Disclaimer: I own…ok, let me think about this…

AN: Thank you, guys, so much, for reading, reviewing, and enjoying, it means a lot to me, and your reviews make me smile. Cheers, all of you! *Hands out cyber-cookies*

Chapter 9: Of Quidditch and Quandaries

It was mid-November, and Harry was seated in the Potions classroom, irately tapping his quill against the desk (causing a blob of ink to form which looked ominously like a Black Spot) and glaring at the blackboard. He was barely able to concentrate on Professor Snape's droning lecture. Now, Harry had been doing fine in Potions – as long as he kept his head down, Professor Snape gave him the grades he deserved, which were usually decent ones – but sometimes, he really wished he could ask questions, or try new things. Like now. They were learning to brew the Forgetfulness Potion, and the particular ingredients used had Harry's head spinning with possibilities, none of which appeared in the lecture or the textbook. Professor Snape, of course, was stalking across the classroom quite evilly, going on about how volatile the potion could get during one of the steps, glaring venomously at the Hufflepuffs as he warned against dunderheadedness – while implying that it was inevitable. Poor Hannah Abbot looked just about ready to faint.

Harry looked over at his partner, Padma, who was listening to the professor with a look of adulation on her face, leading Harry to believe that she fancied the dark, greasy haired man – Harry supposed it was possible, seeing as he was the youngest Hogwarts professor, and had that dark mysterious air going for him; aside from his rather large nose, he didn't have a bad face either (he'd read once that the western aesthetic valued symmetry, and the professor's face was indeed symmetric)…but still? It was like him crushing on McGonagall or something - it was weird.

Back to the Forgetfulness Potion; it was fairly straight forward, with all the ingredients having fairly clear purposes, but the relatively small amount of Valerian sprigs – Valerian sprigs, Valerian sprigs…they were good in the Forgetfulness Potion, but…

"Potter."

Harry snapped to attention, shocked to find the professor staring at him. What had he done? "Yes sir?"

"You look like you want to say something," the man drawled, quirking an eyebrow.

Harry gulped, but nodded. "I…I do. The Valerian sprigs, sir…you said that they are a sedative."

"Ah, so you were listening," Professor Snape sneered.

"I was, and I also noticed that they are not used anywhere else in our first year text book. What I was wondering was, are they a powerful enough sedative to be of use in other potions? Such as…sleeping drafts and even poisons that affect the brain?"

Snape was silent for a moment, staring at Harry appraisingly with stark black eyes. "Potter, do you, a mere first year, deem yourself to be above the amount of knowledge presented to you in your textbook?" he said scathingly.

Harry took a deep breath, biting back an equally snarky comment, or a simple 'yes.' "I was merely curious, sir. I am a Ravenclaw, after all."

Snape glared at him hard, seemingly waiting for him to look away, but he didn't. "Indeed. Very well, Potter. If you can brew a potion by the end of class with Valerian sprigs as its main ingredient, with affects similar to what you postulated, I will award Ravenclaw…ten points."

The entire class gasped, and Harry's eyes widened. Are you…challenging me?

"Patil can brew with Boot and Goldstein, and you may take your cauldron to the desk at the back of the classroom."

Glee was starting to overtake Harry at this point.

"Or do you not think yourself capable?" Snape sneered at him.

Harry nodded determinedly. "I'll get right on it, sir."

By the time Professor Snape had finished inspecting and marking all the other student's potions, Harry had barely finished the last stirring sequence of his potion. Sighing and turning off the burner, he jumped ever so slightly when he found Professor Snape's imposing form standing over his cauldron. All eyes now rested on the two of them.

"Well, Potter, you seem to have avoided blowing yourself up. Pity." He looked into Harry's cauldron. "Care to share with the class what is in your…concoction?"

Harry took a deep breath and stood. "I started with a bag of Standard Ingredient as the base, and added the Valerian sprigs right after…" He looked up at the professor, who simply stared back with a blank face. "I used porcupine quills as a buffer, and then added hellebore syrup to intensify the effects of the Valerian sprigs-"

"And why did you use hellebore syrup instead of essence of hellebore?" Professor Snape interrupted piercingly.

