Ouroboros

by Novus Ars

Salazar Slytherin woke up in the body of a three year old boy with the most ridiculous head of black hair & a runic scar craved into his forehead. The last thing he recalled was dying. Now it is over 900 years in the future. There are a million things to deal with between new inventions, lost knowledge, missing spirits, & parasitic dark lords. (multi-povs. Unreliable narrator. AU)

8. Chapter 8

A/N: So we have entered multiple Point of Views (POV). In reviewing this chapter I decided it would be best to note the POV character at the start of each scene, but only when the POV has changed from the last scene. Hope that makes sense.

So you will see (Neville) and (Harry) right after the oooP#ooo sometimes.

Chapter Eight

oooP1ooo

(Neville)

"On the count of three," Madam Hooch called out, "Push off the ground."

Neville stared about him—flying class.

Harry was across from him.

"One!"

Green eyes narrowed at him. The students surrounding him grew taller. He was an ant amongst giants.

"Two!"

Neville clutched the broom with sweaty hands. His heart pounded. He felt like throwing up. Everyone else was ready to go. They'd leave him behind. Even Hermione, for all her panicked reading, was ready—she always followed directions.

"Th–"

He pushed off the ground with a desperate rush: He would not be left behind.

Wind tugged at his clothes. Bile clawed up his throat. (Harry didn't catch him this time.)

Neville lost control of his broom. It turned and twisted: And he followed.

He was upside down.

Neville squeezed his eyes shut. Something changed.—The wind stopped buffeting his clothes. He no longer clung to a broom.

His hazel eyes opened. (He didn't want them to.)

Longwood's rose garden sloped out before him. It was in full bloom, an explosion of color the talk of every midsummer party. Gardens were his safe place. Nothing wrong ever happened when he was in one of the gardens.

(It didn't stay true. No where was safe in the end.)

The garden was upside down. It was far, far below. His hands dangled towards the distant ground.

He knew what this was.

Neville could not stop his gaze from moving up. Uncle Algie stared down at him, his hands holding Neville by the feet.

His stomach twisted in terror. The grasp on his feet weakened. He panicked. He reached up to his great uncle. Neville was too slow.—The elderly man let go. (Uncle Algie always let go.)

The world blurred as air rushed around him. Bile filled his throat, constricting his ability to scream. His gaze was still locked with his great uncle's.

Uncle Algie and his wife stuck their heads out the window to watch his fall.

Neville would never forget that neither bothered to try to save him. There was no flick of a wand to stop his inevitable meeting with the ground.

He felt the connection.—No matter the fact that he had bounced, he still had slammed into the ground and still felt that jarring impact only cushioned enough to avoid serious injury.—This time, as always, he didn't bounce.

But neither did he stop falling.

The ground rushed around him and blurred until it wasn't earth anymore. Neville couldn't breath. Air escaped his lips and floated away in bubbles. It was just like that time at Blackpool.

Dark water surrounded him. He could not tell which direction was the surface. The blond clawed at the water, watched in a disassociated sense as bubbles floated up and away from him.

It was dark.

He was cold.

The world was fading.

He was dying.

Hands yanked Neville from the water. Neville sputtered and gasped as he clung to the rocky shore.

"Ya gotta learn how ta swim lad."

Neville wanted to snap his head up in surprise at the voice. He couldn't, his body didn't do what he wanted, though he did look up after another coughing fit. A redheaded man stood over him instead of his cousin Humphrey. He didn't know this man. (But he did. It was at the edge of memory.)

Words escaped Neville's mouth, "Water don' like me–"

"Don't care a wick! Ya gotta learn," the man countered as he reached out and clasped Neville's shoulder.

The world shifted as the man squeezed. The lake became a small wooded clearing. A tall brunet stood by the redhead's side. The hand on his shoulder released him and Neville was nudged away. He wandered around the clearing, staring at the tall trees. Some had ribbons and rope tied to their trunk or branches. Carvings wrapped around wooden posts and tree trunks.

Neville had never been here before. (It felt familiar.) It seemed like some place he'd enjoy but the hammering of his heart indicated otherwise. He was expecting something to happen. (He couldn't remember what but like the man, it teased at the edge of memory.) Maybe he'd get stabbed to death?

This wasn't some twisted, nightmare, version of a memory though. At least, he didn't think it was.

An acorn fell, drawing Neville's attention. A boy was seated in one of the branches of a large oak. Sunlight filtered through the canopy and across hair that seemed unable to decide on being blond or darkening to brown.

"What are ya doing up there?" Neville asked as he came closer. The words fell from his lips with an accent he did not possess.

The boy tilted his head to look in Neville's direction and deadpanned, "Ssitting."

A similarly snarky reply played at the tip of Neville's tongue but then he met the boy's silver eyes.

The world shifted again.

Those eyes were now dull with pain, set in a face of a grown man. He was laying on the ground. Neville leaned over him. Panic bubbled up in Neville's chest.

There was blood everywhere. Streams of red trailed down from the man's lips. He was dying.

He couldn't be dying.

Neville reached out in desperation, his heart pounding in his ears. He pulled upon his fiery magic, twisted it into a healing spell but it did not listen. (He knew, somehow, that it had never listened when it came to healing.) Neville found himself rambling at the dying man—the silver eyed boy from the treetops. A mantra whispered through his thoughts.

"You cannot die! Stay with me!" he cried to the dying man.

And yet, those silver eyes lost all hint of life. Anguish exploded from Neville as the world went cold.

Neville shot up. His heart pounded violently. Silver and red floated before his eyes before he realized he was staring at his bed curtains. Moonlight streamed in and made the gold softer, almost silver like to his half awake state.

The blond stared down at his fisted hands and forced them to release the bedding. Yet another nightmare. He wasn't going to get any more sleep now.

He pushed away his blankets and stumbled to the bathroom. Cold water splashed across his face helped pull him from the lasting effects of the nightmare. A pale, round face stared back at him. (For a long second, he didn't recognize himself. This little boy had to be someone else.)

"Goodness, you look a tad peaky, dear. Best be off to the hospital wing," said the mirror in a matronly voice.

Neville ignored it as he tugged at his sweat soaked pajamas. Sleeping capped sheep bleated silently across the fabric. Little quote bubbles with 'baa' appeared as they opened their mouths.

He felt like an idiot wearing the pajamas but Gran picked out all his clothing. At least this one wasn't a dressing gown. (Not that he had known what an embarrassment they were until coming here. Seamus had made it clear quickly enough.)

The child shook his head of his depressing thoughts and returned to the dorm to collect his uniform before he showered, remembering his robe this time. Neville wandered down into the common room, seeking the one comfort that helped after a nightmare. The fireplace lit at his approach. Neville curled up into the closest wingback chair as the fire warmed him, soothing away some of the exhaustion and most of the lingering terror.

Hazel eyes wandered about the common room, searching for a distraction. A collage of portraits almost entirely covered the deep red walls. They were filled with softly snoring figures. Curtains were drawn against the tower's windows. Only the faintest hints of light filtered through. Deep red and gold couches and wingback chairs were scattered across the room.

Neville dropped his head back against the chair and stared up at the high vaulted ceiling. Gold painted stars glinted in the firelight with a dark maroon night sky. It would change, he knew, into a golden sun centered with rays of varying gold covering the entire ceiling.

His gaze wandered down to the large portrait just above the fireplace. It was Godric Gryffindor, sleeping like the rest of the portraits. Somehow, he had always imagined the man with an explosion of freckles across his figure and dark, straight red hair—not even slightly bushy. The founder's sword should be simpler, too. It would have been something usable in duels instead of the ceremonial blade painted in his hands.

A sigh escaped. He was tired. His nightmares had been worse than usual. But, at least he couldn't remember them. Neville knew that silver and red were important and he had fallen or had drowned—maybe both. He often did both.

He should be able to remember.

His brow creased as he internally berated himself.

How could he fix the problem if he couldn't remember? Neville absently scratched at a few bug bites on his forearms and chewed on his bottom lip in worry. His gaze turned unconsciously to the fire. Its flames reflected off his eyes.

Gran had sent the remberall to remind him. He was terrible at remembering things. She always told him he needed to fix that.

A loud creaking jerked Neville from his thoughts and the fire. Oliver Wood rushed down the dorm steps. The Weasley twins stumbled after. None noticed him.

How long had he been staring into the fire? Neville turned to the windows and found the curtains pulled back. The sun slowly rose from above the distant mountains.

The Gryffindor chasers stumbled down from the girl's dorm as he stared out across the lit forest. Tiny figures of winged creatures floated above the shadows of trees. It was beautiful.—It was another thing he hadn't thought of. Hogwarts had never had a forest in his imagination.

