The Strength Of Your Heart.
Disclaimer: I'm not a professional writer so don't expect any miracles. These characters are, of course, J. K. Rowling's, so if you decide it's any good, thank her for creating them.
Part One: "Why me?"
The darkness of the night was almost unnatural, with a soft wind no more than whispering across the windows, caressing the roughness of the stone castle and stroking the smoothness of the magically strengthened glass. A short, stocky boy lay awake for not the first time, and what would definitely not be the last.
His name was Neville Longbottom, a fifth year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and by no manner was he normal, even in his own, wondrous world that burst with magic at every opportunity. Inside, he was no less than a complicated maze of worries, stresses and long-forgotten fears.
He slept (or rather, tried to sleep) in a dormitory with four other fifth year students: Harry Potter, a hero, unwillingly brought into a world of heroic deeds and painful ordeals; Ron Weasley, Harry's sidekick, faithful and willing to the last; Dean Thomas, an ordinary kid with a talent for artwork; and Seamus Finnigan, an Irish kid, fanatic about Quidditch and devoted to Lavender Brown, another fifth year student.
He sighed and turned over, trying (but failing) to get into a comfortable position. He tossed and turned; fitfully squirming for a while until he was nearly certain he could hear Harry waking up.
Neville got out of bed and headed off down the stairs to the common room, still in his pyjamas. He felt agitated, even antsy somehow, as if something was gnawing away at him, a burning question he needed to answer.
He froze as he heard someone moving around in the common room. There were shuffling feet, the groan of a sofa being sat on and then only the soft breathing of someone waiting. Whoever it was, he needed to know what they were doing, desperately.
If Neville had been in his first year, he would have turned and fled back to his dormitory at the sound of another person. But ever since the fourth year, when Harry had once again come face to face with the Dark Lord and escaped with his life still intact, he had developed an independent streak. He now withheld very few of his original fears.
He cleared his throat and continued descending the circular staircase, taking slow, yet heavier than usual steps. He didn't hear any movement from below.
As he entered the common room, expecting darkness only lit by the smouldering embers of a dying fire, he was surprised to find a blazing fire in the fireplace and candles lit on every wall. But the biggest surprise came in the form of…
"Professor Dumbledore?" he muttered questioningly, tilting his head slightly to one side.
Professor Dumbledore looked up from unsticking three sherbet lemons and grinned knowledgably at him.
"I was expecting you rather earlier than this, but you took your dear time thundering down that staircase like a herd of Trufflewumps, didn't you?" he inquired grinning ever more widely the whole time. "Ah! Sherbet lemon, Neville?"
He proffered a long-fingered, bony hand with a sherbet lemon in it, but Neville shook his head slightly, bewildered.
"Oh, I see you're wondering why I'm here?" he inquired gently, his grin ceasing to spread but still remaining.
"Well, to tell the truth, yes. But… Professor, how did you know I was going to be here?"
Professor Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and explained in a rather vague manner.
"I thought you of all people would have known that some things are just not meant to be questioned. No, it's best if you don't know how, but why. So I shall tell you all you need to know; no less, no more."
He paused for a moment, and when Neville still refrained from saying anything, he simply stated, "Now I am not obliged to answer questions before they are asked, so feel free to speak your mind."
"Professor, you speak like there's something that I want to ask you. I'm sure that there is, but I just can't think of it. I need a clue," he prompted, hoping that Dumbledore would at least prod him in the right direction.
"Neville, Neville, Neville. Look at your surroundings: where are you? Is this where you have always meant to be, or is there something else, something bigger, better and more…powerful in your own eye's perception? When the time comes, you will find me, and with me you will find the answer you seek. Until then, Neville, I shall leave you."
And with a swish of his cloak, he disappeared, leaving a short, plump, and very confused student standing alone in the semi-darkness.
* * *
Having never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, it took Neville a few days to realise that Professor Dumbledore hadn't Disapparated from the Gryffindor common room that night. In the middle of Potions, while making a rather complicated Ingenuity solution, he suddenly let out a sharp 'what?' of confusion, catching the Potion Master's attention.
"What now, Longbottom? Are you still stumped as to which way to set up your cauldron, or did you realise that your disgusting creature of a toad is swimming in your solution?"
