Lie in the Bed I Make (Harry Potter, 3/?)
Lie in the Bed I Make
~ A Harry Potter Fan Fiction ~
by aishuu
Character: Neville-centric
Rating: Currently PG
Wordcount: 3,900
Notes: Spoilers for Deathly Hallows. This fic was originally a oneshot, but it's kind of mushroomed into something much, much longer. C & C is appreciated. Thanks to sophiap for sounding boarding, and sailormac for editing.
Summary: Set during DH. Without Harry in the picture, someone has to step up to lead those opposed to Voldemort. That someone is Neville Longbottom. The story of the Hogwarts Underground.
Chapter One, Chapter Two
Chapter Three: The Two DAs
Neville felt like his mind had been wrapped in cotton balls as he slumped against the table during breakfast the next morning. They hadn't gotten back to their dorms until after two, and getting up at half past seven hadn't left him feeling chipper. While he wasn't the zombie that Ron could be in the morning, he also didn't bounce right out of bed. Especially after five hours of sleep.
Seamus was disgustingly bright-eyed, he thought resentfully as the Irish teen tucked into his breakfast with a hearty appetite. Thankfully he was more interested in feeding his face than trying to hold a conversation.
Neville picked up an apple from the array of food that had been provided. The meal was just as expansive as it had been under Dumbledore's reign, but somehow it looked less appealing. Severus Snape - Neville refused to think of him as the headmaster - sat in the central chair at the faculty table, which was just slightly larger than the others. He wasn't eating his meal either, electing instead to level a disapproving glare on the students.
Neville averted his eyes quickly, not wanting to catch his attention. While he no longer had the blinding fear of Snape that had once dominated his life, the man still made him uneasy. He could rationalize that, since Snape had been the one to kill his predecessor.
Down at the other end of the table, the first-years - pitifully few compared to the prior class - were naively chatting. Their voices carried as they twittered about classes and their new dorms, and he eavesdropped shamelessly, feeling a surge of nostalgia for bygone days. Neville tried to remember being that young, and found his memories overwhelmed by what he'd seen since.
The older students were quieter, eating their meals in silence. A couple of the more studious were reviewing their new textbooks, but most were seated close together and poking at their food. Except for the Slytherins, who were acting more upbeat than Neville had ever seen from them before. Strangely, Malfoy was sitting on the edge of the group, and not holding court in the middle. Something was up there.
Neville returned his attention to the Gryffindors, noting the ones who were missing. Their ranks hadn't been as decimated as Hufflepuff, which only had about half a table of students now, but there were plenty of missing faces; those whose parents had been too stubborn to register as Muggleborn. The seventh year class was the most affected, with Dean, Harry, Ron and Hermione not in attendance. He was impressed by the bravery of the Creevey brothers, though maybe they had been unwise to return. It was no secret that Colin had been one of the victims when the Chamber of Secrets had been open.
Ginny gave him a dirty look from where she was sitting, upset that Neville hadn't agreed to her plans to steal the sword. But after two hours of sometimes heated discussion, the members present had agreed to wait for a few days to get the lay of the land before acting. The Gryffindors would have rushed right in, but the Ravenclaw component of the DA had advised caution, and a plan. Neville had sided with them, leaving his house mates irate.
But hopefully safer.
Snape clapped his hands together, the sound echoing throughout the hall with magical force. The scant conversations died instantly, much the same as they had whenever Dumbledore had addressed the student body - but the reason was entirely different. While Dumbledore had evoked respect and awe, Snape was downright terrifying. Everyone knew who he answered to.
"Prefects will pass out class schedules now," Snape said in a voice that sounded bored. "You will proceed immediately to your classes. Anyone who lingers will discover reason to regret their lack of motivation."
Neville didn't doubt that, although McGonagall was glaring ominously at Snape. It was unfair how she had been displaced. She had a horrible temper, and Neville was amazed that she hadn't told the school board exactly what she thought of the slight. If she had, she wouldn't be sitting up front, and Gryffindors would be without their head of house. She had probably known that, and sublimated her rage. That took a special kind of courage.
The prefects started to move down the tables, handing out the scrolls. Neville had never been more keenly aware of Hermione and Ron's absences; Snape, of course, hadn't deigned to appoint replacements. Ginny handed him his schedule, and Neville couldn't help but notice the tightness of her lips. He unrolled it slowly, knowing he wasn't going to like what was there.
He was right.
Neville's eyes immediately fixated on DA - Dark Arts. It was slated for twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays in the afternoon. His mind - admitted never the quickest in the school - couldn't help but miss the old DADA abbreviation. They've taken the DA out of it, he thought a bit wildly, to make their own DA.
He must have been laughing a bit, because Seamus gave him a weird look. "You okay?"
