Harry
Eriss stopped dead in the middle of the dungeon corridor. Theo almost stepped on her, and danced back from the irate hiss she sent his way. Only Harry understood it, which was good, because Merlin she said some nasty things.
“What is it?” he asked instead. Several other Slytherins from outside the Vipers looked askance at the sound of Parseltongue even though they’d gradually gotten used to Harry openly carrying his familiar around the common room.
Eriss lifted her head. “I’m not sure. Someone’s screaming. Back where we came from.”
“The entrance hall?”
“Somewhere around there.”
Harry sighed. They’d just finished dinner and left early as a group, as Slytherin had taken to doing as protection against ambushes. To investigate or not…
“What?” Theo said.
“She hears screaming.”
“Let’s go see,” Graham said excitedly, turning around with Veronica, Malcolm, and Liam at his shoulders.
Well, that settled that. Harry wasn’t about to let them book it without protection. The rest of the Slytherin fifth years followed him, some more willingly than others, and then Hestia and Flora and Adrian, and the next thing he knew about twenty Slytherins were heading back up to investigate.
They were halfway back to the entrance hall when Jules hurtled out of a side corridor and ran smack into Daphne.
The blonde girl had him pinned to the wall with her wand at his throat in half a second. “Potter?” she snapped.
“Get off me,” Jules growled, his own wand digging into her ribs.
Huh. His dueling lessons had been paying off, then. “Enough,” Harry said, and Daphne stepped back, although she didn’t put her wand away. Jules looked disheveled and stressed, anger pounding worryingly close to the surface.
“I heard a scream,” Jules said.
“Yeah, so did we.” In Harry’s peripheral vision, he noted Blaise subtly scooping Eriss into his book bag. “Coming?”
Jules looked over the group of Slytherins, who stared back with blank faces and impenetrable hostility. “…sure.”
They started walking.
Theo broke the silence. “So what are you doing down here in snake territory?”
“Remedial Potions,” Jules said tersely.
Badly disguised snickers reached their ears. Jules flushed a dull, ugly red.
Theo opened his mouth again, but Harry caught his eye and Theo shut it again with a scowl.
They flooded into the entrance hall less than two minutes later, and found it already packed with hordes of students who had been finishing dinner. In the middle of the hall was Professor Trelawney, clutching a sherry bottle in one hand and her wand in the other, looking very mad. Her glasses were lopsided and her hair wild and her innumerable shawls and scarves askew.
Snape was ahead of them, stepping up to stand with McGonagall, who looked faintly sick.
With a bang, two trunks flung down the stairs and bounced. One landed upside-down next to Trelawney, who stared in the direction they’d come from in terror.
“No!” she shrieked. “NO! This cannot be happening… It cannot… I refuse to accept it!”
“You didn’t realize this was coming?” said a high girlish voice, sounding callously amused, and Harry, moving slightly to his right, saw that Trelawney’s terrifying vision was Umbridge. At his side, Jules glared in the hag’s direction. “Incapable though you are of predicting even tomorrow’s weather, you must surely have realized that your pitiful performance during my inspections, and lack of any improvement, would make it inevitable you would be sacked?”
“Can’t fucking believe that thing was a Slytherin,” Hestia sighed.
“You c-can’t! Trelawney howled, tears streaming down her face, “you c-can’t sack me! I’ve b-been here sixteen years! H-Hogwarts is m-my h-home!”
“Creepy bat,” Daphne sniffed. Jules whipped around to glare at her. “What? She is.”
“It was your home,” said Umbridge, enjoyment stretching her squashed face. Trelawney sank, sobbing, onto one of her trunks. “Until an hour ago, when the Minister of Magic countersigned the order for your dismissal. Now kindly remove yourself from this hall. You embarrass all of wizardkind.”
But she stood and watched, with an expression of gloating enjoyment, as Trelawney shuddered and moaned, rocking on her trunk. Pansy elbowed Harry and nodded in the direction of Brown and Patil, who were both crying silently and appeared to be holding each other upright. He sneered involuntarily at such a disgustingly public show of emotion.
“Four galleons she has some kind of fainting fit,” Everett said maliciously.
Chapman snorted. “Five it involves some kind of wailing.”
“You prat, she’s already doing that…”
“Ten galleons Dumbledore interferes somehow,” Seaton said.
“He can’t, his hands are tied, I’ll take that bet.”
Money changed hands and quiet bets were placed. Jules stared at them in horror.
Mercifully, McGonagall broke away from the other spectators and marched forward, distracthing him. She conjured a large handkerchief and handed it to Trelawney. “There, there, Sybill… Calm down… Blow your nose… It’s not as bad as you think, now… You are not going to have to leave Hogwarts.”
“Oh, really, Professor McGonagall?” said Umbridge, in what she probably thought was a frightening voice. “And your authority for that statement is…?”
The oak front doors slammed open. “That would be mine.”
Students near the doors scuttled out of the way as Dumbledore appeared in the entrance. Several Slytherins who’d bet against Seaton groaned quietly. He cut an impressive figure backlit against the misty night, with a terrible expression and royal purple robes. The doors hung open behind him as he strode forward to Trelawney and McGonagall.
“Yours, Professor Dumbledore?” said Umbridge with an unpleasant little laugh. “I’m afraid you do not understand the position. I have here an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister of Magic. Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon probation, and sack any teacher she—that is to say, I—feel is not performing up to the standard required by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Sybill Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.”
Dumbledore merely smiled. He looked down at the woman sobbing on her trunk and said, “You are quite right, Professor Umbridge. You have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle. I am afraid that the power to do that still resides with the headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at Hogwarts.”
Trelawney laughed wildly. “No—no, I’ll g-go, Dumbledore! I sh-shall leave Hogwarts and s-seek my fortune elsewhere…”
“No,” said Dumbledore sharply, “it is my wish that you remain, Sybill.”
“And what Dumbledore wishes, the rest of the world bends over backwards to give him,” someone muttered sardonically, to the amusement of the entire clot of Slytherins. Jules frowned. Harry watched him for a few seconds. It was more of a pensive expression than an offended one. Interesting change.
“Might I ask you to escort Sybill back upstairs, Professor McGonagall?”
“Of course,” said McGonagall. “Up you get, Sybill…”
Sprout hurried forward and grabbed Trelawney’s other arm. The two witches guided her pas Umbridge and up the marble stairs. Flitwick waved his wand, squeaked “Locomotor trunks,” and followed, guiding Trelawney’s luggage obediently up the stairs.
Umbridge stood stock-still. “And what,” she said in a whisper that carried through the otherwise dead silent hall, “are you going to do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?”
“Oh, that won’t be a problem,” said Dumbledore pleasantly. “you see, I have already found a new Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the ground floor.”
“You’ve found—?” Umbridge said shrilly. Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. This was great comedy. “You’ve found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Twenty-two—”
“—the Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if—and only if—the headmaster is unable to find one,” Dumbledore cut in smoothly. “And I am happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded. May I introduce you?”
He turned to face the open front doors, which had allowed some of the mist to creep into the hall. It was an altogether eerie effect. Hoofbeats sounded on the stone steps leading up to the front doors. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he flashed back to one of Hannah’s many impassioned lectures on magical creatures.
Several people tripped in their haste to get farther from the doors.
The mist parted and a strangely shaped figure appeared. He stepped forward, out of the fog. White-blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes, the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino body of a horse.
A centaur.
“This is Firenze,” said Dumbledore happily to a thunderstruck Umbridge. “I think you’ll find him suitable.”
Umbridge’s mouth gaped open but no sound came out. “A—a half-breed!”
“She’s the one that forced that anti-werewolf legislation through,” someone hissed from the knot of Slytherins. Jules twitched, although his anger was directed at Umbridge this time.
Hm. Her hatred of half-breeds was more than academic, then. Umbridge was clutching her wand and glaring at Firenze as though she were half a heartbeat away from setting him on fire.
“You could say that,” Firenze said mildly. “Although centaurs tend to find that descriptor rather… demeaning.”
“It’s not qualified to teach students!” Umbridge shrieked.
“To the contrary.” Firenze’s demeanor didn’t change in the slightest. “My people are quite skilled in the art you call divination, although our methods differ somewhat from those of human magicals.”