He rubbed his face with a groan and headed back up to collect his school things. Maybe he could go sit by the lake until breakfast.

oooP2ooo

Neville slumped into his seat in the front of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. A braid of garlic hung off the professor's desk in front of him. The smell of it floated about the entire room. He could feel it sinking into his clothes and hair.

So far Professor Quirrell hadn't paid him any mind but Neville wasn't taking any chances. He piled his books up and shifted down lower in his desk as he half listened to his deskmate. There was no need to highlight his inabilities more than what already occurred. Hermione did that well enough with her well meaning lectures. (He wished he was back in the tower, watching the world go by as the fireplace welcomed him and the wingback chair hid him from everyone.)

"...It really isn't that hard," Hermione rambled at him.

He thought she was trying to help. Though, in his worst moments, he couldn't help but think she was using him to make herself look even better than she already was. Neville wished she'd leave it well enough alone.

"You just hold it up like so, think clearly on what you want—your intent, you see—and enunciate clear and slow. Lumos." The tip of her wand lit with a soft, warm light, just like the last hundred times before. She beamed at her glowing wand before she turned to Neville and said his least favorite words, "Now you try."

He slowly lifted his wand and, with little conviction at this point, said the spell.

Nothing happened.

Nothing ever happened.

She wrinkled her nose. Her large front teeth poked out over her bottom lip as she visibly thought over something. A noise of frustration fluttered out as she came to some conclusion and insisted, "You need to keep trying Neville. You'll get it if you put effort into it. Everything I read says that. I taught you all the ways to make it work! It has to work eventually."

"Right," he agreed half heartedly. "I'll keep working on it–"

"P-p-pay attention. We are moving on. D-deluminate. Wand-d-ds away." said Professor Quirrell, giving Neville a ready excuse to skip yet another casting attempt.

Neville relaxed as the class shifted to a stutter filled lecture. Lectures were easy. The magical theorems made sense most of the time. They clicked, somehow. —Except for potions and transfiguration but he could figure out transfiguration. It was similar enough to charms. (Potions wasn't.)

But it didn't matter in the end. Theory did not make a wizard: Magic, spell casting, did.

He didn't understand how he had been allowed into Hogwarts. Memories of "pranks" and other horrible things by his various relatives had made him expect another terrible prank when he had gotten his letter. But the hat had sorted him, had even placed him in his da's house.

Neville had thought it had meant something. He had taken it as a good sign. Better things were on the horizon. His Gran would be proud of him. Pater would acknowledge him. He would be the heir House Longbottom deserved.

He had been wrong.

He had tried. He had tried so hard.

Nothing worked.

The only classes he did any good in were herbology, astronomy, and history. Those were the useless classes. Those equated to pure theory—no actual magic needed.

Gran hadn't liked his tinkering in Grandpa's greenhouse. She had ordered him far away from the House greenhouses at Longwood (not that he had listened). Neville doubted she would be happy to hear of his grades; of how he was failing all the important classes; how the useless Herbology was the only class he had an Outstanding in.

He would never be like his da. He would never be good enough for his Gran.

He was a squib. And Everyone knew it.

(Then why had Harry called him a friend?)

oooP3ooo

Neville shot up in bed, heart in throat and a scream caught behind it. A sob choked out. The curtains ran with blood, glowed with silver until he blinked and the last of the nightmare faded away.

Again and again he woke up to nightmares. They were back every night.

And every time he forgot the details.

He was such a failure.

The boy got ready for the day on autopilot. He paid no mind to the mirror's concern over his appearance. It didn't cross his mind that he was starting to look ill with growing bags under his eyes.

All he could focus on was the turn of the day and the torture of keeping up pretenses. Any day now Professor McGonagall or the headmaster would announce to the school that the hat had made a mistake. He was a squib and they would order him to leave eventually.

What was the point in trying to convince anyone otherwise? (He desperately wanted to prove them otherwise. His greatest wish was to find a place where he belonged. He had to belong here. Hogwarts felt like it should be home. [It wasn't. Something was missing. Something had changed. Something was gone. Many somethings.])

He dragged his school books down with him before claiming his normal spot by the fire. Neville rubbed at one of his persistent bug bites as his gaze turned, as always, to the flames. One of his books slid off the top of his stack and fell. A creased, 'well-loved' letter slid out along with his mess of notes and half done homework he had stuffed into the book.

The worn parchment creased under his fingers. He stared at it, almost stuffed it back into the book with the other parchment but then sank into his seat with it still in hand. The broken seal was his Gran's personal mark of a vulture in Longbottom green wax. It was the one and only full letter he had gotten from his Gran. She only sent a short note with the remembrall.

Neville hesitated for a long moment before he unfolded the letter.

ooo

Neville,

I am pleased to hear that you've finally shown a spark of your father, and when it counted the most. I expect to hear continued improvement of character and ability now that you've succeeded in convincing the sorting hat of your worth.

The Longbottom name rides on your shoulders and no one can take that from you.

Sincerely,

Augusta Longbottom

ooo

The blond reread the letter multiple times as he sat by the fire. Maybe it was his growing sense of pessimism but it seemed to him that she didn't expect him to succeed. Neville crumbled the letter up and scrubbed at his face to get rid of any tears.

What did she even mean by the last line anyway?

He had cousins, all older than him, but he was the only direct male heir. The import of the Longbottom name would ride on his shoulders until he died. Neville would succeed his great grandfather and become Pater of Longbottom, eventually. (No squib had ever been a Pater.)

Was she giving him praise?

Neville grabbed the letter and carefully flattened it to read it over once more. He was finally showing some of his da—that was a hint of praise, wasn't it?

But the line about the Longbottom name riding on his shoulders now sounded like a warning. Was she warning him to do his best? (How can a squib do well when stuck in a magical school?)

The boy sniffled.

(He wasn't going to cry.)

Neville forced himself to fold the letter back up and tuck it into its place in the textbook amongst his various pieces of half finished homework. There wasn't any good reason to obsess over the letter.

He returned to the fire and forced his thoughts away from uncomfortable facts. What was the point of worrying about the inevitable? Squibs did not belong at Hogwarts. Squibs did not belong anywhere.

Slowly he slumped back to sleep.

"You can join, if you'd like."

Neville blinked his eyes open. He was back in the strange clearing surrounded by trees. The silver eyed boy was still in the oak.—Not dead. Not yet.—Words fell from Neville's mouth without his direction, "Nah, plants don' like me."

That wasn't right, not even slightly. The only thing that liked Neville were plants. Why did he lie? Neville tried to correct himself but couldn't. He had no control over his body.

The boy graced Neville with an amused smirk. It crinkled the boy's eyes so Neville couldn't see the silver of them. (Something about those eyes made him cringe. Instinct screamed at him to avoid them.)

"Why?"

Neville shrugged. "Fire burns them."

The world jerked from trees and day to night and the edge of a small village.

Screams filled the air. Smoke and the smell of burning wood filled Neville's senses. His gaze searched for the source of screams. Acidic bile rushed up his throat.

A hut was on fire. A group of people were standing in front of it, guarding the exits. The screams were coming from the burning hut.

Neville ran toward the hut. He could help, he could save them. A hand grabbed onto his arm and pulled him down behind a boulder. Neville turned with a scowl.

It was the silver eyed boy. He looked nearly the same with his confused hair more gold than brown in the flickering light. His skin was browned from a layer of dirt or soot from the smoke swirling around them. The boy's gaze was directed towards the fire.

"We have to save them!" snapped Neville.

"They'll kill uss too," the boy said back.

Neville scowled even though the boy still looked away, towards the inflamed hut. "Not if they don't see us."

Eyes narrowed into slits as the boy stated, a hissing quality clear in his voice now, "If they ssee uss, they will hunt uss along with any we ssave."

Neville grimaced but nodded. "They won't see us."

Fear and determination churned together in his gut. They had to do something. That was clear.

The boy frowned but nodded in agreement. Neville pulled him along through the edge of the forest. The two ran from tree to tree, bush to bush. They moved in a circle around the crowd to the back where there was no exit and so no group of people standing guard.

After a moment to take in the burning structure, the boy pointed at the fire and ordered Neville, "Part it."

To Neville's confusion and shock, he did. The magic was exhausting, the fire fought his control—control was the opposite of fire—but a small hole formed at the base. The blond boy vanished through the hole. He reappeared thrice, pulling other small figures out with him on each trip.

Sweat poured down Neville's face, covered his chest and back. He stopped the silver eyed boy from a fourth trip. The small opening collapsed as Neville lost control.

They had done something, though.

Three little soot covered figures followed them back into the forest, away from the non-magicals.