"Fine, fine," Neville murmured. "Just a bit tired." He forced himself to take another bite of his apple, knowing that he was going to need his strength for the rest of the day. The fruit tasted grainy.
"Ready for classes, then?"
"Of course not," Neville replied. He'd never been the best student, except for Herbology. "What's your first class?"
Seamus made a face. "I've got Arithmancy."
"Lucky you."
Neville's first class was thankfully Herbology, with Professor Sprout. It was his favorite, and as they entered greenhouse five he felt himself start to relax. There was something comforting about digging in dirt, and his success in the class was a great confidence boost. As he transplanted the hishrooms into a dark container that isolated them from moonlight, he let his mind drift and enjoy the merciful emptiness.
The seventh year Herbology class was small, with only nine members, and dominated primarily by girls. Neville and Ernie MacMillan were the only males. MacMillan was only there because his mother was a famous herbologist, and had learned enough at her feet to get an easy NEWT. Despite Ernie's natural advantages, Neville consistently scored highest in the class. Ernie liked plants, but Neville loved them, and the flora responded to his touch.
"I heard you had a meeting last night," Ernie said as he worked next to Neville. "I didn't get the message in time."
Neville glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying attention to them. Constant vigilance. "There'll be another," he replied. He brushed a bit of dirt off his sleeves before picking up a trowel again.
"Ah. I'll keep my eye out," Ernie promised.
"It'd be nice to hang out with the old crew again." Neville was horrible at subterfuge, feeling a guilty blush start to spread over his face. He knew if Snape or one of the Carrows had appeared at that moment, he'd probably babble everything. He needed to work on that. Ironic, that he'd have to become more Slytherin.
Ernie nodded, returning his attention to his work. They worked in silence for several minutes before Ernie poked Neville in the shoulder to get his attention. "We could have a lot of fun with these, maybe throw a welcome back party. I wonder if Sprout would miss a couple..." he murmured, raising an eyebrow and offering a playful grin.
"She would," an unexpected voice piped behind them, and both spun around to be confronted by a rather amused professor. She had her arms crossed over her chest sternly, but her eyes were sparkling. "While I know plenty students and some stupider adults attempt to use them, amanita muscaria, also known as hishrooms, aren't anything you should be messing with. It takes a potion master to harvest their essence. Take one without proper preparation and you'll be walking into walls for weeks."
Ernie squirmed, uncomfortable at having drawn the ire of his head of house. "Yes, ma'am."
"Now I'll want 24 inches from you, MacMillan, on the proper handling and harvesting of hishrooms, along with the possible repercussions of improper use," Sprout continued. "Longbottom, you're to give me 12 inches on the proper applications of hishrooms, particularly for pain relief and Divination."
"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.
"And Longbottom? Wait after class." She bustled away, going over to correct the plant handling of Lisa Turpin.
Neville glared at Ernie with annoyance. Sprout was his favorite teacher, and getting in trouble with her was like getting kicked in the teeth. This was supposed to be the one class he was good at. While he wasn't the vindictive sort, Neville did briefly entertain the idea of using Ernie as his sparring partner at the next DA meeting. He knew Ernie wasn't as fast with a wand as he was.
After Sprout dismissed the class, Neville loitered by his work station, digging his hands into the soil for reassurance. She moved more slowly than was her custom, checking the locks on the boxes before coming over to him.
"Neville," and it was unusual to hear her use his given name instead of his surname, "even though you're not a Hufflepuff, I feel a certain responsibility toward you."
He smiled shyly, pleased. Many teenage boys would have felt embarrassed by the sentiment, but Neville had grown up in unusual circumstances. While his grandmother had raised him, there were times he longed for more gentleness than the stern Augusta Longbottom possessed. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, looking down at her chubby face, noting that she barely came to his shoulder in height. Score one for summer growth spurts.
Sprout's face was intense, and lacking the usual good-natured expression he strongly associated with her. "You know that if you need anything... need to talk or need help, you can always come to me, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, wondering what had brought this on. He did have his own head of house, and Minerva McGonagall was fiercely protective of her students.
Sprout twisted her fat hands in front of her chest, biting her lip. "You will be careful, won't you?"
"Careful of what?" he asked, blinking. Sometimes adults made no sense.
She looked like she was about to break down in tears, which was upsetting. Teachers were supposed to be confident, not afraid. Sprout had always been cheerfully accepting of whatever strangeness Hogwarts threw at her. She managed to collect herself well enough to keep her composure, offering him a pat on the arm. "Just... think before you do anything."
It was a weird conversation, but there had been plenty of those lately. Removing his gloves, he tucked them into the cubby that Sprout allowed her NEWT students to use for storage. He could think on it later.