“Your quarters are just down there,” Dumbledore said to Firenze with a warm smile. “Argus, if you could show him the way?”
Leering unpleasantly the whole time, Filch elbowed his way out of the crowd. “This way,” he snarled, and lurched off down the first floor corridor.
Firenze bowed to the student body as a whole and followed. People leaped out of his way.
Umbridge stowed her wand with shaking hands. Harry caught the twins’ eyes across the hall and knew they were filing away her fear for future reference. Really, this had been a clever move on Dumbledore’s part. Umbridge would be unstable, though; the “undesirable” students would have to be extra careful for a bit.
“Good evening, Professor Umbridge,” Dumbledore said happily, flicking his wand to shut the doors and striding away up the staircase.
The entrance hall erupted into busy chatter. Umbridge snarled and shoved her way back into the Great Hall.
“Pay up,” Seaton said gleefully.
Harry slipped off after Jules in the cover of money changing hands. “What?” Jules snapped when Harry caught his elbow.
“Calm down,” Harry said.
“Sorry.” Jules visibly forced himself to relax. “What is it?”
“Spread the word to be careful for the next few days,” Harry said. “Umbridge will be looking for excuses to take this out on people.”
“Fuck, good point.” Jules ran a hand through his hair. “Dumbledore will protect the students.”
“Can he?”
Jules made a face. “I’ll spread the word.”
The student body was on fire with rumors about Firenze over the next few days. After hearing about the Divination lessons from a few Slytherins who’s wanted the easy O, Harry had never been more glad that he’d opted for Runes and Arithmancy instead.
“Have you met him?” Barty asked, referring to Firenze, at their next session.
Harry cocked an eyebrow. “You’re perfectly aware I wouldn’t touch the Divination classes here with a ten-foot pole.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“I’d rather be a smart-ass than a dumbass.”
Barty snickered. “You’d have fit in well in my House.”
Harry raised his other eyebrow.
“Mm, yes, I’m well aware you would have had every one of them dancing to your tune by this point. The centaur. Have you met him?”
“Not in person. He doesn’t eat with us at meals—something about the smell of human food bothering him.”
Barty nodded. “Centaurs don’t associate with humans much, and they tend to have enhanced senses, although that can vary from one herd to another.”
“Is there any subject you don’t know at least a little about?” Harry said irritably.
“One of the only things I was allowed to do, under the Imperius, was read,” Barty said flatly. “Winky felt sorry for me, sometimes, and let me into the books Father implied but never ordered her to keep me away from. So no, not many.”
Harry didn’t bother pretending to feel bad for touching on a sore subject. “Do you want me to meet him?”
“I’m just interested,” Barty said, curiosity animating his entire face. It was the kind of curiosity that Harry imagined had first led humans to dissect other humans’ dead bodies. “Witches and wizards using divination is spotty at best—it really can’t be taught. You have the gift or you don’t, which is the main reason having it on the curriculum here is one of the most ridiculous things about Hogwarts’ many, many failings as an educational institution. Centaurs, though—they have different magic, like house-elves or goblins have different magic, and divination is completely different for them than for us. I’d be fascinated to speak with one… Usually they avoid our kind…”
“I’d be happy to introduce you, but, you know.” Harry gestured vaguely towards Barty’s left arm. “Death Eater and all.” He could think of several ways to get around that, all of which involved Polyjuice, identity theft, and Occlumency, but he wasn’t going to suggest any.
“Hm.” Barty frowned. “I’ll think on it.
Concerning. He’d probably come up with a way to talk to Firenze on his own, if Riddle allowed it.
“Anyway. If you get the chance, ask him how centaurs’ divination differs from ours, although you may not understand the answer, as you’ve never taken the class.”
Harry shrugged. He preferred to make his own future, thank you very much. He’d read Macbeth. Prophecies never ended well for anyone. Including the one over which the Order and the Death Eaters were currently sparring.
Barty rolled his eyes. “Slytherins… Did you finish the Disillusionment Charm work yet?”
“I did, actually,” Harry said, grinning as he whipped out a fat scroll. He’d carefully copied his scattered, messy notes into a cohesive thread of work for presentation. Barty accepted it and read through.
“Good work. You’re finally ready to learn the charm. Wand out. This one is very useful, but done wrong, you might forever end up transparent,” Barty warned. “One wizard used glass as his visualization exercise and turned himself into a glass figurine.”
Harry winced.
“Yes. So, pay attention, and don’t fuck up.”
“Great pep talk,” Harry said, flicking his wand into his hand. “So motivational.”
Barty bowed in his seat, and he was almost as good as Blaise at making nonverbal gestures sarcastic. “I try. Now, do as I do, and I know you’re an excellent Occlumens for your age, so put that mental discipline to good use. Intent.”
February blurred into March. The approaching OWL exams loomed unpleasantly large on the horizon for most of fifth year. Justin reported, with copious eye-rolls, that Ernie Macmillan had already descended into obsessive reviewing. Hermione tried, showing up in the Chamber with a six-inch-tall stack of meticulous schedules and study programs, but Theo snatched them away, set them on fire, and told her very bluntly not to work herself into madness.
The Slytherins, as usual, were in pretty good form. Copies of past exams could be had, for the price of a favor or a few galleons. The Vipers in particular were doing well. Everett, Flora, and Celesta arranged for the last ten years’ OWLs to “show up” in the Chamber with terrifying speed.
According to Hermione, most of the Gryffindors were desperately trying to ignore the oncoming exams. Harry reviewed for a few hours each week but, frankly, he wasn’t that worried.
All the Vipers and, surprisingly, the DA members were doing much better in class, though Neville, Hermione, and the twins reported that their sessions were chaotic and rather limited in scope. The Vipers worked on all subjects and their unofficial meetings were usually study groups during which they talked about their plans. So far, Umbridge hadn’t managed to get anyone with Veritaserum, and the Slytherin Muggle-borns were constantly surrounded by their House mates and under strict instructions to be model students in class. There wasn’t much Harry could do for those outside his House but a few quiet conversations with Patil—one of the only tolerable Gryffindors in Jules’ little circle—made sure they’d at least get dittany, essence of murtlap, and his modified healing potion.
“Why are you helping us?” she asked him, once.
Because Ron wasn’t there, Harry answered. “I don’t like you lot much,” he said bluntly. “But Hogwarts is the first place I ever felt at home, and Umbridge is disrupting that. I’m quite happy to undermine her at every opportunity. Including protecting the students of Hogwarts from her.”
“Lots of us haven’t been very nice to you.”
Harry snorted. “I’m surprised any of you has the self-awareness to acknowledge that. Don’t look so offended, you know it’s true. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but so far she hasn’t targeted anyone who’s been an active twat to me, so.”
Patil had nodded and taken the vials of potion he handed over, which held an even better and more recent modified healing potion geared towards blood quills. He wasn’t willing to share the recipe, so between him and Neville and Hermione, they just kept her supplied.
It was a strange truce, but a useful one.
Fred and George pulled at least one major prank per week. They toed the line Harry had set, covering their tracks and not causing any lasting damage to anyone who didn’t deserve it. Harry frequently passed them the names the Slytherin prefects collected of Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws who were particularly awful, or Slytherins who insisted on clinging to blood supremacy. It was a good way for the twins to blow off steam and indulge their crueler ideas.
He set the Vipers to learning Patronuses the same week the DA did.
“There’s no way we can learn to cast those,” Malcolm objected. “We’re only second years!”
“Expecto patronum,” Harry said, and his wolf sprang from the tip of his wand, padding over to the young Vipers and sniffing at them. Graham raised a hand toward it in awe.
“I learned it in my third year,” Harry said.
“Yeah, but that’s you,” Veronica said.
Harry laughed, but looking around—the others agreed with her. Even the older set. Even Hestia and Flora.
“It’s a mental exercise,” he said. “And it might be out of reach for first and second years whose magic isn’t developed enough yet, but your Occlumency should at least start you down the path. Would anyone rather not learn it?”
