In which Lily attends a very bad party, Neville asks the wrong questions, and Lily embarks on an unsanctioned quest.

Lily did not attend either Peter Pettigrew's trial or Sirius Black's.

The former took place the first week of November and it was what could be politely termed a complete shit show. For well over a week the question of Voldemort or Not Voldemort was completely forgotten, replaced with the sordid tale of Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black, James and Lily Potter, and the girl who lived.

Not to mention a lot of bad mouthing of Crouch (who amidst the scandal was fired for the second time in his ministry career), Bones (fired for the first time in her ministry career), and Albus Dumbledore who—somehow wasn't fired.

Fudge, of course, took this opportunity to say he was a completely uncorrupt minister who'd been an auror at the time and if he had been minister then none of this would ever have happened.

Though Lily had to say, judging by Dumbledore's picture as well as his complete absence from meals, the man could use a holiday or two. He looked like death warmed over. When she'd caught sight of him, his diseased hand looked like it'd spread up half his arm.

It was the trial of a century, featuring all those good bits of human drama that everyone loved: friendship, betrayal, revenge, men posing as rats for over a decade.

It was the talk of the school and Lily herself along with it.

How did she feel now that the man who had betrayed her parents wasn't the man that had betrayed her parents? Did it make any difference to her that one of her parents' friends had betrayed them while the other hadn't and that all she'd done was swap around the names? Was she planning to visit Pettigrew in Azkaban (never mind that, apparently, minors weren't allowed to visit Azkaban)? What about Black? Did she want to meet him? Where was he? Did he know that the trial had happened?

Of course, he knew. Lily imagined he'd been watching very closely, perhaps had somehow even managed to speed things along when Lily had dropped the news on him.

It was quite the coincidence, after all, that a week after she goes out to meet him Peter Pettigrew is suddenly on the stand.

So, Black had appeared out of the ether shortly. He'd gotten rid of his orange hair, had appeared on the steps of the ministry, and graciously submitted himself to trial where he was given veritaserum and pardoned on all counts.

After a short stay in Saint Mungo's, to assess the damage done by the dementors and weeks on the run, he was deemed fit to be released and began vying for custody of Eleanor Lily Potter: the girl who lived and his goddaughter.

This was contested, surprisingly not by any of Wizard Lenin's moles but instead by Albus Dumbledore himself. He'd argued that Black needed time to recover, that there was no telling what the dementors had done to his mental state, that he could not be trusted with a child he'd never met before so soon.

Why he'd done this was beyond her. Black was supposed to be one of his people, she imagined that Riddle hiding behind Black's face wouldn't change that. He'd want to get an in with Dumbledore's folks.

Maybe he thought Black, the real Black, would want revenge against Dumbledore. Maybe he thought having control over Ellie Potter would give him something Dumbledore couldn't get back.

Or maybe he didn't want Ellie somehow corrupting him.

Lily supposed it didn't matter, he didn't end up getting his way.

From Wizard Lenin's people there'd been nothing, not a word. Not even a glance, as if the fate of Ellie Potter meant nothing to them.

He had washed his hands of her.

And so, by the end of November, Sirius Black had been granted custody of Ellie Potter. She imagined he'd soon put his hat in the ring to run for minister. She imagined, against an increasingly flustered Fudge, he'd easily win. Unless, of course, Wizard Lenin had anything to say about it.

Regardless, come the holidays, she'd be spending Christmas with him, where she was sure they'd have a grand old time doing whatever it was dark lords who weren't dark lords did for Christmas.

Or maybe she wouldn't, she didn't know, despite gaining custody he had yet to bother sending her a letter. For all she knew, she would be spending the holidays at Hogwarts having a jolly time with the empty castle that was now entirely clear of dementors.

And Lily?

Well, she was being an ordinary student, just like she'd promised.

Right at that moment, that meant standing inside Slughorn's enlarged office, drinking punch in a corner with Rabbit, watching upper years mix and mingle at the latest and greatest Slug Club.

She supposed she should join them.

Now that she was an ordinary person, networking was important. Of course, she was only a second year, so she had miles to go before she graduated or even took her exams, but it was the principle of the matter.

