Chapter Six

Hogwarts, Scotland

5 September 1991

Riddle, Riddle. Where have I heard that before? Neville was certain he had, even though it wasn't a wizarding name.

'Boot — Brocklehurst — Brown — Cornfoot — Corner — Entwhistle — Finnigan.' The professor called out names with clear disinterest. Even Neville's received nothing more than a slight emphasis.

Professor Riddle went on crisply, 'In order to defend against the Dark Arts, you must first understand what they are.' With a flick of his wand, the words Dark Arts appeared on the board in a neat, old-fashioned script. 'Does anyone here know what makes a spell Dark?'

Several hands shot in the air, though none so fast as Hermione's. She seemed practically on the edge of her seat, her fingers stretched as high as they would go.

'Miss Turpin?'

The Ravenclaw threw a smug glance at the class. 'Dark spells cause harm to other people,' she said.

'As do many others,' said Professor Riddle, 'including most of those you will be taught in this classroom. Anyone else?' He speared a glance around the room. Only Hermione's hand was still up. 'Miss MacDougal?'

Morag shrugged. 'Whatever the Ministry happens to disapprove of this week.'

Everyone stared at her; some choked back laughter, others seemed horrified. Professor Riddle permitted himself a chilly smile. 'An excellent point, Miss MacDougal, if not altogether accurate. Two points to Gryffindor.'

The Ravenclaws gasped as one.

'The first thing you should know,' said Professor Riddle, 'is that illegal does not equal Dark, whatever the Ministry of Magic would have you think.' The words not subject to the whims of the Ministry appeared on the board. 'That does not, however, bring us any closer to understanding what the Dark Arts are. Any other suggestions? Mr Boot?'

'Er . . .' Terry shrugged. 'Spells you have to care about, I guess.'

'Yes and no. They do require a much greater degree of intent than most — one point to Ravenclaw — but that is not what makes them Dark. Miss Granger?'

Hermione straightened. 'The Dark Arts are spells which use the soul of the caster to cause harm.'

'Nine points to Ravenclaw for a nearly correct answer,' said Professor Riddle coolly. 'Not all Dark Arts are spells.'

'But, sir, the book said — '

He cut her off. 'The book was wrong.' Neville remembered some of the nastier pictures in Most Potente Potions, and shivered.

After class, they all trooped out, the Gryffindors in small groups, the Ravenclaws one-by-one, and made their way to the Great Hall for dinner. Neville made sure to sit at the end of the Gryffindor table, as far from Harry as possible, and determinedly kept up his side of the conversation as Morag and Katherine talked about their classes.

'But I heard that he was an Auror!'

'I don't care if he's channelling Merlin himself,' replied Morag. 'He's still the creepiest person I've ever met.'

'He does seem to know what he's talking about,' Neville said, glancing up at the staff table. His gaze fell on a hook-nosed man beside Professor Quirrell; he was thin, pale, and black-haired, like Professor Riddle, but much younger, and even more menacing. The teacher looked away, across the room — and straight at Neville. A jolt of pain burned Neville's scar; he instantly tore his eyes away, pressing his fingers against his forehead.

'—right? Neville?' Katherine peered at him worriedly.

'It's fine,' he managed, daring a sideways glance at the table. He could not escape the feeling that the teacher didn't like him. At all. 'Do you know who that teacher is? The greasy one?'

Katherine shrugged, but Morag poked Percy Weasley, who sat on her right, and asked him.

'That's Professor Snape. He teaches Potions, but he doesn't want to — everyone knows he's after Riddle's job. Knows an awful lot about the Dark Arts, Snape.'

'Uh-oh,' muttered Neville.

Morag blinked. 'Do you know about him or something?'

'I know that he hated my uncles and my dad,' said Neville grimly. 'And he's not the sort to forget things — it took him and Uncle James ten years to get along, and he and Uncle Sirius still haven't managed it.'

He was still chewing his lip with anxiety, thinking of the Potions class he had already dreaded, when fortunately — or not — a familiar voice interrupted him.

'Neville.'

Neville gulped down the last of his pumpkin juice, and turned to face his cousin. Daphne, dark-haired and green-eyed like Harry, stood with him, but there was no sign of Malfoy, of any of the other Slytherins. He breathed a sigh of relief and managed to say weakly, 'H-Harry, Daphne. Hi.'

'Are you ready to talk?' Harry replied. 'You've been acting like a total git, Neville.'

Katherine giggled.

'Yeah, I guess,' said Neville. 'I mean, I guess I'm ready to talk. Oh! Sorry — Katherine, Morag, this is my cousin, Harry Potter. Harry, my friends, Morag MacDougal and Katherine Rivers.'