Predictably, no hands went up, so Harry nodded and moved on. They were sitting in a clot on the Chamber floor on an assortment of conjured chairs and pillows, and he wasn’t quite standing in front of a class, but everyone’s attention was fixed on him. “Right. Firstly, there’s a mental shortcut called ‘framing’ that I read about in third year. You don’t actually need a happy memory to conjure a Patronus. It helps, and with relentless practice, your magic connects the intent with the outcome and the memory becomes unnecessary. Can anyone take a guess why relying on a happy memory to conjure a Patronus is a stupid idea?”
“Dementors suck away happiness,” Vasily said.
Harry nodded. “Exactly. Framing takes about the same amount of time to learn, and it’s simply easier for people without the mental discipline, but it’s cheating. You can produce a Patronus with framing as early as you can by doing it the right way but it takes a lot more practice to be able to conjure one in the face of dementors sucking out your happy memories. I didn’t have a memory happy enough to power a Patronus, so I didn’t have that option.” He ignored the bevy of shocked and upset expressions that created. “I learned the Patronus basically because I was stubborn and I had the power to pull it off. You’ve all been working on basic passive Occlumency this year, so it’s time to put that to use. The incantation is expecto patronum, and the wand movement is thus.”
He demonstrated. Discordant voices practiced the incantation; wands flicked. Harry and the Carrows, who’d taken it upon themselves to learn the Patronus over the summer, went through the group and corrected the wands and incantations until everyone had it right.
It took until early March before anyone succeeded. A shout of joy echoed through the Chamber and everyone turned to look at a silver bear lumbering through the air.
“Brilliant, Nev!” Harry said, grinning.
“Whoa,” Neville said, staring at the silver animal. “A bear…”
“You’re terrifying,” Blaise said.
Hestia and Flora’s Patronuses were both swans, and it was impossible to detect which was which when they both flew around the Chamber. Blaise grinned at the panther that settled itself down at his feet. Theo’s Patronus turned out to be an ashwinder, to the surprise of absolutely no one. Hermione cast an otter, Everett an eagle owl, Daphne a coral snake, and Justin a greyhound. Draco was almost the last of the older set to figure it out, and when he finally cast a peacock, everyone burst into laughter.
Celesta seemed pleased with her pine marten. Noah, Adrian, Peregrine, and Jordan Harper couldn’t seem to get past a non-corporeal silver shield and left it at that, but Mason, Iris, Sam, and Aaron refused to accept failure even though they all took longer than the Slytherins. The four of them kept drilling the spell in their spare time.
Harry found them waiting in the Chamber one evening a few days later, when it was his shift on potions duty. “Check this out,” Sam said proudly.
The four Ravenclaws raised their wands. “Expecto patronum!”
Mason’s horse, Sam’s boar, Aaron’s barn owl, and Iris’ heron exploded into the Chamber.
“Impressive,” Harry said. “This will earn extra points on your NEWTs, for sure.”
“I’m aware,” Iris said, watching her heron flutter around with satisfaction.
When Pansy finally cast a fox Patronus that bore a startling resemblance to Astrych, everyone cheered.
Evalyn’s mako shark was three times the girl’s own size. None of the other fourth years managed a corporeal Patronus and only a few of the younger set could create even a shield, but Harry told them it was fine and they’d get it with practice. No one seemed discouraged.
“Some of the DA can handle it too,” Neville said one evening, when just Harry and his close friends were holed up in the Chamber study with firewhiskey and conjured sofas, the desk shoved into the corner. “Ron’s is a terrier.”
“Bigger bark than bite,” Daphne said, swirling her glass. “Sounds about right.”
Neville snorted. “No kidding… They’ve quit trying to pick on me, at least.”
“That’s good.” Harry watched him carefully.
“Mhm.”
“Neville and I work together most of the time,” Hermione said. She was leaning back, curled up between Blaise and Daphne, all three of them tangled together in a chair not really designed for three people. “Or Nev and Anthony, and then I pair up with Sue. Her Patronus is a lizard.”
Blaise snickered and Hermione kicked his ankle.
Harry caught Neville’s eye when Hermione chivvied everyone off to bed, insisting that it was a school night, honestly, they needed sleep. Neville lingered until it was just him and Harry in the study.
“Nev…” Harry paused. “I… need to ask you something. About your parents.”
Neville stiffened. “Harry—”
“I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to,” Harry cut in. “Please. I just want to know if—they’ve been examined by a Legilimens.”
“Yeah,” Neville said. “I asked Gran once. She said Dumbledore spent a month in St. Mungo’s after it… happened. He was dead on his feet by the end but he said there was nothing to be done and—he’s one of the best Legilimens living.”
Harry frowned. “Neville—did you pay attention to our lessons on the Cruciatus last year?”
“You mean when a disguised Death Eater demonstrated the curse that drove my parents insane in front of me?” Neville said.
“I’ll take that as a no.” Harry shrugged. “It’s just… Sirius has taken five Crucios in a row during the war. He took some time off, rested up, and the mind healers at St. Mungo’s said he was fine after that. How many curses did your parents take?”
Neville’s hands were white-knuckled. “How would I know?”
“The dementors make us see our worst memories,” Harry said quietly. “I—saw—the Dursleys. Some of—what they did to me.” His eyes closed involuntarily and he kept his Occlumency shields up and the memories at bay. “Jules—heard Voldemort killing our mum.”
“And you’re guessing—I relived—that day.”
Harry nodded.
“You’re not wrong.” Neville frowned. His eyes unfocused a bit. “I… three times. I heard it cast six times, so—three each. But—can we trust—dementor memories?”
Harry let out a bitter laugh. “All mine were real.”
“But… that… Maybe the Lestranges modified the curse.”
“Maybe.” Harry could tell Neville didn’t believe that any more than he did.
“Something’s weird about this,” Neville said, almost to himself. “I’ll write—”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “They’re probably watching the mail, remember? And almost definitely the Floo. Wait until the summer. Just—I wanted—Sirius was talking about some of his war stories last summer and I just—couldn’t help thinking something was wrong. So I brought it up.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Neville said quietly. “You’re… my best friend, Harry, you know that, right?”
“I do.” Harry tried a smile.
“And I wouldn’t make you choose—I know Theo’s yours,” Neville added hurriedly. “Just… thanks. For—seeing me.”
There were a lot of things he could say to that, but Harry didn’t feel like saying any of them, so he just nodded and laid a hand on Neville’s shoulder.
“Don’t curse me,” Neville said, and then he stepped forward and hugged him.
Harry went rigid. Neville, he reminded himself, Neville, his friend who had the sense to keep his grip loose and easy to break out of, so he very hesitantly raised his own arms and wrapped them around Neville’s back in return. It was weird and awkward and why did people find it comforting to wrap their bodies around each other like this—
“See?” Neville said, stepping back with a shaky smile. “You didn’t die.”
“I never think I’m going to die,” Harry said, a bit stiffly, but Neville’s laugh and his return smile were as genuine as anything.
Neville
He sighed at the Room of Requirement in general. “Sometimes I wish we didn’t have to come…”
“Yeah, but it’s useful,” Hermione said happily. “Any chance to practice spellwork is useful.”
“Plus, you know, keeping an eye on the Boy Who Lived to Be Annoying,” George said darkly. He and Fred had taken to lurking around Hermione and Neville during DA meetings and really only interacted with Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell. They got tons of orders for their Skiving Snackboxes and some other early joke products but some of the things Neville had overheard them whispering about involved less benign creations.
All four of them watched Jules pause by Cho Chang, Marietta Edgecombe (fresh out of the hospital wing and target of Fred and George’s periodic glares), Macmillan, Roper, and Bones. He talked for a few minutes and had Chang try the Patronus again.
The DA erupted into cheers when she successfully cast a robin.
“He’s good at teaching,” Neville said. “You have to admit…”
Fred snorted but didn’t deny it.
“Must run in the family,” Hermione agreed.
Jules worked his way through the group. Neville had only gotten his bear to appear at the Vipers meeting last weekend, and this was the first DA session since. He was excited to give it a try.
So when Jules got to the little clot in the corner, which now included Anthony, Sue, Lisa, and Hannah, Neville swallowed the sick nervousness in his stomach. So many years without the magical ease of his peers left him with a constant voice whispering what if it doesn’t work, what if the last year has been a fluke, what if this time it just doesn’t happen, what if what if what if—
Every spell was proving something to himself. Every spell was Neville convincing himself that, no, he wasn’t a Squib, and also reminding himself that he had friends who’d liked him before the cherry and unicorn wand.