Neville shared a grim smile of accomplishment with the silver eyed boy. Their eyes met and the world shifted again.

Neville startled awake once more. Fire filled his sight and he jerked back. He nearly fell out of the wingback chair as he tried to escape the flames.—Except the fire was safely in the fireplace.

Heart pounded in his throat. The nightmares weren't his usual fair of reliving failed attempts to force his magic out, not entirely at least. There was something different about it all. He wished he could recall the actual dreams to figure out what.

"Heavy thoughts on ee brow."

The blond snapped his gaze up from the fire and found the painting of Godric Gryffindor staring down at him. "What?"

"It does not do to dwell on dreams," the painting stated with a heavy west country accent, "if ee are consumed by them."

Neville frowned in bewilderment. "Right...thanks?"

oooP4ooo

(Harry)

Pine needles crunched under foot as the reincarnated founder passed through the forest. Predawn light filtered through the trees. A hoot drew Salazar's gaze upward and a pleased smile appeared at the sight above him. Hedwig and a couple other owls stared back.

He lifted his arm and wrapped magic around his forearm as Hedwig swooped down to claim her perch. Salazar brushed a hand down her chest before he fiddled with the wooden bracelets. The rune matrixes were dark, for all appearance burned into the wood. It was smooth, though, when he traced the markings. There was no indentation to the wood.

Salazar pulled out a wooden cube to compare. The cube's surface was covered in its own dark runic arrays. At first glance the two were similarly delicate engravings but they weren't. The engraver had not been capable of as fine lines as magic imprinting. The markings on the cube were ever so slightly blurry compared to the bracelets. Magic imprinting was capable of finer results.

He wasn't entirely surprised, removing an intermediary usually resulted in finer, though more difficult, work. The engraver was still a vast improvement from what most rune mages had been capable of. It's results would do well enough in most cases.

"Thank you Hedwig," Salazar said as he traded the cube for a piece of bacon and offered it to her. "That was all I needed."

His owl carefully caught one of his fingers in her beak before she claimed the bacon and flew back to the other owls.

Salazar dug a hole and set the wooden cube within it. He pressed a hand to the ground and the other to the top of the cube. The earth's magic willing followed his directions into the cube where the first array activated, tying the cube to a tiny stream of the leyline crossing underfoot. He threaded the golden magic through the burned lines of the second array, connecting the two together and activating the monitoring magic.

He walked a gently curving line across the western corner of the forest, burying a total of ten cubes. They cut across the entire side of Hogwart's proper near the grove the giant spiders had claimed. Each was connected to the other and were powered by the Mother.

The purity of Mother's magic would keep the wood from deteriorating quickly. In turn, the sheer potency of the magic may lead to the matrixes wearying out quicker. He would give it a year, by then he would have a plan to remove the spiders.

As the last was set, a ripple of air moved out and upward. Tree branches danced and leaves flew off them as the compressed air burst past. The smell of ozone bite through the smell of pine and the earthy scent of decomposing leaves. With it, Salazar could feel the perimeter ward settle in. It stretched up past the tallest pine and what he hoped was the edge of the spider infestation's hunting grounds.

Nothing would pass through it without notifying him. Anything larger than a fox would trigger the ward. The ward would give Salazar a general idea of the size of the thing and if it was headed towards the school or away from it.

He didn't plan on leaving the man-eaters in the forest for long. Being eleven and alone limited his ability to handle the sheer number of the creatures but he would remove them. Monitoring their movements was the first step. The enchantments on the inner walls should keep them from hunting within Hogwarts Proper but knowing if they came near the students was important.—Any insight to their hunting patterns would also help but the children were a priority.

oooP5ooo

(Neville)

He trudged down the tower stairs, shoulders bent low with what felt like the weight of the world. It didn't feel like the end of September but less than a week and it would be October. Neville hadn't expected to last a month. (Someone must be having it on. They'd kick him out once they were done with their laugh.)

Portraits waved at him but he ignored them.

It felt like the end of his hopes and dreams. A clock was ticking to the moment his gran would come and take him away from everything. The magical world was no place for squibs.—Neville didn't know anything of the muggle world.

Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, and Dean were just ahead. He liked walking with them. It made him feel like he was part of the group. (He wasn't.)

"Have you seen all the clubs?" gushed Hermione as she appeared at his side.

She wasn't part of the group either. It wasn't because of her lack of magic, though. He wished he had even half the magic she had.

The girl directed her words out towards the rest of the first years. Neville recognized the desperate hope in her expression—need for acceptance. "There are so many options! Some bring guest speakers and teach you about current discoveries. Oh, I don't know which I should pick."

"Well, I'm joining the seamstry club," said Lavender with a flick of her long hair, making her statement seem like it should have been obvious.

Parvati paused and looked up at Hermione, adding, "And we're going to join the H.P.A. club!"

Lavender turned to her friend with a grin. They shared a look and squealed. Loudly.

Neville looked past the two and found Seamus mouthing the letters in confusion at him. He shrugged back at his roommate.

Hermione stepped down into his view. She was flushed in righteous disgust. Her nose wrinkled as she spoke with disdain dripping from her words. "I don't see why you need to join that club. I mean really, he clearly isn't anything like in the books."

"What's H.P.A.?" asked Dean, "And where's the club list?"

Hermione huffed over at him and stalked down the steps past the other girls. "The prefects told us about it yesterday. Weren't you listening? You'll miss something important if you don't start paying attention."

"It's the Harry Potter Appreciation Club," Lavender said at the same time, "It's open to everyone and anyone. Maybe Harry will join!"

"I thought he was a dark lord," Neville asked, confused.

He had heard plenty about Harry being evil. Harry had claimed Neville was a friend. Everyone in Gryffindor had given him their opinion. But it didn't really matter, Harry hadn't been about outside of class for a good week now.

Someone had probably told Harry that Neville was a squib and why people shouldn't hang out with squibs. (Neville hadn't felt up to studying in the library where he usually saw Harry. What was the point when he'd be kicked out soon?)

Parvati rolled her eyes. "Well, yes. I'm not saying we should trust him but isn't he so mysterious!"

"He's so cute with his messy hair," sighed out Lavender, "And those eyes!"

Hermione scoffed as Neville joined the other two boys in walking faster, "You are projecting. There's no way either you actually think he's anything like that. You're just trying to act like you're older than you are."

They reached the bottom of the tower and headed for the main stairs. Neville cringed as the girls' outrage rang and echoed through the empty hallway. The three boys speed up.

"Girls are bloody crazy," muttered Seamus once it seemed they had lost the girls.

Dean grumbled, "They never answered my question."

"It's probably listed on the bulletin board," Seamus offered with a shrug, "I'll join a quidditch fanclub, if there's one for the Kenmare Kestrels."

"Think there's a football club?"

"Nah, mate. Nothing muggle would get much following, I should think."

Neville listened to the two yammer on about possible clubs. The trio reached the Great Hall and settled into breakfast. He doubted he'd be allowed to join any of the clubs. There was no point in looking into them.

"Neville?" He looked up from his breakfast. Hermione leaned towards him and explained quietly as she handed him a small piece of parchment, "The Spellmanship Guild offers tutoring. Maybe they'll know what you're doing wrong?"

The blond looked at the parchment and read:

ooo

Having trouble with a spell? Or with your spelling? Schedule an introductory meeting for grammar or casting help.

Owl the Spellmanship Guild today! — Club Box #0604

ooo

"Thanks Hermione." Neville offered, personally unconvinced there was anything that could help.

"Oh, you're welcome! I'll schedule us an appointment, shall I? I would like to see if they've any pointers for my essays and I'm sure they have plenty of ideas for my spellcasting, also. It'll be so interesting! I wonder if they have any further ideas on the color changing charm. I don't think I've fully delved into the finer aspects of the spell. There's an entire book that goes over it.—I've read it thrice already!—But there are a few theorems we haven't covered that..." Hermione gushed, running over any possible protest Neville could make as she continued to ramble at the possibilities of what they'll learn.

Likely because it was still September, Hermione received a response that afternoon as they got out of their classes. They had a double appointment the very next Monday evening. Neville couldn't help but wish it never came.

oooP6ooo

(Harry)

"There you are."

Salazar slowly looked up from the history book. Hannah stood a few feet away. She was looking directly at him. The founder turned to look behind himself. No one else was around. Not that he expected there to be, it was his claimed corner of the library and Helena was off visiting the Ravenclaw tower.

Bubbly warmth floated through his bond with Hogwarts. She was amused at him, again.

"Harry?"

The boy turned back to his cousin, resigned as he realized Hogwarts had dropped the notice-me-not shield. Hopefully she didn't make a habit of it.

"Yes?" Salazar asked.

