See Ch. 1 for disclaimer.

(blinks) Well, I managed to get this chapter done a few days before I'd expected to post it. So, earlier update. And thanks to all my reviewers! Your feedback is greatly appreciated.

Chapter 13

Neville stuck his hand into his pocket; frowned; pulled his hand out, and said, "I can't find Trevor."

His grandmother, Augusta Longbottom, turned to face him, adjusting her vulture-adorned hat and frowning, her thin lips pressed tightly together. "Oh, use a summoning charm, Neville. Surely you can do that." She said it sharply, and somewhat stridently. They had just come into Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and Neville felt relieved that the noise there was so loud that no-one else seemed to have heard her comment.

That was fourth year material, Neville thought. I'm starting sixth year. I'm not quite that bad, really. He pulled out his wand awkwardly (cherry and unicorn hair, brand new, he noted with an inward thrill) and said, "Accio Trevor!" And thus commenced the return of the prodigal toad into Neville's waiting hands.

When he looked up, his grandmother was already cutting a path through the crowds up to the Hogwarts Express. He hurried up behind her, trying to conceal his breathlessness.

"Now, Neville," Augusta Longbottom said, her hand heavy on his shoulder as she pushed him forward, "do well at school. That was impressive, what you did at Hogwarts. Your father would be proud."

Neville suppressed a sudden smile threatening to break out onto his face, and succeeded. "All right," he said.

"And make sure to do well in your Transfiguration N.E.W.T. class—I'll be speaking to Professor McGonagall about your progress."

Neville didn't think he would be making much progress; at the most, he might manage to scrape through—he had only gotten an Acceptable, after all. "Yes, Gran," he said somewhat more dully, and hauled his trunk onto the train. As he turned around, the last glimpse he caught of his imposing grandmother was the familiar hat, with the vulture perched on it and glaring, its eyes dead and glassy, at everyone. He thought of Snape the Boggart, and grinned. "Riddikulus," he said to himself.

He struggled his way through the rather crowded corridors, and then someone tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Hello, Neville."

He startled slightly and whirled around. Luna Lovegood looked back at him with her large misty eyes. "Oh, Luna," Neville said, vaguely relieved to see someone with whom he could talk and not feel somewhat ridiculous (as he usually did), considering that Luna herself said rather strange things, even if she accepted them as commonplace. "It's you."

"Yes, it's me," Luna said rather dreamily, without any sarcasm. She had a copy of the Quibbler held close to her chest, with a large bold sign saying that there was a free pair of Spectrespecs inside. "How was your summer?"

Neville shrugged. "Good enough, I suppose," he replied. "Gran kept talking about what happened at Hogwarts and all that. I think she liked us making Umbridge mad, and," here he smiled pensively, "she said that she thought my father would be proud of me."

"How would she know?" Luna asked, her voice mild, with the tone of a scientist stating a fact. "She isn't your father, is she?"

Neville blinked. "No."

"Then why would she say that?" Luna returned quizzically. Neville didn't quite know how to reply. Then Luna looked past Neville, over his shoulder. "Look," she said simply. "There's Harry."

Neville looked. He saw a gaggle of girls grouped together, and a flash of red hair, and unruly black. For a moment, he caught a glimpse of Harry's face, bewildered by the attention focussed upon him, and decided that he might as well save Harry from the kind of attention that he most certainly did not want right now on the Hogwarts Express. So he started towards his beleaguered friend.

"Hi, Harry!" he called out loudly. Harry swung his head around and saw Neville; Neville noticed the very faint signs of relief on Harry's face. Harry began pushing his way through the others, trying to ignore them. "Neville!" he shouted.

Behind Neville, Luna said, "Hello, Harry."

Harry nodded, a small smile on his face. "Luna, hi, how are you?"

"Very well, thank you," Luna replied blandly.