He ignored the insulting amount of surprise on everyone’s face that Neville Longbottom had volunteered to go first. Honestly, he was used to it, after four and a half years. Neville focused, ignoring the ‘happy memory’ bullshit like Harry and Hestia and Flora had taught him. “Expecto patronum!”
Magic flooded down his arm and through his wand in a heady rush. Neville’s face split into a broad grin as silver light coalesced into a grizzly bear standing on its hind legs and looming over Jules. Several people screamed.
“Holy shit,” Jules said.
Ronald’s eyes were wide as saucers.
“No way,” someone said, and there were other whispers, too, shocked and incredulous and impressed. Honestly. You’d think, after this whole time kicking their asses in the DA, they’d have gotten used to the fact that Neville was not in fact completely incompetent, but nooo.
Hermione cast an otter and Fred and George their matching foxes, which turned out not to be foxes at all, according to Hannah, who took one look and started talking about a species of magical fox native to Japan with tails made of fire. Kitsunes, she called them. Fred and George had very pleased expressions when they ended the spell. The kind of pleased that had only appeared lately and never boded well for anyone.
“Fiendfyre twins,” Luna said helpfully, having appeared at Neville’s elbow at some point, and then she cast her own Patronus, which turned out to be a hare. He wondered why she’d sat out at the Vipers meeting.
“I can’t have been practicing outside the DA, can I?” she said reasonably.
Neville jumped a bit. “Did you…”
“No,” Luna said, patting his arm. “You’re just transparent. You do well, for a Gryffindor.”
He smiled grudgingly. The Slytherins said similar things. “How’s Blaise?”
Luna fiddled with her hair. “Oh, we’re not together anymore.”
“What? But—”
“I’m with someone else.”
“Oh. Who?” Neville was over his crush on Luna, but still. She was his friend, and he wanted to make sure if she was seeing someone, they didn’t hurt her. Not that she couldn’t take care of herself, what with her penchant for creative and obscure curses that even impressed Theo, but still.
Luna stared at him for a second. Her blue eyes were wide and vaguely creepy. “It’s a secret.”
“Huh. Okay,” Neville said. “Why?”
“Their family wouldn’t be happy with it.”
And, okay, Neville wasn’t the best with what Harry called verbal tap-dancing, but he definitely noticed the lack of a gender-specific pronoun there. Hermione quite clearly hadn’t. She was still prattling on with Hannah about the properties of kitsunes while Fred and George listened and did that silent communication thing with their eyes. That probably meant Luna was seeing a girl, and that said girl had a family who either disliked Lovegoods or same-sex couples. The Lovegoods didn’t really have enemies, so—a Muggle-born?
He smiled at her. “Okay, I won’t say anything, then.”
“You’re a good friend, Neville Longbottom,” she said solemnly. “I’d tell you if I could.”
“I know, Lu,” he agreed. “Tell them I’m sorry their family wouldn’t approve.”
She giggled a bit. “You could tell them yourself…”
Luna trailed away and plopped down near Edgecombe, who gave her a nasty look and muttered what looked like “Loony Lovegood,” a position Neville didn’t understand, but then again he rarely understood Luna. That last comment told him it was someone he knew.
Neville ran over Luna’s friends in his head, and then their families, and then Vipers and their families, and then Muggle-borns, and he was pretty sure he could take a few good guesses. But he wouldn’t. And he definitely wouldn’t mention this to Pansy. Neville actually liked her (a Parkinson, who’d have thought) but she was the uncontested queen of gossip. He had secrets and he wasn’t going to tell them to her.
Secrets like—fuck, he’d promised himself he would stop fixating on this, but he kept breaking his own promise, because it was his parents. Harry’s iron self-control had lapsed into uncomfortable hesitation when he was talking about this. Even Harry was uncomfortable with this subject. For good fucking reason.
Why in the hell had Neville never questioned this before? In fact, why had Gran never questioned this before?
Actually, he could answer that question. Grief. She hadn’t even started functioning like a normal person until he was… six or so. He dimly remembered the vacant wraith-like shell she’d been when he was very young, how he would crawl onto her lap and whisper about Uncle Algie being mean again and throwing things at him to try and spark some accidental magic, and how she’d stroke his hair and not say anything.
And then, one year, on his seventh birthday actually, she’d come downstairs with makeup and neat hair and green robes with the Selwyn-Longbottom combined crest and that Serbian vulture she’d killed on a hunt balanced on her hat. Algie had sputtered and the house-elves had bowed low to their Mistress and suddenly there was a third person living, as opposed to existing, in Longbottom Manor. He vividly remembered her sitting him down and telling him in her strictest no-nonsense tone that she’d been lost for a while but she was back now, and she was his Gran, and she wasn’t going to let Uncle Algie keep pushing his magic. Gran had not been entirely successful on that last front—hence the bouncing-out-the-window incident—but still.
Grief did funny things to people. Probably she’d quit thinking about it altogether in order to be there for her grandson.
Maybe he could bring it up this summer. Maybe it had been long enough. And until then he wanted to do the research on the Cruciatus Curse and its side effects that he’d never paid attention to last year.
A bookshelf popped into existence against the wall nearest him.
Neville jumped. Looked around. Most of the DA had devolved into practice duels; Jules and Ron and Parvati and Toby were talking animatedly by the fireplace. Hermione and Hannah were talking too, and Luna was knitting near Chang, although Edgecombe was now gone, quite possibly just to unnerve them because she was a bit sneaky like that sometimes. Fred and George were casting their kitsunes over and over again. He reached out to the bookshelf, unnoticed.
It was crowded with books on the Unforgivables and Dark Arts. Most of them looked old, and all of them looked battered.
“Can you only give me books people have left in here?” he whispered.
That weird, eerie feeling of affirmation crept into his brain and back out again. Neville resisted a shudder. That would never not be creepy. He’d have to copy them, then, and bring them back—it felt somehow wrong to remove from the accumulated stuff in this room when he didn’t have to.
Next question. “Can I take them out of the room?”
Yes again.
“Excellent.” He started flicking through the books. They were—wow. Dark. Some really Dark. Not quite like what Harry had found in the Chamber, obviously, but those books were a thousand years old, and the wizarding world was slow to change compared to the Muggle one but there had been a lot of great advancements to magic since Salazar Slytherin assembled his little library. Harry and the Vipers would love some of these.
“Thanks,” he said, because it couldn’t hurt to be polite to an ancient semi-sentient magical room, and started piling the books into his bag. Specifically, into the heavily warded and impossible-for-anyone-else-to-open side pocket of his bag. Daphne had taught him the wards and teased him that warding would never be his specialty because it required a degree of subtlety and finesse he just didn’t have. Neville remembered laughing at the comment, because it was true and honesty was always valuable.
He shook those thoughts away and swept the last book away. The others could use the copybooks to make duplicates, and then he’d bring them back. Although now that he thought about that plan more—
“Do you offer books to people if they’re going to destroy them?”
An almost painfully emphatic sense of no shot through his head. Good. He had a bad feeling that if Jules ever realized things like this existed in the Room of Requirement he would probably do something like ask for all the Dark Arts books and then set them on fire. Ronald would never be clever enough to ask, but Jules might, and Parvati definitely would. Even if Harry seemed to think her beliefs on Light and Dark magic were a little more flexible than her peers’.
He closed the secret compartment and muttered a quick password. It sealed itself and disappeared. No one else would see it. They all had one in their bags and a similarly warded secret pocket, expanded on the inside, in all their school robes, that were used for notes, their journals, and potions in the secret potion-passing network that was slowly being built up in resistance to Umbridge. One of Daphne’s best ideas.
A sudden crack rang through the Room. Neville jumped about six inches, mentally smacked himself in the face, and turned around.
Was that a house-elf?
Wait. It was the crazy one that Hermione called a “genetic outlier,” who liked being free. Dippy?
“Dobby?” Jules exclaimed.
Or that.
And why was Dobby crying?
“What’s wrong?”