Besides, Hermione had already taken one corner to drink punch angrily by herself, glaring out at the world and anyone who even thought of approaching her, they couldn't have Lily taking up another one.

But that would require talking to upper years and Slughorn's various guests. That, historically, had not gone well for Lily. More to the point, she wasn't really in the mood. Better to stick with the punch.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Lily lifted her head.

Now, there was a face she hadn't expected to see here.

Neville Longbottom was standing awkwardly a few feet from Slughorn, currently engaged in a conversation with Hufflepuff's quidditch captain, wringing his hands and quietly trying to interrupt.

Slughorn had told Lily early on that he invited only the best and brightest to his little get togethers.

Well, the best, the brightest, and those who had a family legacy and cash to burn.

Which—she supposed Neville Longbottom was a Longbottom. His parents were both pureblood, he had a rich family history, and so far as she knew he had money as well. He was just—he was also Neville.

Poor, sweet, talentless Neville.

He hadn't been at the last couple of parties, was all she was saying.

Somehow, though, he managed to get his foot in the door for this one.

"Sir?" Neville tried again to no avail, looking like he wanted to either cry or curse. His face flushed with mortified embarrassment, he looked around the room to see if anyone was watching and—caught Lily's eye.

He quickly looked away again, as if to pretend he hadn't seen her.

He'd been doing that a lot recently.

In all the classes they shared, every time they passed in the hallway, and every meal he'd pointedly look in the other direction. It was always something assessing, conflicted, and bitterly angry and betrayed. Though what she'd done to deserve a look like that–he never said.

Finally, Neville got his chance, "Sir, if I could have a moment?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Longbottom," Slughorn said with a blink, "How wonderful to see you here, enjoying yourself?"

"Yes," Neville said, "I mean, that is—I was—"

Neville stopped.

His eyes widened, his face grew pale, and it looked like whatever he was about to say was caught on his tongue.

Slughorn eyed him warily, "If you're looking for the restroom, it's right outside and down the hall—"

"No, I meant," Neville hastily interjected, he glanced at Lily then back at Slughorn, something hardened entered his eyes and he took a breath, "I was wondering if you could tell me about horcruxes."

No one seemed to have heard, no one seemed to have noticed, the party continued uninterrupted.

Slughorn, however, paled dramatically. His face went white, then green, as if he'd suddenly become nauseous. He took one unconscious step back, then another. He looked away from Neville, "I'm sorry, my boy, I'm afraid I have somewhere to be."

He began walking away, back towards the hors d'oeuvres. Neville hastily walked after him, "Sir, please, you—you had a conversation like this a long time ago. It's very important, I need to know what you said—"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Slughorn said, "And I'm willing to bet that you don't know what you're talking about either. This conversation is finished, Mr. Longbottom."

"Sir, please, it's important," Neville insisted, glancing at Lily before looking away again, "You gave a memory to Headmaster Dumbledore and—"

"And that is none of your business," Slughorn snapped, "And not his either. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I must go."

Slughorn didn't waste time, he walked quickly away and into his back office, shutting the door behind him. Neville clamored after him desperately, knocking on the door in earnest, ignoring the upper years giving him odd looks and muttering to themselves.

Lily though—Lily knew exactly what it was Neville had been asking about.

And she felt her stomach pool with dread.

Horcrux.

The terrible secret that Tom Riddle had hidden so carefully from the world—the secret to his immortality if anyone knew where to look for it. The diary who was now a boy and the man who had once been nothing more than a figment of a girl's imagination.

Something that Neville Longbottom should have had absolutely no knowledge of.

Lily hastily walked up to Neville. His eyes widened at the sight of her, he moved into a fighting stance, but before he could say a word, she dragged him off to the corner and silently dictated that all eyes wander past them.

"What are you doing?" Lily asked in horror.

He looked at her—not warily, no, that wasn't the word. He looked at her contemptuously, as if Lily asking that was some cheap ploy that they both knew was a waste of their time.

"You know what horcruxes are," he said, only it wasn't a question, he said it like he knew.