She set her hands on her hips and frowned at him. "What are you doing all the way over here? Didn't you get the memo?"

"Memo," Salazar slowly repeated the word as he had no idea what she was talking about.

"Didn't Oliver tell you we're studying in the Horntail today?" Hannah explained, "He said he had."

Salazar closed his eyes as he thought through her explanation. "Oliver did say something about that particular breed of dragon, yes. I...may have been distracted during the conversation though."

His focus had been diverted. (The homework was entirely too easy anyhow. He had plenty of time for diversions.) Now that he had the alert against the spiders up, Salazar wanted to focus on this concept of squibs. He needed to know when the idea had come about. It had to be tied to a shift in culture away from purification rituals and cleansing baths but those were so intrinsic in his understanding of the Mother and tradition he could not imagine losing that but still knowing the Mother.

Draco had spoken of the Mother, so something had to have survived. Just not what mattered.

Maybe, Salazar frowned as he internally debated, probably. Otherwise there would be no magicals with cores contaminated so thickly with residual magic they could not access it.—There was the possibility of something else causing this issue but forgetting to purify and cleanse one's core seemed the more logical conclusion to Salazar.

He looked down at his piles of open books, frown deepening into a glare. Helga had said some rituals had been banned but he had not imagined it had included the purification rituals. He hoped it had not included those rituals because he did not want to imagine almost a thousand years of residual magic clogging up cores of whole sections of the magical community.

The blonde Hufflepuff closed the reference book Salazar was staring at. "Not the dragon," she said, drawing him from his thoughts, "the room. Sue was able to reserve it...You do know that all the library study rooms are named after dragons breeds, right?"

He closed and stacked all his books and papers as he accepted his fate. Time for distant family. (He couldn't truly complain.) "Never actually looked it up."

"Right," she said, sounding dubious at his claim, "Are you always in this corner?" she continued to speak, rightfully assuming the answer was yes, "A bit of a loner, aren't you. Not a bad thing but isn't it a little lonely?" Hannah helpfully picked up some of his books. "I mean, obviously you like working on your own and we all know you are very good at school but don't think we haven't noticed how the other Slytherins treat you. Sure, Malfoy and the other first years sort of interact with you sometimes, but you are almost always alone or ignored by them. It's really terrible."

"There's Neville," Salazar offered as he joined in packing his things.

"Well, yes but he's in Gryffindor. And you don't seem that close, really."

Salazar frowned at that but, after a moment of consideration, grimaced. He hadn't paid Neville much mind recently.—He blamed the spiders and the squib issue.—The black haired boy looked up to find a worried frown on his cousin's face and sighed. "Hannah, I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"Being fine on your own doesn't mean you should be on your own nor that you want to be." she countered before she turned and headed through an aisle between bookshelves, "Come on, it's over this way."

Salazar followed the girl with a put upon expression. Maybe he should start putting off his homework for moments like these? Would any of them notice he was reading some odd and heavy tomes?

Hannah entered one of the larger study rooms with a cheerful, "I found him!"

A chorus of greetings filled the air as Salazar entered after her. He paused at the sight of the entire Hufflepuff first year class, a number of Ravenclaws, and three upperclassmen, two of which were Gryffindors. Anthony waved Salazar to a free seat by him.

The Horntail room was on the second floor of the library, the opposite side from his study area. It was large enough to house four large tables. An entire wall was covered in thin, floor to ceiling windows similar in style to the Great Hall's with a border of stained glass. Multiple bright lamps hung over each table.

"Harry, I don't think you've met any of my cousins." Anthony waved his hand toward the two Gryffindor girls that shared his long facial structure and dark, straight hair. They were clearly sisters as they both had similar dark eyes, and identical smiles and jawline—something Anthony didn't have. "Emily is a second year and June's a third year. They agreed to help us with any questions."

"Nice to meet you Potter," Emily said with a nod.

June asked, a faint hint of disdain in her voice, "You certainly got the school in a tizzy. What did you do to make your entire house ignore you? Is it because of the hat squeaking when you were sorted?"

Salazar blinked owlishly at the idea that the hat could cause such a reaction. Instead he offered,"No...Snape doesn't like me." He didn't not expand that explanation, not wanting to get into the possible unending war and potential death eaters procreating for the next round of battle.

"Yeah, okay...but why?" she demanded with a faint pout, "We've heard about potions class from our first years. I mean, it's usually bad but nothing like that. The Granger girl was furiously lecturing the rest for days about how to do anything potions related. I think she believed a lack of preparation was the issue."

"Don't think she still believes that," snickered Emily.

Salazar shrugged. He had no idea what Severus Snape's issue was. Salazar had avoided any more zeros at least. His newest goal was to keep Neville's potion from exploding every other class. That one, sadly, would take some effort.

June huffed at the lack of anything interesting and turned to another first year, finally focusing on helping the first years instead of interrogating one.

"Potter." A hand appeared over the book Salazar had flipped open in an attempt to look like he was studying. He looked up and found Kevin, the muggleborn Ravenclaw, leaned over towards him. "Kevin Entwistle!" He flushed as he rushed out, "We were never properly introduced."

"Kevin," sighed the eldest Hufflepuff, a prefect if the badge was anything to go by. She turned to Salazar as the founder shook Kevin's hand. "I'm Annabel. I might have given Kevin a few too many of your adventure books over the years."

"Annie!" hissed Kevin.

She smirked and shrugged. "Didn't actually think you'd join me at Hogwarts. I would have made you buy them all yourself if I had known you had magic too."

"Sorry?" Salazar offered as a prompt to explain.

Kevin was too busy scowling at the girl so Anthony leaned over to him and answered, "They're siblings."

Salazar's emerald eyes sharpened in interest. "Is it common for muggleborns to have magical siblings?"

Muggleborns not being muggleborns added another layer to squibs not being squibs. After all, if the not-squibs were not welcome in the magical society because they could not access their magic, their only option was the muggle society. There they would live and marry and procreate. There their children would grow and follow a similar path. On it would go until the residue, transferred from parents to children to grandchildren (and so on), was weakened enough to allow access to magic once more.

Annabel turned thoughtful. "You know, that's a good question."

Kevin leaned over the table to call out to another Ravenclaw, "Hey Lisa, you got a sibling?"

Lisa shook her head. "No...why?"

Kevin shrugged.

June Goldstein interrupted the various conversations with a sharp ringing sound from her wand, "Alright listen up. We've got this room for studying. You've got Annabel, Emily, and myself to bounce questions off of. So let's get cracking!"

The various groups of first years obeyed, for the most part. Salazar searched out where he left off in the book before him. It was a history book which could give him answers about squibs but also be used as a secondary source for his latest history paper. (Though halfway through and he had found zero references to squibs.)

A good hour later, one of the boys interrupted the quiet studying with an explosion of frustration.

"This makes no sense," whined Zacharias.

Salazar glanced up from the book, making an effort not to yawn. (This author might be worse than Bagshot. Bagshot could be entertaining at times, at least.)

Annabel stood by the boy with a frustrated frown. "It really isn't that hard. According to Gamp's law–"

"We haven't covered Gamp's law," Salazar interrupted as he recognized the transfiguration law. He had read about it the other day but it wasn't pertinent to their actual homework, no matter how it could be related. "That isn't discussed until at least fourth year, as I understand it. Our homework is to cover the high level reasoning behind the transformation of inanimate to inanimate objects being simpler than animate to inanimate in relation to the five variables of transfiguration: bodyweight, viciousness, wand power, concentration, and the fifth unknown variable—which has been up for debate amongst transfiguration masters since the 1500s." His brow furrowed as he turned thoughtful. "Though the debate itself was on a broader scale...I personally find that our transfiguration theories are over complicating the entire process."

Zacharias leaned across the table and towards Salazar. The founder twitched as the boy accidentally knocked over an inkwell but Susan caught it before it spilled. Zacharias didn't seem to notice almost spilling ink all over the table as he asked, frustration still obvious, "What do you recommend, then? I mean, I'm not asking you to tell me the answer. I just don't get it. What does body weight matter? And viciousness is bloody strange. Why do we need to be violent or cruel to get transfiguration to work?"

"Honestly, the word choice isn't the best. It's not so much violence but a manifestation of your desire through an act of forcefulness." Salazar offered up. Seeing the boy's continued uncertainty, the founder asked, "Do you understand our charm theorems?"

"I–yes. But how does that help?" Zacharias asked, frustrated.

"We're working on transfiguration," agreed Earnest, clearly just as frustrated as he stabbed his quill into the parchment in front of him, "Not charms."