The elf was shaking. Hard. The DA quit practicing, first gradually and then, very suddenly, they were all silent with wands half-held, swapping nervous glances.
Something was wrong. All of Neville’s instincts were screaming. He looked at Hermione and Fred and George and saw that they, too, were alarmed. The twins started inching towards the door.
“Jules Potter, sir,” squeaked the elf. “Jules Potter, sir… Dobby has come to warn you… but the house-elves have been warned not to tell…”
Jules whipped out his Seeker reflexes and snagged the elf’s violently pink jumper before he could throw himself to the floor. One of the elf’s hats fell off. Several girls made sympathetic noises. Hermione just frowned and fingered her wand.
“What’s happened, Dobby?” Jules said urgently.
“Jules Potter… she… she…”
Dobby hit himself in the face with his free hand. Jules grabbed that, too. “Who’s she, Dobby?”
But it was clear that Jules already knew. His face matched the horror Neville already felt.
“Umbridge?” Hermione said briskly.
Dobby nodded, and then tried to hit his face on Jules’ knee. Jules held him at arm’s length, and then picked him up so he had no leverage from which to kick himself. “Has she—she hasn’t—found out about us? About the DA?”
Whimpering, the elf nodded.
“She’s coming,” Jules breathed.
“Yes, Jules Potter, yes!” Dobby howled.
“Winky!” Hermione’s voice rang out.
Her elf appeared with a crack. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Take Dobby, don’t let him hurt himself, tell anyone who asks that he was injured in an accident,” Hermione said briskly.
“Yes, Mistress.” Winky grabbed Dobby’s arm and disappeared again.
“What are you waiting for?” Neville bellowed at the assembled students. Stupid sheep. “RUN!”
They all pelted towards the exit at once.
“Bigger door!” Hermione shouted at the ceiling. The Room acquiesced immediately, as the door almost doubled in size; things went a lot faster after that—
“Neville, come on!” Hermione shrieked.
But he had to make sure everyone got out.
Neville collected a couple of third years, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors who used to make fun of him, and shoved them towards the door, picked up a Ravenclaw seventh year who’d tripped and hauled her in the same direction, made sure Luna was out—she was, sandwiched between the twins, whose hair seemed to be almost alive in the flickering torchlight of the hall—
The room was empty.
Neville and Jules were at the back of the line. They made eye contact for half a second and took off running together for the boys’ bathroom down the hall. It was the kind of uneasy camaraderie formed between two people who didn’t much like each other but shared a common enemy. A bit awkward, but he’d dealt with worse—
“AARGH!”
Jules went down hard. Neville barely managed to dodge the Trip Jinx but then another one caught his ankles and he went down hard.
Or he would have, if a Cushioning Charm hadn’t mysteriously appeared beneath him and stolen his momentum so he only hit the ground from a distance of two inches.
Neville flipped over on his back.
“Got some, Professor!” a familiar voice shouted gleefully.
Draco leered at him and disarmed both Neville and Jules.
Everett, Seaton, and Celesta arrived next, all of them grinning maliciously. Three Vipers, none of them known outside Slytherin as linked to Harry. Clever. Then again, Harry usually was.
Jules was not so fortunate as to earn (or deserve) a Cushioning Charm, and he skidded a good six feet before he came to a halt. Draco paused over Neville, mouthed a very faint and very brief apology, and sauntered on to lord his victory over Jules.
“On your feet, Longbottom,” Celesta sneered. Neville scrambled upright. She ran a thumb over her Vipers ring, a movement that would look unconscious if you couldn’t see the ring, before she poked his chest with her wand.
Umbridge bustled around the corner, breathing hard but wearing a delighted smile. “It’s him!” she said jubilantly. “Excellent, Draco, excellent, oh, very good—fifty points to Slytherin! And Mr. Longbottom, too, thank you, Miss Fawley, I’ll take them from here—”
“Don’t you think someone ought to come along, Professor?” Draco drawled, playing the arrogant pureblood heir to the hilt. “In case they get… ideas. It would be unseemly for a Professor such as yourself to discipline them directly, don’t you think?”
Her stupid mouth stretched, and, okay, she did kind of look like a toad—poor Trevor. “Ahh, an excellent point—I shall bring you along, then, Draco, and Miss Fawley—may I call you Celesta?—you’re welcome to tag along as well… Don’t terrify the Longbottom too badly, I’ve heard he’s quite the little coward, but we can’t all live up to Gryffindor’s honorable legacy…”
Her tinkling laugh drowned out both Neville’s snarl of rage at the dismissal and Celetsa’s quiet “Or, apparently, Slytherin’s legacy, you stupid fat bitch.” It was a sore point among the Vipers and, according to them, the rest of Slytherin that such an unsubtle, obnoxious, rigid-minded, pink witch was technically a Slytherin herself.
“The rest of you, look in the bathrooms—the library—check for anyone out of breath—if anyone finds Miss Parkinson, she can do the ladies’ loos—off you go, now!”
Everett rubbed his ring, too, as he disappeared back the way they’d come with Seaton. Celesta nodded minutely and Neville tried to telegraph understanding with his eyes since he couldn’t risk someone seeing him communicate with one of the Slytherins.
“You two can come with me to the headmaster’s office,” Umbridge said in her softest, deadliest voice.
“Move it, Squib,” Celesta sneered, prodding Neville in the spine with her wand.
He glared over his shoulder. She shrugged, grinning at him. Playing the role. Neville sighed and resigned himself to it.
Draco did not treat Jules gently. Mild Stinging Hexes peppered Jules’ back and shoulders by the time they got to the gargoyle. He couldn’t seem to decide if he should be glaring forwards at Umbridge or backwards at Draco. It was probably only Harry’s protection that kept Draco from using hexes strong enough to leave welts.
Neville glanced back once. How many? he mouthed.
Celesta held up two fingers, and then pointed forward at Neville and Jules. Two that she knew of, then. The other Vipers would know to, at worst, have Aaron—the Head Boy—take points and give detentions. They’d probably play it as the hapless idiots caught up in the flow, while the ringleaders had been dealt with, or some such story, to get as many people as possible off light.
Which left Neville as one of the ringleaders. Awesome.
Then again, Umbridge hated Jules almost as much as she hated Muggle-borns, so he would probably take the brunt of it. Which was only fair, since the DA had been his thing all along. But even as he thought that, Neville knew he’d never be able to just sit there and let Jules take the fall.
“Fizzing Whizbee,” Umbridge sang, and Neville took a moment to think about exactly how much he disliked Professor Dumbledore and his ridiculous obsession with Muggle sweets. Muggles were all well and good as long as their world and the magical one stayed nice and separate. Neville had questioned that worldview once upon a time before he met Harry and started picking up bits about the Dursleys. He’d never got the whole story as a piece, still, but Harry had dropped enough details and offhandedly explained enough of his scars to make it clear: magic scared the shit out of Muggles. Neville didn’t need a few billion of them armed with the weapons Hermione’d told him about suddenly discovering a secret hidden society of magic, thanks very much.
Umbridge hauled them up the stairs and didn’t bother to knock. All four students piled into the office behind her: it was very crowded indeed.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, face serene and fingers steepled. McGonagall stood rigidly next to him. If she were any tenser, Neville thought she might just shatter. Cornelius Fudge was rocking back and forth on his toes next to the fire, looking every inch the self-satisfied narrow-minded brown-noser Gran described him as. He was attended by Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arnold Dawlish, who Gran had introduced him to at a party once as two of the Auror Corps’ best. Finally, to Neville’s bemusement, Percy Weasley hovered excitedly by the wall, clutching a quill and a heavy scroll like lifelines.
Old portraits of headmasters and headmistresses peered down from the wall, very seriously. They were a constant source of motion as they flitted between the portraits and whispered advice to one another.
Jules stepped away from Draco’s wand as soon as the door shut behind them.
“Well,” Fudge said. “Well, well, well…”
Jules glared at him. Neville resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“They were heading back to Gryffindor Tower,” said Umbridge, with the same excitement in her voice as had been there when she reduced Trelawney to a miserable disaster. “Mr. Malfoy and Miss Fawley cornered them.”
“Did they, did they?” said Fudge appreciatively. “I must remember to inform Lucius… and Miss Fawley, you’ve a relative on the Wizengamot, if I’m not mistaken?”
