Chapter Seven

6 September 1991

Hogwarts, Scotland

Neville didn't know whether to hurry to Potions, or to put it off as long as possible. He was still lingering indecisively about the dungeons when Harry found him.

'Oi, Neville! Wait up!'

Neville turned to face his cousin. 'Hi, Harry. Is something wrong?'

'No,' Harry panted, 'I was just wondering . . . d'you want me to pair with you? I thought maybe those Gryffindor girls might stick together, and, well, you won't want to be alone.'

Neville beamed. 'That'd be great, Harry . . . if you're sure your Housemates won't mind, that is.' He threw a nervous glance at the trio of girls lurking a few feet away; they were Slytherins, but an entirely different group from Harry's usual crew.

'I don't think they will. Theodore likes to work by himself, and — Lily, you and Millicent will take care of Tracey, won't you?' Neville froze.

'Of course,' said a delicate blonde girl. She looked utterly unlike the pictures of poor mad Aunt Lily.

'I'll try to keep Goyle from killing anyone,' added another, who bore a startling resemblance to a troll. 'See you in class, Harry — don't be late, or Professor Snape'll use you for Potions ingredients.'

All four Slytherins laughed, then the girls went on their way. 'Is Pr-professor Snape really that bad?' Neville asked in a hushed whisper.

'I don't know,' replied Harry. 'None of us have really seen him yet, but Andromache — that's Daphne's older sister, she's a prefect — says he's really strict, and even though he favours Slytherin in public, in private, he'll make anyone who shames the House wish they'd never been born.'

Neville felt a rush of gratitude for stern, distant Professor McGonagall. 'Oh,' he said weakly. 'Er, speaking of Daphne . . . did you have an argument or something? I thought she and Malfoy were your friends, but you're with these other people now.' It was a cheerful thought, though he liked Daphne.

'Don't be silly,' said Harry, laughing. 'People can have more than one group of friends, Neville. I mean, look at you — you've got MacDougal and Waters — '

'It's Rivers, Harry.'

'Yeah, anyway, there's them, and then Susan, and then me, and none of us really have much to do with each other. Daphne and Draco aren't exactly each other's friends, they're just mine, and Lily and Tracey and Millicent and me — well, we've got to stick together, that's all. C'mon. You shouldn't give Professor Snape any more reasons to hate you.'

'He hates me?' exclaimed Neville, hurrying behind his cousin. 'But — but he doesn't know me!'

'Well, it isn't anything to do with you, or at least not much. But he'll probably see that you're different from Mr Longbottom . . . eventually. He forgave Dad, after all.'

Despite Harry's airy tone, Neville couldn't help feeling the words as ominous. He tried to make himself small and unobtrusive as he took out his Potions supplies, then sat frozen in place as he waited. He could see that most of the other Gryffindors were similarly paralysed, while the Slytherins chattered easily in their little groups, unperturbed by pieces of pickled animals floating about in assorted bottles.

Then Professor Snape swooped in. Up close, he was nothing like Professor Riddle, his hair hanging in great greasy clumps around his dead-white face. Cold black eyes surveyed the room.

Everyone fell quiet; like Professor McGonagall, he had the gift of silencing an entire room. There was no blather about 'Welcome to Potions' either; he picked up the roll and said in a voice full of menace,

'Lavender Brown.'

Nobody spoke, and Snape said sharply, but no more loudly, 'Lavender. Brown.'

'I'm here!' squeaked Lavender, clinging to Parvati Patil's arm. 'Sorry, Professor . . .'

Snape looked contemptuous. 'Millicent Bulstrode.'

'Here, sir,' the troll-girl announced.

'Tracey Davis.'

'She's here too, Professor,' Bulstrode told him. Snape only raised his eyebrow a bit, and Neville couldn't help wondering what his reaction would have been if a Gryffindor had pulled that trick.

Like the other teachers, he paused at Neville's name, but there was no mistaking the malice lighting up his face as he said, 'Ah, yes. Neville Longbottom. Our new . . . celebrity.'