The older girls were content to let Salazar try his hand. Curiosity gleamed in the prefect's gaze while the two younger girls had turned thoughtful. Salazar paused as he realized he had a whole group of his fellow first years listening in now, too.

He looked over the group before he explained how charms and transfiguration were connected. (In for a penny, in for a pound he thought in amusement.) Magic was magic; Salazar didn't see why the transfiguration masters had tried to recreate the wheel, so to speak. "Take the charm theorems we've covered so far and try to tie them to the transfiguration ones. Charms require willpower or desire, magical force, and imagination. You could say that charm's willpower is transfiguration's viciousness, magical force is wand power, and imagination is the combination of concentration and the fifth unknown variable. The only additional aspect is body weight which is required for a successful transfiguration because matter can neither be created nor destroyed. It must go somewhere and come from someplace," Salazar explained, "Does that help at all?"

"Oh," Earnest said softly. A few other children muttered to themselves as they considered the explanation.

Zacharias straightened up with a faint, thoughtful frown. "I think so...Could you look over my essay? Let me know if I got the right idea?"

"Of course." Salazar nodded.

"How come you're a Slytherin?" demanded June with a huff, her arms folding across her chest, "That was so Ravenclaw. Right?" She looked around the room for support.

Megan helpfully remarked over her books, a hand twirling a curl of her afro about a finger as she leaned her chair back, book in the other hand, "The Gray Lady thought he was a Ravenclaw. He was adamant that he is a Slytherin though." She tilted her chair forward and dropped it back onto its front legs before she gave Salazar a look. "Not sure why."

"There's nothing wrong with being Slytherin." Salazar countered.

One of the Gryffindors snorted.

Emerald eyes narrowed onto the girl and he demanded, "You think that's untrue? Godric and Salazar were best friends, brothers through thick and thin. Do you honestly think they would care for the animosity between their apprentice-houses?"

"Oh, come on!" countered Emily, "Everyone knows they were against each other. Slytherin left because he hated muggleborns and Gryffindor protected them."

Salazar sighed at the claim and pulled his book closer. He shouldn't have said anything.—He had never left the school. He had died.—He didn't hate muggleborns, hadn't even considered such blood related concepts in his day. His focus had been protecting the children. (Some children had been raised to see magic as evil and something against their god, something made of sin, something to destroy...They had been forced to defend the other children from those poor, brainwashed ones.)

Emily leaned over the table to get closer. "You don't believe me! You can ask their portraits! There's three of Gryffindor and at least one of Slytherin around."

"Portraits?" Salazar repeated, gaze snapped up from his book to stare incredulously at the girl. "When were these portraits created? Do they talk?"

"Of course they talk. And obviously, they were created during their lives."

"Impossible," Salazar snapped back. He leaned over the table towards her. "The enchantments for moving portraits, something that must be embedded into the canvas before any paint is placed, was not created until the late fourteenth century."(1)

Emily stepped back from the table and gave Salazar a confused look. "Your point?"

The founder scowled at his history book and slammed it closed with a muttered, "A failure of a history class…" He looked up at the girl. "Hogwarts Keep was built in the eleventh century in the fashion of the stone keeps of Normandy. It was completed a few years before the Normandy invasion of 1066. In other words, Godric and Salazar lived in the eleventh century. They would have had to be over three hundred years old to have a moving portrait built for them. People, even magical people, rarely lived more than a century back then. That means the portraits you are talking about are neither physical representations of the two founders nor possess any reputable personality characteristics of them."

Salazar leaned forward as he continued his cool, quiet rant, "If you had bothered to utilize this library to your full capacity and looked up matters you know nothing about, you would have learned that there are multiple forms of enchantments that can be used to animate a portrait but all must be placed before the painting itself. Two options allow the painter to embed preferred personality characteristics and phrases into the painting's occupant. This was likely used in the creation of these paintings. They represent the painter's perceived notions of the founder, not the truth of that person."

Silence stretched for a long moment. Then Hannah asked, purposely shifting the argument. "Soo, why'd you look up how moving paintings were made?"

Salazar leaned back in his chair and gave his cousin a deadpanned looked. "Obviously to find out how much paintings perceive. They're all over the school."

Annabel snorted back a laugh. "You looked it up to find out if they could tattle on you? Merlin, you are such a Slytherin! For a second there I was really questioning the sorting hat because, really, but you are so Slytheriny!"

"Slytherin is not a description." huffed Salazar even as he felt a faint blush heat his cheeks. He desperately ignored the fact that it technically had been a description, a thousand years ago.

The Gryffindor girls relaxed. Emily offered a sheepish grin.

Justin called out with a hand to his chest, "Oh to Slytherin or not to Slytherin, 'tis the question!"

Salazar rolled his eyes at the children as they all laughed and sniggered at the rendition, the muggleborns connecting the joke better than the purebloods. This was why he worked alone.

He helpfully muttered, loud enough so the children would hear and laugh some more, "Not a verb or state of being, either."

Grins were shared amongst the large study group and things settled back down. The Gryffindor girls each quietly offered apologies. Then Salazar was left to his own devices once more.

The reincarnate stared at his closed history book for a few minutes. The rest of the children returned to their own studies. Salazar pushed his glass up with a sigh. He had no desire to read more history. It just made him want to exorcise the history professor.

He dug through his satchel's book pocket. What to read?

One of his school books caught his attention. He had forgotten he had the text. They hadn't opened it once for defense. Salazar pulled out Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them.(2) Maybe this book would enlighten him to what the giant spiders were. None of the books on native creatures had helped.

Salazar paused as he suddenly recalled the dead baby spider. He still had a spider carcass to dissect. He frowned as he considered the potential rate of decomposition. Mipsy likely placed it under a status charm. Hopefully.

He flipped through the thick book, found a page with details about a Shezmu and searched the immediate pages ahead for an entry for spiders of any size. That was unsuccessful, though Salazar spent a good thirty minutes distracted by the various, strange creatures and didn't realize the amount of time he wasted until he reached the Ts. At that, he frowned at the book and flipped to the index.

"What you looking for?" asked Anthony quietly.

The founder paused and looked over at the boy. His great uncle, or such, was the author of the book Salazar recalled. "Do you know anything about giant spiders?"

Anthony cringed. "Eww, no. You might want to look in the Phylum Arthropoda section...And...one of my cousins might know." At Salazar turning toward the Gryffindors, he added, "Not them. Rolf might know, though. He takes after Uncle Newt a little too much—mum says that….Er, don't say anything about that, yeah?"

"Alright." Salazar offered, amused.

"I'll see when he's free, shall I?"

"Please."

oooP7ooo

(Neville)

Hermione dragged Neville up to the sixth floor where all the various clubs could reserve rooms. The Spellmanship Guild was apparently large enough and old enough to have a permanent room in #604. It was a large corner room with floor to ceiling windows. A sitting area framed a fireplace. A long table sat across from the door but the rest of the room was separated by elaborately carved wooden cubicles.

Two cheerful, identical red heads sat by the fire when they came in. Hermione's curiosity visibly died at the sight. From what Neville had seen, she didn't particularly care for Fred and George and these two had a fair resemblance to them.

The first to speak didn't help matters with his first words, "Firsties! Welcome, welcome to our corner of the castle. I'm Tristan Prewett and this is my brother Mark."

Mark rose and offered his hand. Neville, remembering his training, took it and shared a firm shake. Prewett, if he recalled correctly, was one of the Houses. Pater Longbottom would be furious if Neville failed to act properly.

"So," Tristan continued to explain, his tone shifted to a more serious tone which relaxed Hermione. "I'm the guildmaster, so to speak."

"The top crup," Mark added, ruining the serious moment and gaining a glare from Hermione.

Tristan rolled his eyes at his brother, "Yes, right." He turned back to them both, "We try to pair everyone up proper like. Firsties are usually given a third or fourth year as a mentor. That said, if you don't care for the bloke we pair you with, tell us. The mentor can also inform us if they don't feel it's a good fit."

He clapped his hands together with a cheerful grin. "This time around I'll take Hermione and Mark'll take Neville. We just want to hear about your concerns and interests; we'll ask about all the various classes and your homework; and then we'll work together to decide on who to pair you with. We won't share personal details with each other nor will we share with your mentor. That's up to you to share as you wish. Sound good? Questions?"

Neville shook his head even as Hermione shot her hand up into the air. Mark smirked at his brother and dropped an arm over Neville's shoulders. "I'll just take this little guy here then. Have fun!"

Mark drew Neville into the maze of cubicles until they reached one Mark entered. Neville paused at the entrance as he noticed the sudden quiet.

"They're all charmed for privacy. We're not here to air everyone's personal matters," Mark explained.

"Right."