“I do, Minister,” Celesta said. She could do ‘sickeningly sweet’ even better than Pansy. “Reaghan Fawley, my mother, holds our family’s ancestral seat.”
“I’ll be putting in a good word with her, too.”
“Professor Umbridge, if I may ask, what are these other students doing here?” Dumbledore said pleasantly.
Umbridge’s mouth stretched even wider. “They came along to ensure there were no… escape attempts, Headmaster.”
“Indeed.” Dumbledore looked Draco and Celesta over. “Might I suggest that we return Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Potter their wands, and dismiss your… assistants? Prefects though they may be, Mr. Malfoy and Miss Fawley’s presence is hardly necessary to the proceedings.”
“I’m not certain returning their wands is such a good idea, Dumbledore,” Fudge said.
Shacklebolt chuckled, a deep and weirdly comforting sound. Automatic comfort is always suspicious when the source can use magic, Harry’s voice said in Neville’s mind, and he narrowed his mind and concentrated on his rudimentary Occlumency shields. Nothing changed, like it had when he practiced throwing off weak compulsion and confundus charms, so Shacklebolt’s effect must be natural.
He’d still be resisting it.
“…two fifteen-year-old boys,” Shacklebolt was saying. “I highly doubt they can do much, even with wands, in a room that includes two Aurors, the Minister of Magic, and three Professors, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, yes…” Fudge jerked his hand. “Go on, give them back, then—Mr. Malfoy, Miss Fawley, thank you for your assistance, you may go.”
“Of course, Minister,” Draco drawled. He handed Jules’ wand back point-first. Both Aurors and McGonagall blanched at the slight. Neville almost flinched when Draco handed his wand back the same way, especially because Draco didn’t drop his mask so much as an inch in this company, but he took it without complaint.
He could always duel Draco later, in a Vipers meeting. Draco was good at dueling and no slouch with magic, but Neville usually beat him.
There was no doubt in Neville’s mind that Gran would lord that over Lucius Malfoy until the end of time should he ever tell her.
Draco and Celesta filed out.
As soon as the door shut, Fudge rounded on the boys. “Well, Mr. Potter, Mr. Longbottom, I expect you know why you are here?”
Unsurprisingly, he was fixed mostly on Jules, along with everyone else in the room. Neville, however, knew whose reactions would be subtlest and most interesting, so he was focused on Dumbledore.
He saw two things of note. One, Dumbledore shook his head a fraction of an inch side to side. And two, he did it while looking at a point just between Jules and Neville.
How odd.
“Y-no,” Jules said.
“I beg your pardon?” said Fudge.
“No,” said Jules, more confidently.
“Neither do I,” Neville said, trying to play up the trembling, magically weak coward everyone thought he was. Gran never let on the digs she received in the Wizengamot but Neville knew she got them and that the Longbottom scion’s magical mediocrity was widely known. His more recent improvement definitely wouldn’t have filtered through the gossip mill to the Minister of Magic yet. And even if it had, he was so mentally rigid he’d probably just brush it off.
After being best friends with Slytherins for years, the Minister was almost pathetically easy to fool. He bought it like a brand-new Firebolt on a seventy-five percent discount. No one else even paid Neville any attention.
Their dismissal rankled, even as he used it.
“So you have no idea,” said Fudge in a voice positively sagging with sarcasm, “why Professor Umbridge has brought you to this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules.”
I could probably fill Percy’s scroll with an indexed list of every school rule I’ve ever broken. Or turned a blind eye to someone else breaking. “No,” Neville said.
“School rules?” Jules looked to be thinking something along the same lines. “No.”
“Or Ministry decrees?” amended Fudge angrily.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Jules said very blandly.
Despite his confidence, Neville could see his pulse pounding in his neck and feel the tension coming off him. His blind faith in Dumbledore was a bit disturbing. Then again, Neville was doing the same thing.
Banking off of Dumbledore’s various motivations to keep the Boy Who Lived in Hogwarts was actually a pretty good gamble to take, if he was going to gamble at all.
“So it’s news to you, is it,” said Fudge, his voice now thick with anger, “that an illegal student organization has been discovered within the school?”
“Yes, it is,” Jules said. Neville really hoped that his own ‘innocently surprised’ expression (copied from Pansy and Harry) was more convincing because Jules mostly looked constipated.
“I think, Minister,” said Umbridge silkily, “we might make better progress if I fetch our informant.”
“Yes, yes, do,” said Fudge. “There’s nothing like good evidence, is there, Dumbledore?”
Dumbledore didn’t even react to the jab at his own conviction of malfeasance of office. “Nothing at all, Cornelius,” he said gravely.
They stood around in awkward silence while Umbridge was gone. McGonagall appeared to think that if she moved in the slightest she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself from throwing herself at her students to protect them. Neville had… mixed feelings about her, mainly aimed at her blind faith in authority that was so like the one their group had shaken from Hermione, but still. She was protective and she really tried to be fair. And Gran liked her, which was a pretty exclusive club.
The door slammed open. Neville and Jules both turned to look, and Neville’s eyes widened upon seeing curly-haired Marietta Edgecombe shaking in Umbridge’s grip. Edgecombe, who was… hiding her face in her hands?
Oookay.
He hadn’t expected to find out the results of whatever Hermione cursed the parchment with tonight but he couldn’t deny he was curious.
“Don’t be scared, dear, don’t be frightened,” said Professor Umbridge softly, patting her on the back, “it’s quite all right, now. You have done the right thing. The Minister is very pleased with you. He’ll be telling your mother what a good girl you’ve been. Marietta’s mother, Minister,” she added, looking up at Fudge, “is Madam Edgecombe from the Department of Magical Transportation. Floo Network office—she’s been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know.”
Neville stored that away. They’d had their suspicions, hence his own inability to contact Gran on anything serious, but confirmation was nice.
“Jolly good, jolly good!” said Fudge heartily. “Like mother, like daughter, eh? Well, come on, now, dear, look up, don’t be shy, let’s hear what you’ve got to—galloping gargoyles!”
As Edgecombe raised her head, Fudge leaped backward in shock, nearly landing in the fire. Several others gasped. Even Neville was surprised.
Edgecombe wailed and yanked the neck of her robes up to cover her face, but the whole room had already seen it. Her face was horribly disfigured by a series of massive pimples that stretched across her face, spelling the word SNEAK on her forehead and turning her cheeks into shiny red masses of lumps. Her nose and chin had blistered and both lips were irregularly puffy; her left eye had swollen nearly shut. It made poor Eloise Midgen’s notorious acne look like a couple of cute freckles.
“Never mind the spots now, dear,” Umbridge said—spots? Neville thought incredulously— “just take your robes away from your mouth and tell the Minister—”
Edgecombe gave another muffled, wordless wail and shook her head.
“Oh, very well, you silly girl, I’ll tell him,” snapped Umbridge. She hitched her sickly smile back onto her face and said, “Well, Minister, Miss Edgecombe here came to my office shortly after dinner this evening and told me she had something she wanted to tell me. She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of Requirement, I would find out something to my advantage. I questioned her a little further and she admitted that there was to be some kind of meeting there. Unfortunately at that point this hex,” she waved impatiently at Marietta’s concealed face, “came into operation and upon catching sight of her face in my mirror the girl became too distressed to tell me any more. Every time she tried, the pustules got worse.”
“Well, now,” said Fudge, fixing Edgecombe with what he probably imagined was a kind and fatherly look. Neville found it patronizing and creepy. “It is very brave of you, dear, coming to tell Professor Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was its purpose? Who was there?”
Edgecombe would not speak. She shook her head.
“Haven’t we got a counterjinx for this?” Fudge said impatiently. “So she can speak freely?”
“I have not yet managed to find one,” Umbridge admitted with a scowl. Neville would be complimenting Hermione later, for the jinx’s efficacy and also how absolutely vicious it was. “But it doesn’t matter if she won’t speak, I can take up the story from here.
“You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report back in October that Potter met a number of fellow students in the Hog’s Head in Hogsmeade, including Longbottom here—”
“And what is your evidence for that?” McGonagall cut in.