Lunch was a solemn affair. The third years were quieter than was usual - and he knew without asking that they'd been the first students in the new Dark Arts class. He cast them a curious look, wishing he dared ask what had happened, but that would have to wait until tonight, in the common room. And by then, Neville thought grimly, he'd already have first-hand experience. Neville ate lightly, worried that the class might make him want to throw up.
The meal went by too quickly, and all too soon it was time for Dark Arts. The seventh year NEWT students marched out of the great hall, trooping along like they were heading to their own executions. Except the Slytherins. Neville was starting to believe there would be a lot of "excepts" for the Slytherin students this year.
Together with Lavender, Seamus and Parvati, the four remaining Gryffindor seventh years moved down the hallway, moving in a pack for safety. He didn't know much about Professor Amycus Carrow, but he wore his Dark Mark openly, which was enough to know that the man was evil. Neville had been tempted to drop the class, but he'd learned in fifth year how essential being able to defend himself and his friends was. The rest of the DA had come to similar conclusions, since all of them had taken DA after fifth year, and scored very well.
When they arrived, he wasn't surprised to find Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs standing outside the door. Justin Finch-Fletchley raised a hand in half-hearted greeting. "Ready?" he asked, looking at Neville.
Like all they'd been waiting for him.
The Slytherins had already entered the room, and though it was tempting to procrastinate, the rest of the students needed to hurry up or risk being late. And whatever punishment Carrow would assign, which would definitely be worse than the loss of mere points.
Seeing no one else step forward, Neville decides that he was going to be a Gryffindor and lead the way. The rest of the students fell in behind him, taking seats together in the middle of the room. Malfoy and his friends had already claimed the seats in the back, and they were not quite audacious enough to sit right under their new teacher's nose.
Like previous years, the classroom looked different. Each professor brought their own touch to the classroom, and Professor Carrow's was decidedly sinister. On the surface, it didn't seem so bad, since Slytherin green was the dominant color of the freshly-painted room, but the snake cages (housing all poisonous specimens) were disconcerting, since they created a quiet background of hissing.
Neville had never liked snakes much, especially after second year.
The snakes weren't the worst of it, though. There were books on the shelves, dark texts that had been previously been limited to the Restricted Section, and magical dioramas on the wall illustrating the proper wand movements to cast curses. Little things, but all in all, it added up to a grim picture. And of course, having The Dark Arts by Gellert Grindelwald as the class textbook signaled that the magic they were going to be learning wasn't of the friendly variety.
It's like sitting in a Death Eater factory, Neville thought with disgust. Attend Hogwarts, and graduate ready to receive your very own Dark Mark.
They settled themselves in neatly, and prepared parchment and quills to take notes like the well-seasoned students they were. Neville forced himself to breathe evenly, because fainting or suffering a panic attack would get him nowhere.
The doors behind the teacher's desk - a looming mahogany structure that screamed money! and power! - swung open to admit the latest in the ever-shifting DADA (or just DA now) professors. Amycus Carrow was a short man, one who barely broke the five feet mark in height. He was dressed in expensive, tailored robes that tried to minimize the appearance of his potbelly, but only succeeded in making him look like a well-clothed bulldog. He wore a necklace that left a snake medallion dangling at his chest, and his hair was thinning on the top.
He did move well, Neville admitted grudgingly, for a middle-aged wizard, and his eyes were constantly darting around, looking for trouble. As a Death Eater, he was probably knew what he was talking about when it came to Dark Arts, which was a heck of a lot better than Lockhart. After all, Crouch Jr. had been one of their most competent instructors to date, and he'd been on the Dark Lord's side.
What a depressing thought.
Neville would have to be doubly cautious to remember to respect Carrow's abilities. Just because he was evil didn't mean the man wasn't good at his job. Then Carrow giggled, and Neville winced a bit. It went right through his head, the same way nails on a chalkboard did. Luckily the teacher didn't spot his careless lapse of control.
The man waved his wand sharply through the air, producing letters in flame that spelled out his name. "I am Professor Amycus Carrow, as many of you know. I graduated here twenty-seven years ago," he announced. He spoke in the strange accent that only isolated Pure Bloods used, a crisp, nasal sound that could only be called condescending. "During my school years, I was in Slytherin House, like the past sixteen generations of Carrows.
"It's going to take a lot of work to catch up to bring you up to NEWT standards, but I'm sure those of you who should pass, will," he said, looking pointedly at the Slytherins. "The rest of you will learn that failure in my class has severe consequences." He sneered at the Hufflepuffs, a couple of whom cringed. "Some of you may find that there are mistakes in your thinking, and you will learn where your proper place is in our world."
He was looking directly at Neville. Neville met his gaze squarely, not backing down. Harry had never let Umbridge intimidate him, and he would be a poor friend if he didn't remember that lesson. For so long, Harry's courage had been a bastion of strength to other students. Neville wasn't going to let some- some- Death Eater scum - bully him.