The older boy pushed one of two chairs over to Neville before he leaned against his desk. Neville reluctantly sank into the plush chair. The two sat quietly staring at each other for a moment before the older boy finally spoke up. "So–"

"Hermione set this up," Neville interrupted.

The redhead slowly blinked as he processed the implications. "Did she ask you before doing so?"

"She's trying to help," Nevillie said, voice becoming small, "but no one has ever been able to help."

Mark nudged the second chair about with his foot so it turned towards Neville and sank into the seat. "House business, right?"

Neville's gaze dropped to the floor and he nodded. Silence fell over them both. Neville tried not to think of everything done in the name of House business, in the name of proving his magic and worth.

"Pater Prewett completed many...tests on Father, back when he was young," Mark finally said, "Father had been a magical twin—it's common in our House.—Aunt Ginevra died from the pox when she was two…" His mouth became dry as Mark spoke. "Magical twins are conceived with a natural bond between each other, you know? When a bond breaks…" Neville slowly peeked up at the older boy. "...well, you've heard the stories, I'm sure...Father was put through multiple tests to determine if he would have a stable mind and stable core as he grew."

This wasn't something said outside of the House and yet Mark was saying it. Neville's gaze shifted behind the boy. A picture of red heads waved at him from a pin board. Mark and Tristan stood with a little redheaded girl between them. Their parents beamed behind the three. Mark's father was stocky but thin (and sort of odd in that contrast, as if he should not be as thin as he was). His hair was a little limp and thinning.

"Lost his magic twin?" repeated Neville as his thoughts turned over the stories of broken bonds. It was like losing half of yourself, according to the stories. The half that survived was never the same. Some fell to drink, some fell to dark magics, and some simply fell and never got back up. (Very few stories whispered of the ones strong enough to stand on their own but those also existed.)

Neville couldn't help but think it worse than being a Squib. He would lose his family and his few friends. The magical world would be closed to him and he'd have to learn about the muggle world, figure out how to live there and find a way to support himself. But he would be whole, wouldn't he?

Something told him that there was no comparison.

"Yes." Mark answered, devoid of emotion.

He looked back at the older boy and found tears shining in Mark's brown eyes. Neville's words escaped in a whisper, barely a breath, but they felt like they vibrated off the cubicle's walls. "I'm a squib."

Mark frowned. "You're not–"

"Nothing's ever worked!" Neville exploded out before he caught himself. The cubicle was suddenly too hot, too stifling. He wanted to leave. Mark's next words stopped him.

"Nothing?" Mark repeated; he leaned over and rested a hand onto Neville's shoulder, "You've been sorted, Neville. That means something."

Neville shook his head, the hand grounding him and keeping him in his seat, and picked his example carefully, "Not even the toddler toys ever worked."

The redhead frowned, turned about to his desk, and raffled through his things before he pulled out an actual toddler toy. Neville recognized it as one of the simple lighting toys. In Mark's hand it already responded by lighting various bright colored images up by pulling magic from the redhead's core. Mark tapped a lit image of a kitten and the kitten winked an eye at them before it curled up to sleep and lost it's light. Another image lit up after.

"Try it," Mark offered.

He reluctantly took the toy. Within seconds of leaving Mark's hand, the lit images faded back to their inactive forms. None of them relit as it rested in Neville's hand. Minutes passed and tears welled up, causing the world to blur. Nothing ever worked.

Mark pulled the toy from his hand and asked, his tone held a note of care as if he was afraid to set Neville off into helpless balling. "What about your wand?"

Neville shook his head in a jerking motion. "Nothing works."

"Okay." Mark set the toy to the side and leaned over towards Neville, clasping his hands. "I'll look into this. I can even visit my pater and his library and look into this."

"You'd do that?" choked out Neville.

"'O'course," Mark insisted, "but...it's not something a mentor can be assigned to help with, you know? You mind if I go over the questions I'm meant to ask, see if there is anything else we'd be able to help with in the meantime?"

Neville frowned and slowly shook his head.

Mark frowned back. "It could help–"

"No." Neville pushed his chair back until it hit the cubicle wall as he countered, stubborn and worried, "There's no point if nothing works! And-and...I don't want another person involved." The possibility of being ridiculed remained unsaid.

oooP8ooo

Relief rushed through Neville when he found Harry quietly eating at the Gryffindor table at breakfast the next day. He said nothing about his worries. Harry was here. That had to mean Harry really was his friend. Maybe Harry didn't care about Neville being a Squib. (He probably hadn't been told yet.)

The green eyed boy took one long look at Neville and proceeded to inform the Gryffindor, "I was thinking I'd go to the loch after herbology. It's much too nice to be stuck inside."

"Uh...yeah?" Neville said after a moment's thought, more than a little confused at the plan. "I'm done after herbology."

"Excellent," Harry responded before sipping his mug of tea, "It's perfect weather to relax outside, maybe take a snooze."

"You're going to take a nap?" demanded Seamus with clear disgust at the idea, "You're not a toddler."

Neville turned red and ducked his head. The blond knew exactly why Harry had brought up a nap. It had been nice that he had noticed, even if it had taken a while. Someone besides the mirror had finally realized he wasn't getting enough sleep. Someone real had cared enough to do something about it.

But, of course, now Harry was being ridiculed because of his inabilities.

The-Boy-Who-Lived raised a brow at Seamus and stated, "Naps help the soul."

Neville looked back up at his friend, a little dumbfounded.

"The soul?" repeated Seamus as he shared a look with Dean.

"That is absolutely ridiculous," huffed Hermione as she pushed her way into the conversation, physically shuffling down the bench to join their group as she was at it, "It's as bad as you feeling Godricy. What are you really trying to do?"

Harry blinked lazily as he looked around them all. He set his cup of tea down before he explained, "It is Autumn but the day isn't too cold. With a few charms and a blanket or two, it would be a nice spot for a nap. And we'll get some sun before the days grow too short." Green eyes locked onto Hermione. "I also happen to feel a little Helga-like today. A good Helga day means blankets, naps, and hot ale-eh..chocolate."

"Why stop there?" interrupted one of the Weasley twins.

"We could have a picnic." added the other.

Neville stared at the older boys in bemusement. He turned back to his Slytherin friend and paused. Harry looked thoughtful.

"You cannot be serious!" said Hermione, "You've class. All of you!"

"Neville is done after herbology," Harry countered.

"You've class, though!" she snapped back.

Neville found his eyes bouncing back and forth as Harry wrinkled his nose and countered, "It's just history. We all sleep in history anyhow. Might as well take one in more comfortable accommodations. And I can set an alarm to wake before transfiguration."

"You are trying to get him in trouble!" she cried, pointing her finger at him as she rose and leaned over the table. "That's what you're doing."

"Ah, come on–" said a Weasley twin. Neville silently dubbed the boy 'twin one' since it appeared the Weasley twins would continue to butt into the conversation.

'Twin two' continued the sentence, "it's just a nap."

"Our soul needs naps." agreed 'twin one'.

Neville closed his eyes as Harry helpfully expanded upon that statement. "It's more our minds, bodies, and magic require adequate sleep. Particularly as we are growing to adulthood. If one doesn't receive the sleep needed during the night, one may want to consider naps. Of course, even if you have plenty of nightly sleep, a nap could be needed. You do not want to physically, mentally, nor magically exhaust oneself...Many believe your magic is intrinsically connected to the spirit, the soul."

The twins nodded alongside Harry's explanation the entire time. 'Twin one' helpfully concluded, "Hence naps are good for your soul."

Hermione gave an interesting sort of screech and stomped away. The twins high-fived each other. 'Twin two' turned to Harry and Neville and announced, "We'll get the picnic together if you get the blankets and all."

"Very well," Harry agreed before he rose to leave. Neville jumped up to follow.

As they headed out together, Neville remarked, "I don't get them."

"Who?"

"The twins," Neville explained, "Why'd they join us for a nap of all things?"

Harry hummed for a moment before he gave a slight shrug. "They don't trust me."

Neville stopped and stared at his friend. "What?"

The green eyed boy explained with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Whenever I sit at the Gryffindor table, they sit nearby. They've actually moved seats to shift closer. They make it look like they decided to join a different group of friends so it isn't terribly obvious." Harry shook his head in amusement.

The blond frowned as he headed towards astronomy and Harry followed. "But why?"

Harry shrugged once more. "I'm Slytherin. Their brother, Ronald, took some time to accept me also."

oooP9ooo

Neville followed Harry after herbology and they found the Weasley twins settling a large basket down in a sunny spot by the lake. Harry pulled a whole array of blankets and pillows from his satchel. He even had spikes to hold the largest down.