'Potter?' repeated Katherine. 'Are you related to James Potter?'

'He's my father.'

'Oh! Wow . . . I mean, that's just . . .' Her voice trailed off. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you.'

'It's fine.' Harry smiled at her, then threw Neville a challenging stare. 'So, d'you mind telling me what happened?'

Neville wet his lips, blushing furiously. 'Morag, Katherine . . . would you mind leaving me alone with Harry?'

'Sure,' said Katherine, hopping up. 'Bye, Potter, bye, Neville. Oh, and, er, you too.'

Morag stayed where she was. 'But Neville . . .'

'It's a family matter,' Harry said firmly.

'Oh, all right.'

Once she left, Neville found himself looking pleadingly at Daphne. She seemed even more recalcitrant than Morag, however, and did not budge at all. He sighed. 'Well, I was just . . .'

'Harry, Neville!' Another voice rang out. 'There you are . . . so, what did you think of Defence Against the Dark Arts? I thought Professor Riddle was brilliant, myself.'

All three turned to stare at Hermione Granger, who walked over and plopped herself right next to them.

'Sorry, Hermione,' Neville began, 'but we're, er, trying to . . .'

'Neville's about to tell us why he's been ignoring me ever since the Sorting, Granger.' Harry's eyes narrowed. 'I suppose you think you're too good for a lowly halfblood — '

Neville gasped. 'No! Harry, you can't think— I wouldn't! — that's just awful — '

'Well, what am I supposed to think? Is it going to be Granger next?'

'I don't care about that!' He just hoped Harry hadn't written his suspicions home. James and Sirius would skin him alive . . . not to mention his gran. 'It's . . . it's not that, Harry. It's . . .'

Yet another voice interrupted them, this one soft and timid. 'Excuse me? I know it's none of my business . . . but, I was just wondering . . . that is, I hope nothing's wrong?'

Daphne laughed. 'Well, we should have expected that. Hello, Bones.'

'Hi, Susan,' Neville said miserably.

'And yes, something is wrong,' Harry added. 'Neville won't talk to me and I'm trying to get him to explain why. He says it's not about my being a halfblood . . .'

Susan gave a shocked gasp. 'Well, I should hope not! I'm a halfblood, aren't I, and not even wizardborn. Neville's been fine to me . . . oh, I didn't mean it to sound like that . . .'

'It's Slytherin,' Neville blurted. 'Harry, why did you convince the Hat to put you in Slytherin?'

Everyone went silent. Harry stared at him, then gave an incredulous laugh. 'Convince the Hat? What do you mean?'

'You were up there for five minutes, talking to it! You must have asked it to send you to Slytherin! You wanted to get away from — ' Away from me, he'd meant, but that would sound so babyish.

'It was more like two minutes, actually,' interjected Hermione.

Harry snorted. 'Look, Neville, I didn't try and convince of it anything.'

'You were talking, I saw you — '

'I told the Hat that it wasn't my job to choose, and that I didn't want Hufflepuff — sorry, Susan — but I never asked to be put in Slytherin, all right? It did consider Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but it was pretty obvious that it wanted Slytherin practically from the first. It was going on about how well I'd do there — that it'd would help me on the path to greatness and all that. And that if I went to Slytherin, I'd be more than — ' He snapped his mouth shut.

'More than what?' asked Neville.

Harry flushed. 'I want people to look at me and see something other than James Potter's son, all right? You saw what your friend — Waters? — was like. And everyone's the same. I don't mind Dad being so famous and all, but that's not me. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to be great!' His voice rose. 'I've just as much right to be in Slytherin as Daphne, or Draco, or anybody, and it doesn't make us evil, and if you've got a problem with it, well, just say so.'

'I don't!' Neville knew, then, that he'd been horribly wrong. He'd just never thought of Harry as Slytherin at all — it had seemed that he must have been, well, really persuasive to get the Hat to put him there. But now it turned out to be the other way around. 'Harry,' he said penitently, 'I'm sorry, really, I am. Please forgive me.'

Harry hesitated.

'Oh, please do, Harry,' said Susan, clasping her hands. 'You've been friends for ages, I can tell, and it would be silly to break it up over something so silly. Besides, it was just a misunderstanding . . . it's all cleared up now, isn't it?'

Neville nodded fervently. 'Yes, it is . . and I promise, next time I'll ask you.'

'Oh, all right.' Harry grinned. 'But you owe me now.'

'Okay,' said Neville amiably.

For one awkward moment, nobody knew what to do; then Hermione said, 'Can we talk about Defence Against the Dark Arts now?'