Carrow's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he turned away. Neville knew that he'd just marked himself as potential prey for the Death Eater. He could have a nervous breakdown later in his dorm - Seamus wouldn't tell.
For some reason, the man decided not to make an issue of Neville's defiance. The man's sneer curled just a bit more, but he looked away first, tromping over to the board. With another wave of his wand, he wrote in a brilliant, neon green ink on the board. Killing Curse, Cruciatus Curse, Imperius Curse. "We're going to start with a refresher. I understand that in fourth year, you had experience with the Three Essentials," Carrow said.
Pansy Parkinson looked surprised, and said without thinking, "You mean the Unforgivables?"
She only got away with it because of who her parents were. Rather than act annoyed, Carrow gave a slight smile, much the way someone would smile at a slow child. "We call them the Three Essentials," he corrected. "If you're going to fight, you need to know them."
The little lunch Neville had threatened to come back up. The image of his parents, lying like lumps in St. Mungos, assaulted his mind, and he gripped his knees to keep from doing something cowardly like fleeing. He swallowed, but the taste of bile lingered in his mouth.
Neville glanced around, and noted that most of the class was struck still with silent horror. A couple of the Slytherins looked uncomfortable, but the expressions on Crabbe and Goyle's faces more than compensated. Their small eyes were practically growing with eagerness.
"We'll start with the Imperius, since it's the easiest to learn. The swish is a bit different than you've seen before," Carrow said, practically trilling. He surveyed the room, briefly settling on Neville before his attention was distracted by another young man wearing the black and gold of Hufflepuff. Justin Finch-Fletchley sank a bit lower in his seat, but Carrow had already settled on him.
He gestured, his wrist about ten degrees different than most spells required. "Imperio," he said, his voice deepening slightly.
Justin's eyes glazed over, his hands falling flaccidly to his side. The rest of the class stared, transfixed. Moody - Crouch - had cast this before, but that time had been almost fun, since everyone had been forced to do silly things. Neville knew it was unlikely Carrow would choose such innocent activities. Especially since it was no secret that Justin was Muggleborn.
"When cast correctly, the Imperius can be used in a variety of fashions. It can be used to control a subject for years on end, or for only short period of time. While under it, people will have no ability to control their own motions."
Not entirely true, Neville thought, knowing that the Imperius could be fought. But he wasn't going to point that out.
Carrow made a gesture with his wand, and Justin's head went slamming into the desk. He didn't scream or yell, instead raising his head and repeating the gesture, over and over. A couple of the Slytherins snickered, but the rest of the class could only stare - and then some of them started to avert their eyes. Almost a minute passed, and Neville saw that the force was enough to split Justin's forehead open.
"Stop it!" Neville said, finally speaking up, but Justin kept running his head against the table.
"He's only a Mudblood," Carrow said dismissively. "Why care?" There was an edge to his voice that boded no good for typical Gryffindor courage.
Harry would have had a bold answer, but Neville wasn't that smart or brave. He opened his mouth, moving it wordlessly for a moment, before the most inane reason slipped out. "Because his blood is getting all over," he said. He cursed himself inwardly for his cowardice, for not stating that hurting anyone was wrong.
But to his amazement, his objection met with approval.
"A good point," Carrow said. "I wouldn't want to have my classroom fouled," Carrow gestured, and Justin slumped forward, groaning. Neville wondered if he had a concussion. No one moved to help him. "Get out of here, and go clean up," he ordered the unfortunate Hufflepuff.
Normally a student with injuries would be accompanied to the infirmary by a classmate, but Justin was forced to gather himself and his belongings alone. Those who had been in the DA looked away, unable to believe what had happened, but Crabbe and Goyle were grinning widely.
"Get out of here, you Mudblood scum!" Crabbe called, wadding a piece of paper and bouncing it off Justin's back. "Hope that shows you your place!"
"Five points to Slytherin for your accurate perception of the situation," Carrow said. "And five from Hufflepuff for your slothfulness."
It was a long, slow walk of shame as Justin stumbled to the exit, tears mixing with the blood on his face. The door shut with a final-sounding thud. Until this moment, it hadn't truly sunk home for Neville that Hogwarts was being run by You-Know-Who.
"Partner up, and you can practice on each other," said Carrow, before moving back to the front of the room. His eyes were lingering on Zacharias Smith, another Muggleborn. Smith ducked his head, showing uncharacteristic humility, as he paired up with Padma.
Neville looked at Seamus, who looked back at him blankly. The lines were clearly drawn, Neville thought. Wordlessly he reached into his pocket, triggering the DA galleon to alert the others that they would meet directly after dinner.
"Partners?" he asked, looking at Seamus, who had acquired a peculiar green tinge in his complexion. Seamus just nodded, not saying anything.
Then Neville pulled out his wand, and faked incompetence as he pretended to attempt to cast the Imperius Curse.