Once it was all laid out, the twins handed out the food. Neville settled in and found the entire setup surprisingly warm. The food was good. The older boys had even procured warm butterbeer from somewhere.

He could enjoy this, sitting around with friends on a warm day with food. Jokes and teasing passed between the Slytherin and the Weasley twins before they all claimed pillows. Apparently, none of them had been joking about taking a nap.

Neville's pleasure twisted into nerves. He didn't want anyone finding out about his nightmares but he claimed a spot. He had never made any noise, that he knew of, when waking up. Of course, Dean and Seamus might just be heavy sleepers.

Surprisingly, it didn't take all that long for him to fall asleep. With his mind running with so many thoughts it was odd but the blond fell asleep before he could wonder at how it was so easy. Another time, another day he might have noticed the wooden spikes used to hold the main blanket down were covered in softly glowing runes.

A little, tiny redheaded baby squirmed in his arms. Neville stood stock still as he stared down at the naked baby. He had never been this close to one before. He had certainly never held one.

"She's named Teasagh." Neville forced his gaze up and found a familiar red headed man standing before him. "She'll be your responsibility once she's a little older, like Eileen is. You'll watch over her. You'll protect her."

"She needs the Mother's Bath," called someone. The red headed man reclaimed the baby and guided Neville into a familiar clearing.

A woman lounged against an oak tree. She was covered in sweat and exhausted. The mother.

Two other women and a tiny little redheaded girl sat around her. Neville glanced at the little girl. Eileen.

Something inside him was absolutely certain of those facts even though he had never seen either woman or child before. (They were familiar like the man, the details just escaped him.)

The brunet man and silver eyed boy came forward. The baby was handed over. Neville watched as Teasagh was smeared with some type of mud. Then she was placed in a shallow bowl. Chants from the brunet and boy slowly filled the clearing. Magic swirled, gold and warm. It seeped into a horn held by the man.

The silver eyed boy carefully lifted the babe so her head was higher than the rest of her. The horn was tipped and golden liquid spilled out. Neville stared in wonder as the golden, glowing water was splashed over the child's head until she lay in a small pool.

A cloth was dipped and used to wash the rest of her body. The reddish skin she had faded to a pale, freckled tone. A soft internal glow pulsed from her abdomen, glowing brighter and brighter as she was purified and cleansed; the chanting from the two flowed and ebbed within the clearing.

Finally it was complete. Teasagh was lifted from the bath and handed to her mother. The golden liquid faded from the bowl, leaving no sign it had ever been present.

Wonder filled Neville as he looked up and met silver eyes.

Neville jerked awake with a gasp. Blood red and silver. It was always blood red and silver that filled his sight upon awakening.

Harry made a startled sound as he, having somehow shifted into using Neville as a pillow, ended up knocked off and awakened by the blond's sudden movement. For a second Neville thought Harry's eyes were silver. His hair was an odd gold, turned brown.—Harry had green eyes and black hair, Neville corrected himself even as his heart jumped at the fading illusion before him. For a second, it seemed more right for Harry to have silver and gold. (It couldn't be a good thing that he was seeing things now.)

The blond struggled up to his knees in a panic. He rubbed his eyes and his mind finally caught up with him. Harry's features shifted back to his green and black. And yet there was something on the tip of his tongue, something itching in the back of his mind.

He couldn't remember.

Why could he never remember?

He was such a failure.

Gran would never be proud of him. He would never meet her expectations. Neville would never be like his da. He would always be a failure, a squib playing at being a wizard.

And one day someone would realize all that.

Neville jerked in surprise and realized Harry Potter was shaking him. He looked up and met emerald eyes. Worry glowed in those eyes.

"Are you alright?" The-Boy-Who-Lived asked.

His gut twisted at the concern. Harry Potter was his friend, was concerned for him, had looked out for him. He was wasting the famous boy's time. Someone else should have his attention.

Why would Harry care? What about Neville had caught his attention? How could Harry think him worthy of friendship?

The startled look that crossed Harry's face made Neville realize that he had said at least one of those questions out loud. "Everyone deserves a friend," the black haired boy finally stated, squeezing Neville's shoulder reassuringly, "Most of the time you don't get to choose, Neville. You get to choose to keep the friends you're given but not who you receive in the first place."

"But," Neville whispered, "One of us had to decide to be the other's friend. You chose me. Why? You could have anyone. You're The-Boy-Who-Lived!"

Harry looked lost for a long moment. "There's never any one reason people become friends."

"I don't believe you," Neville countered as everything began to bubble to the surface. He pulled away from Harry's hands and tugged a pillow into his lap. He twisted a corner as he choked out, "You're the only friend I have, the only one that doesn't look at me and see the truth."

"Truth?"

"I'm a squib!" snapped Neville with tears blurring his gaze.—He had tossed the pillow somewhere. Part of him noticed a sound of surprise come from wherever he had tossed it.—Something inside him untwisted and the growing sense of fear and self-hate settled. Acceptance uncurled through his being, soothing all the other feelings. His gaze dropped to the ground and he closed his eyes as he felt the weight slid off.

Harry finally knew. Now he'd leave Neville, just like everyone else. (Mark hadn't left, had he?)

"No."

Neville jerked his head up, eyes popped open. "Wha-I am! My family has been trying to get me to show my magic for ages and it's never worked!"

Memory stabbed through him. He had been dropped from the window. He had bounced. "Except—I bounced when they dropped me out of the upper level window...But that was one time."

"They dropped you from a window?" Harry hissed out in fury, "Who dropped you? How old were you?"

Neville stared, mouth slightly open. Harry's green gaze seemed to almost glow. His expression had shuttered into a blank state that just screamed danger.

He couldn't recall a time someone cared enough to be outraged at it all. It was House business. Anything went as long as it helped keep the House magical. Whispers of squib children being tossed out or being killed outright were only that, whispers. No one could ever prove otherwise. (He sometimes wondered which he would have been if the Hogwarts letter hadn't come by his birthday.)

"Neville?"

The blond found another pillow to cling to as he whispered, "It doesn't matter."

Harry's jaw twitched as he struggled with himself for a long moment. He hissed out, "It matterss. No child sshould be sso harmed. Family iss ssuppossed to protect. Not harm. Never harm."

Neville hugged the pillow to himself and he shook his head.

Shoulders drooped and Harry leaned toward Neville without touching him. When he spoke his voice was soft, his tone kind. "You are magical, Neville. I know you are. When I caught you during flying practice, I did something considered terribly rude.–"

Neville peeked up at his friend in confusion. "What does this ha–"

"I connected with your magic," Harry explained, not letting Neville interrupt, "The only way I know to take control of your broom was to claim the magical connections you had with it. To do that I brushed against your magic. From that feeling I...chose to delve deeper. I didn't have to, I had already gained control of the broom but...the feel of your magic made me curious so I rudely delved deeper."

Another voice cut in as Harry paused. "You're not explaining everything."

Neville followed Harry's gaze as it shifted towards the voice and found the Weasley twins. He had forgotten they were present.

"No," Harry finally agreed before he turned back to Neville, "I'm not but I will. I just...The point is you have magic. You are magical. Do not doubt that. Never doubt that."

Neville stared blankly at Harry. He squashed the faintest sense of hope. There was no possibility he had magic. Harry was just a first year like him. He couldn't possibly know things his family nor all the healers and experts brought in didn't.

That meant Harry was lying. He was a Slytherin. Had Harry been pulling Neville along for some nasty prank? This prank?

A large part of him whispered no. He ignored it. (He knew better than to listen to such hope.)

The Weasley twins must have realized that fact. How stupid he'd been. Neville backed away from Harry as he realized the truth.

More tears welled. He should have known better than to hope for anything. He wasn't good enough for a friend let alone The-Boy-Who-Lived. Gran had warned him of the Slytherin house too. (He hadn't believed her for some reason. He couldn't recall why now.)

"You're not a squib, Neville," Harry stated, a faint hint of panic escaped into his tone as Neville backed away until he was between the twins, "You aren't. I haven't met a single squib yet."

"Can you prove it?" asked Weasley 'twin two' as the two Gryffindors shifted to let Neville between them.

Neville looked up in confusion at that. Prove it? There was nothing to prove. Neville had known the truth forever.

"And how can you say you haven't met any?" countered 'twin one' with a scowl, "You had detention with Filch. He's a squib."

Neville turned from the Weasley twins to look at Harry. Emerald eyes seemed hard as they locked onto Neville's own hazel. "You are not a squib. Filch is no squib either. There are many ways to prove it but you have seen your proof. Proof you should be able to believe."

"Like what?" demanded 'twin two'.

Harry answered without looking away from Neville. "Hogwarts is protected by magic to keep muggles away. It's an illusion and compulsion. A muggle will see ruins and be directed elsewhere."