Fishing Trevor out of the brilliant magenta potion, Neville spoke softly, not daring to look Professor Snape in the eyes.
"Neither, Professor. I was only thinking about something from a while ago. Sorry."
"You are not sorry," he stated cruelly, looking into Neville's eyes, which had been downcast seconds earlier. " I can see it in your eyes. Ten points from Gryffindor and detention for a wandering mind and disrupting the class."
From the corner of his eye, Neville could see Ron, and he could definitely hear what he was saying, which was along the lines of, "Jeez, he must have something really big stuck up his…Ow Hermione! What was that for?"
Neville could see the haughty look Hermione was getting and knew that trouble was stirring. Ron had just come from Divination, and Hermione from Arithmancy. The two never agreed on what was the best class, and nearly always ended up in a shouting match in the centre of the Gryffindor common room.
Neville had never mentioned to anyone his gift at Divination, which had been increasing over the last year. They had been going over palmistry, and by studying Seamus' hand intently, and slowly stroking it, he had noticed some small changes in the lines. His life-line had been lengthening, whereas his love-line had been shortening. The only line that had not changed was his luck, which still remained extremely short, and several broken promises had appeared and disappeared over the last two weeks.
He suspected some of this had to do with his promises to Lavender Brown about meeting alone in Hogsmeade, and then showing up with Dean, because Parvati had cancelled her date with him, but he was stumped as to what was lengthening his life-line. Previously, his life-line had indicated he only had six months to live, where-as now; he had a good ten years at least.
He knew his gift was limited, as Professor Trelawney had failed to pick up his aura, but he was sure it was there. Wavering and indistinct as it may be, it had stood by him for more than a small while.
Neville sighed irritably and got back to making his potion. Steam hissed, potions bubbled and a domineering silhouette prowled hungrily for trouble. And, unseen, a pair of eyes stared, blinked and disappeared.
* * *
Professor Dumbledore sat in his office, staring at a small, metallic object on his desk. His eyes were glazed, his breath coming slowly, irregularly and shallowly when suddenly he stopped. He slumped forwards onto the desk, his arm limply falling to one side and remained that way for several minutes until his body jerked wildly.
Dumbledore awoke and sat up abruptly, rubbing his arm.
"Astro-projecting," he said and sighed. "All this silly business of ripping your life-essence out of you and sending it somewhere. It's just not right. Neville may be needing a better way in the near future."
He grabbed a quill and swiftly wrote in a discreet handwriting a letter to Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. When he had finished, he blew on the parchment, rolled it up and tied it with a Hogwarts scroll-ribbon.
"Zetis, take care. Mexico will have tough weather at this time of the year, and it is vitally important you get this to Fudge," he said, placing the parchment in the owl's beak. "Good luck."
* * *
Chapter One: Part 2
A/N: I'm not particularly proud of this part. I don't think it's written all that well, but I'm not embarrassed by it, either. I have mixed feelings. And I know that when I finish re-writing 'C'est Bleue et Rose', most of the argument between Ron and Hermione will be repeated, but I decided to write it here in any case. I've had calls for this next part, so here it is! Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to review, even if you have for part one already.
Neville jogged quickly to his detention in the hospital wing, hoping against hope he wasn't assigned to the bedpans yet again. Snape had a knack for finding just the right time to give him a detention and have him cleaning out the vile things.
As he pushed open the door, a rather grumpy Madam Pomfrey greeted him with, "You, bed-pans. Now. Go. And none of that!" she scolded as Neville sighed.
"Yes Miss," he sighed again without even realising it. Why was Madam Pomfrey in such a bad mood?
Then he spotted Malfoy sulking in a corner and realised why. His hair was a violent shade of green, and he was sipping at a dull pink potion. As he took each sip, his hair faded the tiniest of bits.
The hair was the side effect of a prank pulled by Harry and Ron that had resulted in detentions and quite a few less points for Gryffindor earlier that morning. Professor Snape had also ended up with a head of green hair, but had obviously opted to take the potion in his chambers.
Malfoy finished his potion and left, scowling bitterly.
As Neville was summoning the first armful of bedpans, he heard three very familiar voices drawing nearer outside the hospital wing door. Madam Pomfrey half growled/half sighed and opened the door to reveal Harry, Ron and Hermione standing there, Ron and Hermione bickering violently.