Chapter Four
~ A Harry Potter Fan Fiction ~
by aishuu
Character: Neville-centric
Rating: Currently PG
Wordcount: 3,900
Notes: Spoilers for Deathly Hallows. This fic was originally a oneshot, but it's kind of mushroomed into something much, much longer. C & C is appreciated. Thanks to sophiap for sounding boarding, and sailormac for editing.
Summary: Set during DH. Without Harry in the picture, someone has to step up to lead those opposed to Voldemort. That someone is Neville Longbottom. The story of the Hogwarts Underground.
Chapter One, Chapter Two
Chapter Three: The Two DAs
Neville felt like his mind had been wrapped in cotton balls as he slumped against the table during breakfast the next morning. They hadn't gotten back to their dorms until after two, and getting up at half past seven hadn't left him feeling chipper. While he wasn't the zombie that Ron could be in the morning, he also didn't bounce right out of bed. Especially after five hours of sleep.
Seamus was disgustingly bright-eyed, he thought resentfully as the Irish teen tucked into his breakfast with a hearty appetite. Thankfully he was more interested in feeding his face than trying to hold a conversation.
Neville picked up an apple from the array of food that had been provided. The meal was just as expansive as it had been under Dumbledore's reign, but somehow it looked less appealing. Severus Snape - Neville refused to think of him as the headmaster - sat in the central chair at the faculty table, which was just slightly larger than the others. He wasn't eating his meal either, electing instead to level a disapproving glare on the students.
Neville averted his eyes quickly, not wanting to catch his attention. While he no longer had the blinding fear of Snape that had once dominated his life, the man still made him uneasy. He could rationalize that, since Snape had been the one to kill his predecessor.
Down at the other end of the table, the first-years - pitifully few compared to the prior class - were naively chatting. Their voices carried as they twittered about classes and their new dorms, and he eavesdropped shamelessly, feeling a surge of nostalgia for bygone days. Neville tried to remember being that young, and found his memories overwhelmed by what he'd seen since.
The older students were quieter, eating their meals in silence. A couple of the more studious were reviewing their new textbooks, but most were seated close together and poking at their food. Except for the Slytherins, who were acting more upbeat than Neville had ever seen from them before. Strangely, Malfoy was sitting on the edge of the group, and not holding court in the middle. Something was up there.
Neville returned his attention to the Gryffindors, noting the ones who were missing. Their ranks hadn't been as decimated as Hufflepuff, which only had about half a table of students now, but there were plenty of missing faces; those whose parents had been too stubborn to register as Muggleborn. The seventh year class was the most affected, with Dean, Harry, Ron and Hermione not in attendance. He was impressed by the bravery of the Creevey brothers, though maybe they had been unwise to return. It was no secret that Colin had been one of the victims when the Chamber of Secrets had been open.
Ginny gave him a dirty look from where she was sitting, upset that Neville hadn't agreed to her plans to steal the sword. But after two hours of sometimes heated discussion, the members present had agreed to wait for a few days to get the lay of the land before acting. The Gryffindors would have rushed right in, but the Ravenclaw component of the DA had advised caution, and a plan. Neville had sided with them, leaving his house mates irate.
But hopefully safer.
Snape clapped his hands together, the sound echoing throughout the hall with magical force. The scant conversations died instantly, much the same as they had whenever Dumbledore had addressed the student body - but the reason was entirely different. While Dumbledore had evoked respect and awe, Snape was downright terrifying. Everyone knew who he answered to.
"Prefects will pass out class schedules now," Snape said in a voice that sounded bored. "You will proceed immediately to your classes. Anyone who lingers will discover reason to regret their lack of motivation."
Neville didn't doubt that, although McGonagall was glaring ominously at Snape. It was unfair how she had been displaced. She had a horrible temper, and Neville was amazed that she hadn't told the school board exactly what she thought of the slight. If she had, she wouldn't be sitting up front, and Gryffindors would be without their head of house. She had probably known that, and sublimated her rage. That took a special kind of courage.
The prefects started to move down the tables, handing out the scrolls. Neville had never been more keenly aware of Hermione and Ron's absences; Snape, of course, hadn't deigned to appoint replacements. Ginny handed him his schedule, and Neville couldn't help but notice the tightness of her lips. He unrolled it slowly, knowing he wasn't going to like what was there.
He was right.
Neville's eyes immediately fixated on DA - Dark Arts. It was slated for twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays in the afternoon. His mind - admitted never the quickest in the school - couldn't help but miss the old DADA abbreviation. They've taken the DA out of it, he thought a bit wildly, to make their own DA.
He must have been laughing a bit, because Seamus gave him a weird look. "You okay?"
"Fine, fine," Neville murmured. "Just a bit tired." He forced himself to take another bite of his apple, knowing that he was going to need his strength for the rest of the day. The fruit tasted grainy.