"That's for muggles," scoffed 'twin one'.

Finally Harry looked away from Neville with scoff of his own, "Squibs are muggles, true squibs. The definition of a muggle is a person without magic. That is the exact same definition of a squib. The only difference is who their parents are but who those parents are mean nothing towards their ability to connect and use magic. No magic means no magical core which means squibs would be treated the same as muggles with this illusion."

Harry turned back to Neville. "You can see Hogwarts, you have entered it, and you have been sorted within its school body. You have, by your own words, used magic in a dire situation to save your own life. You have used a broom. The magic of a broom requires the user to possess a magical core. The moving stairs of Hogwarts require a magical core to properly track a person walking on them which helps trigger the shifting of said stairs."

The Slytherin leaned towards Neville with grim determination. "You. Are. Magical."

Neville stared as he tried to find an argument against Harry's examples. He found none, except, "Why can't I use magic then? Nothing works!"

The green eyed boy seemed to soften and he took on a mildly saddened expression. "That is likely, partly, caused by what I sensed when connecting to your magic."

Fear spiked through Neville. "I'm damaged," he whispered. His thoughts jumped to the whispers behind his back. His parents had been tortured to insanity. It was thought he had been tortured too.

Harry shifted forward and grasped Neville's shoulders. The twins didn't stop him. Neville leaned into the touch, into the physical form of his hope. "I cannot promise anything—the rituals and magic done to you may have caused some type of damage. But..." His hands squeezed Neville's shoulders slightly. "But part of the issue is the layers of residual buildup."

"What?" asked one of the twins, both were no longer hostile. A glance at the two showed both with curious expressions written across their faces as they stared at Harry. Confusion was prominent. And wariness—Harry had been right that the two didn't trust him.

"When you cast magic, an opposing reaction occurs...or something of the like. Some magic during spellcasting stays within your core and builds up. You cannot use it, as it's already been twisted to your will...or, it's residue you inherited from your parents and has been twisted by their will...or your grandparents will, and so forth...or even residue from another casting magic upon you," explained Harry before he frowned.

The green eyed boy dropped his hands from Neville's shoulders and sank back onto the ground to sit amongst the discarded pillows and blankets. "There is a proper word to describe it...Awryrdian...labem...contagio?"

The last word caused the three Gryffindors to make slight sounds. Neville because he had been given some Latin lessons. The twins, likely because of their years learning spells at Hogwarts. But the word made little sense, at least with what it brought to mind.

"Contagious?" offered 'twin two', voicing the English word that they all had thought of.

Neville settled back onto the picnic blanket himself. His panic slowly faded to a decent mix of confusion, fear, and hope. He tried not to think too hard on Harry being eleven. (How could an eleven year old know things his family and all the experts hadn't? But Harry's explanation made so much sense.)

"What?" Harry's head jerked over to 'twin two'. "No...well, a part is pulled off a mother onto the babe during labor…and some is transferred from the father during...vamm!" Harry paused, saw 'twin two''s expression and helplessly offered, "Talawuth?"

"How many languages do you know?" asked 'twin two'. Neville glanced over to the redhead and saw an impressed look.

It was impressive. Neville had no idea what languages Harry was speaking either. One had been Latin. They all seemed vaguely familiar though.

Harry helpfully made a face at him and started muttering to himself, too quiet for them to understand. Or at least that's what it sounded like to Neville since all he could hear was slight hissing. The twins stiffened at the sound though and tugged Neville back from the Slytherin once more.

Finally Harry made a slight noise and announced, "Residue is close enough. You wouldn't understand the word I'm looking for anyway...It's not the best description, though I've been calling it that for years...I can't believe I've forgotten the technical word..."

"So…" 'Twin one' started to speak but paused and glanced down at Neville.

"Neville has a… residue?" offered the second twin.

Harry grimaced, "Definitely not the best word...but yes. Perhaps–" The green eyed boy gave Neville a long look. "–I could show you instead."

"Can you show all of us?" countered 'twin two'.

"No." Harry countered right back. "I will not have children with no idea what they are doing anywhere near another's magical core. I can show you your own, though."

The twins shared a long look and seemed to be having a silent debate between themselves. Neville chose to follow his instincts and his hopes. "Alright."

Harry smiled in relief at him before the slightest hint of confusion flickered across his expression for a second. The green eyed boy shook his head slightly, pulled his robe and Hufflepuff yellow undershirt sleeves up, and offered his hands. "Grasp my forearms. Don't mind the bug bites. I'll need to grasp your forearms also."

Neville pulled his sleeves up before following Harry's orders. "I've got some bug bite too."

Harry nodded at the warning. He continued the instructions as they grasped each other's forearms, "Close your eyes and take slow, deep breaths. Focus on your heartbeat, or mine—whichever you can feel. Empty your thoughts of anything besides the heartbeat. Let any thought that comes to mind pass, do not cling to it. Do not fight the tugging feel you'll receive in a minute."

He obeyed. It was surprisingly easy to achieve, though one of the twin's warning grievous bodily harm to Harry if anything happened to Neville did distract him for a moment. But that only gave a warmth in his chest and helped remove the last hesitation he had at the idea.

It also helped him ignore the quiet little voice in the back of his mind asking why and how Harry Potter knew what he was doing.

A moment later and he felt the tugging. Neville didn't fight it. He felt a shift. The light filtering through his eyelids changed.

"Open your eyess."

Neville obeyed.

A swirling stream of something floated before him. Dark colors, blacks and grays mixed with sickly reds and purples and blues, swirled in a lazy circle. Spikes of vibrant light shot through where the swirl had parted. It was a sunrise. The painting of the sky at dusk. Beautiful and wonderful and so very sad all at once. It reminded Neville of the astronomy images Professor Sinstra had started to show them. The ones of faraway galaxies recent studies of the sky had revealed actually imparted some influence on the earth's magics.

Neville had found it fascinating as, for instance, the Andromeda galaxy influences the moon flower's potency. It had been estimated for years, centuries, that the moon was the cause but no one had been able to find a definitive, consistent relationship. There were talks about changing the flower's name to better indicate the newly found connection but...

He was distracting himself.

Neville was attempting to ignore the twisted, disgusting feeling he was receiving from the swirl. It was wrong. It was so wrong. Beautiful as it was, all of it felt terrible.

He could understand Harry's frustration at finding a proper word. Residue was so mild compared to the truth. It was a corruption that clung around the center, with only the spears of vibrant light releasing any sense of comfort.

"Go to one of the sspikess of light," ordered a voice, "Do not touch the taint."

Neville obeyed once more. A whimper escaped and tears welled as warmth, rightness, a hug from a dear, lost friend wrapped around him as he stepped into one of the spikes of light. His eyes fluttered shut at the feeling. He was warmed by the magic wrapping around him. His magic, it was his magic. Neville wrapped an arm around himself in an attempt to cling to it.

He forced his eyes open and up. Golds and oranges and reds peeked through the vile taint wrapped around it. It was like he was staring into the sun or a fire.

"We can remove the ressidue," offered the voice, "It will take time, posssibly yearss. We can do it, though."

"Yes," Neville agreed, "Whatever it takes."

The blond turned to Harry to say more—there was so much to say, so much he had no words to express. (He. Was. Magical.)

But it wasn't Harry Potter he turned to, not quite. A man stood before Neville. His hair was a strange combination of Harry's black mess of curls and waves and tight curls confused between gold and brown. He was both an adult and an eleven year old. It was an odd reflection, a strange continuous shift where he was both and neither. And his eyes—his eyes were emerald but silver.

Silver.

Pain exploded across Neville as blood red and silver filled his sight. An echo of pleas filled his thoughts, reverberated around him. You cannot die! Stay with me. You cannot die!

Neville grabbed his head with a groan. Distantly he could hear Harry Potter—Harry—Sally

(He knew Sally. Sally was dead.)

oooPooo

1. The general style of the founder paintings we all know and...maybe like—I don't understand why Salazar is so freaking old compared to the others but otherwise they seem decent, if not the right century.—Is a style of painting that came about centuries after the 11th century. It's been awhile since I've looked at them and I never stared at them long enough to do comparisons but I recall thinking they were renaissance like. The renaissance period is 1300-1600 ce. Many of the renaissance paintings we all are likely thinking about, the Mona Lisa for instance, was created on the later end of that time period. I went with these founder paintings being painted around that same later renaissance period….And I sort feel like I left an endnote like this already. Oh Well

2. Fantastic Beast and Where to Find them in the story is considerably larger than the book we can buy. It's broken up by animal Phylum/Phlya….and that is absolutely not because the real version of this books starts with a certain spider. :D