I know, two chapters in three days? What? Yeah, don't get used to it. But enjoy it while you can. :)


II.

I'm going to die.

It was not a new thought. It was not a new possibility, not after this past year. But standing wandless in front of Voldemort, who had promised to use him to "demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost," the possibility was suddenly a lot more real and lot more immediate.

He still couldn't believe he'd done it, run down the castle steps and tried to attack Voldemort head on in front of his whole contingent of Death Eaters. No back up, no plan, just a desperate move fueled by rage and grief and the hope that the element of surprise might be on his side since no one, not even a Gryffindor, would actually do something so recklessly stupid.

And now, here he was. Harry, Harry, stupid, reckless, noble Harry who had somehow believed that sacrificing himself would stop anything, Harry, that quintessential Gryffindor who was more innocent in many ways than the youngest first year living at Hogwarts under the Carrows, Harry had given him one task in this battle, just one - kill the snake. And he couldn't even manage to do that. Now he wouldn't get the chance. He hoped Ron or Hermione knew it had to be done, wished he had the chance to get the directive to his army. They could have gotten it done. But he was out of time, and it broke his heart. He should have been able to do more.

But then - Voldemort summoned the Hat. And it wasn't much hope, but Neville had learned this past year how important even the tiniest sliver of hope could be. He held his breath, shielding his thoughts as best he could (they had stumbled through trying to learn Occlumency this past year, at Ginny's suggestion, but given that none of them had ever done that or Legilimency before, it was hard to gauge how much progress anyone had made), and waited to see if Voldemort would underestimate the Hat and give Neville a valuable tool.

When the Hat slipped down over his eyes, Neville could have cheered, if Voldemort hadn't immobilized him, thus preventing him from moving or making any noise at all. But he couldn't stop Neville's thoughts, and his thoughts were all he needed.

I need your help, he thought frantically, before the Hat had even fully settled on his head.

Yes, the Hat's voice said. Things do seem rather dire.

Yes, Neville agreed. Is there anything you can do?

Well that depends, Mr. Longbottom. Neville held his breath again and waited. Are you a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor?

How about you mock me once we've both made it through this alive? he thought in some exasperation. The Hat chuckled grimly.

Kill the snake, Mr. Longbottom. Show everyone here what tricks can still be pulled from an old Hat, and I will see you on the other side.

And then they were on fire, and Neville's whole world focused down to the pain.

He'd suffered the Cruciatus Curse countless times this year. He'd been beaten, cursed, and roughed up in the cruelest ways imaginable, but somehow fire was a whole new level of pain, made worse by the fact that he still couldn't move. He felt the flames lick his ears and he screamed, filled with fear and panic because it was the Hat that was on fire, the Hat bearing the brunt of this attack, and what would happen to the school if the Hat was destroyed?

Seconds later than he should have caught on, he realized that if he was screaming, he could move. Somehow, somehow, the curse had been removed, and Neville threw off the Hat, and when it landed on the ground in front of him, the gleaming sword hilt sticking out of one end, he didn't think. He just moved.

Hours later, when the battle was over and the dead were laid out and most of the exhausted survivors had found safe places to sleep for a few hours, Neville made his way down the front steps, searching for the Hat, hoping against hope that it, too, had survived, that giving him the sword hadn't been its last dying act.

He found it half buried in the rubble by the side of the stairs. Carefully, gingerly, he unearthed it, turning it over in his hands. He was relieved to see that though it was severely scorched, it wasn't burned through. Taking a deep breath, he set the Hat on his head and let it slip over his eyes.

Hat? he asked, his mental voice tentative. Are you there? Are you all right? He was met with silence, and he closed his eyes against the loss. Hat? he tried one more time. Please. Please, are you there?

Nothing. Neville felt like a weight was pressing down on his chest. He didn't want to believe it. He didn't want to believe that the Hat, this sentient entity that had stood watch over Hogwarts for a thousand years, was really gone. But if there was no voice in his head, what else was he to think? Somehow, this loss was as devastating as all those bodies laid out in the Great Hall.