"Quibbler still going strong, then?" Harry asked. Neville had the impression that he was desperately casting around for some neutral topic to chat about in front of the blatant starers. Neville abruptly felt a wave of sympathy for Harry. He hadn't asked You-Know-Who to attack him and make him the Boy-Who-Lived, after all. Neville himself felt rather glad that he wasn't in Harry's situation—he didn't think he could've stood it.

"Oh yes, circulation's well up."

Harry nodded again, and then said, "Let's find seats," in a hurried sort of tone, as much as Neville had expected.

A few moments later, they had struggled their way into a compartment, Harry still looking somewhat embarrassed. Neville said, somewhat amused, "They're even staring at us! Because we're with you!"

Harry looked as though he would rather not think that. "They're staring at you because you helped me too, at Hogwarts," he replied as he swung his trunk up into the luggage rack. "I mean, after all that uproar over the Death Eaters actually being there, there's been a ridiculous number of articles on us in the Daily Prophet, you must've seen it."

"Well, yes, I've seen it," Neville said, absent mindedly checking his pockets for Trevor, and finding that, yes, the toad was surprisingly still in his place. "I mean, the newspapers like that type of story. I thought Gran would be angry at the publicity, but she seemed rather pleased."

Luna was busily detaching the free psychedelically coloured Spectrespecs from her copy of the Quibbler. "Really?" she asked as she finished detaching the Spectrespects and put it on. "Actually, I would much rather have had Daddy put the Wrackspurt article on page one, but one of his writers told him it was probably best to have that and something about Harry being the Chosen One as well."

"Oh Merlin," Harry muttered. "Not that 'Chosen One' nonsense."

"Wrackspurts?" Neville asked curiously.

"A Wrackspurt—you know. They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy. And don't worry, Harry. I didn't think you were the Chosen One, and Daddy put an article about Scrimgeour on the front page instead. He's a vampire." Luna stated all of this with the usual confidence that it was the real truth. Neville and Harry, on the other hand, were not half as sure that any of the mentioned "vampire Scrimgeour" article was reality.

"Oh," Neville said in a falsely bright voice. "That's interesting." He and Harry looked at each other and hastily began talking about Quidditch.

The weather outside seemed somewhat contrary; sometimes the train passed through murky, heavy mists; other times, it came into weak, mottled patches of sunlight. It was during one of the brighter moments that Ron and Hermione came into the compartment briefly, dropping in on them before setting off on their prefect duties.

"Hi, Neville. Hi, Luna," Ron said, falling into one of the seats. Hermione echoed his greetings. "Can't wait for the lunch trolley, I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," Hermione muttered under his breath. Neville stifled a laugh. Hermione said, "Come on, Ron. We might as well finish our patrol shift—"

There was a timid knocking at the door. Ron swung it open, to reveal a rather nervous looking third-year. "I'm—I'm supposed to deliver this to Harry Potter," she said, breathless. She looked up at Harry, and turned bright scarlet. Harry did not seem to have noticed; he took the scroll, tied with violet ribbon, and unrolled it, frowning.

"What is it?" Ron asked.

There was something which looked faintly like a grimace on Harry's face. "An invitation," he said.

Neville looked over Harry's shoulder at the parchment.

Harry,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely,

Professor H. E. F. Slughorn

"Dunno what he wants," Harry muttered under his breath. "Oh well, might as well see what happens. See you." And looking as though he would rather not, he trudged out of the compartment, Ron and Hermione following him before they split ways.

Only about a minute later, the door slid open again and Seamus Finnigan came in, along with Gillian West, a seventh-year Ravenclaw who also ran the school's betting pools. "Hi, Neville!" Seamus said.

Gillian West gazed around the compartment. Her dark green eyes lit upon Luna, and she said, her voice carefully neutral, "Hello, Luna." Neville rather had the feeling that only a bare handful of people chose to voluntarily seek out the company of Luna Lovegood; Gillian West, who he knew very vaguely from hearing about Fred and George Weasley's dealings with her, did not seem to be an exception.

