Fred Weasley was released from the hospital wing with a newly rejuvenated arm only a few minutes before the start of the Halloween feast. Madam Pomfrey had advised him to stay under her supervision, but Fred was never one to pay much attention to advice, however sound. He made it into the Great Hall just in time to take his seat with the other Marauders, and Neville and Hermione.
The Halloween feast itself was once more a spectacular and mouth-watering event, but for once it was overshadowed by what would immediately follow it. Everyone was eagerly waiting to see who the champions for the Triwizard Tournament would be. Even Neville was excited, caught up in all the anticipation.
“I don’t care who the Hogwarts champion is, as long as it’s a Gryffindor,” Ron declared in between mouthfuls of food, to general murmurs of agreement around him. House rivalry had certainly been stoked by the Tournament, with each house fiercely behind its own candidates.
“I don’t care, as long as it’s not a Slytherin,” replied Harry. “I’d support Beauxbatons if that happens.”
“So much for what the Sorting Hat said about House unity,” muttered Ginny, sitting close by. No one paid any attention to her. She glared at Harry, before turning away to talk to one of her friends.
At the close of the feast, the Goblet of Fire, its blue flames still burning brightly, was carried into the Great Hall and set down in front of Dumbledore, standing in front of the staff table. “If I could please have your attention,” he called unnecessarily, since everyone’s eyes were already fixed on the Goblet. “The time has come to reveal our champions, the three brave souls who will compete in this Tournament. To the winner will go a reward of one thousand Galleons, and this.” He indicated as Ludo Bagman came forward from his seat among the other judges and held aloft an ornate gleaming silver trophy. “The Triwizard Cup,” Dumbledore explained, “which will be retained and displayed in honour by the winning school until the next tournament. This is the prize at stake.”
At that moment, the flames from the Goblet of Fire shot higher into the air, burning more ferociously. Cautiously, Dumbledore approached the Goblet as the flames swirled and changed colour, before with a spurt expelling a delicate scrap of parchment high into the air. It fluttered gently downwards and Dumbledore caught it. There was complete silence as he carefully unfolded it.
“The champion for Beauxbatons is… Fleur Delacour,” he announced at last. A tall beautiful girl with long blond hair leapt to her feet from amongst the Beauxbatons students, who clapped and cheered her loudly. The Hogwarts students, particularly the male contingent, gave her warm applause as she made her way up to the front and shook hands with Dumbledore and Madame Maxime. She was ushered away towards a side room.
“Not bad,” Harry observed to George, earning him another glare from Ginny. There was no time to dwell however as a second parchment had already been flung out from the Goblet of Fire and caught by Dumbledore.
“The champion for Durmstrang is… Viktor Krum,” Dumbledore declared, to nobody’s surprise. A solemn Krum made his way forward, to general acclaim from all sides. The Marauders, in particular Ron, cheered him all the way. Preminin, a broad grin under his thick moustache, clapped Krum on the back. Krum went on to the door where Delacour had left.
That left only the Hogwarts champion to choose and everyone waited with baited breath. A slip of parchment burst from the flames and there was a pause that seemed to last an age before Dumbledore called out the name, “Cedric Diggory!” The Hufflepuff table erupted in cheers as Cedric was mobbed by his friends and housemates.
“Never expected a Hufflepuff would win,” Ron muttered. Nonetheless, Cedric seemed a popular choice and was applauded from all sides. Neville remembered he’d been impressed with the quiet, modest Cedric when they’d briefly met before the Quidditch World Cup and was glad that he’d been chosen.
After Cedric had received his congratulations and left, the atmosphere in the Hall seemed to settle down a bit. Dumbledore turned from chatting to Maxime and Preminin to say a last few words. “Well, we…” he began.
But suddenly the Goblet of Fire burst into life again. The flames shot upwards and everyone gasped and turned to look at Dumbledore. But even the headmaster seemed nonplussed. He stared at the Goblet in confusion and drew his wand, though with no clear idea of what to do. A single jet of flame licked up towards the enchanted ceiling, and when it fell back, a fourth slip of parchment was revealed, gently floating to the floor.
With trepidation, Dumbledore caught and examined it. He seemed to stand motionless for an age, as if unable to believe what he was looking at. Finally, and with a half-broken voice, he looked over to the Gryffindor table and called out, “Neville Longbottom.”
Every head in the Hall turned to stare at Neville, but he himself sat unmoving, unbelieving. He was in a daze, and the whole situation was unreal to him. It wasn’t my name, he thought. It couldn’t be. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s just a mistake. I must have heard wrong.