He reached up to remove the hat from his head. He'd ask Professor McGonagall what should be done with it. What would be fitting. But before he could take it from his head, there bloomed into his mind a weak but clear voice.

I . . . am here, Mr. Longbottom. Neville's exhale of relief was sharp and audible. He sagged against the stairs.

For a moment there, I thought we'd lost you, he thought when he had recovered enough to form a thought.

It takes more than a little fire to keep me down, the Hat said then. The same, it appears, is true for you.

Thank you for the sword, Neville said.

Godric Gryffindor's sword, the Hat said, its voice sounding pointed. In case you had any lingering doubts about your rightful House, Mr. Longbottom. Neville heaved a mental sigh but made no other remark. He had, after all, promised the Hat that it could mock him if they both made it through the battle.

How much of this did you know? he asked then. It was a question he'd had for a while. When you Sorted all of us, how much did you know was coming?

Mr. Longbottom, I hardly know what happened today. Very little of the battle took place in the Headmaster's office. The Potter boy came in and stuck his head in the Pensieve for a while, but that was neither thrilling to watch nor informative. I am getting a piecemeal account from your thoughts and recollections, but if you are asking if I am prophetic, the answer is no. If it does not happen in the Headmaster's Tower or in the head on which I sit, I am not privy to it.

I'll bet living in the Headmaster's office has its perks, though, right? Neville thought wryly.

Headmaster Dumbledore often ran he thoughts and plans and theories by me, if that's what you are asking. I am a sadly under-utilized resource, you know, but Headmaster Dumbledore made the most of me. That doesn't make me prophetic.

Then how did you know? It came out in a rush, this question he had thought about more this past year than he wanted to admit. How everything might have gone differently if he'd been in Hufflepuff. About me? How did you know that putting me in Gryffindor was the right choice?

My dear boy, you are still laboring under the assumption that I ever considered putting you anywhere else. The answer to your question, however, the Hat said, speaking over Neville's wordless astonishment, is simply that I have been doing this a very long time. And as I told you seven years ago, I know what I see. Gryffindor didn't make you into the person you became this year. He has been a part of you all along. Gryffindor House just had to need him.

Neville didn't know how to process that extraordinary thought, so he decided not to try, but rather tuck the information away in his brain until he could fully process it. He thought he heard the Hat chuckle as he came to that decision.

Now then, Mr. Longbottom, if you don't mind, I am exhausted. I need to rest and recuperate if I am to be recovered enough by September to Sort a new batch of students.

Of course, Neville said, his exhausted brain latching onto that reality as a dearly needed focus. Is there anything you need me to do?

Some cosmetic repairs would not go amiss. But my enchantment is as strong as ever.

All right, then, Neville thought. And thank you.

Always a pleasure, Mr. Longbottom.

And gently, Neville pulled the Hat from his head and took a few moments to gather the energy necessary to stand. Turning to head back into the castle, he found Professor McGonagall watching him from the top of the stairs.

"Mr. Longbottom," she said as he climbed the stairs, her voice as exhausted as he felt. "I thought I told you two hours ago to seek your bed."

He shook his head. "And I told you, I'll sleep when you sleep."

She nodded at the Hat held gently in his hands. "Is the Hat functional?" Neville almost laughed.

"Functional and annoyingly omniscient as ever," he said. She looked relieved.

"I had wondered, I fear, if we might have to find another way to Sort incoming students. And I therefore wondered briefly if we might not be better off without Sorting them at all."

Neville considered this, and her unspoken question, but then he shook his head with a tired smile. "No," he said. "I don't think we'd be better off. We're the ones who have gotten Sorting wrong, what it means. Not the Hat. We need the Hat. But we also need to be better about listening to it."

As if from a long way off, he heard an echo of a thought in his head.

Well put, Mr. Longbottom.


To be continued