"Because the syrup is already processed, and the effects are softened – I'm in a pretty good mood so I didn't want to risk blowing up the classroom," Harry said bluntly, mumbling, "Though you probably wouldn't have minded so long as it took me out…"

The professor only quirked an eyebrow at that.

"I added a few more Valerian sprigs after, to make sure that the effects stayed strong." He looked up at Professor Snape, finding his face still blank.

"But that is not all that is in this potion, Potter, is it?"

Harry shook his head. "I added ground morning glory seeds."

Harry could have sworn he saw the corners of professor's lips quirk upward in amusement. "And why would you do that, Potter?"

"For their hallucinogenic properties – to induce nightmares."

Professor Snape turned back to the class, stalking to the front of the room. "What Potter has created resembles a weaker, unstable version of the Nightmare Potion and its sister, the Draught of Peace, both of which you will not learn until your OWL year. As you can see, Valerian sprigs are a strong enough sedative to induce sleep and even death – as such, take this as a warning: do not attempt to mix Valerian sprigs with an accelerant such as hellebore, as doing so without the proper caution could result in placing yourself in a deep, possibly irreversible sleep. That being said, fifteen points to Ravenclaw, for sheer dumb luck. Class dismissed!"

Harry froze a few moments before he left the classroom stunned, not knowing whether or not it was the morning glory seeds that had made him believe he had seen Professor Snape smirk at him on the way out. He snapped to attention when Terry elbowed him in the ribs.

"Blimey mate, Professor Snape never gives out points, and you got fifteen! That's got to be a record!"

"We'll have to ask Robert later," commented Kevin.

"Figures he'd give points to the one he almost kicked out," mumbled Michael.

"See," Stephen piped up, "Even Michael's jealous."

He received a hearty scowl.

"But seriously, Harry," Anthony said, coming up behind them, "Good job. Potions is the last place I thought you'd be winning Ravenclaw points."

Harry squinted. "Are you somehow implying that I don't win enough points?"

Anthony shook his head. "Not at all – you win quite a few. But you lose them as well."

"Like last Transfiguration class…" mumbled Kevin.

Harry scowled. "I don't know why she took points off for that. It was brilliant."

"You transfigured my hair into feathers! And you couldn't get it back!" cried Terry.

Harry shrugged. "It was a good bit of transfiguration."

"He's right, you know," Stephen said.

"And it was funny," Michael added.

"Urgh! Why is it always me?"

"Because, Terry," Harry said, "Our names rhyme."

Terry scowled. "Whatever." He perked up. "You coming to the quidditch game this afternoon? It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin."

"Why? it's not even our house playing."

Terry and Michael gaped at him. "But it's quidditch! And Gryffindor and Slytherin, they're the biggest rivals in the school –"

"A school with only four houses, might I add," said Harry.

"- and it's bound to be epic!"

Harry sighed.

"Come on mate, we're all going," said Stephen, "It'll be good fun."

"More fun than snagging a copy of Magick Moste Evile from the Restricted Section?"

Michael sneered. "Even you couldn't pull that off."

"Maybe not now, but just wait until I master the Disillusionment Charm…"

"But you haven't yet, that's the point," Kevin interrupted, "And the quidditch game is today."

"Right, I get it, quidditch is some sort of huge right-of-passage ordeal – I'm in."

Terry beamed. "Yes! You'll love quidditch, Harry, you'll see!"

Harry was BORED. He'd been watching the game for a half hour, and he had to admit, watching all the brooms and quaffles and bludgers whip around the quidditch pitch was pretty neat, amusing too, and the game even looked like a lot of fun to play – but right about now, he was wishing that someone would get in a fight or fall off their broom or something…and that was never a good sign.

"I have to use the loo," he said suddenly, resisting the temptation to hex one of the players' brooms.

Terry glanced over at him momentarily. "Right then, but be back soon. You never know when you might miss a good play!"

Harry nodded and leapt out of his seat, scurrying down from the bleachers, striding purposefully down the gravelly path that lead back to the castle. No, he didn't have to use the loo, and yes, he was just trying to get away. He was bored, and Harry hated being bored – it's like your very soul is telling you that you're wasting time, after all; and when an abstract, indiscernible, and possibly indefinite, profound ontological property/entity is telling you that you're wasting time, you really must be wasting time. Truth be told, spending the afternoon in the library alone wasn't much better (alone, because everyone was at the game, even Professor Snape, who Harry had begun to think could not go out in the sunlight), but still, it was warmer inside.