But Hermione nudged him in the back and he found himself standing and walking forward, even though his conscious brain refused to believe what his body was doing. His mind was elsewhere, in a disbelieving fantasy of its own making, whilst his body walked on past the stony, shocked and angry faces of his schoolmates.
He passed the now gently burning Goblet of Fire and reached Dumbledore. He looked up into the headmaster’s bright blue eyes and saw a look of shock and fear he had never seen there before. Dumbledore placed the slip he had collected into his hand. Neville stared down at the smouldering scrap of parchment. There, in neat handwriting that was not his own, was printed the name NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM.
A deathly chill spread over Neville, as if a Dementor had wandered into the Hall. His name, in clear black and white, drove cold, hard reality back through Neville. It was only then he realised how quiet the Hall was. Not a sound was to be heard. Dumbledore took Neville gently by the shoulder and guided him towards the side door. He passed the glaring Maxime and Preminin. His head turned to look at Professor Moody, still sitting in his place at the staff table. Moody was facing straight ahead, expressionless, deep in thought, but his magical eye was sympathetically trained on Neville.
Dumbledore held open the side door, and Neville walked through alone. He found himself in a small, high-ceiling antechamber, lavishly furnished and with many portraits lining the walls. At the far end of the room stood the three champions, talking with one another. They stopped and looked up confused as Neville entered. “Who are you?” demanded Viktor Krum in a thick Bulgarian accent. “Vot are you doing here?”
Neville didn’t reply, he simply sat down on the floor just inside the door. He was shaking. It had all happened so fast. The parchment with his name on it was still in his hand and he stared at it, as if hoping the name would miraculously rearrange itself into something else. He was still unable to comprehend what it meant. What did he have to do with the Tournament? What was going to happen?
Cedric whispered something to Krum and Delacour, and their expressions towards Neville changed to ones of puzzlement and shock. Krum approached Neville. “You are Longbottom?” he asked. “The Boy-Who-Lived?” Neville didn’t reply, nor look up, but was still shaking. “Vot is that in your hand?” Neville tremblingly opened his palm, revealing the parchment. Krum’s eyes widened. “Vot does it mean?” Neville said nothing.
But before Krum could press the issue, the door to the room was flung open, almost flattening Neville who was sitting behind it. A procession of people marched into the room, arguing vociferously. There was Dumbledore and the heads of the other two schools, Madame Maxime ducking to pass through the doorway, followed by Crouch, his house-elf and Bagman, and lastly McGonagall, Moody and Snape. They were so caught up in their argument that they barely noticed Neville sitting in the corner, however Moody came straight over and awkwardly crouched down on one knee in front of him.
“How are you holding up?” he asked. “Courage, boy. I’ll get to the bottom of this, mark my words.” He took the parchment from Neville’s hand and held it up to his magical eye to examine it. “Headmaster, look at this.” Dumbledore broke away from the argument to join Moody, who had hauled himself to his feet again. “I have marked several assignments of Neville’s,” Moody said. “I would swear this is not his handwriting. Someone has framed him.”
“’E could ’ave got someone else to write and submit the name,” challenged Maxime.
“Nonsense,” replied Moody. “Four names came out of the Goblet, four. That can only mean it must have been Confunded, and do that to something so powerful would require expertise beyond virtually every student in this castle. Besides, I know Neville. Entering himself in the Tournament would be the last thing he would do.”
“As much as it may surprise many to hear it,” spoke up the laconic voice of Professor Snape, “I agree with Professor Moody. Longbottom has a great many faults, but bravado is not among them. He is well aware of his own mediocrity.” Moody eyed Snape suspiciously, seemingly doubting the genuineness of his show of solidarity.
“Why on earth would someone else want to get Longbottom into the Tournament?” said Bagman.
“You always were a naïve fool, Bagman,” replied Moody bluntly. “Why do you think someone would want to co-opt the Boy-Who-Lived, a boy known to have limited magical skill, into an extremely dangerous and potentially lethal competition? Use your head, man, if the Bludgers left any sense in it.” Bagman bristled, unused to being addressed in such a fashion, but Moody was an imposing figure and Bagman chose not to reply.
There was a brief silence whilst everyone took in what Moody had said. Moody seemed to catch on to the long pause and the uncomfortable looks of several of the faces. “Now hang on a minute,” he said. “You’re not seriously telling me you’re going to make him compete, are you? You’ve got to be joking.”
“I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, Professor,” said Crouch solemnly. “There is an extremely powerful magical charm set on this Tournament, and has been since the beginning. Being selected as a Champion constitutes a solemn magical oath, akin to an Unbreakable Vow. Mr Longbottom has no choice. He has to compete.”
