Chapter Sixteen
Hog's Head is a dimly lit hovel on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. The barman is a tumbler juggling psychopath. The place he runs is malodorous; it peddles liquefied rot and plays host to every communicable disease in existence.
Thus it is with trepidation that Trace and I step in through the doorway, puffs of dust accompanying each step.
There's a mansion's worth of space on the inside. Grubby pinewood tables and chairs are strewn about the room. Students congregate around them. They converse in hushed voices, then stop and stare as we go along. Some of these are my classmates, but they are strangers to me and their gazes are hostile. We are not welcome here, if only due to the colour of our crests and ties and the outer lining of our robes.
Daph has taken a corner table. She gives us a lazy wave. We thread our way to her, and since I don't trust the chairs to hold, I conjure three sofas. I sink into one and sigh in bliss. Trace takes another.
Daph raises an eyebrow.
"Show off," she says. But she switches over to the third. She smooths out her skirt as she settles down.
"How was it?" she asks. And then to Trace: "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
"Why does no one ever ask me that?" I say. "I'm a sentimental man. A wallflower, a porcelain doll. Easy to break by accident, yet you all treat me like—"
I trail off. Ol' Bonesie has detached herself from the crowd of onlookers and is marching towards us, her cloak fluttering behind her.
A word on Susan Bones, if you please.
Alabaster skin. Seastone eyes. Plaited hair the colour of rust. Earnest, beautiful, brave and helpful. A decent duellist as well. Trained by her aunt, who is the head of DMLE.
She's also feisty, lacks a sense of humour, tends to hold grudges, and is an ex of mine.
What's more, she hates my guts.
I don't blame her for it. We were toxic towards the end. She said horrible things and I was equally horrid in response. Despite this, I believe Bones has the traits to be a stellar partner, because she is a good person at heart. But she needs someone on the same wavelength as her, someone who can look past her occasional outbursts and appreciate her best qualities. Foster them. Nourish them.
I was never that person. I have a type, a very specific type— and she is currently quivering next to me and trying her utmost to burrow herself deep into her sofa.
I mean Trace, of course. Trace was, is, and continues to be terrified of Bonesie and her legendary temper tantrums. Mostly because she was the subject of these tantrums.
And on reflection, I must admit that maybe Sue Bones had a point. I've held her up as this effigy for ridicule throughout, because the notion of me and Trace ever dating was silly at the time; but now that the scales have fallen from my eyes, I realise that Bones was in a difficult position. She saw the writing on the wall; but instead of letting go, as I did with Fleur, she chose to fight a losing battle, because she valued me, cherished me, wanted me in her life; and I brushed her off because I was unserious and thought her insane, and because every word that left her mouth towards the end dripped venom and was a personal attack on my best friend.
Friends, if you include Daph. But even Sue did not seriously believe Daph would try stealing me from her.
It's all water under the bridge though. We've avoided each other for half a year. Which is why I'm surprised to see Sue Bones stand before us with her hands on her hips. There's such loathing in her glare that I whistle in appreciation.
"'Sup, Bonesie," I say. "Long time no see."
Trace whimpers and buries her head in her cloak. She's made herself so small you could mistake her for a hobbit.
"You," Bones snarls. "You."
I have already hinted at her lamentable lack of conversational depth. With or without Trace, it was never going to work out between us.
"Me," I reply, mimicking her tone. "Me."
"You think you're funny, don't you?"
She spits that out like a curse.
"I know I am."
This checks her momentum. She gropes about for a retort. Again, I like my women sharp tongued and quick witted, and Bones, though academically brilliant, simply lacks the rhetorical prowess to keep up. It's what I like about Daph— she'd have found a rejoinder by now. Something to cut me down to size. And then we could've kept the verbal cut and thrust going along for quite a while.
"You're not," Bones growls.
I shrug.
"If you say so. What d'you want, Bonesie?"
"It's Susan Bones to you. You're not ten years old; it's not cute to keep butchering my name. But oh, you do that for everyone, don't you? You useless bag of—"
"Can I hex her?" Daph demands.