"I—" Lily stopped, swallowed, and decided to hell with it, "Yes, yes I know, and you apparently know and—there are words you don't use in public places. That's up there with shouting Voldemort in a library, honestly, Neville. What are you doing?"

Her words then caught up with her, "And why are you—why are you asking about horcruxes anyway? Are you mental?"

He licked his lips once, twice, then swallowed. He looked around them warily at the other party guests, "Not here."

He tugged at her arm, pulled her out of the party, and it was only quick thinking that had Lily grabbing Rabbit as well. Neville stopped, stared at Rabbit for a moment, and said, "Not him either."

"Don't worry, he doesn't talk," Lily said, "Well, he talks but—he barely speaks English. He won't understand a word you say. Leaving him on his own is a terrible idea."

Neville just kept staring and quietly shook his head.

Right.

Lily looked at Rabbit then back at Neville.

She hated to do this but—

With a wave of her hand, to Neville, it was as if Rabbit had wandered back into the party like a regular schoolboy. He and Lily were standing alone in the hallway. In Lily's world, however, Rabbit wasn't going anywhere unattended.

Rabbit gave her a look, one she didn't want to interpret as that implied that Rabbit still had feelings and that ridding the school of dementors had done nothing.

"Right," Lily said and nodded at Neville.

Neville quietly nodded back, then grabbed her hand again and started walking. They wound their way through the school, down floors and through hallways, until finally they came to an abandoned classroom.

He walked quickly, an awkward half-jog that looked like it wanted to be a sprint. His palms were sweaty and if Lily concentrated she could feel his heart hammering away through his fingertips. He was forcing himself to move slowly, to try and pretend to move calmly, and it wasn't working at all.

Neville shut the door behind them and cast a silencing spell for good measure.

Of course, that wouldn't keep anyone determined out, not if they had a lick of talent but—Lily supposed it was the thought that counted.

Finally, Neville turned to look at her, "Sorry, but—you're right, this is—private."

Lily sat on top of a desk, settling herself and—how long had it been since she'd talked with Neville? God, had it been a year now? More with all the time travel involved. However, even in her second year she felt like they hadn't really gotten a chance to talk. He'd tried but—there'd somehow never been time.

"Ellie," he said carefully, as if weighing the words on his tongue, then taking a breath he asked, "Can I trust you?"

"Of course," Lily said and—

She meant it.

She didn't belong to Wizard Lenin anymore. She was a normal student now, a normal person living a normal life. She had no agenda and no masters to serve. There was no longer anything up her sleeve at all.

For the first time in his life, Neville really could trust that she wasn't acting on someone else's behalf.

He weighed her words and—something in his expression flickered. For a moment, he looked—devastated, then angry, and then just like in the Slug Club his resolve hardened as if he was preparing himself for something unpleasant.

He breathed out.

"You know how I've been taking those remedial potions lessons?" he asked.

"As someone who has been held back an entire year in all subjects," Lily said grandiosely, "I'm not one to judge."

Neville stiffened, looked awkwardly away from her again and towards the door, and it took him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"They're not remedial potions lessons," Neville said, "They're—I've been meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore every week."

Lily blinked, "What?"

He just nodded grimly.

"There was a prophecy made, before I was born," Neville started, "It said that someone born at the end of July, to parents who fought the dark lord three times, would have the power to defeat the dark lord."

Lily knew that prophecy.

A half-heard prophecy that should not have spelled the death of her parents, yet somehow did just the same, a prophecy that didn't and shouldn't apply to her but didn't seem to apply to Neville Longbottom either.

A prophecy she had very nearly forgotten because it'd never made any damn sense in the first place.

"I was born at the end of July," Neville said quietly, "And my parents fought against You Know Who the first time around, Headmaster Dumbledore thinks it's about me. That I—can defeat the dark lord."

"Neville," Lily said quietly, "Neville, you're thirteen."

"Yeah, well, tell that to You Know Who," Neville said, chuckling quietly, "He's gone and risen from the grave, recruited all his members back and released them from prison, and I'm not even fifteen yet. He's not—he's not going to wait until I'm eighteen, Ellie."

Lily blew out all the air in her lungs, "Bloody hell, Neville, that might be true but that doesn't mean—what the hell are you supposed to do about it?"