“I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, who happened to be in the bar at the time. He was heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite unimpaired,” said Umbridge smugly. “He heard every word Potter said and hastened straight to the school to report to me—”
“Oh, so that’s why he wasn’t prosecuted for setting up all those regurgitating toilets!” said McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. “What an interesting insight into our justice system.”
Shouldn’t the man next to you have already tipped you off to the corruption?
“Blatant corruption!” roared a corpulent portrait. “The Ministry did not cut deals with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!”
“Thank you, Fortescue, that will do,” Dumbledore said softly.
“The purpose of Potter’s meeting with these students,” continued Umbridge, “was to persuade them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn spells and curses the Minsitry has decided are inappropriate for school-age—”
“I think you’ll find you’re wrong there, Dolores,” said Dumbledore, peering at her over his half-moon spectacles.
Jules stared blankly, but Neville thought he got it, and had to suppress a reluctant grin. He wasn’t a whole lot fonder of Dumbledore than Harry, who might happily murder the man if he was given the chance and promised no consequences. Still, the man was clever.
“Oho!” said Fudge, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Yes, do let’s hear what ridiculous thing Dumbledore would have us believe this time! Perhaps Grindelwald has come back and joined forces with another recently resurrected Dark Lord, or the Muggles have found us all out and they’re coming for our wands, or maybe it was Potter’s identical twin in the Hog’s Head that day? Except, no, that wouldn’t work, because Hadrian Black wants nothing to do with you!”
Percy Weasley laughed, hearty and fake. “Oh, very good, Minister, very good!”
Dumbledore was smiling gently. “Cornelius, I do not deny—nor, I am sure, do Julian and Neville—that they were in the Hog’s Head that day, nor that they were trying to recruit students to a Defense Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a group was, at that time, illegal. If you recall, the Ministry decree banning all student societies was not put into effect until two days after the boys’ Hogsmeade meeting, so they were not breaking any rules in the Hog’s Head at all.”
Percy looked as though someone had hit him in the face with a brick. Fudge remained frozen mid-bounce. Neville kind of wanted to try and push him into the fire.
Umbridge recovered first. “That’s all very fine, Headmaster,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But we are now nearly six months on from the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty-four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all those that have happened since most certainly are.”
Wonder what she’d say to us learning Dark magic in a secret Chamber belonging to Salazar Slytherin’s heirs and controlled by Parseltongue, led by halfblood Hadrian Black, the children of several Death Eaters, little old me, and a couple Muggle-borns?
“Well,” said Dumbledore, surveying her with polite interest, “they certainly would be, if they had continued after the decree. Do you have any evidence that these meetings continued?”
As Dumbledore spoke, Neville heard a rustle behind him and rather thought one of the Aurors whispered something. He could have sworn too that something brushed between him and Jules, a gentle something like a draft or bird wings, but looking down he saw nothing.
“Evidence?” repeated Umbridge. It now seemed as if she was smiling as wide as physically possible without breaking her face. “Have you not been listening, Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecombe is here?”
“Oh, can she tell us about six months’ worth of meetings?” said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that she was merely reporting a meeting tonight.”
“Miss Edgecombe,” said Umbridge instantly, “tell us how long these meetings have been going on, dear. You can simply nod or shake your head, I’m sure that won’t make the spots worse. Have they been happening regularly over the last six months?”
Neville’s stomach turned. And then—to the amazement of everyone in the room—Edgecombe shook her head.
Umbridge quickly looked at Fudge and then back at Edgecombe.
Neville looked at Dumbledore, saw no worry whatsoever on the man’s face. Remembered Harry’s list of Order members. A list that included one Kingsley Shacklebolt.
Suddenly he thought he could take a very good guess what spell had shot between him and Jules—had shot through a gap that was Kingsley’s only clear line of fire on Marietta Edgecombe.
“I don’t think you understood the question, did you, dear? I’m asking whether you’ve been going to these meetings for the past six months? You have, haven’t you?”
Again, Edgecombe shook her head. Neville was quite sure of his theory now.
“What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?” Umbridge said testily.
“I would have thought her meaning was quite clear,” McGonagall said. “Shaking one’s head is, after all, a gesture meaning no that is understood by dozens of cultures the world over. Miss Edgecombe, did you mean to tell us that there have been no secret meetings over the last six months?”
Edgecombe nodded.
“But there was a meeting tonight!” Umbridge said furiously. “There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe, you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement! And Potter was the leader, Potter organized it, Potter—why are you shaking your head, girl?”
Umbridge gripped Edgecombe’s shoulders and started shaking her.
Shacklebolt, Dumbledore, and McGonagall all started forward. Dumbledore raised his wand and Umbridge leaped back, shaking her hands as though they had been burned.
“I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, Dolores,” said Dumbledore, sounding angry for the first time.”
“You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge,” said Shacklebolt, in a deep, slow voice. “You don’t want to get yourself into trouble now.”
“No,” said Umbridge breathlessly, glancing up at the towering figure of Shacklebolt. “I mean, yes—you’re right, Shacklebolt—I—I forgot myself.”
“Dolores,” said Fudge, “the meeting tonight—the one we know definitely happened—”
“Yes,” said Umbridge, pulling herself together, “yes… well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by certain trustworthy students, so as to catch those in the meeting red-handed. It appears that they were forewarned of my arrival, however, because when we reached the seventh floor they were running in every direction. It does not matter, however. I have all their names here, someone dropped them as they were running away…”
And to Neville’s horror, she withdrew from her pocket the cursed parchment.
“The moment I saw Potter’s name on the list, I knew what we were dealing with,” she said softly.
“Excellent, Dolores,” said Fudge. “Excellent, really excellent. And… by thunder…”
He walked up to Dumbledore, who was still standing by Edgecombe, wand held loosely in one hand. The Ministry people all seemed to have overlooked the implied threat that was Albus Dumbledore holding a wand. Idiots.
“See what they’ve named themselves?” said Fudge quietly. “Dumbledore’s Army.”
Neville flinched. He’d known that name was stupid.
Dumbledore reached out and took the parchment. He examined it expressionlessly for a few seconds, and then handed it back, smiling. “Well, the game is up. Would you like a written confession, Cornelius, or will a statement before these witnesses suffice?”
McGonagall looked over Neville’s shoulder in Shacklebolt’s direction with unmistakable fear.
“Statement?” said Fudge slowly. “What—I don’t…”
“Dumbledore’s Army, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore, waving the list of names with a smile. “Not Potter’s Army. Dumbledore’s Army.”
Understanding blazed in Fudge’s face at the same time as Neville figured it out. The old goat was taking the fall for Jules.
Damn. He was going even farther than Neville would’ve thought to keep Jules Potter in Hogwarts.
“You?” Fudge whispered.
“That’s right,” Dumbledore said pleasantly.
“You organized this?”
“I did.”
“You recruited these students for—for your army?”
“Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting,” Dumbledore said with a nod. “Merely to see whether they would be interested in joining me. I see now that it was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course.”
Edgecombe whimpered. Fudge looked from her to Dumbledore, his chest swelling. “Then you HAVE been plotting against me!” he shouted.
“That’s right,” said Dumbledore cheerfully.
“NO!” Jules shouted.
McGonagall widened her eyes threateningly at him. Neville took advantage of their robes to subtly tread on Jules’ foot. He looked wildly from Neville to Dumbledore and then back to Neville, with shock and guilt in his eyes.
Bit late to the party, aren’t you? Neville thought, glaring sideways at the Git Who Lived. Bully Who Lived, as Neville had called him, privately, in first and second year. He was better now and Neville had forgiven, but not forgotten.
“Be quiet, Jules, or I am afraid you will have to leave my office,” said Dumbledore calmly.
“Yes, shut up, Potter!” Fudge barked. He ogled Dumbledore with horrified delight. “Well, well, well—I came here tonight expecting to expel Potter and instead—”
“Instead you get to arrest me,” said Dumbledore. “It’s like losing a knut and finding a galleon, isn’t it?”
“Weasley!” cried Fudge. “Weasley, have you got it written all down, everything he’s said, his confession, have you got it?”
“Yes, sir, I think so, sir!” said Percy eagerly, whose nose was splattered with ink from the speed of his note-taking. Neville frowned in his direction. Was the idiot a wizard or not? DictaQuills existed, after all.