"Ready for classes, then?"
"Of course not," Neville replied. He'd never been the best student, except for Herbology. "What's your first class?"
Seamus made a face. "I've got Arithmancy."
"Lucky you."
Neville's first class was thankfully Herbology, with Professor Sprout. It was his favorite, and as they entered greenhouse five he felt himself start to relax. There was something comforting about digging in dirt, and his success in the class was a great confidence boost. As he transplanted the hishrooms into a dark container that isolated them from moonlight, he let his mind drift and enjoy the merciful emptiness.
The seventh year Herbology class was small, with only nine members, and dominated primarily by girls. Neville and Ernie MacMillan were the only males. MacMillan was only there because his mother was a famous herbologist, and had learned enough at her feet to get an easy NEWT. Despite Ernie's natural advantages, Neville consistently scored highest in the class. Ernie liked plants, but Neville loved them, and the flora responded to his touch.
"I heard you had a meeting last night," Ernie said as he worked next to Neville. "I didn't get the message in time."
Neville glanced around the room to make sure no one was paying attention to them. Constant vigilance. "There'll be another," he replied. He brushed a bit of dirt off his sleeves before picking up a trowel again.
"Ah. I'll keep my eye out," Ernie promised.
"It'd be nice to hang out with the old crew again." Neville was horrible at subterfuge, feeling a guilty blush start to spread over his face. He knew if Snape or one of the Carrows had appeared at that moment, he'd probably babble everything. He needed to work on that. Ironic, that he'd have to become more Slytherin.
Ernie nodded, returning his attention to his work. They worked in silence for several minutes before Ernie poked Neville in the shoulder to get his attention. "We could have a lot of fun with these, maybe throw a welcome back party. I wonder if Sprout would miss a couple..." he murmured, raising an eyebrow and offering a playful grin.
"She would," an unexpected voice piped behind them, and both spun around to be confronted by a rather amused professor. She had her arms crossed over her chest sternly, but her eyes were sparkling. "While I know plenty students and some stupider adults attempt to use them, amanita muscaria, also known as hishrooms, aren't anything you should be messing with. It takes a potion master to harvest their essence. Take one without proper preparation and you'll be walking into walls for weeks."
Ernie squirmed, uncomfortable at having drawn the ire of his head of house. "Yes, ma'am."
"Now I'll want 24 inches from you, MacMillan, on the proper handling and harvesting of hishrooms, along with the possible repercussions of improper use," Sprout continued. "Longbottom, you're to give me 12 inches on the proper applications of hishrooms, particularly for pain relief and Divination."
"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.
"And Longbottom? Wait after class." She bustled away, going over to correct the plant handling of Lisa Turpin.
Neville glared at Ernie with annoyance. Sprout was his favorite teacher, and getting in trouble with her was like getting kicked in the teeth. This was supposed to be the one class he was good at. While he wasn't the vindictive sort, Neville did briefly entertain the idea of using Ernie as his sparring partner at the next DA meeting. He knew Ernie wasn't as fast with a wand as he was.
After Sprout dismissed the class, Neville loitered by his work station, digging his hands into the soil for reassurance. She moved more slowly than was her custom, checking the locks on the boxes before coming over to him.
"Neville," and it was unusual to hear her use his given name instead of his surname, "even though you're not a Hufflepuff, I feel a certain responsibility toward you."
He smiled shyly, pleased. Many teenage boys would have felt embarrassed by the sentiment, but Neville had grown up in unusual circumstances. While his grandmother had raised him, there were times he longed for more gentleness than the stern Augusta Longbottom possessed. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, looking down at her chubby face, noting that she barely came to his shoulder in height. Score one for summer growth spurts.
Sprout's face was intense, and lacking the usual good-natured expression he strongly associated with her. "You know that if you need anything... need to talk or need help, you can always come to me, right?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said, wondering what had brought this on. He did have his own head of house, and Minerva McGonagall was fiercely protective of her students.
Sprout twisted her fat hands in front of her chest, biting her lip. "You will be careful, won't you?"
"Careful of what?" he asked, blinking. Sometimes adults made no sense.
She looked like she was about to break down in tears, which was upsetting. Teachers were supposed to be confident, not afraid. Sprout had always been cheerfully accepting of whatever strangeness Hogwarts threw at her. She managed to collect herself well enough to keep her composure, offering him a pat on the arm. "Just... think before you do anything."
It was a weird conversation, but there had been plenty of those lately. Removing his gloves, he tucked them into the cubby that Sprout allowed her NEWT students to use for storage. He could think on it later.
Lunch was a solemn affair. The third years were quieter than was usual - and he knew without asking that they'd been the first students in the new Dark Arts class. He cast them a curious look, wishing he dared ask what had happened, but that would have to wait until tonight, in the common room. And by then, Neville thought grimly, he'd already have first-hand experience. Neville ate lightly, worried that the class might make him want to throw up.