Luna smiled at them all in a rather hazy way, and returned her attention to her copy of the Quibbler.

"Hey!" Neville nodded at them, smiling.

Seamus grinned back. "You don't mind us sitting down, do you?"

"No, it's all right. Although it may get a little crowded later, because Ron and Hermione are off doing their duties, and Harry got invited by…" Neville frowned. "I suppose the new Defence professor. Professor Slughorn."

"Really?" Gillian said with interest, leaning forward. "Slughorn, Slughorn… I've already got a betting pool going about the new Defence teacher. Slughorn… can't say I remember any mention of his name."

"A betting pool?" Neville asked.

"Yeah," Seamus said. "I'm the bookie for the Gryffindor bets. What do you think this year, evil or useless?"

"Personally, I would go for useless," Gillian said, sounding cynical. "I mean, just look at the others."

"Knowing my luck, I'd take evil," Neville said glumly.

"What about smart?" Luna said suddenly from behind her paper. "He could be a good teacher, couldn't he?"

Gillian laughed. "What are the chances of that?" she said almost scornfully. "You've got to wonder who jinxed the Defence position in the first place—I mean, whoever it was did a fantastically good job of it. I'll place ten Galleons that the new Defence professor will die this year."

"Hope not," Neville said fervently. "I feel sorry for the poor bloke; you wonder how Dumbledore must have persuaded him to take the job."

Seamus shrugged. "Who knows?" he said. "Anyhow—ah well, we need to finish taking any wagers today."

Neville frowned. "But how do you make the others pay up?"

"Magic, of course," Seamus said.

Gillian nodded and elaborated. "Magically binding contracts. My personal specialty. You see," here her voice took on a tone of merciless relish, "if they refuse to pay when they've already sworn that they would if they lost, any type of food they're trying to eat turns to dust—for an entire week."

"But that's starvation!" Neville said, surprised.

"No, it isn't," Gillian said delicately. "You see, no-one's ever broken the contract." She smiled. It was a satisfied, sharp-edged smile. "I'm very good at that type of stuff, you see."

Neville blinked. "Yeah," he said finally. "I see."

"It's like a more lenient form of the Unbreakable Vow," Gillian said. "At least it doesn't kill you if you break it. I'm planning to go into finance after school. The Yanks in America have that wizarding stock exchange of theirs, and I think I could get apprenticed to one of their financial traders."

"Oh," Neville said, his interest sparked slightly. "That sounds exciting."

"It is," Gillian said blandly, and pulled out a copy of the Daily Prophet, flipping to the business section. She then produced an eagle feather quill out of her pocket. "Now, let's see—Seamus, Leanne put down five that the teacher's useless, right?"

"Yeah. And Zacharias Smith bet fifteen Galleons that the jinx would be broken, though I don't know what he was thinking—he probably did it just to be contrary. It's silly of him, though—the post hasn't been held for over a year by any one person since…" he waved his hand vaguely.

"Ah," Gillian muttered. "So Neville, Luna, make a bet?"

"No," Neville said. Self-deprecatingly, he added, "I'd probably get it all wrong anyway. I always do."

Gillian rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. No-one can possibly be wrong all the time, just like no-one can always be right." She stood up, her paper clutched in her hands. "Well, there's still the Slytherin compartment to tackle. I'll see you, Seamus—I've got to talk to Blaise Zabini. He's my contact there."

Neville frowned. "And he doesn't insult you?"

Gillian gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. "He respects people who give him a reason to do so. No Gryffindors, of course, he thinks you all are too impulsive for your own good. Which you are," she muttered. "No offence, Seamus, but it's the truth. Good day."

She left, the door shutting behind her with a succinct click.

After she had left, Luna lowered her paper and commented, "She's very forceful, isn't she?"

"Yeah," said Neville.

"She's honest about her dealings, though," Seamus said. "We get a percentage of the revenue, based on the amount from each House."

