblazoned across the front: Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs, purveyors of aids to magical mischief-makers, are proud to present the Marauders Map.
Neville looked up at Fred. “Did you guys make this?”
Fred smiled. “Yeah, we wish. No, we nicked it out of Filch’s office in our first year, from one of his cabinets where he keeps confiscated items. It’s been a godsend, let me tell you. It’s taught us more about Hogwarts than we could have learned in a lifetime. We showed it to Ron and Harry just before their first year. That’s when we formed our society.”
“Society?”
“Our society dedicated to the pursuit of mischief in all its forms. The Marauders. Well, the Second Marauders we guess, assuming these guys were the first ones.”
“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs? But who were they?”
“We have no idea. We wish we did, though. They have given us more than they could have possibly realised, I’m sure. The four of us have committed ourselves to the example we believe they would have wanted us to follow. Every prank we have pulled, like that stunt the other week, every practical joke we have staged, every magical object we have made has been dedicated to them. We even took their names, in order of age. So I’m Moony, George is Wormtail, Ron is Padfoot and Harry is Prongs.”
“Yeah, just because he was born ten minutes before me, I get to be Wormtail,” moaned George. “I mean, what sort of name is that?”
“Better than Prongs,” countered Harry. “Makes me sound like a fork.” The four of them burst into easy laughter. “Seriously though,” continued Harry, “this map is brilliant. As far as we can tell, the only place not marked on it is the Chamber of Secrets, and that’s not surprising. And you can keep tabs on everyone, providing you just focus in the right place. See here,” he pointed to where the dungeons were marked, “there’s Snape at his desk in his office. He never seems to move from there except for classes. Still, who really expected Snivellus to have a life?”
“Is this how you found Scabbers, then?” asked Neville.
“Yeah. We’ve been looking on the map for him for ages, but unless you know exactly where to look it’s almost impossible. We just got lucky today.” Harry indicated their dormitory on the map. There, next to the jumbled names of Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Fred Weasley and George Weasley, was a dot with the legend Scabbers above it.
“Hang on,” said Neville, “Trevor isn’t on here. If Scabbers is, Trevor should be too.”
“Now you mention it, that is weird,” replied Harry. “I don’t recall seeing anyone else’s pets on here either. Just Scabbers. I wonder why?”
“Maybe it’s just because Scabbers is mine and we own the map,” suggested Ron.
“Who knows?” shrugged Fred. “The important thing is that we got him back. Now, Neville, we’ve let you into our secret. So you must promise not to tell anyone. It would just spoil our fun to have everybody know. This is just between us for now.”
“Okay, I promise,” said Neville.
“You solemnly swear?” said George.
“I solemnly swear,” repeated Neville with a smile.
“Okay, that’s good enough for us,” added Fred. “Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs hereby recognise Neville Longbottom as an official associate to the Marauders.” The four boys put out their right hands and clasped them together. Neville added his own hand on top of them. “So, now that’s out of the way,” Fred continued after they had released hands, “how can the Marauders help their associate, then?”
Neville took a deep breath. It was so unlike him to break the rules, but he couldn’t bear to miss out. “I need to get into Hogsmeade tomorrow.”
* * *
Neville scrambled blindly along the natural passage, biting his tongue hard as he managed to trip over and stub his toe on the hard ground. Getting up, he trod on the invisibility cloak that Harry had leant him and it slipped from his shoulders. This meant he then banged his elbow on the roof as he tried to put it back on. Why am I doing this? he thought. This was a stupid idea from start to finish.
The Marauders had shown him the same secret passage Harry and Ron had used on the day of the previous Hogsmeade trip, and had helped him inside. They were now making their way calmly to Hogsmeade with the rest of the students, and had promised to meet up with Neville outside Zonko’s Joke Shop at eleven o’clock. If Neville could actually get there in one piece, that was.
As he crawled along, he reflected on the oddness, and yet surprising familiarity of his position. He sometimes considered himself to be leading two lives. On the one hand, which he nicknamed the “Hermione side” as it seemed to mostly involve her, he was Neville Longbottom, the quiet dumb kid who liked plants, and who sat in the corner doing nothing and not bothering anyone. Yet on the other side, the “Marauder side” as he now called it, he was Neville Longbottom the Boy-Who-Lived, constantly becoming embroiled in dangerous and adventurous situations and facing challenges far greater than he could come to terms with. The two sat uneasily side by side. Neville had always felt that the first one was who he truly was, yet he had to admit that his present situation was entirely drawn from the latter.
Why was he doing this? Neville had no better answer than that Hogsmeade had a remarkable lure. For any curious person, and Neville in spite of his limited intellectual capacity was a very curious boy, the opportunity to explore the wonders and surprises of the village was one not to be missed. Also, although Hogwarts was very much beloved, a change of scenery from the same walls and corridors day after day was always welcome.
None of these explanations really satisfied Neville, though. He kept feeling there must be more to it. Was he changing as a person? If so, he wasn’t sure he liked what he was becoming.