The meal went by too quickly, and all too soon it was time for Dark Arts. The seventh year NEWT students marched out of the great hall, trooping along like they were heading to their own executions. Except the Slytherins. Neville was starting to believe there would be a lot of "excepts" for the Slytherin students this year.
Together with Lavender, Seamus and Parvati, the four remaining Gryffindor seventh years moved down the hallway, moving in a pack for safety. He didn't know much about Professor Amycus Carrow, but he wore his Dark Mark openly, which was enough to know that the man was evil. Neville had been tempted to drop the class, but he'd learned in fifth year how essential being able to defend himself and his friends was. The rest of the DA had come to similar conclusions, since all of them had taken DA after fifth year, and scored very well.
When they arrived, he wasn't surprised to find Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs standing outside the door. Justin Finch-Fletchley raised a hand in half-hearted greeting. "Ready?" he asked, looking at Neville.
Like all they'd been waiting for him.
The Slytherins had already entered the room, and though it was tempting to procrastinate, the rest of the students needed to hurry up or risk being late. And whatever punishment Carrow would assign, which would definitely be worse than the loss of mere points.
Seeing no one else step forward, Neville decides that he was going to be a Gryffindor and lead the way. The rest of the students fell in behind him, taking seats together in the middle of the room. Malfoy and his friends had already claimed the seats in the back, and they were not quite audacious enough to sit right under their new teacher's nose.
Like previous years, the classroom looked different. Each professor brought their own touch to the classroom, and Professor Carrow's was decidedly sinister. On the surface, it didn't seem so bad, since Slytherin green was the dominant color of the freshly-painted room, but the snake cages (housing all poisonous specimens) were disconcerting, since they created a quiet background of hissing.
Neville had never liked snakes much, especially after second year.
The snakes weren't the worst of it, though. There were books on the shelves, dark texts that had been previously been limited to the Restricted Section, and magical dioramas on the wall illustrating the proper wand movements to cast curses. Little things, but all in all, it added up to a grim picture. And of course, having The Dark Arts by Gellert Grindelwald as the class textbook signaled that the magic they were going to be learning wasn't of the friendly variety.
It's like sitting in a Death Eater factory, Neville thought with disgust. Attend Hogwarts, and graduate ready to receive your very own Dark Mark.
They settled themselves in neatly, and prepared parchment and quills to take notes like the well-seasoned students they were. Neville forced himself to breathe evenly, because fainting or suffering a panic attack would get him nowhere.
The doors behind the teacher's desk - a looming mahogany structure that screamed money! and power! - swung open to admit the latest in the ever-shifting DADA (or just DA now) professors. Amycus Carrow was a short man, one who barely broke the five feet mark in height. He was dressed in expensive, tailored robes that tried to minimize the appearance of his potbelly, but only succeeded in making him look like a well-clothed bulldog. He wore a necklace that left a snake medallion dangling at his chest, and his hair was thinning on the top.
He did move well, Neville admitted grudgingly, for a middle-aged wizard, and his eyes were constantly darting around, looking for trouble. As a Death Eater, he was probably knew what he was talking about when it came to Dark Arts, which was a heck of a lot better than Lockhart. After all, Crouch Jr. had been one of their most competent instructors to date, and he'd been on the Dark Lord's side.
What a depressing thought.
Neville would have to be doubly cautious to remember to respect Carrow's abilities. Just because he was evil didn't mean the man wasn't good at his job. Then Carrow giggled, and Neville winced a bit. It went right through his head, the same way nails on a chalkboard did. Luckily the teacher didn't spot his careless lapse of control.
The man waved his wand sharply through the air, producing letters in flame that spelled out his name. "I am Professor Amycus Carrow, as many of you know. I graduated here twenty-seven years ago," he announced. He spoke in the strange accent that only isolated Pure Bloods used, a crisp, nasal sound that could only be called condescending. "During my school years, I was in Slytherin House, like the past sixteen generations of Carrows.
"It's going to take a lot of work to catch up to bring you up to NEWT standards, but I'm sure those of you who should pass, will," he said, looking pointedly at the Slytherins. "The rest of you will learn that failure in my class has severe consequences." He sneered at the Hufflepuffs, a couple of whom cringed. "Some of you may find that there are mistakes in your thinking, and you will learn where your proper place is in our world."
He was looking directly at Neville. Neville met his gaze squarely, not backing down. Harry had never let Umbridge intimidate him, and he would be a poor friend if he didn't remember that lesson. For so long, Harry's courage had been a bastion of strength to other students. Neville wasn't going to let some- some- Death Eater scum - bully him.