Moody marched up and down the room furiously, boiling with anger. “This is ridiculous. Some ex-Death Eater or wannabe Dark Wizard wants to get this boy killed and we have to sit back and let it happen? You bunch of spineless cowards. How do I know it wasn’t one of you who planted the boy’s name?” His magical eye twisted to pointedly look at Snape.
“Calm, Alastor,” soothed Dumbledore, though Moody showed no sign of taking his advice. “This is not the time to go throwing wild accusations about. Cool heads are needed. Believe me, I don’t want Neville to compete any more than you do, but if we have no other choice, then we are going to have to discuss how to proceed. I suggest we have no further need to detain our champions any longer. Mr Diggory, Mr Krum and Miss Delacour, you are free to go. I am sorry this could not be the occasion of celebration it was intended to be. Minerva, would you be so kind as to accompany Neville back to Gryffindor Tower?”
“Certainly, Headmaster,” replied McGonagall, and gently took Neville by the hand. Neville slowly stood up and allowed McGonagall to guide him to the door. He glanced back at Moody, who merely gave a supportive nod.
Crouch leaned wearily against the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “This is going to be a long night,” he sighed. “Winky, bring me a stiff drink.” The house-elf nodded obediently and vanished with a quiet “crack”.
McGonagall led Neville up through the deserted castle to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. She spoke the password and the Fat Lady’s portrait moved aside. “Good night, Mr Longbottom,” she said softly. “Try to get some sleep.” She left and Neville stepped through the portrait hole into the common room.
The common room was packed and everybody looked up as he entered. Hermione ran over to him and hugged him. “What did they say, Neville?” she asked. “What happened?”
“I have to play,” Neville answered simply. Saying nothing more, he walked on, head down, through the crowd of people and straight on up to his dormitory. There he sat on his bed and, needing something to distract him, took Trevor out of his box and watched him happily hop about in front of him on the duvet. He so envied the carefree little toad.
A small crowd, including the Marauders, Seamus and Dean was gathering at the door to the dormitory, but none seemed prepared to enter the room. Eventually Harry was pushed forward and approached Neville. “Are you alright?” he asked. Seeing Neville’s expression, he hurriedly added, “Well, no, of course not. Silly question. Sorry.” He sat down on the end of the bed and let Trevor hop up onto the back of his hand.
Neville looked up to the doorway, where the other students poorly pretended they weren’t looking in. “You got volunteered to talk to me, then?” he muttered.
Harry smiled. “Sort of, yeah. Look, don’t worry, I’m sure Dumbledore will sort it out. He always does.”
“I don’t think he can this time.” Neville sighed deeply. “It’ll never end, will it Harry? There’ll always be something. There’ll always be this.” He prodded the scar on his forehead. “After last summer, I thought I’d got over it. I thought I’d finally be able to cope with whatever happened next. Now this happens.” He shook his head sadly. “What’s everybody been saying down there? I dread to think.”
“Oh, no one that knows you thinks you put your name in yourself,” said Harry truthfully.
“And those that don’t know me?”
“They’ll come around. And if they don’t, they’ll have us to deal with. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and I, we decided we’d run your supporters club, if you were taking part. We’ll make sure Gryffindor at least supports you. We’ve got Hermione and Ginny signed up already.”
“Supports me for what? I’m hardly going to win. If I live through this, it’d be a success, and I have no idea how I’m going to do that.” Neville picked up Trevor and returned him to his box. “Look Harry, thanks, but I’m just going to go to bed. It’s been a long day.” Harry nodded and left quietly, shooing away the onlookers from the door.
Neville got into bed and tried to get to sleep, but for a long time found he couldn’t. All the confidence and hope he had built up over the previous few months seemed to have drained away. He kept thinking about what Professor Moody had said, and the same thought kept reverberating around in his head: I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
When he did finally fall asleep, he was plagued by dark dreams. He saw the pallid face of Professor Snape and the searching eye of Professor Moody. Then there was a searing blast of flame followed by a choking sense of drowning in dark water. Then the Dark Mark in the sky over the Quidditch World Cup campsite, followed by a gathering of teachers standing over his own dead body. Finally he saw an old man with a torch and a walking stick. There was a glimpse a tiny deformed hand and a flash of green light.
* * *
Neville was extremely grateful that the next day was a Sunday and that he didn’t have to attend classes. Nonetheless, he had to go down to the Great Hall for breakfast, and there received a number of ugly looks and jeers from other students, mainly Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, annoyed at the limelight being stolen from their own Cedric Diggory.