"Absolutely not," I retort. "Manners, Daph. Let's not live up to the Slytherin stereotype."
I turn to Bones, who is getting angrier by the second.
"We broke up over this shit, Sue. We're not doing this again. So quit yapping and tell me what you want."
She wants nothing more than to dunk me headfirst into a vat of hydrochloric acid. Her eyes darken; her fingernails bite into her palms.
The anticipated explosion does not come. One second she's simmering, the next the rage bleeds out and her expression turns wooden.
Sue Bones is an accomplished Occlumens.
"You are not welcome here," she drones. Her voice is toneless— a side effect of occlumency.
"We were invited."
"I don't care. You don't belong with us. Get lost."
I consider doing just that. But I'll be damned if I let Bones of all people bully me out of this dilapidated shanty. Besides, I wish to see what circus they've cooked up here.
"Longbottom invited us," I say.
Her hand twitches but her countenance remains wooden.
"I know what you're like. Neville doesn't. He's sweet and trusting. It's the only reason he has let you in."
"Come now, Sue. I'm a decent chap, aren't I? Don't let the Prophet do your thinking for you. Never thought I'd see the day you took Skeeter's word over mine."
"You're worse than Skeeter," she replies. "You're an opportunist and a cunt. You'd sell us out if it suited you."
I laugh.
"Don't flatter yourself. I don't think you've got anything here that's worth selling out."
"Neville Longbottom is one of my closest friends," she continues, disregarding my response and stepping into my space. "Hurt him and they won't find enough of you or your girlfriends to bury, Potter. I swear it on my mother's grave."
This saps away the good cheer.
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Bones," I say quietly, standing. "Try anything, and you'll be joining your mum in the grave next to hers."
Our wands cut through the air simultaneously. Hers is pointed at my heart while mine digs into her throat.
The rest of the students come alive in a flurry of upturned chairs. They surround us in a loose semi circle. Wands are pointed in our general direction. They're terrified of me, but to defend a friend they're willing to lay down their lives.
Daph gets to her feet and draws her wand as well. Trace mirrors her motion, but I've never seen her look more hesitant.
"Um, guys?" she says, slipping to the right to cover my blind side. "Can't we all just be friends?"
"Oy, no murder in the pub," the barman grumbles.
I don't know if it would've come to that. Three against twenty odd, but I reckon we could take them. Only, we never get to find out, because Neville Longbottom chooses that instant to make his entrance. He has a sheaf of papers bunched up in one hand, and is flanked by Weasley and Granger.
Weasley takes one look at the fiasco and stops dead in his tracks.
"Bloody warned you not to invite Slytherins," he swears. "Told you it'd go like this."
Granger wrings her hands and harrumphs in distressed acknowledgement.
Longbottom finds the situation amusing. There's a flicker of a boyish grin— he suppresses it with some effort.
"Settle down, guys, settle down," he says, gesturing to the crowd surrounding us.
People stove their wands away and stoop to pick up their chairs. But Bones does not move. Her face is granite. Her wand is still pointed at my heart. A futile threat— at this range I'd break her wrist the second she starts weaving the movements for a spell. She knows that too, so the action is purely symbolic.
"Why is he here?" She asks Longbottom over her shoulder.
"I trust him," Longbottom replies.
"You don't even know me," I protest. It's not my place to defend Sue Bones, but she has a point, you know.
These pearls of wisdom are ignored.
"After everything his father did to your family?" Bones growls through gnashed teeth.
"We don't punish people for their parents' mistakes," Longbottom fires back. "We look at who they are, and we judge them for that."
He spins around and faces the room.
"I have nothing against Harry Potter," he announces authoritatively, raising his voice. "Talk to him before you write him off. If you haven't done that, then you're no better than the journalists who've defamed me all year."
He turns back to us.
"Put your wands away, you two. You as well, Tracey, Greengrass."
It is an order. And we listen. There's something about his brusque, no nonsense way of speech — he no longer resembles the soft spoken bloke I've met twice before.