“The bit about how he’s been trying to build up an army against the Ministry, how he’s been working to destabilize me?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve got it, yes!” said Percy.
“Very well, then,” said Fudge, now radiant with glee. “Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to the Prophet at once. If we send a fast owl we should make the morning edition!”
Percy dashed from the room.
“You will now be escorted back to the Ministry, Dumbledore, where you will be formally charged and then sent to Azkaban to await trial!”
“Ah,” said Dumbledore, “yes. Yes, I thought we might hit that little snag.”
Neville found himself unbearably curious as to what, exactly, Dumbledore was going to do to escape.
“Snag?” said Fudge, vibrating with joy. “I see no snag, Dumbledore!”
“Well, I’m afraid I do.”
“Oh really?”
“Well—it seems you are laboring under the delusion that I am going to—what is the phrase? Oh yes. Come quietly. I am afraid I am not going to come quietly at all, Cornelius. I have absolutely no intention of being sent to Azkaban. I could break out, of course—but what a waste of time, and frankly, I have a whole host of things I would rather be doing.”
Umbridge was, by now, bright red. Fudge stared at Dumbledore with a silly expression. Neville wanted to slap one of them, or both, or possibly every idiot who’d thought this absolute bumbling fool was a decent candidate for Minister of Magic. These people ran the bloody government?
Fudge turned and looked at the Aurors. Dawlish drifted forward, one hand reaching almost casually for his wand.
“Don’t be silly, Dawlish,” said Dumbledore kindly. “I’m sure you’re an excellent Auror, I seem to remember that you achieved Outstanding on all your NEWTs, but if you attempt to—er—‘bring me in’ by force, I will have to hurt you.”
Dawlish blinked, looking rather foolish.
“So,” sneered Fudge, “you intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores, and myself single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?”
“Merlin’s beard, no,” said Dumbledore. “Not unless you are foolish enough to force me to. I could not win such a duel without causing at least one of you grievous harm and I’ve no desire to do so.”
“He will not be single-handed!” said McGonagall loudly, plunging a hand inside her robes.
“Oh yes he will, Minerva!” Dumbledore said sharply. “Hogwarts needs you!”
“Enough of this rubbish!” Fudge said, pulling his own wand. From his pocket. Just like Dawlish and McGonagall. An Auror, a professor, and the Minister, none of whom seemed aware of the concept of wand holsters. Neville’s was spelled unnoticeable and resistant to summoning, self-cleaning, and made of finest dragonhide. Much more convenient than a pocket.
“Dawlish! Shacklebolt! Take him!”
A streak of silver light flashed around the room. Neville’s dueling reflexes kicked in and he hit the floor. Jules was a fraction of a second behind him. There was a bang, and the floor trembled. Another silver flash went off—portraits yelled, Fawkes screeched, and a cloud of dust filled the air. Neville began to cough.
“No!” someone shouted.
Several more seconds of groans and shuffling, and then—silence.
Neville struggled a bit and got to his knees. McGonagall had been crouching protectively over him and Jules, glasses askew. She’d dragged Edgecombe down to the floor, too. Dust floated gently down through the air. A tall figure moved toward them.
“Are you all right?” Dumbledore said.
“Yes!” said McGonagall, hauling Edgecombe to her feet. Jules and Neville followed suit.
The dust cleared at a wave of Dumbledore’s wand. The office was a wreck. Dumbledore’s desk had been overturned, all the spindly tables had fallen over, half the silvery instruments were in pieces, and Fudge, Umbridge, Shacklebolt, and Dawlish lay motionless on the floor. Fawkes soared wide circles above them, singing softly.
“Unfortunately, I had to hex Kingsley too, or it would have looked very suspicious,” said Dumbledore in a low voice. “He was remarkably quick on the uptake, modifying Miss Edgecombe’s memory like that—thank him for me, will you, Minerva?”
“Moral high road, huh?”
McGonagall shot him a chastising look. Dumbledore peered at him but Gran did ‘wise old person’ way better than him and Neville stared right back at them, unrepentant.
Dumbledore eventually decided to move on. “They will wake very soon and it will be best if they do not know that we had time to communicate—you must act as though no time has passed, as though they were merely knocked to the ground, they will not remember—”
“Where will you go, Albus?” whispered McGonagall. “The Burrow?”
“Oh no,” said Dumbledore with a grim smile. “I am not going into hiding. Fudge will soon wish he’d never dislodged me from Hogwarts, I promise you…”
“Professor Dumbledore…” Jules began.
“Listen to me, Jules,” Dumbledore said urgently. Dawlish began to stir. “You must study Occlumency as hard as you can, do you understand me? Do everything Professor Snape tells you and practice it particularly every night before sleeping so that you can close your mind to bad dreams—you will understand why soon enough but you must promise me—close your mind—you will understand.”
He finished in a barely-audible whisper, fingers closed over Jules’ hand. Jules just stared at him in confusion and maybe a bit of anger.
Fawkes swooped low. Dumbledore let go of Jules, reached up, and grabbed the phoenix’s tail. They vanished in a flash of fire.
“Where is he?” Fudge yelled, pushing himself up from the ground. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know!” shouted Shacklebolt, also leaping up.
“Well, he can’t have Disapparated!” cried Umbridge. “You can’t inside the school—”
“The stairs!” cried Dawlish, and flung himself out the door. Shacklebolt and Umbridge were right behind him. Fudge hesitated, then got to his feet slowly.
There was a long and painful silence.
“Well, Minerva,” he said testily, “I’m afraid this is the end of your friend Dumbledore.”
“Think so, do you?” McGonagall said scornfully.
“You’d better get those two off to bed,” Fudge said with a dismissive nod.
However, Neville had absolutely no intention of running off to bed like a good little boy. Neither, it seemed, did Jules. They stopped inside the portrait hole, looked at each other in unison, and walked right back out.
“Where are you going?” Neville said.
“Pitch.” Jules’ hands were convulsively opening and closing. “Borrow—someone’s broom. Just—fly for a bit, clear my head.” He looked sideways at Neville. “Want to come?”
“No,” Neville said. “Thanks. I, er—are you all right?”
“Fine.” Jules rolled his shoulders. “Malfoy’s stingers hurt but I’ve taken worse in training duels. You?”
“They left me alone. Cowardly weak Neville Longbottom, not worth targeting,” Neville said, too tired to restrain himself.
Jules bit his lip. “Yeah, I, er—I’m sorry. For…”
He didn’t finish, but Neville didn’t need to make him. “It’s okay,” he said with a shrug. “You were never the worst of them and—it’s fine. I’ll prove them all wrong.”
“Doesn’t make it okay,” Jules muttered, “but fine. I’m glad you kicked Ben’s ass, at least. He needed a wake-up call about his dueling skills. And thanks for helping get everyone out tonight.”
“Of course,” Neville said. “I… d’you know what Dumbledore will do?”
Jules shook his head. “No idea… he’s got some plan, knowing him, but he hasn’t told me what it is. Or anything, really. Apparently he won’t even try to stick around to protect the students.”
Neville wasn’t exactly Dumbledore’s biggest fan, but he felt compelled to point out, “He has the other teachers to do that. Even Snape’ll stick up for a student against Umbitch… except maybe you and Ron… and he knows about the DA.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Jules looked grim, determined. “We’ll just have to make up for him being gone, then. Sure you don’t want to come fly?”
“Yes,” Neville said. He could fly but he’d never like it. “Have fun.”
“Yeah, you… wait, what are you doing?”
“Going to go find somewhere to just be alone for a bit,” Neville said, a partial truth that Jules accepted without hesitation.
“Right, have fun. Try to get some sleep tonight,” he said, and jogged off down the corridor.
Neville frowned after him. Jules really was turning out rather decent.
The Fat Lady never told on curfew-breaking Gryffindors unless the Headmaster specifically ordered her to, which meant Neville had gotten quite good at sneaking around when he had to. It didn’t take long to find an empty classroom, where conjured a wooden ball, hit it with a Bouncing Charm, and started chucking it at the wall.
Throw, bounce, catch. Throw, bounce, catch. The rhythm was soothing.