“Just ignore them,” was Harry’s advice, but it was hardly easy. However the Marauders, good as their word, surrounded Neville and made it plain without having to say anything that anyone messing with Neville was messing with them. The Second Marauders were rapidly developing a mystique around Hogwarts, so their intervention certainly helped.
Neville intended to go straight back to his dormitory after breakfast, however he was approached by Professor McGonagall. “Mr Longbottom, Professor Dumbledore wishes to see you at once,” she said curtly. “If you would follow me please.” Reluctantly, Neville left the Marauders and trailed after McGonagall up through the castle to the Headmaster’s office.
When they reached the gargoyle that stood in front of the entrance to the office, McGonagall said, “Jelly babies,” and the gargoyle moved aside. “The Headmaster is expecting you,” said McGonagall, and left. Neville climbed the spiral stairs up to the heavy wooden door. He was about to knock at the door when he heard a shrill raised voice from inside. He recognised it immediately. It was his Gran.
“This is outrageous!” Gran was yelling. Neville, who had heard that tone of voice on many occasions, felt an instinctive twinge of sympathy for Dumbledore. “What sort of a school are you running here? I was under the distinct impression that this place was supposed to be safe for my grandson. Was this ridiculous Tournament your idea? If you want my opinion, it was asking for trouble.”
“I believe this tournament can do a great deal for the magical community, and may yet, Augusta,” replied the calm voice of Dumbledore. “Yet all I can do is apologise for the failure of security and assure you that I am as angry as you are. But what’s done is done, and cannot be undone. The rules of the tournament are fixed and cannot be changed.”
“Have you at least any idea of who was responsible for this?”
“I am afraid not. An investigation has been launched, but frankly anyone with access to the Goblet of Fire over the last two days could have been responsible, and that’s a lot of people. Now, as I’m sure that by now Neville is loitering outside the door, perhaps this would be a good time to let him in.” The door swung open and Neville rather sheepishly entered.
This was the second time Neville had been in Dumbledore’s office, and it had not changed much. Fawkes was still sitting on his perch behind the desk; the Sorting Hat was lying on top of a glass cabinet containing, Neville noticed, the Sword of Gryffindor. Dominating the room however was the imposing figure of Gran, hands on her hips and a thunderous look on her face directed at the seated Dumbledore.
The moment Neville appeared, Gran grabbed hold of him in a rough embrace. “There you are, Neville. You took your time getting here. Have you been listening at the door long?”
“N-no, Gran,” stammered Neville.
“Considering what has happened, it was necessary to inform your grandmother at once,” Dumbledore explained. “She insisted on coming here immediately.”
“Do you expect me to sit at home when this happens?” exclaimed Gran. “I’ve half a mind to pull Neville out of this school. That way he can’t compete. It’s not like he learns much here anyway.”
“Your grandson receives an excellent education here, Mrs Longbottom,” retorted Dumbledore, “and has learned a great deal. Anyway, Hogwarts already has a Triwizard champion. It would appear that whoever entered Neville into the Tournament did so under an invented fourth school. Removing Neville from Hogwarts would not help.”
“Look, you know as well as I do that Neville is simply incapable of competing in this tournament. He hasn’t got the ability. I will not have him humiliated in front of the entire school, to say nothing of the danger he’d be facing.”
Dumbledore smiled. “I think Neville’s capabilities may surprise you, Augusta, and perhaps even himself. But I can assure you that steps are being taken to ensure that Neville’s participation is a meaningful and safe one. That was the main reason I wished to speak to you both. I wanted to make you a promise that I will do everything in my power to protect Neville.
“Neville, as a Triwizard judge I am obliged to remain impartial during the competition. However, I think you will not have to look far for assistance. I advise you to pay attention to your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” He gave Neville a twinkling smile.
“Well, I will take you at your word, Dumbledore,” said Gran stiffly. “But want to be informed of anything significant, and I will be attending every Task. Neville’s time at Hogwarts has been quiet up to this point and I intend it to stay that way.”
Dumbledore and Neville exchanged a brief glance. Gran was largely ignorant of Neville’s adventures over the previous three years and Neville was happy for it to remain that way. Neville wondered what Gran’s reaction to this would have been if she had known. Probably no different. After all, Neville drew no confidence from those adventures. He was facing something entirely new, and this time through no choice of his own. He could only hope that whatever Dumbledore and Moody had planned would work. Because otherwise Neville could only see his future as bleak indeed.
Neville Longbottom and the Goblet of Fire by Sonorus
Chapter Notes: In which Neville’s name emerges from the Goblet of Fire and he is thrust into the Triwizard Tournament.