Carrow's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he turned away. Neville knew that he'd just marked himself as potential prey for the Death Eater. He could have a nervous breakdown later in his dorm - Seamus wouldn't tell.
For some reason, the man decided not to make an issue of Neville's defiance. The man's sneer curled just a bit more, but he looked away first, tromping over to the board. With another wave of his wand, he wrote in a brilliant, neon green ink on the board. Killing Curse, Cruciatus Curse, Imperius Curse. "We're going to start with a refresher. I understand that in fourth year, you had experience with the Three Essentials," Carrow said.
Pansy Parkinson looked surprised, and said without thinking, "You mean the Unforgivables?"
She only got away with it because of who her parents were. Rather than act annoyed, Carrow gave a slight smile, much the way someone would smile at a slow child. "We call them the Three Essentials," he corrected. "If you're going to fight, you need to know them."
The little lunch Neville had threatened to come back up. The image of his parents, lying like lumps in St. Mungos, assaulted his mind, and he gripped his knees to keep from doing something cowardly like fleeing. He swallowed, but the taste of bile lingered in his mouth.
Neville glanced around, and noted that most of the class was struck still with silent horror. A couple of the Slytherins looked uncomfortable, but the expressions on Crabbe and Goyle's faces more than compensated. Their small eyes were practically growing with eagerness.
"We'll start with the Imperius, since it's the easiest to learn. The swish is a bit different than you've seen before," Carrow said, practically trilling. He surveyed the room, briefly settling on Neville before his attention was distracted by another young man wearing the black and gold of Hufflepuff. Justin Finch-Fletchley sank a bit lower in his seat, but Carrow had already settled on him.
He gestured, his wrist about ten degrees different than most spells required. "Imperio," he said, his voice deepening slightly.
Justin's eyes glazed over, his hands falling flaccidly to his side. The rest of the class stared, transfixed. Moody - Crouch - had cast this before, but that time had been almost fun, since everyone had been forced to do silly things. Neville knew it was unlikely Carrow would choose such innocent activities. Especially since it was no secret that Justin was Muggleborn.
"When cast correctly, the Imperius can be used in a variety of fashions. It can be used to control a subject for years on end, or for only short period of time. While under it, people will have no ability to control their own motions."
Not entirely true, Neville thought, knowing that the Imperius could be fought. But he wasn't going to point that out.
Carrow made a gesture with his wand, and Justin's head went slamming into the desk. He didn't scream or yell, instead raising his head and repeating the gesture, over and over. A couple of the Slytherins snickered, but the rest of the class could only stare - and then some of them started to avert their eyes. Almost a minute passed, and Neville saw that the force was enough to split Justin's forehead open.
"Stop it!" Neville said, finally speaking up, but Justin kept running his head against the table.
"He's only a Mudblood," Carrow said dismissively. "Why care?" There was an edge to his voice that boded no good for typical Gryffindor courage.
Harry would have had a bold answer, but Neville wasn't that smart or brave. He opened his mouth, moving it wordlessly for a moment, before the most inane reason slipped out. "Because his blood is getting all over," he said. He cursed himself inwardly for his cowardice, for not stating that hurting anyone was wrong.
But to his amazement, his objection met with approval.
"A good point," Carrow said. "I wouldn't want to have my classroom fouled," Carrow gestured, and Justin slumped forward, groaning. Neville wondered if he had a concussion. No one moved to help him. "Get out of here, and go clean up," he ordered the unfortunate Hufflepuff.
Normally a student with injuries would be accompanied to the infirmary by a classmate, but Justin was forced to gather himself and his belongings alone. Those who had been in the DA looked away, unable to believe what had happened, but Crabbe and Goyle were grinning widely.
"Get out of here, you Mudblood scum!" Crabbe called, wadding a piece of paper and bouncing it off Justin's back. "Hope that shows you your place!"
"Five points to Slytherin for your accurate perception of the situation," Carrow said. "And five from Hufflepuff for your slothfulness."
It was a long, slow walk of shame as Justin stumbled to the exit, tears mixing with the blood on his face. The door shut with a final-sounding thud. Until this moment, it hadn't truly sunk home for Neville that Hogwarts was being run by You-Know-Who.
"Partner up, and you can practice on each other," said Carrow, before moving back to the front of the room. His eyes were lingering on Zacharias Smith, another Muggleborn. Smith ducked his head, showing uncharacteristic humility, as he paired up with Padma.
Neville looked at Seamus, who looked back at him blankly. The lines were clearly drawn, Neville thought. Wordlessly he reached into his pocket, triggering the DA galleon to alert the others that they would meet directly after dinner.
"Partners?" he asked, looking at Seamus, who had acquired a peculiar green tinge in his complexion. Seamus just nodded, not saying anything.
Then Neville pulled out his wand, and faked incompetence as he pretended to attempt to cast the Imperius Curse.
Chapter Four