Hermione had apparently been attacked by Ron and ended up with a head of blue and pink hair, which had failed to go back to its original state.
"Harry, tell her she's being totally unreasonable. I'm sure it'll come out sooner or later," Ron pleaded.
"Er," Harry stammered, looking from side to side from Ron to Hermione, then at Neville with a desperate, distraught sort of look.
"Harry, tell Ron he's being a git. I know it will come out, but he should apologise for doing it in the first place. Totally reasonable," Hermione said haughtily, folding her arms and giving Ron an icy look.
"Um…I really don't think…" Harry muttered, looking at neither Ron nor Hermione, just the thin line of sight he had through his eyelids, which were pushed rather close together due to the half-cringe he was pulling.
"Don't think what, Harry? Don't think that Hermione's being fair? Ha! See Hermione? Even Harry agrees with me!" Ron shouted, pointing his finger at Hermione and not allowing Harry time to answer his question.
"You really are daft, aren't you Ronald Arthur? Let Harry speak, I'm sure he was about to agree with me," Hermione retorted, glaring at Ron and then turning to Harry expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"Don't you ever call me that again," Ron snarled dangerously at Hermione, his eyes narrowed to slits. Her eyes widened for a moment, then they too joined the icy temperature that was smothering that half of the room.
"Look, you prat, will you listen? I don't care about whether or not the colour comes out, but just apologise, will you?"
"You bloody bookworm, I'm not bloody apologising!"
He said this with such force, Neville wondered wether Madam Pomfrey, from the other room, would be able to hear and come out here to break it up.
"Oh, and I love you too!" Hermione retorted, sarcasm oozing off her voice and dripping onto the floor.
Ron didn't notice the sarcasm, and was silent for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Look, will the two of you just… shut… up?" Harry sighed and rolled his eyes in an annoyed fashion. "You are really getting on my nerves! Stop it."
Hermione looked completely shocked, and when she finally spoke up, it was in a quiet, tentative voice.
"Harry, I'm sorry," she began. "It's hard on you, I know, and I am trying, but he just makes me so mad…"
"Oh I make you mad, do I???" Ron roared, glaring accusingly at Hermione, whose eyes flashed dangerously in his direction. "Well think about this, will you? Every time, every SINGLE time I want to do something, I want to play chess, go for a walk, practise Quidditch…EAT A SUGAR QUILL FOR GOD'S SAKE, you always have a reason not to!"
He put on a high whiny voice that Neville supposed was meant to be Hermione nagging him.
"Too cold for Quidditch, you'll get sick. Don't play chess; we've got to study. You're not going for a walk now are you? In this heat? Sugar quills? In class? You'll get caught, and they're bad for your teeth!"
Neville saw Hermione's eyes water and she took off out the Hospital wing door, school robes streaming behind her, midnight black against the topaz- blue of the wall.
"That was a bit harsh, you know."
"Shut up, Harry. You like her or something?" Ron shot at Harry, looking extremely putout.
"Of course! We've been snogging behind the broomshed for weeks!"
At the horrified look on the freckled face before him, Harry rolled his eyes.
"Jeez, do you I actually would? That's like you and Ginny, the way we think of each other. Now go apologise, you great prat," he ordered, raising his eyebrows meaningfully and punching Ron on the arm. "I'll clean the bedpans, Ronald."
"Don't call me that," Ron warned, already walking out the door.
Harry rolled his eyes meaningfully at Neville and summoned a few bedpans.
"Hey Harry," Neville asked, curiosity getting the better of him finally, despite having been held at bay for a few days. "You know how Dumbledore's always been brilliantly mad, right? And whatever he says to you, there's a deeper meaning?"
Harry nodded as he viciously attacked a bedpan, scrubbing like it was going out of fashion.
"Well, what would he mean if he asked if there was somewhere I'd belong better? More…powerful, or something, 'in my own eye's perception'."
"Yeah, I'll tell you what that means," Harry said, looking up and panting slightly. "He's finally done it. Gone completely mad."
"Great lot of help you are!"
Neville grabbed another bedpan, and slowly began scrubbing. Of course, scrubbing out bedpans wouldn't be a proper detention if you could use magic, so there was no magic to be used in the cleaning process.
They were both silent for a moment, cleaning; Harry viciously and Neville cautiously, before Neville couldn't take it anymore. But, surprisingly, Harry was first to break the silence.
"Was that Malfoy we passed in the corridor?"
Yeah," Neville replied, not looking up. "Madam Pomfrey gave him a potion to fix his hair up."
Harry grinned a bit crookedly, and said, "Do you think he's learnt to leave Gryffindor's alone yet? I mean, he's been caught in a fistfight, slapped, turned into a ferret and now had his hair turned green. You'd think he'd learn."
"I don't think he has."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
"I suppose," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Remember in first year, when you got in that fist fight with Crabbe and Goyle?"
"Mm-hmm," Neville said, scrubbing harder. He could still feel the pain of Goyles knuckle in his eye socket, still hear the pounding in his ears as blood rushed around his body, still see the identical expressions of glee imprinted on both Crabbe and Goyles faces. He shuddered and shrugged the memory off his shoulders.
"Why was that? I mean, Ron got into the fight with Malfoy, and then you leapt over the back of the seat. What made you do that?" Harry asked, nudging Neville towards the answer to his earlier question.
"I think it was because…" he began, and then sped up for the ending. "Malfoy said I wasn't brave enough to be in Gryffindor! That's it!"
Harry gave him a small smile, raised his eyebrows and nodded.
"But doesn't everyone think that they're not brave enough? I mean, you do, don't you?" Neville inquired.
"Well, yeah, but you have to realise that deep down, everyone knows where they belong. It comes naturally, and once you find it, it never goes away. I've come face-to-face with one of the most evil wizards of all time four times so far. Of course I'm going to feel like I have some sort of right to be in Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat picks each person for that. Deep down, you know where you belong."
Or do I? Neville viciously slapped the thought away, but it was too late. It was imprinted in his mind, buzzing away annoyingly.
"But if everyone has these doubts," Neville asked. "Why pick me? He could have chosen any Gryffindor, any Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or even a Slytherin. Why me???"
1 To be continued…
Disclaimer: I'm not a professional writer so don't expect any miracles. These characters are, of course, J. K. Rowling's, so if you decide it's any good, thank her for creating them.
Part One: "Why me?"
The darkness of the night was almost unnatural, with a soft wind no more than whispering across the windows, caressing the roughness of the stone castle and stroking the smoothness of the magically strengthened glass. A short, stocky boy lay awake for not the first time, and what would definitely not be the last.
His name was Neville Longbottom, a fifth year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and by no manner was he normal, even in his own, wondrous world that burst with magic at every opportunity. Inside, he was no less than a complicated maze of worries, stresses and long-forgotten fears.
He slept (or rather, tried to sleep) in a dormitory with four other fifth year students: Harry Potter, a hero, unwillingly brought into a world of heroic deeds and painful ordeals; Ron Weasley, Harry's sidekick, faithful and willing to the last; Dean Thomas, an ordinary kid with a talent for artwork; and Seamus Finnigan, an Irish kid, fanatic about Quidditch and devoted to Lavender Brown, another fifth year student.
He sighed and turned over, trying (but failing) to get into a comfortable position. He tossed and turned; fitfully squirming for a while until he was nearly certain he could hear Harry waking up.
Neville got out of bed and headed off down the stairs to the common room, still in his pyjamas. He felt agitated, even antsy somehow, as if something was gnawing away at him, a burning question he needed to answer.
He froze as he heard someone moving around in the common room. There were shuffling feet, the groan of a sofa being sat on and then only the soft breathing of someone waiting. Whoever it was, he needed to know what they were doing, desperately.
If Neville had been in his first year, he would have turned and fled back to his dormitory at the sound of another person. But ever since the fourth year, when Harry had once again come face to face with the Dark Lord and escaped with his life still intact, he had developed an independent streak. He now withheld very few of his original fears.
He cleared his throat and continued descending the circular staircase, taking slow, yet heavier than usual steps. He didn't hear any movement from below.
As he entered the common room, expecting darkness only lit by the smouldering embers of a dying fire, he was surprised to find a blazing fire in the fireplace and candles lit on every wall. But the biggest surprise came in the form of…
"Professor Dumbledore?" he muttered questioningly, tilting his head slightly to one side.