He banged his head on something wooden above him and looked up. It was the trapdoor leading out of the passage. Checking he had the cloak completely around him, he cautiously pushed open the trapdoor an inch and peered out. The coast was clear. Throwing back the rest of the trapdoor, he clambered out into the cellar of Honeydukes Sweetshop.
The cellar seemed hardly ever used. Piles of empty boxes and crates lay strewn everywhere and there was a thick layer of dust across the floor. Neville picked his way carefully over and up the stairs and sneaked into the sweet shop itself. His first instinct was to throw off the cloak at once and indulge in the sights and smells of the shop, but the place was packed with Hogwarts students. Several of them Neville recognised, including Dean and Seamus. He felt suddenly and horribly exposed, as if at any moment they would all suddenly spot him and want to know why he was in Hogsmeade when he shouldn’t be.
Harry’s invisibility cloak was impenetrable, though, and nobody saw him. It didn’t make him feel any better though. He crouched in a corner to avoid anyone bumping into him and had to fight back a strong urge to dive back into the cellar and return to Hogwarts. If it didn’t mean letting the Marauders down he might have done it. Instead he took a deep breath and plunged for the door, reluctantly abandoning the chocolates and sugary treats and emerging into the cold air.
He trudged down Hogsmeade High Street with the cloak still about him, keeping close in to the shops to avoid leaving footprints in the thick snow. Eventually he reached Zonko’s and settled down to wait for eleven o’clock. He was actually substantially early, but he wasn’t going to risk doing anything else without the Marauders’ help. He rubbed his hands together to fight against the bitter cold and pulled the cloak more tightly around him.
He sat staring at his shoes and feeling sorry for himself when suddenly he heard his name. “Neville Longbottom.” He almost stood up at once to throw off the cloak and greet Harry or whoever it was, but then he realised it was not a call but a snatch of overheard conversation. Three wizards had just walked past him on their way down the High Street. Neville instantly recognised the tiny figure of Professor Flitwick, but not the other two. One was an elderly wizard wearing a distinctive lime-green bowler hat, the other a tall, imposing figure with a mane of greying red hair.
Neville was well aware that random people would sometimes talk about him and was about to ignore them when the man in the bowler hat spoke. “There is no need to inform him any more than the rest of the public. If Lupin truly is in Hogsmeade, the last thing we want is mass panic.”
At the mention of Lupin’s name, Neville sprang to his feet. For weeks he had waited for news, hoping the sightings (including his own) were mistaken. If Lupin was truly here and meant him harm, he had to know.
“My sources are very reliable, Minister,” said the tall wizard. “Lupin certainly is here, or else has been until very recently. His skills at evading capture continue to impress me, however. Given his… monthly condition, it is all the more remarkable.”
“I don’t want him to impress you, Scrimgeour, I want him caught!” snapped the other man. My God, that’s Fudge, the Minister for Magic, thought Neville. He hurried along beside the men, taking as much care as possible not to trip over the hem of the invisibility cloak.
“It is only a matter of time, Minister,” replied Scrimgeour blandly.
“And while time passes, lives are at stake! Including that of the Boy-Who-Lived, may I remind you. Do you have any idea what kind of public reaction there would be, if something were to happen to Longbottom?” Fudge was seething with anger.
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Flitwick, “perhaps it would be better if we continued this conversation in private?” They had now passed off the High Street down a side lane and had reached the door of a rather run-down, shady looking establishment. A wooden sign swinging above the door featured a rather grisly crude picture of the severed head of a boar, below the words “Hog’s Head”.
Fudge wrinkled up his nose as Flitwick pushed the door open. “Couldn’t we have gone somewhere more pleasant?” he complained.
“This does have the advantage of being somewhat discreet,” Flitwick replied. Upon entering however, Neville decided the word “discreet” was not exactly the word he would have used. The place was deserted, and the debris on the floor suggested it could have been that way for centuries. The only person present was a gruff barman, who gave not the slightest reaction to the arrival of the three wizards. Neville thought the barman looked oddly familiar.
Fudge, Scrimgeour and Flitwick settled into chairs in an empty back room, Fudge still looking disdainful at his surroundings. Neville quietly edged into a corner to listen. “What I still don’t understand,” said Scrimgeour, “is this fixation Lupin has with the boy. It’s the only reason he could be here. It strikes me as more than just simple mania.”
“Ah, there is a lot of history there, Rufus,” replied Fudge. “It is partly to explain that that I have invited Professor Flitwick here to meet us. Filius has assisted extensively in liaising between me and Dumbledore over this matter.”
“Quite so, Minister, and I must say the Headmaster greatly appreciates being kept informed,” said Flitwick. “We hope that to some degree this conversation will reciprocate the favour. Tell me, Mr Scrimgeour, how much do you know of Remus Lupin’s past?”
“Beyond that he was bitten at a very early age, by Greyback so they say, very little. I am aware that he attended Hogwarts, under certain provisions, but his time there seems to have passed without incident. It is his activities after Hogwarts that are a mystery. The war was at its height and information is scarce to come by.”