"It sounds like it's a lucrative deal," Luna said. "And her contracts seem to be very effective."

Seamus laughed. "That, they are."

oOo

"Such rumours this summer," Slughorn said, looking speculatively at Harry as though he were a particularly rare specimen of coelacanth. "Of course, one doesn't know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes—but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry!"

Harry, not knowing what to say without outright lying, instead said nothing and nodded. He had not expected much when he had received the invitation—only, perhaps, a professor who was as curious as the other students on the Hogwarts Express as to the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Horace Slughorn had been a bit of a surprise. After five years of tall, thin, black-haired, sarcastic Snape stalking around their caldrons, Harry had been rather taken aback when he had come into the compartment and met Slughorn for the first time. He was enormously… a politically correct term that could be used to describe him was "heavy," although that was probably an understatement. Old and balding, he possessed a broad shiny pate and a magnificently twirled silver mustache. He also made Harry feel uncomfortable with his constant questioning; it was as though he were determined to discover something astoundingly magnificent about Harry. And Harry couldn't escape his inquiries either by directing Slughorn's attention elsewhere—he had been the only one invited to Slughorn's "bite of lunch," no doubt so Slughorn, in his infinite curiosity, could concentrate upon the Boy-Who-Lived, the One Who Had Defeated Voldemort During His First Rise. Harry inwardly grimaced.

Seeing Harry's hesitant nod, Slughorn beamed. "So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond—so it did happen there, then? But the rest of the stories—so sensational, of course, one doesn't know quite what to believe—this fabled prophecy, for instance—especially since the fracas was in the Hall of Prophecies—"

Curse this "Chosen One" rubbish! "I never heard a prophecy," Harry said, a note of desperation in his voice. "There wasn't any prophecy that I heard, never in the Ministry. I wasn't there." And it was true, wasn't it? He had heard the prophecy in Dumbledore's office, so he wasn't lying. Just… ah, editing the truth. "It's the Prophet making stuff up, as usual."

"Ah," Slughorn said, his voice full of knowing, although he seemed somewhat disappointed. "That paper does tend to do it sometimes, although I'm sure they mean well. Pheasant, Harry?" He leaned forward, the golden buttons on his waistcoat glinting in the sunlight.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said politely.

"No matter, no matter," Slughorn waved away the thanks, although Harry felt that he did so with the air of one who was loftily bestowing a gift upon him. "I'll be very eager to see you in my Potions classes—you did sign up for N.E.W.T. levels, right?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied. "I'd like to become an Auror after Hogwarts."

"An Auror?" Slughorn said. "An admirable occupation. So you would be devoting your life to hunting down Dark wizards? But then again, you've had plenty of experience with that, considering You-Know-Who."

"I suppose so," Harry. Slughorn's words, echoing in his mind: So you would be devoting your life to hunting down Dark wizards? And suddenly, he knew in the depths of his heart that he did not want to. His whole life had been a war against Voldemort. After Voldemort, he would—voluntarily!—become a fighter against Dark wizards. And Harry felt a sudden weariness overtake his body, a type of numb lethargy, and all he wanted to do was to just sit here in a permanent state of sitting and never leave. He wanted to escape his terrible burden so very badly, and enjoy life the way it was meant to be enjoyed…

"… One of the brightest I ever taught—"

Harry quickly returned his attention to Slughorn, who was saying about his mother, "Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too."

"Which was your House?"

"I was Head of Slytherin," said Slughorn. Harry blinked. Sirius, you didn't even bother to tell me that! he thought. But Sirius thought he's all right. Oh well. Slughorn went on, a little defensively, "Oh, now, don't go holding that against me! You'll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families."

"So—my mother, she liked Potions?"