Professor Dumbledore looked up from unsticking three sherbet lemons and grinned knowledgably at him.
"I was expecting you rather earlier than this, but you took your dear time thundering down that staircase like a herd of Trufflewumps, didn't you?" he inquired grinning ever more widely the whole time. "Ah! Sherbet lemon, Neville?"
He proffered a long-fingered, bony hand with a sherbet lemon in it, but Neville shook his head slightly, bewildered.
"Oh, I see you're wondering why I'm here?" he inquired gently, his grin ceasing to spread but still remaining.
"Well, to tell the truth, yes. But… Professor, how did you know I was going to be here?"
Professor Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and explained in a rather vague manner.
"I thought you of all people would have known that some things are just not meant to be questioned. No, it's best if you don't know how, but why. So I shall tell you all you need to know; no less, no more."
He paused for a moment, and when Neville still refrained from saying anything, he simply stated, "Now I am not obliged to answer questions before they are asked, so feel free to speak your mind."
"Professor, you speak like there's something that I want to ask you. I'm sure that there is, but I just can't think of it. I need a clue," he prompted, hoping that Dumbledore would at least prod him in the right direction.
"Neville, Neville, Neville. Look at your surroundings: where are you? Is this where you have always meant to be, or is there something else, something bigger, better and more…powerful in your own eye's perception? When the time comes, you will find me, and with me you will find the answer you seek. Until then, Neville, I shall leave you."
And with a swish of his cloak, he disappeared, leaving a short, plump, and very confused student standing alone in the semi-darkness.
* * *
Having never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, it took Neville a few days to realise that Professor Dumbledore hadn't Disapparated from the Gryffindor common room that night. In the middle of Potions, while making a rather complicated Ingenuity solution, he suddenly let out a sharp 'what?' of confusion, catching the Potion Master's attention.
"What now, Longbottom? Are you still stumped as to which way to set up your cauldron, or did you realise that your disgusting creature of a toad is swimming in your solution?"
Fishing Trevor out of the brilliant magenta potion, Neville spoke softly, not daring to look Professor Snape in the eyes.
"Neither, Professor. I was only thinking about something from a while ago. Sorry."
"You are not sorry," he stated cruelly, looking into Neville's eyes, which had been downcast seconds earlier. " I can see it in your eyes. Ten points from Gryffindor and detention for a wandering mind and disrupting the class."
From the corner of his eye, Neville could see Ron, and he could definitely hear what he was saying, which was along the lines of, "Jeez, he must have something really big stuck up his…Ow Hermione! What was that for?"
Neville could see the haughty look Hermione was getting and knew that trouble was stirring. Ron had just come from Divination, and Hermione from Arithmancy. The two never agreed on what was the best class, and nearly always ended up in a shouting match in the centre of the Gryffindor common room.
Neville had never mentioned to anyone his gift at Divination, which had been increasing over the last year. They had been going over palmistry, and by studying Seamus' hand intently, and slowly stroking it, he had noticed some small changes in the lines. His life-line had been lengthening, whereas his love-line had been shortening. The only line that had not changed was his luck, which still remained extremely short, and several broken promises had appeared and disappeared over the last two weeks.
He suspected some of this had to do with his promises to Lavender Brown about meeting alone in Hogsmeade, and then showing up with Dean, because Parvati had cancelled her date with him, but he was stumped as to what was lengthening his life-line. Previously, his life-line had indicated he only had six months to live, where-as now; he had a good ten years at least.
He knew his gift was limited, as Professor Trelawney had failed to pick up his aura, but he was sure it was there. Wavering and indistinct as it may be, it had stood by him for more than a small while.
Neville sighed irritably and got back to making his potion. Steam hissed, potions bubbled and a domineering silhouette prowled hungrily for trouble. And, unseen, a pair of eyes stared, blinked and disappeared.
* * *
Professor Dumbledore sat in his office, staring at a small, metallic object on his desk. His eyes were glazed, his breath coming slowly, irregularly and shallowly when suddenly he stopped. He slumped forwards onto the desk, his arm limply falling to one side and remained that way for several minutes until his body jerked wildly.
Dumbledore awoke and sat up abruptly, rubbing his arm.
"Astro-projecting," he said and sighed. "All this silly business of ripping your life-essence out of you and sending it somewhere. It's just not right. Neville may be needing a better way in the near future."
He grabbed a quill and swiftly wrote in a discreet handwriting a letter to Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. When he had finished, he blew on the parchment, rolled it up and tied it with a Hogwarts scroll-ribbon.
"Zetis, take care. Mexico will have tough weather at this time of the year, and it is vitally important you get this to Fudge," he said, placing the parchment in the owl's beak. "Good luck."
* * *
Chapter One: Part 2
A/N: I'm not particularly proud of this part. I don't think it's written all that well, but I'm not embarrassed by it, either. I have mixed feelings. And I know that when I finish re-writing 'C'est Bleue et Rose', most of the argument between Ron and Hermione will be repeated, but I decided to write it here in any case. I've had calls for this next part, so here it is! Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to review, even if you have for part one already.
Neville jogged quickly to his detention in the hospital wing, hoping against hope he wasn't assigned to the bedpans yet again. Snape had a knack for finding just the right time to give him a detention and have him cleaning out the vile things.
As he pushed open the door, a rather grumpy Madam Pomfrey greeted him with, "You, bed-pans. Now. Go. And none of that!" she scolded as Neville sighed.
"Yes Miss," he sighed again without even realising it. Why was Madam Pomfrey in such a bad mood?
Then he spotted Malfoy sulking in a corner and realised why. His hair was a violent shade of green, and he was sipping at a dull pink potion. As he took each sip, his hair faded the tiniest of bits.
The hair was the side effect of a prank pulled by Harry and Ron that had resulted in detentions and quite a few less points for Gryffindor earlier that morning. Professor Snape had also ended up with a head of green hair, but had obviously opted to take the potion in his chambers.
Malfoy finished his potion and left, scowling bitterly.
As Neville was summoning the first armful of bedpans, he heard three very familiar voices drawing nearer outside the hospital wing door. Madam Pomfrey half growled/half sighed and opened the door to reveal Harry, Ron and Hermione standing there, Ron and Hermione bickering violently.
Hermione had apparently been attacked by Ron and ended up with a head of blue and pink hair, which had failed to go back to its original state.
"Harry, tell her she's being totally unreasonable. I'm sure it'll come out sooner or later," Ron pleaded.
"Er," Harry stammered, looking from side to side from Ron to Hermione, then at Neville with a desperate, distraught sort of look.
"Harry, tell Ron he's being a git. I know it will come out, but he should apologise for doing it in the first place. Totally reasonable," Hermione said haughtily, folding her arms and giving Ron an icy look.
"Um…I really don't think…" Harry muttered, looking at neither Ron nor Hermione, just the thin line of sight he had through his eyelids, which were pushed rather close together due to the half-cringe he was pulling.
"Don't think what, Harry? Don't think that Hermione's being fair? Ha! See Hermione? Even Harry agrees with me!" Ron shouted, pointing his finger at Hermione and not allowing Harry time to answer his question.
"You really are daft, aren't you Ronald Arthur? Let Harry speak, I'm sure he was about to agree with me," Hermione retorted, glaring at Ron and then turning to Harry expectantly, waiting for an answer.
"Don't you ever call me that again," Ron snarled dangerously at Hermione, his eyes narrowed to slits. Her eyes widened for a moment, then they too joined the icy temperature that was smothering that half of the room.
"Look, you prat, will you listen? I don't care about whether or not the colour comes out, but just apologise, will you?"
"You bloody bookworm, I'm not bloody apologising!"
He said this with such force, Neville wondered wether Madam Pomfrey, from the other room, would be able to hear and come out here to break it up.
"Oh, and I love you too!" Hermione retorted, sarcasm oozing off her voice and dripping onto the floor.
Ron didn't notice the sarcasm, and was silent for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Look, will the two of you just… shut… up?" Harry sighed and rolled his eyes in an annoyed fashion. "You are really getting on my nerves! Stop it."
Hermione looked completely shocked, and when she finally spoke up, it was in a quiet, tentative voice.