“In fact, he made quite an impression on many of us at Hogwarts. I can’t say I remember him well, but he was a bright, studious and fairly quiet boy. He would occasionally get up to mischief, but he didn’t seem a dangerous child. He made enough of an impression on Dumbledore, though, that he recruited him for the Order of the Phoenix.”
At this, Scrimgeour leaned in closely. “Dumbledore’s legendary band of fighters?” he said, shocked. “I’d half believed they didn’t exist.”
“They were very much real,” replied Flitwick. “I myself was not a member and Dumbledore has told me little about their activities, but they were highly active in the last years of the war.” Flitwick paused, before beginning the tale he had come to tell. “Late in the war, so I have learned, Dumbledore received intelligence that certain families who were members of the Order were under direct threat from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. One of these families was the Longbottoms.”
“Frank and Alice were in the Order?” exclaimed Scrimgeour. “I didn’t realise Dumbledore had penetrated even into the Auror department. But I shouldn’t be so surprised. They were the best of the best, those two. I’ve never worked alongside such brave and dedicated Aurors as them, before or since. But continue your story.”
“Now I get the impression from what the Headmaster has told me,” Flitwick went on, “that only one family was truly under threat, although Dumbledore did not know which family it was. If he had done, perhaps better security could have been put in place. There are powerful protective charms that could have been used. But it is far too late to wonder what might have been. Other measures set up by Dumbledore had to suffice.
“Dumbledore tells me he placed round-the-clock protection on the Longbottoms’ home. Frank and Alice were less active at the time, since they had to care for young Neville, so the arrangement was expected to work well. Day and night, there would be at least one Order member present outside their house to watch for potential attack and call for help if necessary. The rota of members was kept confidential, known to Dumbledore alone, who would tell each member only their own times and who they were relieving when they arrived. Suspicions had been growing that there may have been a traitor in the Order, and security was tight.
“On the night of Halloween, 1981, the wizard on duty outside the Longbottoms’ was Remus Lupin. That night, as we all know, You-Know-Who struck. But there were several clear sightings of Lupin in Hogsmeade both before and during You-Know-Who’s attack, and when the first wizards arrived on the scene to find the house destroyed, there was no one except baby Neville there. Lupin had clearly abandoned his post, and done so deliberately to leave the way open for You-Know-Who, knowing that he was coming.
“The next day he had his confrontation with Pettigrew, as we all know, so his actions of the previous evening became somewhat forgotten. Pettigrew was also in the Order, perhaps he had gone to confront Lupin, it is known they had been friends. So to compound his treachery and hand in the death of Frank and Alice, he committed his most terrible deed.”
Flitwick leaned back in his chair, his story finished. “I was there when they arrested him,” put in Fudge. “The street was devastated, bodies everywhere. Eleven Muggles, plus Peter Pettigrew, that was the final count. All we ever found of Pettigrew was a single finger. Poor man.” Fudge sighed. “I remember Lupin just stood there, silent, morose. He didn’t even struggle when they led him away, didn’t even protest. It was if he no longer cared.”
“His master was gone, he must have known that,” said Scrimgeour. “He was a spy all that time?”
“For months, so Dumbledore reckoned,” answered Flitwick. “Who knows how many other deaths are on his account?”
Neville couldn’t bear to hear any more. He rushed from the Hog’s Head, not caring if he was heard. The invisibility cloak still flapping around him, he ran through the snow-covered streets to the edge of the village, where he finally collapsed to the ground not far from the Shrieking Shack. He threw off the cloak and buried his head in hands. He felt like he ought to cry, but no tears came.
He thrust his hands in his pockets and his right hand closed around a smooth object: his Remembrall. He pulled it out and stared into the smoke, but for once it did not turn red. For once he could remember everything, at the one time he wished he could forget what he had just heard.
He killed them, he thought. They trusted him and he took them away from me. His parents. Neville rarely thought about them too much. He had never known them, and it hadn’t ever occurred to him to think what it might have been like if they’d survived. It was just part of who he was. Now for the first time he was confronted with the truth of how they died and it pained him to think that but for Remus Lupin they might still be beside him now.
He gazed into the Remembrall again, thinking of them, but though there was no change in the smoke, nothing else happened. He had no memory of his parents, save the Dementor-induced vision of his mother’s death, which he had no desire to relive. How was it possible to miss something he never had? He didn’t understand. His Gran was not the easiest person to live with, but he had been brought up healthily enough. Now a yearning for people he didn’t even know had awoken inside him, and he felt terribly alone.
Neville was usually comfortable with loneliness, it was his natural state. But now he felt it acutely, as if his parents had died only that day. It seemed like there was this gaping hole inside him and the only thing he could find to fill it was fear and hatred of Remus Lupin.
* * *
Author's Note: The text on the Marauder's Map is taken directly from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, chapter 10.
Neville Longbottom and the Prisoner of Azkaban by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Ron’s pet is rediscovered, a secret society is revealed and Neville learns some shocking news about his past.