"Liked Potions? It was her favourite subject, m'boy!" He seemed almost offended that Harry did not know that. "She was a genius in the class, the two of them, Lily Evans and Severus Snape, you know. They were partners in my sixth-year N.E.W.T.-level class, and they were the most amazing minds I've ever seen. If she had lived…" Slughorn shook his head. "That night she died, the world lost a great witch. And, Merlin, Severus could be great, he could be, they both had the most wonderful intuition with Potions, but he's teaching! Never thought he would be teaching!" His voice expressed unchecked surprise.

"My mum and Sn—Professor Snape," Harry quickly corrected himself; he decided to play it safe and address Snape by his title in front of Slughorn. "My mum and Professor Snape were Potions partners?"

"Yes, they were. Quite well matched—you couldn't tell which one was better, not ever! Brilliant, truly brilliant… On the other hand, your father was an excellent Quidditch player, he played Chaser…"

But that, Harry already knew. My mum and Snape were Potions partners? he thought, surprised. But no-one ever told me about my mum liking Potions…

Harry, you prat, another voice said pointedly in his head, sounding eerily like Hermione, that's because you've never asked about her, you've only asked about your father.

As Harry pondered this sudden realisation, Slughorn offered up some anecdotes about illustrious wizards and witches Slughorn had once taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the "Slug Club" at Hogwarts. Harry, personally, thought the name somewhat… odd, and he would rather be with his friends than with Slughorn, but he couldn't quite find a way to leave without being impolite. It was only as the shadows began to encroach upon the compartment that Slughorn seemed to become aware of the time. He looked around at the lit lamps and, in the window, the distantly receding sunset. "Good gracious, it's getting dark already! I didn't notice that they'd lit the lamps! You'd better go and change into your robes. Harry, drop by any time you're passing. Off you go, off you go!"

And with that amiable dismissal, Harry was let go. He quickly raced back to the compartment, where Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Seamus were already in their robes. "Blimey, Harry," Ron said as the black-haired boy flung open compartment door and came in. "What took so long?"

Harry could feel a scowl work its way across his face. "Lots and lots of talking," he said. "Slughorn was all right, but Merlin!—he… sort of comes across as patronising. And he kept talking about his times at Hogwarts and everything. It was a little annoying."

Ron gave him a sympathetic look. "Yeah, well, some people do that. You'd better change, Harry, we're almost there."

The Hogwarts Express soon came to a halt. They got off the train (Harry absent mindedly noted a few Aurors who were standing guard at the station) and marched their way up to the not-exactly-horseless-per-se carriages (actually pulled by the invisible horses Thestrals, visible only to those who had witnessed a death), and piled into one of them. Their ride up to Hogwarts was filled with chatter about Quidditch—or, namely, Ron and Harry chattered about Quidditch, while Hermione, with a not wholly exasperated look—Harry could have sworn he saw amusement in her glance—talked to Neville and Luna about their summers.

The carriage ride swiftly passed by, and now they were getting out of the carriages—now they were hurrying toward the doors—now they were surging towards the house tables—now Harry was breathing in the inner magic of Hogwarts, feeling it hum through his body—

Hermione was looking at the first-years being led in by McGonagall. "Is it just me," she asked, "or are there fewer first-years than usual?"

"It's just you," drawled Ron sarcastically. Upon seeing Hermione's look, he hastily added, "And there are fewer first-years than usual."

Harry tried very hard not to snicker.

Across the Great Hall, Harry saw Malfoy glaring at him. Undaunted, Harry glared back.

McGonagall, oblivious to the silent war of lethal looks shooting across the Great Hall between Slytherins and Gryffindors—or perhaps she was so used to it that she rarely noticed it anymore—had taken out the stool and set the patched, worn Sorting Hat upon it. Harry smiled reminiscently at the confused looks some of the prospective first-years had on their faces. It so reminded him of the time he himself had been a first-year, and had been standing nervously under the awe-inspiring ceiling of the Great Hall…

The Transfiguration professor was busying herself with unrolling the scroll which served as Hogwarts's first-year roster. The action went unnoticed, for most of the students' attention was focused on the Sorting Hat. At the brim of the hat, the seam had opened again, and the Hat began to sing. Although it was a regular event, Harry always liked to listen to the song (then again, he had missed the song so many times before…).