"Harry, I'm sorry," she began. "It's hard on you, I know, and I am trying, but he just makes me so mad…"
"Oh I make you mad, do I???" Ron roared, glaring accusingly at Hermione, whose eyes flashed dangerously in his direction. "Well think about this, will you? Every time, every SINGLE time I want to do something, I want to play chess, go for a walk, practise Quidditch…EAT A SUGAR QUILL FOR GOD'S SAKE, you always have a reason not to!"
He put on a high whiny voice that Neville supposed was meant to be Hermione nagging him.
"Too cold for Quidditch, you'll get sick. Don't play chess; we've got to study. You're not going for a walk now are you? In this heat? Sugar quills? In class? You'll get caught, and they're bad for your teeth!"
Neville saw Hermione's eyes water and she took off out the Hospital wing door, school robes streaming behind her, midnight black against the topaz- blue of the wall.
"That was a bit harsh, you know."
"Shut up, Harry. You like her or something?" Ron shot at Harry, looking extremely putout.
"Of course! We've been snogging behind the broomshed for weeks!"
At the horrified look on the freckled face before him, Harry rolled his eyes.
"Jeez, do you I actually would? That's like you and Ginny, the way we think of each other. Now go apologise, you great prat," he ordered, raising his eyebrows meaningfully and punching Ron on the arm. "I'll clean the bedpans, Ronald."
"Don't call me that," Ron warned, already walking out the door.
Harry rolled his eyes meaningfully at Neville and summoned a few bedpans.
"Hey Harry," Neville asked, curiosity getting the better of him finally, despite having been held at bay for a few days. "You know how Dumbledore's always been brilliantly mad, right? And whatever he says to you, there's a deeper meaning?"
Harry nodded as he viciously attacked a bedpan, scrubbing like it was going out of fashion.
"Well, what would he mean if he asked if there was somewhere I'd belong better? More…powerful, or something, 'in my own eye's perception'."
"Yeah, I'll tell you what that means," Harry said, looking up and panting slightly. "He's finally done it. Gone completely mad."
"Great lot of help you are!"
Neville grabbed another bedpan, and slowly began scrubbing. Of course, scrubbing out bedpans wouldn't be a proper detention if you could use magic, so there was no magic to be used in the cleaning process.
They were both silent for a moment, cleaning; Harry viciously and Neville cautiously, before Neville couldn't take it anymore. But, surprisingly, Harry was first to break the silence.
"Was that Malfoy we passed in the corridor?"
Yeah," Neville replied, not looking up. "Madam Pomfrey gave him a potion to fix his hair up."
Harry grinned a bit crookedly, and said, "Do you think he's learnt to leave Gryffindor's alone yet? I mean, he's been caught in a fistfight, slapped, turned into a ferret and now had his hair turned green. You'd think he'd learn."
"I don't think he has."
Harry nodded thoughtfully.
"I suppose," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Remember in first year, when you got in that fist fight with Crabbe and Goyle?"
"Mm-hmm," Neville said, scrubbing harder. He could still feel the pain of Goyles knuckle in his eye socket, still hear the pounding in his ears as blood rushed around his body, still see the identical expressions of glee imprinted on both Crabbe and Goyles faces. He shuddered and shrugged the memory off his shoulders.
"Why was that? I mean, Ron got into the fight with Malfoy, and then you leapt over the back of the seat. What made you do that?" Harry asked, nudging Neville towards the answer to his earlier question.
"I think it was because…" he began, and then sped up for the ending. "Malfoy said I wasn't brave enough to be in Gryffindor! That's it!"
Harry gave him a small smile, raised his eyebrows and nodded.
"But doesn't everyone think that they're not brave enough? I mean, you do, don't you?" Neville inquired.
"Well, yeah, but you have to realise that deep down, everyone knows where they belong. It comes naturally, and once you find it, it never goes away. I've come face-to-face with one of the most evil wizards of all time four times so far. Of course I'm going to feel like I have some sort of right to be in Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat picks each person for that. Deep down, you know where you belong."
Or do I? Neville viciously slapped the thought away, but it was too late. It was imprinted in his mind, buzzing away annoyingly.
"But if everyone has these doubts," Neville asked. "Why pick me? He could have chosen any Gryffindor, any Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or even a Slytherin. Why me???"
1 To be continued…