Somebody, probably Draco Malfoy, sniggered behind his hand. The Gryffindors seemed angry, and Harry rather distressed, and even more so once his Head of House acknowledged his name was a curl of the lip.

Once it was over, Snape set down the list and glared at them all, to all appearances as unhappy to be there as the students were, and then began speaking in just above a whisper. 'You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses . . . I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death — if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.'

Neville gulped, and shrunk down further. Harry stared at the professor in wide-eyed fascination. Morag and Katherine, just in front of them, were exchanging meaningful looks.

'Longbottom!' barked Snape. 'What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'

Neville wracked his brains. Had Professor Sprout said anything in Herbology? They had grown asphodel . . . but she'd been talking about how to keep it alive! And he was sure that it wasn't something he and Harry had ever made. 'Er . . .' He threw a quick, desperate glance at his cousin, who mouthed something. But Neville couldn't read lips.

'I don't know, sir.'

'Tut, tut. Clearly, fame isn't everything.' His eyes drifted to Harry, and narrowed. 'Potter! Where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?'

'In the stomach of a goat,' said Harry promptly. Snape actually blinked, then stared at him, before turning back to Neville with a sneer. Harry scowled.

'What is the difference, Longbottom, between monkshood and wolfsbane?'

'Er . . . monkshood is . . .' Harry was shaking his head wildly. Even Neville could see the word on his lips — no, no, no. But he hadn't even said anything! Unless . . . he was struck by a burst of inspiration. 'A-are they the same thing, sir?'

'Longbottom . . .' Professor Snape's voice lowered still further. 'I am asking questions. You are answering them, or rather, failing to do so. For your information, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Sleeping Death. A bezoar will save you from most poisons. Monkshood and wolfsbane are names for aconite. Well? Why aren't you copying that down?'

There was a burst of noise as everyone took out quills and parchment. After a moment, Snape's voice cut through the sound. 'One point to Slytherin, Mr Potter, for coming to class prepared . . .unlike some people.'

Neville flinched. Class didn't get any better; Professor Snape put instructions up on the board, and switched all the Gryffindor pairs around. The Slytherins were allowed to remain as they were, except Harry, of course. Neville ended up beside Seamus Finnigan, so nervous that his fingers shook.

'I hope you're not just good at defeating Dark Lords,' Seamus said cheerfully. 'I'm pants at Potions, Mum always said so.'

'Actually, I'm horrible . . .'

It was even worse than his few lone experiments at Grimmauld Place. Partly, of course, it was because Snape was there, sweeping around and criticising just about everyone but Malfoy. He was just telling the class to admire Malfoy's stewed slugs when It Happened. Something — Neville didn't know what — but Something had happened to Seamus' cauldron. It melted down to a blob, and their potion began spilling out. Neville vaguely heard cries and exclamations from the other students, but as he was drenched in the potion and boils were springing up over his body, he wasn't in much of a condition to notice anything.

'Idiot boy!' snarled Snape, vanishing the remnants of their potion. 'I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?'

Tears slid down Neville's pustule-covered cheeks.

'Take him to the hospital wing,' the professor snapped at Seamus, then rounded furiously on the nearest group of Gryffindors. 'You — Weasley — why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? A point from Gryffindor.'

Neville didn't know whether to be glad or not that he only had one class with the Slytherins. It would've been nice to see Harry more often (sometimes he thought longingly of the Polyjuice they had brewed), but Snape was awful, and then there were Ron and Malfoy. They absolutely hated each other — as much as Snape hated Neville — and either Ron was calling Malfoy names or Malfoy was sabotaging Ron's potions. The whole thing was exhausting, not to mention dangerous (Neville was careful never to partner with Ron, because they'd probably blow the whole room up). And it was awkward, because Neville rather liked Ron, but Harry and Malfoy were thick as thieves.

He decided it was better this way when he set eyes on the notice of Flying lessons. The Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years were together, and Neville's imagination kept filling with terrible, gory, bloody images. If he was to die ignonimously, why did it have to be in front of all of Slytherin House? Meanwhile, everybody else was boasting about what brilliant flyers they all were — everybody, that was, except Neville himself . . . and Harry.