"A thousand years or more ago,
When Hogwarts School was new,
The four great Founders gathered
And wondered what to do.
They all had their different loves
But not a way to choose
At last they found a way—right here!—
With nothing for you to lose.

Cool Slytherin, from dark of fen
Prized cunning above all;
Daring Gryffindor, bold and loud
Who by courage was enthralled;
Kind Hufflepuff, gentle yet tough
Sought loyalty to friends;
Wise Ravenclaw, who most loved wit
Wanted cleverness without end.

So it seemed to many
That Hogwarts was at peace—
But—alas!—it was not to last
For displeasure was unleashed;
The Founders quarrelled—what tragedy!—
Their concord fell into the abyss
And never again was great Hogwarts
The same with such a rift.

Mark my words, all of you
I fear this may happen anew
I warned you once, a year ago
But you heeded not my clues.
So listen to me once more again
Must I say this times untold?
You must all join together—now!—
To prevent the clash of old.

Put aside your rivalries—
Your petty dislikes and hates;
You perhaps are only human,
But much more is at stake!
To the students of Hogwarts, all,
I'll say this one more time:
You must join together as one
And above all remember my rhyme."

The Sorting Hat fell silent. So did the Great Hall, apart from a few murmurs here and there. Hermione looked disturbed. "That's another time the Hat's sung about union," she said, frowning. "Friendship and bonding…"

"Well," said Ron, "I do hope it doesn't mean Malfoy."

Harry laughed quietly and rolled his eyes. "Would anyone want to be friends with Malfoy?"

"Crabbe and Goyle might," said Hermione wickedly.

Ron pretended to look very surprised. "Friends?" he said in bafflement. "I thought they were stupid stone gargoyles! I never knew they could think!" The three friends shared a moment of quiet amusement, and laughed.

But now McGonagall, after directing an odd look at the battered Sorting Hat, was saying in her usual stern, crisp voice, "When I call your name, please come up to the stool and put the Sorting Hat on. Abelson, Raymond!"

A short boy with dirty blond hair warily walked up to the stool and carefully set the Hat on his head. The Hat was quiet for a few moments, then—

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Ravenclaw table broke out in applause for their newest member. A small, hesitant smile appeared on Raymond Abelson's face as two third-years made room for him and shook his hand.

"Argyll, Patricia!"

A brown-haired, impatient-looking girl moved toward the stool quickly. She jammed the Hat down on her head, and was rewarded with a "GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry joined in the requisite clapping and congratulations as Patricia Argyll sat down at the other end of the Gryffindor table.

And so it went on. The first-years passed in a blur of people and sound for Harry—they sat down on the stool and the Sorting Hat proclaimed their House. And that was the end of the story. About the only hiccup in the Sorting ceremony was when "Schuhmacher, Evaline," a mousy, bored-looking girl, sat with the Sorting Hat on her head for a full five minutes. Students in the Great Hall were moving about impatiently by the time the Sorting Hat finally shouted out, "SLYTHERIN!"

The Slytherin table had a round of very lukewarm applause. Hermione Granger, as usual, knew why. "She's a Muggle-born," she said as Evaline Schuhmacher walked toward the Slytherins, her head held high and a hard look on her face. "She won't have an easy time in Slytherin."

Harry and Ron were both inclined to agree.

But by the time the last first-year had been Sorted ("Zweig, Charles!"; "HUFFLEPUFF!"), their stomachs were grumbling too loudly for them to think about much else other than their hunger. So it was with relief and great alacrity that they started in upon the sumptuous Hogwarts dinner—Dumbledore, obviously sensing the hunger of the Hogwarts students, cheerfully told them to tuck in, and they needed no second encouragement.