Bones steps away after shooting me a dirty look. She heads back to her coterie of Hufflepuffs, who are suitably awed at her courage.
Longbottom steps forward.
"Ab'." He nods to the barman. He flicks a galleon. It spins in the air, gleaming golden. The barman snatches it and tucks it away.
"Round of butterbeers for everyone," Longbottom says.
And then to Granger:
"Close the door, Hermione."
They've chosen well, I decide, as the door groans shut and the bolt shoots into place. There are no other patrons. Longbottom has obviously planned this in advance with 'Ab'. Order of the Phoenix member, perhaps?
Butterbeers are served. We've all taken adjacent tables. Longbottom sits in the centre.
Christ and his twelve disciples, I think, with yours truly cast in the role of Judas Iscariot.
Longbottom sets his butterbeer down on the discoloured table cloth. He does not take a sip. Weasley, on the other hand, is chugging his drink down as if his life depends on it. He keeps glancing at us out of the corner of his eye, and it is clear he hates being in the same room with us; but out of respect for Longbottom he restrains himself.
"Umbridge," Granger says, clearing her throat. Her drink is untouched as well. "That's what we're here to—"
"No."
It is a single word, but all activity ceases as it rings through the room. Reverberates off the rafters.
Granger looks like she's been stabbed in the back.
"Neville—"
"No," Longbottom repeats, standing. "We're not here for Umbridge. That was an excuse for this meeting. So if you've only come to improve your Defence grades, you can leave now."
No one moves.
"What's it about, then?" A Ravenclaw asks. Padma Patil, if memory serves.
"Fighting Voldemort."
The response is instantaneous. Squeaks, shouts, cries. Flailing limbs. Sprayed drinks. The tintinnabulations of shattered glass.
"The Prophet was right, you're mad," a Hufflepuff heaves. Finch Fletchley, I think. "Where's the evidence he's back?"
"I saw Cedric die," Longbottom says. "I saw Voldemort resurrected, with the bone of his father, the flesh of his servant and the blood of his enemy. Then I fought him and lost."
"And lived to tell the tale somehow." Fletchley's sneer is deranged. It's not spite driving his vitriol but raw, primal terror.
"Through dumb luck," Longbottom says calmly. "Which is why we're here. To learn. To get better. To stick together and face him and his death eaters as a unified force when the time comes. Because the Ministry isn't doing enough. The school isn't doing enough. The adults in our life aren't doing enough. And so it falls on us to protect each other."
Silence.
Then the sound of glass thumping against wood. George Weasley has slammed down his empty cup.
"Fuck it, I'm in," he grunts, wiping his lips.
"Me as well," his twin says.
And the ratifying murmur is picked up and tossed about, till they're all swearing their fealty to this batshit whack job and his equally nutty cause. Even Fletchley does it, though at the prompting of his friends. Only Granger looks hesitant— this is not how she expected this conversation to go. But she keeps mum.
I don't.
I must preface this by saying that it is kindness which inspires my words, not antagonism. Longbottom has been straight with me; he's shown himself to be a decent bloke. The least I owe him in return is sixty seconds of honesty.
"You're setting them all up to die," I say.
Trace tugs at my sleeve and kicks my shin. It hurts, but I ignore her. Even Daph seems uncertain— in my peripheral vision I can see the subtle shake of her head. I ignore that as well.
Longbottom does not get upset. He does not throw a hissy fit. Weasley starts to say something unkind, but Longbottom raises a hand and he falls silent.
"That's not true," Neville Longbottom says. "Umbridge is setting us up to die, not me. Dumbledore taught me, and I'll pass on every lesson I've learnt, to try and keep my friends alive. It might not be enough, but it's the best I can give them."
"There's no ' might not'", I reply. "It won't be enough. They're children, Longbottom. Children whose brains have been scrambled by the school curriculum. Poor basics. No professional training. They have no place on a battlefield, yet you want to lead them out in a cavalry charge against Lord Voldemort and his inner circle. To go out in a blaze of glory, no doubt."
I huff out a laugh. There's no mirth in it.