'I don't understand,' he said. 'I bet you're better than all of them.'

Harry gave a noncommital shrug.

'Harry, you're nearly as good as Uncle James, and he was an international Quidditch star!'

'I'm nearly as fast as he is,' corrected Harry.

'Yeah, well, that's better than anything they can do. Bet you five Galleons.'

'Nah.' Harry grinned. 'You might be right.'

'So why don't you say anything when they're all bragging about escaping the Muggle flying things?'

''Cause I haven't ever nearly flown into a hellycopper,' said Harry. 'Dad would've skinned me alive.'

They were still bickering as they made their way to the lawn, separating to join their Houses, Neville clutching his new present in his right hand. Persephone had arrived with the Remembrall and four letters only that morning. Good luck, Harry mouthed, and turned to say something to Malfoy.

Shortly afterwards, their grey-haired, yellow-eyed teacher arrived. 'Well? What are you all waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.'

Everyone hurried to obey, Neville ending up across from Harry and between Ron and Morag. 'Stick your right hand over your broom,' Madam Hooch called, 'and say "up!" '

'Up,' they all chorused, Neville's voice shaking. Harry's broom jumped up, smacking against his hand, but hardly anybody else's did. Lavender's barely twitched, and Neville's own stayed firmly on the ground; he was too relieved to feel embarrassed. Finally, all the brooms ended up in the proper hands. Madam Hooch told the students how to mount them, and she went up and down the row, correcting their grips.

Neville tried to contain his delight when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years.

'Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle — three — two — '

Neville was so nervous, so shaky, that before she'd so much as raised the whistle to her lips, he pushed off, and was in the air. It could have been fun, but it wasn't; sky and clouds and trees whirled alarmingly before his eyes, he thought he was going to throw up, he could feel sweat rolling down his clammy cheeks, and before he could think of anything to do, he was sliding sideways, and down — he let out a scream — and landed on the ground with a loud crunch.

Vaguely, he could hear Harry's furious voice mingling with Katherine's and Morag's — they sounded worried — and then the addition of Ron Weasley's quavering one.

'Is he going to die?'

'There are supposed to be spells for that kind of thing!' screeched Malfoy. 'Wait until I tell my father — '

A shadow fell over him — it was Madam Hooch. She touched his wrist and he gave a cry of pain. 'Broken wrist,' she said, more to Neville than Ron. 'Not one of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say "Quidditch." Come on, dear.'

Cold sweat transformed into hot tears as Neville hobbled with her, the teacher wrapping her arm reassuringly around him. Harry, for his part, stood frozen in place, the scene flashing before his eyes, Neville falling over and over again, ten — twelve — twenty feet. He was supposed to protect Neville! He was younger, yes, but it was only a day, and he'd promised his father — and — and it was just what he did — and why had he let the Hat put him in Slytherin anyway? How was he supposed to manage it in a different House when he failed so badly here, where he stood mere feet away from his cousin?

He only looked up when a girl laughed. Not Daphne!—no, it was that horrid Pansy Parkinson, Draco's hanger-on who was so horrid to Goyle all the time.

'Look!' she cried, snatching a red ball out of the grass. Oh no — Neville's Remembrall. Harry's heart stuck in his throat. 'It's that stupid thing Longbottom's grandmother sent him.'

How did she know? Neville wouldn't have told her — and he hadn't — and Daphne never talked to her if she could avoid it —

'Give that here, Parkinson,' Harry said quietly. Neville's friends, the two Gryffindor girls who were always with him, stared at him in astonishment. Everybody else paused to watch. Lily and Millicent took two steps closer to him, drawing their wands, and Pansy smiled nastily.

'I think I'll leave it somewhere for your precious cousin to find, Potter. How about . . . up a tree?'

'Give it here!'

But she was already on her broomstick, and quickly swooping into the air. She was a decent flier — but nothing to Harry, who soared up just as he'd practised, dozens and dozens of times. It had been too long since he'd been on a broom, felt the wind rushing through his air, his robes flying every which way, his heart pounding in his ears. He spun in midair, turning to face her. He could hear shouts and whoops of admiration, from Draco, Lily, Millicent, and even, maybe, a Gryffindor or two. It's in your blood, Harry. He could hear Sirius' voice all over again, see the pride shining in his eyes.

'Give it here,' said Harry again, 'or I'll knock you off your broom!'

'Oh, yeah?' She was trying to sneer, but she didn't really have that face for it, especially now that she looked worried. Common, Draco had called her, and Harry could see what he meant. It wasn't just breeding. Then a crafty look slid into her brown eyes —

'Catch it if you can!' she shouted, throwing the ball high in the air.

'No!'

Neville would never trust him again. Harry rushed forward without even thinking; he'd never chased a proper Snitch, let alone a tiny scarlet ball, but he pulled the broom downward in a sharp dive — and he'd never done anything like it before, all the colours were running together, screams ringing in his ears, a cat yowling from a window that blurred by — and a foot away from the ground, he reached out and snatched the Remembrall, pulling out of the dive just in time to slide off the broom, his legs weak.

'Harry!' The cry was echoed by a good half of Slytherin House, Draco and Daphne, Lily and Millicent and Tracey. Even the imperturbable Nott was staring at him with mouth open and eyes wide. Lily and Daphne threw their arms about him in turn, and Draco tried to look angry, but couldn't.

'Merlin's beard, Harry! Why didn't you tell me you could fly like that?'

Harry shrugged. 'Well, you know . . . it's just Dad. He taught me. I didn't think it fair to brag.'

'Fair,' repeated Draco, as if it were a foreign word. 'Right.'

Once the excitement died down, the students sat down again, Gryffindors on one side, Slytherins on another, Pansy carefully staying a few feet from Harry. Everything seemed fine — then, just as he caught sight of a tall form hurrying towards them, he clearly heard Pansy say,

'Did you see his face, the great lump?'

She was talking about Neville again. Harry's left hand clenched around the Remembrall, raised letters digging into his palm, and his jaw clenched so hard that it hurt. Some of the other Slytherins began laughing; not any of the other girls, but all of the boys.

'Draco, don't!' Harry cried inarticulately. 'He's my friend — my cousin — ' He knew already that the latter had more weight amongst his Housemates.

It was enough though; Draco's mirth immediately faded, and he looked rather embarrassed. 'Oh, I forgot,' he said. 'Sorry.'

'A right little pet, aren't you, Malfoy?' jeered Blaise Zabini, a thin dark-skinned boy. 'I'd have thought you had better taste than Potter.'

'How dare you?' hissed Draco, springing to his feet, Harry right behind him. 'You take that back, right now! Or I'll — '

'Yeah, tell your father. Well, I'll tell him the truth, why don't I? I'm sure he'd be glad to hear that his heir is taking orders from the son of some filthy Mudblood —'

Harry caught a bare glimpse of Draco, pale and furious, before his mind filled with an image of his mother, her green eyes vacant and her face slack. Before he knew what had happened, the spell came screaming out of his mouth.

'Petrificus Totalus!'

At the same moment, there was a flash to his left. 'Furunculus!'

Zabini gave a shriek of pain and crumpled to the ground. Harry and Draco glanced up, meeting each other's eyes rather sheepishly. Draco's wand was still raised.

Then they realised that they'd just betrayed Slytherin feuds for all of the Gryffindor first year to see. Ron Weasley was gaping at them. Alaric Runcorn was trying not to laugh. Everybody else was talking loudly and urgently.

'Snape is going to kill us,' whispered Draco, lowering his wand. Harry dropped his too.

'I. Am. So. Dead.'

Before they could consider their imminent demise any further, a sharp, incisive, female voice cut through the clamour.

'HARRY POTTER!' They knew the instant she saw Zabini. She paused in her tracks, robes billowing, lips thinning, eyes freezing over — and added for good measure, 'DRACO MALFOY!' After several great heaving breaths, the professor said, 'Potter. Malfoy. Follow me now.'