His quick pace down the castle corridor, however, slackened when he heard the sound of muffled crying. Now, Harry hated it when people cried, and was inclined to run the other way, but it sounded like the high, under-developed voice of another first year – perhaps he could help, like shock them into laughing, or something. Harry liked it when people laughed. Or stared at him in horror. That was funny too. The smirk on his face, however, melted off when he saw none other than Neville Longbottom, sitting alone on a stone bench covered in orange and yellow and scarlet fallen leaves, weeping into his hands.

Harry approached cautiously, trying to soften his voice, "Neville?"

Neville's head snapped up, and upon seeing Harry, the boy immediately sniffed and wiped his eyes furiously, trying very hard to put on a friendly blank face. "Harry! Why aren't you at the quidditch pitch?"

Harry sat down beside Neville as he scooted over. "I was bored. Why aren't you?"

"I…I…oh, I just didn't feel like it."

"You don't have to lie to me Neville, we're friends, right?"

Neville looked up to him adoringly, tears threatening to spill once again.

Harry panicked. "We are! We're friends! No doubt about that!"

Neville bit his lip. "They left me…Ron and Seamus and the others, and then I got lost on the staircases…and by the time I found my way out, the quidditch game had long since started, and I'm too ashamed to go now…"

Harry frowned, but nodded.

Neville continued. "It's just…I can never fit in with the other boys in my dorm – th-they don't like me, and they think I'm a coward! And I am, a bloody coward! Afraid of my own shadow, just like Professor Quirrel…" His voice died into a whimper.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Is that what they tell you?"

Neville nodded sadly. "I should have been in Hufflepuff – I'm good for nothing, a right duffer."

"Hufflepuffs are good for lots of things! Trust me, I would know…"

A smirk fleeted across Neville's face, but then disappeared. "But still, I don't belong in Gryffindor."

Harry looked at him intently. "The hat wanted to put you in Hufflepuff first, didn't it?"

Neville looked heartbroken, sniffing and nodding.

"But you asked it to put you in Gryffindor, didn't you?"

Neville's ears were tinted pink, but he nodded again.

"Well, why did you do that?"

Neville hesitated slightly. "My mum and dad, they were Gryffindors. My grandmum, she said that they were real brave, true Gryffindors. They – they really were; they fought in the war, they defied You-Know-Who! And I can't even say his name…"

"Voldemort," said Harry.

Neville looked up at him, startled.

"Voldemort," Harry repeated, "If you're scared, just say it."

"V-V-Voldemort, they stood up against him! They fought, and they protected me, even against the Lestranges, some of his most fierce followers, when they came for us! I was only one year old, when they went into hiding, but even then, they were so brave…" Neville burst into tears. "They did what was right, and it cost them everything – they gave it all up for me, and I wanted to make them proud. I wanted for their sacrifice not to be in vain, to be a son worthy of F-Frank and Alice L-Longbottom! I wanted to honour their bravery, by being brave myself…"

Harry swallowed tightly, the heartfelt soliloquy causing his thoughts to run a mile a minute. "And that's why you asked the hat for Gryffindor."

Neville nodded.

"That's not why it put you there, you know."

Neville's head whipped around to stare at him.

"It put you there not because you asked, but because you were brave enough to ask."

Nevilles eyes were wide, his mouth open with a sort of shock that looked somewhere between sadness, reminiscence, hope, and joy.

Harry rose to his feet, pulling Neville up with him. "It sounds like we have the same sort of problem, Neville."

"W-w-we do?"

Harry nodded, "We do. You see Neville, you're not a coward, you're just going through an existential crisis."

Neville blinked as Harry led him into the castle, down a dark corridor. "A what?"

"An existential crisis, when you doubt the meaning and worth of your own existence. It's an important moment in every man's life. I, on the other hand, am bored. Both can be resolved by the same thing, however."

Neville looked at him with wide eyes. "How?"

Harry grinned rather wickedly. "An existential risk."

"W-what's that?"

"And existential risk is a potential disaster that threatens the very existence of humanity," Harry said airily.

A look of horror was growing over Neville's face.

"Not to worry, though, we won't need to find something on so great a scale. In fact, I've got just the thing."

"And what's that?" Neville asked nervously.

"The third floor corridor."

"H-Harry," Neville began, looking around nervously as they stalked stealthily through the darkness of the third floor corridor, "Are you sure this is g-going to make me braver?"

Harry glanced at him. "I already explained, Neville, you're already brave. You just need to, you know, learn to show it. Convince yourself. And yeah, this should help." He walked over to one of the dusty alcoves in the wall, pulling open the cobwebbed wooden door, glaring slightly when he found it was only another broom closet. "Damn it! Another one! I'm starting to think that the headmaster was screwing with us when he said we awaited a painful death up here…"

"I-I don't think so, Dumbledore's a great man, that's what my grandmum says."

Harry shrugged, casting his eyes down the corridor, squealing with delight when they caught something of interest, and darting forward.

"W-wait! Harry! Where are you going!"

"Come on, Neville!"

Neville sighed, and ran up to Harry, finding him standing at the end of the corridor, in front of a great wooden door, bound with iron hinges and an iron lock. The door seemed to have an intimidating effect on Neville, who cowered back slightly.

"See, see! This is what we're looking for! Tell me, Neville, how's this door different from all the others?" Harry asked excitedly.

"Um…it's…scarier?" Neville tried.

Harry scowled. "No! Try again. Look at it, how's it look different."

"It's…" Neville squinted, then his eyes widened. "…there's less dust around it, than the others."

Harry nodded approvingly. "Which suggests that someone's been in here more recently!" He grinned, shaking the handle, causing the door to clatter slightly. "And look! It's locked too! It's perfect, a door, a locked one!"

"Right, so, since it's locked, we better get going…" But Harry had grabbed his sleeve.

"Don't be silly, Neville, that can be easily rectified." He pointed his wand at the door, "Alohomora."Sure enough, the lock clicked open, and after grinning at his very nervous looking companion, Harry opened the door, peering inside. "Come on, Neville! You have to see this!" Harry grabbed Neville and dragged him inside.

Glancing about the room, Neville suddenly let out a yelp, and fell backwards against the door, looking at Harry and the slumbering, gigantic beast behind him with no small amount of terror and horror in his eyes. "H-H-Harry! W-w-what is that?"

Harry turned from the dog-like creature, looking at Neville with a pleased smirk. "This, Neville, is a Cerberus. Named after their ancestor, Cerberus, the guard of the Underworld, Cerberi are three-headed corporeal hellhounds. Cerberus, commonly mispronounced with a soft 'c' by English speakers, comes from the Latinized version of the Greek Kerberos, which may or may not come from Sanskrit…."

"Er, Harry?"

"Yes, Neville?"

"I-i-it's…"

"It's woken up, hasn't it?"

Neville whimpered and nodded.

Slowly turning his head to look over his shoulder, Harry was confronted with the three snarling faces. "Neville?"

"Harry?"

"I want you to know that, at this point, running is in no way cowardly."

Both boys let out a shriek as the great beast pounced up to them, and they were barely able to dart out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them, unscathed, hearing the Cerberus throwing its temper tantrum inside once the door was closed. The door latch clicked, locking once again.

Harry laboured to calm his breathing, giving Neville an uneasy grin. "Well, feel braver yet?"

"I…I really d-don't know."

Harry waved his hand dismissively. "It's the shock. It'll wear off in a few hours."

"A-and then I'll feel braver?"

"Well, either that, or you'll feel stupider...but I hear that for Gryffindors, it's pretty much the same thing..."

Neville gave a shaky smile and nod, following Harry as he began to trek over to the stairs.

"Say Neville, when's your birthday?"

Neville looked at him oddly. "July 30th..."

Harry's eyes widened. "What do you know, day before mine…"

"Why?"

"Uh, no reason, I just thought I'd, uh, send you a present when the time comes…"

Neville smiled softly. "I'll send you one, then, too."

Later, that evening, Harry had gone off to the library with the Minor Arcana in his pockets and Neville's words concerning his parents on his mind – the similarities between their stories were eerily uncanny. Why were James and Lily Potter and Frank and Alice Longbottom made targets around the same time? Especially when both families had gone into hiding, and had a young child? Or did these similarities have something to do with the reason…

At a secluded desk in the Herbology section, he idly flipped over a few cards, in the end, all of them suggesting one thing – he needed guidance. Damn Ten of Wands. And he knew exactly who he needed to go to.

That was how he found himself, only an hour before curfew, knocking on the door of Professor McGonagall's office.

"Come in," came her curt, Scottish accented voice, muffled by the door.

Slowly, Harry opened it, taking in her surprised face before walking up to her desk.

"How may I help you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry bit his lip. "I, uh…Professor Flitwick told me a while back that you were my parents' Head of House. I…I was wondering if you could tell me about them."

Harry was shocked to find a warm smile inching across the strict professor's face. "Have a seat, Mr. Potter."

Harry did so, and looked at her expectantly.

"Lily Evans was perhaps one of the most brilliant Gryffindors I've seen in the last thirty years – she was a quick thinker, witty, curious, and studious…she would have made a wonderful Ravenclaw. But she was bold and principled, and she had a temper – what a temper. Lily was a kind girl, but would not tolerate tomfoolery and cruelty among her classmates – no one was surprised when she was made prefect and then Head Girl, and almost everyone made sure to steer clear of her temper. Except James Potter."

Harry's eyebrows rose.

"James Potter was the only heir to the Potter family, a proud, confident young man, and perhaps the biggest troublemaker I have ever met – and that is saying something, Mr. Potter, for I am the Head of Gryffindor House. James Potter, along with his housemates Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew were, for seven whole years, constant usurpers of the natural order here at Hogwarts." She smiled fondly. "They called themselves the Marauders, if I remember correctly – lost Gryffindor more points than anyone else had in years, but somehow managed to win them all back eventually. For six years, Lily and James could not remain in the same room for very long without a fight breaking out – yet no one was truly shocked when they became a couple in their seventh year, and were married right out of Hogwarts."

Harry sniffed quietly, taking in a deep breath. "And then…after they graduated….they fought against Voldemort?"

Professor McGonagall flinched only slightly, impressing Harry. She looked at him sadly. "After Hogwarts, James went on to become an auror, and Lily did some charms work, with Professor Flitwick, I believe – during this time, they were invaluable to the effort against You-Kno – Voldemort. They were very brave, Mr. Potter. They fought hard, until they went into hiding, around the time of your birth…"

"See, but that's what I don't understand…"

Professor McGonagall looked up at him.

"My father was just a young auror, and my mother, well, she was a new mother, and was in no position fight – on top of that, they were in hiding. Why would Voldemort go after them? Weren't there more important targets, even ones that might have been easier to get to? Head aurors? Government officials? The Headmaster?"

Professor McGonagall looked as though there were tears in her eyes. "I do not know, Mr. Potter. Your parents must have done something that…"

"That's what I thought to, until today. I was thinking…maybe it wasn't them. Neville Longbottom's parents were attacked around the same time…what if, what if it wasn't our parents? Neville and I are almost the exact same age, only a day's difference, and our parents were killed almost at the same time…that really can't be a coincidence – what if it was something…something to do with us?"

"Mr. Potter, how could you and Mr. Longbottom have possibly…"

"I don't know, professor. All I know is…it's a coincidence, a strange one, and it doesn't make any sense. I…I just want to know the truth…"

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes, then opened them toward Harry, deep sorrow shining within them. "Some things we can never know, Mr. Potter, and some things…we should be happy that we don't know."

That told Harry far more than any other answer she could have given him.

Harry collapsed on his soft mattress, not even looking at Jean's portrait, which lay beside him.

They sat like that for a long time, silent, neither of them daring to disturb the quiet, which was not at all polluted by Stephen's soft snoring, the chirping of the few crickets lingering in the late autumn, and the cold breeze brushing up against the castle walls. It was willful silence, stillness – pure; neither of them cared where it came from or why it had come, until Harry spoke up, whispering brokenly,

"I…I think it's my fault my parents were killed, Jean…"

Jean really didn't know what to say to that.

Thoughts? Opinions? I'd love to hear them.