"Fletchley is right— you are insane. If you want to keep this lot alive, ask them to stay at home and sit out the war."
"Like that's ever mattered," Weasley snarls. "Helped my sister, didn't it? Or the other people You Know Who's gotten after. No, Hermione, stop trying to shush me. Fuck this prick. Fuck his condescending bullshit. Just because he can throw around a few spells he thinks he's better than us."
It's a cheap shot, but I can't resist the retort.
"I don't think I'm better, Weasley. I know I am."
"Prove it," Longbottom says. His tone is even. He has registered no surprise.
My eyebrows hit my hairline.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Fight me," he says. "Right here, right now. There's an undergrowth nearby— we'll nip across and settle this, if you're willing."
"What's the point?"
"If you win, I'll admit you're right. That I'm not fit to lead a resistance. That we're misguided children. But if I win, you apologise to everyone here for assuming they're not good enough to stand up for themselves."
He crosses his arms.
"You apologise to them for calling them children."
I can't shoot him down without losing face; not that I would, because I can hardly believe my luck. He's given me everything I want on a silver platter. But as I think about it— as I tie together the late invitation and the lack of surprise— I realise I've been set up.
Longbottom expected this reaction. He expected me to be the voice of reason.
He wants this. He wants to fight me. That's why he invited me.
But even as I accept his challenge, even as I nod in acquiesce, his motivations are a mystery. He's seen snippets of Protego Diabolica. Unless he's deluded, he knows that I am better than he is.
So what could possibly compel him to risk humiliation in front of this audience, who already believe in him and have anointed him as their saviour?
As we walk to the aforementioned undergrowth, I turn that question over in my mind a hundred times.
I can't come up with a satisfactory answer.
So I stop thinking about it.
I am cool as a cucumber. I've looked forward to duelling Longbottom for two years now; I've wanted to bury that last little bit of self doubt regarding why Dumbledore picked him over me.
We were the last ones to leave the pub, so we are well behind everyone else. I lag, and I am leggy even as I move, because Trace and Daph are giving me a piece of their mind.
The emotions, as you might guess, are predictable. Trace is enamoured by Longbottom's stomach for struggle and considers his cause just, so she thinks it horrible that I would undermine him like this; whereas Daph is worried we've jeopardised our chances of joining him if the need arises. She wanted a private duel— if this turns into a public humiliation, as it very well might, then there's a good chance Longbottom will consider us his enemies.
"Go easy on him," she says, over and over. "We might need him, Harry."
"He needs us." Trace is upset. "You'll beat him, I know you will, but I'll join his club after that. I'll help them train, if they'll have me, because it's the right thing to do."
"I can't control how you spend your time," I hum. "But once I figure out how to finesse Umbridge, we'll still have tournaments to participate in."
"I'll drop Gobstones," Trace swears, resolute. "Fighting a dark lord is more important."
"That could work." Daph's already puzzling out the political implications of this shit. Give them Trace as mascot, perhaps, after I turn their boy into paste and ruin his self-esteem forever.
Me, though? I'm a happy chappy. I intend to sate my blood lust by forcing this lad into early retirement.
I jest. I've taken Daph's words to heart. I'll assess his skill, but I'll limit myself if he's well below a desired threshold.
The undergrowth is more of an uneven clearing with bushes sprouting from the ground and broken branches strewn about.
"First blood?" I offer, as we take up our positions.
"Sounds good to me," he replies.
Longbottom slips into a knifelike sideways stance, somewhat reminiscent of Shacklebolt. But that's where the similarities end. He's too stiff. The weight distribution is all wrong. He's putting all his weight on his lead leg, and that limits his ability to spring about, since he can only kick off properly in one direction. I don't point it out, though— there's always a possibility he's like Dumbledore, and prefers to duel without any body shifts at all.
Two spells into our mock duel, I ascertain that this is not the case. I've restricted myself to the knockback jinx, a second-year spell. I've also allowed him access to his full repertoire. He still lets me take the first shot. And then the second. And unlike Dumbledore, who would simply bat away such low-level irritants, Longbottom lopes about. His limbs are a disorganised mess, unravelling with each step, and his dodges are unwieldy things. Both spells miss him by the skin of his teeth.