She motioned around them, towards the empty classroom that formed their surroundings, "Dammit, Neville, we're kids. We're in a magic school in Scotland where our biggest concern is on whether we'll pass our Potions midterm next week. Not—defeating dark lords with the power of plucky determination and a dash of optimism."

"And why is it your job?" Lily asked, "Again, you're only thirteen. You can't even legally apparate yet. There's an entire country out there filled with grown men and women who have taken their NEWTs, who are gainfully employed, and can go about taking on dark lords whenever they feel like it. Why's it your job?"

"That's—that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," Lily finished.

Neville didn't say anything for a moment, didn't look at her, then quietly said, "According to Headmaster Dumbledore, to the prophecy—I'm the only one who can."

Lily stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate, he didn't.

"Why?" she finally asked.

"Why what?" he asked.

"Why are you the only one who can do it?" she asked.

"I don't know," Neville admitted with a shrug, "I asked that too, but—the prophecy didn't say why."

"Oh, the prophecy," Lily said, "God forbid we question the almighty prophecy."

"That's what prophecies are," Neville said gravely, "They always come true, and they can't be questioned. If you were a boy—it might have been you, but you're not, so it's me."

He looked away before she could counter that and said, "That's not the important part."

"It's not?" Lily asked, wondering what the hell was supposed to be more important than—than Dumbledore telling Neville he had an almighty destiny of charging at Wizard Lenin with a sword.

The only thing that would come of that was Neville getting his head lopped off.

If Dumbledore wanted Tom Riddle dead so badly then he could go and do it himself.

All at once, Lily realized that for all that she'd walked away from her destiny, from Wizard Lenin's grand destiny, Neville Longbottom had yet to even realize that he could walk away from his. That this—whatever this was—this was Dumbledore talking and not the universe.

Neville really believed this.

And it was going to get him killed.

"In preparation for—for fighting You Know Who," Neville said, looking at the floor, "Headmaster Dumbledore has been showing me memories about You Know Who's life, who he really is, and how he became immortal."

"What do you mean?" Lily asked in quiet horror.

"He was a half-blood," Neville said, "Son of a squib and a muggle, grew up in a muggle orphanage in east London. He used to be a boy named Tom Riddle, he's the one who released the basilisk in the school fifty years ago. Then he—he became You Know Who."

Neville swallowed harshly, then looked back up at her, "And Headmaster Dumbledore thinks—he thinks Tom Riddle became immortal, rose from the grave, because he made horcruxes. Multiple horcruxes, hidden in places that—mean something to him."

"Slughorn would know for certain," Neville continued, "There was a memory—Riddle asked Slughorn about horcruxes, but it was doctored and Slughorn claimed he didn't say anything. He probably said quite a bit."

"And so, you asked Slughorn about horcruxes," Lily quietly finished for him.

They sat in silence.

"Jesus, Neville," Lily continued, "First, lay off Slughorn. He's not going to tell you shit and you know it."

"Yeah," Neville agreed with a small huff of laughter.

"Second, what are you even supposed to do about this?" Lily asked, "So you watch—memories of Tom Riddle, which is really invasive and creepy by the way even if he is You Know Who—"

Lily imagined that Wizard Lenin would be unsurprised, but also mortified, if he knew that Albus Dumbledore had a collection of memories about his youth that he showed off to adolescents in order to best plot against him.

Remember that time Tom Riddle woke up from a wet dream when he was fifteen? Dumbledore remembers.

Dumbledore remembers and will use it to plot his demise.

Tom Riddle would never know what hit him.

"What good does that do you?" Lily continued, "I mean, how is that supposed to help with—with anything?"

For a moment, Neville said nothing, then, "If the horcruxes are destroyed then Tom Riddle will be mortal."

Lily just stared at him.

At first, she just thought of Wizard Trotsky and Wizard Lenin, both somehow dead and buried and—

Then she thought of the Diary and how it had transcended the mortal coil. She thought about Hindenburg and his philosopher's stone. And she thought about Wizard Lenin who was—who was perhaps the most mortal of all three of them but still hardly mortal at all.