Through mouthfuls of chicken, Ron asked him, "So what did you say to Slughorn about what happened at the Ministry?"

"Just told him all the talk was a load of rubbish. And I wouldn't know anything, since I wasn't there, but you know the Prophet—always tries to tie everything back to me." Harry conveniently omitted the fact of the prophecy.

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "Everyone on the train was asking us about it, weren't they, Ron?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "They all wanted to know if you really are the 'Chosen One'—"

"Oh God," Harry said. "Merlin preserve us from people who are too nosy for their own good."

"Quite frankly," Nearly Headless Nick said as he floated towards them, "you and your friends are rather nosy yourselves. But I digress. There has been quite a bit of talk on that subject lately even amongst us ghosts." He seemed to straighten up slightly, as much as he could without having his barely connected head swing off. "I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. 'Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,' I told them. 'I would rather die than betray his trust.'"

"That's not saying much, seeing as you're already dead," Ron observed.

"Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe," said Nearly Headless Nick, sounding rather outraged, and he glided away in somewhat of a temper.

"Ron!" Hermione said reproachfully, sipping from her goblet of pumpkin juice.

"What? It's true, isn't it?" Ron countered, and reached for a dish of beef stroganoff.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There is such a thing as tact, you know."

The feast passed in a relatively cheerful manner, with murmurings of conversation rising up in the Great Hall. Harry was nearly done with his dessert when Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. Most of the students had finished their feast, and were relaxing in their seats, talking and laughing, but the headmaster's voice was sharp enough to penetrate their pleasant food-induced stupors. Dumbledore glanced around, smiling, and said, "The very best of evenings to you! To our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you!" He passed his eyes over all four tables benevolently, and then began dispensing the start-of-year announcements.

"—And I must remind students that the Forbidden Forest is, as always, forbidden. The name speaks for itself, and if any errant students happen to wonder in, they will find out exactly why it is forbidden.

"On a lighter note, caretaker Argus Filch would like for me to say that there is a blanket ban on all joke items bought at the shop Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes." Besides Harry, Ron laughed into the palm of his hand soundlessly. Harry still remembered the mucky swamp that the Weasley twins Fred and George had left as a gift for Umbridge the year before, and smirked too. "The list of banned items is put up outside Filch's office, and I urge all students to go and look at it." Nearby, Hermione sighed. They all knew quite well that no students ever bothered to go and look at it, and why Dumbledore affected the innocent façade about this issue, no one knew.

"Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

"We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year. Professor Slughorn"—Slughorn stood up, his massive bulk casting shadows upon the table—"is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master."

"Mm-hmm," mumbled Harry. "Wish he'd get on with it—" Then he suddenly grasped the fact that while he, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny already knew about the staff change, the other students didn't—

"Potions?"

"Potions?"

The word echoed all over the Great Hall, as students wondered if they had heard right. A few seats down the table, Seamus dropped his fork, looking stunned, and his mouth open in an "O" of realisation.

"Professor Snape, meanwhile," said Dumbledore, his voice growing louder so as to be clearly heard over all the muttering," will be taking over the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Further down the table, Neville Longbottom choked violently on his strawberry trifle.

oOo

I originally intended to have the entire chapter with Harry's POV, but somehow Neville Longbottom managed to get in. Now, how did he sneak in there? Perhaps it's that last line in the Harry POV, start-of-year feast scene… (grins) I had an almost fiendish glee in writing that last sentence. Poor Neville!

Some of the dialogue in the Hogwarts Express scene is from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Ch. 4: Horace Slughorn; Ch. 7: The Slug Club; Ch. 8: Snape Victorious), although I've fiddled with it so as to fit it into the situation.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I do hope that everyone understands how real life gets in the way. I have three piano events in a row coming up: competition, masterclass, going to concert... The next update time is tentatively set at two weeks from Monday, but I may finish earlier and post Ch. 14 then. It depends on the time I have. Sorry about that.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and please review!

Talriga