Then he spins and fires. And there's such ridiculous power packed into his confringo that I abort my plan to swat mid motion and take half a step to the right. The spell ghosts past my ear. I can feel the heat radiating from it. It meets the treebark behind. With a thunderclap, as of a herd of stampeding centaurs, the bark evaporates. Shrapnel catapults about. I throw up a dome to cover everyone, though the screams are entertaining. Then I raise a hand to pause our duel.
"Wards before we continue," I say, "unless you are a supporter of deforestation. Granger, if you'd do the honours?"
She's pale and trembling as she comes forward. It tells me that she thinks this is a horrible idea. But her trust in her friend outstrips even her terror of my abilities. She does as asked, so that when we return to our duel there's a rectangular twenty by twenty ward weakly pulsing around us. It won't hold up against anything significant, but having seen what Longbottom has to offer I do not expect this duel to last for more than a minute.
It lasts thirty seconds.
It is the same pattern. He has spell variety; he has raw talent; he has insane power behind the things he throws at me, but there's little grace, little finesse, little technique, little understanding of how to use his body. He does not know how to transition from attack to defence, since he overloads on the former and ignores the latter altogether. There's not even a tactical mindset. He's not setting up anything— he throws without thought, and his spell chains are always aimed at where I am, not where I will be. I've not even raised my wand to defend myself, yet I'm able to stroll through his pressure effortlessly, ignoring the dirt it kicks up, the miniature explosions. He reminds me of Trace when we first duelled— there's the same tunnel vision and the same disregard for footwork. Even the heaviness on the lead leg is the same.
I exploit it the same way. I feint throwing a spell, and when he kicks off to his right, I catch him midair. The knockback jinx connects with his midriff. He spins twice and slams headfirst into the wards.
The clearing is silent, except for Granger who breaks away with an agonised cry and drops to her haunches to support Longbottom. Weasley is not far behind.
"First blood," I say, re-holstering my wand. "That was disappointing."
There's no triumph in my tone, only bone-deep sadness. I feel the judgement in their gazes, and I feel I deserve it. I feel like a bully. Like a real piece of work. I've proved nothing, not even to myself, except that I, Harry Potter, seventh best duellist on the planet, can quite clearly massacre a child. Whoever trained Neville Longbottom, be it Dumbledore, Shacklebolt or anyone else, has failed him miserably. Because he has the talent to do so much better than this.
"Wait," Longbottom pants. He sways to his feet. He pushes away Weasley and Granger. There's blood gushing from his nose. He dabs at it with his sleeve.
"You're right, " he says. "I'm a disappointment. They won't learn under my guidance. They won't survive, not with me as their mentor."
He hangs his head.
"Teach us, please," Longbottom says. "Teach us how to do what you just did."
At first I am baffled. And then in a flash it all clicks. It becomes clear why he invited me. Seeing the stunned expressions on the faces of his friends, it is obvious he did not confide this part of his plan to anyone. Not even to them.
There's just one hitch.
I have no interest in leading a study group, nor do I wish to participate in the war against Lord Voldemort.
"I can't." I shake my head and take a step back.
"Wait!" There's desperation in his voice this time. " Please! I'll do anything. I'll— I'll pay you!"
Those are the golden words.
I'd love to tell you that I was cold hearted and calculative. I'd love to say I considered the pros and cons of this offer, and that I enjoyed making Longbottom sweat, if only to avenge what Sue Bones had said to me an hour ago.
But the truth is I feel nothing but compassion for him. Longbottom looks at me like his life hangs in the balance. Like the lives of his friends is dependent on my word.
It is a sentiment I am intimately familiar with.
After that, if I did not need the money so badly, I dare say I'd have taken them on for free.
"You can't afford me," I reply.
"Try me," Longbottom insists, hope blossoming on his face. He limps forward. The people around us are frozen. Muttering. When they came to Hog's Head this morning, this is not what they thought they were signing up for.