And she thought about Neville Longbottom, going on a scavenger hunt for horcruxes, gleefully setting out to destroy a man's soul inch by inch so that—so that Dumbledore didn't have to.

Gleefully unaware that it would not work.

She didn't care how much Neville thought he knew about any iteration of Tom Riddle. She didn't care how much he'd prepared after school, how many spells he'd learned, he would fail. He would fail and—and she didn't want him to succeed.

She didn't want him to fail but she didn't want him to succeed either.

She wanted him to have nothing to do with this.

"Neville," Lily said, "You can't—you can't be serious. You can't mean that Dumbledore wants you to destroy them."

"Headmaster Dumbledore is dying," Neville said quietly, lifting his hand, "The hand—it's going to kill him. He can't do it."

"So, you have to?" Lily asked, "Because of mystic destiny? Because Dumbledore said so?"

She threw her hands in the air, unable to even process this, process any of it, "When are you supposed to do this? Over the Christmas holidays?!"

"I don't know," Neville admitted, then he clenched his fists, "Soon, as soon as I can, maybe—maybe even tonight."

"Tonight?!" Lily blurted, "You mean, like now? Like right now?!"

"He's not waiting, is he?" Neville asked.

"No, but—do you even know where they are?" Lily asked.

But Neville just nodded, as if he knew exactly where they were. When—

When Wizard Trotsky was twelve places at once and the original was hiding in plain sight.

"Where?" Lily asked.

"Does it matter?" he asked in turn.

"Yes, Neville, it matters, it's—what are you going to do, cross the country on foot and camp? You can't teleport!" she pointed out, "If you—if you're going to do this then—then damn it all I'm coming with you."

And she meant it.

She'd redirect him.

He couldn't know about Wizard Trotsky, Dumbledore didn't seem to know about Sirius Black so far, and trying to kill Wizard Lenin now would be suicide. So wherever Neville thought these horcruxes were—Lily was willing to bet they weren't horcruxes at all.

Even if he did have some idea—she could fake it.

They could confront a fake Trotsky or some fake horcrux somewhere.

"Oh no, the humanity," Lily would cry out in terror, "It's a horcrux of some bloke named Tom Riddle! Oh he's so evil, oh no!"

"Rawr, I am Tom Riddle," the fake Tom Riddle would then say, then they'd blow him up and be on their merry way.

Neville would be convinced he'd done the world a service without getting killed, Wizard Lenin would be alive and well to do whatever it was he was going to do with the rest of his life, and Dumbledore could stop sending school children on epic quests to confront people far more terrifying than them.

And they'd be back before the start of the new term, everything peachy keen, and no one would be dead.

"You don't have to—" Neville started, but Lily cut him off.

"Of course I have to," Lily said, "I'm the girl who lived, I—do this nonsense on a weekly basis. Let's go murder the shit out of some horcruxes."

He gave her a dark, oddly knowing look, at that, "They're not people, Ellie."

"What?" Lily asked.

"Horcruxes," he said, "They're not people. It's not murder if they're not people."

Lily stared at him, dropped her hands into her lap, and said, "It was a figure of speech, Neville. I only meant—let's go destroy some horcruxes."

She spared a glance to the door, "We're leaving now, then?"

Neville opened his mouth, closed it, but then nodded.

"Really, not packing a bag or anything?" Lily asked.

"I—No," he said firmly, "No, I have everything I need."

By which he had to mean that he had his wand but—well, Lily could get him whatever he needed. She imagined they'd be camping or—something. She supposed it all depended on where Neville, and therefore Dumbledore, thought Tom Riddle would stash a horcrux.

Maybe he thought Riddle would put one in a five-star hotel.

That would be nice. Then Lily could make use of the hot tub.

Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible after all.

Lily held out her hand to him, "Alright, Neville, where are we going?"

"London's east end," he said without missing a beat.

Neville's brown eyes bore into hers, looking for a moment nothing like those belonging to a thirteen-year-old schoolboy.

Lily took his hand in hers, took Rabbit's hand in her other, and with a flash and a bang they were off to London.

Author's Note: Thanks to Vinelle for betaing the chapter. Thanks to readers and reviewers, reviews are much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter