Chapter Five

The Great Hall, Hogwarts

1 September 1991

SLYTHERIN — Slytherin — Slytherin . . .

The word echoed around and around Neville's mind, blocking out any other thoughts. His mouth open and eyes wide, he stared as Harry walked past the Gryffindor table, waving a little at Neville, as if nothing had happened. Malfoy sprang up, held out his hand — Harry took it and said something, making the other first-years laugh, then sat down between his new friend and Daphne.

Neville couldn't think of anything else; the other students were Sorted, a new teacher introduced, and he paid no attention to any of it. When the Gryffindors finally went to bed, he lay awake for what seemed like hours, the scene playing over and over again in his mind.

How could this have happened? How could anyone so very brave, so very good as Harry, have ended up in Slytherin? What would the family say? Cassie and Callidora? Well, they'd probably be pretty happy, they were Slytherins themselves. But they didn't understand what it was like now. Back when Cassie and Callidora were in school together, Dark Lords and their minions came from Hufflepuff of all places.

And Sirius. Oh Lord, Sirius. What would Harry say to him? What would Neville say to him?

And how did he convince the Hat to put him in Slytherin, anyway? Had Harry asked not to be put in Gryffindor? Had he wanted to get away from Neville? Harry was a good friend, but Neville — sniffling miserably — wouldn't blame him if that's why he'd asked to be put in Slytherin. He'd had the vague idea, sometimes, that Harry wanted very different things than he did. Well, they were very different.

That's not why we're in different Houses, though. Through his shocked fog, he'd already noticed that the other first-year Gryffindors were incredibly different, not just from him, but from each other — Ron and Seamus and Morag so loud and outgoing, then two giggling scatterbrains, and some quieter ones too.

No, they were in different Houses because . . . because . . . Neville was sure Harry had asked to go there. He'd been excited about the chance to prove himself at Hogwarts, he'd said — and that didn't leave much room for tagalongs, did it? Neville's eyes burned. Harry had wanted to go where nobody knew him, and he definitely hadn't wanted Neville holding him back from all the things he'd be able to do.

Neville tossed and turned. He didn't think Slytherins were bad or evil just because they were in Slytherin — you couldn't grow up at Grimmauld Place and not know that Slytherins came in all varieties — but he also knew that an awful lot of them were not, well, pleasant. And of those that were . . . well, he could hardly imagine Harry being like Callidora or even Cassie.

No, Harry had always chiefly divided his admiration between James and Arcturus and . . . had Arcturus put him up to it? Neville shook his head at the thought. He couldn't see the old man troubling himself, really. Not over something like this. Though he had always liked Harry, in his grim, cantankerous sort of way.

Neville listened to the sound of the other boys breathing, and heaved a great sigh. Despite everything, he was happy to be in Gryffindor — but it just wasn't the same without Harry.

-----

'Ow!'

'Get off my robe!'

'You stepped on Scabbers' tail!'

'Hurry up, or we won't have any time to eat.'

'Er . . .'

The day before, Neville had thought his dormmates seemed pleasant enough. Now he was surrounded by four loud, angry boys who were all taller than he was and who seemed to be everywhere. Neville took advantage of a brief pause and, grabbing his bag, raced down to the common room.

'There you are, Neville!'

He turned around. 'Katherine?' he asked, astonished. He vaguely remembered her as a quietly friendly girl who'd sat on his other side during the Sorting.

'We were wondering if you meant to just skip breakfast,' Morag told him from the chair she was sprawled upon. 'C'mon, we'd better go or we'll be late.'

Neville could understand people being nice because he was the Boy Who Lived, or because he was an orphan; but Katherine and Morag didn't really seem to care about that, not after the first minute or so.

He panted as he tried to keep up — both were faster than he — and gasped out, 'Well, then, why didn't you go?'

Morag's thick black brows drew together, her expression blank.

'That'd be right friendly of us,' Katherine said, laughing.

Friendly. Neville swallowed. He was glad that they didn't have to pass the Slytherin table to get to their own; instead, it was Hufflepuff they walked by, and Susan waved at him from the corner where she sat with a pink-faced girl in pigtails.

There were plenty of other people watching him, too — but that was different. They didn't care about Neville, just about what he had perhaps done when he was a baby. 'That's Neville Longbottom!' 'Who?' 'Where?' 'See -- next to the tall girl with the brown hair — ' 'Did you see him?' 'Did you see his scar?'

A minute and a half in, he was already heartily tired of it, and slid into his seat with a grateful sigh. Since his back was against the wall and he was towards the middle, it at least gave him space from all his . . . fans. Neville shuddered.

Of course, the problem with that was that he faced the Slytherin table, which was directly across from theirs. He steadfastly kept his face turned towards Katherine or Morag as they chattered, and only cast two quick glances away. Harry was there, talking with a trio of Slytherin girls. Neville, who had almost felt sorry for him, immediately quashed the feeling and returned to the conversation he was supposed to be a part of.

'All my family's wizarding,' Morag was saying. 'Can you imagine coming here and knowing nothing? No wonder some of them looked so petrified.'

'My mum says so,' Katherine replied. 'She's Muggleborn, and she only knew what the Ministry liaison people said. What with the ghosts and staircases and Peeves, she said she spent her first week pretty much reminding herself to breathe. The weirdest thing, though, is the portraits. Do you know that Muggle pictures don't move?'

Neville and Morag stared at her. 'Weird,' Neville said finally.

'How do the portraits talk, then?' Morag asked.

'That's the thing. They don't.'

Neville and Katherine left their food half-eaten to get to class on time, since Morag didn't seem to care whether she was late or not.

Neville's first day was rather uneventful. It turned out that the Gryffindors had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs — three times a week! — and he gladly paired with Susan, blushing fiercely when Professor Sprout complimented them on the most promising asphodel.

On Tuesday, however, he and Katherine were turned around somehow. As they hurried to what they thought was their first class, they found the door locked, and tried to force it.

'And what is this?' a voice cackled. Both Gryffindors jumped; it was Filch, the caretaker. He hated students — and in return, all the students loathed him and his wretched cat. 'Students trying to break rules already? Gryffindors, of course — you wouldn't be afraid of a bit of — '

'We were trying to get to class!' Neville protested. 'We're lost!'

'Likely story,' growled the caretaker.

'Ex-excuse me, Mr F-Fi-Filch.' It was Professor Quirrell, who taught History of Magic — the very thing they were looking for. 'I-I'm sure these s-st-students were si-simply mi-mis-di-directed. C-come with me, ch-children.'

Gratefully, they followed him to the right classroom — but their gratitude couldn't make the class more interesting. Quirrell didn't dare tell them of anything more exciting than the birthdates of wizards he assured them were important, but was too frightened of to explain why. Neville tried valiantly to keep good notes, but even so he was certain he'd mixed up Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball somewhere. A good half of the class seemed to be dozing off; of the others, hardly any were listening. Ron Weasley was exchanging notes with Dean Thomas. Sophia Roper doodled on her parchment.

James and Sirius had insisted that nobody could be more boring than the last teacher, Professor Binns, but Neville thought Quirrell had even a ghost beat.

Fortunately, the class was only twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Neville, however, quickly found himself dreading his next two classes: Charms and Transfiguration. Wand classes, he thought glumly, and it was no surprise when his desk burst into flames.

'Aguamenti!' squeaked little Professor Flitwick. He had been so excited to read Neville's name on his class list that he'd toppled off the stack of books he used to bolster him up to ordinary height.

Neville and the feather were promptly soaked with water, and he had to drip for ten minutes until the professor remembered to dry them off. The second time he tried to flick his wand properly, it sent his quill zooming to the ceiling. Neville scowled at his wand as the feather slowly drifted down.

'Charms is my favourite so far,' burbled Katherine. 'Don't you think it's interesting?'

Morag looked as appalled as Neville felt. 'Interesting? Moving our wands around? If I hear swish and flick one more time —'

'Well,' said Katherine, 'the way Professor Flitwick sent Sophia's cat around was pretty good, I thought.'

That, admittedly, had been funny. 'I wish we could just get right into the spells,' Morag said. 'Notes and more notes . . . what did you do, Neville? Now that was interesting.'

'I don't know,' he said gloomily. 'My wand hates me.'

In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall was clearly playing no favourites; Hermione Granger was the only person who had any effect on her matchstick, despite all the complicated notes they'd been forced to take, and received a very small smile from the teacher. The Gryffindors were all a bit dispirited, but Neville, trying to keep his wand from making a fool of him again, was rather grateful that he'd had no effect on his match at all.

Even Neville, however, was looking forward to Defence Against the Dark Arts.

'This is the real stuff,' said Morag, rubbing her hands together. Katherine plucked at her robe nervously.

'What if I'm horrible at it? I'll probably be worst in the class.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Morag told her.

'No, I'll be the worst,' said Neville. 'At least, if my wand has anything to say about it.' But even that couldn't dampen his enthusiasm. They'd be learning real stuff, useful stuff — and if he managed anything, his gran and Callidora would be so pleased —

'Neville!'

The familiar voice had him stiffening in place. He pretended he hadn't heard and walked on by, but Harry grabbed his arm. Neville couldn't avoid him, so he fixed his eyes on the green and silver tie at his neck.

'Neville, I've been trying to talk to you for days,' Harry said, acting for all the world like nothing had changed. 'What's wrong with you?'

As if he didn't know. Three other Slytherins— Malfoy, somebody who looked like his bodyguard, and Daphne — watched from a short distance away. Was it some sort of joke?

'I have to get to class, Harry,' Neville mumbled. Katherine politely averted her eyes, while Morag seemed nearly as interested as the Slytherins.

'I'll talk to you at dinner, then,' Harry said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. He joined his friends, and Neville could just hear their voices as they walked away.

'What did I tell you, Harry?' Malfoy said.

'I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding . . .'

Neville shook his head, but a frisson of doubt entered his mind. Harry didn't seem to get it at all. Maybe . . . oh, he'd think about it later.

Morag, Katherine, and Neville crowded into a single seat, waiting eagerly for their teacher. The room was severe, with little more than their own desks and the teacher's. He was the one who had been introduced after the Sorting, the one who was new this year, and so, of course, the one that Neville knew absolutely nothing about.

Almost the instant before class was due to start, their professor stalked in. He was a tall, thin, black-haired man, about Professor McGonagall's age, with such severely regular features that, even if he'd been wearing pink instead of black, he would still have appeared grim and grave. Everyone fell silent and sat up a little straighter. Neville swallowed the sudden lump in his throat — the new teacher looked an awful lot like James Potter, only older, and without spectacles.

'Welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts,' he said, in a cold, precise voice. 'I am Professor Riddle.'