"Five thousand galleons."
Unlike Lockhart, who shrivelled up the second he heard that sum, Longbottom does not waver. He doesn't even blink.
"For twenty-five people, yeah?" He clarifies. "For the entire school year?"
It is my turn to blink. I expected summary rejection.
"Sure," I say.
"Done. When can we start?"
"Hang on a minute, you can't just—"
"I'll send a letter to the goblins tomorrow. They'll transfer it to your vaults within three days. Just send me your account details."
And for the second time in quick succession, I am rooted to the spot. Longbottom is honourable. I have no reason to doubt his word.
I rediscover my voice.
"If I'm going to do this, then I want to know why," I say slowly. "Friends, yes, but five thousand galleons is a king's ransom . . ."
"Um." He steps closer and lowers his voice.
"Got a minute?" He asks, motioning with his head to a trail in the woods.
"All right."
He walks unaided. I follow him. The murmuring is now a ruckus, but we let it fade behind us.
"Don't worry about them," Longbottom says. "I'll convince them if I have to."
"You still haven't told me why."
He takes a deep breath. Swallows. Opens his mouth. Pauses. Swallows again.
"Ginny Weasley was eleven years old," he says quietly. "We were childhood friends, she was a joy. She wanted to captain the Holyhead Harpies . . . "
His mumble dies down. His eyes are glassy.
"I watched her die, Potter. There was nothing I could do. And when it was over I held her close till Fawkes got me out. Rocked her back and forth, hoping it would bring her back to life. She was so tiny . . . she weighed nothing . . . like a bird with broken wings . . ."
"My first failure." Self loathing tints his tone. "Cedric was my second. Again I watched, again I could do nothing."
Longbottom's jaw works.
"Every time I fight him, innocent people die for me. Next time it could be anyone out there." He points to the undergrowth. "I've grown up with them, they're family, they're my brothers and sisters. I love them all, I love them from the bottom of my heart. And Voldemort wishes to destroy them. He won't stop till they're dead— till he's crushed them and turned the world into what he wants it to be. So when the time comes, I want them to be able to defend themselves. To turn the tables on him if we can. But I'm not good enough to help them with it. I've never been, and I've always known it."
He looks at me.
"I don't know if you're the person to help us, but I've tried everyone else. Dumbledore. McGonagall. Half the Order. They all treat me like— treat us like . . ."
"Children," I say.
"Yeah."
I scratch my cheek.
"If I'd never approached you with information . . .?"
"I'd have reluctantly run this group myself, with Hermione's help." He gives me a half shrug. "It was never the plan to include you. But then you came to me and you seemed trustworthy." He laughs. A hollow rattle. "I don't know if you are, but I'm desperate enough to try. Crazy, as Justin said. Completely out of my mind. So when you told me about that vampire, I thought maybe I could, I don't know, ask you to run this. But I had to see for myself first. I had to see if you were really so much better than me."
Another pause.
"What I felt today— the difference in skill— it's not so different from what I felt in the graveyard. With him. So I beg you. Please— please help. I'll clean out my vault— sell every last possession— just to keep them safe. Just to not feel that guilt again."
What does one say to that?
"I'll try." I shuffle about. "And I don't need further payment. Five thousand will suffice. But shouldn't we draw up a contract or something?"
"I'll pay the entire amount upfront," he replies. "I asked Professor Dumbledore. He said I could take your word."
Ah, there it is.
"Was this Dumbledore's idea?" I ask. Because who else would know about my pressing need for money? Who, but someone with contacts in the ministry and friends in Gringotts?
"No, mine." Longbottom's response is immediate. "I just asked him what to offer, and he said— hinted, rather— that you might need gold right now. He didn't say what for."
"Let's keep it that way."
I stop. I extend a hand to shake.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Longbottom. Find a room, then let me know. Classes start next weekend."
Endnotes
I shall once again beg for reviews, because they make my day. So if you have five minutes to spare, please leave one. But if you don't, then please know that I love you anyway for reading this far. I couldn't have gotten to this point without the encouragement of my readers.